What is this Jordanian woman doing? Having chips? cooling down in the shade? people watching? daydreaming? It might look like she is doing all of the above, but you have to be there to understand what she is really doing.
If she climbed the hill on foot, she might be thinking about alternate routes to get down to the valley without falling; if she made it up there on a donkey, she might be wondering what she would do if her beast were to break a limb. Either way, climbing down the mountain is the least of her problems. She lives in a nearby village, where every day she has to walk to a well to fetch water; where life is hard, where all she sees as soon as she opens her eyes are rocks and sand, sand and rocks. But she gets up anyway, makes bread and tea for her family and herself, wraps in a cloth bag the trinkets she sells to tourists in Petra, and rides the donkey up the cliff, all the way to this very spot, where a bag of chips is all there is to eat under the shade of a squalid tree.
A woman and her donkey stand halfway up The Monastery, Petra’s most awe-inspiring monument and also one of the most taxing to reach. This square building, carved from a chunk of rose-colored mountain, sits on the rocky cliff nearly an hour’s climb from the gorge. The climb takes your breath away, both figuratively and physically. It's a daunting hike of more than 700 nearly vertical feet, broken by patches of about 800 ancient steps.
Along the processional way up, there are plenty of places to rest, including a holy spring, a shrine, a ceremonial dining room, and this cool ledge overlooking a deep ravine below: this woman's work place. While hikers stop at this enchanted mossy grotto to take in the views and catch their breath, the woman gets to work offering donkey rides to the summit, “Air-condition taxi, mister?”
Does she know that she is working right where the biblical Nabateans lived more than 2000 years ago? Does she know that the archaeological authorities want to shut her business down because the donkeys' hooves are degrading the sandstone steps on the route up? Maybe she does, maybe she doesn't. I don't think she cares. From where she works, she has stupendous views over the entire Petra basin and the Wadi Araba. And in the afternoon, the sun moves around enough to hit the facade of the mountain full-on before plunging into the horizon, leaving the basin suspended in a twilight moment. And I'm sure, at this moment, everything else seems unimportant.
If you want water, she has it. If you need a power bar, she can sell you one. If you feel like buying a souvenir, she has plenty of them. But nothing will be rush-delivered. You'll have to wait until she comes down from this multicolored rock--the only large semi-flat surface around--and makes it back to the little stall with the Jordanian flags you saw on your way up, all full of beautiful trinkets and no one to buy them from. It's not that she doesn't care. It's not that she doesn't want to make a sale. It's that she trusts humans, that she doesn't need her eyes on her business when The Almighty oversees everything from up there, she tells me when I ask her if she isn't afraid that tourists may help themselves to some souvenirs. And there is this other reason for her not to be at the stall: she needs to do business on her phone and that multicolored rock up there, far away from her stand, is the only place where she gets a decent signal.
The climb to the High Place of Sacrifice is steep and tricky, but an unmissable part of a visit to Petra. It's a dramatic walk, rewarded with superb views into the ravine of the beautiful Wadi al-Mahfur, and the deep-cut corridors the Nabatean engineers sliced through the rock.
I knew we were reaching the top when we spotted two prominent obelisks, both over 18 feet-high, which supposedly represent Dushara and al-Uzza, the Nabatean deities. The obelisks, despite being solid, were not placed there; instead, the entire side of the mountain-top was leveled to leave them exposed and erect. Consequently, the place is known as the Phallus of Mercy, a place visited by barren women praying for fertility.
Other than the obelisks, the other sign that we were nearing the top was her voice. A woman chanted in Arabic and whistled stridently, sending her high pitch intonations down the cliff. She was up there, walking around the platform--used in biblical times as the venue for religious ceremonies-- oriented towards an altar, on which it is believed stood a table of offerings.
As soon as we reached the top, she grabbed my hand and led me from corner to corner of the summit. She looked rough. Her leathery skin seemed like life and the lives of others have left their mark on her face, and her hands were thick with callosities. She looked a little bit crazy, a little bit dangerous, a great deal like she was not the woman I wanted to be left alone with at the edge of a cliff. She showed me the altar and gave me the slash-throat sign, letting me know without words what it was for. She chanted some some more, whistled louder, and showed me everything there was to see up there. At some point, we held hands as we admired the vastness of Petra’s mountain terrain and from there, she pointed at the tomb of Aaron atop Jabal Haroun, in clear sight in the distance.
I don't know what she wanted from me. She didn't ask for money or water (I had neither). She just sang and whistled as she showed me around as if this mountain top were her own house. Before I started the descent she instructed me to sit next to her by the sacrificial altar. She showed me a picture of a man, caressed his face on the torn paper, and using body language told me he was dead. The hard edges of her contours softened. We sat there in silence and from there we saw the city of Petra standing in a broad valley down below. She put the picture of her deceased husband away and whistled some more.
Ever since I visited Petra, Jordan, I've been thinking about ownership and home. My home. The one owned by the bank back in Florida; the one that I want to be mine 100%.
I never dreamt of buying a house. The white picket fence, the backyard, and the swing under a tree were never part of my dream. I wanted to travel forever, never growing roots, never staying in a place long enough to call it home. Then, I hit the forties and with the big four came the need to own and to settle.
Petra, the over 2000-years old prehistoric settlement, situated between the Red Sea and the Dead Sea, is a pink rock-cut city. This wonder is half-built, half-carved into the rock, and is surrounded by mountains and gorges. Its vastness and the intricacy of their architecture--channels, tombs, tunnels, dams, copper mines, temples, churches and housing—is mind-boggling. The ancient city of Petra was literally carved from the sandstone cliffs of southern Jordan, a place that some 20,000 Nabataeans called home. In my opinion, Petra is a little bit like Las Vegas inasmuch as it involves a group of people dreaming of creating something in the middle of nowhere, of a Utopian home in the heart of a barren desert, against all odds, and succeeding.
Petra means "rock" in Greek. Then, there is this house in Florida. And when I think of the wacky tiles on the kitchen counter, the wooden floors, the cathedral ceiling, the dated shower, the balcony overlooking the artificial lake, the field next door with the horses and the cows, I want to claim all of it as mine. I want to own that house, not just in my heart, but on paper. That house is my Petra.
I don’t want the bank to claim the place where I faced the most daring challenge of my life: motherhood; where I discovered that I do love dogs, infinitely; and where I navigated, successfully, the perilous journey of the early years of my marriage. That’s the home of my girlfriends too. Of Connie, Linda, Karen, Lisa, Jody, Susan, Shannon, Daissy, Savvy, Jaqui, Cherie, and their families. The bank doesn't care about the tears I shed one night in the backyard, looking at an eclipse, and begging the sky for some peace. The bank that owns my house doesn't know that our dog is buried under a tree, that her grave is shaped like a heart and that from it sprung blue orchids.
Ownership: Legal right to the possession of a thing.
Maybe it's the weather in this Middle Eastern country from where I write that made me nostalgic. Maybe it's looking at the pictures I took of Petra that reminded me of home. Maybe I miss a good glass of moonshine, a plate of mean redneck caviar, and the smoky smell at a Pigfest. Maybe I yearn for a brisk walk around Lake Hollingsworth with my girlfriend, or a gathering of friends under some Tiki bar where more than one secret was uttered. Or, maybe I'm just getting old; too old to still be paying a mortgage.