I believe in Syria!

Elizabeth and Jason live in an 4th floor apartment on a pleasant leafy road in the embassy district, just off Rawda Road and nearby the Lotus Restaurant, which judging by a letter left on the side in the hallway is how the post is how addresses are written, presumably with the postie knowing who lives in what building? Elizabeth is studying in Damascus for a PhD on a Fulbright Scholarship and seems to be collecting research grants for fun. For the first weekend of my stay she goes to Beirut (just before the fighting beaks out in the Tripoli refugee camps) and Jason is host, showing me around. I'll end up staying here for almost three weeks, exploring the old city, applying (waiting ) for an India visa, watching two cup finals, and celebrating my 27th birthday with an 'interesting' trip to the baths.




Damascus Old City

With the Citadel to our left we enter the grand doorway through the old city walls, headng down Hamidiyeh Souq. We merge into the flow of human traffic, young men wandering with arms hooked over each others shoulders eager to show their friendship to young women linking arms, children in prams waving arms for attention, families walking tgether all enjoying eating ice-creams. Either side a panoply of cloths, spices, brass-craftsmen, hookah peddlers, bristling with energy and optimism for a sale, all under a domed roof.Taking a turn off the main thoroughfare down one of the side-streets, overhead the cover is removed and flags swoop across between buildings. Shops are organised into clusters selling particular items, such as sweets, or gold jewellry, or in some places household utilities and plastic toys. Posters of President Bashir Assad's image over the national flag are taped to most shop fronts, occasionally also a picture of Hasan Nasrallah or rarer still yet found in a few places a Lebanese Flag.

Ummayad Mosque

The masoleum for Salahuddin is a small building to the left as you enter the side of the complex. It's understated surroundings are surprising as the shrine itself is very ornate. From the masoleum its a short walk to the entrance of the courtyard, (we carry our shoes rathe than put them on again for these few steps.) Inside is marble-floored, oblong open space with three free-standing monuments, an ablution fountain, the octagonal Al-Mal (dome of treasury) and Al-Sa'at (Dome of Clocks).


The walls and arches are painted in gold and verdant paints showing leafy patterns and scenes. It might feel palatial, somewhere people silently move around in reverence admiring the achitecture and maintaining the air of assumed conventions of respect, however it's much more familial.

Groups of people sit in shady areas chatting whilst children have fun sliding and polishing the floor in their socks. Above a frustrated flock of birds zip around unwilling to chance diving down to the courtyard floor where a feast awaits of seeds, snacks left-over from people picnicking scattered underfoot.

The interior room near the clocks dome contains the shrine for Hussein, a shiite martyr of 8th Century Battle of Karbala whose head was taken by Caliph Ali and is supposedly kept here behind a silver-grilled box. It's certainly an attraction for visitors, some who maybe are pilgrims, with people having their photograph taken besides and others touching the grille, eyes shut in concentration and prayer.

The main hall of the mosque has overlapping crimson patterned carpets, some worn others looking as if newly laid. Men sit against walls, looking relaxed, contemplative, or some just tired, one arm resting on a bent knee, the other leg tucked beneath in a half-crossed position. One man is praying with a young boy watching closely and copying the movements for kneeling and bowing. A group of people sit in semi-circle listening to an older man to whok they alos appear to direct questions, behind them some kids are playing games jumping rope-chains and hiding behind pillars. In the middle of the hall is the shrine. According to written testimonies, whilst foundation works were underway centuries ago a basket was found containing a preserved head which was claimed to be that of the John the Baptist, which is now kept there.

FA Cup Final 2007 (Give me back my two and a half hours!!!)

Kick off is at 5pm local time. Jason's guidebook says the 5-Star Sheraton Hotel has an 'authentic British Pub complete with red pillar boxes'... well whatever, but it's a fair bet they'll be showing the match so lets go! The cab driver doesn't seem to know exactly where it is and although he drops us off nearby on a parallel road the place he directs us to a building where we're met by guards carrying guns... quick excuses later we're walking round behind to the correct building across the busy highway. Walking through the lobby, aware that our appearance and attire is perhaps not what is usual for patrons of this establishment we turn a corner and find what we're looking for. There's a large flat-screen TV behind the bar and deep-cushion chairs, we order a beer and settle down to watch. It's a dour game and after 60 minutes, despite Man Utd being the marginally better side it seems painfully likely this 0-0 snore-fest is going to extra-time. Just to rub it in Drogba scores in the 116th minute to deny penalties which had been the minor excitement I'd started to look forward to. The commentators say something about the long-walk, an architectural feature of the new Wembley stadium there are more steps to collect the trophy, relying on inane facts to enliven events... tell me Mottie, how many winning captains have had first names beginning with 'T'... no wait a minute, don't bother! On our way out we pass a woman dressed in a black evening gown who sits down at a grand piano in the lobby and starts to play what sounds like Beethoven... ah well now that's something you wouldn't get down the Whalley!

Elections - One Big Party

On the journey into Damascus posters portraying the Syrian President Bashir Assad on the background of the national flag seemed to be on posters and billboards lining the streets every 100 yards. Walking around the capital city there are banners, flags and posters everywhere, cars drapped in flags and windows covered with posters. The presidential elections for 2007-14 are being held and along with the posters and flags there are marquees and public events taking place all over the city with music, dancing, speeches and a lively atmosphere. At night some of the main roads are illuminated with golden lights wrapped around palm trees. Amongst the various election paraphrenalia two stand out for me, the brilliantly simple campaign slogan "I believe in Syria", and the massive picture in the main shopping boulevard of Bashir dressed in full Adidas tracksuit and trainers doing some gardening with the Adidas logo at the bottom. It may be a matter of contention whether he has been officially endorsed by the sports manufacturer, personally I don't think he'll be appearing in an advert alongside Beckham. The official public celebrations and partying last over a week until the results are announced, Assad gains 97.6% of the vote, impressive, though in the absence of any opposition candidate it seems a bit careless to drop 2.4%.

Mount Kaisson at Night

Together with Jason, Elizabeth and a woman she met at the museum, Aisha, we go to dine out on the hill. It's a winding taxi journey taken at the obligatory white knuckle speedto reach the summit. There are many similar roadside cafe and restaurants all with patios and tables with give panoramic views overlooking the city at night. From here it's possible to make out the towers of the old city mosque although it's easier to orientate using the major new buildings, the Blue Hotel and the Four Seasons.


Athens denied


Wednesday 23 May 2007, Champions League final kicks off in 45 minutes. I get a text from Ruth, although I don't recognise it at first as she's not given me her new mobile number, to ask if I'm watching the match and to fly the flag in Syria (figuratively speaking). We're back at the Sheridan, sipping the luxury import beers (i.e. a can of Carlsberg) and munching peanuts and rice-crackers. It's a tense game, having finished off the table snacks in the first half, my nails by 60 minutes, I'm nibbling my fingers as Inzaghi slots home Milan's second goal with only 10 minutes or so to go. A good friend, who self-confessed "learnt his lesson" two years ago, now starts the text-message lauding... he's right, pan-continental mocking makes it worse. At the weekend I speak with James who was in Athens on holiday with some friends for the final. They got to meet John Aldridge and Ian Rush, and someone spotted Ian Wright but no-one cared.

Film

DVDs of the latest movie releases are remarkably easy to get here and as such during my stay I watch a fair few films, including:

• Pirates of Caribbean II & III - amusing especially the Dali-esque surrealist scenes in third
• Spiderman III - superhero gets an ego problem
• Blades of Glory - another Will Ferrell outing of 'ironic' boufant chauvanism (good use of the kick in the groin gag though)
• Children of Men - implausible concept of world infertility pandemic with impressive cinematography
• and Hot Fuzz - kinda funny but a bit weak overall (more like luke-warm lint)

Very Intense Stressful Action (VISA) extension

I need to extend my initial 15-day tourist visa whilst waiting for my India visa to be processed. The Hijra wa Jawazet (Passport & Travel Office) makes the border visa process look like a pampered and effortless stroll in the park. Three floors, seven desks, application form for an extension in triplicate, buying a stamp at the 'office' outside the building, countersigned 3 times including once by an important looking military guy in a big yet sparsely furnished upstairs room surrounded by piles of paper he barely looks at as he marks and with a large tot of what looks suspiciously like scotch and water (but who's gonna question him?!) with many multicoloured badges and stripes on his left breast, and a trip to the closet backroom 'for the supervision of foreigners' which operates a card index system in dusty boxes, and finally submitting my passport and forms to be told I have to collect it tomorrow. The eventual stamp turns out to be illegible, Elizabeth, who speaks Arabic and without whom I don't know if I'd have ever figured out the system, cannot work out how long it is for or if it is a multiple entry and neither can anyone else we ask.

The Ugarits started it


After less than an hour we're out and thankful for a mercifully short experience. One plus is we're really close to the national museum. On the way we try a popular street snack at one of the many open-air shops, sponge cake soaked in watery syrup which sits on top of melted mozarella cheese in a big circular pan, the calorie count must be frightening but it's really good!


The museum entry is 150 Syrian Pounds [SYP] and has a gardened area dotted with benches and sculptures and to the right-hand side a cafe with wicker chairs, tree-stump tables and a thatched roof. The entrance hall has paintings on the walls from 20th Century artists showing particular not especially subtle interpretations of events in the Middle East, such as the 'Palestinian tragedy' with three ogre figures in the bottom left corner wearing hats bearing the national flags of Britain, USA, and Israel. Amidst the collections of pottery and artifacts of the ancient world, the wing to the east has exhibits extracted from Dura Europa close to the Iraq border in eastern Syria, including a fresco from the synagogue which has intricate and colourful depictions of biblical stories including Moses turning the Nile to blood and the test of Abraham's faith. In the west wing is the Alphabet of Ugarit stone (c.1400-1300 BC), the earliest known complete alphabet record anywhere in the world with 30 cuneiform signs inscribed left to right on a small tablet only about 2 inches by one inch.


Travel Plans


My intention had been to go to Lebanon, with the hope of doing volunteer work there helping refugees, also to see Baalbeck and Beirut. However, the escalation of fighting in the north, fingers being pointed at Syrian involvement to distract from or derail investigations into the assasination of the Lebanese PM Rafik Hariri in 2005, and the troubles in Gaza with an increasingly bellicose Israeli government maybe considering another summer' incursion' beyond the Litani River with the relevant approvals (go-aheads) from foreign governments, means a rethink.


The 'Silk Road' plan (missing out Afghanistan) is a contender but watching BBC world news is like playing conflict bingo - Lebanese Army intensifies efforts against entrenched militants, Iran threatened with UN sanctions following IAEA reports, bombings and riots in Pakistan, explosion in Hyperbad India - that's line! Actually, most conflicts or tensions are very localised (though Lebanon is definitely out for now) the real issue is administrative, getting visas. Going via Iran to Pakistan then India would require a minimum of one months wait whichever country I choose to apply at embassies. Finally I settle on India as the most plausible option, just need to find the embassy in Damascus...


UN-successful


Whilst searching for the Indian Embassy, I find the UNHCR (United Nations High Commission for Refugees - or Refugee Agency) office. Syria has an estimated 3 million refugees, mostly from Iraq, a large proportion living in camps near to the border. It seems there's a reasonable chance they'll have some information about volunteering opportunities to work with refugees in some capacity. However, after being told to return twice because there's no-one available to speak to, on my third and final trip, the guard acting as gate-keeper who also claims to be the receptionist after saying I can leave a CV eventually relents to my requests to speak with someone about volunteering e.g. which NGOs are working here, opportunities etc, and tells me to wait outside. 15 minutes later he emerges with a form, 'National Competitive Recruitment Examination 2001'. Maybe I'll just try the internet instead...

Palmyra - pillars and pancakes (29-30 May 2007)


The morning sun is already asserting it's presence and wavering lines of heat and dust hover in the distance above the cobbled road to the ruins. Inside the fort-walls the cella (temple) of Bel is set-back from the entrance and central, with various masonry and rubble clustered in a roughly organised manner around the interior. The stones seem ossified like ageing bone relics with facture lines scorched into furrows by desert winds, sun and sand, or else disintegrating slowly hollowing out columns and pillars like half-eaten Blackpool rock.





A main avenue runs between the temple and the Diocletan Camp fortress along which are numerous sites, including the market and roman baths, an amphitheatre which has been mostly preserved and restored, and occasionally a Bedouin man asleep in the shade against a pillar or otherwise inviting you to check out his trinkets and headscarves. In the centre is a raised platform with eight columns of which only one is original the rest constructed using rose-coloured cement, a feature which doesn't please some people wanting 'authentic ruins' but gives asense of what the monument would've been like (it's also a good vantage point to take a photo of the main archway.)


The ruins stretch out across the plains, following a roughly straight avenue, and wandering about gives a greater the sense of scale than the Pharonic temples at Kom Ombo or Erfu. At the far end, before the hillside rises to the fort, the raised platform at Diocletan's camp gives a view of the whole ruins which dazzles reflecting the midday-sun. It's getting far to hot to continue walking around so I head back to town looking for a place to eat.


A recommended place is the 'Pancake House', but it's not easy to find. I'm fortunate a young guy on a motorbike wearing an Argentina football shirt with 'Maradonna' on the back, offers me a lift (I'm only carrying a day-pack the rest is back in Damascus -I don't think it would've worked with back-pack and guitar). A short ride, weaving along back roads and dodging pedestrains, he drops me off at the restaurant. The savoury chicken pancake is excellent and afterwards my new friendly motorcyclist gives me a lift to the bus-station to catch a ride back to Damascus.




Birthday (Bath) Boy! (31 May 2007)


Hurray, it's my birthday, 21 years young!... honest... Ok, 27, but it's not the years it's the mileage, (speaking of which I wonder how may miles have been travelled so far?) anyway, last year I was in Bordeaux, drinking moonshine rum at a bar with a college friend and the Jamaican owner which seemed pretty exotic, what could I do this year to match that?...


Damascus is a good start, I wouldn't have guessed I'd be here, so I should try something that is a local experience - the Hamman Nur-ul Din is to the south of the Umayyad Mosque and is the oldest steam baths in Damascus. Inside a ticket-box man issues a shaving bag sized pouch to place my valuables in and locks them in an individual drawer behind him. Walking past a fountain an attendant indicates to remove my shoes and socks which he puts in another locker.


I'm wrapped in large, thin cotton towel and wearing out-sized wooden sole sandals, with a birds-nest fibrous sponge and soap block and a green plastic tag attached to my wrist with an elastic band. Inside the steam room you have to stoop to avoid the scoulding heat from standing straight. Around the main chamber are wash basins at knee-height with taps and metal bowls. Cleansing consists of lathering-up with soap and then using the bowls to pour water over yourself, although looking around the convention seems to be this is a two-man job with burly blokes soaping each others back.


Just as I'm pondering this, a large man strides over and checks my tag then signals for me to follow him outside the main steam room to a side-chamber. He indicates for me to lie on the floor as he dons an exfoliating mitten and proceeds to scrub my back and front, next sitting upright he covers me in soap suds and then using the metal bowl pours warm water over me. It's an odd baptismal feeling of being thoroughly cleaned. After all this he removes the wrist tag and slaps me on the shoulder with a smile and a nod to say "'that's how it's done", sure enough there's another man getting the same treatment in the opposite side chamber.


I'll be honest, it was a somewhat unnerving experience of being scrubbed by a big, hairy man whose language you don't know, especially as I had no idea this was what the green tag was for! But afterwards, sat is the relaxation room on cushioned seats drinking sweetened chai, wrapped up in fresh towels, I defintely felt invigorated. However, in response to friends with more furtive imaginations, I'm sorry to disappoint but I won't be holidaying with Dale Winton, in San Fransisco, wearing arse-less chaps, anytime soon... he's busy.

In the evening I meet up with Jason and Elizabeth and wander around quieter streets in the old city, stopping at a small bookshop to buy a inexpensive copy of Said's 'Orientalism'.


After a couple of drinks aty the Marmar Cafe and Oxygen, both pretty empty but interesting places, we go for a meal at Elissar Restaurant, a relatively expensive place set inside a decorative old building. We get a combinations of hors d'ouevres and dishes to share, the muhamurrah is my favourite, a spicey red-pepper houmous and white-cheese dip. We get a 5 SYP microbus ride back, all of us feeling pretty stuffed but with just enough room for a white russian to round-off the night - the dude abides.


Salaams Syria


Finally my India visa is processed. A morning and afternoon of searching travel agents and airline companies and I manage to find a fairly cheap flight from Damascus to Delhi, via Kuwait City. The night before we all go out for a farewell meal and afterwards a Barada beer at a small local bar that keeps a low profile. Thanks to Elizaebth and Jason who've been great hosts and friends, who I'm sorry to be leaving. But I'm heading onwards, swapping the hot days in Damascus for Delhi where the temperature is a mild 42 degrees, here goes....

The road to Damascus

It's a short taxi ride from the Hotel to the main service cab junction. It's 1.45pm and I'm thinking a conservative estimate 2-3 hours drive and 1 hour at the border I could be in Damascus at 6.30pm at the latest. I eventually arrive at 8pm and with a large element of luck thrown in...

To get a Syrian visa at the border, I know from reading a fellow travellers guidebook that I'll need to pay in US dollars and there isn't the facility to exchange money there so I need to go to a bank in Amman. There are a number of banks near the service cab stand so it should be easy but it takes half an hour because the ATMs are broken, however in that time I have an interesting conversation in French with a young Iraqi refugee who has been deported here after six years in Marseilles, wanting to know if it is possible or easier to seek asylum in the UK... désolé mon ami, pas une chance des boules de neige dans l'enfer!

With $40 in wallet, I'm prepared, and finally set off in a Hyundai saloon car along with three other passengers at around 2.30pm.

Departure Taxing
The first border post is for leaving Jordan. After making my way to the desk I'm told I need to pay a departure tax, which is a small stamp affixed to your passport costing 5 dinar (why the bother?!). This is a problem, I have no dinars left and there are no cash machines here... fortunately I discover the 5 pound note change from the breakfast meal I bought at Liverpool airport, 108 days ago, and there is a money exchange.

A short drive and we reach the Syrian visa offices. It's around 5pm now, maybe a little after. First I need a green application form and complete with all my details, including a residence address in Syria or name of hotel (which I don't have but my fellow passenger asks around for the name of somewhere which he scribbles down). A stern clerk in army fatigues sits scrutinising a tiny-type print out of numbers and data, studiously ignoring me or so it seems until he feels like looking at my form. 10 minutes of waiting he finally picks up my form and after a quick glance fills out and issues two slips (yellow and white) which determine the cost of my visa, $52.... merde!!!

I now have to go to an exchange desk in another building to convert my dollars into Syrian Pounds and receive an 'official' receipt for this transaction and then go to a small hut between the two buildings to exchange the Syrian Pounds for the necessary visa stamps. I'm desperately hoping there's an ATM in the exchange building... there is.... it's broken.... (bite lip!!)... Ok, so visa is $52, I have $40 and 2 dinar, which is about $44 in total and a VISA card,, which won't do any good.... aide!!

A Dutch (i think) couple come to my rescue. They offer to pay in Euros and accept the dollars and dinar in return. I ask where they're staying in Damascus so I can pay them back the remainder but they say it's a gift and don't want to make a big deal of it, so we wish each other a good trip and I hurry to find the stamp hut as it's getting dark. It's no problem getting the stamps and I run back to the first desk, on the way meeting a fellow passenger, a Jordanian businessman - they're all waiting as their process has been considerably quicker. At the desk the gruff clerk says I'm missing a stamp. Cursing, the Jordanian man takes me back to the hut and in a curt exchange get the extra stamp, and on the way back explains they were trying to pocket it themselves (seems an pointless thing to do as I'll obviously have to come back and claim it). Finally, around 6.30pm, I get my visa certified and we're on the way to Baramka station in Damascus where I'm going to stay with Elizabeth and Jason, the travellers I met in Petra.

Our man in Amman

The journey to Amman takes 5 hours crammed into a Toyota truck with Lucy, Pip, and Alex, three travellers also staying at the Petra Gate. Approaching the city centre the sandstone coloured housing blocks and hilly terrain gives way to bright and busy streets. The Palace Hotel is located in the heart of a shopping district, surrounded by small clothing stores, perfumes and souvenirs, and fruit juice vendors. Recommended in the guidebooks this place is cheap and very relaxed with really smiley staff.

In the evening we eat out at the 'Cairo Restaurant'. I try chicken freekeh, slow roasted chicken served with a type of bulgar wheat, topped with almonds and a yogurt sauce, a new favourite! Afterwards we look for somewhere to get a drink. Nearby to the hotel is the 'eco-tourism cafe', though nothing about it indicates why it should be called as such. It's a quite a male-oriented place with guys sat around tables playing cards, chess or backgammon and smoking apple sheesha in hookahs, the only women there it seems are Lucy and Pip. We sit out on the balcony and watch shoppers bustling about. There's a flash and loud thunderclap as it starts to rain heavily.

Go up Moses

I'm sharing a room with Gareth, by coincidence a Supported Housing Manager from Cheltenham UK. Honestly, you go to another continent and still find yourself talking about homelessness strategies! (though I'm dubious about his claim to a no evictions record and sure enough it involves "relocating" some clients). We book a day-trip with the hotel to visit the Dead Sea and a couple of other places.

Mount Nebos is where an ageing Moses is meant to have climbed towards the end of his life so he could see Jerusalem and the 'promised land' before dying. There's no burial site been discovered but there is a Basilica and small museum of mosaics and artifacts, as well as some overgrowing gardens with small lizards basking in the blazing sun and darting for cover as people walk past.

Our driver asks if we want to do a 70km round trip to visit the supposed site of the baptism involving John and Jesus. It's a vote and I'm in the 'meh' category, not least as our driver didn't really sell it by saying there's nothing there but a sign. So instead we decide to go straight to the Dead Sea.

To enter the 'Amman Tourist Beach' costs 5 dinar. Once past the gate its about 100 yards down steps and skipping across burning sands to reach the shore. The first few steps are tentative into the water, it feels kind of oily, when it reaches my waist line I lean back and feel my entire body-mass shift to the surface, so this is what weightlessness might feel like. Despite the high mineral content the water is still very transluscent and you can see the grey-white ridges of crusted salt on the bottom.

Two things are important to know about the Dead Sea (from my experience). First, the warnings are true that if you get any water in your eyes your temporarily blinded and need to go ashore to wash out the salt and stop the stinging. Second, just as when repairing a bicycle tyre you can pump it up and rotate in a bucket of water so hissing bubbles will reveal where there's a tiny puncture not visible to the naked eye; well, in the Dead Sea, if you have any cuts or scrapes, even ones you're not aware of, you'll soon know about it!

Petra

Petra Gate Hotel is built on the side of a hill. Entering you're faced with the reception and welcome foyer / social room, downstairs are the bedrooms which have views overlooking the town. The room is cosy and most importantly the bathroom shower works! The owner is really friendly and in the evening serves Maklobah, a meal all cooked in a large pot, a layer of meat first, then vegetables, and finally rice, when cooked it is turned upside down and served on a huge communal plate. The only drawback is they seem to have carted rocks from the canyon in order to fashion pillows, which I discovered when falling back onto the bed and almost knocking myself out!

Canyon of the Crescent Moon

It's a short-taxi ride down the hill to reach the site entrance for the canyon. I join Elizabeth and Jason, a couple from America I met the previous evening, to go and explore. It's been raining overnight and feels fresh this morning, a fairly novel experience after 6 dry weeks in Egypt. We start off early to get there for opening at 8am. Across from the ticket booth and tourist office there are a bunch of souvenir shops office displaying genuine Petra rock carvings and t-shirts, along with soft drinks and snacks. The best has to be the store selling everything fake whips and hats, complete with a huge copyright infringing sign showing Indiana Jones.

The Siq ('shaft') is the name for the gorge by which you enter the city from the east. The path narrows, canyon walls rise and lean over above you, and a sense of being comparatively small amidst this vast place, steeped in history, exciting exotic reveries of adventure, is immediately amplified. It's a wonder more people don't walk into each other as necks are constantly bent backwards marvelling at the scale.

At waist height, carved into the rock are irrigation channels. An earlier sign at the entrance explained how the Nabataeans designed a water management system to control flooding using dams, and in recent years these have been shored up after flash flooding endangered tourists. Flecks of moisture in the air become more frequent and noticeable. The sudden downpour catches everyone and people scurry for shelter in hollowed bends protected by overhanging rocks. Puddles form quickly and soon a small yet growing stream bubbles along the path towards us gathering momentum until its flow is halted by a sagging in the earth. Large puddles of red-rust water form leaving only patches for people to skip over at risk of soggy-shoes.

After 10 minutes admiring the shower, checking to see if the water channels work, and wondering if many people get to experience rain when they visit Petra, it eases enough to continue onwards. Al Khazneh ('the Treasury') comes into view, carved in the side of the mountain facing, and a throng of digi-camera snappers half-block the way all vying for the optimum shot. Walking past them and up to the steps the sheer size is daunting, so much so that it takes me a while to notice just to the right of the steps, I'm stood only a few yards away from a camel taking a rest. She looks bored and unimpressed. I can't tell if it's with me or the monument.

Donkey work

The monastery is further into the canyon following a route of 750 steps unevenly spaced out on a weaving pathway ascending up the mountains. At certain corners and on brief plateaus, Bedouin women and sometimes small children sit by makeshift stalls asking of you would like to buy trinkets and bracelets. Rides are offered by guides who stress the time it takes to reach the summit. At one point on the climb, we're passed by a small caravan of donkeys walking down one after the other about 10 paces apart. I'm expecting to see an owner following after them from round the corner but no-one's there. I wonder are they training donkeys able to undertake journeys by themselves no need for guides to follow? Or, maybe inspired by Orwell they've organised themselves into a radical independent cooperative to provide transport and ensure decent work conditions by getting rid off whip-handling guides? Either way it looks a precarious way to go up or down steps.

The Monastery was not actually a place for a religious order but a tomb, however, possibly due to the inscriptions of crosses inside it acquired this tag. A couple of hundred yards away is a conveniently located Bedouin cafe selling coffee and chai. After a brew and sit down we push on towards the nearby summit for the recommended views. A number of signs are dotted about, 'view' with arrows pointing to different rocks, hmm, which to choose... we spot a bold sign (from some enterprising individual) that reads 'the view', complete with definite article this must be the best, solved!

Spread out across the mountain-sides are tombs and structures, imprints from of Nabataean and later Graeco-Roman period of influence. These monuments are impressive remnants of the civilisations which once thrived here.

However, the natural landscape is equally staggering, with fascinating terracotta caves, rough, hollowed out arches with fingerprint patterns of ruddy swirling rock veins.

It's a fairly long trek back to the site entrance and a visit to a pub on the walk back up the hill is welcome, even if the Guinness sign outside is only "for decoration" as the bartender explains.

A night in Aqaba

The low buzz of air-conditioning aboard the ferry keeps me from falling asleep. It's an uneventful journey, dozing, looking out the window, occasionally interrupted by a couple of Jordanian businessmen wanting to see if I'm an investor. The ferry pulls into Aqaba port and I look for the desk for getting my passport stamped and visa issued. It turns out this is something you're meant to do in transit and one of the police officers aboard the ferry. has to take me to the port office, which is closed so he opens it up and issues the stamp himself.

The cab driver insists on 10 dinar to drive into the city, citing some port-zone standardisation of fares which means he cannot budge. Having been informed by the ferry guards that I should pay no more than 3-4 dinar I attempt to argue, but my bargaining position is weak given that (a) I have no money and need to find an ATM the nearest probably being in the city (b) I don't know which direction I need to go (c) all the guards have disappeared now for the evening. Reluctantly, I agree and after a 25 minute ride I'm in the city centre handing over the cash and facing a hotel which the driver says is "cheap".

The man at Beach Hotel reception smiles, "25 dinar a night, two nights minimum, 50 dinar". Hmm, first impressions of Jordan, it seems expensive. I explain this is too much for me, and he says he cannot shift his price, so I say thanks and make to leave looking out for signs of any willing to negotiate, he just smiles goodbye and returns to his TV.

A short way up the hill and along a sidestreet I spy another hotel, it's significantly cheaper, a quick look inside and I decide to take the room, still a bit more than I'd want to pay but it means I don't have to carry my bags anymore and can rest for a while.

Outside the street is busy with shoppers and people dining out. After strolling around looking for the bus-station for tomorrow morning I stop at one of the fresh fruit-juice and snack stalls, order orange juice, and sit down at one of the small plastic garden tables arranged outside on the corner of the street. It's a good way to chill out and watch passers-by.

Lesson from Thessaloniki, always check the bathroom! I gave it a cursory glance, tiled, looked clean, mistake! Waking up at 6.30am to catch an early bus to Petra, there's no hot water in the shower, or more accurately there's no water at all. The sink is the same. I try flushing to toilet to see if it's all the plumbing, nothing. Removing the lid to the check the tank reveals a family of cockroaches living in a water-free ceramic house. Ok guys, sorry to disturb you, don't mind me , I'll shower in Petra.