Our water bottles emptied, we could not take another step. The empty café next to the Byzantine church welcomed us.
A majlis of red and black cushions surrounded a jewelry case in the center of the room with a full view of the Colonnade. A young man stood behind the counter.
“Do you have lemon with mint?” I asked pointing to the picture. He nodded, unable to speak English.
“How about some juice?” I asked my weary friends as they peeled off their hats and camera bags. Their mouths were so dry, they nodded.
As we lounged on the couches, the proprietor walked between the necklaces houses in glass shelves, lit a cigarette and sat down.
“Salam ah-lay kum,” I said, starting our exchange with peace.
“Ah-lay kum a salam,” he responded appropriately. “I hope you are having a good day in Petra,” he said in perfect English.
“Yes, it has been wonderful. Is this your son?” I asked as the young man brought our fresh juices.
“No, he is my friend’s son. He is from Egypt. You know how tough things are in Egypt today. He needed a job so I brought him here to Petra. He will learn about tourists and learn to speak English.”
“My husband’s family is Egyptian,” I told him. “We live in Bahrain.”
“Really?” he raised his eyebrows. “How many wives does he have?” he asked with laughter in his eyes.
“Only me,” I countered. “That is all he can handle. What about you?”
“I only have one wife. She is from Spain and believe me, she is more than enough for me. I could not handle anymore wives.” We all giggled.
“You must know Marguerite,” Louise chimed in. “We just met her along the road.”
“Marguerite used to be the nurse at our clinic in the cave,” he said. “That was a long time ago when her husband was alive.”
“Do you know which cave she lived in?” Louise asked. “Is it that one across the way?” She pointed across the canyon above the other side of the Colonnade.
He corrected her finger and pointed out the cave.
“It must have been extraordinary to have lived in a cave. What a life she must have had. Cooking over a fire and raising babies there. Living among the Bedu. Extraordinary,” Louise said.
“When I was young, we all lived in the caves,” he announced.
“Really?” we exclaimed.
“Have you been to the Monastery?” We shook our heads no. “My family, we lived up there.” He pointed out towards the mountains.
“That is so interesting.”
He smiled. “We loved living in the mountains. Now most of the Bedouin live in the village. Do you like your juice?”
“Yes, very much.”
“The lemons are from my orchard. I grow oranges too. Everything you see here is fresh. Made at home.” He pointed to the poster over the table filled with Arabic mezza and salads.
“What is your name?” we finally asked.
“Haroun,” he said pronouncing the h softly making it sound like Aaron.
“Aaron,” I asked, “Like the brother of Moses?”
“Yes,” he said, pointing again towards the mountains. “We could see his tomb from our cave.”
A man wearing jeans parked his donkey in front of the café. A blond woman climbed off its back.
Haroun shouted out, “Salam!” and got up to greet the man with a hug and many kisses.
“My Uncle Jouma,” he said. “He is my uncle, but he is younger than me.”
Jouma took off his Ray-Bans and said hello to us in perfect English.
“Jouma means Friday. You can call me Friday.”
“This is Saturday and my friend, Sunday,” I said. “You can call me Monday.”
As more men stopped by, Haroun turned his attention to them. I felt the push of inspiration. It would be a treat to be guided to the Monastery by someone who lived there.
“Can you show us the Monastery?” I asked Jouma. “Wouldn’t it be great to go there with him?” I turned to my friends.
Suddenly a great plan was hatched. Jouma suggested that we go explore the Royal Tombs. He would meet us there at four o’clock and take us by donkey to the Monastery for the sunset.
Refreshed and excited about our afternoon adventure, after lunch, we gathered our things and said good-bye to the men.
“Please, the juice and the oranges are my gift to you,” said Haroun. “My orchid sits in valley at the bottom of Mount Hor. You must come and see it. I will wait for you there. My uncle will bring you.”
“Inshallah,” we said. “We will see you on our way to the Monastery.”
Then I realized, just like Marguerite, the Petra Bedouins had charmed us. Enchanted, we were ready to follow a man we had just met to his ancestral cave on the mountain.
ABOUT HAROUN AND JOUMA
Haroun’s Café has a terrific view of the Colannaded Street and the Royal Tombs. The food was good and the atmosphere was much nicer than the crowded restaurants at the end of the Colannade operated by hotels.
Jouma Kublan 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 donkeys were well-cared for, and he is a kind, stable individual.
Tales of Dragons, Rabbits and Roosters 