Aqaba and the lost city of Petra.

A big day for most passengers who were excited about their trip to Petra. Before leaving Sydney we'd booked to do the ship's tour which cost about $230 each. Even though it was expensive, we thought it was safer as if you travel independently and are delayed, the ship won't wait but it will if you are on a ship's tour.

However, due to my complete aversion to walking I cancelled my ticket so Alan and our friend Richard went off together, leaving Patricia and me to amuse ourselves for the day in Aqaba.

I have to confess that I was more than a little disappointed that I'd not be seeing the lost city but life can sometimes open up unexpected opportunities. Whilst waiting for Patricia, I struck up a conversation with a couple who were sitting nearby.

"Are you going ashore?" I asked, which was a pretty pointless opening remark as I could see that they had backpacks at the ready, but you've got to start somewhere.

"We want to find someone to share a taxi," the female half replied. "We want to go to Petra."

"Look no further!" I cried.

So our adventure with our new friends began.

She was large and jolly and wide and jolly and curvaceous (you get the picture?) and he was vertically challenged and opinionated (small man syndrome?). A random pair, we later discovered, not a couple at all.

Once ashore, the usual bargaining for a price began. He, named Pat but who fancied himself as a Pasha, was full of confidence and told us to leave it all to him. He knew how to deal with the natives. We ignored him and settled on a good price with Omar, our driver. $45 each to Petra and back. A bargain for us and a good deal for Omar.

There was a row of more than 20 tour buses on the dock and we felt pretty triumphant with our bargain and that we'd be on our way before the procession to Petra had begun.

We headed off through the city of Aqaba and were on the highway in good time. The taxi was not large, but Pat, as the man and therefore as his right, had appropriated the front seat, leaving the women to squeeze into the back. You know my size, plus a little (well, I am on a cruise being force fed every three hours!), and you can picture our new friend from the description above. She made me look slim!

Poor Patricia, however, is normal in size so had to sit in the middle. The only place for her arms was straight out in front. So there we were - a Mrs Spratt, a Dalek and Jabba the Hutt all squashed together with flesh overflowing from sides to centre.

Out on the highway, we could see desert stretching to the horizon on all sides. It was not all sand as we'd seen in Dubai, but a series of spectacular rocky hills and mountain ranges with sandy stretches between. Interspersed were small towns and villages and here and there were the long black tents of Bedouins with their small herds of goats and sheep sheltering from the sun in makeshift lean-tos.

Donkeys and hobbled camels roamed the edges of the road, grazing on the occasional fragment of green but for the most part there seemed to be nothing for them to eat but rocks. Surprisingly, all the animals we saw were in a good condition unlike the ones we'd seen in India.

The Bedouin, Omar told us, are no longer nomadic. They spend Summer in their tents but go to the towns in Winter when it snows on the mountains and the higher plains. They are provided with water from pipes situated along the highways and from mobile water tanks towed around by tractors.

On spotting a young camel by the roadside, we screeched to a halt to get up close and take a few pictures. Our advantage over the tour buses stopped then as a long convoy passed us. Alan was shocked, he said later, to be gazing out at the Jordanian desert and suddenly to spot his wife waving from the side of the road.

We squeezed aboard again and eventually reached the town of Petra. Omar wisely stopped the car at a lookout above the town so we could see the layout of where we were. From our vantage point we could see the rows of parked buses from where a line of ants marched steadily along a winding track which led downhill before disappearing into the Siq, a crack in the rock face. This was the entrance to the lost city.

A few locals accompanied the tourists on donkeys and some drove galloping horses pulling small carts which were covered by tasselled awnings. It all looked busy and purposeful but filled me with dismay. I knew the walk from the car to the Siq would be a challenge, let alone the 3 or 4 kms extra once we were through the Siq. Jabba and the Dalek, who had reverted to Patricia once freed from her prison, were equally distressed.

Omar had fairly accurately assessed the fitness level of his female passengers and he came up with a good suggestion. For $10 extra he would take us to Little Petra - no entrance fee and only a little walking. (The fee for Petra is $75 US!)

Of course we agreed and after dropping Pat, we rearranged ourselves more comfortably in the car and off we went.

I'm not sure how Little Petra is connected to the better known 'big' Petra but I imagine it could be the 'back entrance' to the lost city. It is entered through a smaller siq and has two or three temples with beautifully carved facades as well as many quite large rooms dug out of the red rock. That day was quite hot day and the contrast between the heat outside and the coolness in the caves was remarkable. I don't know why the Bedouin camp in hot tents when they could be more comfortable in cool caves. There are plenty of natural caves and fissures in the rocky hills of the desert to accommodate every Bedouin in Jordan.

The desert is quite beautiful. The rocks are coloured in an array of reds, black, dark brown, yellows and even dark green which is not vegetation but is perhaps caused by a mineral deposit.

We clambered out and set off through the hot hot sand, burning our feet in the process. Suddenly, a young boy appeared.

"You want guide?" he shouted.

We shook our heads but he accompanied us anyway with the tenacity of the Arab that we'd come to expect. His name was Rashid, he told us, and he was a Bedouin. He didn't seem to go to school but his English was pretty good. He was 9 years old.

When we'd finished our exploration of Little Petra, Rashid took us to his camp where his mother had a stall with small carved stone objects and faded wraps for sale. Patricia felt sorry for her so she bought a small carved owl. We both gave Rashid $2.

On our return to Patra, Omar dropped us off at a restaurant and went off to collect the little Pasha. We bought a local beer each which arrived accompanied by coconut honey cake and a salad of delicious fresh tomatoes, olives and onions. By the time Omar and the Pasha returned we were slightly tipsy and best friends with Jabba.

We tossed the Pasha out of the front seat and installed Jabba there instead so that made our return journey more comfortable. Omar took advantage of our state and offered to take us to Wadi Rum, another beautiful site in the desert and the source of the water supply for Aqaba

for another $10 each. We agreed and off we went.

It was a quick trip to the entrance but it was closed for the day so we could only see through the gates.

Several young men were hanging around the entrance. One was admiring Jabba and was talking excitedly in Arabic to his mates about her.

He saw me grinning and realised I had got the gist of what he was saying.

"I strong," he said and flexed his muscles. "I drink milk of camel. Make me strong. I need biiiiiiiig woman." He pointed at Jabba and spread his arms wide, then pointed down to his groin. "I biiiiiig , too!"

Luckily, Jabba didn't hear and remains ignorant of her chance to live happily ever after in the Jordanian desert.

A Stitch in Time.

On our return to Aqaba Omar took me to a shoe repair shop to have my shoe repaired, of course. The others stayed in the cab and I followed him through winding crowded streets and down into a narrow and dark cavern-like workshop.

A young man was seated at a bench which was laden with an ancient electric machine, several pots of glue, bits and pieces of leather and various archaic looking implements. He was hard at work repairing the cheap footwear that lay amongst the clutter before him. A row of plastic chairs lined up against the wall opposite him was occupied by local people clutching their broken sandals and shoes and in the darkest depths of the room another young man reclined on a grimy and crooked couch.

On the wall above those waiting hung an incongruous row of bird cages, each containing a bright yellow canary. The gloomy workshop was filled with the sweet sound of canary song. It was almost surreal in its oddity.

I joined the row of customers and waited for my turn. Most of the shoes being repaired would have been thrown out at home but here they were getting an extended life. Good for them. Waste not, want not, is the maxim for life in most countries we've visited.

My turn came and my shoe was glued and stitched in no time. It was done very well, too.

The Pasha was in a grumbly mood when I returned to the taxi, totally oblivious to the fact that we'd had to wait for him in Petra for some time but that was OK. We ignored him as usual.

On our last stop we bought a couple of bottles of Jordanian Merlot in the supermarket before returning to the ship, well pleased with our day out.

Sailaway.

It was a beautifully balmy evening when we sailed away from Jordan. After a dip in the pool and a plate of nibbles, we removed to the aft deck for sailaway, taking with us some drinks to toast our departure as night fell. What a remarkable sight it was! From the deck, we could see the lights of four countries strung out like bright jewels in a necklace around the Gulf of Aqaba - Egypt, Israel, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia.

Just beautiful!!