Letter XXVIII: Preview of "Wellesley" Summer 2010 -- Little Petra

We went to Beidha, nicknamed "Little Petra" in early April. It is Nabatean, like it's big sister namesake. The canyon leading in is shorter in ength and height. The sandstone wadi more narrow. The site is contained, impressive, and far less traveled. But in its day, this was a place for feasting.

Inside the wall-cut rooms are carved benches. You can imagine firelight, laughter, and reverence.

My complete piece on our visit to Little Petra will appear in Wellesley, the alumnae magazine of my alma mater, Summer 2010. And I don't plan on scooping myself, so here is just a preview:

And so, eight months into this ten-month-meditation, we are at Beidha, a site nicknamed “Little Petra,” about 10 miles from the famed Nabatean capital in south central Jordan. Here, too, the Nabateans carved tombs, cisterns and waterways into pink sandstone; here they carved grand dining rooms and on one ceiling survives the only example of intricate Nabatean painting, with colorful leaves, fruits and figures…

... On Fridays Beidha is a favorite family spot for Jordanians from the south, and we fell in with some folks walking through Little Petra’s canyon to a narrow staircase carved at the end of the gorge. Except for the mother, who was probably my age but looked more worn, it was a youthful assembly. Sisters, brothers, their spouses and three babies. The girls wore traditional garb: long dresses and scarves covering their hair. The boys were in slacks and sandals. Everyone wore smiles -- including the babies who were handed from walker to walker up the narrow, uneven stairs. I got to hold one of them, too. It was completely natural to turn around and reach up for the little boy when his dad faced a three-foot drop. Dad didn’t think twice about turning his son over to “a stranger.” Nor did I think twice when an older son who was helping the girls get down some of the steeper spots, extended his hand to me as well.

At the end of the climb was a small rock plateau with a vista of rugged rocks and the streambed that Peter assures me still rushes with water in mid-to-late spring. There we sat, united in our accomplishment and divided by language.

“Where you from?” It’s a familiar opening gambit, well timed and welcome.

I answered that one in Arabic, since I’m fluent in the openers. “We’re from the USA, from New Jersey. Do you know New Jersey?”

“No.” Smiles, giggles. Next move. “Are you Muslim?”

“Yes.” Ooohs of delight from the girls.

Then Amena, sitting next to me, asked in Arabic, “But if you’re Muslim, where is your scarf?” She tugged at her own, snuggly wrapped around her hair, to emphasize and clarify.

I smiled and tugging the purple Iranian scarf over my shoulders I said, “Here it is.”

Everyone howled with laughter. So far, very good. Only one step to go...