Table of Contents
Prologue
I live in Wadi Musa; an unknown town to both Jordanians and tourists, even though it embraces one of the most fascinating sites in the world. I love watching people wandering here. Those who look like me, with dark hair and brown eyes, and those who don’t; mostly have light hair colour and fascinating blue eyes. It’s easy to categorise people when living in a tourist destination: a local and a visitor. We pay one Jordanian Dinar to enter the site, and they pay fifty. They love walking and don’t mind the hilly area, we mainly drive. They wouldn’t take a step without their cameras or notebooks; we have witnessed every change, and nothing seems special.
Regardless of our differences, locals and visitors share the same love for the place. We all have a spot in our hearts where the word ‘Petra’ is carved on, the way Nabateans had carved their statues and temples on sandstone more than two thousand years ago. The components of this special spot are somehow similar. We hold pictures of the unique rosery sandstone; remember the first breath when seeing the astonishing Treasury, cherishing the memory of the people. Anyone becomes an artist, poet or writer once their foot takes a step towards the historical holy city through the big gate.
Between the sandstone walls, the aroma has its own way of taking you back thousands of years. The oud Nabateans burned in their ceremonies still fills the place. Nowadays, shop owners light the end of the oud stick and place it in front of their store to announce the opening hours. The old smell mixes with some modern ones. Especially that of the sweet black tea, boiled on top of the fire while fresh mint leaves dance with the water. The pot is usually dark at the bottom from the constantly burning flame, reflecting the Bedouins’ generosity.
I am an ordinary person who was seeking a living between the walls of history but managed to find a hidden mystery. I uncovered the skills that were born within these rocks; shaping them made a special era for my ancestors. Is this discovery due to luck? Maybe. I’m always grateful for any chance, but I believe there’s more than sheer luck. It took long years and hundreds of people to make me realise a huge thing. I am a man who holds secrets within, an enchantment to be revealed under the right circumstances. Like Aladdin’s lamp, a normal piece of metal until someone rubs it. The Jinn appears from its smoke and asks you what you wish.
What do I wish? Thirty years ago, the list would have been endless. I wanted money, luck and charm. I wanted her heart to beat for me even once. If I had them, I would have been the happiest man in the world. I didn’t know they’d all come at a price, long years of hard work and a gradual process. I craved instant success which life didn’t provide.
Now the list has changed, nothing can beat a cup of coffee on top of a mountain with a sunset and good company.
Chapter One – Petra
Cats knew every secret in this valley, but they couldn’t be asked to tell me. I learned that from my first day of work, when the darkness was competing with the streetlights and the dawn, losing the fight. The park on top of the mountain was two streets away from our house so I headed there. Five metres away, stood two tourists with their huge cameras waiting to capture the moment. The park itself wasn’t special, but its panoramic view attracted many visitors. Its local name was The Candle. Referring to the concrete shape which stood in the middle, to celebrate Petra joining the world’s seven wonders.
The birds flew around, welcoming the new day with their special soft tunes. The smell of the jasmine arrived in phases with the morning breeze. I watched the sun rising from behind the mountains remembering my father’s famous saying, ‘it’s enough to watch one sunrise and one sunset in your life, the rest look the same.’ I completely disagreed with him. For me, it was difficult to put into words what sunrises made me feel. As if someone from the Eskimo tried to explain the white colours of snow to a Bedouin who grew up in the desert.
It wasn’t about the sun itself raising but mainly in the surprises it held that morning. More pink on the mountains, the clouds, or more orange? Would the sun come out from behind the mountains taking its time, or would it rush to announce a new beginning? The dawn made me feel I earned something. I was much richer than those who didn’t witness the magical scene. As if I had read a book that no one else could buy or been to a place that was too far away for others to reach.
A white cat approached me, and rubbed against my leg while making a strange sound. I felt bad for having no food or water. One tourist with his beige hiking shoes approached and said, ‘great sunset.’ Both his massive camping backpack and his chestnut- blonder hair colour proved he was a visitor.
‘As always,’ I replied.
‘Not many are watching though.’ He looked kind of disappointed, and I didn’t really care.
‘Have you visited the site yet?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I arrived late last night, that’s why I am going to be there as soon as it opens, are you walking down too?’
‘Yes, let’s go.’
‘Are you visiting? Or do you work there?’
‘I am a tour guide.’ It felt strange introducing myself that way. ‘It’s my first day.’
‘Wow, good luck then. I am Steve by the way, from New York.’ He reached for a handshake.
‘Yanal.’ His grip was strong.
‘What do tour guides know that isn’t mentioned in the books about Petra?’
I didn’t know, I never read any of those books. ‘A lot,’ I lied.
Walking down the hill towards the ancient city, I could feel the quietness of the place. People weren’t awake yet. Shops and restaurants were shut, except for the tiny hot beverage kiosks.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘Sure, Yanal, I’ll have one.’ Steve smiled.
I approached the small shop, and asked in Arabic. ‘Two coffee, please.’
‘Yella.’ The boy looked half my age; he couldn’t be more than fifteen. Turning the stove on, the flames started to sway around with the morning breeze.
The young boy added two spoons of ground beans, then stopped as if forgetting what I had ordered.
‘Sugar?’ he asked.
I looked at Steve, ‘Mine is without sugar, you?’
‘Same, thanks.’ Steve smiled.
I watched him stirring the ingredients with a long spoon. That was when the smell of the fresh roasted beans started rushing to my nose, awakening my still sleeping cells. The boy looked professional in mixing the dark liquid. I loved how he teased the coffee when it was about to boil and moved the pot away from the fire. When the coffee calmed a bit, he put it back on. Staring at the dark foam, I imagined standing in front of the Treasury with my group. I tried recalling the names of the gods sculptured on the huge building, but nothing came to mind.
‘There you go.’ The boy’s voice brought me back; he poured the coffee into two disposable cups.
‘Keep the change, habibi.’ I handed him two Dinars.
Turning around to continue my morning walk, I heard him thank me with an excited loud tune.
‘No, I will pay for my own.’ Steve took out his wallet from his back pocket.
‘You are a guest.’
Steve smiled but struggled to drink his coffee while walking, especially that it was almost full. I needed to find somewhere to sit and revise the material on my phone and let him have his coffee in peace. After a few steps, I reached a crossroad. To the right, the way between houses was empty at this time of the morning but was filled with memories. On the left was a street between hotels and busy tourists.
Memories or people?
Many choices in the past made me believe in the importance of the right decision. I once saved a woman’s life from committing suicide, simply because I was crossing by. Had I chosen another route, she would be dead. She was wearing a long navy-blue dress. The water of the river was strong, and instead of walking away, she was stepping further in.
Swaying between the rocks, she didn’t seem to worry about slipping over, or even worse, getting carried away. I rushed to help but realised she didn’t want to be saved. Reaching out to her arm, she let go. After three attempts, she stopped resisting. Like a marionette, she followed the strings of my hands until she sat by the river. Her clothes dripped water and her eyes dropped tears.
‘He ran off with another woman,’ she murmured.
I didn’t reply; what could I say to make her believe life was worth living? I wasn’t even sure about that myself. Instead, I dried her with my clothes and walked her home fifty meters away. Heading back to my car, I heard someone following me. A young boy with a bike twice his size stopped and gave me a huge bag of walnuts. His eyes tried to hide the sorrow but still managed to thank me.
Crossroads weren’t always serious. I once headed right instead of left in the capital city, and for the next forty minutes, I stood watching a man playing the oud in the most emotional way.
‘Left or right?’ Steve asked.
‘This way,’ I answered, feeling embarrassed. I chose memories. Once I saw the University of Al-Hussein bin Talal, the lost dreams and crossroads rushed towards the empty streets of my mind. A bench by the building was calling for me, and I took it. Steve sat next to me.
The view was beautiful, we had a closer vision of the gate to the city.
‘This is my university.’ The old college building reminded me of the times I had to rush early to classes, to learn about Nabateans and their history.
‘That’s nice.’ Steve checked the building. ‘So you studied tourism, I suppose?’
‘It wasn’t my choice. I am passionate about drawing. The art department had the highest tuition fees even more than medicine. My parents couldn’t possibly afford it. My father didn’t give any of us the chance to skip those four years, so I had to choose any other major. I had planned to take an art course after graduation.’
Steve listened without any expression on his face, his blue eyes and red hair made me feel I was a black and white version of him. He was colourful, even his clothes, brown, and green contrasted with his beige hiking shoes. I was wearing plain black trousers, and a black t-shirt.
My phone beeped. ‘Good morning. Sunrise today?’ It was Jumanah.
I put the phone on its face on the bench and continued telling this stranger my story, ‘a month before my graduation and prior to commencing the art course my youngest sister finished high school. I then found myself in front of a crossroads. My dreams or hers?’
‘So, you chose hers.’ Steve was looking down at my phone, as if he knew the message was from her.
We gradually started walking down to the entrance. “Despite my sacrifice, the following weeks were still full of words which could only be described as cruel, unfair, and bizarre.” Thinking of them felt more bitter than the coffee in my hand.
Arriving at Tourism Street, my heart pounded faster. Visitors outnumbered locals. Checking their faces, only one thought came to mind: one of these tourists was going to be in my first group.
Chapter Two – Petra
Jamaal was a good-looking man. The black hair, long eyelashes, dark kohl line underneath the big eyes, and thick beard revealed his ethnicity: an Arab. Born a traveller, Jamaal woke up excited; this day he would finally follow his dream. He didn’t have to fold his wings anymore. In the afternoon, the journey of a lifetime would start. The caravan would head North, through Syria, to Europe; the land he was always eager to visit. It wasn’t familiar, but the unknown made him enthusiastic.
With this thought in mind, Jamaal embraced the new day like an old friend from the past. He didn’t have much to do, only to see his father and say goodbye. A strange feeling conquered Jamaal’s heart. He wanted every part of travelling except this. How come it never crossed his mind?
Jamaal decided to carve a God, to bless his father and keep him company while away. Dusharah was the answer, Jamaal believed the chief of the Nabataean pantheon was the one.
On the way to the site, he would visit his mother. He took some oud and rode his horse towards her grave. She was charming, as his father used to tell him. Black hair reached her waist. Her eyes were as wide as that of a deer; eyelashes were long as that of a camel. She walked elegantly, and her smile used to brighten the whole place. Jamaal had never seen her; she passed away while giving birth. The moment he took his first breath, she took her last. Jameelah – the beautiful woman – was the reason his father called him Jamaal, the male version of the name. She was from a richer family than Jamaal’s father, and she met him when he was carving a temple for her relatives. She stood against her family’s will and married him. ‘Nothing and no one can ever stop real love.’ His father’s favourite saying rang in his ears.
At the grave, Jamaal lit some oud in the clay pot. He placed his right hand on the soil. It was always warm; he believed the love beneath was the reason.
‘I am leaving. I am going to travel, just like you did. Father refused to come, he said he has seen the world in your eyes. Mother, remember when I told you how much I don’t like carving? Everyone admires my work, but I never had to put in any effort. It’s in my blood, from dad. But. Somewhere inside of me must belong to you, I need to go to the places you’ve been. Have you ever felt this way? That there’s a whole new world out there. I wish we could talk, just for a moment. I don’t want to leave father alone, but I can’t stay here forever.’ The soil was wet from his tears. Jamaal forced himself to stand up, he had to start carving soon. Taking one last look at the grave; then on the wall next to it, he traced his fingers along the snake he had carved to protect his mother’s spirit for the next life.
Riding back, he scanned the walls of the rockfaces for a suitable spot for Dusharah. Upon finding the right place, he stooped to pick up one of the many water jars distributed throughout the city, pouring its content into his right hand; then splashing it onto his face. The cold water on his burning head was the refreshment needed.
Jamaal prepared the axes, hammers and chisel. He remembered watching his father carve the rock faces when he was young. His admiration contrasted with everyone’s envy of the final work. Jamaal knew his mentor had a strong passion for this talent; it turned him into a different person. His hands swayed with the tools as if in professional dance. His eyes wandered around the rock face before feeling its surface seeming to picture the final piece. There was a magical connection between what he saw, and how he implemented it in a natural, easy process. It wasn’t until Jamaal started carving that he realised how challenging the undertaking was.
As a traditional Arab, Jamaal preferred to keep the carving basic. He liked the abstract image of Dusharah; a squared frame, two ovals for the eyes, a long line for the nose and a simple mouth shape. Jamaal had seen drawings of gods from China and Athens which had more details. The features of a human carved in the sculpture weren’t his favourite style.
When Jamaal was about to finish the piece, the sound of a horse running became clearer. He turned, aware of someone approaching: a soldier of the king. He wondered what it could be, but nothing came to mind.
‘Are you Jamaal?’ the serviceman asked in a loud voice.
‘Yes sir.’ He wondered how the soldier had found him.
‘Come with me; the king wants you.’ The man kept eye contact, even when his horse was moving.
Jamaal started trembling. Mounting his horse, he followed the man; taking comfort in the familiar surroundings to allay his fear. Yellow and beige broke the rosy shade of the rock faces around. The pink looked more purple due to the shadows on the surface of the rocks. The sand was a mixture of the unique colours of the mountains. The hooves of the horse ahead played with the sand as he galloped forward. The fine grains shone under the bright sun.
The soldier slowed indicating their arrival at the palace. The high gate of Qasr al Bent was topped with a small pediment where the sun shone from its sides. The Corinthian columns to the front added another level of beauty. The palace was decorated with roses and statues of gods. Several soldiers were standing around the building, and the smell of oud incense was strong.
As Jamaal stepped in, he saw the king, Al-Hareth the fourth, sitting on a throne chair in the middle of the huge hall. A man was to the right of the king.
‘Jamaal, I have heard so much about you.’ The king grinned; his smile was that of a parent rather than a royalty. He had a long grizzly beard, his eyes were dark green, and his cheeks were plump.
‘Thank you, your majesty.’ Jamaal’s heart began to calm.
‘I loved your piece in the siq.’ The king’s eyes held pride and trust. ‘The one with the man and three camels behind.’
Jamaal had recently carved the piece to practice shaping camels. A Chinese trader loved the work and paid Jamaal to add his sculpture to the front of the caravan.
‘But it’s in the wrong place.’ The king drank from his glass, containing one of the darkest wines Jamaal had ever seen.
‘It’s a unique art to show our guests, your majesty,’ Jamaal said.
‘It will gradually erode, especially from the top. It’s in the path of strong wind.’ The king nodded.
The silence doubled the embarrassment in Jamaal’s heart.
‘However, son, I have the best idea for a welcoming statue. You will be responsible for the carving. It is going to be recorded in the whole world as the most captivating building.’
‘But, your majesty,’ Jamaal hesitated. ‘I was going to.’
‘I know you might have plans,’ the king interrupted. ‘However, I assure you, this will make you able to achieve them.’ The king turned to the man next to him, who nodded back.
‘Yes, your majesty.’ Jamaal saw his dreams fading away like the sun vanishing behind the mountains – when a minute ago it was dominating the sky.
‘I will design the building with you.’ The man’s voice brought Jamaal back to earth. ‘I am an architect and astronomer. My name is Abd-al-Uzza.’ The same name as Jamaal’s uncle – the servant of the Goddess of strength.
‘It will be an honour to work with you.’ Jamaal managed a half-smile at Abd-al-Uzza, who looked as young as him. He had a thick black beard and small eyes.
‘I have already drawn a sketch of the building; we might add statues of gods from Greece, Egypt, and Iraq,’ Abd-al-Uzza went on about the details of the building. ‘Of course, it won’t be completely influenced by others, we will have our touches. I thought of carving the traditional Corinthian columns, but we will use conifer cones instead of the acanthus plant. I am still thinking of which God to put in the middle, I would like to collaborate with you on this matter.’
Abd-al-Uzza showed Jamaal the block on which he had carved his sketch. The basic idea was clear, the building would have three main levels, incorporating columns, pediments, and statues of gods. Astronomy was an essential part, too. The number of the elements, such as the columns would refer to a secret related to the calendar. The king nodded enthusiastically showing his approval of this hint of science, as Abd-al-Uzza traced his hand over the sketch
‘I know exactly where we’ll carve this building,’ the king announced. ‘At the entrance of the city.’
‘We think it’s the ideal place,’ Abd-Al-Uzza explained. ‘Either after the end of the siq, to the right side, or it will be at the front, which is what we aim for. We have to test the wind’s direction to avoid erosion. The height would be almost ninety cubits.’
‘Come back tomorrow at the same time.’ The king informed both Jamaal and Abd-Al-Uzza. ‘We have a lot to do.’
All the thoughts were passing through Jamaal’s mind like an unwelcome visitor. Tomorrow held another plan for Jamaal, away from here. The excitement of Abd-Al-Uzza and the joy on the king’s face all meant nothing to Jamaal.
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