The two days we spent in Wadi Rum were educational. The “Bedouin” camp we stayed at was not what I was expecting or hoped for. If you’re wondering about Wadi Rum. It is the definition of desert. Vistas of red sand mixed with the lighter shades of brown. Dunes covered by small ripples sculpted by wind roll across seas of sand. Monoliths of rock erupt hundreds of feet straight from the desert floor. It has been the set of many movies (Que Star Wars music) and much history. T. E. Lawrence and the Arabian Revolt began there. You all know it from the book he wrote Lawrence of Arabia. If not, the interwebs will be happy to show you.
The camp, however…
There are many, many of these spread across the desert. Their bright lights paint the stone. Purple, green and blue, along with other colors, lightbulb graffiti marks each one. Pumping music blares, competing to be heard from one camp to the next. Like I said, not what I was expecting. It was like a cruise ship without the boat and water, but complete with buffet. Although they pulled the meat from the ground cooked “Bedouin” style for suntanned “nomads”.
We toured the desert and saw amazing terrain, took time to relax, rest and heal our feet. We’d been averaging about ten to twelve miles of walking a day. In those temperatures, it bakes your feet in your shoes. Especially if you walk fast, as we do. I hung my laundry out in the desert to dry after doing it in our little scrubber bag washer and watched my underwear fly off the line I had tied. It fluttered in the wind before gently landing in the sand. Then it was time to go.
I’d never really had much thought about border crossings. Going from one country to another has been a benign walk, or trip through customs in an air-conditioned airport. Now, I have quite a different perspective. The sight of a plain clothes soldier with the grenades and machine gun clued me in. If I ever see him without the armament, I should thank him for opening my eyes a bit to a bigger world. We made it through without too much trouble, and on to the bus headed north to Jerusalem.
A religious mecca, surrounded by walls and checkpoints. Big, hectic, but with many more traffic laws than Jordan. We had to walk through a major market to get there. I say walk, but that’s not quite right. It’s full contact travel. Rubbing elbows and more with strangers who give our suitcases looks as we drag them through. A pick pocket tries to get in my backpack, and I shrug him away with a look of warning. It’s not like there’s police to point him out to anywhere around. It’s a walk as you dare and protect yourself type of place and it was in full swing. Our apartment was a breath of fresh air complete with electric retractable blast shades? We cooled in the A/C for a minute, then back out onto the street.
The old city. The walk wasn’t far from our apartment. The site of destruction at times and resurrection at others depending on your belief. I’m not one to debate the subject of faith or religion. If you choose to believe one thing and not another, great. I respect everyone’s right to believe what they choose. Narrow streets, small market shops and stalls. Sounds of voices and vespas bounce off the stones. A place I can walk through history, which is why I came.
It’s apparent they built the city on hill after hill. The stairs and ramps of stone and concrete compose the streets that lead off in all directions, both uphill and down. Worn by the feet of those that have come before me. The grooves in the travertine show the wear of multitudes.
It’s where my book begins in a time far more dangerous than the one we live now. It begins in the first century, but this city had a long history even then. I assume and I hope some of that flavor still exists and I drink in all that I can that evening. On the way home outside the old city. It was a ghost town.
Everything was closed. One, maybe two, people walked the street. The cars were no longer busy honking through the streets. The market we had to elbow our way through was now just a long corridor of metal roll up doors. The graffiti on them was amazing, though. This I did not know before I came. The day after when it continued, we had to use our old friend google. Friday afternoon is the beginning of Shabbat for those who didn’t know. The religious observance for the Jewish people here. No work, no driving, etc. Until Sunday.
It amazed me they cleaned everything and closed up shop that quickly. Incredible. It was like a rave when the white lights come on and the cops show up. Makes it hard to get a bite though, or travel, or buy train tickets, get groceries. You get the picture. We found one coffee shop open and had pastries for dinner. If you’re going to travel to Jerusalem, and you’re staying in the Jewish Quarter, prepare yourself. There are other sections of the city that may not have the same hours on businesses or restrictions, but I didn’t stay or go there to find out. Maybe you can. Let me know what you find.
Sunday found us on a bus headed to Masada. If you’ve never heard of it. Let curiosity take you there. Look, read the stories surrounding it. Amazing. It plays a big part for me and my book. You never really know about and can’t really write about a place until you set foot in it. Write about what you know, said Big Daddy King, and I set both of mine firmly on that plateau. Looked out over the Dead Sea and surrounding desert. Shirt soaked, salt drying from where I sweat through the padding of my backpack straps, and put myself into the pages I’d written. Expanding my mind with every step and drop of sweat. I’m looking forward to editing. Maybe.
A cable car ride later, we waited for the bus. Qumran wasn’t far to the north and watched the number we needed come into view. Hopped on. We had this transit system figured out. Until we didn’t. Pushed our button and… No stop. Well, I guess we won’t go to Qumran today. It’s hot. I can look it up. It’ll be enough, right? Nope.
Two stops later, we’re off the bus. Walk across the highway to a bus stop for the opposite direction at the only stop light for miles in the middle of nowhere. Anything absorbent I have in contact with me will never be the same. It’s almost 120 in the shade. The minutes slow until I can almost hear the ticking of my digital watch. The altimeter on it shows we are 632 feet below sea level. Sweat tickles as it trickles. Everywhere. I drink water that’s now the same temperature as it is outside, which is the same as the coffee I had this morning.
Am I seriously cooking myself again for this book? Should I carry cookie dough with me? My mind goes down strange rabbit holes when I sweat this much. We are almost two hours late for the reservation I was required to make to see Qumran. Will they let us in? Did people really live here in this heat?
Green rises over the crest of the hills to the north. Mirage? Hallucination? Nope, it’s the 486. Thank God. Bring on the A/C. Two stops later, we are in the heat again. Approx 9 minutes of A/C. What a tease. The walk up the hill to the gate and the reception center is cruel and unusual punishment for missing a bus stop.
As the heat leaves my body, the reception hall gives me a shiver. The nice man working at the counter informs us it’s alright we missed the reservation, but he closes at five. It’s four. Qumran in an hour? In this heat? Why not?
The site itself is small where the Essene settlement was. Scholars, they copied many works and are possibly the ones responsible for the Dead Sea Scrolls. Hidden in caves for millennia, they survived and are still being deciphered, sorted and preserved after being found in the 40’s. The caves spread out along the coast of the Dead Sea near the settlement. After seeing the structures, I wanted to see the caves. Some nearby piqued my interest, and we headed down the trail at a blazing (literally) pace. About a half mile out, I lost my partner in crime. Seeing stars, she had to stop in the shade of a hillside and get some water. I trudged on along the trail and up the hillside to the caves. I stood. My mouth is open, breathing heavy. My breath was so much cooler than the surrounding air I could feel the difference. Like the reverse of blowing steam in the cold. Hot and happy, we got off the bus. It wouldn’t be the same if I hadn’t stood here. Taken pictures. Experienced where and what my characters have. Learned. Does it make them and my story feel more real? Yes, it does. Do I really need to consider carrying cookie dough to bake on this rock? Maybe.
