A funny thing happened to me on the way to the Nabatean Place of High Sacrifice, stop me if you’ve heard this one, it’s a delicate tale and one I can’t help but share.
My journey to the beautiful caravan city of Petra sandwiched between the seas Red and Dead had started in the other great caravan city of Damascus, much of this excursion has already been related in the pages:
Damascus the Beginning of the End (pt2) And In Search of The Pharaohs Penis
So here I am, slurping tea with a Bedouin women named Basma, she offered me another but I respectfully declined, it was already my third, I need to get up to the place of high sacrifice before closing time I explained, she looked disappointed, an excuse she had clearly heard before, what I mean before closing time it was my last day and the sun was going down, am pretty sure the business of sacrifice is quite flexible but the golden glow of the suns dying rays would not wait, and, as is always the case with places of high sacrifice it was located on the top of a mountain, I thanked Basma as she stoked her fire and strode off along the Wadi.
I followed the rock cut sandstone steps along an escarpment as it weaved around the base of the mountain, I picked up the pace taking long strides, every so often looking over my shoulder at the view and diminishing sun, it wasn’t steep and had I not been racing would have made a pleasant walk, I passed a few people heading down but pretty much it seemed the mountain was mine.
Hot and sweaty I reached the summit; a pair of pert obelisks were perched on the plateau a testament to long past craftsmanship and worship, curiously it would be much later I would learn of the deities being tributes to the Gods of both strength but also water and fertility, how one may go about paying tribute to those Gods I was soon to learn.
I pranced around the ancient alter for a while enjoying the solitude, then just as I was scrambling down from another somewhat perilous vantage point an old Bedouin woman appeared and offered me tea, as interesting as sacrificial ceremony maybe I much prefer a cuppa and a chat.
A blackened pot was sitting on a pile of flaming kindling, the tea was rancid and I drank while keeping an eye out for chance to tip it away, my host was perhaps not as old as I first thought, her face weather worn, she was a widow she told me and lived in a village the other side of the wadi, she rolled a cigarette and puffed happily, I asked what it was she was smoking but my Arabic was not efficient enough to identify the herbs which she told me she picked on the mountain, I took some pictures and she played me a tune on a metal flute, so far, in my world that is, all quite normal.
The sun was almost finished for the day and my genial host suggested she show me the quick way down the mountain, we kicked dust over the embers of the fire and set off, after no more than a few meters she told me to wait, she stressed I should wait where I was and she dashed behind some bushes, Juniper probably, she reappeared seconds later smoothing down her dress, no explanations necessary I thought and we moved on.
Wait, wait she said again, we had only been walking a few minutes, she ducked behind a bush but hardly out of my peripheral vision, I looked skyward to be sure as she dealt with the clearly urgent need, we continued, the route now becoming trickier, clambering over rocks and sliding down clefts in the mountainside, nimble as a goat she hopped and danced from rock to rock, I fumbled and dithered and did my best to keep up, once again she pulled up sharply and this time didn’t bother with modesty and just dropped to her haunches and peed freely, And I do mean freely, not since a mad Friday night in Piccadilly had I seen such wantonness, this is the Middle East and whilst many are hardly religious issues of modesty are rigorous, I was both bemused and amused, we continued, our pace was almost frantic, she deftly dealing with the terrain but me struggling to keep up, she had edged away from me and as I cupped my camera and slid down a gulley she was waiting for me, squatting, dress hitched up and in full flow, how, I marveled, could she produce such quantity, and, I admit, for a few brief seconds I couldn’t help myself but marvel, I mean, what the… she shot me a look, this time I had not looked away and felt for a moment as though I had been caught red handed, she just said yallah and we carried on our way, as if nothing had happened, this was the last time she performed, since that what it seemed to be, the image though is hard to shake off and one that no doubt al-Uzza, Nabatean God of water and fertility would approve, she did though have one more thing to show me.
She took my hand and lead me then into a cave hidden behind some overhanging greenery, I felt pretty sure that if things turned nasty I could handle the old girl, inside the cave she stepped away from me, she looked directly into my eyes, oh God I thought, how is my British politeness going to get me out of this, after an uncomfortable pause that may have lasted several seconds she pointed to the paintings etched into the wall, faded pastel shades of prehistoric art, was there an image of a snake, I wasn’t paying attention, lovely I declared and we exited the cave.
Not enough is written of the risks to white men traveling alone in the Middle East and I have enough stories to fill a book, My Gay Adventures in the Middle East has long been a working title, do feel free to encourage me.
Back in Wadi Farasa we said our goodbyes, just a few words and formal as you’d expect, I really do not know what just happened are probably the only words going through my mind, I slipped her a few diners for the tea anyway.
Please do visit my website, most of the images are available to purchase as prints:
Yeah….I’ve heard that one before. 😉 Excellent post. There’s a fortune to be made in porta-potties there. Or do the Brits say porta-water closet?
Great story John and not something I ever hear of in London. Your idea for the book sounds good fun.
Thanks for sharing your adventure, John. I think your unique view and years of experience need to be shared. Let me know when your stories become your book, I’ll take one! Brick
I loved the story John, you have a very nice and smooth style! so start filling the book with such a nice short stories accompanied by your marvelous photos, it would be a vivid visit to these magical places!
I was worried about the old girl, she might have got dehydrated at the end of that trip:)
keep the writing going!
“how is my British politeness going to get me out of this”… rofl 😀
I just love your style of writing… do think of a book!!
and I love your photos, John…
Great post, Brick!
You do have to have wits about you in such circumstances that’s for sure, whatever gender you are. I’m definitely encouraging you to write more of the pitfalls of white men travelling alone in the Middle East, I’d be more than fascinated to know. 😉
“Nabatean God of water and fertility would approve” 😉
Her poor bladder control doesn’t sound at all good . . . definitely an adventure for the books!
Great story and fabulous photos. I once saw one of the women selling flowers outside of Yeni Valide Cami in Eminonu squat down for a pee right in front of the mosque – modesty protected by voluminous skirts – I guess if you’ve got to go you’ve got to go.
Great, amazing story!!!
After my recent adventures, I completely understand you with the british politeness! I’m currently struggling on refusing quantitious amounts of food from my Russian hostess who doesn’t speak english! It’s a hard life for us brits.
tea-he-hee & more encouragement.Tanks!
Wow I’m jealous of your life and photography is amazing!!
Funny indeed …. 🙂
Lovely, you should write the book – and of course great photos – but the story makes the photos all the more interesting
What a fabulous story! I love your writing style and sense of humor. Yes, a book is a good idea.
For me, just speaking, just thinking, just hearing the word ‘Nabatean’ begins a story shrouded in mystery…but your photos and narrative…fantastic! But I would not want to have that experience myself…even though the deserts of the Arabian Peninsula are alive with…landscape that defies language–defies Western historical templates.
Reblogged this on ::mX:: mXooley's and commented:
‘A delicate tale…’
Great writing. Enjoyed it. Write the book!
A very interesting article and an amazing blog. You are an inspiration for new cloggers like me! Hope that you can drop by and let me know what you think of my articles
Your writing is engaging, simple, yet so descriptive I felt like I too was on your journey. Keep the post coming.