White nights on the Neva river

Russian coat of arms that dates back to the 15th century

Four days, and I did not see the sun set. We would sleep at midnight, with bright skies outside, and wake up at six, with the sun shining bright, again! This is by far the most farthest north I've been. 60 degrees!

We most fortunately had a delightful four days of art, history, culture and perfectly divine weather. Click on any of the pictures, for a more enjoyable viewing experience!

Sekar writes:

"Once Peter the Great consolidated his throne and defeated Russia's then traditional enemy Sweden, he decided to build a new capital rather than return to Moscow. Moscow symbolized all that was wrong with Russia: it was provincial and inward-looking, it was the place where rivals had tried to eliminate him, it was a place he hated.

His new capital would be one that looked west to an enlightened Europe. He chose a site on the western periphery of his empire, on marshy ground where the river Neva emptied into the Gulf of Finland. It would serve as a port, as a place where he could keep an eye on the Swedes and, most importantly, a place that would be a window to Europe.

The city he built, St Petersburg, was a European city. Its architecture, its layout on a series of canals, its broad roads and grand squares were all European. It was, and is, like no other Russian city.

All this we had read before our visit and we had visions of European grandeur as our flight from Helsinki descended through low clouds to Pulkovo airport. We were disappointed. The airport appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. Lush green grass, stands of spruce trees: there was no hint that a large city was nearby. Broken tarmac was evident as we got off the plane and the terminal building looked pitifully small. Despite the late hour (close to 10pm) and the low clouds, it was light. A somewhat antiquated bus deposited us at the terminal. The late hour meant sparse crowds at the passport counter, but the officer took his time examining me, my passport, his computer, various items on his (hidden) desk and then repeating the process. At one point, after giving me a suspicious look, he picked up his phone. For a long moment or two I thought the Lubyanka beckoned, but then I heard the reassuring sound of rubber stamps on passport and exhaled in relief.
There was a half completed building outside, the road had seen better days and the lush grass hadn't been cut. Things didn't look very promising and the low clouds only added to the general air of decay and gloom.

Thankfully, things improved after that. The main highway was broad and smooth and we were soon entering the city. We passed large monuments to the defenders of the city during the long WW2 siege. We passed stately buildings, almost all 4 – 5 stories tall, more monumental memorials, large, tree-filled parks and then more and more signs that we were entering Peter the Great's city. Here, the buildings had pastel facades and ornate decorations. Each building was distinct, but there was harmony in the whole. The architectural references to Venice, Prague and Paris were obvious. We drove along a canal, crossed Nevsky Prospekt (in a way the Champs Elysee of St Petersburg) and were soon at our hotel. 11pm and it was still light – the famous 'white nights'.

St Petersburg is a walking city – the historic centre can be covered on foot – and we set out the next day to explore it. Many of the buildings have one or more courtyards and peeping in we could see decay, shabbiness and, at times, derelict interiors. The city had suffered horribly during the 1941-1944 siege. Once repaired and reconstructed, continued maintenance was neglected. By the 1970s and 80s, it was by some accounts quite rundown. Grand buildings were occupied by Soviet era bureaucracies, churches were either neglected or used to store food and vegetables – one escaped this fate only to become a museum to atheism! While neglect ate away at the edges, the saving grace was that nothing was actually torn down. The dowager still lived, but her circumstances had changed and for the worse.

The change, the refurbishment of the city, came recently. Putin and his successor as President, Medvedev, are both natives of St Petersburg. This meant that considerable work was done in preparation for the city's 300th anniversary celebrations. Years of grime, decay and neglect were undone. Churches, palaces, public spaces and statues were restored and the city of Peter and Catherine the Great lived once more.

Palace Square!

The Palace Square, a huge cobblestoned public plaza bracketed by the Winter Palace and the semi-circular General Staff Building, and punctuated by the large column celebrating Alexander's defeat of Napoleon was just steps from our hotel. This was where the Tsar's troops fired on unarmed protesters in 1905.

The General Staff Building

The General Staff building, imposing and majestic, had a large arch topped by a monumental martial sculpture connecting two wings which embraced the Square. The Winter Palace looked like a large green cake with an overdose of icing. The southern face with its ornate entrances faced the square, the other side looked out over the Neva, swift and cold in its rush to the sea, to the imposing Peter and Paul Fortress. Inside were the imperial rooms and the Hermitage Museum.
The Winter palace
The imperial rooms were breathtaking and overwhelming. Richly painted ceilings, acres of marble, malachite and plasterwork, gilded walls and furniture – did the Romanovs have a gold fetish? - intricately woven brocades and carpeting, sweeping staircases and statuary, it was opulence gone mad. Each room was different from the next, each, in its own way, was a feast for the eyes. It was easy to see why public discontent built up to the events of 1905 and 1917.
The Gold Drawing Room at the Winter Palace
Raphael Loggias - a complete copy of Raphaels' frescoes at the Vatican adornone of the Winter palace's corridors

Then there was the museum. The paintings are famous, of course, but there is so much more. The broad sweep of Russian history over close to 3000 years and over a vast landscape stretching from Siberia to Europe is covered. Artifacts, tools, armour, sculptures: various exhibits take in all these and more. And the paintings! Rembrandt, Titian, Da Vinci, Constable, Rubens (even paintings other than buxom, unclad women!), Breughel, Van Eyck, Monet, Manet, Degas, Van Gogh, Cezanne, Picasso, Matisse, are all there in good numbers. Add to that thousands of less well known works. A student of Art could be there for weeks taking it all in. A tourist intent on just ticking off 'famous' works to show off back home would still need the better part of a day. And there is plenty that is not on exhibit. All the works of art picked up by the victorious Soviet army in 1945 from Germany and elsewhere have never been exhibited. I can only hope that they see daylight soon.
St Isaac's Cathedral - one of the world's largest. Served as the Museum of Atheism during the Soviet era. Is still a museum, of art though.

Peter's compact Summer Palace

The river embankment stretching away from both flanks of the Winter Palace includes many fine buildings, parks, bridges, St Isaac's Cathedral and Peter's surprisingly modest city Summer Palace. Across the river from the Cathedral are the buildings of the university, and the Winter Palace itself faces the fortress which includes the Peter and Paul Cathedral where all the Romanovs are buried. We were walking along the river late one morning when there was a loud blast from the fortress followed by a puff of smoke. We learnt later that the last of the Romanovs, a Grand Duchess aged 95, had just been buried alongside her relatives. Beneath the fortress are dungeons which once hosted the likes of Gorky, Dostoevsky and Trotsky.
The Peter & Paul Fortress, on the other side of the Neva

Look around St Petersburg and, the cyrillic signs apart, there is little to remind you that you are in Russia. There is very little that is Russian about this city and there is nothing else in Russia quite like it. One landmark that is very Russian is the Church on Spilt Blood.
Church of Spilled Blood

Ceiling to floor mosaics!
The odd name refers to its founding on the site of the assassination of Czar Alexander II. Up close, it looks like a Lego or Disney caricature of a Russian church. Onion domes in crazy colours and patterns, each wall and turret looking like a different architect's work, large areas of stained glass and mosaic. A canal runs to one side, a large park lies on the other, tourist buses fill the plaza fronting it and, completing the picture of a Russian tourist spot, the crumbling building nearby that once housed the Tsar's stables. Inside, the building was astonishing. Every square inch of wall and ceiling was covered in mosaics depicting biblical scenes. A large pattern in marble covered the floor. Bright sunlight streaming in through the stained glass windows added colour to everything. The Russian Orthodox Church and the Greek Orthodox Church have a shared ancestry and there was much in this church that carried echoes of the Haghia Sophia in Istanbul. This church was badly damaged during the war. Restoration work was completed only a couple of years back.


A kilometre to the west, we sat in yet another tree-filled park adjoining the Cathedral of St Nicholas. A symphony of bells filled the evening air, children ran around, lovers on benches exchanged sweet nothings, bicyclists and roller bladers swerved and sped around the paths and a small army of pet dogs barked and sprinted their way around the grass. We were just a little off the main tourist track, sitting back and enjoying the late spring evening along with families from the neighbourhood. No one spoke English, but we felt comfortable just watching everyone else enjoying their evening in their city. This was not a fancy part of town. The restorers' brush hadn't touched much of it and the buildings looked worn and a bit shabby. The Cathedral shone, though. Restoration was almost complete.

St Nicholas' Cathedral

Sky-blue walls rose up to meet ornate white plasterwork and, higher up, gilded domes that glittered in the northern sunlight. This was not a church for curious tourists. We could enter, but not the inner nave and altar. It was quiet inside. Framed icons covered the walls. Worshippers kissed them reverently and prayed silently. A nun walked around wiping the icons once each worshipper was done.

The Mariinsky theatre, home to the Kirov ballet

A little to the north were two buildings that embodied St Petersburg culture. Between statues of Glinka and Rimsky Korsakov was the large, square building housing the St Petersburg (now Rimsky Korsakov) conservatory. Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky, Prokofiev, Shostakovich, Glazunov, Heifetz, Milstein and many others studied there and the teachers included the likes of Anton Rubinstein, Rimsky Korsakov and Leopold Auer. It was (and is) one of the great nurseries for classical music performers. Across the road stood the pale green and plaster building of the Mariinsky Theatre. The Nutcracker, Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty and other Tchaikovsky masterpieces premiered here. The likes of Nijinsky, Pavlova, Nureyev and Baryshnikov were its lead dancers.

Olesya Novikova & Leonid Sarafanov take a bow.
Inside, the hall has been restored to its former splendour. This theatre was where the Tsar watched ballet and much of the glitter and opulence we saw in the Winter Palace was here as well. The restoration did not extend to the seating. We sat in cramped seats and had to peer past the heads of those seated in front of us to see the performance.

Over the past decade and a half, the Kirov ballet company has regained its past renown. We watched a series of performances featuring Leonid Sarafanov, their young star: short pieces set to music by Czerny, Prokofiev's Prodigal Son choreographed by Balanchine, and the last act of Don Quixote, the Minkus – Petipa extravanganza complete with castanets and rakish costumes. Interestingly, most of those around us were very appreciative Russians. This was clearly not just a tourist trap. Cramped knees notwithstanding, I thoroughly enjoyed the evening. Lengthy breaks to catch up on champagne and caviar followed each piece and it was well past ten by the time it finished. No matter: bright sunshine bathed the city as we walked back to the hotel and the sight of the glowing dome of St Isaacs towering over the canals and lines of mansions was one to cherish.

Literary Cafe - from where Pushkin set off for his fatal duel with Baron d'Anthes (who seduced his wife), on 27th Jan 1837.

Russia's turbulent history finds echoes everywhere in St Petersburg. The ship which fired the first shots of the 1917 revolution, the house Catherine the Great built for her paramour, the cafe where Pushkin had his last meal, the palace where Rasputin was murdered, all still exist and are part of the tourist itinerary. The past is interwoven with the present in almost every street, and, after a while, we ceased to notice the sight-seeing boats plying the canals with their eager tourists and commentary streaming from their loudspeakers.

Some thirty kilometres west of the city, on the southern shore of the Gulf of Finland, Peter built his getaway. Peterhof, as it is known, is a (relatively) modest, yellow (as opposed to green) version of the Winter Palace, flanked by some spectacular fountains and two large gardens. There is plenty of gold here as well, in the statuary amid the fountains and capping the cupolas of the chapels. The French garden is a formal one with clipped trees, lawns and flower beds arranged neatly around the fountains. The English garden is more like a forest: a thickly wooded expanse that runs down to the Gulf. Paths criss-cross it and it is a lovely place to be on a sunny spring afternoon.
The palace at Peterhof, with the magnificent and golden fountain in the foreground

We took the hydrofoil to get there. High waves and strong winds buffeted us. Crossing on a regular boat would have had us sea-sick in seconds. The outskirts of the city as we headed out into the gulf were a bleak expanse of factories, Soviet-era apartment buildings and the docks and cranes of the port. Once out into the gulf, the shores were forested. The steel-grey waves whipped to a froth, the green forested shores and the blue skies were a nature lover's dream. At Peterhof, we chose to skip the gilded rooms and spent our time wandering through the gardens and enjoying the sunshine. It was wonderful taking in the fresh, clean air and all the greenery.
View from above the Grand Cascade, loking down towards the Gulf of Finland

All too soon, our time in St Petersburg was up. We drove past the institute where Mendeleev discovered the periodic table and Stalin-era factory where Putin's parents had worked and met.

Sunday afternoon, it seems, is when tourists depart St Petersburg. Pulkovo II was packed. A long line of luggage laden passengers snaked their way through an utterly inadequate room to a single bag scanner and a single metal detector. Each time it beeped, those behind had to wait while the offender tried again and again, unloading keys, coins and everything they should have unloaded in the first place. Time passed. Check in at the Finnair counter was quick. Then, another long wait at Passport Control. We had been told that Moscow airport had taken 2 hours to clear 20 incoming passengers. It looked as though the old Moscow – Petersburg rivalry was still on. Passports dealt with, we were confronted with yet another security check. There were two counters open, but one closed abruptly without explanation and all passengers pushed and shoved their way into the other one. Some very polite Austrians stood no chance. We used the autorickshaw technique of nudging into gaps while not allowing gaps to open up ahead of us. Two hours after we entered the airport, we finally emerged from security straight into the bus which took us to our flight.
The Victory Monument, erected in 1975, in memory of the city's 900 day siege during the second World War. The city did not surrender, but millions died
The lone surviving statue of Lenin, in St petersburg that was Leningrad. In fron the of the Communist party office.
Last views from the air...

Helsinki airport was cool, airy and with wide open spaces. What a relief! Another flight, a transfer to the domestic terminal and we were at IGI 2 in Delhi awaiting our flight to Madras. There were large crowds, yes, but these were efficiently dealt with. There was a bustle and general sense of purpose and the sheer number of passengers waiting to travel close to mid-day was quite astonishing. Pulkovo, Helsinki, IGI – three very different experiences but each a window into their respective societies and economies. It was nice to be back in seething, surging, moving India.

And now for some practical tips to visitors from Chennai/India

We enjoyed the Finn Air experience, andjudging from other reports regarding Moscow airport and aeroflot, I think it worked well, though there were long layovers at Helsinki. It was still the quickest way to St petersburg for us. Allow for atleast four days. We had four, and I still wanted a couple more days, a few things I would have loved to have done!

The reason I say this is -

1. The Hermitage museum/Winter Palace would take the good part of a day, even if you just did the highlghts.
2. The four large cathedrals - Church of Spilled Blood, Kazan, Isaacs and Nicholas which you might want to do (another day)
3. Peter & Paul fortress would take a half day
4. Exploring the canals, or going to Peterhof, just walking around (the weather is lovely!) another half a day.
5. Then there is Vassilevsky island, the parks, the ballet. there is also Pushkin (which we didnt see) which has Catherine's palace. This would be a half day excursion out of St P.

If you do a bus tour, then I guess you could take it all in, in two days. In the summer, the days are very long, so you can pack in a fair bit. We walked (and walked and walked), so it all took a bit more time, but then we could linger and do what we wanted to do. We stayed at the Kempinski, which was literally a stone's throw from the Hermitage, a great location and everything was within walking distance.

Some other tips -

# Please do get a guide book, it helps. we used the DK Eyewitness travel one (Rs 700).
# We at no point felt unsafe or threatened. The tourist areas are thronging with tourists. Its best to use the hotel safe for
documents, carry only the photocopy I guess. We did not use a cab at all, so I dont know about it. The Metro stations are supposed to be attractive and Stalinist, but we didnt have time to see any. There are trams and trolley buses as well.
# You can book a ticket for a ballet, online, before hand - we did, at the Mariinsky.
it..and there were no problems/hassles.
# you could also book tickets for the Hermitage online, which saves about an hour of queueing. The first Thursday of every month though is free entry!
# The cathedrals all charge about 350 rubles per adult. St Nicholas and Kazan had no charge for entry.

Continued here.

"A rose-red city half as old as time"

So said the poet John William Burgon in 1845, and I first read the line at Kamini's Tales of South India.

I re-read it the other day, and the poem rang so true, now that we had enjoyed the privilege of seeing this wonderful wedge of timelessness. It took my breath away and I did not even try to put into words the wonder of it all.

Instead, I turned to a person, who has a better way with words. (Clever, aren't I?!)

So, here's a post by Sekar, with his pictures as well!

(Click on any of the photos for a more detailed, enlarged view.)

There are few places I have visited blind, as it were. Usually there are photographs I have seen, at times I have read a travelogue or history, and in these days where the internet is an outpouring of information, dipping into both official and personal websites before a trip has become as much a part of the trip as the actual travel.

With Petra, there was the memory of two movies, as well.
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade was fun, an Indian masala movie in the western idiom, with special effects well beyond what Bollywood was capable of and a memorable climax which I learnt later was filmed at Petra. The sandstone cliffs and the Treasury were striking and filed away in my memory for possible followup later.
The second movie was Lawrence of Arabia. I had seen it as a child. Peter O'Toole's performance was powerful enough to stay in my memory along with the siege of Aqaba and a few other scenes. So much so that I was motivated to search for Aqaba in an atlas. I never found it – Aqaba was too insignificant to merit inclusion – and eventually concluded that I had misheard and that they must have been talking about Addis Ababa (which I did find) instead. Never mind that this meant stretching the geography a bit. 'Lawrence' was restored many years later and I duly made the pilgrimage to watch Lean's masterpiece in 70mm and surround sound. O'Toole was as impressive as I had remembered and the movie even more so. The stunning desert vistas around Wadi Rum, spectacular in 70mm, really took my breath away.

My sister had visited Petra some months earlier. Her account and the photographs she had sent us tempered my expectations. Yes, the setting was very special and the Treasury every bit as spectacular as the photographs and Indiana Jones suggested. What seemed incongruous, though, were her photographs of the shops clustering around the entrance, their signboards garishly proclaiming the Indiana Jones connection. I was half expecting what we normally see in India – the aesthetics of a bygone era juxtaposed with an in-your-face, ugly, modernity. Minus some of the crowds, dirt and noise.

I was pleasantly surprised.

Petra is some 300 kms south of Amman. We soon left the hills of Amman behind and found ourselves surrounded by largely featureless desert. Some hills dotted the distance, there was little vegetation and only the tall, wind blown swirls of sand broke the monotony. I had half hoped for some pale imitation of Wadi Rum, but no luck: the desert was not giving up its jewels to casual passers by. Featureless settlements had come up around the few crossroads, each with an oil-stained garage, a shop or two, a very basic restaurant and some windowed concrete blocks that served as houses. Amman itself was spick and span: these wayside hamlets were shabby and run down, though, outposts uninviting even in the midst of the dreary sands.

The Silk Road Hotel - terrific location, large rooms, but less said about the food the better!

We turned off the main road (which went on to Aqaba – THE Aqaba) and were soon among rolling hills with attempts at plantations and agriculture evident on the odd hillside. The road wound through the hills and suddenly, abruptly, we were dropping steeply into a valley. Sandstone bluffs stood out from the hills and hotels, restaurants and shops hemmed the road in. This was clearly tourist country. We wound our way down through traffic to our hotel, the Silk Road Hotel, wonderfully located by the entrance to the Petra site.

Indiana Jones was there all right, but was not the overwhelming presence I had expected. The visitors center blended well into the surroundings, the shops stocked with the things tourists looked for (water, caps, souvenirs, camera essentials) stood off to one side with Indy beckoning discreetly. The place was clean and people helpful. Warned to be back before dark, we set off down the path to the site. We walked down a shallow valley under clear blue skies, the barren hillsides glowing in the evening sun and some sandstone outcroppings giving us a glimpse of what was to come.

The walk from the visitor's centre to the entrance of the Siq
Much of what remains at Petra is a necropolis. The caves and structures carved out of the sandstone are mostly tombs. Of the city that thrived for several centuries, we can only see the remnants of a colonnaded street, a ceremonial arch and the ruins of several temples, only one of whose walls partially survived an earthquake which brought ruin to the city. No houses, palaces, baths or anything else survive. It is likely that most lesser structures were built of far less durable materials and either perished in the earthquakes which spelt Petra's doom or to looters once the city was abandoned.

The camels we saw squatted contentedly, chewing the cud and pretending to look wise
The donkeys hung around forlornly, looking stupid and bursting into loud hee-haws at random moments.

We visited in early June, towards the end of the tourist season. It was warm, but not uncomfortably so. Visitors have the choice of riding a horse, a donkey or being pulled in a horse drawn buggy, and once at the Treasury, camels are available as well for the ultimate authentic desert experience.

The Siq - water channels carved into the walls

The Siq narrows, hiding the treasure at the end of it

We walked. Despite the groups of tourists making their way back, despite the riders on horseback racing back and forth looking for custom, despite the cluster of shops at the entrance to the Siq – the long canyon that winds its way to the Treasury and the rest of Petra – there was this sense of timelessness. We were walking into the past.

Petra, ultimately, was all about water. We passed dry waterways as we entered the Siq. In the Siq itself, water channels were carved into the rock. At various places, openings were dammed and the water flow managed. Petra grew at the crossroads of several ancient trade routes that criss-crossed the Arabian desert. Water, and its inhabitants' ability to manage it, allowed it to grow and assume importance. We saw plenty of evidence of this as the canyon walls closed in on us. Fantastically coloured and contoured sandstone rose in jagged walls above us. At places we could barely walk three abreast, at others the passageway opened up, allowing glimpses of sky, the odd plant that had struck roots in unlikely crevices and painted earth where the sun caught the rocks' dizzying colours. Patches of two thousand year old paving forced us to walk with care. We felt like explorers.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, after more than a kilometer of random meandering, the Siq opens up. Ahead, carved into a towering sandstone column, is the Treasury (Khazaneh). There are times and places when photographs cannot prepare you for the real thing, when the real overwhelms the imagination. The Treasury is one such. Classical perfection almost untouched by time.
Al Khazneh, as you emerge from the Siq

The lower half - Al Khazneh
The upper half. This was carved first. All rock carvings in Petra are believed to be top-down
The inner, now bare chamber

The Treasury is actually a tomb. There are signs that the walls were originally ornamented, that there was more to it than just rooms carved into the rock. But what remains is hugely impressive. The smooth walls, the soaring, colonnaded entrance, the decorative carvings, all hewn out of solid rock, take our breath away. We lingered, wanting to make the moment last, unwilling to pull ourselves away from this place. For it was not just this structure, but the entire setting around us. We were in a broad cul de sac, blocked off at one end by a wall of sandstone broken only by a couple of fissures snaking their way up. A narrow break on one side was the Siq. Across it rose the Treasury. Away from the cul de sac, the canyon opened up and curved away, leading down to the rest of Petra's treasures. The twenty first century had become a distant thought; the ancient canyon walls spoke louder than our cameras, plastic water bottles and backpacks.

Evening was nigh, though, and we had to move on.

Petra does not ration out its treasures. There was something everywhere we looked: a tomb, steps leading into the hills, facades, more tombs and, our final stop for the day, an entire amphitheater, large enough to seat several thousands, carved out of solid rock.
The amphitheatre
Here and there were more of those phantasmagorical colours and patterns, completely unreal, nature's surprises for us jaded urbanites. People had lived here once, they had done mundane things and had worked hard carving these wonders out of unforgiving rock. Their lives, their ways, their thoughts have all vanished and we are left thankful that they left some lasting imprint that has cheated time.

Tomb of Uneishu, opposite the theatre. Look to the upper part of the hill.
Street of Facades - multi-storey necropolis

The shadows were lengthening and we needed to get back. It was uphill all the way back and we were ravenous as we sat down to dinner at a streetside restaurant just outside our hotel. The town was quiet, with little traffic. Many visitors to Petra are day trippers from Amman and they had left with their large tour buses. Those staying at the fancy places did not venture out. Budget tourists and some hopeful shopkeepers stood around, snatches of conversation floated up into the cool night, Petra bedded down for the night.

We had a flight to catch from Amman the next afternoon and wanted to make an early start, taking in as much more of Petra as we could before heading back to the airport. The hotel had promised a 6.30AM breakfast. We were at the restaurant at 6.30 along with a fellow tourist with similar ideas. An empty restaurant and a row of empty food heaters greeted us. Silence prevailed. We knew we were going to be delayed, but the row of heaters suggested a substantial breakfast. We sat and waited in anticipation. Someone finally emerged with a plate of toast and dumped it in one of the heaters. We waited some more and it became evident that the Silk Road was not planning to pamper us with a lavish breakfast. We grumpily made what we could of an unpromising situation and set off once more.

Dawn and dusk are cut and dried events in the desert. There are no lingering clouds and haze to soften the transition. The sun comes up and that's it: daylight is on you.
Beyond the amphitheatre, in the morning light


Walking past the amphitheater, we came to a row of tombs situated up on the hillside. Seen from a distance it was almost as though someone had constructed wax models based on the Treasury and then partially melted them. Unlike the Treasury which was sheltered from the wind and the sand in its canyon, these were exposed and two millenia worth of erosion had worn away the smooth walls, the carvings on the pediments and much else. Like abandoned houses, they looked on with blank and unstaring eyes as time took its toll, reducing grandeur to mere shadows of a better past.
The massive Urn Tomb, from ground level
The Urn Tomb, from the terrace
The Corinthian tomb, next door

We made our way up the hillside, and as we got closer the scale of these tombs became apparent. Up close, we had a much better sense of what these structures must have been like in their prime. Some were larger and much more ambitious than even the Treasury. Erosion had exposed the rocks' striking colours and the overall effect took our collective breaths away. Here, we also had a sense of location. The broad valley that lay before us was surrounded by hills and was well protected. We were in the desert – the sand, the lack of vegetation, the rocky sandstone outcrops, the dry air and clear skies all evidenced this – but in a relatively secluded, sheltered corner of the desert. Add the water and the Nabateans had chosen well.
Looking across the valley from the tombs
Below, we could see the remnants of a colonnaded road. Shops must have lined the road at one point, with a covered walkway supported by the columns providing shelter from the harsh sun. Remnants of temples - roofs, columns and walls missing - stood on either side. One - the South temple - was being restored and the scale of what had been was astonishing. Along with the ceremonial archway which framed the far end of the road, the feel was that of a Roman ruin, much like Jerash in northern Jordan.
The road, far below that led to the free-standing ruins
The colonnaded road, being gradually restored
The South Temple
On the far side of the archway was the only freestanding structure - the Qasr al Bint - that had survived the last of the earthquakes that, along with the loss of water, eventually led to Petra's abandonment. The roof had collapsed, but the walls, while damaged, still stood. This had been a temple and, as with so much else we saw at Petra, the scale of the temple and the imagination that had gone into its conception boggled the mind. We take progress for granted as also the notion that man's creations improve with time. These ruins, some two thousand years old, made us realize just how far mankind had come at the time of their creation and put our current situation in some sort of perspective.

The Monumental Arch
The south Temple - upper level
Qasr-al-Bint

Columns line a tomb
Roman-style amphitheatre
Tomb of the ObelisksPetra was a crossroads and its architecture was influenced by many of those who must have stopped by. There are obelisks reminiscent of Egypt, Roman amphitheaters, Greek columns and much else. Today's visitors come from further afield and leave their imprints in different ways. An old man had chosen a shady spot on the path we had climbed to display his wares. Trinkets and earrings, refrigerator magnets, coins and stones were all spread out before him and he called me over. These, he said in a conspiratorial whisper pointing to one pile, are Chinese fakes, and these, pointing this time to an adjacent pile, are genuine antiques. They looked identical. He didn't look in the least put out when I declined his custom and cheerfully waved as I left.

Time was running short. Two days, perhaps three, were needed to see all of Petra at leisure. We had hurried through as much as we could and as we walked back past the growing crowds we turned to take a last look at the monuments, stark in the mid morning sun, and somehow brought to life by the presence of humans, the canyons and caves once more echoing to the sounds of voices and passing feet.

The Monumental gate in the foreground. The bulk of the Al Khubtah mountains in the rear, with the line of carved tombs

Petra and history were a world away that night as we waited under the cold lights of Dubai's newest terminal for our flight back to Madras. Time and geography have strange ways of dealing with reality. Sitting in twenty first century Dubai, Petra felt unreal, a dream almost. We couldn't help wondering what, if anything, would remain of modern Dubai two thousand years hence. Petra would still be there, though. A little the worse for wear, but there, nonetheless.


Dead Sea ramble here.