Jordan Tori dem: For My Last Afternoon for Petra, One Bedouin Boy Give Me Cup of Tea—and Tell Me Sey Im Grandfather Don Meet Lawrence

Di final meter of di Siq. Di narrow rock corridor, after full 1.2 kilometers, suddenly split open — and dere e be. Di Treasury. No be for photograph, no be for National Geographic cover, no be for Indiana Jones film — e dey actually there, cut in half by one blade of morning light wey dey slash through one crack for di rock, one half rose-gold, di other half still dey hide for shadow. Behind me, somebody whisper for Arabic under their breath: Alhamdulillah. I stand there, caught between catching my breath and holding am, for several seconds.

Den I look back at di Siq — di rock passage wey I just waka through, im floor polished smooth by two thousand years of hooves and camel pads — and start to retrace how I reach here.

Three weeks earlier, I dey sit for one chair for Beijing dey watch one World Cup qualifier. Jordan against one opponent wey im name I no fit remember. One banner flash across di screen — 'The Chivalrous' — above one flag wey I no recognize. I no sabi where Jordan dey, no sabi wetin language dem dey speak there, no sabi why di team dey call themselves 'The Chivalrous.' Di camera cut to one Jordan supporter, im face paint with di red, white, and black of di national flag, im eyes dey hold something wey I assume dey only appear after victory. I no remember di match result. But I remember sey I open my browser and type 'jordan travel.'

Amman na city wey dem build across seven hills. Di taxi wind im way up from di airport, di driver dey tune di radio to one Lebanese station wey dey play old Fairuz songs, den dey type into one translation app: 'Amman roads and Jordanian patience na di same thing — dem dey go around and around, but dem always dey reach.' E drop me for one restaurant wey dem call Hashem — don open for over sixty years, neva close, with menu of exactly three items: hummus, falafel, flatbread. Di waiter slap one stack of bread onto di plastic tablecloth and fire off one string of rapid Arabic. I no understand, but di diner next to me translate with grin: 'E talk — chop first, talk later.'

At six di next morning, I dey stand for di entrance to Petra. If you only get one day for Jordan, give all of am to Petra. Every hundred meters of di Siq na different microclimate — tourist chatter for di entrance, den deeper inside, nothing but wind and your own footsteps. Ancient shrines and water channels dey appear for di rock walls, stone wey wind and water don carve into di shape of muscle. At around di eight-hundred-meter mark, one Bedouin boy for donkey pass me and turn im head: 'Almost there.'

After di climax at di Siq end, I sit for one stone step directly facing di Treasury. Tourists dey busy take photos, dey post to Instagram, dey check page numbers for their guidebooks. Only one person no dey move — one Bedouin boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen, one red-and-white-checkered keffiyeh wrap around im head, dey lean against one column. E glance at me, den pour hot tea from thermos and hand am over. 'Mint tea,' e talk. 'You don waka long time. Your water don finish.' Di tea sweet, loaded with sugar. I ask how long e don live for Petra. E talk: 'I don always dey here. My grandfather too. E talk sey e meet Lawrence.' E set down im cup and point into di distance — di eight hundred steps up to di Monastery — 'If you wan go there, go now. Too hot for afternoon.'

Wadi Rum night sky no need any rhetoric. Di Bedouin guide trace di next morning jeep route into di sand with im foot, den tell me one story: im family don live here for seven generations, and every generation don give di desert new names. 'Di desert no dey change,' e talk, 'but di people wey dey look di desert dey change. So di names must change too.' E light one kerosene lamp and hang am outside di tent — di only artificial light within one fifty-kilometer radius — den point towards di Milky Way. 'You see dat band of stars? We dey call am di camel eyelashes.' I look am for long time and decide sey dis name far more accurate dan 'di Milky Way.'

Di Dead Sea no get waves. You waka enter, di water push you up, but when you try stand, you feel heavier dan before — as if di whole planet gravity don concentrate for your ankles. I float for fifteen minutes, dey look across at Israel, dey look back at Jordan desert highway behind me, dey try to assemble all di fragments of dis trip. Jordan na country with no oil wey open im borders to over three million refugees. Im business card na Petra, but im bones na patience. Di kind of patience wey dey grind stone into temples, dey turn desert into home, and dey treat guests as honor.

For di day wey I comot, I go back to dat same café for Amman. Di owner recognize me and bring me Arabic coffee — unsweetened, thick coffee grounds for bottom. E dip im finger for di coffee wey don spill over di rim of di cup and draw one small circle for di tabletop. 'Dis na Petra,' e talk. 'You go come back.' I ask why. E point at di Jordan national team schedule wey dem pin for wall. 'Because next time Jordan play, you go watch.'