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"Taxi madame? Air-conditioned, no extra charge."
There are plenty of taxis in Petra but not of the conventional kind. You can rattle down the gorge in a horse-drawn carriage, ride a camel, slow motion style, or hire a donkey for the final climb to the Monastery.

Or you can walk, ten km or more, gazing at a few of the 800 registered sites, dreaming of the nomadic Nabataeans who in 300 BC, founded their ‘caravan kingdom’ in the mountains of Jordan. The Edomites had settled in the area centuries earlier but among the dramatic rocks and ravines bordering Wadi Musa, the site of Moses’ spring, the unique wonders of Petra are the work of the Nabataeans. A peaceful but powerful Bedouin tribe from northern Arabia, they controlled trade routes far and wide, dealing in myrrh and frankincense, animals, metal, cloth, sugar and spice. They were not men of letters, so little is recorded about them, but their skilled engineers and craftsmen built intricate irrigation systems and carved their homes and tombs out of the sandstone rock.

At an altitude of 950 metres, a three hour drive south of Amman on the Desert Highway, Petra lured us deep into the canyon, 1.2 km long, where multicoloured cliffs and rocks tower nearly 100 metres above your head. Votive niches and stone blocks, believed to house the spirits of the dead, glow eerily through light and shade and in the early hours little disturbs the peace but the clatter of horses’ hooves and the occasional rustling of a lone fig tree. In the ever narrowing ‘Siq’ meandering down the dry river bed, you can sometimes stretch out your arms and touch both sides. Yet, when you least expect it, a magical light appears through the crack and you catch your first glimpse of the Treasury with its pink portico and floral capitals, most beautiful in the late morning sun.

Welcome to Petra, the rose red city lost for over 500 years, rediscovered in 1812 by Swiss explorer Burckhardt who tricked his way to the ruins, posing as an Arab pilgrim who wished to sacrifice a goat at the tomb of Moses’ brother, Harun. Having suffered invasions and lost their trading empire to foreign influence, the local Bedouins had long been weary of strangers. Modern archaeologists, who would eventually drive them out of their home, were no exception. Over a century elapsed before excavations could begin in earnest in 1929 and even today much remains to be discovered. Visitors troubled by world politics have been slow to return to this World Heritage Site, creating a golden opportunity for others to see it in the most stunning and evocative mood.

Emerging from the awesome chasm into the ruins hit us like a thunderbolt as across the sun-drenched square, the 40 metre high Treasury carved out of the rock drew our gaze. The bullet-ridden urn on the top has not yet yielded its supposed treasure but protected by Nabataean deities and Bedouin guards in bright headgear, Petra’s finest tomb is worthy of any king.

Unlike the houses destroyed mostly by earthquakes, tombs were built to last throughout the after life and 500 have survived, empty but bewitching as you file past the dark openings peeping out of the rocky walls. Among the most impressive is the honeycomb of the ‘Royal Tombs’ on Jebel al-Khubtha and the Street of Façades and its rock-cut chambers lining the way to the Theatre.

The Theatre was hewn out of the cliff by the Nabataeans and later restored and extended by the Romans, with rows of steps accommodating up to 8000 spectators. Astute diplomats who liked to negotiate rather than fight, the Nabataeans had survived the initial Roman attempts to conquer the city but by 106 AD, Petra was occupied and part of their Arabian province. Besides the Theatre, the newcomers left a sizeable legacy, ranging from tombs to the funeral banqueting hall, colonnaded street, once the market place, and Temenos, a monumental gate erected in 114 AD to honour the victorious Emperor Trajan.

But wherever you are in Petra, you soon return to the Nabataeans, the heart and soul of this ancient city whose fine pottery, often decorated with pomegranates, is displayed on site, in a new museum, while the original houses yet more treasures, in a tomb once named the Rainbow Temple after its colourful walls. Just a stone’s throw away, the well preserved Qasr al-Bint Farun Temple dates from the first century BC and is one of the few free-standing buildings in Petra.

On the sun-burnt Jebel al-Madhbah, it is an arduous climb to the High Place of Sacrifice but you are amply rewarded with views of the Petra Valley, ritual altars and the two Obelisks cut from the rock, left towering above the scene when the top of the mountain was levelled. The Nabataeans worshipped many gods, male and female, their own or imported, but none ranked higher than Dhushara, the God of the ‘Rock’ after which the capital was named. Shrines and temples bear few inscriptions as carving was all consuming and far more important. Similarly coins were superfluous until Petra reached its heyday in the first century BC and conventional trading began to replace bartering. ‘A three day pass?’ we wondered, at the start of the visit, ‘how can anyone need this long?’

But within an hour or two we knew the answer, Petra cannot be rushed. This vast city grows on you as the past wraps itself all around, oozing from every rock under a deep blue sky. Then there are strange whispers and fleeting shadows, dark-eyed children selling ‘Nabataean pottery’ and Bedouin jewellery, small oases where you can rest in the shade and even a nomad tent high up on a hill, serving refreshments on the edge of a tiny flower garden. Sink into the cushions, close your eyes and you still see the swirling colours of the rock, tinted in myriad shades by metallic oxides, and the tortured shapes created by earthquakes, water and wind. Meanwhile rare blue lizards bask on the stones and wild onion plants mingle with clusters of oleander. Sometimes the scent of eucalyptus drifts through the air.

We could not spend three days in Petra but Ed Deir was definitely a must-see, an ancient place of pilgrimage and largest of the tombs, used as a monastery in Byzantine times. Few visitors venture up the steep trail strung with 800 steps but in splendid isolation, Ed Deir is simply breathtaking. Beyond it, a dusty track leads to a superb panorama stretching across mountains and valleys, from Wadi Musa village to Wadi Araba, 1500 metres below, the Israeli border and the white shrine of Harun’s tomb gleaming on a distant summit. Up there in the clear mountain air, all was quiet but for the nostalgic echo of a shepherd’s flute.

‘Taxi, madame? Good donkey, no road tax.’ The man had appeared from nowhere and the donkey pleaded with gentle eyes, knowing full well it would be down all the way. How could I resist? It had been a long day and in the ancient city of Petra, it was time for another treat.

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