An age-old welcome

Walking inside a large smoke-filled room I’m anxious about how conspicuous my appearance is. Not only am I the only Western face, I’m also the only person wearing flip-flops. Almost everyone else is dressed immaculately… this is a Jordanian wedding after all.

For two nights I sleep outside under the stars, waking to the sun rising over the cliffs

I wait to be introduced to the father of the groom, who looks resplendent in a black caftan and suit jacket with red headscarf. His black moustache is remarkably thick and he seems to radiate charisma with his very presence.

One firm handshake, three kisses on the cheek, and four simple words dispels all apprehension: “You are most welcome”.

Jordanian exploration isn’t just about Petra, there is much more than the landscape chosen as one of the world’s new seven wonders.

I started in Wadi Rum, an accessible desert home to the fabled Lawrence of Arabia. If you take a tour you get to see Lawrence’s spring, Lawrence’s rock, Law­rence’s house and so on... which is great if you like history or literature. But let’s remember that this was a man who, 100 years ago, wrote a book about himself; maybe his outlandish tales need to be taken with a pinch of salt?

The beauty of any desert is exploration. No roads, no signs, no life, just the odd tyre track in the sand.

I meet a South African driving from London to Cape Town who invites me to join him for three days in Wadi Rum with Jumbo, his Land Rover. We go to the butchers, buy half a meat carcass (asked for lamb… probably got goat) and set off.

To make things interesting we cruise around searching for various GPS points, pushing poor Jumbo to his limits as the tyre tracks often led to almost impassable mounds of sand.

Finding a spot sheltered by a huge sandstone cliff, we set-up camp surrounded by complete silence bar the crackling of embers.

The only interruption comes from a Bedouin man in a jeep two hours after sunset: “Maybe you have seen a woman and two goats?” he asks.

Other than the twinkling of stars, and his headlights, the blackness is absolute.

“Err, no.”

“Are you sure? I lost them around here about four hours ago.”

Good luck.

The landscape is paradoxical. On one hand it’s incredibly diverse; each vista a different combination of towering sandstone cliffs and dunes. But it also feels incredibly monotonous; how do you distinguish different piles of sand?

Every turn discombobulates me, and while the arrow on the GPS gives an indication as to which direction we are heading, it doesn‘t help us know where we are.

Being in the desert induces a feeling of encapsulation; the isolation of the environment and the concentration of finding where we are bringing on an almost trancelike state. For two nights I sleep outside under the stars, waking to the sun rising over the cliffs.

As the day progresses the colours of the cliffs transform, slowly moving through the shades of red, a paint creator’s dream.

On our final day I feel like a modern Lawrence of Arabia as I’m given a turn behind the wheel. I’ll describe what happened in true exaggerated Lawrence style:

“Gripping the wheel I skilfully negotiated the tracks in search of the missing woman and goats. After saving them from a vicious camel attack in the dark, I discover an underground spring that will ensure crops in Wadi Rum will flourish for eternity.”

Can’t wait for the film. Unfortunately I have a witness who contradicts my story – “Ten kilometres per hour faster and you would have rolled the Land Rover”. We left the desert somewhere near the Saudi border.

Amman is not a capital city that visually impresses. It’s not dirty, but most of the buildings in Jordan are mud-coloured. In other places they punctuate brown and green scenery, but in Amman the urban sprawl provides a gloomy backdrop that seems to hang in the air.

However, it’s not without its charm. In the food market, each vendor shouts a phrase in Arabic over and over. Each one is different but never ending. They’re probably saying something mundane like “get your spring onions here” or “two for one on melons”, but they flow off the tongue with a rhythmical grace and intonation, filling the air with a melodic chorus.

Alcohol is hard to find but places where men sit around chatting and watching football aren‘t. In Jordan, this happens in the café, where tea and the occasional fruit juice are the alternative to a pint.

Moving south to north through Jordan, the brown colours of the desert make way for fertile green hills and forests.

North of Amman, Jerash is an ancient Roman city impeccably preserved inside a modern town.

Walking around the three amphitheatres and hundreds of columns made me ponder whether the Romans had built anything else. There must be two miles of ancient roads lined with these iconic, flamboyantly carved columns.

Further north is Ajluun, a town afforded a stunning location among a forested valley. Exploring its medieval castle I talk to a group of 18-year-old Jordanian girls on a college trip, each of them wearing a headscarf.

I’m not sure if they have met a Westerner before but I enjoy the bombardment of questions (I look up their town in a guidebook later: “Zourka… tourists have no reason to go there”) until I see their teacher in the distance.

Thinking I’ve overstepped the line in this conservative country I turn around embarrassed. But I’ve temporarily forgotten the hospitality of Jordanians.

I exchange a welcome with Nisreen, the teacher, which has been replicated by almost every Jordanian I’ve met: “Hello, where are you from?” “Europe.” “Welcome.”

Teaching is the right profession for Nisreen; she has an extremely caring and amiable manner and she invites me to her family’s house for the day.

I’m introduced to three generations of a large close-knit family and we sit down to a family meal of muklooba; a sumptuous combination of rice, eggplant, cauliflower and five chickens.

One of Nisreen’s nephews is getting married and it seems normal that I should attend as their guest.

This is an Islamic wedding so men and women are kept separate. In one room women dance to traditional music, while in the other men greet each other and talk.

The warmth of their greetings is palpable; each handshake, eye contact and cheek kiss is slow and calculated, proffering an enormous sense of affection.

Yazan, Nisreen’s down-to-earth son, is my cultural and linguistic translator: “The more kisses the more people like each other…you don’t do that in your country?”

Older men in traditional dress ooze decorum and command enormous respect from everyone. Younger family members in sharp suits and waxed hair may look different but they are equally polite.

It’s an eye-opening cultural experience, different from any other wedding I’ve ever been to.

However, there is compelling conviviality and everyone seems to be so youthful. Not young, but youthful in their demeanour and attitude: appreciative, optimistic, open and interesting.

Wherever you’re from, you’ll be made to feel welcome in Jordan.