“What am I doing here?” – Arthur Rimbaud, writing home from Ethiopia
I am sitting in the cool shadey sitting area in my hostel - the "Valentine" Inn, here in Wadi Musa, near Petra, Jordan. Wadi Musa is basically a little town, a hick town really -like any other hick town the world over, with empty street cafes, shops selling film and batteries and random things like socks and watches-, built up mainly as a place for people visiting the ruins of Petra to stay at. There is very little do to here but wander the streets, eat 1 Dinar Falafel, browse the odd clothing shops and drink tea and snack on various middle eastern sweets (turkish delight and waffle cookies today). Any weight i lost in the harsh desert landscape of Wadi Rum i have most surely gained back. Dammit.
Sometimes when travelling without a plan, with no real time constraints, you have these Rimbaud-esqe moments: "WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE", and Wadi Musa is a town that provides such moments on almost a daily basis. Staring at a cows head hanging in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to hunt down a pair of new leggings, being followed by a group of far-too-pretty teenage boys -or being spit at by the little spawn-of-satan child living at the hostel with his mom who is the owner..and you ask yourself, "Why am i here? and how...HOW did i get here??!". Like that Talking Heads song really.
I saw Petra yesterday but it was too hot to return today, so here i am, sitting on a couch, in the carpeted, spangled, cluttered budget-Sultan's-harem-like lobby of my current home. Doing nothing, with nothing to do.
I suppose i wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
Sometimes when travelling without a plan, with no real time constraints, you have these Rimbaud-esqe moments: "WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE", and Wadi Musa is a town that provides such moments on almost a daily basis. Staring at a cows head hanging in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to hunt down a pair of new leggings, being followed by a group of far-too-pretty teenage boys -or being spit at by the little spawn-of-satan child living at the hostel with his mom who is the owner..and you ask yourself, "Why am i here? and how...HOW did i get here??!". Like that Talking Heads song really.
I saw Petra yesterday but it was too hot to return today, so here i am, sitting on a couch, in the carpeted, spangled, cluttered budget-Sultan's-harem-like lobby of my current home. Doing nothing, with nothing to do.
I suppose i wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
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