Throughout my entire Egypt and Jordan travels, I had this internal debate on beauty: Nature versus Man-made. Man-made versus Nature. Kelly and I began at the Great Pyramids of Giza and marveled at the mastery of the architecture. Then, we hired a gondola and watched the sun set on the Nile. Later, we would ogle the spoils of pharaohs in the great temples and tombs of Luxor. The next day – nay, we hiked through the night – we made the pilgrimage up Mount Sinai and became completely floored by the most perfect sunrise I’ve ever witnessed. Call it a tie, perhaps?

“La vida dura,” as my old Spanish teacher in Madrid used to say. It’s a hard life.

But it was in Petra – the last leg of our three week journey – where it all came together. The city that was once the capital of the Nabataeans and center of their caravan  trade is characterized by jaw-dropping man-made architecture etched into the facades of rocks and mountains. Then, as you climb up to the El Deir (The Monestary) or the High Place of Sacrifice, you are treated with incredible views of the land surrounded by mountains. As the sun comes down, the city earns its “rose-pink city” moniker as every surface begins to glow.

In particular, I’ll never forget exiting Petra. We planned it so we would be up the mountain (via donkey) at the Monastery at sunset. The area is filled with pure magic as the sun lowers itself and shines its rays onto the pink walls. You can actually witness the shadows disappear and see the building’s walls come to life.

We lingered. And lingered. And snapped photos, trying to capture the moment. But then it quickly became dark and we were still miles away from the gates to the closed city. Guided just by a small headlamp I had bought back at Paragon in New York City, we walked in complete silence on the pathway through the ancient city. It was deserted except for the camel and donkey herders offering us “Happy Hour” rates to ride out. Eventually we reached the Siq, a dusty trail carved between canyons the Nabataeans had build to transport water into Petra. (You will, of course, remember it more famously from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade) Parts of the trail are only a few feet wide and surrounded on both sides by 600 feet walls of sandstone.

“Turn off your light,” a Bedouin nomad riding in a camel said. “You don’t need it, my friend.”

He was right, of course.

“The moonlight is enough. Now, close your eyes. Picture yourself a thousand years ago riding in a caravan of camels. You have just traveled across the desert for many weeks and have finally arrived at the bustling city of Petra. Ahead of you are open air markets, amphitheaters, palaces and tombs of kings.”

He stopped to point out a few etchings on the ancient sandstone.

“Where are you from?” he asked me.

“United States.”

From his camel, he flashed his own headlamp onto my face.

“No. Tell me where you are from.”

“Bangladesh.”

“Ahh, you could pass for a Bedouin, you know.”

I was never more proud.

Earlier we had learns that Bedouins had kept Petra – established in 6th Century BC – a secret from the western world until Swiss explorer Johann Ludwig Burckhardt disguised as a Bedouin spilled the beans. Today, no Bedouins – nor anyone else – are allowed to live within the boundaries. But they still scatter the areas surrounding it.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

He pointed into the dry mountains in the distance. “I was born in a cave near Little Petra, not too far from here.”

“Ahhh…”

“We’re going to have a celebration there tonight. You are invited to come.”

I thanked him but politely declined. I was feeling very tired. We had started our visit to Petra at sunrise  and had probably walked over 15 miles. I saw taxi lights in the distance and realized the journey was over. Somewhere along the walk, 26 centuries had passed.

Mandatory shot of Al Khazneh (“the Treasury”) from El Siq — the shaft-like entry into Petra.

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