On my thirteenth birthday, one of my friends invited me round to her house for a sleepover, or so I thought. When I opened the living room door there was everyone, as only a teen would say, jumping out from behind the sofas, shouting ‘Surprise!’, putting presents in my hands. We stayed up very late that night, as thirteen year olds are wont to do, watching the film of the moment: Kevin Costner’s Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves, and my favourite present was a tape with the theme song on repeat on both sides.
Cut off as I was in a bit of a Middle Eastern bubble, I didn’t know that Bryan Adams’ Everything I do, I do it for you was number one in the UK charts for 16 weeks, and it wouldn’t have made any difference if I had. It was a song which summed up a lot of the kids’ films of the age, with their reckless yet intelligent heroes fighting their way through history. When we lived in Tanzania, a socialist state, privately owned televisions and video players were illegal, so we didn’t have one. Our neighbours did, though, and every Saturday they would invite all the kids on the campus round to watch a film. There were three for us to choose from: Crocodile Dundee, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. The last was my favourite by far, and sparked hours of daydreaming in which I was, of course, Dr Jones and not his yet-to-be-empancipated female companion.
Once we moved to Jordan I spent a lot of time in my head, unhappy at school and struggling to make friends. I found myself in a bilingual school, scrambling to catch up with the native Arabic speakers around me, moved up a year halfway through the term (which never makes you popular), and because of my late move, separated from the small group of other non-native speakers. To cap things off, Saddam Hussein decided to invade Kuwait the following summer and so I found myself held responsible for the actions of the British and American governments by some of my less-than-reasonable fellow students. So I daydreamed a lot, sitting on the back seat of the school bus with the posse of 18 year old boys who had taken it upon themselves to keep an eye on me and always saved me a seat.
Of course, the impact that the first Gulf War had on my life was insignificant compared to that which it had on others, and it did have some positive outcomes. Several families – presumably those who could – left their lives in Kuwait City and came to live in Amman instead. Classes were reshuffled and gradually I made some really good friends. By the time I hit thirteen, life at school was pretty good again.
There was one thing, though, that I loved about that school from the start. In Jordan, as in many Islamic countries, the working week runs from Saturday to Wednesday. On Thursday morning we had what was known as Thursday School – an optional set of activities to choose from – and one of them was riding. I had wanted to learn to ride for years, but it wasn’t really an option in Dar. In Jordan, though, there are horses everywhere. Heads bent, dull from the dust and heat, pulling carts of watermelons for sale. Decked out in their finest, waiting next to a row of camels for tourists to mount and have a photo taken. Best of all, in the studs, where the stallions twitched and shuffled, impatient to be off. In Amman, riding is largely a male sport, and so as the only girl in the group I was always given the same horse to ride: a beautiful bay named Adham, which means Polite. I adored him, and was always slightly afraid of his power and will. I will probably never ride a horse like him again – he must have been worth a small fortune – but what an animal to learn on. So different from the horses that my grandad would take me to ride during summers in Ireland: great heavy mounts that you had to really tell what to do. In Jordan, we rode with precision and grace – or at least, I tried to. In Derry, though we practiced jumps and so forth, we would more often head out for a hack through tree-lined lanes, or leave the saddles behind and canter, bareback, through soft green fields. I loved both.
We had wonderful holidays both in and out of Jordan: to the UK to visit family but also to Aqaba, the Dead Sea, Jerash, Petra, the lush and vibrant Jordan Valley and camping, like Lawrence of Arabia, in Wadi Rum. We saw mirages in the desert and drank tea with bedouin, and were there the year the snow fell so deep that the army had to airlift them out of the desert. We also visited Jerusalem, crossing the border in a little bus and staying in a convent in the heart of the city. The region was awash with tourists, that first year. Then the war began, and all that changed.
Suddenly, we were the only visitors, everywhere we went. It must have been devastating for an economy which relied so heavily upon tourism. Jordan is a beautiful country and its people amongst the most hospitable I’ve met and, overnight, there were no guests. We’d be the only residents in hotels, the only people picking our way around an abandoned Roman town, the only group out picnicking and wadi-wading for the day. In the photograph above, I am standing in the doorway of the Monastery in Petra, and there was no-one but us in the place. It was one of our favourite destinations, and there is so much to see and learn that we could have gone back indefinitely. Empty of visitors, it was so quiet and eerie that we could have been Johann Ludwig Burckhardt ‘discovering’ it in 1812, or David Roberts sitting on a rock to paint his lithographs in 1832.
Imagine my delight, then, when Steven Spielberg chose Petra as the site of the third Indiana Jones film – The Last Crusade. Not only had I been to many of the locations that they used, but here I was, in Petra, with the place virtually empty and several horses available for hire. The happy afternoons I spent riding up and down the gorge were quite literally the stuff of my dreams. Which is why, although I wouldn’t listen to it now, Everything I do, I do it for you has got to be my song for this part of my life. Pure fantasy with a hefty dose of history thrown in, a dash of heroism and… horses. What more could a girl want?
PS – Do you have a song which sums up your pre-teen years? I’m sure I wasn’t the only person who daydreamed endlessly at that age – who did you want to be?