The Nabatean temples of Petra — no wonder they are the world wonder — mountains carved out top to bottom to perfection,
Smooth columns and walls around them like naked muscle fibres of geological timelines,
And Romans overtaking and adding their own stones on top as usual,
And Bedouins nowadays riding donkeys up impossibly steep ancient pathways that are barely visible — blasting Eminem and Adele and summer house on speakers that echo far away through gorges and valleys.
“Taxi, with AC” they offer a ride.
“This my taxi” I tap my legs
“You’re welcome” they say solemnly, nod and hop off.
And a soldier with a clean cut and brush-like black moustache that prays in the shade of a heavily armored vehicle, while his colleague sits on the passenger seat with one leg outside—scrolling, smoking.
And solitary Bedouins that rest each on their own mountaintop, listening to Bob Marley, and that inspire you how to live and not to worry,
And a narrow canyon “off the beaten track, no tourists” as per my guide. Through it a little stream barely ankle-deep, yet around it an abundance of healthy olives and lemon trees—a Mediterannean jungle paradise hidden within a seemingly barren landscape.
And in front of the magnificent Al-khazna the famous treasury, camels getting up and down, up and down, for their owners’ business sake—for tourists coming to get a photo on a camel’s back, not really seeing that the camel is old and tired.
But the sun sets and tourists leave camels to rest in canyons that turn red like iron, then like brick, then flame. A day that burns and sweats turns cold like on a switch, campfires slowly lit up and pop up in distant caves, and Petra the silent ancient giant goes to sleep.