A Plea for the Bedoul Bedouin of Petra

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The spouse of a BAR editor has the opportunity to see many archaeological sites, few of which, however, are as spectacular as Petra.

But the BAR editor, even armed with a letter from the Jordanian Department of Antiquities, could not create a vacancy at Petra’s comfortable little guest house for the second night of our stay. The inn was simply full and there was nothing we could do about it. We would have to give up our room. It was 160 miles back to Amman and about 60 miles south to the Red Sea port of Aqaba.

In Amman, we had been warned that the guest house might be full—and Nazmieh Tawfiq at the Antiquities Department had added a note to our letter of introduction to the chief Bedouin restorer who was to be our guide at Petra, asking that we be put up in a Bedouin cave if the inn were full.

“You will find the Bedouin caves quite comfortable,” Nazmieh said, “Don’t worry.” She was right.

The Nabataeans who built Petra dug thousands of room-size chambers, perhaps for burial, in the rose-colored limestone hills which rise steeply above the valley. For hundreds of years now, the Bedoul Bedouin tribe has used these burial chambers as homes. The Bedouin call them caves and so does everyone else.

The Bedoul are small, gentle, generous, hospitable, peace-loving people, and the two Bedoul who showed us Petra were excellent representatives of their tribe. Both were employees of the Department of Antiquities. Dakhilallah Al-Farir was chief restorer and Mifla Bedoul was employed at Petra’s small museum. Dakhilallah was all dressed up Western style to show us around. Despite the heat, he wore a red and green checked sport coat which had been given to him by one of the archaeologists on the team excavating Petra.

Dakhilallah and Mifla vied for the honor of having us spend the night in their caves. Both were such kind, warm people that we would have had no way of choosing, except for the fact that Mifla’s wife, Nawil, was Swiss (her original name was Marie) and she spoke excellent French and English. So we stayed with Mifla and Nawil.

We spent an exhilarating but exhausting day climbing up and down the hills from the valley floor. We ended the day with a 45-minute trek up to the “Monastery,” the largest and most magnificent of the Nabataean tombs, which covers the face of an entire mountain.

The Bedouin do not live in any of the large chambers visited by tourists, but in the undecorated squarish cave-tombs that probably served as final resting place for the ordinary Nabataean people 2000 years ago. Dakhilallah’s cave, though without Nabataean carving, lay in the shadow of the Monastery and commanded a magnificent view. We watched the sun setting on the red limestone Monastery from Dakhilallah’s cave, while sipping hot, sweet Arab tea from little cups served by Dakhilallah’s plump but beautiful wife, her warm smile framed by gold-capped teeth which also glistened in the sunlight. Dakhilallah’s seven sons—no daughters—were introduced to us and obviously enjoyed watching the strange-looking foreigners.

No doubt unfairly, I expected the Bedouin caves to be dirty and certainly dusty. Dakhilallah’s cave was extremely clean despite the absence of running water and the dust outside. Straw mats covered the floor. Foam rubber mattresses were placed against the wall for us to lean against and beautiful embroidered pillows were scattered all about. We finished our tea as the sun raced westward.

In the darkening day, we followed our guides—Dakhilallah’s 043son and a friend—down to Mifla and Nawil’s cave. These two agile boys jumped about like goats as we cautiously and ponderously looked for secure footing.

Mifla and Nawil’s cave has a rock ledge which serves as a kind of patio outside the cave entrance. We sat there on foam mattresses and again drank tea. At about 7:30 dinner was served—on the ledge. Nawil made a festive Arab specialty called “magluba” which she cooked in a large pot on a single-burner propane stove. She used water which was brought by donkey from a spring two miles away and stored in a jerry can. First she sauteed pieces of chicken in oil. Then she added the vegetables. Next she scooped in a large quantity of rice from a burlap bag; and lastly, added a large cake of dried goat cheese which she crumpled.

While dinner was cooking, we washed with water poured from a plastic ewer. The leftover water was collected and poured over the plants that Nawil had planted at the entrance to the cave.

“Magluba” means upside down. The large pot of rice and chicken and vegetables and cheese was turned upside down on a platter so the vegetables and meat were on top. We formed a circle and the platter was placed in the middle. We each had a section of the platter and ate with our hands. It was delicious.

Despite our hearty appetites, there was some rice left. This was thrown over the ledge—for the wolves, Mifla explained, smiling; they would devour it by morning. No garbage problem here.

After dinner we washed again, ate apples and sipped thick, sweet, aromatic coffee.

During dinner and afterward, we talked of many things. We kept coming back again and again, however, to the Bedoul’s fear that they were going to be evicted from their caves. There is a plan afoot to build a tourist hotel inside Petra—surely a foolish and environmentally destructive idea—which calls for the removal of the Bedouin from their caves. The Bedoul are worried. When they heard my husband was the editor of an archaeology magazine, they asked us to make a plea to save their homes—homes they have lived in for more than 200 years.

The Bedoul are part of Petra’s environment. They give these majestic ruins a living ambience. They blend in and add to the atmosphere. And the Bedoul have established their way of life there. It would be tragic if all that were destroyed for a tourist hotel.

It was time for bed. Mifla and Nawil gave us mattresses in their cave. They themselves slept on the ledge outside. We fell asleep instantly.

The spouse of a BAR editor has the opportunity to see many archaeological sites, few of which, however, are as spectacular as Petra. But the BAR editor, even armed with a letter from the Jordanian Department of Antiquities, could not create a vacancy at Petra’s comfortable little guest house for the second night of our stay. The inn was simply full and there was nothing we could do about it. We would have to give up our room. It was 160 miles back to Amman and about 60 miles south to the Red Sea port of Aqaba. In Amman, […]