Photos

So I've been acclimating back to regular life. But just for fun, I put some of my photos of my travels up on flickr.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/22426340@N04/

Thanks for reading,

Nati

Shepherd Neys and Late-Evening Wolves

Several evenings ago, I decided to go for a stroll and find a nice spot from which to watch the sunset. I descended several hundred feet into the gorge of the enormous Dana Mountains, climbing down stone-lined irrigation channels that watered the cypress, olives, fig and grape trees sprinkled on the mountainside. I picked for my perch the crumbling ruins of long uninhabited Crusader castle. Sitting atop yellow-and-white toppled stones, look westward along the canyon’s Siq, I awaited the sunset. As brilliant lavender, coral, and amber began to streak behind the mountains, I heard the faint, far-away treble of a soft ney (Middle Eastern flute) resonate down the valley. The music became increasingly well-defined, until two Shepherds, riding atop a donkey, trailed by dozens of goats and sheep, came into view. They looked up at me, slightly startled to see a non-hijab wearing women sitting atop the ruins, but immediately flashed me a brilliant smile, and the non-lyre playing one called out in English, “You're welcome to Jordan.”

My entire time in Jordan felt somewhat like that--a travel to a long-ago past. I arrived to Dana Nature Reserve early Tuesday, July 28^th, to the Dana Tower Hotel, perched atop crumbling ruins of a town that until 1970, was vibrantly and continuously inhabited by nomads of varied origins (Bedouins -Arabic, gypsies from the ‘dowal afreqee’ African countries of Egypt, Tunisia, etc, or nomads from al Hejaz, the gulf countries) for millennia. It was the very low season of an already unfrequented town, and when I first arrived I was the only guest there, and the owner Nobeera, insisted I smoke hubbly-bubbly with him (hookah) and chat. He said the hotel, a beautiful stone house, with open hallways, arches, atriums, verandas, and lounging rooms on the roof, on a mountain outcrop overlooking a 4500 foot drop into the valley below, had been his grandfather’s, and before that, family’s house for 500 years, before he refurbished it into a backpacker’s paradise with exotic rugs, local artisanry, and merry pranksters-type adornments covering every inch of floor, wall, and ceiling. His family migrated from Mecca to Dana several centuries ago he explained, as he took me to my room, a cozy closet-sized bedroom, nestled in a nook of the house, reached only by a small, spiraling staircase, with a tiny window overlooking the canyon, and through which a wild cat would slink through at night to share my pillow with me. Dana Village had been, throughout the centuries, a meeting point for different traveling tribes, and its verdant hills had seasonally supported livestock grazing and farming of apricots, figs, grapes, and pistachios. Up until thirty years ago, the village felt alive, at night friends would sit atop crumbling rooftops, the dim glow of a shared hookah amongst them, swapping tales. But with the growth of Qaddisayya, a larger village of 30,000 atop the hill, with consistent electricity and water and the increasingly cramped quarters for growing, modern families, most of Old Dana’s inhabitants moved 2 km up the road. Now, only about thirty people, four families or so (though no one can agree on the exact number) remain the largest of which is Khalawaldeh, who staff most of the Hotels, and who my driver to Dana is part of.

After I dropped off my traveler’s backpack, I set out to explore the village. It felt really ruinous and wild, with lonesome cats streaking, packs of dogs roaming, and the odd donkey or horse trotting along freely. Everywhere, stones were tumbling off of small houses, and tufts of unchecked plants growing atop roofs, along walls, and in street cracks. I wound through empty doorways and small alleyways, and crossed an ancient wooden bridge to reach the offices of the Royal Society for the Conservation of Nature, which sat atop a neighboring outcrop. RSCN, an independent non-governmental non-profit organization established by Jordan’s previous King, King Hussein, to conserve and protect Jordan’s natural resources and biodiversity, converted Dana 20 years ago into Jordan’s largest nature reserve. It is over 320 square kilometers in size, encompasses four different biogeographical zones (lush Mediterranean, hilly Irano-Turanian, sparser Saharo-Arabian, and harsh Sudanian ala Arava) and houses over 800 species of plants (three of which have been recorded nowhere else in the world and were aptly dubbed Danaensis) and hundreds of animal species. In addition, RSCN engages in socio-economic projects with the local people, facilitating environmentally-friendly and sustainable professions. They employ Bedouin hunters as wildlife guides, subsidize local organic farming, and train Dana women to make reserve-themed silver jewelry and local produce-based jams, teas, and fruit leathers. In addition, RSCN works to promote environmental education in regional schools, and this was the project I worked on for several days with Lamis, an RSCN employee and Dana native.

I spent most of my time in Dana with Lamis, discussing RSCN’s reserve projects and regional environmental education. I must say, perhaps because it was the slow season, but everything moved at a snail’s pace. Before the day’s work could begin, Lamis, and Miasr (another woman, shop-keeper of the Wild Jordan store where they sell the nature reserve’s silver, tea, etc products) would insist we have three cups of tea and chat a bit about families, and local culture. (The amount of times I was asked by different people about my ‘husband and children’ was comical). It was in those slow hours talking an atrocious English-Arabic hybrid (for most Jordanians speak at the very least, a little conversational English) to these two hijaab-wearing, married young women that I learned the most about Jordanians. Hearing them talk about education (both, though from poor, very large families, are University educated), conservation (the importance to village livelihood of being stewards of nature), family life (sending their children during summertime to participate in volunteer clubs that feed and befriend the very destitute), religion (as they prayed several times a day), lore (the entrancing Kohl-lined eyes of Arabic women are meant to imitate the black facial stripes of the eternally elegant and paeanized white Oryx), was illuminating in the most interesting ways.

As my very independent, defiantly feminist self, I still had severe qualms with the mandated extremely modest attire and head garb. Lamis tried to explain it to me, piecewise throughout the week, and said as we were driving to girl’s elementary school that her sister was the headmistress of, that dressing according to the laws of Islam paradoxically affords women greater security, as she is able to do more things independently and free of harassment. When we arrived at Maysoor’s school, immediately a crowd of the previously-skipping and singing little girls came up to ask me in unsettlingly accurate English, how I was, what my name was, where I was from, how I liked Jordan etc… The headmistress, immediately brought a cup of tea, and she and the girls told me all about (in the usual mixed Arabic/English hybrid) the school and its environmental focus; their trip to Aqaba (Jordan’s port city), one girl’s recent Marine Conservation Research Project, their knowledge about the Dana Nature Reserve, conservation songs they had written and recorded (one called, mohemat al bea’a, the importance of nature). Three of the girls ran off to change into shimmery blue smocks, and returned to put on a wonderfully entertaining, five minute musical about the food web. I was so impressed with these little girls’ enthusiasm and intellectual curiosity, perfectly pronounced (though still beginning) English, and their passion for the environment. One girl in particular, Aseel, left a big impression. She asked me all sorts of questions about Obama, King Abdullah, and (yes) Hannah Montana, and showed me her PowerPoint (the school was amply equipped with computers…I swear the more I travel the more abysmal the US educational system seems) on the English alphabet, numbers and colors. When we walked outside, she insisted I take pictures of all sorts of things, the painting of the Jordanian flag, the banner with the school’s name, films of her and her friends singing (in the deep, enchanting Arabic vocal style, no less) traditional songs. When I left, she demanded I take a bag of dried flowers she had prepared, and promise that I would never forget her.

I was sitting for dinner at my hotel, and Abed, a Khalawaldeh employee who worked at Reception, and who I had gotten to know quite well over the last couple of days, was sitting with me. He asked me in Arabic, what is your favorite part of Jordan? Immediately, the breath-takingly gorgeous gorges, rolling hills, Wadis winding through valleys, and windswept rounded circular rock columns came to mind, but after a second more, I realized it was the unwavering hospitality of the people. Take Abed, who had no need whatsoever to sit with me, but chose to do so anyway, engaging me in conversation, telling me jokes, etc. Then there was Lamis, who I expected only to teach me a couple things about education, who invited me to her home on Friday, to meet her mother, eleven siblings, and dozens of nieces and nephews, feed me until I was bursting full, and not let me leave until she had packed an entire bag of food for me to take with me. There was Lamis’ brother, who happened to be heading south to Aqaba the same Saturday morning, August 1^st, as I, and insisted on paying for my bus fare, carrying my bags the entire way, and haggling with the Aqaba taxi driver to ensure I got a fair price to the Israeli border. There was Wateel, who while driving me to Dana, gave me a lesson in spoken Arabic, sang a family song for me, and called me Osfoor, little bird, an affectionate Bedouin nickname. And then, an incredible Bedouin wildlife guide, Sala’, who told me all sorts of lore about the arm of the hyena reputedly resolving barrenness and his observations of the social norms of the Tristam’s Crackle bird, who invited me to spend my last night in Jordan in the desert with him and his cousin, burning Juniper branches for fire, drinking SamSam Bedouin tea, and learning to the fullest extent the Bedouin hospitality concepts of “a’ash oomoloh” bread and salt and ‘macahwea’ making a sister of a stranger.

It was thus, I reflected, late Thursday evening toward the end of my trip, as I sat atop a stone house in the process of sliding down the slope, looking Westward to the Arava desert of Israel, an incredible week in Jordan and a magical month in the Middle East. I was writing down some thoughts and observations, watching the near full moon turn ivory, yellow, gold, and orange as it sank in the sky, when I heard the chilling howl of a wolf in the distance. The wolf, in Bedouin lore the symbol of noblesse, stood in a moonlight silhouette atop a canyon cliff 20 km to the West. And then, softly, in a barely audible rhythm, I heard the beating of drums thousands of feet down, down and far away in Rashaydeh a tiny Bedouin village in the depths of the Dana valley. The drumming continued for 15 or so minutes until the moon with a final wink, reddened, rounded and rolled away behind the furthest mountain, and silence fell across the deserts, gorges, canyon, and valley of the Dana Nature Reserve.

Nabataean Cliffs and Arabic Lessons

Sunday evening July 26, I found myself in Eilat, Israel's port city on the Red Sea post three ridiculously random unbelievably chill days in Sinai. After running into a hysterically drunken ex-naval Dutchman, I said goodbye to my traveling buddy, and checked into a hostel across the street from the bus station to grab five hours of sleep and wake up early to cross the border intoAqaba, Jordan. On my way to the dorm room, a friendly red-headed boy asked me if I wanted to sit for a second and chat. He asked where I was studying, and too tired to play games, I just told him Phys/Math at Harvard. Ends up he's headed to HBS (Harvard Bus School) this fall after a year of traveling and working in India, and is also an ex-banker as it were (I seem to run into those a lot) and was also crossing the border the next morning. So, we joined 7 a.m. forces, me, Jeff (the redhead), and his guitar strumming outdoor education alpaca-shearing buddy Dave from the D.C. area. The border crossing was relatively painless (especially compared to Egypt), and was accompanied with lots of Hotel California on the guitar. After we rolled through Aqabasenselessly expecting breakfast to be available at such an ungodly hour as 9 a.m. we consented to grab a bag of zatar pitas, and sit by the bus station to wait for the bus to Petra (the city with the ancient Nabatean ruins that was in Indiana Jones' Last Crusade). A bunch of the bus drivers came up to strum Dave's guitar, and before we knew it was a full-on clapping, tapping, tabla hitting, jam circle going on, though, I must say that bus driver's rendition of 'Do you love me, yes you do' on the guitar was probably the worst music I've ever heard. After an hour and a half wait, far faster than I expected, though long for my American friends, we boarded the bus North. I passed out quickly, and awoke slowly to beautiful, clear Quaranic recitations on the bus radio. In a half-dream state, I opened an eye and peaked out the window. Absolutely breath-taking, rolling dunes and rocks, and canyons and cliffs, to the West, stretching to the distant Edomitemountains, empty save for the rare Bedouin tent flapping forlornly in the wind.

We arrived in Petra a full two-hours after my travel companions had intended (they have yet to learn the sanity-preserving trick of abandoning your watch) too late to head into the real Petra ruins. We were told the inn that Lonely Planet recommended, the Valentine Hotel, was just around the corner and after a lovely half mile shlep up a steep hill in blistering heat, we finally arrived. It was quite nice, cloth tarps strewn over a pillowed lounging area; Nargila in the corner; walls full of maps, posters, rugs, paintings, tapestries; a friendly English-speaking hostess; tea while we were waiting for our rooms, and a nice view of the relatively small city of Wadi Musi, nestled in slopes of a small valley than runs into the Petra ruins and then the Edomite Mtns. We decided to splurge, and spend 3 Jordanian Dinar (5$) on a dorm bed instead of the roof (2 J.D.) left our bags and set out to explore the city. We walked 2.5 winding kilometers down the rocky hills to the Petra entrance, and tried unsuccessfully to get our hands on some free tickets in all manner of spotty and ultimately fruitless ways. After being completely shut down (serendipitously it would seem to be), we decided instead to see if we could hitch a ride to little Petra, another smaller, less well known set of Nabatean ruins an hour's walk away. We were turned down by trucks, cars, and camels and finally opted for a taxi, which we got for a cheap price and Jpreel promised to wait for us.

Jpreel drove us through more rocky hills and desert sands to the entrance, a sliver between two rock faces. We were the only tourists when we arrived, and instantly two Bedouin kids, Amr andFaheed, came to ask if we wanted guides. Thinking it was yet another attempt to get money from us, we politely but firmly refused. But they insisted, still smiling, totally free of charge, so we couldn't say no. They ran us through the two crevices, and to the first temple etched into the red stone. Amr took my sandals and hit them in a rocky outcrop for me to come get later. The temple started 20 feet up the rock face, and there were no stairs to reach it. I was just about to content myself with snapping pictures below, when Amr started climbing up between two rocks to swing himself around a final rock and land on the solid temple base. Yallah, he insisted, grinning in Arabic, and Dave immediately set off, nice Canon in tow to follow suit. Of course, they didn't give me any break, through a fortunate combination of hoisting, climbing, and sheer luck, I was able to pull my white-skirt totting (bad mistake) self up the twenty feet of rock to run in and around the temple's columns, atriums, and rooms. The kids started hollering, and singing, the sound reverberating in and out of the open rooms and off the opposite rock face's walls. Climbing down was terrifying, more than once I thought I would die, to the exagerrated gasps of a small group of onlooking tourists. Once back on solid ground, it was up, over, down, and around ancient cisterns, shower wells, silos, kitchens, and dining halls. All of these rooms were fortunately either ground level, or had a shady set of stairs ascending into the rock face to reach them. In one series of kitchens we were joined by a 14 year old Bedouin kid, and we started beat boxing aboutmataam and taam (kitchens and cooking). Then, slightly bored, our two intrepid guides insisted we climb another stair-less rock face, this one only 15 feet, and ascend about a hundred steps to a rocky outcrop overlooking the ancient Nabataean temple ruins. Then, down running between the rock faces, up a hidden set of stairs through a tiny, barely passable crevice, into a shady enclave where Bedouins were drinking tea (thalith lil dayf, thalith lil kayf, thalith lil sayf...loosely translated to three cups of tea, one for the guest, one for the stories, one for the sword) which they offered us, and then another series of incredibly sketchy rock climbing (this one with 100 foot consequences as opposed to 20) to an outcrop over a beautiful, Utah-like canyon filled with rocky gorges and nestled wild olive and bougainvillea trees (a clump of flowers of which was offered to me in a mock-wedding proposal, along with an inquiry of what else would have to be conjured for me to move there). One of the kids had brought a Rababa, a one stringed guitar made with horse tail hair and goat skin, to play the eery, resonant Bedouin music at that magical overlook.

Then back to the hostel, driven by Jpreel who invited us to dinner at his family's house the following night (no joke), an amazing vegetarian buffet, recharging while watching a gorgeous sunset over the distant mountains, a candle-lit walk through actual Petra (too touristy for my liking after our incredible afternoon) and a short night of sleep before waking up to get picked up to come to the Dana Nature Reserve where I am now. My driver Waleed was awesome, he spent the whole time giving me an ameaa (spoken Arabic) lesson and detoured to show me off-the-beaten path ruins. I'm now at the (Harry Potter) Weasley house of the Middle East, a place I was supposed to be five days ago to do some volunteer work before being hopelessly swept up in a stream of spontaneous adventures. I'm overlooking a canyon and gorge even Steinbeck couldn't do justice. So I'll spare myself the embarrassment and leave it to you to google Dana Nature Reserve if you so please. Now off to wander through the tiny village (alone for the first time in ages) and stop by the Reserve Offices... That's all for now