Along the King’s Highway, to Petra and Beyond
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| Photo By Ernest Markwood |
15 JORDAN (2)
624 Km – 18 Days
21 February – 10 March 2008
MAP
PHOTOS
VOICEOVER
FLIP-BOOK
Prelude
Jordan
arrived in our journey like a rumour: a place of rose‑red cliffs, ancient trade
routes, and more altitude than any sensible cyclist would willingly seek out.
We had no idea what awaited us—only that the ferry was late, the currency was
unfriendly, and the mountains were already sharpening their teeth. Still, we
pedalled in with optimism, falafel, and the vague hope that the King’s Highway
might be flatter than its name suggested. It wasn’t, of course. But Jordan had
a way of rewarding stubborn travellers: with souqs full of life, tombs that
doubled as emergency shelters, and landscapes so dramatic they made even our
wheezing bicycles feel heroic.
A Ferry, a Delay, and a Currency That Hates You
From Nuweiba,
Egypt, one could theoretically cycle via Israel and Lebanon to Turkey—if one
enjoyed bureaucracy, suspicion, and the possibility of being turned away at
borders like an unwanted door‑to‑door salesman. The ferry to Jordan was
therefore the obvious choice. It was scheduled for three p.m., which the ferry
staff interpreted as “sometime after tea,” and we eventually left at five.
We arrived in
Aqaba after dark, which is not the ideal time to cycle into a new country
unless you enjoy guessing which shadowy shapes are potholes and which are
goats. The next morning, Aqaba revealed itself as a place where Jordanians swim
fully clothed, prices are high enough to induce mild vertigo, and the landscape
is so mountainous you begin to suspect the entire country is tilted.
Aqaba’s old
town was a delightfully chaotic souq full of shisha smoke, men in kaffiyehs,
and food so good it made you forget the dinar exchange rate. I bought one JD’s
worth of falafel and received two bulging bags—enough to feed a small
expedition. I briefly wondered whether I should have bartered for a camel
instead of cycling gear.
The King’s Highway and Other Bad Ideas
We set off
along the King’s Highway, an ancient trade route connecting Africa to
Mesopotamia. It sounds romantic until you’re actually on it, pedalling uphill
while imagining the Nabateans laughing at your modern suffering.
The hills
were relentless. By late afternoon we reached Ras an‑Naqb, pitched our tents at
1,600 metres, and confirmed that yes, Jordan is indeed one long uphill.
The Valentine Hotel and a Tomb with a View
A mercifully
easy 44 km brought us to Wadi Musa, where the Valentine Hotel—pink walls, red
curtains, and a mirror above the bed—beckoned like a kitsch oasis. We stayed
several days to explore Petra, which, even on a second visit, remains
astonishing enough to make you forget your aching legs.
The entrance
through the narrow canyon is pure theatre: you shuffle along, wondering what
the fuss is about, and then suddenly—bam!—the Treasury appears, 45 metres of
ornate sandstone splendour. Petra was once a bustling crossroads of incense,
silk, spices, and probably a great deal of shouting. Their water system was
ingenious enough to make modern plumbing look like amateur hour.
On our way
back from the High Place of Sacrifice, a hailstorm forced us to take shelter in
a tomb. I thought this was rather cool. Ernest thought it was rather cold. The
rain continued all night, so we stayed an extra day, listening to the wind and
contemplating our life choices.
Snowballs and Stone‑Throwing Children
Leaving Petra
involved climbing steeply out of Wadi Musa and then continuing uphill for the
rest of the day, because Jordan apparently has no concept of “flat.” We
encountered the infamous stone‑throwing children, which mentally transported me
straight back to Ethiopia. Ernest, ever the optimist, threw snowballs instead.
At At‑Tafilah,
we debated our route. The Dead Sea won because we believed it would be warmer.
This was the kind of optimism that keeps travellers alive. We camped at a
viewpoint overlooking barren mountains and the shimmering Dead Sea far below.
A Fast Descent and Aggressive Dogs
The next
morning we hurtled downhill from 1,000 metres to 400 metres below sea
level—the lowest place on earth. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and probably
illegal in several countries.
We floated in
the Dead Sea, which is less “swimming” and more “being forcibly buoyant.” Then
we pitched our tents, mistakenly believing we were hidden. The local stray dogs
disagreed. They barked, circled, and behaved as though auditioning for a horror
film. Chasing them only alerted more dogs to our presence, which was not the
desired outcome.
Amman, BBQ, and Beauty Regimens
The climb out
of the Dead Sea valley to Amman was steep enough to make you question gravity.
Halfway up, Peter and Jill spotted the South African sticker on Ernest’s bags
and invited us to a barbecue. This was the best thing that had happened to us
in days. We ate, drank red wine, and were dropped off at our accommodation in a
state of bliss.
Amman was
cold, and we wore the same outfit for biking and sleeping, which is why I considered
any room with a bathroom “heaven.” I searched for a new rim but found nothing.
My sister Amanda, along with Leon and Jaco at Cycle Maintenance Centre, saved
the day by sending spares—and cup‑a‑soup, pasta sauce, jelly babies, and a buff
for Ernest.
We visited
Madaba and Mt Nebo, where Moses supposedly saw the promised land and died at
120. Life expectancy in Jordan was only 74, which suggests things have gone
downhill since biblical times. There was nowhere to stand and say “Beam me up,
Scotty,” which was disappointing.
The Parcel Arrives, and All Is Well
Receiving a
parcel is always thrilling, especially when it contains bike parts and snacks.
The bike shop was friendly, if technologically limited, and by the next day our
bikes were as good as new.
Face Cream, Border Nerves, and Goodbye Jordan
All smiles, we continued our
journey towards Syria. The bikes ran well, and the weather was good, making
pedalling effortless. We were slightly apprehensive, not knowing what to expect
and whether obtaining a visa at the border was even possible. We were thus
ecstatic to learn they were, which
felt like winning a small lottery. I bought face cream and a mask at the duty‑free
shop—essentials, obviously—and we found a room on the Syrian side to relax
before exploring the next country.
And just like
that, our short but memorable visit to Jordan came to an end.
Epilogue
We
left Jordan the way one leaves a good book: reluctantly, slightly battered, and
wondering how so much had happened in so few pages. The hills had tested us,
the Dead Sea had floated us, and Petra had humbled us. We’d been barked at by
dogs, rescued by South Africans. By the time we reached the Syrian border—faces
moisturised, bikes repaired—we realised Jordan had been less a country and more
a character: unpredictable, steep, generous, and unforgettable. And as we
rolled into the next chapter, we carried with us the faint scent of hummus,
desert wind, and the knowledge that sometimes the best journeys are the ones
that insist on being uphill.
