Between Iraq and a Charred Place
I arrived at Wadi Rum just as dusk was starting to soften the edges of my rocky surroundings. My guide, a lively Bedouin named Fahdi, promptly tossed me into the back of his pickup truck, revved the engine, and took off at a scarcely believable pace given the ‘road’ we were on. It was the first time I’d ridden in this manner since a particularly memorable hitchhiking experience in Alaska, where I’d shared the back of a truck with several recently deceased rabbits, their bloodied fur providing a sort of fluffy, gory cushioning. Thankfully, Fahdi’s truck contained no such grim companions—just me, the rapidly chilling desert air, and a gnawing sense that I might soon find myself face-first in the sands of Jordan if I didn’t hang on tightly.
I arrived at camp just as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, painting the sandstone cliffs in vivid shades of red and gold. My welcome was warm: pots bubbling over open fires, a group of Bedouins brewing tea for the evening’s guests, and an array of food being carefully extracted from beneath the sand. This, Fahdi explained, was Zarb, a cooking method which involved burying your dinner underground and hoping it was still there when you returned. We ate lavishly under an inky sky before moving on to a traditional Bedouin disco, which had me momentarily terrified, conjuring visions of communal jigging with near strangers without even the comforting buffer of a Budweiser or two. Nonetheless, I was beckoned forward with a persuasive urgency that left no room for polite British refusal. Inhibitions soon evaporated beneath the rhythmic drums, and before long, the assembled guests were prancing around with all the skill of the Royal Ballet of Burkina Faso. Eventually, and breathlessly, we settled back beneath the stars, exchanging riddles and tales of journeys gone by.
The next morning began with a sturdy breakfast of freshly baked flatbreads, pungent cheeses, and coffee robust enough to strip varnish, after which we climbed gingerly into Fahdi’s battle-scarred pickup for a day exploring Wadi Rum. The desert here is astonishingly cinematic—a vast expanse of sand dunes, their flawless ridges sculpted meticulously by millennia of wind, dotted with surreal rock formations so otherworldly they’ve featured prominently in films like Star Wars, The Martian, Dune, and of course, Lawrence of Arabia. Fahdi navigated this surreal playground barefoot and carefree, effortlessly hopping from rock to rock, while the rest of us trailed clumsily behind, demonstrating all the agility and grace of a heavily inebriated Peter O’Toole.
Camels, much like Parisian waiters, manage to be perpetually aloof, incurably indifferent, and charmingly unattractive all at once. One particularly inquisitive specimen ambled casually over, thrust its head inside the truck, and regarded us with the scepticism of a health inspector surveying Bry’s Burger Van. It then unleashed a gust of breath so pungently foul it could only have resulted from years of devotedly munching on its own excrement. Fahdi petted him affectionately, which the camel tolerated with regal disdain, before disappearing behind a nearby dune. Around midday, we paused briefly for a spot of sweltering sand surfing, which led us to a collection of rock carvings that were significantly older, more impressive, and much cheaper to visit than our own Stonehenge—although this is not too difficult.
Lunch eventually arrived at a modest roadside spot on the outskirts of Wadi Rum village—an establishment that looked as though it had last been renovated during the reign of King Herod. The paint was peeling, the fan gave up every third rotation, and the chairs had clearly been rescued from a skip—but the food was spectacular. Plates arrived piled high with saffron-scented rice, chicken grilled to crisp-skinned perfection, and a healthy selection of charred vegetables. Fahdi, grinning as always, regaled us with tales of desert escapades: childhood games played with scorpions, cousins lost (briefly) in sandstorms, and tourists, mainly of the U.S. variety, doing stupid things. His ability to shepherd the woefully underprepared through Jordan’s rugged landscapes was impressive, though my knees, audibly grinding like pepper mills, wished we’d never met.
Jordan had turned out to be even more extraordinary than I had anticipated, a country whose ancient grandeur is matched only by the genuine warmth of its people. From the rose-red splendour of Petra to the silent majesty of Wadi Rum, it is a place where ancient wonders casually share space with corner shops selling knock-off Fanta. As I sat on a rock, still extracting sand from places sand has no right to be, my thoughts began to drift north. I was about to exchange Fahdi’s friendly banter for the uncertainties of a long bus ride into a mysterious and potentially hazardous territory: Syria. What could possibly go wrong?
J
