From Petra with Style

JORDAN — JANUARY 2019 — The ancient, red-rocked city of Petra is not easy to get to.  Tucked away in the desert, abandoned when trade routes shifted and conquerors moved on, Petra was, for centuries, a “lost city.”

Yet today, this miracle draws a million tourists a year.  Lured by ruins carved out of sheer sandstone, the hordes gawk, take selfies, perhaps ride a camel.  Then these contemporary conquerors also move on.  Only a fraction are lucky enough to meet Omar.

He came striding up to us after my group cleared customs at the Yitzhak Rabin border terminal near Eilat, Israel’s port on the Red Sea.  Of average height, with horn rimmed glasses and olive complexion, Omar would have blended into any crowd, but he quickly made himself known — in many languages.

“Sooo, where is this motley crew all from?”

As we took turns answering, he greeted us in English, German, Spanish, French, Arabic, Dutch, and Norwegian.  Then he spoke in detail with several of us, demonstrating his familiarity with each tongue. Finally, finished with introductions, he detailed our day — a three-hour bus ride, a “tragically short” visit, a snack, a three-hour return.  Petra is not easy to get to.  All who make the trek agree the site is well worth it.  Omar made it unforgettable.

In a world overrun by tourism, there are countless guides.  Some barking, others droning on, they lead their legions behind raised flags or umbrellas, stalking the streets of Paris, Rome, Cairo. . .  Petra had several such guides, but only mine was part guide, part comedian, infused with the soul of his country and a passion for peace.

And so we boarded the bus.

Tucked into our seats, we set out across faceless deserts dotted by squat houses, some turquoise, others blending into desert sands.  Where were we?  Where were we going?  Three hours each way? Then at the front of the bus, Omar took the microphone and we began to smile. 

He told us of his crazy family, his brothers, his cousins.  He spoke of passing scenes.  He concluded each short spiel with a mantra — “have a smile, have a break, have a Kit-Kat.”

He could even make passing donkeys funny.  “The donkey, or burro, or asino or himar — whatever, in the end it’s a donkey. . .   Now in Petra, donkey owners will ask you to go with them to different places.  Many owners of the donkeys, they finished bachelor’s degrees in donkey-ology.  And the gap between some of the donkeys and some of the owners of the donkeys is very small.  They’re some of the same breed.”

More silence, more miles, more desert. . .  But every time Omar’s voice came through the bus, everyone was listening.  “Now when we are in Petra, you will have some men come up to you and ask for your attention.  Some of them are scraggly men.  Some of them look like Johnny Depp, Captain Jack Sparrow.  Some of them look like Gadaffi.  Just ignore them.  In fact, ignore me.  I don’t know what I’m talking about.  Have a smile, have a break, have a Kit-Kat.”

We stopped to shop for souvenirs.  We rolled on.  Finally, we reached the clustered village of Wadi Musa, home base for Petra.  That’s when the comedian became the guide, with showman’s sense of timing.

Along the mile downhill walk to Petra, Omar (above, lower right) pointed out one landmark after another.  This rock.  That cave.  Finally, we reached the slot canyon that suggested the carved city itself.  Any minute now. . .  Any second we’d see it.  We made a turn, another.  Where was it?  Then Omar turned us around to see something we’d passed.

“If you look way up there, you can see a rock that looks like a camel.  See it?  See it?”  No one saw it.  “Okay, just everyone back up here, another ten yards.  Keep your eye on the camel.  See?”  No one saw.  “Well, maybe not today,” he said.  “Okay, let’s go on.”  And we turned, and there it was. . .

Our time in Petra was “tragically short.”  We did not ride camels.  We avoided the men who looked like Gadaffi or Captain Jack Sparrow.  But Omar led us where no other tourists went, into a low cave where we sat in the sand.  A weathered young man approached and Omar introduced him as a friend, one of the local Liyathnah tribe.  Born and raised in that cave.

Stretching our time in the World Heritage Site to an hour, Omar finally gathered us to walk back to the bus.  But before leaving us to our own thoughts, he shared his.  The Middle East, he told us, turning grim, is ever on the world stage.  “And most of what you see is stereotypes.  And caricatures.  The evil Arab terrorist.  The heroic Israeli soldier.”  He paused, pursed his lips, continued.  When we went back home — to Norway or Germany or America — he wanted us to tell people about the people we’d met, not the stereotypes, not the caricatures, but the people.  Only when we shared our experiences, our acquaintances, would the region know peace.

The ride back to the border was silent.  We stopped again for souvenirs.  The sun set over the desert.  It was dark when we reached the border.  Omar bid us goodbye in our Babel of languages.  We never saw him again.

Some years ago, a public service announcement aired on American TV.  It showed an Italian tourist on a bus in Manhattan.  Lost, the man asks for directions, but he speaks no English and no one speaks Italian.  Then a woman steps up.

“Parla italiano?”

“Un po.”

She gives the man directions, then leaves him with a “grazie, grazie tante.”  And in voiceover, we hear:  “One Italian tourist’s most unforgettable American experience may be you.”

Thank you, Omar.  Danke, merci, and شكرًا لك.  You remain my most unforgettable part of my brief time in the deserts of the Middle East.