Iran. Er, make that Jordan…
It was thanks to the vagaries of Iranian immigration policy that I got to be threatened by a sword-wielding (if somewhat camp-looking) gladiator.
And that the official two-person expedition by the Abu Dhabi Alpine Club to scale the highest peak in the Middle East ended with us in two different countries, establishing that Mt Damavand was more than 6000m above (Dead) Sea level.
But all that was in the future.
When the day I flew from Dushanbe in Tajikistan to Tehran turned spectacularly pear-shaped by me being refused entry and deported from Iran, I was still a little disorientated when I turned up on the Dubai Marina doorstep of my hospitable but perplexed friends Suze and Pete.
The deportation was galling but would not have been a big deal if not for Wendy, another climber from the Abu Dhabi Alpine Club who was about to fly to Tehran the next day to join me. So Plan B was to see if I could convince the Iranian embassy in Abu Dhabi to let me in so I could join her the next day rather than having her arrive alone in a country to which she’d never previously travelled.
A sharp rebuff from the embassy — “We will have to send this application to Tehran but you should know within three weeks” — saw me owing Wendy a dozen cans of cider by way of compensation and searching for Plan C instead.
And that’s how I ended up in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.
Of all the nations within a short flight of the Dhabs, this was the one I’d most wanted to get to before I left the region so I booked a cheap flight and landed in Amman, arriving on Independence Day when the populace were buying Jordanian flags to celebrate their independence from British rule.
Early on the morning after I arrived, I travelled to Petra, an ancient city which was the capital of the Nabatean empire 2000 years ago but which was overtaken by the Romans, fell into disuse and then effectively was unknown to the outside world until about 200 years ago.
Now it’s one of the world’s most impressive sights.
My introduction was via the Petra by Night tour, where you walk down the Siq — the canyon which restricted access to the city — by candlelight.
It was a full moon night too, which reduced the dependence on candles.
Then the Treasury, an iconic structure which is the first major monument seen on arrival at the site, came into view.
I went back in early the following day before the tour buses arrived. I thought the most enjoyable part of it is seeing people emerge from the Siq and see the Treasury.
It was still relatively cool so I made my way up via a mountain path to the High Place, where sacrifices were once made to appease whatever god the Nabateans believed in.
A special groove had been cut to channel the blood from the sacrifice.
(I suspect the choice of species involved operates on a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy)
The views over the main valley of Petra justified the trip on their own.
The tourist vendors took a pretty laidback approach to their task. Sometimes literally.
But it was a nice change from the remorseless hassle of places like India or Morocco or Bali.
I headed down the far side, taking refuge from the heat in the middle of the day, using the thermal mass of the temple buildings.
A sandstorm rolled in as I walked down the collonaded street but I continued on to the Monastery, located up a side valley at the end of the site.
At the bottom of the route was a warning that it was dangerous without a guide. The only apparent danger I could see was to the locals’ earning capacity if tourists realised they didn’t need to hire a guide. The route itself was fine.
This vendor partway up to the monastery chose the edge of the cliff as his sleeping place, after a sisha session.
My guess is he isn’t a sleepwalker.
The monastery was worth the effort, particularly because of the cafe with oh-so-comfortable setees set up facing it…
I walked out at dusk, until I was called in by one of the Bedu and plied with tea once he’d completed the full maghreb — dusk– prayer.
He gently proselytised me about Islam, citing its benefits in good moral living and refusal of alcohol.
But I’d already promised myself a beer in the bar outside the entrance that’s set in a 2000-year-old cave.
By the time I arrived back at the Siq, the evening’s candlelight effort was underway again.
All this earned me a telling off from the head of security, who threatened me with jail. But it was worth it to see Petra by moonlight.
After a night (and the promised Cave Bar beer), I headed to Wadi Rum, where I joined a 4×4 tour in the world’s most decrepit LandCruiser.
After a tour of Arizona-style natural arches, sand dunes and some bizarre petroglyph-like rock formations, we arrived at the campsite set up to have a killer sunset view.
Then we headed into the Bedouin tent for dinner. Almost everyone slept inside the tent but I dragged my mattress out onto the dune to sleep under the stars. As ever, I woke up to find a series of animal tracks around me.
I moved on to an awesome 15th century village called Dana, located on the edge of the scarp leading down the Aqaba valley separating Jordan from Israel, then the next day five of us hiked down the wadi to an ancient copper-mining site that has been worked for 6000 years and was mentioned in the bible.
Towards the bottom of the valley, we began encountering Bedouin shepherds, who immediately invited us in for tea.
Unlike in the cities, we met the entire family rather than just the men.
The other four went back up to Dana with a car they’d arranged but I opted to hitch along the Dead Sea Highway.
Jordan’s proximity to Israel was usually apparent, notwithstanding the peace treaty between the two nations.
You can swim anywhere in the Dead Sea but most do so at the resorts on the northern end near Amman so they can use the freshwater showers to wash off the salt, because the water is nine times as saline as the sea.
The novelty value of bobbing a couple of inches higher and being unable to swim on your front lasted about 15 minutes before the law of diminishing returns kicks in.
But the most amusing part was learning on the beach here via text that Wendy made it to the top of Mt Damavand. The summit is about 5600m or so, but since I was currently more than 400m below sea level, our expedition had covered more than 6000m of height difference.
I headed back to Amman and for my last full day in Jordan, I went to Jerash, a town just north of the capital which has some of the world’s best-preserved Roman ruins.
And a local history group had created a centurion, gladiator and chariot experience to relive the old days.
But a childhood of being indoctrinated by Asterix and Obelix books meant I was incapable of taking the centurions seriously.
The gladiators were more impressive, in that Oxford Street way.
The chariot riding was a little cheesy but was done at a pace which showed that OSH hadn’t been consulted.
Then it was back for one last night in Amman before flying to Abu Dhabi then on to New York, assuming the American immigration officials were more amenable than their Iranian counterparts…