I'd rather have a liter of Rum

On through the desert heat of Petra we find ourselves amidst another onslaught of ruins. Except that this time few of them actually deserve to be called ruins, as some are perfectly preserved without the aid of humans since they were constructed, some 2 millenia ago. Not-coincidentally, they are also all carved straight out of sandstone cliff faces, and serve perfectly as the backdrop to Arabian camel rides - though the 20 elderly Brits on the back of donkeys did seem slightly misplaced. While in my hangover haze in Cappadoccia, Turkey I had likened the scene to Canyonlands in Utah; I now fully realize the err of my perception. Desert skylines in Petra jut hundreds of meters from the sandy foundations. They erode irregularly to create a weaving pattern of seeming randomness through their grainy facades.

Inside of the tombs, ceilings swirl with purples, reds, yellows as the observer unfailingly expresses his ignorant awe that rock could look so magnificent - especially rock that's been all messed up at the hands of man.

The night brought the vortex of danger that is the satellite television in this town, but I break away long enough to mingle with the shopkeeper next door. He pours tea down my throat, as usual, while watching women with barely any clothing singing not-so-pure-hearted songs on television. "These people aren't Muslims, they're Lebanese. Muslims aren't like this." It was all I could do not to inform him of his hypocrisy in viewing the sacrilege - after all, what's the point? Locals from Pakistan to Jordan all enjoy the same quality programming with the convenient outlet that they can blame their diversion from the one true path on somebody else. Can't we all...

In Wadi Rum, big plans for rock climbing turned to a full day of slogging across the desert sand between rocky massifs; past camels and organized jeep tours; and through canyons up to the summit of a nearby geoglogical wonder a few thousand feet up. We lay in the warm sun on that rock in the sky for an hour or so, allowing our minds to boggle at the familiar memory of freedom - freedom from chaos, from pestering touts, from pestering locals, from locals who mean well but "what's your name you want take tea" end up pestering, from pollution (we reminisced of black snot and gringy lungs in the Subcontinent of India), and from concrete. How wonderful.

The climbing never got quite off the ground as prospects of repeating "The Thailand Incident" while leading a 5.10 trad climb up 6 pitches of sandstone after 8 months of dormancy seemed downright looney. That, and I didn't have any gear. The latter, obviously, was the kicker.

So we dismissed ourselves from the camp in paradise and from locals who didn't recognize the beauty in which they lived until a foreign climber escaped from neon pants, new coke, and rubix cubes back home to come tell them. We ended up in Aqaba, where the torrent of confliciting information, amidst claims that the ferry will leave either at 6, 7, 10, 11, and 2 am, seems to only have one thing in common: the God of wind is pissed, and he's taking it out on Aqaba. Only a mysteriously one-fingered hand will tell if we can make it out of here today or not. At least, though, they sell ice cream in liter quantities.