I owed Rashid some money, or at least that’s what I felt when I was on the bus, seeing the sunlight rising behind Petra, the city that had been watching thousands of years of human intelligence and stupidity, including what had happened the day before.
I reached entrance gate at around noon, almost all Petra visitors of the day had walked into the Siq. The Bedouins in Petra who hadn’t sold their tours, horse rides, camel rides or mule rides were already making their return trip. As I walked in alone, there were only two pairs of visitors ahead of me. The Bedouins tried to sell, some fervently that I almost nodded while some had almost given up getting customers for the day. I was short of money. I had my legs and a copy of the Lonely Planet guide to Jordan, which 6 out of 10 visitors here held one in hand. Skillful, some of the guides insisted walking along with me, asking questions, letting me speak about myself. A few minutes’ walk, I had felt that I should probably take the ride. Some were extremely good-looking that you felt flattered. I wanted to, but I had no money to pay. “Ma fi masari,” I wanted to use the Arabic I learned in the summer Lebanese language school. It turned out they use another word for money here in Jordan, let along Bedouin dialogue. They were much better communicators and multilingual. Handling visitors every day, they needed not travel to learn, “the world comes to us,” as Rashid said.
I walked through the Sig. The cliffs surrounded me was colored orange by the midday sun. I had passed those ahead of me earlier, picture-taking seemed less time-consuming when one was alone. Reached the Treasury, what I learned from reading Anthropology — that cultural practices change, values are fluid and nothing is static — suddenly seemed implausible. It stayed as the way it was thousands of years ago. Climate changed, mountains slid, sea level rose, but the giant, finely carved stone stood still. Nearly two millenia ago, those Nabataeans degraded into the sands. Their bodies fed camels and trees. But the energy they absorbed and transferred through the mortal bodies stayed. It pervaded around the marvelous creation in front of me. They had never left the world, existing through the imaginations of the visitors. They were awake when sun came out and visitors walked in; they rested after the rosy sunset finished and when visitors returned to their hotel rooms to relax their feet; a few years ago, they started to stay up every Monday night, for that people began to come for the “Petra by Night” event to see their creation and imagine their beings, lit by the candle lights.
Failing to take any photo without other visitors’ heads in it, I walked past the Treasury. The Bedouin guides continued to greet me and tried to sell their horse, mule, or camel rides. At the starting point of the hiking trail to the High Place of Sacrifice, I met Rashid. I had said “no thanks,” and he seemed to have forgone the business. The trail seemed so long, and I wasn’t sure whether it connected to other sites. I had to look like I know my way though, I thought, so I didn’t get approached by other guides. Rashid on his mule went passing me in the middle of the narrow trail. Rashid didn’t give up. He offered me his mule.
“It was really very nice up there. You don’t need to be this tired.”
Ah, did I look tired? I woke up at 5 a.m. in the morning to get on the bus from Amman to here. I was tired.
Another young Bedouin rode his well-dressed mule going down the trail. He and Rashid conversed. It seemed like everyone knew everyone here. Rashid and I kept chitchatting while I was still guarded concerning his intention to make some money. I was firm about not taking the service he offered. At a steep turn, he told me, “I’ll go first then. You take your time.” Finally, I thought, he gave up.
When I reached half way, my legs were sore. I saw Rashid and his friend sitting in a stall. “Come and drink tea. Free!” his friend stopped me as I waved, intending to pass by.
“Free?” okay, I had had enough of my own snobbery. I sat down and prepared myself to be entirely naive. I would be receptive and vulnerable. Without trust, there would be no connections. Without connections, there would be no stories.
I talked about how city life was bad in Taipei.
“People are cold and only care about money,” I told them while criticizing my own generalization in the back of my head — of course, they weren’t all cold and materialistic but wasn’t what I described myself? A helpless snob who interpreted everything through its material value. Numbers were the city’s language: years of education, salary per month, time you wake up in the morning, numbers of people you’ve dated, for how long, calorie intake, weight, working hours, rent, distance, numbers of metro stops, numbers of publication… I tried to accumulate the numbers of countries I had been but failed to message the friends I met on the road more than once.
I pulled out my phone and showed them the picture of the city full of traffic. They glimpsed and didn’t seem to be interested. Rashid shifted the topic to how much better the desert around Petra was comparing to that of Wadi Rum, which was the next destination on my itinerary. Rashid’s friend poured me the tea. It was too sweet, but I was happy to sit with them.
“I should continue walking,” it was already 1 p.m. and I had little idea how long the road was ahead of me.
I said goodbye and asked if I could have a photo of them for memory.
Five steps away, I heard them hopped on their mules. Rashid walked behind me.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try? Jack can take you,” he gestured, inviting me to hop on the back. He had not given up yet.
“It’s okay. I can walk. It’s your mule.”
“Come on. Jack can carry two persons.”
“That would be too heavy for him.”
“No. Everyone thinks it’s hard for the mules, but they can actually carry.” Rashid must have heard such judgmental comment about animal friendliness a million times. Who was I to know mules? Rashid watched Jack grew. He fed him, talked to him and walked with him every day. He knew when a mule was tired, sick, or not willing to walk.
Rashid also watched tourists come and go every day. He knew what they were thinking. He knew they would be averse to those who use friendly greetings as if intending to con. He knew they were stubborn. He knew that they knew something about Petra with maps and guide books, but they were also stupid not to accept the real guide who knew every single corner in Petra that was worth to see.
“Come here and look,” Rashid went ahead to stand on a platform. We had arrived the High Place of Sacrifice.
“Here was where they kill animals.”
“For god?”
Rashid didn’t answer. He sat down nearby the edge of the hill overlooking Petra.
I sat down beside him. I put my guard down. He was not trying to be a guide who I should pay for in the end of the tour. He was being himself, taking the rest because he felt tired. He was being a friend — I tried to convince myself. Would I be exploiting his labour? Is he performing his labour? If walking, climbing, sitting and chatting around this old city is what he did for work, was he working for me? I was still wishing Rashid leave me alone. I would rather be alone and lost than be a suspected exploiter.
I probably had become one because I could never be assertive enough. Because I refused with a kind smile and a weak “no”, the communication had failed and Rashid kept on guiding me. We walked down the hill, reaching more tombs. A vast desert plain lied ahead. A temple stood at the edge of the plain against a cliff. It had reached the hour when the earth fully absorbed the heat from the sun. There was no shade. My legs were so tired. Rashid knew it was a challenging path to walk.
He asked again, “Just try. I will let you sit.” He was getting off. I would seem ridiculously stubborn not to take the ride.
“Okay, just a second?” Please don’t charge me for this, I begged in mind and hopped on.
My viewpoint was elevated. The vast land extended even further. The path seemed shorter. With every step Jack took, his back would tilt forward and rose up. He was slow enough that I knew even if I fell, I would be okay. Jack continued to step, tilt, and rise.
Rashid held the rein, “it’s very nice, right?”
“It is. Very beautiful up here,” but I also saw an arrogant madam on the seat, “can I walk by myself now?” Rashid went silent. Jack continued walking. We were closer to the temple, but still quite a long way ahead.
“Why can’t you trust me? You think I’ll do something to you?” Rashid was offended. And I knew we weren’t on the same page. I probably said it wrong in English. Did “can I walk myself” mean “I want to get off the mule and walk” or “can I walk alone”?
“No, I mean I don’t want to be on the mule. I can walk.” I tried to explain but Rashid laid out his thoughts anyway, “I just want to show you what’s good to see. If you really don’t trust, if you think I will do something bad to you, I will leave.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I know you are a good person,” I reassured him.
I walked into another tomb. Several rectangular, coffin-sized hollows were carved out of the ground. Where had those bodies gone? If the bodies had resolved into the sands, where had their minds gone? Would those minds that had detached from the bodies become see-through? Would those complex thoughts, hidden judgments, self-reproach, indecisiveness, and doubts be able to present themselves when leaving human bodies, through which they often got distorted on their way out? If yes, would those be as thick as a history textbook that would take a few weeks to read? Or would that be as animated and short as a YouTube video that condensed the tedious and messy process of thoughts into a simple message? What would Rashid’s mind look like?
“Do you want a picture?”
“Yes, thank you.” I secretly hope the picture captured the shapes of the minds of the dead.
We descended from a trail toward the center valley where I had walked through before reaching the starting point of the trail.
“There’s another temple over there. My cousin works there.” The sunlight became nearly scarlet. I enjoyed the brightness and for a moment, I left my paranoid mind in the shadow.
We sat with his cousin who was lying on his side on the cushion beside two stalls selling decorations and souvenirs covered with dust. They seemed to be displayed the same way at the same spot for years. The cousin was on his phone all the time we sat there. I was just another irrelevant, not-buying-things-but-hoping-to-be-friendly-and-be-treated-friendly guest. Rashid still had his enthusiasm for introducing this city again and again, like teaching a class — repeating the jokes, relaying a few facts and sharing some random self-revelation every day. I was grateful but worried — would I have to pay for it? People don’t normally pay tuition in friendship, but was Rashid a friend?
We rested at a humble tea place. The owner was sitting under the tree shade, speaking with another guest. I asked for a glass of tea and I paid. Rashid was eating melons from another foreign guest he seemed to know.
Rashid complained about one of the Bedouin friends, “He was crazy. He told my uncle that I raped the guest we invited home last time! I did nothing to him. He was just jealous because she stayed with my family instead of his.” It was an extra business. They invited guests to their village nearby the Petra site for “a cultural experience” and “to see the real Bedouin life.”
“Where are you going tomorrow?” Rashid asked while I was spacing out watching Jack munching on the melon skin Rashid gave him.
“To Wadi Rum.”
“To camp in the desert there? I can take you to the much better one here. You can come with me to the village, have dinner with our friends and family. The next day I can take you to see desert much better than Wadi Rum.” I was tempted. It would be great to accept the invitation, which would mean not going back to the hostel where my luggage was, canceling another accommodation I booked for the next day, missing the bus the hostel manager had arranged for me, and paying Rashid an amount of money for the stay and the excursion. I would be so willing to let my adventurous mind shout ‘Yes! Why not?’ if I felt I had enough cash to pay him. I did not feel I had enough.
“I hope I could,” I remember reading a life-pro-tip post online: When turning down an invitation, say you don’t want, not you can’t.
“But no, I can’t just cancel all the plans and go,” I wished I could say the opposite.
Rashid did not give up persuading me, “Think about it,” he said.
“I’m going to look at the church,” I told him.
Rashid stayed on the bench where he was eating melons. He would be taking his rest. He was then a friend doing what he wanted, not a guide hired — that made me relieved.
The church site was new. The mosaic floor was well-preserved. The site was covered by a canopy. I saw no one around. I walked in, reading the description on the board beside the entrance: “These sixth-century texts written in Greek indicate that the church was dedicated to the Virgin Mary…” Suddenly a loud music blasted. I turned my head to the left. Only a khaki bucket hat appeared behind the wall. A facebook video he was playing I assumed, with a black background, pictures of red roses and Arabic verses in white about the sadness and greatness of love. I was happy that he stood there showing part of his everyday life. The old church ought not to be only an archeology site for an lone visitor.
