Tag: Jordan

The King’s Highway Day 3: Karak – Dana Biosphere Reserve

Distance: 47.81 miles

Time: 5:40:18

Elevation Gain: 5,769 feet

Average Speed: 8.4 mph

Leaving the guest house, Karak Castle towered above me, previously a stronghold in the crusades, and later for the Ottomans. Normally I would have been keen to have a look around, but sadly I had to be underway.

While planning the trip I’d read that the reason there was no public transport that connected the whole way along the King’s Highway, was Wadi Mujib which I’d crossed the day before. I’d thus assumed that that was the only major wadi to cross, which it turns out was inaccurate. In fact, Wadi al-Hasa which I would be crossing today, actually had a greater height differential, but perhaps the gradients were more forgiving to a bus.

As soon as I dropped back down to the Highway, I pulled over and started uncoupling the chain. In diagnosing my drive-chain-based-issues I’d decided that the chain was too long. Removing one of the links caused a few more gears to come to life. Enough to be getting on with at least. Eventually another link might have to go.

The road continued to climb through the outer reaches of Al-Karak, I soon stopped at a small grocery store to buy some provisions. Chiefly some water, and a large bottle of Pepsi: It was hot today. Only 14 or 15 degrees, but the sun was low and there was only a light breeze to stifle its effects.

Sure I’d left my sun tan lotion in the bathroom of the previous night’s accommodation, I cycled through the upwards-tilted sprawl of Mu’tah looking for a pharmacy. The helpful girl in the shop tried to ascertain whether my skin was oily or dry, I looked back blankly, not something I’d ever considered while making similar purchases back home.

The road was still rising when I reached the small outpost town of Al-Hussayniyah, topping out at 1250m, I could see that the road would be dropping down into Wadi al-Hasa soon after. Turning off the main road onto the small high street, I stopped to get my bearings and was soon noticed by some young boys. ‘Hello’, ‘I love you’, ‘are you lost’? Well actually… I’m looking for something to eat. The boys pointed me in the direction of a takeaway outlet along the road, using a translator app to tell me it was 50 meters away.

Ordering a large shawarma box, the two assistants set to work. Receiving one and a half large shawarma and some fries along with some pickled veg, I was led to the shop next door to sit on their chair whilst I tucked in. It was a hearty portion and I stuffed some of the wrap and most of the fries into my panniers for later.

Reaching the top of Wadi al-Hasa, I was stunned, this seemed to be in a different league of scale than Wadi Mujib, ‘the Grand Canyon of the Middle East’. The scenery was, it had to be said, majestic.

As I dropped further down into the canyon, the dogs were out in force, a first one came along side me at speed, then, after I’d unclipped my right foot to try and fend it off with my foot, another appeared to join the chase, with only one foot clipped in I couldn’t accelerate away and in the end I was saved by a truck coming down the road behind me.

Moments later, another dog rushed out to the side of the road so aggressively that I got off and started walking, quickly deescalating the situation and only climbing back on when the dog was far behind.

Down at the bottom of the valley, I passed a small mosque, and I’d only just reached the lowest point of 430 metres when I was stopped at another police checkpoint. ‘Where are you going?’ Dana. ‘Are you alone?’ Yes, it’s just me and the dogs out here.

It was a long slow climb, the altitude increased at a glacially slow rate, the distance gained, barely at all. It was hard work in the full glare of the sun, and I was relieved when, towards the top, I was mercifully cast in shadow.

As I finally reached At-Tafilah, after 21Km in which I’d dropped from 1250 metres, down to 430 metres, then climbed all the way back up to 1250 metres again, I should have been happy to be back out the other side, but I knew the road would only continued to ascend. It’s time to let my accommodation know that I’m going to be late, I decided. 7 o’clock should be ok…

The road continued to rise and fall, up over 1300 metres, then over 1400, as the sun set, I was twisting and turning through a remote landscape a long way from the King’s Highway – which this road would lead me to again later. The dogs seemed even more ‘excitable’ at this hour and my nerves were officially shredded when a pack of 7 dogs all converged around me angrily, I stood in the middle, flinging my bike around me to ward them off, out of ideas, until a farmer came running up the hillside, struggling to get his animals under control. Exasperated, he told me to go, he’d handle it from here.

Shortly afterwards, the tarmac ran out, and as I climbed over the 1350 metre mark, up a steep slope on a stony track, I despaired, until I saw a van passing by up ahead, I knew there must be tarmac close.

As dusk fell, I dropped down a steep hill into Al-Ain Al-Baida, a man outside the mosque pointing me in the direction of the road to Dana Village, my stop for the night. Another long climb was required, though, and as I started to climb out of the penultimate town of Basira – with 6 miles to go – a loud hissing came from my back wheel. It was half past 6, I think I was going to be late, again.

No sooner had I started to remove the inner tube, when I dropped one of my tyre levers, it bounced off the cage of rocks that I was resting the wheel upon and disappeared between the rocks, never to be seen again. Luckily, I had a spare lurking in a box down at the bottom of my pannier. But I couldn’t lose another, I moved operations onto the tarmac.

Quickly I changed the puncture, with a steady stream of locals – and the police – checking to see if I was ok, I got my bike back on the road, and started on up the hill. Out of nowhere, my chain was skipping relentlessly. Before the puncture, the one thing that I could rely on was that my lowest gear was working well. Not spotting anything obvious, I was puzzling over what had changed, when two men in an MPV stopped on the other side of the road. ‘Are you ok’ the driver yelled over. Yes I was fine I replied, and that I was headed for Dana Village. ‘Oh yes, I know that place’, the man responded. ‘Maybe they can give you lift’, now there’s an idea, I thought. ‘Or I can give you lift, but it will cost you’.

Now in normal circumstances, when I was completing a significant route or challenging my cycling capabilities on a longer route, I could refuse a lift in almost any circumstances – the only time I’d accepted a lift on a previous trip, it was during an out and back extension on Orcas island in the San Juan islands of Washington State, and I justified that to myself because I was taking the ferry from Canada to mainland USA, and the ride on Orcas Island was just an additional side tour. This trip was to be an experience as opposed to a cycling challenge, ergo, I was taking this lift.

Jumping in the back, I was surprised to see that the road actually flattened off quite quickly, and the rest of the route wouldn’t have been so bad, but I knew that if I’d struggled to get my bike working at the side of the road and pedalled the rest of the way, I wouldn’t have reached my accommodation until half past 8 at the earliest, and realistically my chances of reaching Petra the next day, in time to see it, would diminish considerably. And that would be a shame.

‘Ah, the route to Petra from Dana Village is not so bad, you know, the driver said. Once you get back up to Al-Qadisaya it is all downhill or like this’, he said, while holding his outstretched hand out flat.

Well, that’s a relief, I thought.

The King’s Highway Day 2: Madaba – Karak

Distance: 56.05 miles

Time: 6:24:53

Elevation Gain: 6,236 feet

Average Speed: 8.7 mph

If I’d opened the curtains this morning, the first thing I’d have seen was heavy rain bouncing off the road outside, but as there were no curtains, I could already see it. Not ideal at the start of the hardest day of the trip.

I dawdled over breakfast, before ensuring to check my gears before I left. It turned out that the new style of Shimano derailleur was designed quite differently and I’d inadvertently routed it so that it was rubbing off the chain guide.

Having fixed the issue, I rolled out into the rain, the water teaming down the hill beside me as I made my way back towards the highway. Carrying on out of town, I passed through some small villages, dismayed that my higher gears were stuttering, fortunately my lower gears seemed to be working well and as I had the near 1000m Wadi Mujib to climb out of later, that was probably for the best.

Eventually the rain stopped and I made for a petrol station cafe, hoping a coffee might thaw me out a little after the onslaught from the chilling winds. The coffee was a thick spicy affair, that the owner lovingly prepared on his stove, he seemed keen that I should enjoy it, and thankfully I did.

Shortly after, the route left the King’s Highway, working its way to the top of a high ridgeline before plummeting down the other side into a complex dry arid landscape. Turning along the valley floor, passing workers’ camps along the way. Kids on their way back from school greeted me excitedly, one on a bike in particular, who pointed out the similarities of our travelling arrangements.

Back on the highway, the road climbed up and over to the start of the most challenging part of the route, the vast Wadi Mujib. The road disappeared over the edge, promising an 8% gradient on its way down. A stunning vista of the valley was revealed, the road snaking far below.

The descent was fantastic, only blighted by groups of dogs lurking alongside the barriers waiting to pounce. Luckily I was able to anticipate their assaults and get my accelerations in early, leaving them barking angrily far behind.

Down at the valley floor, just before I crossed the vast Mujib dam, my elevation dropped below 200 metres, bad news when I knew that I’d be returning to almost 1000 metres later on.

As I stood on the dam, the wind picked up once more, this time accompanied by rain, lashing down on my open panniers as I searched for some of the few food supplies I had, a packet of dates and, extravagantly, a tray of baklava. Then I reached the other side of the dam, and was stopped by the police.

It was a police check point, and he asked where I was from, and then where I was going. Karak, I replied, without conviction, given the conditions and the steepness of the opening pitch we were standing at the bottom of. I would have willed him to turn me back, but I knew that that would be just as bad…

Struggling up the opening slopes into the merciless headwind, I succumbed to the thought that there was no other outcome than cycling the last hour or so in the dark, but how dark is dark when the weather is this grim? My breathing was still laboured thanks to the cold and I was feeling more than a little concerned that it was after 3 o’clock, and the sun would set at half past 5, despite it not having been seen all day. I still had 25 miles to go, and of that, the first few miles included a 600 metre climb, and after that, the road continued to climb into a headwind that was gusting at over 35 miles per hour.

Finally, I knew the answer, I’d climbed out of the gorge at around 800 metres and was now ploughing on forlornly into the pitiless wind. As the the sunset call to prayer filled the air, the truth was it had already been dark for some time, and that wasn’t helped by the fact that I was now pedalling on into thick fog.

At the darkest possible stretch, on a blind uphill corner, under low overhanging tree cover, my front light went out and I took the first opportunity to get off the road. Resigned to hanging out for a while outside the Mutah University School of Agriculture, waiting for the light to charge, a voice called out from the small gatehouse, barely visible in the gloom.

Ahmed invited me inside his tiny booth, where he was huddled up near a small heater, waiting for some tea to brew. Pouring me a cup, I couldn’t thank him enough for his kindness, and drank it gratefully. Finishing it quickly, he poured me another and I settled back, happy to be waiting out the worst of the conditions in here.

Ahmed was the night watchman for the campus and he would be working until 8 AM, he was a father of 5, and was worried that his English skills might not still be up to scratch, having learned it at school, a long time before. He need not worry I assured him.

Soon a friend of Ahmed popped in, pouring us all another tea, before going to put another pot on. He shared out some biscuits which I accepted gratefully, but I ensured to fetch my tray of baklava before he came back with the second pot. Baklava from Madaba, Ahmed informed his friend. The friend headed off to the Mosque, for his 5th time of the day, and eventually I got back underway, eternally grateful for the ‘shai’ shared with these two men.

Back on the road the fog had lifted a little, so I was feeling more confident about the final 7 miles in the dark, but then the rain came on even heavier than before and my cadence lifted in protest.

Receiving a message from my host for the night – enquiring about my arrival time – I responded that it should be by half past 8. I only had two miles to cover, and that was 45 minutes away.

But then, as I careered down towards a bridge, a large drain cover covered the road, wide gaps much bigger than my bike tyres, lay in between the slats, there was nothing for me to do but hop as best I could, the back tyre landing heavily on the other side. Relieved to get across unscathed I slowed to lift the bike over the next one, and then realised I’d blown my back inner tube. It was absolutely pouring down, and less than a mile to go, but there was nothing else for it, than to change it.

At 9 o’clock, I rang the door of The Old House guesthouse, situated just below Karak castle on a rocky outcrop, drenched and covered with mud, I apologised for my late arrival, ‘it took a little longer than expected’, I said. Then my host uttered the immortal words, ‘would you like some dinner?’ Rustling up some delectable chicken shawarma and fries, while I was in the shower. Do you like Pespi? He enquired, before informing me that he was leaving me to it, ‘is there anything else that you need’? Thank you, no, I think I’ll be fine.

The King’s Highway Day 1: Amman – Madaba

Distance: 22.09 miles

Time: 2:42:55

Elevation: 1611 feet

Average Speed: 8.1 mph

Looking at today’s route out of Amman, I could tell that it wended its way over the hilltops – to avoid the busy roads on the valley floor. Still suffering with a bad cold, I considered opting out of the steep climbs, to try weaving in and out of the poorly flowing traffic instead. A brief spell in the traffic seemed alright, and I quite enjoyed the flow, reminding me of my exit out of Hanoi almost 4 years before.

But the route turned off sharply up ahead and I was also interested to see what the hills would be like. I passed through some narrow alleys where a colourful market was in full swing, then the road turned steeply to the left. I tried to engage my lowest gear, but one or two pedal revolutions later, the chain had slipped and I had to act fast to unclip before I toppled over. I’d installed a new rear derailleur just before I’d left, and although it seemed to be set up fine when tested on the flat roads near my home, it would appear that perhaps wasn’t the case.

I got up the first steep ramp in stages, but between the malfunctioning gears and the gradient, it hadn’t been pretty. Impatient to get moving I made some impromptu adjustments and kept on fighting up the hill. The road meandered higher and higher, reaching almost 1000 metres, the surroundings becoming less salubrious as I went. As I reached the summit of the first hilltop settlement, it felt impoverished and cut off, and when the afternoon call to prayer began reverberating around the buildings, I stopped and soaked in the atmosphere.

Back on a major road, I passed a variety of roadside cafes and food stalls, the roadsides were starting to feel like those in Vietnam, it was quite comforting after my ride there. I came across a large square and stopped to take photos of the Abu Darwish Mosque, a large building I’d seen on the skyline from the Citadel the day before. As I lingered a group of teenage boys walked by, they called out a welcome before one asked ‘if I liked Palestine’. What would Rishi say? I briefly considered, before thinking of something else.

The route kept off the main road from now on, cutting through sparse housing developments and up and over steep rises to keep moving forwards. Eventually the housing petered out and I was passing through farmland on a very quiet road. Stray dogs looked too bored to attack and kids looked on inquiringly

After working my way across the countryside for some miles, I realised I was close to my stop for the night, Madaba. Passing through the outer reaches, I tried to follow the route on the tiny screen of my GPS, in bright sunshine, making several missteps, and passing along roads that I doubted many tourists would usually encounter, before eventually arriving at the Black Iris Hotel.

While I paused before going inside, a large group of boys gathered around, seemingly interested in my bike, and the aforementioned GPS unit, and in good spirits. They had just asked me the age-old burning question of Messi or Ronaldo when the hotel proprietors came out to shoe them away. Messi I’d responded, which annoyed the boy who’d asked, but seemed to be appreciated by his friends. Well, the ones in Argentina tops anyway.

Checking into the Black Iris Hotel was a pleasant experience, so I elected to have dinner in the hotel. Being only a little after 4 o’clock, I had some time to spare, so deliberated between the 12 mile return trip over to Mount Nebo, which would afford views of Jerusalem and the Dead Sea, or to make a quick dash down to St George’s Greek Orthodox Church, home to the Madaba Map, a mosaic map known as being the earliest cartographic depiction of Jerusalem and the Holy Land, dating from the 6th Century AD.

The walled city of Jerusalem is at the centre of the image with the Dead Sea above that. Jordan itself would be above the Dead Sea but much has been lost.

Only being an hour left until sunset, I opted for the map. Unfortunately, the area that contained Madaba itself had been destroyed, but I did find Karak just on the edge of the remains, and that’s where I hoped to stop tomorrow.

As I made my way back from the church, I found the heart of Madaba to be very pleasant and slightly regretted opting to have dinner at the hotel. Passing by a very busy food counter, I noticed that they were selling Chicken Shawarma, and as it was the first place I’d spotted that did, I couldn’t help but try one. As it was dinner soon, I went small, at the princely sum of 67 pence. Simply prepared, I received a wrap with a light spreading of tahini sauce and thin slices of hot succulent chicken. It was very tasty, and I was pretty sure this would be better than what the hotel would provide.

Unsurprisingly I was right, but they did put on quite a feast, with soup, big bowls of hummus and baba ganoush, salads, kofta and rice and a chicken and potato stew. Following that was a big slab of baklava, which was very nice, but I particularly enjoyed washing it all down with a bottle of Petra Blonde Ale, as brewed in Jordan.

The King’s Highway: Mint Tea and Flatbreads

After my long day of travel, and late night, I was feeling a little shell shocked when I awoke, the breakfast buffet in the hotel didn’t look particularly exciting, but it actually tasted pretty good. The Arab-world staples of mint tea and flatbreads were present, as were sides of hummus, halloumi and slices of processed meat.

I’d enjoyed my breakfast from a roof terrace with excellent views of one of the most popular sites in Amman, the Roman Theatre – from Amman’s days as Roman Philadelphia – so that’s where I’d be heading, just as soon as I got moving…

From the bottom, the theatre didn’t look like it stretched that far up the hillside, but as I worked my way upwards towards the top, I soon realised that the top tiers banked up sharply and it was much higher than it looked. The walkway at its pinnacle offered great views down over the lower tiers of the theatre and the forum beyond. Across the valley, the sunlight reflected off the buildings, another of Amman’s big tourist draws – the Citadel – perched on top.

Weaving my way through packed streets, lined with barely moving traffic, and with street sellers set up on the pavement, I made for a popular, long-established, Ammani restaurant, Hashem. Renowned since 1952, for its falafel and hummus, so that’s what I would have, alongside the mint tea and flatbreads, of course. At 2 Jordanian Dinars (£2.24) all in, that might not be the last falafel and hummus of the trip.

The sun was lowering in the sky by this time, so I made the steep climb up to the Citadel. The site of an old Bronze Age fort, the focus of my attention became the splendid ruined pillars of the Roman-era Temple of Hercules.