“You want to see my cave?” asked our Bedouin guide, aka Mr. Friday.
Had we not already established a trust, his proposal would have sounded like a proposition.
“Yes, we’d love to,” cooed the three women.
We climbed up a small slope and voila, there in the rocks was Juomaa’s front door – locked against wandering bandits.
“Here is where we kept our fire,” he said pointing to a small pit with ink-colored sand stained by the ash. “Here is where our cousins slept. The men here. The women there. And over here was the cave the tourists slept. They used to come up here and we would offer them hospitality.”
The bedroom-sized caves must have been cramped when all the cousins slept over. I imagined there was a lot of giggling at night.
“At the bottom of this canyon is Haroun’s orchard,” said Juomaa. As he looked over the site, he sighed. “I loved living in the caves.”
Without their inhabitants, the caves were not homes, and there was little else to see inside.
Outside, the multi-colored stone was brilliant orange as the sun dropped. To the right of his front door was a stunning view of the Monastery.
We stood enjoying a quiet anyone living in a city has never heard. The desert is a place where life is pared down to the bare minimum. You get enough water to survive – with nothing to waste. You eat to fill your belly; no left-overs that might spoil. Your possessions must fit on your back or your donkey’s. Your entertainment is Nature’s round-the-clock exhibition of her array of colors. The air was fresh, tinged with the freedom of living without masters.
“I could get used to living up here,” my friend said. “I don’t think my husband would like it.”
“No CNN or A/C, mine would complain,” I said. “But I feel free.”
“It is gorgeous. I can just imagine sitting around the campfire, telling stories and watching the stars,” Louise said. Her eyes had gone dreamy again.
It was a pity we were unable to enjoy the Bedouin hospitality, but the sun waits for no woman. If we wanted to end our day in true Thelma and Louise style, then we had to get to the cliff at the top of the world.
Many signs pointed towards the canyon’s lip.
Climbing the mountain, we rushed towards the edge, but our donkey stopped just in time. Regardless of what anyone else wanted, he refused to take that last step.
Maaz stopped to lean against a fence made of sticks. My mother’s heart stopped. My friend encouraged him to step away by asking him to take her photo. Soon, he was leaping around like a mountain goat snapping shots our stomachs could not endure.
“Over here,” called Juomaa. Taking off his sunglasses, he squinted and pointed west to some distant spot where his camels grazed. “Wadi Araba, my winter home. It is warmer there. Araba is the real desert.” He turned and pointed south.
“See the white roof on the top of that mountain. That is Aaron’s Tomb. In Islam, we believe Aaron was a prophet and a priest like his brother Moses.”
“My great-grandfather’s name was Aaron,” I told him. Suddenly the pieces came together. “His grandfather’s name was Eleazer. In the Old Testament, Eleazer was Aaron’s son. Very curious,” I said, watching the sun set. “It all feels so familiar and comfortable. This is truly our shared ancestral land.”
“Welcome home,” said the smiling Juomaa.
To be continued….
ABOUT JUOMAA KUDBLAN THE PETRA BEDOUIN GUIDE
Juomaa Kudblan, Mr. Friday, was a man we instantly felt comfortable with. His mobile is 00 962 7 7753 5425.
You can arrange to meet him at the Petra entrance, or, if you are lucky, arrange to meet him at Haroun’s for a sunset trip to the Monastery. He charged us each 50JD for our four-hour tour. His rate matched the rates quoted on Frommer’s. His donkey were well-cared for, and he is a kind, stable individual.
Tales of Dragons, Rabbits and Roosters 