Am I ready for another adventure is perhaps the more pertinent question…
Before I’d left work on Friday I was asked where I was going on holiday, and for once I was at a loss. I was just about to start two weeks of annual leave, and I currently had nothing planned. What I did know was that – having looked at the forecast – staying at home would likely begin with good intentions to cram in all number of hillwalking and cycling trips, and end with me watching Wimbledon while looking forlornly out of the window at the rain.
But, having successfully completed challenging and logistically stressful tours in Iceland and Jordan in 2023 and backed those trips up by visiting Egypt earlier this year, my mental stamina was feeling somewhat depleted, and I was keen to not have to worry about flying home with my bike on this occasion.
So, the hunt was on to find a flight to somewhere that would be within range – after two weeks of cycling – of a ferry back to the UK, and preferably in a country I’d never been to before. Copenhagen was looking like a strong contender, and, when I mentioned my plan to the sales assistant in Halfords – while picking up some bike supplies – and he said that he loved Copenhagen, that he’d been before, and was going back in a couple of months, that was good enough for me.
Then, when he told me that Malmo in Sweden was only half an hour away by train, and I could add a second new country into the equation, that was the deal sealed completely!
Having not eaten a great deal all day, I stopped off for a post-sunset late lunch before heading to the hotel. Ordering falafel, hummus and fries, I was slightly overwhelmed by the amount of food that arrived. How could I finish all of this.
As I ploughed through as much as I could – to avoid looking too wasteful – I looked up the bus times between Aqaba and Amman, and realised that there was one leaving shortly, at half past 6 in the evening. That was in ten minutes time, did that mean the ticket office might still be open?
The overall success of the trip could depend on this moment. I’d seen anecdotal evidence online that the JETT coaches might accept bicycles without the need for a box. I hoped so, as that was my masterplan for returning to Amman, to pick up my bike box and fly home.
Discovering that the bus station was only 5 minutes away, I raced over, and was relieved to be allowed in. The attendant confirming that I could indeed travel with a bike and booking me onto the bus at 11 am the next morning. All the way back to the start for 10 JD, and in 4 and a half hours.
After a pleasant breakfast at the Bratus Hotel, a new build just on the edge of the town centre, I made my way to the bus. All that was required was for me to remove the wheels and place the bike in the storage lockers with all the other luggage. I then boarded a very full bus, I was glad I’d booked.
Following the rapid transit along the desert highway, and a short pedal down into the centre of Amman, I returned to the hotel. I didn’t recognise the man at reception, and he seemed quite sceptical about my ad-hoc booking that had been cobbled together the week before. Possibly conceding that I may be telling the truth, he checked me in.
Wandering through a busy downtown bazaar, I stopped at the barbecue restaurant Shahrazad for a fine mixed kebab. Having felt comfortable at arriving back in Amman after my time travelling through the country, I was reeling again at the reaction I’d had at the hotel, and what this meant for my airport transfer the next day, I had no idea.
After a restless night during which I was sure that there would be no van coming to pick me up, I got up before my 5 am alarm, and watched the road outside the Roman Theatre from my window, would there be a taxi if I needed one, and could I possibly fit my box in the back? It seemed to me like 6 am on a Sunday morning was a problematic time to find a new solution.
When I checked out, shortly before 6, another receptionist seemed even more dissatisfied with my claim that I’d already paid, than the one the day before, repeatedly asking how much I’d been charged, and seeming to think that I should have paid more, perhaps because the listed room price on the wall behind him was 35 JD a night, whereas I’d reserved the first two nights online, before I’d arrived, at 32 JD in total. Did the ‘manager’ who’d served me the week before even work here at all, or was it an elaborate hoax?
But then, at 2 minutes to 6, a van pulled up, and it was the man who’d collected me from the airport a week prior. ‘You’re lucky, he’s usually late’ joked the front desk receptionist, as he held the door for me. I would be going to the airport after all, what had I been worrying about…
Arriving at the airport, at just gone half past 6 in the morning, I now had plenty of time to spare before my 9 o’clock flight, the morning’s stress levels slowly starting to dissipate. Now finding myself flush with the money that I’d kept back in case I needed to make some alternative last minute travel arrangements, I decided that there might be just enough time for one last Shawarma for the road. And, maybe partially buoyed by the now almost certain success of my trip, but even from an airport fast food counter, before 7 in the morning, it tasted pretty good.
So, I was stuck in Wadi Musa, three of my four inner tubes had punctures. There were no bike shops in the area, and realistically the only place that there was any hope of getting a replacement one was in Aqaba, 80 miles away, and where I planned to finish.
The way I saw it, I had several options:
Repair as many inner tubes as I could and set off, hoping to cover the 80 miles to Aqaba, largely across the middle of a desert.
Repair as many tubes as I could, struggle the 65 miles to Wadi Rum village and hope to catch the 18:30 bus to Aqaba.
Cycle the 20 or so miles to the end of the King’s Highway, then bail out the other way, along the desert highway, heading for Ma’an and hoping to find a bus.
Take the 17 mile direct route to Ma’an and hope to catch a bus.
Pay a Bedouin to take me all the way to Aqaba…
Those were the options I had, until I interrogated the website for the intercity coach company JETT a little further and discovered that, although Ma’an was a major transport hub in the desert and that the Amman – Aqaba bus passed quite close, it didn’t actually stop there. The only buses leaving from Ma’an were minibuses, which were small, had no schedule, and waited until they were full before departing. That didn’t sound ideal to me. My options were narrowing towards needing to cycle all the way to Aqaba, I’d better fix some punctures…
Before dinner, I investigated the two spare inner tubes that were in my bag. Finding a tiny tear in one, I repaired that quickly enough, then, turning to the other, I discovered that the repair I’d attempted the day before hadn’t worked, so I replaced that patch with another. By this time the first one had deflated again, and I found a second hole on a seam.
After dinner, these tubes were still inflated, hanging as I left them, so my attention turned to the remaining punctured tube on my bike. I was down to my last puncture repair patch so I hoped for the best.
Waking in the morning, I found this third tube was flat again, eventually finding, it too had a second hole. Luckily, I hadn’t thrown away the patch from the earlier failed repair, and although its condition looked questionable, it was the best I had.
Setting off at half past 8, I started the long climb out of Wadi Musa, assuming I departed the way I came in, I climbed up a steep hill out of town, then realised that I was heading the wrong direction when I stopped to take a photo.
Back on track, the road climbed at a gentle gradient, the heat of the sun tempered by a pleasant cooling breeze. When a tour bus pulled off the road up ahead, I followed suit, looking out over the Shara mountain range, and the outer extremities of Petra’s extent.
Having started at 1250m elevation, the road had soon climbed up to 1550m and I wondered if this was the top as I skirted around the shoulder of the mountain. Alas no, as I dropped into the quaint mountain village of At-Taybeh, I could see the road rise again in front of me, and soon I was at 1570m.
Rolling through a police checkpoint, I was afforded a choice, Ma’an to the left of me, Aqaba to the right. With over 15 miles gone and not yet any wheel-based concerns, I was happy to commit.
After 20 miles, I had only just passed some Bedouin farmers tending a herd of goats, when I reached the highest point of the whole route at 1695 metres.
Eventually, I reached a dilapidated cafe building, high on the plateau, pausing momentarily to take in the stunning Wadi Rum views.
Soon afterwards, the road started to trend downwards, and it wasn’t long before I reached the desert highway, and conversely, the end of the King’s Highway.
As I turned onto the highway I was waved over by the police, and this, I felt, was the moment of truth. I knew that organised tour groups required police chaperones to ride parts of the route. How would the police feel about a lone cyclist setting off along the country’s major highway for 40 miles. ‘Wadi Rum?’ (I’d understated my ambitions a little) ‘en bicyclette sport?’, ‘have fun’ came the stern rebuke…
The first few miles along the desert highway were sensational, the beautiful tarmac surface, expediting my arrival down to 1200 metres elevation, and a significant temperature gain. As I flew, I overtook lorries as I went, perhaps treating my brakes a little less cautiously than their drivers were.
It had been a remarkable piece of road, but I should have known it wouldn’t last. As I started to pass between the towering stacks of the Wadi Rum desert, the condition of the surface deteriorated rapidly, with large cracks stretching across the carriageway and huge gouges right through to the road bed.
As I approached the turn off to Wadi Rum village, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a cycle tourist pull out of a petrol station up ahead and join the road in the direction I was travelling. Accelerating to catch up, I moved alongside.
This was Gabi, a cyclist from New Zealand who had been living in Georgia and had just started a 1 and a half year adventure to pedal down the east coast of Africa, and, if she had any time left, to cycle west to east across Europe afterwards. She had started her trip – her first ever cycle tour – in the north of Jordan and had been cycling down the desert highway, having driven the King’s Highway beforehand.
We soon realised that Gabi had missed her turn – as she was headed for Wadi Rum Village – so we stopped to chat a little more by the roadside. Before long, a vehicle pulled up, a man travelling to Aqaba was wondering if we needed a lift, but once he heard that Gabi was making for Wadi Rum, he rushed to give her the details of his family home, so she had somewhere to stay when she got there. As for me, grateful of the offer as I was, I politely declined, today was a day for making amends for some of my cycling performances earlier in the week…
Although the road threatened to climb a few more times, it never did, and I found that I’d been cycling for mile upon mile at over 18 miles an hour, the downward gradient bolstered by a light tailwind. For the last 5 miles, the road careered downwards at a yet more significant rate, as the road cut through a narrow cleft in the rock.
As I rolled down the fine boulevard of Al-Hussein Bin Ali Street, after more than 80 miles in the saddle, the sun was setting as I made for the Red Sea coastline. Reaching the front in Aqaba, my satisfaction was tempered by the fact that I couldn’t actually get there due to the unbroken chain of exclusive hotels with their own private beaches.
By the time I found a vantage point, the sun had already set, as it had on my ride. After some trying days earlier in the week, this journey really had ended on a high. I’d loved my extra day in Wadi Musa, glad I gave myself the time to see Petra properly, and today’s cycle had been fantastic. The road had climbed for almost 20 miles, but at a manageable gradient and with special views, and the 40 mile stretch down through the desert of Wadi Rum, was probably the best descent I’d ever had.
All that remained, was for my bike and I to make it home. but for that, a few little uncertainties needed to be ironed out first…
Dana village was a long way down off the main road, which I was now regretting, but my anticipation increased as I approached. It was an ancient Bedouin village, with roots back some 500 years, perched over the precipice of Wadi Dana. Large parts of the village were now crumbling ruins, but the buildings that were still intact were now available as holiday accommodation.
My host, Malik met me on the main road into town and we squeezed down a small alleyway and between some crumbling walls to reach the small block that he managed. The main part of the building was over 200 years old he told me. Looking out over the abyss, it was already pitch black, yet I could tell that I was looking out over a landscape of epic proportions.
Being a wilderness area, I was surprised to see tiny groups of lights, out there on the horizon. ‘Palestine’ Malik explained, perhaps belying the region’s cultural heritage: looking at a map afterwards, it showed that the area on the other side of the Jordan river at this point, was now Israel.
Malik had dinner with him, bringing a large casserole dish out of a bag. Chicken Maqluba, a chicken and rice dish, he flipped over the casserole dish onto a plate, before giving me a huge portion. He explained that he had been involved in developing a cooperative with several families where they provided their home-cooked food for the guests.
Malik was an interesting man, a biologist at heart, he briefed me at length about the flora and fauna in the Dana Biosphere Reserve, an area stretching in altitude from Wadi Araba at 100 metres, all the way up to the hills above us now at 1500 metres. He also had a day job, as an ecological adviser, advising wind farms about their effects on bird life. He had completed a Masters degree at Karak university, so knew the road I’d travelled well.
In the morning, the traditional breakfast mezze was very nice, a couple of flatbreads were accompanied by hummus, baba ganoush (aubergine-based), yogurt, and the highlight, a lovely pistachio paste that Malik recommended I should mix with butter. Along with this we had a pot of tea: the previous night the tea had been mixed with ginger, but this morning he had used cumin, of which I was less keen. That didn’t stop me having 3 cups though.
After breakfast, I took my bike out onto the terrace and paused a moment to take in the sensational view. Certainly one of the best locations I’d ever found for a spot of bike maintenance. Looking at the chain, it was clear that it was as parched as the surrounding hillside, and a little lubrication might not go amiss. Drizzling on a little oil, I released the gear cable, committed to setting up the gears from scratch. Within a few minutes, I was starting to feel optimistic.
Gone midday, I turned the pedals a few revolutions as I started to leave the village, I was delighted to find that the lower gears were working well, just in time to get off and push. Not that that was easy on this gradient.
Beyond the first corner I got back on and started to make a fist of it, until the road ramped up again savagely, and having battled up the first half of the slope, I succumbed to the inevitable. This climb might take some time.
Reaching the Highway once more, the road continued to climb until it reached a new high point of 1550 metres, starting to descend shortly afterwards, I flew by excited children on their way back from school.
Not only were the low gears working well, but all the other gears I tried were working well too, this was the best iteration of the bike I’d managed to achieve on this trip, that was for sure.
Finally out of the village of Al-Qadisiya, where Malik and his family stayed, I rolled out into open countryside, confident that today would be an easier day. Moments later, I hit a small bump in the road, and instantly thought, is that wheel going soft?
Less than 5 miles in, and I had a puncture. Checking the inside of the tyre for the cause, I found a small sharp shard sticking out. But when I tried to remove it, it only seemed to make matters worse, as if I was teasing out fractured shards of the carcass of the tyre. Having covered the area with duct tape, I got back on the road.
Passing over an open plateau, with animated wind farms showcasing the breeze, I soon tiptoed around the edge of another wadi, mesmerised by the precariously perched village clinging to the other side.
Making it as far as Shobak, I was starting to feel like I was getting somewhere, when, after 16 miles, the tyre went soft again. Pumping it up as best I could, I managed less than a mile before I had to stop and change it. To make matters worse, one of the spares – which I’d repaired the night before – also appeared to have another hole in it, so I repaired that too.
Not confident in my aging puncture repair kit, and starting to run low on patches, I set off gingerly along the road. How long until another puncture? Uphill, downhill, a mile is a mile for a wheel.
After 24 miles – you know the rest. Signs had been informing me that Petra was still around 9 miles to go, and it was already around half past 4. I had just started to disassemble my bike to change the tube once more, when a pickup truck drove by and parked up along the road. For the umpteenth time today, the vehicle reversed back towards me, the occupant usually wanting to know if I needed any help, and where I was from…
But, on this occasion the man simply said, ‘Petra?’ ‘You get in?’ And that sounded good enough for me, I heaved my kit into the back and off we went.
Unable to engage my seatbelt, I didn’t get the reassurance I wanted when we started to go down the first hill. Instantly, the man cut the engine, pointing to his empty fuel gauge with a twinkle in his eye. Shortly afterwards, the rigmarole began again as he spotted a local man walking in the same direction along the road. Pulling over and then reversing back, the wily old man had another contribution towards his fuel bill.
Arriving at the hotel at 5 o’clock. It was too late for Petra today, but I had come too far to miss it now, I would have to go tomorrow.
PedalTheGlobeBlog 