Wadi Rum in Jordan - Aunt Anna X 2 playing in the sandbox

Guest writer: Anna Nilsson Spets

A new morning and a day of new adventures starts with breakfast and coffee without milk, our driver is stomping around and wants to go on the day's mission. 

The mission is to take Aunt Anna the elder and Aunt Anna the younger to Wadi Rum for a full day in the big sandbox. However, we have no buckets and shovels with us. The journey there takes an hour and we just have time to run in and pee at a camp before it's time to climb onto the jeep that takes us to the next desert camp where we meet today's guide who we quickly call Yalla- yalla, the words that seem to be his guiding principle in life. 

Anna and I share the jeep with three nice Italians and we head out into the Wadi Rum desert.  

Behind us another jeep with tourists, the driver of the jeep is 11 years old and has been driving since he was nine, I wonder a bit about possible accidents and insurance. Yalla-yalla seems to know the route, which is lucky because there are no roads or signs here. 

Wadi Rum, or Moon Valley as it is also known, is Jordan's largest wadi. The word wadi means dry river valley and it's probably always dry. The sand is soft and smooth like an hourglass. 

For thousands of years, people have lived in Wadi Rum, naturally in difficult conditions, hunting, farming and trading. Living in the desert is a feat in itself. 

Wadi Rum has a history of course, first inhabited by Nabataeans who left behind a rock temple among other things. The Bedouins of today, or their descendants, still live in the desert although many have chosen to settle in and closer to the surrounding villages. A jeep is now a must, as is a mobile phone. Bedouin children go to school in places like Rum, where they carpool. 

Our guide is a disaster, at every stop he shouts - "Yalla yalla 10 minutes" and we have 10 minutes to see what there is to see. It would not have hurt to know a little more about Lawrence of Arabia, his life and living in the desert. T.E Lawrence lived in the early 1900s and was actually an archaeologist but also a British officer. He became famous for his missions in what was then Arabia and one of his haunts was in Wadi Rum. Thanks to Google. 

It is breathtakingly beautiful, in some rocks you can imagine the head of an elephant or a bird. We don't see any real animals at all, just a couple of swifts and some lolling camels. 

A young Argentinian woman wants to interview us as some kind of role models for travelling, independent (older) women, we volunteer and tell her about our lives with travel, family and values. I have no idea what she will use it for, but the girl is a journalist and takes pictures of us frantically. 

Cliffs shaped by wind and rain, formations created over millennia. We leave rock climbing to the younger generation. 

At Al Ghuroub, the day's crowd of jeeps with tourists gather to watch the sunset. 

A fire is built, tea is made and passed around. An elderly man joins in the singing, the rocks turn red-orange, the sun disappears within 20 seconds and it gets cold. As we head back to the base camp, we shiver despite wearing jackets and scarves.  

We end the desert trip in a large, cosy tent with a fire and the usual tea party, which I skip. Many people choose to spend the night in one of the many campers available, the starry sky is supposed to be outstanding. The camps have different standards, ranging from sleeping over with a Bedouin family to luxury accommodation in tents with heating and hot water. For the more adventurous, we offer hiking, climbing, horse or camel riding or even hot air ballooning. 

Jordan has 6 UNESCO World Heritage sites, Wadi Rum and Petra being two of them. 

The next day Anna and Conny go home to cold Sweden and I stay for a few more days. The southern beach is dead, the accommodation and restaurants are completely empty, including my accommodation. Gaza is 400 km away and the conflict has caused many visitors to cancel their reservations. Jordan is 100 per cent supportive of Palestine, as I am.  

A wandering young Italian shows up, he joins me downtown in the late afternoon and we have a great evening together, he thinks I'm a cool lady. We stroll along the outdoor cafes down in the harbour where the locals are enjoying a balmy evening, hookahs are loaded and teapots are passed around. 

We wander through the bazaars with their aromas of fruit and vegetables.  

The butcher's boy sits bored in front of his stand. 

Peering into the coffee and spice shop, tasting dates and Turkish delight. There is something special about eastern spices, the green cardamom, saffron and cassia cinnamon. 

The bakery is bustling with activity, the pita bread arrives freshly baked on a conveyor belt that never seems to stop. Baklava and kadajf biscuits are tasted and teeth are grinding from all the sugar. 

We learn about myrrh, sandalwood and cedar and other incenses. The evening ends with a feast where we choose a mix of what the local cuisine has to offer. 

On the beach I'm probably the only foreigner, or at least the only one with a swimsuit. The locals are gearing up for a full day of barbecuing, airing out old grandma, and possibly taking a dip while fully clothed. 

The coastal strip outside the southern beach is a protected area and about fifty metres out are the coral reefs, snorkels and diving equipment can be rented at most accommodations and on the beach. Believe it or not, I don't snorkel, it's pretty windy, quite cold in the water and a deserted beach, no then aunts have to think about safety.  

The return trip was a half nightmare, departure after midnight, stopover in Amman, screaming children and a bunch of unpleasant travellers, stopover in Istanbul at 4 am and three hours of waiting, you know how it feels when you just want to lie down and sleep. When I land in Brussels it's freezing cold and I miss the train by two minutes. 

So I can tick off Jordan and start thinking about my next destination. Africa is calling me again.