Published Contemporary Jo Issue V

A Day in Petra

An experience that leaves you baffled and filled with questions more than fulfilment. Left more in wonder, than achievement. You come away after having spent the day hiking, exploring and discovering, yet feeling almost cheated. A city so hidden amongst the rocks you wonder if you really saw it all. 

   At the start, as you begin to enter the depths of those rocky mountains, you find yourself almost squeezing through the gorges in the dim light of the early morning, with sheer cliff faces either side. The palette of darkened cliff faces fades and your heart leaps with the flooding of sunlight filtering through, and you begin to think that you are close to something you have seen, something you can imagine but can’t quite grasp the understanding of until you see it with your own eyes. The gorge has been a piercing path yet suddenly it peels back, and you see it. The treasury building, Al-Khazneh stands in the silent morning air, a vision of stature and endurance. Popularised as one of the final shots from the third Indiana Jones Films, you have grown up with this view, before you could even comprehend it, and now, it is within your grasp, a memory for you to steal.

   Earlier that day we had been taken to a lookout of Petra and our guide tells us that the kingdom we are about to enter is there, as he pointed over the rocks. If you look closely, you can trace the thin gorges, but from where we stand, they look so thin, so difficult to navigate and quite simply, so boring, you would never think to look at them once, let along conceive that there is a kingdom sunk into the recesses of those cracks. Yet here I stood, now within that kingdom, understanding the walls of protection came from the ignorance of my own glancing eye. It’s a site of sheer human determination and skill. To build in the depths of these hidden lands is telling of the fortitude, the craftsmen ship and resilience of these people. Scarcely any rain, and when it does, it’s flooding. Hardly any arable land and yet somehow, productive.

   A land steeped in history, a land born from resilience, they survived in one of the most polarising and harsh landscapes I have ever entered. Deep within the vaults of those gorges, rocks the cliff faces peel back and their world extends. 

   We all walk, our guide telling us to look, and we do. And only then, when we are prompted to look, do we notice. Hundreds of sharp doorways, cut into the rock on either side, extending upwards. Black recesses like vacant eyes, they sit in the silence. All, at some point in time, a home for the inhabitants of the city. Not as impressive as confusing. A hotel of rooms, cut into rock, a foretaste to future architectural standards for compact living, not extending outwards but rather upwards. I look up, at the doorways and wondered what spiderlike people these were and how the extension of youthful exuberance must have dominated them, for there was no other option. It was a long day of walking, and even in the depths of winter the land grew hot enough, let alone to scale cliffs in summer like they must have on a daily basis.

The walk was a long, steady climb weaving through the harsh rock and sand. The steps were uneven, and you had to go slow until you heard the sudden clop of a racing goat and a man astride it would pass you, trusting you and your instincts to move without warning of what was happening. The first time it happens you are shocked, flushed with anger at the speed of the animal and disregard the man pays you as you slam yourself against the side of the rock walls to avoid being run down. The second time you are more prepared. The third time you wonder where they are all going, because the higher you climb, the less people are about. 

Dotted along the path, wherever there is an inch of space there is a stall. A Jordanian selling goods, ranging from various archaeological pieces (coins, pieces of pottery, etc) to hand woven mats. A degree in archaeology means I am always drawn in, my eyes scrutinising the goods, my hands rifling through the pieces for a chance at treasure. At one stall I spy a 50c piece from Australia – my home. I hold it up and ask how much, wondering if there is to be some comedic snatch at minimal profits.

   For you my friend, 2 Dinari…

   Definitely not worth the asking price. 

   

I continue on, up to the Monastery Building, which like all, was sunk into the recesses of rock. I had read about this building, the near perfect circles dotting along the top of the façade, their perfection telling of a particularly detailed people. Particular indeed, the building defined modern expectations and standards. Not build from the ground up, but rather carved from the top down. The naturality of proximity comes over me and I walk up to it, but this is a place where you have to forgo basic human desire and step back. You have to view it as one, have to let your eyes scale the breadth of what has been achieved in such a location. I look around at the isolation of it. The harshness it would have taken to achieve this goal. What were they thinking? I wonder. Maybe they, like us in modern times, just liked the view. In archaeology we were always searching to unearth the meaning behind a decision made. This temple had to be raised for some calculated reason, some tangible thing that guided these ancient cultures. We rarely take into account the beautification of human desire as a deciding force to guide and define us as a society.

   I rest here for a time, drinking water and getting a photo. My eyes naturally drift back down along that splitting path that I had walked, and in the distance, I can see the wide base of that sandy plain below, barely a glance for a passing eye. Days climbing and monuments like these are what help to define the meaning of life, that illusory meaning I was always chasing.

   Once the goal is reached, satisfaction barely tempers in my heart. No, I wanted to go further, to push the boundaries and limits of my own body, and into the realm of those austere few who existed in such an austere place. A land, a home, a location so submerged in isolation, it broke down personal understandings of the definitions I carried with me for life. I asked one of the owners of their shacks what they did for money? He shrugged, unknowingly? Uncaringly? And I wondered what right I had to ask such a question. It isn’t up to me to define life. I almost hated that question came to my lips so readily. Money, of all things. And yet, what else could I use to question life with such a universality that it could be understood? Money is that inherent belief we all invest in, but what are you to do when you come face to face with a man so unperturbed by such investments, such societal definitions. I may have travelled more than him, but have I lived more? 

   

There is a sign, reading, ‘No charge for looking’ at a view so I sit an enjoy it, take a photo of it.

Sharp jagged rocks that climb so steeply and sharply from their mountainous depths. I look over the edge curiously and can’t even spy a base. It just seems to be mountain piled upon mountain, rock upon rock. Those craterous faces, wielding unconscious fear upon them. A pallid green colour rests upon them, that, from a distance one might mistake for some form of life, but up close, hold nothing but reminiscence, a taunt of those faces that extend beyond time. A harsh view that fades into clouds of obscure dust and sand.

   I barely remember the journey back down, winding through the tormented cliffs, along that path that guided through the mountainous terrain. Over the thin plains and through that hidden city. I hardly think of the immensity, the dedication and testament for how far reaching this city stretched. How did the populace navigate such a land. And suddenly, as if without even realising it, I was back at the treasury, glancing back and feeling that intense displeasure of being cheated. I wanted more, needed more. Above me I heard that illustrious song of laugher ringing out within the cavernous space. I looked up and saw people on a cliff above me, quickly finding my way to the nearest attendant.

   ‘How do I get up there?’ I asked with my body, my hands and facial expressions. He nodded understandingly and showed me the beginning of a path upwards. I climbed doggedly up that uneven path, no railing to mark or halt the sudden drop of an edge. At the top, the sandy washed rock is hidden beneath mats from a man that sits up there. He doesn’t ask for compensation, though will accept it. I place a Dinari in his palm, and he smiles an understanding and accepted smile.

   The view from up here offers something different. The treasury building is distant enough that your eyes can fit its frame within the boundaries of your perception, and I see just how sunk into the rock face it is. It’s almost absurd, a pinkish façade inlaid like intaglio into that bedrock. It must have been pitch black inside, the only entrance way for life and light, that one pinhole doorway far off below. There comes a time, with all views like this, where you know you can sit for hours, drinking it in. Tracing the contours of that face and try to unearth its secrets. But life is rarely so gifting and there are already people hovering about, on the fringes of the ledge, wanting to sit where I am. I sit in a moment of peaceful exploration, but lingering on the precipice, upon the fringes, the world marches on. And so I have to forsake my spot, the view, to the next eager individual as I stand and pass them. Just like that only moment later, I am down the bottom again. The end of the journey, a feeling of dissatisfaction with all that I missed and I understand that this is a foretaste of death.

   I meet back up with my guide.

   ‘How was it?’ he asks his voice full, but his eyes lacking that personal touch of true enthusiasm. I express my sadness to it all. 

   ‘Would you be interested in the Treasury after dark?’ He asks and I tilt my head.

   ‘What’s that?’

   ‘You come, tonight, they play music and tea and candles. Some say it’s not that exciting-’ I cut him off.

   ‘Where can I get a ticket?’ He holds up a finger instructing me to wait and darts off to get me a ticket. My eyes fall back down that dirt road that I had walked, already thick in reminiscence.

   I came that night to the entrance, eagerly looking down the darkened path that already feel familiar and holds antecedents of memories. My guide assumed it wasn’t that exciting, but people still bustled in and down that path, disparaging into the darkness. My legs are wearily from the days walk, but determination drive them, and I also set off. The way is lit by candles, fluttering their romantic light amongst the darkened world.

   My camera did not have a night-time setting, a night-time lens and so any photograph of the night was forgone. But in that concession there a release of kinds, knowing that my words would have to be the picture I paint. The expanse pealed back like it had that morning, but in a different way. Guided only by the dim lights, you saw the expanse a lot earlier as the Treasury Building grew in size and light, like some prophetic star at the end of the tunnel. In the morning, the space was large, filled with donkeys and tourists, but now lay in the comfort of pillows and people sitting, their darkened souls all looking upon the face of the building that was illuminated. For posterities sake, I still tried to take a photo, but my attempt was feeble and swift, and the camera was packed away as I took my seat. I was sitting alone, everyone else in their own worlds of low conversation and waiting with that air of expectancy. I put my headphones in and listened to Ludovico Einaudi’s song, Oltremare, just loud enough so that the sounds of the external world were drained, and I was transported into my own world and experience. Free from the catching’s of conversation, my mind focused through my eyes, roaming over the building, each bend, carve, sharp cut, a new face presented under light that required attention. 

   Already, this was enough, the cracked sky above littered with stars, music in my ears, experiencing something not many had or would. My euphoric moments come to a crashing end as the performance begins. I pull my headphones out and a halting rush sweeps the crowd. The man at the front begins to tell a story, history and culture weaves into a tale enhanced by the night and everyone listens. 

   And then a performance begins. Traditional music from a time, from a culture I do not know, but now have the privilege to participate in, even if it’s only on the coattails. And the coattails are where I would only ever want to be. As the music is still being played, some people start to move between us, trays in hand, loaded with cups. Everyone accepts one with a gracious nod and there is something uniting in the ceremony of tea that warms us beyond the warm tea. Maybe it’s not the tea, but the ceremony of gifting something to someone with no expectation of a return. Not an investment, but a gift. A true act of friendship and kindness despite the lack of shared history. Instead, it’s built from a happiness to share in a culture, and it is one that I will always want to be involved in.

   When I am leaving, I cast a look back upon the building, illuminated like a solitary star that will always hold my attention with wonder.

Alexander S.W.