Day 106
Tuesday 25 April. At Aqaba, Jordan. 30ºC. Wind Force 7 from NNE.
Crikey, what a night! We were kept awake for most of the time with the noise of the wind, howling outside and battering the balcony door. It sounded as if we were in a hurricane yet, paradoxically, there was no ship’s motion at all. All of the upper deck was out of bounds because of the high relative wind from dead ahead, which I would estimate at 60 knots. Given the circumstances, we did not watch the arrival at Aqaba at 0800, but went to breakfast instead; this was our big day for Petra, and we were departing at 0900.
Aqaba is the only port in Jordan and stands right at the top of the Gulf of Aqaba, the right hand of the V-shaped fork at the top of the Red Sea, the left fork being the Gulf of Suez. A town dating back to the time of the Phoenicians, it is famous for being, inter alia, the port taken from the Turks by Lawrence of Arabia and the Arab armies, the Turks believing that a landward attack was impossible. When we arrived, it was a port like many of the others: not hugely attractive, no passenger terminal, and fairly busy, but the bulk of merchant shipping was in the commercial port slightly to the south east, where phosphates comprise Jordan’s main export. Our subsequent coach drive through the city confirmed the impression of a fairly shabby Arab town, with no decent architecture to speak of and not much in its favour. Apparently, Aqaba is popular among Jordanians as a weekend winter resort, and is becoming more popular in the tourist industry because of its fine beaches and coral reefs; I’m afraid I saw nothing in the town to make me want to go there again, but I should emphasise that that is just an impression from the window of a transiting coach.
There was the usual jostling to get on the bus, but that is so commonplace that I make only passing reference to it now. We had a two hour journey ahead of us to get to Petra – 80 miles, taking us across the desert and over a mountain range: food for comment in itself. The first stage took us across the Wadi Rum, a desert of black, purple-coloured mountains that did not have the traditional sand that you might expect of a desert. Instead, we saw vast tracts of rubble and rocks, rather like an enormous building site, with remarkable rock formations punctuating the landscape. Here and there were Bedouin encampments – usually just one tent coloured black and white, with a few goats around it. Heaven knows what the goats ate: there was very little, if anything, in the way of vegetation. The desert was covered in litter. We were quite astonished. There were plastic bags and disused cans and bottles everywhere, with discarded tyres (literally) thrown in. At times it was as if we were driving across a municipal rubbish tip, with the odd Gypsy camp included. Taken with the geological mountainous backdrop, it was all a peculiar contrast. The first road was a dual carriageway with several police and customs checkpoints along it, and the surface was not always in particularly good condition. It had been the original trade route road from Damascus to Egypt and was still used extensively, which might explain the poor state of repair. Service stations and rest stops occurred occasionally, the latter usually comprising a large lay-by with a corrugated steel shack, a few plastic chairs and a Coca Cola machine. Surprisingly, the single carriageway road that we transferred to was in better condition. It was virtually traffic-free, and wound its way around and up and up, seemingly forever. Funnily enough, the winding undulating road and landscape reminded me of Dartmoor, but with sand instead of greenery. We stopped at a ‘comfort’ stop, a two storey building on a high bluff rather like an old-fashioned road house in outward appearance; inside was a souvenir shop, a small cafeteria selling coffee and sweets, and a surprisingly decent lavatory. It had spectacular views of the surrounding countryside through large plate-glass windows (yes, the lavatory), and the air outside was distinctly chilly. Such towns and villages that we bypassed came across as shabby, sprawling, single or two-storey off-white houses on the hillside, with no obvious centre or market place, and rubbish strewn all around. A bit like The Little Town in Bethlehem, but set on a building site with disused car tyres and discarded washing machines.
Finally, we reached the approaches to Petra, descending steeply down a narrow twisting road through suburban sprawl, with sheer drops on either side, into the town of Wadi Musa (The Valley of Moses). We disembarked in the town outside the Petra Palace Hotel and walked to the main entrance of the ‘park’ where Petra stands. To Mrs Shacklepin’s relief, it was warm, but not hot, now that we were off the mountains.
The origin of the hidden city of Petra is not known, but it was once the capital of the kingdom of the Nabateans, an Arab tribe that moved from Arabia in the 6th century BC. From the city and fortress, the Nabateans commanded the trade routes from the east and Arabia and grew affluent accordingly, with the kingdom extending as far north as Damascus. The Romans took the the fortress with difficulty in AD106, but the city continued to prosper until AD363, when it was partially destroyed by an earthquake from which it never recovered. The Crusaders held a fortress there, but then the city fell into obscurity until it was discovered by a Swiss explorer in 1812. Its location remained known, but the site was not really exploited until early in the 20th century.
We entered Petra by a 1.2 km-long, narrow descending chasm (known as the Siq) that was sometimes only ten feet wide. Pinkish purple cliffs, 30m high, towered on either side of the Siq, demonstrating how the fortress survived so many centuries (the Romans only conquered it by cutting off the water supply). You could hire a horse and cart to take the trip to the bottom, or a donkey, or – indeed – a camel. However, they all looked filthy and stank (and that was just the drivers), so we opted out of that. Besides, we went with our guide, who had come on the bus with us, and he explained the key features. The downside was that we walked at the pace of the slowest and, believe me, that was slow: several people had walking sticks and one had a three-pronged walker. Heaven knows what they were thinking of, as we had been warned that the trek was an arduous one over rough terrain in stifling heat (and it was). Every now and again we had to dive to one side as a cart came rattling down or up and Jane nearly got flattened by one at one point because we all dived to the left and she dived to the right. We were also pestered the whole way down by men selling silver bracelets or boys selling information books, and it became a bit of a nuisance. But it was a fascinating journey, sometimes in sunshine, but mostly in shadow, with the sides of the chasm towering high above us. The ground underfoot was mostly rubble, though there was the occasional stretch of paving. There were shrines and carvings and caves (tombs) all the way down, remnants of a religion pre-dating Christianity and Islam, and channels in the side that once supplied the city’s water supply.
Eventually and suddenly, the chasm opened up to reveal a huge edifice of Corinthian columns and a portico, an amazing façade mounted by friezes and figures known as The Treasury. If you are a fan of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade then this is the building that you see in the final scenes. You could not go in to The Treasury, and it is believed to be not a treasury at all, but a tomb dating from the 1st Century BC. This area was absolutely heaving with people, camels, donkeys, horses, carts and bric-a-brac stalls in the sunshine, but it was not the end of the journey, for the street (for want of a better name) continued onward past amphitheatres, colonnades, caves and temples. We split off on our own at that point and explored further, but we had to be back at the top for lunch at 1430 and, basically, we ran out of time. If we had not descended as a party, and had done our own thing (as we usually do), we might well have been able to crack the whole place; but our guide had said at the beginning that you needed at least three days to give justice to the whole site. We found out afterwards that 6,000 people were at the site that day – rather too many for comfort.
Anyway, we set off back at the usual Shacklepin Hearty Pace and, boy, what a slog that was in the heat despite the fact that we were in shade for half the time. Theoretically the Siq was only 1.2km long, but it felt like twice that. We went through three bottles of water on the way and the sweat was pouring off us by by the time we reached the entrance again, with auxiliary hearts jogging on cold suction, ready to kick in at a moment’s notice. Do you know, we passed some bloke struggling with a walking frame at The Treasury; it was hard enough to walk, never mind stagger. He was plucky, I’ll say that, but also foolhardy.
We had lunch in the hotel where we had left the bus and it was good: a mixed buffet of salad or hot dishes, and three courses. We would have liked to have tried something traditionally Jordanian, and the roast lamb with spiced rice came close to it, I suppose, but otherwise the dishes were European: beef stroganoff, chicken, pasta and vegetables. Two of the puddings were Jordanian, and we tried both; they were very nice.
Then came the worst bit. Having eaten lunch, on time as scheduled at 1430, we had to hang around until 1700 before departure. We could have used that time usefully in Petra, but instead sat around in the hotel lobby, bored out of our skulls. Hey ho.
As you can imagine, the two-hour return journey seemed to go on forever and we arrived at the ship, literally as the sun was setting, completely shattered and covered in dust. What a day! We sailed for Suez at 2100, in the dark, an event that we watched from the comfort of our dinner table.
Day 107
Wednesday 26 April. Hazy sunshine, 22ºC, wind Force 7 from NW. Position at 1300B: 28deg 46.8N 32deg 57.4E. We are roughly halfway up the Gulf of Suez. Clocks were retarded yet again overnight, making us one hour ahead of UK.
I glanced out of the window at 0630 and saw yet another lively ocean, with foam blowing in streaks from the crests of waves and some spindrift. Yes, that ties in with ‘Near Gale’ on the Beaufort Scale and (later) my assessment was confirmed by the weather report on the television. A glance at the Jane Thermometer on the balcony table showed a temperature of only 20ºC, and this produced a squeak from her recumbent form, exceeded only by a louder squeak, later, when she went on the Internet and discovered that Melbury was at 2ºC. Yes, the honeymoon period is over, and I don’t mean that Jane is divorcing me after thirty five years of mental cruelty: the temperature is becoming markedly temperate, and we will never return to the heady figures of 40 degrees. The fleeces will be coming out before long.
The first lecture of the day was Part 3 of the one about ISIS. In contemplating a report on this lecture, I am reminded of the quote by Winston Churchill that is (or used to be) printed as a foreword in JSP101, the Joint Services Writing Manual, in the chapter on writing a brief:
“Pray state, this day, on one side of a sheet of paper, how the Royal Navy is being adapted to meet the conditions of modern warfare”
Trying to summarise our lecturer’s extensive, knowledgeable and highly complex talk on ISIS in one paragraph is damned difficult. However, it was very interesting and highly pertinent, though our heads were buzzing by the time we had left the theatre. The gist was that the Middle East has loyalties on tribal, historical and religious lines, not the geographical frontiers that were created after WW1. Iraq, for example, was created as a British protectorate and the British favoured the Sunni minority as administrators and ‘ruling class’ over the majority Shiite population. After Saddam (secular, but broadly Sunni) was deposed there was a backlash from the majority Shiite population and the deposed Sunnis, including élite army officers, went on to form ISIS. Conversely, Syria and Lebanon became French protectorates, and the French favoured the minority Shiite population as the ‘ruling class’ over the majority Sunni population, hence the seeds of the fighting there now. So ISIS is Sunni, and they see themselves as fighting the heretics in the form of Shiites. And, of course, us. One interesting fact is that the Koran was dictated to Mohammed by the Angel Gabriel and, technically, may not be written down or translated from Arabic. Young (non Arab) Muslims are taught the Koran (in Arabic) by rote, without understanding it; promising candidates are singled out and the Koran interpreted for them by Imams, and it is there that the danger lies, for they give their own interpretations. The one cheerful thing that we took away, was that these people are totally irrational and have no firm goals, unlike the IRA in its day. It is therefore impossible to reason or negotiate with them. Just the thing you want to hear as you enter the Suez Canal.
Jane was reprimanded by some oink for not disinfecting her hands as we entered the restaurant at lunchtime. She didn’t do it because she had just washed her hands after using the lavatory, one minute before. We thought at first that the bloke was joking, but he wasn’t. Jane was most indignant and tried to explain but, as I said to her afterwards, she did not owe an explanation to anyone, let alone to some obstreperous blob of lard who could do with a few lessons on healthy eating as well as good manners. What a cheek!
The final lecture of the day was about the history of the Spitfire. For whatever reason, Jane did not attend, preferring, instead, to examine the deckhead of our cabin from a horizontal position. It was a revealing lecture, not least because Supermarine had considerable production difficulties with the aircraft right up to the outbreak of war, and the government almost abandoned the project before problems were resolved. Interestingly, despite the Spitfires’s iconic image and its success, the Hurricane shot down far more aircraft in the Battle of Britain than the Spitfire. The Spitfire also suffered teething problems when it was introduced, for example it could only be started with ground support equipment (later resolved by introducing cartridge starting) and, as first supplied, did not have a rear view mirror (difficult when reversing). Initially, the engine used to cut out when the aircraft dived sharply and this fault was traced to the g forces on the carburettor float. A permanent feature was that the radiator could only cool the engine above 120 mph, so the pilot had only six seconds to get the aircraft up to flying speed before the engine overheated. Finally, the term, ‘the full nine yards”, in common usage today, referred to the length of the cartridge belt on the aircraft: to give something ‘the full nine yards’ meant that the pilot had emptied his entire magazine into an enemy aircraft (you knew that already didn’t you – well one of you did). All in all, a good boys’ talk.
The good news announced by the Captain is that we are now going to stop in Messina, rather than just transiting the Straits. I was last there as a Cadet in 1970 in HMS SKEGNESS. I wonder if it has changed much? I suppose those girls are grandmothers now.
We approached the anchorage at Suez at 1800 just as the sun was setting, and let go the anchor at 1830. There were ships everywhere, also waiting for passage through the canal and I counted about fifty. In keeping with the rest of the day, it was distinctly cool on deck, especially with a northerly wind blowing, and Jane and I wore fleeces. I understand that we are weighing at about 0430, but we won’t be up for that. We may, however, open the curtains at dawn to see the beginnings of the transit and we will certainly monitor the rest. I believe the complete passage takes about twelve hours.
Formal dinner tonight and I had escargots in garlic butter followed by grilled halibut. We were going to watch Lawrence of Arabia at the cinema, an apposite extravaganza that would last 220 minutes and take us into the wee small hours. However, the projector packed in before the film could start, so we went to bed instead (secretly, somewhat relieved).
Day 108
Thursday 27 April. Hazy sunshine, occasional fog. 15ºC. Wind Force 3 from NNW. Suez Canal, heading north.
I have covered the history of the Suez Canal earlier, so there is not much to add. It is 120 miles long and must be transited at eight knots to minimise the erosion of the canal sides. There are three lakes in the middle, Lake Timsah and Great Bitter Lake and Small Bitter Lake, and – unlike the Panama Canal – no locks. The canal passes through Egypt on both sides, with fertile land to the west and the Sinai Desert (and some towns) to the east. There are several ferry crossings (think the Dartmouth Higher Ferry without the cables), a high road bridge, and a railway swing bridge. Convoys operate on a 24-hour cycle and start from both ends in the early morning. They are synchronised to ensure that they pass at the ‘dual carriageway’ section, roughly half way along.
We were awakened at 0300 by the vibration of the ship’s propellers and somebody’s cabin door slamming. Just as I turned over, a few more cabin doors slammed and it became apparent that we were weighing, with some inconsiderate fools keen to watch the process in the dark. Even in daylight there would be nothing to see. As a dim light filtered through the curtains at about 0500, thumps, bangs and footsteps could be heard on the walkway above our cabin where other spectators were, clearly, assembling. I peered out of the window to see desert going past a short distance away. We were in the Suez Canal.
Sleep was impossible with the Wigan & District Clog Dancing Team practising above my head, so I got up and shaved and went onto the balcony. And promptly dived back in again. It was freezing out there: well, 16ºC with a brisk northerly breeze, but that was cold enough. Jane decided to get up too and so, dressed in long trousers, sweaters and fleeces we went on the upper deck. Quite a few people were already there (we would never have guessed) just watching the desert on both sides roll by. As far as the eye could see there was flat land and, ahead, the canal ran arrow-straight into the distance. We were third in a convoy of ships that stretched far behind us in the mist; I counted ten ships before poor visibility obscured the remainder. The canal was fenced or walled off about 100m inland, and here and there were military watchtowers all the way up, all of them manned. Barracks appeared and went on a regular basis and it soon became clear that there was a strong military presence all along the canal zone. Whether this was to protect the canal from terrorists or from a surprise attack by the Israelis was not clear: though all the watchtowers faced inwards (suggesting the former), there were also stockpiles of military equipment and the component parts of Bailey bridges (suggesting the latter).
The landscape changed as we continued north and, of course, it did warm up to the high 20s. In general, there were more towns on the western side, and the land was more verdant. The eastern side mainly remained as desert in the form of high dunes, though it had a road network and the odd industrial complex was visible in the distance. The towns seemed quite homogenous two-story blocks of flats, all of the same height and colour with only the odd mosque to break the skyline. Occasionally we passed a poorer town, which had the standard Arab house of two levels, with a roof terrace and sometimes a walled garden, all looking a bit shabby. Eventually, at about 1400, we reached Port Said. We did not enter the port itself but took the bypass straight into the Mediterranean. On went the power, and away we went for Limassol.
The cinema was showing yet another modern(ish) film, Sully with Tom Hanks, so we trotted down at 1700 to watch it. It was a good film, perhaps padded out a bit and plodding at times, but worth watching. As I’m sure you know it is about the airline captain who managed to land his aircraft on the Hudson River after both engines were disabled by a bird strike – the bulk of the film covered the aftermath, when the authorities tried to blaming him for losing the aircraft.
Energised by the break in routine of watching a film, Jane declared that we should continue with the off-piste behaviour by having an aperitif in the Chart Room. We had two gins and tonic as the dark sea rolled by, and took it as a celebration for leaving Arabia and The East. It had been nice visiting these exotic places, but it would be nice to get back to European culture and moderate temperatures again. The gin must have been high-octane Gordon’s, because Jane was positively effervescent afterwards as we bounced into dinner. We entered the double doors of the Britannia Restaurant, with its huge mural of a liner on the after bulkhead, and – arm in arm – descended the majestic curved staircase into the busy well of the room like Leonardo Di Caprio and Kate Winslet. Smiling benignly to all and sundry, we threaded our way through the tables to the small annex where we eat, I turned left into our dining room, and Jane continued straight on into the galley, much to he astonishment of the assembled waiting staff. She did come out faster than she went in, giggling inanely and complaining about the strength of the gin. And that was before we had the wine with the meal.
And so to bed, totally zonked after being up since 0500. So that was Arabia.
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 