Live at Red Rocks (6/15/2008)

The Arava border between Israel and Jordan touches on the surreal. Arriving in Israel from Egypt the previous day, I was between pilgrims from Costa Rica and Chile, all baking in the sun for nearly two hours, before clearing the thorough Israeli customs. Approaching Arava, though, the border was nearly empty: me, another traveler, and the Israeli and Jordanian guards. The buildings were smaller than gas stations. No backups in either direction; ten minutes, goodbye and have a nice day, welcome to Jordan.

My first stop was Wadi Rum, stomping ground of T.E. Lawrence, the famed Lawrence of Arabia. Lawrence was never one to debunk a myth about himself, and the lines between myth and reality about him are almost biblical. His imprint on the region is tangible – he secured Allied support for the Arab forces in wresting Damascus from the Turks during WWI, ultimately leaving the British and French to divide the region. What his fans – and filmmakers – overlook is that he did have a 15-year-old male lover, which ultimately estranged him from the conservative local population. A minor setback. Another technicality is that, after the war he remained to help oversee establishment of the British Mandate of Transjordan, and so he was technically "Lawrence of Transjordan." (The Hollywood types apparently didn't jump on this as a film title, though truth be told, it would be the greatest porn title of all time!)

Wadi Rum is a canvas of stunning vistas and giant red rock formations, which shoot up vertically for hundreds of feet, out of the desert floor. The vegetation is sparse – only the sporadic shrub and acacia tree, and the water, it seems, even more rare. The only inhabitants are local Bedouin tribes whose tents are visible below one of the striking cliffs. My driver and I took our 4x4 through a maze of these rocks, up to where the red Jordanian sand meets the white sand which stretches south through Saudi Arabia. It was simply breathtaking; Lawrence – and his eventual filmmakers – could not have chosen a more apt backdrop.

I spent the night in a "Bedouin camp," though clearly a sanitized resort which caters to tourists (i.e. it's hard to imagine a Bedouin tribe which has plumbing or beds. If so, they are the most advanced engineers in the world.) The dancing was a contrived Bedouin version of a European discothèque; let's get the tourists hammered and make them think they're nomads. Sure… I tried to socialize with a group of Austrians, but their leader wouldn't have it. Ouch. Cast out in the desert; call me Ishmael.

The desert night, particularly by an almost full moon, is eerie if not surreal. When the lights were finally extinguished, I went outside my tent to gaze at the rock formations overlooking our camp. Set against the pale midnight, they looked imposing but somehow serene. The star blanket was more thorough than any I had seen before – and unless I visit the moon (don't hold your breath for that travelogue) – probably more than I will see again. As I stood there in the moonlight, I briefly thought I heard Moses' voice – or Lawrence's voice, echoing off the vistas above: "Hey Pita Man, check out the humps on camel nine!"