A Nearly Fact Free History of Petra, Jordan

The magnificent treasury of Petra

While standing spellbound in absolute awe, a guide approaches and offers to give me a full historical account of Petra; I counter that I am far more interested in locating Pharaoh's treasure, which is why, the best I can offer you, history wise is …

A Nearly Fact Free History of Petra
The Treasury is carved directly into the limestone rock, and received its name because it was rumored that an Egyptian Pharaoh had hidden his wealth inside.

Petra, which means “rock” in Ancient Greek (fitting as the entire civilization was chiseled out of limestone cliffs) was founded by a nomadic people called the Nabataeans only days after the Big Bang, or to be more exact,  a long time ago (which ever comes first) and existed until a major Japanese style earthquake destroyed their nuclear reactor which lead to a mass exodus of Nabataeans out of the mountains. Petra stood empty, until being rediscovered in 1989 by the famed swashbuckling archaeologist, Indiana Jones, (Source: the documentary “Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade,”)  where we learned that Petra was the last known resting place of the Holy Grail. Ending up in the safe arms of Indy, he successfully hid the sacred vessel in Peru until 2008, when the vengeful Steven Spielberg and George Lucas finally tracked him down and repeatedly raped poor Indy in retaliation for his hording of the relic, even having the temerity to film their heinous crime for the whole world to see (Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of Crystal Skull)   … God dammit, Aliens DO NOT belong in an Indiana Jones movie! And how the hell do you survive a nuclear blast by hiding in a refrigerator?!  You deserved so much better Indy! Thankfully, Spielberg and Lucas were arrested for their monstrous crime (source: South Park season 12 episode 8.) and are serving the rest of their lives in a federal penitentiary. 

Nevertheless, Petra is WELL worth the visit! Superior to see than the pyramids, and quite an adventure ... 

CIA Investigates Missing American in Middle East

Petra Overnight

the narrow mountain alley leading to the Treasury

Atop the limestone cliff, 300 feet above the ground, after having hid from what we thought were police spotlights (it turns out they were!,) in a Petra cave, we awoke on the limestone cliff, with the gentle nudge of the dawn sun, marveling at just how caked in dust and dirt we were. I think even a heroin addict placed in our grimy shoes would choose a shower over actually catching the dragon.
I used to believe that if I lived in the time of Lewis and Clark, I would be the first to volunteer for their expedition. After one night out in the wilds of the Jordanian mountains I might be reconsidering my application. “No Richard, you need a real job! Apply dammit, apply!” I can hear my Father yelling in the background.

Strategizing our departure from the Petra, we decided to wait until the gates opened at 7 AM, and then proceed out as other tourists entered to avoid being arrested for our overnight activities.

“We came, we saw, we left. Sooo lame,” I informed utterly confused tourists as we walked the trail away from the Treasury during the first few minutes of the park’s opening.

“I thought we were the first people in line,” remarked the British woman to her husband.

“Mommy, how did they get so dirty?” asked their little girl.

We arrived at the park entrance, trying to sneak out as casually as possible, but the guard got very excited upon spotting us. “You are the American!” he exclaimed.

“The American?” I responded, feeling as though I had just been picked out of a police line-up for a robbery I DID commit.

 “You spent the night here last night?” The evidence was all over my clothing. I nodded. He animatedly shouts Arabic into his walkie-talkie.

“The tourist police will be here shortly, please wait here.”

The police. After us. In the Middle East. And we knowingly broke the law … This would bode a lot worse if not for the fact that the guard seemed genuinely happy to see us.

Ten minutes later the police haven’t shown up. Zuzka walks away, then doesn’t return. Yoni and I are confused. We begin to look for her, and not finding her, I hire a cab for a couple dinars in hopes of chasing her down. On the second time up and down the hill we spot her. She’s furious with us, apparently having told us “let’s go,” and neither of us following. She refuses to get in the cab. I leave Yoni to deal with her, agreeing to meet them at their hostel in an hour or so.

I walk into my hotel. (the hotel owner who I described in this post) Mahmoud’s jaw drops when he sees me. “That wasn’t nice,” he states.

I am momentarily confused, Mahmoud explains: “Last night I made dinner for you. The park closes at 6. I thought you’d be back by 6:30 at the latest. 7 o’clock arrives, and you still aren’t back. No doubt he’ll be back at 7:30. 8 PM and you still are not here. He MUST come back by 8:30, there’s nothing to do in this town for God’s sake. 8:30 comes, dinner is totally cold, I haven’t eaten because I  am waiting for you. 9:00, I call tourist police and report you missing.”

“I spent the night in Petra,” I explained, “Surely someone has done that before.”

“No!” bellows Mahmoud, “Aside of the fact it is illegal, No one else is stupid enough to pay $50 for a bed so they can sleep out on a dusty cliff with scorpions.”

As if on cue, two policeman enter the hotel. They point to me and utter, “The American!”

I haven’t done anything that bad, have I? They aren’t going to cut off my feet for stealing a few extra steps in Petra after closing time? I mean, this isn’t Saudi Arabia, right??! Hell, they already tried to gas me. I stand frozen, no place to run, no place to hide.

They walk over to me, and honestly, are beyond polite. They explain that I was reported missing, and that they just wanted to make sure I was alright. Tourism is one of Jordan’s few forms of foreign currency, and they take the protection of travelers very seriously, not wanting to have their reputation as a safe destination stained. They laugh when I tell them I spent the night in Petra, shaking their heads at the crazy American Cowboy. They leave soon after.

Mahmoud shakes his head. “You make me worry about you. You big asshole. I wake up at 2 AM and call to find out if you came in. I don’t sleep.”

“I’m really sorry Mahmoud.” Really I was. How could not be for putting out someone who cared for my well being and had made me dinner. “Is it okay if I go shower?”

Mahmoud dismisses me. I go upstairs and allow the cool water to wash away the dusty sin from my heinous crime. Re-birthed, I walk downstairs.

Mahmoud’s cell phone rings. He immediately switches to English. “Why should I call you? Police call you …” Suddenly I wonder if he’s talking about me. “No, no, you big asshole,” he yells into the receiver. “Okay, okay, I call you next time. Bye-bye big asshole.” He hangs up.

Exploring Petra

“That was CIA,” he explains. “My friend mad at me for not calling him the moment you got back. They were about to call your parents to tell them you were missing.”

I couldn’t imagine my poor, overly worried Mother reacting to the news that I was missing in the Middle East, on a trip that she begged me not to go on, telling me she had a “horrible feeling” about it. Turns out that while working with the American army in Fallojuh, Mahmoud had made friends with CIA operatives and had also called them to report that I was hadn’t turned up last night. They were mad that they weren’t the first people he called upon my return, and that it was rather via contact with the Jordanian police that they became aware of my reappearance.

For my part I can only thank God they didn’t call my Mom.

Exploring Petra, Jordan + Spending a Night Illegally in Cave like Al Qaeda

The Magnificence of Petra

Mahmoud drove me to Petra’s gate early in the morning, where I parted with the rather hefty $45 entrance fee, thrilled however to be seeing one of the Seven New Wonders of the World.

As I hike the trail, the mountains slowly close around me like the coils of a snake, until I am walking a winding path just a few feet wide, sheer cliffs on either side of me. Ahead, the tunnel opens, sun shining through, its golden light illuminating The Treasury.

Petra's treasury, discovered by Indiana Jones

The Treasury is carved directly into the limestone rock, and received its name because it was rumored that an Egyptian Pharaoh had hidden his wealth inside.

Check out the Treasury!! Move over Indiana Jones


(To see The treasury in person is jaw dropping.)


The magnificent treasury of Petra

Yoni and Zuzka

While admiring the Treasury, a 25 year old Israeli, Yoni, asks me to take a picture of him and his girlfriend, Zuzka.  We start walking around together, agreeing to jointly undertake the exploration of this ancient civilization, with me getting dibs on pharaoh’s treasure.


The many hones in the carved in the mountains of Petra, Jordan

Chiseled in the cliffs are the former residences of these long lost people. We pass by an outdoor coliseum, I daydream about what spectacles were once witnessed here: Gladiator fights? Public executions? Unveiled Muslim women? My fantasy comes to an abrupt end, as none of these are exactly appealing visuals for the imagination.



The coliseum of Petra

We climb the cliffs and admire the surrounding view of the parched mountains, enjoying a lunch consisting of canned tuna and pita bread. As I listen to their travel stories, I realize what I love about trekking the globe are the variety of adventuresome people you meet.

Yoni, in Israeli tradition, is intense, loud, and attempting to renegotiate my claim to pharaoh’s gold. He recently completed his required service in the Israeli army, and is looking forward to marrying his salsa dancing Czech girlfriend, Zuzka, whom he met in South America, the announcement of which I predict will be deemed by Yoni’s mother akin to dropping the Hiroshima nuclear bomb directly on her head, and the radioactive guilt she will release will have a half-life equal to her own.

Zuzka for her part, is a software engineer living in Canada, who lives to travel. She has a very nicely shaped face with a squarish jaw, and being adventurous, open, smart, and brave, I dub her as one of the coolest girls I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.

A Brush With Death
We climb the cliffs up and down, dipping into caves, admiring the scenery, exploring as much of Petra as anyone could hope to. Yoni is the best mountain climber of the three of us, and generally leads. The cliffs are generally quite steep, and it becomes important to plan your moves in advance, not to just take the next easiest step.

We begin to climb another mountain, far beyond the path most tourists take. This time I lead. Near the end, the cliff becomes nearly vertical, with few places to grip or place your feet. I’m only ten or so feet from the top. It looks somewhat daunting, but with resolve, I push off from my resting place. I climb the first half with ease, but around ¾ of the way, my grip of the rock starts to slip.

My heart skips a beat, a fall here likely means death, not only for me, but odds are I’ll be taking Yoni and Zuzka with me as they are directly below me. My hand continues to slide off the rock. 
Do something!  
I can’t breathe. With seemingly no other option but to take a mighty gamble, I use what leverage I have from my legs to push upwards on the rock, I rise just enough for my hand to find a slightly better grip. I push off with my legs again and scamper up the remaining distance, and onto a small overhang.

A minute later we are all resting safely on the ledge. I’m not sure if Yoni and Zuzka have any idea how close we were to disappearing in the Middle East, likely to be found by flies and scorpions long before any human.

Middle East Politics

Having survived another cliffhanger brush with death, I throw caution completely to the wind and start discussing politics with an Israeli.

Yoni tells me that he used to dislike thinking of himself as an Israeli, with most of the world hating his country, but today he’s proud of his heritage. I wonder whether just having completed his service in the Israeli army has anything to do with his changing mindset.

He wishes there was peace in his land. He doesn’t like the old guard or the fundamentalists, on either side, that help foment this never ending struggle and hatred. He is hopeful that his generation can do something to change that. He hopes to be one day involved with the political process.

He says that part of the reason the world hates Israel is that the Palestinians have a better PR machine, and control the story much better than the Israelis do.

“I want peace,” states Yoni.

“How would you accomplish that?” I inquire.

“I have a plan,” reveals Yoni, “When I arrive at the forefront, I will change the narrative the world hears. I will tell the Israeli side of the story and as the world understands the Israeli position, the Palestinians will not have the same leverage in negotiations they have now.”

I’m shocked by this response. Changing into a fancier suit and hiring a publicist to sway the opinion of your peers, is a positively futile undertaking, and will never change the underlying relationship between you and your wife, if she continues to show up for events with bruises all over her face. (and of course this goes vice-versa for the Palestinians, as both sides are guilty of shameful deeds)


Residence of ancient Petra

Later on in the conversation, Yoni does an about face, asking whether I know who Gilad Shalit is.

“Yes, the Israeli soldier who was abducted by Hamas in a cross border raid, and sadly, continues to be held, victim of the political struggle.”

Yoni pauses, and then says, with a seemingly guilty conscience, “One Israeli is kidnapped, and we go beserk as a nation. Most days, the IDF, (Israeli Defense Force) kidnaps three Palestinians off the streets, and interrogates, sometimes tortures them, because we think that those individuals will be able to provide intelligence on where the next attack on Israel might come from.”

Violence, coupled with the need to survive, begets more violence, and decency and morality are the first to be thrown by the wayside. Both sides are at fault, in this seemingly ceaseless ideological, egoic struggle for this “holy land.”

(Check out what lies outside the Treasury)

Overnight- Sadaam’s Chemical Weapons

It was getting late, and the three of us were sitting on a ledge high above the ground, playing a game of chicken to see who would buckle first at spending the night in this ancient civilization. No one blinked.

We had water, and some pita bread to last the night, and with the park now closed and the sun setting, and the government workers, apparently unaware of our remaining presence, unleash Sadaam Hussein’s chemical weapons.

A truck, drives down the gorge below, spraying the entire area with a thick poisonous cloud meant to eradicate flies from Jordan’s #1 tourist destination. It seems like overkill, literally, as the toxic haze drifts towards us, causing us to violently cough and flee to the other side of the mountain, moving as quickly over the rocks as the combination of low light and lethal gas chasing us will allow.

Eventually, we reach the peak and descend to the other side, finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. Twenty minutes later, a series of SUV's clamber down the road, shining search lights on the rocks. Are they looking for us? Quite possibly, it’s illegal to spend the night here, not to mention dangerous. Perhaps we should hide.

We duck into a cave, and wait for an hour, murmuring amongst ourselves. The search lights disappear, we head out onto a limestone ledge, a couple hundred feet off the ground. We lay down on the flattest places available and look up at the stars. At three AM the full moon rises over the mountains, showering us with translucent light. Slowly, we go fall sleep, not knowing that the CIA is already working on the case of the missing American in the Middle East … (follow up story link)

Rolling with Mahmoud- Wadi Musa Style

I think I've been Cheated

I make my way to the Amman bus station, where I board a crowded van headed to Petra. The driver asks me for eight dinars. “I was told it was four,” I retort.
“No, six dinars, two more for big bag.”
“Really?” I ask, almost positive I’m getting ripped.
“Yes, yes, I know price.”
Whatever, cheat me a few dollars. “Here you go.”

Now, I’ve booked reservations in Wadi Musa (the mountainous town acting as the gateway to Petra) and like many touristic areas the prices are by no means a steal, so when the bus made an impromptu stop at an inn on the outskirts of town, the driver announced they had vacancy, and the price was half my booking, I jumped at the possibility. After seeing the room, I informed the owner I would be happy to stay if I could cancel my other accommodations. I check the terms of my reservation on the net, no-go.

“No, no, no, I know the owner,” states the inn’s proprietor, “He’ll let you off, don’t worry.”
“I have to hear that from his mouth, and get an email from him stating so.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you kidding me?”

Begrudgingly he dials, mumbles a few words of Arabic into the receiver with little enthusiasm or hope, and hands me the phone. I look at him dubiously as I start speaking.

I explain my situation, the deep voice on the other end refuses to let me out of the booking. “My hotel is much better!” he states emphatically, “why would you even want to switch?”

“Trying to save money.”

“No, absolutely no! You show, you have place to stay, you don’t show, I charge.” Now he asks me to explain how I ended up on the phone with him.

“Stay where you are, I will come get you,” he commands.


The Warpath


Minutes later a large silver van shows up. Out steps Mahmoud- bald, 6’2” and 275 pounds, the Arab version of Andre the Giant.

His first order of business is a “frank” exchange on business ethics with the owner of the inn, but when he comes back to me, he’s more interested in the bus. He asks me details, anger clouds his face. “How much did you pay for the ride?”

“8 JD,” I reply (almost $12).

“Oh you pay very much. Very much.”

I load my bags into the van. Mahmoud is on a warpath, racing to get to the bus station before the driver is able to return to Amman …. SCCCRRRREEEEEECCCHHHH!!!!!! Mahmoud SLAMS on his brakes going down a slope steep enough to double as an Olympic Ski-jumping ramp. We skid to a halt maybe a foot away from a tin-box car, the driver wincing, unable to open his eyes.

“Oh my God!! Are you trying to kill me?!” I yell.  

HOOOONNNNKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!! “This big asshole,” shouts Mahmoud shaking his fist, “he’s going the wrong way. That’s a one way street.” Mahmoud points to the sign.

The other driver seems to shrink in his seat as Mahmoud sticks his head out the window and bellows at him in Arabic. I am unable to translate what he said but “Have a nice a day,” can be safely ruled out,

Mahmoud is on a mission, he pulls away. Upon reaching the speed of light traveling downhill he slams on his over-used brakes, again barely avoiding another head-on collision.

“Oh my God! You are the worst driver. Discount on my stay!” I shout, attempting to leverage a price-break while my heart is on the verge of exploding.

“No, no! No discount. He big asshole, don’t know how to drive!!” He BLARES the horn with contempt, as he points another one-way street sign on the street the driver just pulled out of- No discount.

Mahmoud races onwards to the bus station; we’re in luck, my bus is still there. Now, the driver is a thin, wiry man, standing 5’ 4”, while Mahmoud is the size of Mount Olympus, his thunderous voice warning of lightning that need never land. Indeed, the Jordanian Zeus doesn’t even bother exiting the van. Despite not comprehending a single word, I know the bus driver doesn’t stand a chance in this argument.

It’s like watching a featherweight boxer who’s just poured his Bloody Mary atop the head of Mike Tyson’s Mom, wearing her Sunday’s Best, on Mother’s Day, in public, while she’s cooing over her infant granddaughter, and when Tyson stands up, towering over him, with the everybody staring, his only defense is, “I’m sorry Mr. Tyson, I didn’t that was your Mother.” And now Mahmoud Tyson has him on the ropes, pummeling him with his deep voice, the bus driver tries to slip away but Mahmoud won’t let him. “How much did he charge you for the ride?” Mahmoud asks me.

“Eight dinars.”

“Eight dinars,” Mahmoud repeats to him.

“No, I charge him four.”

“Eight,” I state calmly.

The driver pulls three dinars from his pocket and hands them to me.

Mahmoud clears his throat. Utterly defeated, the driver drops his chin to his chest, reaches into his wallet and hands me one more dinar. Mahmoud then tells he is reporting him to the police, and to expect a ticket.

“He big asshole,” explains the victor, using his favorite phrase yet again, “he knows he’s supposed to go straight to the bus station. Not allowed to stop. He tries to steal my business. Big asshole.”

“He big asshole,” I repeat, mirroring Mahmoud’s tone. A chuckle emanates from the giant.

Mahmoud drives me to his hotel, and checks me in. “You see, hotel much much better,” he beams.

“Yeah, too bad owner is big asshole,” I reply, getting a hearty laugh from my new friend.  

It is too late in the day to visit Petra so I walk around Wadi-Musa, which economically is entirely dependent on the flow of tourists visiting one of the Seven Wonders of the World. After a few hours, I return, and Mahmoud invites me to run some errands with him. I’m actually excited to see what new adventure will find us.

the mountains around Petra

He generously buys me dinner, we talk. Turns out Mahmoud learned English in the employment of the US Military, working in Fallujah at the height of the conflict, of all things, as head of army base’s gift shop.

“I never left the base,” explains Mahmoud, “If the Iraqis found me walking around, they would have slit my throat.”

“How did you find the US soldiers?” I inquire.

“Bunch of big assholes,” Mahmoud states warmly. You can count on him using this term at minimum once every three sentences, you have to tell from his tone whether he means it affectionately or not. “After war, I take all I earn, all I have saved, and my family and I buy hotel. I work hard.”

Indeed he does. “Come on, I take you to meet my friend, he big asshole too.”

Mahmoud introduces me. “I hear you big asshole,” I remark to his amigo. Mahmoud laughs, this coupled with my friendly tone protects me from being punched. We drink the traditional Arab offering of overly sweetened tea watching the sun descend behind the mountains. Eventually we say our good-byes and proceed back to the hotel. As we walk in, and I’m about to head up for the night, I ask Mahmoud for one more piece of information: “Am I big asshole?” I inquire.

Mahmoud chuckles and puts his arm over my shoulder like an old friend, “You biggest asshole of them all.”

It’s nice to be loved.