It's often said that prostitution is the oldest profession in the world. While I can't comment on that, after my visit to Petra I can definitely confirm that the art of striptease has a venerable pedigree indeed.
As you saunter down the Siq, the two and a half kilometre long narrow canyon that leads to the ancient rose red Nabatean city, the excitement builds to a new crescendo with each twist and turn. "It's round the next corner, I'm sure", and still, no, no sign of the famous Treasury. And again, "It's round the next corner, I'm sure", and still no. Then, just as bemusement is replacing anticipation, "where can it be?", suddenly there is a glimpse of naked red rock, in the unmistakable form of the left breast of Al Khazneh - the Treasury - familiar from a thousand photos, not to mention the climatic scenes of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. More tantalising glimpses are revealed through the Siq's lacy lingerie, then suddenly you are there, the canyon sheds the last of it's clothing and the canyon opens out to reveal the glory of the Treasury. The Full Monty as it were.
Jordan's number one tourist attraction was recently voted one of the "New Seven Wonders of the World", placing it in such illustrious company as the Taj Mahal, the Coliseum, and Machu Picchu. Of those three, only Machu Picchu can rival Petra for sheer spectacle; while I have not yet visited the others: Chichen Itza, Christ the Redeemer, or the Great Wall of China, I'm not sure any of those sites could come close to the rose red city. For while the Treasury's much- photographed delights capture all the plaudits, the city itself is breathtaking in scale: a vast collection of ruins, the majority directly carved, somewhat improbably, from the series of remote desert canyons and mountains in which Petra is so spectacularly situated.
It would take days to explore the site in its entirety; as well as the size of the place, the heat, the dust, and the steep inclines make it a foreboding place to visit. To avoid the worst of the environment, not to mention the enormous crowds, I made an early start, and was at the Treasury just before 6am. For ten glorious minutes I was totally alone, contemplating the giant facade of columns, urns, and statues in absolute awe. The silence was deafening, eerie; I was alone with the ghosts of the mysterious and long-vanished Nabatean Empire. It was a magical, almost spiritual experience.
And then, the spell was broken. A busload of Slovak tourists arrived, loudly chattering and giggling, reeking of sunscreen, cheap perfume, and the strange canned meats seemingly so beloved of all inhabitants of post-Communist bloc countries. I fled at a brisk pace, actually breaking into a run at one point, and after an hour or so of merely passing contemplation of ruins of such glory as to put the whole of Turkey's wealth of archaeological treasures totally in the shade, eventually reached the Monastery, at Petra's remote northern reaches. Situated high on a bleak mountainside, and blessed with spectacular views over the mountains and desert to Israel in the west, the Monastery is every bit as breath-taking as the Treasury, and that much more special for its relative inaccessibililty to the roaming hordes of tour groups that throng most of Petra each day.
Alas, such is the popularity of the site with travelling halfwits, that Petra is also overrun with "enterprising" locals of the sort who have memorised every tourist pickup line in fourteen different languages. With such gems as "lubbly jubbly" (I say it again, has any Brit, except Del Boy Trotter, ever actually said this phrase?), "Asda price", and "cheap as chips", how could I resist? Resist beating them to death with my dog-eared Lonely Planet, that is.
Still, some poor unfortunates from Mexico fell for the Spanish sales patter, and promptly handed over (I know, because I sat and watched them, in open-mouthed awe) US$150 for a necklace of such staggering tackiness and low grade craftsmanship that it is by now certainly lying forgotten in a wastebin somewhere between Amman and Mexico City. The self-styled "Bedu" (who incidentally have about as much in common with the semi-mythical desert nomads after whom they shamelessly name themselves as I do) could barely contain their mirth at getting away with this outrageous piece of daylight robbery.
The sellers aren't the only ones making a killing at Petra either. The local young men, dark skinned and long-haired, with intense dark brown eyes and exotic-sounding names sit ominously, like vultures, at the edges of the the throngs of sunburned tourists, probing for signs of weakness. And they do not have to probe too hard. I saw numerous young women, some of them attractive, though most heinously fat, ugly, and with a strong suspicion of inbreeding, strolling around in outfits that I would usually classify as underwear. Skimpy underwear at that. Strappy, low cut vests, see through tops, hot pants, skirts so short as to show leopard print thong: all these, and more were on display. People have asked me in the past why so many Arab men regard Western women as whores. The answer is simple. Because by Arab standards, they are. As I watched my second striptease of the day (for the most part, much less aesthetically pleasing than the first I might add), I mused that most of these visitors are whores by Western standards too.
I lingered long after most of the others had left. 12 hours after my first tantalising, breathtaking glimpse of Al Khazneh, I once again walked the quiet, shadowy path through the Siq, glancing back occasionally to catch a last lingering look at the ancient splendour that had so captivated me earlier. It wasn't quite the same. As a number of virile young Bedu would probably be finding out a few hours later, watching women dress is not nearly so exciting as watching them undress. The old lady Petra might be old, and have been around the tracks a bit, but she still hasn't lost her looks, and she puts on one hell of a show.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The last word goes to John William Burgon, whose famous sonnet, "Petra", immortalised the mythical lost city back in 1845:
It seems no work of Man's creative hand,
by labor wrought as wavering fancy plnned;
But from the rock as by magic grown,
eternal, silent, beautiful, alone!
Not virgin-white like that old Doric shrine,
where erst Athena held her rites divine;
Not saintly-grey, like many a minster fane,
that crowns the hill and consecrates the plain;
But rose-red as if the blush of dawn,
that first beheld them were not yet withdrawn;
The hues of yough upon a brow of woe,
which Man deemed old two thousand years ago,
match me such marvel save in Eastern clime,
a rose-red city half as old as time.
