Winning is euphoric. Especially if you have a hand in throwing the dice.This was the feeling that swept over me when the seven wonders of the new world were announced last July 7 (or 7-07-07) in Lisbon, Portugal.
I had one particular favorite on the list, the pink city of Petra in Jordan, because there was one dear person I would have wanted to be there with me — my mother.
She hated “Petra,” the name that she was born with. She used to say, “The name sounds so uncivilized.” It didn’t help that it rhymed with “Tekla” (a coarse-sounding name) and mapakla (bitter or acrid). If you repeated the last syllable, “kla-kla-kla,” it became even more crude and unpleasant to her ears.
She grumbled about not being able to reject the name or stop my lola from legitimizing it.
“Why did lola give you that name, Mama?” I asked.
“Because your lola’s best friend was named Petra and she pleaded to make me her namesake,” she replied. “In exchange, my ninang left me everything she owned, but by the time I was old enough to raise any protest, nothing was left, only the name,” she continued. We were forbidden to use that name in our house; in fact my mother replaced the last syllable with the suffix “ing” so it sounded sweet as a bell, thus “Petring.”
By osmosis, I grew up loathing the name “Petra” until one fateful day in Pompeii, Italy; the tourist guide who took us around the ruins of Mt. Vesuvius had the same name. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “that’s also my mother’s name and she detested it.”
Petra, the guide, laughed and replied, “Does she know that it means ‘the rock’?” It’s the female counterpart to “Peter.”
When I returned home, I shared with my mother the grand meaning of her name, but it still didn’t lift her disappointment. She remained unconvinced, solid as a rock — pun not intended.
Not me, though. I was completely won over. In reality, it was a strong, powerful name worthy of women like my mother; for their strength of spirit and unwavering faith in what is good and noble which entitled them to, uh, maybe one or two prejudices?
“Show me proof — just one — that Petra could be beautiful in nature,” she challenged. Since no one could show any proof, we quietly avoided mentioning that name altogether.
Six decades later, I found myself in the pink city of Petra, Jordan and it was like traveling back in time. Immediately, I thought of my mother and whispered, “Oh, Mama, this is it! The one big proof you were looking for.”
Petra is an ancient city that was carved out of sandstone more than 2,000 years ago by an ancient Arab tribe called the Nabateans. The soil here was red in color and when the sun hit it, it changed into a warm shade of pink.
“At the stroke of a million chisels” they say, the Nabataeans used primitive tools to level mountaintops to form terraces, cutting grand processional stairways to reach high places, digging channels in the rock to direct water into their city from miles around.
The Nabataeans carved hauntingly beautiful buildings, tombs and temples that transformed rough mountains into an art gallery of architecture and style.
The moment I walked through the long gorge called the Siq, I imagined weary caravans filling the air with clouds of dust and the vivid sounds of men shouting, camels grunting, donkeys rasping and dogs barking.
Bales of pungent spices, myrrh, frankincense, precious stones and opulent fabrics would be unloaded. To the younger set, they might recognize Petra from the movie Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
The closest hotel to Petra is the Movenpick. You will love it. It has all the features and amenities of a five-star hotel ensuring your total comfort and convenience.
Our tour guide Arlina Onglao (joinjourneys@gmail.com) issued only one word of advice: “Be prepared to walk for miles and miles and miles.” I wore my air-step walking shoes, my sun visor and carried a lightweight canvas bag and bottled water.
Some portions of the route to Petra were accessible only on horseback or by riding a camel or donkey. The rest of the way, you walk. You have no choice.
But the trail is breathtaking and the Jordanian government has taken pains to ensure that nothing defaces the remaining monuments and structures.
You can walk literally for miles on end without any signs or commercial billboards and yet they built a modern tourist center at the bottom of the city complete with first-class dining facilities and souvenir shops. Bedouins provide transportation service (donkeys, camels, horses and crude carriages). I rode a donkey for US$3 (they will quote $10 to $15, so be sure to haggle) that took me from the gorge to the flatter portion of the city and then again from the dining facilities to the lone stall that sold sand art.
Our Jordanian guide Hasheem Owaiidat (hashem49@yahoo.com) had a very interesting theory about the red soil. He said it was made of volcanic soil that made it easy for the Nabateans to chisel and carve; at the same time, if you pour water on it, it becomes strong and impenetrable like solid cement. That is why it took only 20 years for the Nabateans to build and carve a huge structure; the workmanship was so superior that it has stood the test of time, truly a sight to behold.
And here’s a beauty secret. If you smash any of the stray stones found around Petra, they become pulverized red powder. Rub this powder against your skin and let it stay for a few minutes before rinsing it with tap water.
The powder works like a skin exfoliate that gives a smooth and shiny finish to the skin. The sheen stays that way for over two months until your next beauty routine.
I tried it and the fine, green veins on my hand picked up a shiny and smooth glow. That means I need to go back to Petra for my next powder spa.
After walking for more than six hours, there was still so much that we had yet to see. My friend, Fe Wanner, described it best: “Petra was so enchanting that I could not bear to take pictures of it; the photos would not be able to capture the gripping essence of its rose-colored world.”
But the mind could.
In a cluster of red-rose mountains just before we descended to the lower part of Petra, Hasheem showed us a spot where the sound bounces off in any direction; in short, an echo chamber.
I dug my foot into some wild pink oleander and flame-colored aloe vera growing on some cracks on the rocks and hollered, “Petriiiing… Oops! I mean Petraaaa… you would have been tickled pink.”