Just like with the West Bank, cross-border driving was off-limits according to Avis. After doing some research on making the trip to Petra on my own, I realized it would cost me the same amount of money to join a tour group, plus, I'd get a free buffet lunch. When I got in the "Fun Time" tour van for my day trip to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, I was surprised to see Asimar, my Brazilian buddy from Nazareth. I was a little miffed at having to pay a $55 “exit fee” to the State of Israel, but my entry into Jordan was fast and free. On the other side, we received a running commentary from our Jordanian guide Riad during the duration of our two-hour drive to Petra. On the way, we made a couple of stops; one near the tomb of Moses’ brother Aaron, and another at the Wadi Rum, a semi-fertile desert valley ascribed to the annals of history because of its use as a base of operations for one T.E. Lawrence, a British officer who led a ragtag band of Arabs in a revolt against the Ottomans during WWI, better known as Lawrence of Arabia.
In the Wadi Rum, at a tourist-trap-type shop, an elderly Arab snuck up on me and began wrapping a kufiya (a traditional headdress worn by Arab men) around my head. Having just received two tidbits of advice from Riad (“You need something to protect your head from the sun” and “Jordanians don’t know exchange rates”) I decided to keep my kufiya if I could get it for a bargain. Surprisingly, the Jordanian Dinar is a valuable currency, worth 40 cents MORE than a dollar. So, when the old man told me it’d be 12 dinar, I said, how about 12 (Israeli) shekels? He accepted my offer, and instead of paying an exorbitant $16.86, I paid a reasonable $3.06 (Asimar took advantage of this discrepancy as well). So, looking more Arab all the time, with my beard, sunglasses, and fancy new head-wrap, I rejoined my tour group and awaited Petra.
A UNESCO World Heritage Site, and labeled as one of the Seven “New” Wonders of the World, Petra is an ancient city carved into isolated red-rock canyons. The capital of the pre-Islamic Nabatean civilization, Petra represents examples in rock-carving that can only be contended with by the Ethiopian Churches of Lalibela, and its location in a red sandstone desert canyon only contributes to its bucolic beauty. The Nabateans also had a knack for rerouting water to serve their desires, and the manner in which they did it is nothing short of amazing considering the technology available.
As we entered the complex, I was told by our guide that a horse ride into the site was included with our entry ticket. However, no one in my tour group seemed to want to exhibit their equestrianism. I decided, in the spirit of the late great Lawrence of Arabia (who actually captured Petra from the Ottomans) that I would happily saddle up, but only if my steed wasn’t tethered to a lead-rope, and I had the freedom to gallop as fast as my four-legged friend and I could go. The Jordanians were happy to oblige, and one of them was even willing to take my camera and get a few action shots. When I placed my left foot into the stirrup, I was a little disappointed to find that my horse had a build more like that of a pony. Then, one of the Jordanians handed me an improvised crop made of rubber tubing and said, “Don’t worry, he’s fast…he’s Arabian.” I said, “How do I get him to go?” And he said, “Whip him in the ass and say “Harah!” The Jordanian wasn’t lying. Much like the arm-wrestling ability of Matt Dillon’s little brother in LA, my horse’s stature belied its strength. At first, I was sure I was headed headfirst like an ostrich into the sand, but within a few seconds, we both syncopated into a rhythmic canter, and it was marvelous. Although the Jordanian never told me how to stop, a tough tug on the reins and a “Whoa!” seemed to suffice. Now, I had no choice but to wait for 20 minutes until my tour group caught up with me. Standing alone at the Siq, the one way in and out of the ruins, I reflected on all of the movies that have been filmed there, most famously Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I also thought about the Christian Rock band that took Petra as its moniker, and how my Mom used to lecture the lead singer’s son as a substitute teacher.
Once Riad and my group arrived, I was treated to an informative tour about the ruins, the most impressive being the “Treasury”, a massive misnomer of colonnaded carvings that in fact served as a royal tomb, and an amphitheater that is unique as it is the only one of its kind to be chiseled from a cliff.
After a decent buffet lunch on our way back, we bid farewell to our guide and made our way back to the Israeli border. This was my first taste of the unwanted attention I would receive from ennui afflicted immigration officers. Looking at my passport, and then looking at me, I was asked, “Do you have an ID picture of you wearing a beard?” I said, I’m sorry, I don’t, but if you have a razor I’ll shave it off right now!” Not ones for cheeky humor, I was detained for an extra twenty minutes, which I didn’t really mind, because for some reason, they had Led Zeppelin sounding through the checkpoint speakers. Bobbing my head while sitting in an uncomfortable chair and waiting on my passport, I reminded myself that I should get a new copy of Houses of the Holy.
I spent the next day relaxing in Eilat on Shabbat. After that, I got in my little car and drove across the Arav Valley, toward the Dead Sea. My first stop was Masada, another legendary historic site, and one of the most important monuments in Judaism. Also the subject of many a movie, Masada represents the epitome of the “never surrender” attitude. Originally built by Herod the Great (big surprise there), Masada was a fortified city sitting atop a mesa 1,300 feet above the Dead Sea. Herod constructed the compound for fear of insurrection, brought about internally by his own subjects, or against his Roman patrons. Fortunately for him, Herod died before he ever had to take refuge in his alpine abode, and only enjoyed as a vacation home. But, the siege-ready pleasure palace he created would be utilized successfully decades later as part of a legendary revolt against Rome. While the Jewish rebellion was quashed quickly in other parts of Israel, the Masada occupants would hold out for nearly 100 years. Eventually, in 72AD, the Roman Governor-General Silva decided enough was enough and used a combination of soldier and slave labor to amass an epic earthen ramp to the top. When the Romans finally broke through the defenses in the spring of 73AD, they were stunned to find almost all of its 1,000 inhabitants had committed suicide. As the story goes, the inhabitants of Masada, knowing that their fate was sealed, cast lots and chose ten out of the thousand to kill the other men, women and children. After that, the remaining ten again drew straws, and one out of them was charged with dispatching the others, then finally ending his own life by his own hand.
The story of Masada is the paramount tale of devotion to Israel, and maybe anyone willing to die for their cause. In fact, many Israeli soldiers have their swearing-in ceremony on the mountain, where they declare “Masada shall not fall again.” Using the same logic that convinced me to continue biking along the Galilee, I decided to brave the 100+ degree heat (with no breeze) and hike the original “Snake Path” to the summit. Once I arrived to the top, after a well-deserved break, I explored the ruins on my own, and I really enjoyed it. I also explored the southern half of the mesa, which contains ruins of a post-rebellion Christian Byzantine Church, as well as some of the rebel dwellings. I don’t know if it was the stifling desert heat, or the disinterest in anything but the most morbidly fascinating of the remains, but I found myself exploring the whole southern side of the mountain alone. All of a sudden, a thunderous roar came from above and behind. Then, three fighter jets buzzed over my head. I instantly started to sing at the top of my lungs, “Sharif don’t like it! Rockin’ the Casbah! Rock the Casbah!” remembering the Clash video from the MTV of my youth. I thought it was funny, but then again, I was also quite dehydrated.
Descending Masada, I only had a ten-minute drive to Ein Bokek, a resort spot on the Dead Sea that I’d booked a long time ago as my Israeli “splurge” destination. My hotel was a terrible value for the money, but I suppose what I was really paying for was the private shoreline on the lowest spot on Earth. At 1,388 feet below sea level, the Dead Sea is also one of the saltiest bodies of water on the Globe. In ancient times, the area was avoided by the majority of civilization, and the refuge of exiles like John the Baptist. Devoid of life due to its salinity, it was believed that no bird could fly across it. In modern times, however, it’s been touted as possessing therapeutic qualities, a kind of natural health spa.
The experience of swimming in the Dead Sea is almost inexplicable. Actually, “swimming” in the Dead Sea is impossible. At 33% salt, you absolutely cannot sink in it. When you stand in the deep water, you just bob up and down at chest level. When you lie on your back, you sit suspended above the surface, and will never sink below it, no matter how hard you try. Compared to the Red Sea, or the Sea of Galilee, the water is warm and slimy. It was one of the weirdest experiences of my life. When you get in, you’re advised not to stay in the saline water for more than 20 minutes, because it will dry you out. Also, if you happen to get any of it in your eyes, like I did, you will go temporarily blind until you flush your face with fresh water. Still, this did not deter me from returning to the tepid pool after frequent breaks. The sensation of saltwater suspension was so strange that I couldn’t get enough of it.
