Jordan Stories: On Ma Last Efternuin in Petra, a Bedouin Loon Haundit Me a Cup o Tea—an Telt Me His Grandfaither Haed Met Lawrence

The final metre o the Siq. The nairae rock corridor, efter a fu 1.2 kilometre, suddenly splits apen — an thaur it is. The Treasury. No in a photae, no on a National Geographic front, no in an Indiana Jones pictur — it is actually thaur, cut in hauf by a blade o mornin licht slashin throu a crack in the rock, ae hauf rose-gowd, the ither hauf still hidden in shadda. Ahent me, somebody whispered in Arabic unner thair braith: Alhamdulillah. Ah stuid thaur, catcht atween catchin ma braith an haudin it, for several saicants.

Syne Ah leukit back at the Siq — the rock passage Ah haed juist walked throu, its fluir polished smuith by twa thoosan year o huifs an camel pads — an stairtit tae retrace hou Ah'd gotten here.

Three weeks earlier, Ah wis sittin on a chair in Beijing watchin a Warld Cup qualifier. Jordan versus an opponent whase name Ah cannae mind. A banner flashed across the screen — 'The Chivalrous' — abune a flag Ah didnae recognise. Ah didnae ken whaur Jordan wis, didnae ken whit leid thay spoke thaur, didnae ken why the team cried thairsels 'The Chivalrous.' The camera cut tae a Jordan supporter, his face pentit in the rid, white, an black o the naitional flag, his een haudin somethin that Ah assumed ainly appeared efter a victory. Ah dinnae mind the match result. But Ah mind apenin ma browser an typin 'jordan travel.'

Amman is a ceity biggit across seiven hills. The taxi wound its wey up frae the airport, the driver tunin the radio tae a Lebanese station playin auld Fairuz sangs, syne typin intae a translation app: 'Amman's roads an Jordanian patience are the same thing — thay gang aroon an aroon, but thay aye get thaur.' He drapped me at a restaurant cried Hashem — apen for ower saxty year, nivver closed, wi a menu o exactly three items: hummus, falafel, flatbreid. The waiter slapped a stack o breid ontae the plastic tableclauth an firit aff a string o rappid Arabic. Ah didnae unnerstaund, but the diner neist tae me translatit wi a grin: 'He said — eat first, talk later.'

At sax the neist mornin, Ah wis staundin at the entrance tae Petra. Gin ye ainly hae ae day in Jordan, gie aw o it tae Petra. Ivry hunner metre o the Siq is a different microclimate — tourist chatter at the entrance, syne deeper in, naethin but wind an yer ain fitfaas. Auncient shrines an watter channels appear on the rock waws, stane cairved by wind an watter intae the shape o muscle. At aroon the echt-hunner-metre merk, a Bedouin loon on a cuddie passed me an turnt his heid: 'Awmaist thaur.'

Efter the climax at the Siq's end, Ah sat on a stane step direckly facin the Treasury. Tourists wur busy takin photaes, postin tae Instagram, checkin page nummers in thair guidebeuks. Ainly ae body wisnae muivin — a Bedouin loon, aiblins thirteen or fowerteen, a rid-an-white-checkert keffiyeh rowed aroon his heid, leanin agin a column. He gliskit at me, syne poured het tea frae a flask an haundit it ower. 'Mint tea,' he said. 'Ye've been walkin a lang time. Yer watter's gaen.' The tea wis sweet, loadit wi succar. Ah askit hou lang he'd bid in Petra. He said: 'Ah've aye been here. Ma grandfaither an aw. He said he met Lawrence.' He set doon his cup an pyntit intae the distance — the echt hunner steps up tae the Monastery — 'Gin ye want tae gang thaur, gang the noo. Ower het in the efternuin.'

Wadi Rum's nicht sky needs nae rheitoric. The Bedouin guide traced the neist mornin's jeep route intae the saund wi his fit, syne telt me a story: his faimly haed bid here for seiven generations, an ilka generation haed gien the desert new names. 'The desert disnae chynge,' he said, 'but the fowk leukin at the desert dae. Sae the names hae tae chynge an aw.' He lichtit a paraffin lamp an hung it ootside the tent — the ainly airtifeecial licht within a fifty-kilometre radius — syne pyntit towards the Milky Wey. 'Ye see that band o starns? We cry it the camel's eyelashes.' Ah leukit at it for a lang time an decidit this name wis faur mair accurate than 'the Milky Wey.'

The Deid Sea haes nae waves. Ye walk in, the watter pushes ye up, but whan ye try tae staund, ye feel mair wechty than afore — as gin the hail planet's gravity haes concentratit in yer cweels. Ah floatit for fifteen meenits, leukin across at Israel, leukin back at Jordan's desert heichwey ahent me, tryin tae assemble aw the fragments o this trip. Jordan is a kintra wi nae ile that apent its borders tae ower three million refugees. Its business caird is Petra, but its banes is patience. The kind o patience that grinds stane intae temples, turns desert intae hame, an treats guests as honour.

On the day Ah left, Ah gaed back tae that same café in Amman. The awner recognised me an brocht me Arabic coffee — unsuccared, thick coffee gruns at the bottom. He dippit his finger in the coffee that haed spilt ower the rim o the cup an drew a wee circle on the table-tap. 'This is Petra,' he said. 'Ye'll come back.' Ah askit why. He pyntit at the Jordan naitional team schedule pinnit tae the waw. 'Acause neist time Jordan plays, ye'll watch.'