A Sniff

III- More Petra

Nothing hits harder than the music knife to the heart, nothing makes you miss home more, “nothing feels better than blood on blood”, the Boss competing with the sunset over Petra and the call to prayer. Sunset’s like my call to prayer, too. It’s when I reflect- reflect like a windshield in the drowning western sun, take what the day has given me and shine it out there, most times to no-one.
What’s really going on, what’s the buzz, Al-Jazeera TV for the masses, oh yeah there’s a world out there, this is some real news, and they’re showing truck bombs in Afghanistan and I’m covering my mouth with my hand, but this isn’t hype, it’s truth. Or pretty close for the media anyway. I watch as much Al-Jazeera as I can, I’m a learning robot. Wish we had news at home. Now I’m here in the Middle East, half a day’s drive from Iraq, (like driving to Kamloops, or Portland), the familes on TV aren’t just digital puppets anymore, tragic marionettes. They are families. They run super-markets. Their kids give them hell. This sounds clitchy, but I understand these images a little better all of a sudden. Men weeping, walking behind coffins, blood on the streets- I’ve seen the streets here, and they look the same. Streets shouldn’t have blood on. People are people, most of em peaceful, if I had the balls I’d go to Iraq and see for myself, but I don’t want to be kidnapped to prove someone’s point. I just understand a little more now.

Jordan flags are in every car and the Arabic- beautiful and thick like caramel in the throat, but you haven’t heard an argument till you hear it in Arabic. I’m just trying to finish my shwarma, guys, but the kid with the ponytail, the Che shirt, the eyeliner is yelling hot caramel at the waiter, and then there’s attempted punches, a kick to the chest that connects, I’m so hungry I slide the extra chair in beside me, but keep chewing. Everyone holds everyone back. The kid was being rude to the Egyptian waiter because he’s Egyptian. I could see the kid was trouble, you don’t need to speak the language to know. Finished that shwarma. Climbing mountains will make you hungry.

I climbed two more today. The usual style of my youth- fuck the trail. Climbed up sneaky around a temple where no-one could see me to yell at me to stop, worked my way up chimneys, down gorges, a canyon labyrinth, leaving arrows made of branches to find my way back down these sandstone faces. Three hours later I reach the top and I get my rewards- bits of Nabatean staircase, worn, here and there, a cave temple and my very own sacrificial altar. I don’t think anyone makes it up to this peak very often, even locals. Almost no sign of unintelligent life. And I get to look down at the siq canyon from 250 feet on an overhang. Get the vertigo. Getting old? Maybe.

I ate this place up. Come down that siq today at 6.30 am again, no-one around, just rose walls rising around me. I’m listening, trying to picture the sound of hooves and chariot wheels 2000 years ago. I tell myself, I’ll never forget this feeling, this ancient gorge, quiet and empty. But I probably will. That’s why I write this shit down, that’s why I photograph so much. I never remember. Got a fuzzy ocean memory, blurry things bob to the surface now and then, and sink into the murky depths again. I slip messages in bottles and hope they hit the right beach. I keep old deodorants so I can experience the olfactory stimulus, maybe stir up something from the depths years from now. With naught but a sniff..