Georgina Lunn

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It only took three trains, one flight, and a taxi for my Mum and I to reach my sister, Evie who now works for a charity in Amman, Jordan. A journey so convoluted it felt like a pilgrimage, but one made worthwhile by the sheer delight of our reunion. Evie and I stayed up until 4 a.m., laughing at nothing and everything – two months apart had clearly been an eternity.

The morning began with brunch, which, as per our usual curse, took an eternity to arrive. A minor inconvenience softened by the presence of the friendliest feline, Susan, and a parade of affectionate teenagers who kept rushing up to my mum, calling “Mama, Mama!” They kissed her on the cheek and handed her flowers, all the while the Call to Prayer hummed in the background. She was, for a brief moment, absolute royalty. “If only mums were treated like this everywhere,” she sighed – half-joking, half-longing for a global standard of maternal worship. We stumbled upon an exhibition showcasing drawings by the people of Gaza – etched in pen, or whatever scarce materials they could find. Each line carried the weight of survival, each stroke a testament to resilience. It was both harrowing and necessary – a window into a reality the world cannot afford to look away from.

The poignant weight of the artwork lingered as we set off to collect our rental car, Sonya, embarking on the two-hour drive to Dana, during which I napped while Evie heroically drove. We were stopped by the police five times, a normal occurrence for Jordanian folk. Each discourse was the same; they’d ask where we were from: “Britannia”. They’d be impressed and ask if we speak Arabic, “Shwai”, we’d respond. They’d smirk, and we’d wave, followed by a requisite sigh of relief and flattery, we weren’t just normal tourists – we were bilingual tourists (we knew five words).

Dana is a village cradled in a canyon, a place so spectacular it feels like nature’s amphitheatre. Our host, the indomitable Musa, welcomed us and quickly ushered us towards the sunset. It was breathtaking, though partially missed due to Evie dramatically turning her head the wrong way, a genetic trait she’s inherited from our father. Still, the sky put on a show in hues of crimson, sapphire, and birdsong. The night concluded with an adorable baby donkey sighting, a feast prepared almost entirely from Musa’s own produce: flatbreads, tomato sauce, meatballs… and indulging in a lifetime supply of the viral pistachio kunafa chocolate, subtly countering racial commodification by savouring the treat in the vicinity of its origin – an act of cultural appreciation if not quiet resistance.

A cultural exchange followed, featuring a rousing rendition of ‘Mr. Bombastic’ from Musa, to which we reciprocated with an impromptu ‘Low’ by Flo Rida performance. He found my jokes endlessly amusing before concluding that I was both mad and part of the Mafia. However, he did graciously bestow upon me the compliment of looking 25 (I’m 22 and recently got stopped in the street for looking like a Secondary School student), my Mum looking 41 (she’s 60), and that our dad bizarrely looked like Jackie Chan? The photos I show my friends of my dad normally result in him being called Hugh Grant, so it’s good the person who got humbled this fine evening was in fact, already dead, so could not be offended.

At 23 years old, Musa speaks six languages, has eleven siblings and runs a hotel that looks like the love child of the houses in Mama Mia and The Durrells. Lightwork. We shared our remaining chocolate with him before collapsing into a sleep disturbed by distant screams in the night. Naturally, my imagination ran wild before I drifted off again, only to be awoken at 6 a.m. by an unmitigated disaster.

Evie had delivered a rogue, unflushable poo, stubbornly refusing to leave the premises. A silent but urgent crisis meeting was held. There was no plumbing solution in sight, no way to make it vanish without intervention. Action had to be taken.

Now, a normal person might have simply walked away, pretending they saw nothing, allowing fate (or someone else) to deal with it. But Evie is a chronic people pleaser, the kind of person who thanks self-checkout machines and apologises when she gets bumped into. There was no world in which she could just leave the situation unresolved. No, she had to fix it – no matter the personal cost.

And so, with the solemnity of a soldier accepting their fate, Evie came to terms with what had to be done. She was to physically remove it. By hand. I, of course, immediately recused myself from any direct involvement in the poo-handling department, securing instead the highly important role of door duty. The mission was clear: Evie would stealthily transport the evidence outside, and I would ensure no one bore witness to the crime.

Tears of laughter streamed down our faces as she gingerly scooped up the offending article (with an abundance of loo roll), tiptoeing through the room like an elite operative on a classified mission. Each step was a battle against her gag reflex. Outside, she disposed of it with the utmost discretion – because obviously, the only thing worse than fishing a poo out of a toilet is being caught fishing a poo out of a toilet.

And just like that, our presence there had been immortalised. Not in footprints in the sand or memories shared over tea, but in a single, tragic act that would haunt the land long after we were gone.

However, she was to further become the object of ridicule in a moment of mutual revulsion and mutual realisation. The toilet was flushable with a simple flick of a switch. With a teary goodbye from Musa, which in hindsight could’ve been from the stench, we were off.

The road to Wadi Rum was long, punctuated by country music and our mum’s slumber. Before meeting our Bedouin guide, Salem, we had to present our Jordan Passes at a secure checkpoint where we encountered Esmeralda, the friendliest dog in the world, whom we were desperate to take home with us – she was worth every vaccination.

Salem arrived with a pickup truck (later dubbed ‘the Giggle Machine’), and off we went, bouncing through Martian landscapes. The poetic irony was not lost on us – such peace in Wadi Rum, while elsewhere, unimaginable turmoil. A towering sand dune beckoned, its summit presenting an impossible contrast of golden sand against an electric blue sky. Running down it barefoot felt like slow motion. Our path led us to a rock with the words ‘Daddy’ and ‘J & M’ engraved upon it – an uncanny discovery as we had been speaking of him only moments before. He’d have loved in equal measure both the views and the people.

We stopped for lunch in an open plane, using the truck as shade. Having been fortunate enough to visit the Grand Canyon earlier this year, I can only describe the place he took us as revealing a view even more vast. Salem began making a tomato bean broth for lunch over the flames he had kindled. He sent us off to climb ‘Wolf Rock’. We walked along the sand, adjacent to wolf prints, and were greeted by camel carcasses upon arrival. It was at this point, perhaps unrelated – perhaps not, that my fingers decided to swell up. Both my hands looked like inflated surgical gloves and felt as dry as the sand itself. We were summoned for food, where I was able to pour water over my hands and was reassured that the return of my normal finger size was imminent. We finished our teas in a swirl of solitude whilst Salem, a man of stories, shared his unlikely triumphs. Hand-healing a camel others had abandoned, and raising orphaned wolf cubs until they could return to the wild speak volumes about the type of man he is. He said he recognised the sound they made at night, and that it “sounded like music”.

The lack of sleep and the prospect of wolves, surprisingly, wasn’t enough to nurture a micro-climate of panic – we were simply startled out of our apathy hearing these remarkable stories.

Our own story developed at the next viewpoint – a place so concealed that retracing our steps would have been impossible. Salem, with a knowing smile, assured us that no one else had ever been brought there before. That was when my mum and I exchanged a glance – this detour felt less like casual exploration and more like the groundwork for a negotiation. My sister was already well acquainted with Salem, having met him on a previous trip with her friends. He dubbed her the Queen of the Desert – a title she accepted with due amusement. I even have a video of him embracing her from behind as she admired the view, a scene straight out of a sweeping desert romance. Then, with great ceremony, he handed my mum five small pebbles. A dowry, perhaps? We weren’t entirely sure, but it certainly felt like a gesture with meaning. As for me? I was bestowed the noble title of mountain goat, while my mum was elevated to gazelle status. A transparent tactic, really – showering my mum with flattery to secure her good graces. But let’s be honest, there is simply no universe in which I am a mountain goat. None.

He later took us to a spot where we could watch the sunset as he set up camp. We were to sleep outside on a shelf in a canyon. I was to sleep with a Bedouin in the Wadi Rum Desert. I felt like I was single-handedly eroding the stereotype that blondes don’t like nature.

As the sun set we felt as if we were witnessing the birth of art. He came to pick us up, casually informing us that some Egyptian Nationals had ‘swung by’ and were having tea at our camp. Without a say in the matter, we hopped aboard ‘The Giggle Machine’, and sat in anticipation. Three men in stunning headdresses sat around a fire, one of them so strikingly handsome he could have been sculpted by the desert wind itself. The other two spoke no English – until I mentioned my name. The second Georgina left my lips, their faces lit up like I’d just announced free camels for all. “Ronaldo’s wife!” they shrieked, grinning like they’d uncovered a global scandal. Yes, that was me – Georgina Rodríguez herself, gracing them with my presence in the heart of Wadi Rum. Never mind that I was draped in the same clothes as the day before, rocking an unwashed, greasy bob, fingers still swollen, and running on a questionable streak of not having seen a toilet in days. A true WAG in the wild.

Later that night, under a blanket of stars, we lay in silence, watching the cosmos unfold in ways I had never seen before. His philosophy on stargazing was poetic: he preferred not to learn the constellations, allowing the night sky to remain an ever-changing mystery.

Morning brought a simple yet divine breakfast – za’atar, cheese, and sweet tea. A brief stop at a viewpoint, which we treated with the reverence due to Harrod’s, as we were given free tea. The kind gesture stirred guilt in me, hence my purchasing of a traditional blue headscarf.

Petra was initially just on the itinerary for cultural edification, but as we wandered through its ancient rock-hewn temples and narrow, winding Siq, the timelessness of it left us awestruck, awakening a deep sense of connection to history that far surpassed what we had imagined. A place of staggering grandeur and equally staggering heatstroke. Evie, as ever, sprinted ahead while Mum and I trudged behind, wilting. Staggeringly, horsemen called compliments from afar during said wilting, offering three camels for the purchase of, well, me. I can’t lie, I do not condone catcalling but being called a Russian Princess was enough to evaporate all cynicism. Heat stroke had nothing on Russian royalty. But when I later googled how many camels I was actually worth, via a completely legitimate online quiz, and was told it was more like 70 – my confidence plummeted.

The final leg of our journey took us to Mujib Chalets, perched beside the Dead Sea. As we approached, we overshot our destination by a solid half-hour. Now, as the appointed navigator, I take full responsibility – but, in my defence, I had two very valid excuses: first, we were nearing the Israeli border, where GPS tends to drop off; and second, and far more likely, Michael Bublé was playing, and I may have gotten ever so slightly… carried away with my vocals. Luxury in contrast to the desert, the chalets offered unparalleled sunset views and a buffet that fuelled spirited debates over our animal alter-egos – Mum, a deer; me, a cat; Evie, a horse. Analyse those as you will.

The Dead Sea itself was a surreal experience, equal parts ethereal and excruciating. The saltwater spun us involuntarily, and the jagged rocks beneath carved wounds into our feet. My brilliant mother had packed rock shoes. But rather than patronisingly hitting us with an “I told you so,” she simply tossed them in, sparing us the agony of hobbling over sharp rocks upon our exit. I slid them on first and scrambled out, though the damage from getting in had already been done. Then came my turn to return the favour – to toss them back to Evie so she could make her own graceful escape. A straightforward task… in theory. In reality, my throw was so feeble it didn’t even come close. The shoes landed short, caught the current, and drifted off into the great beyond. Her next round of cuts? Entirely on me. What can I say? There’s a reason I played second base in rounders —catching? Impeccable. Throwing? Disastrous.

Despite this, floating was euphoric. A promise formed in my mind – to chase this feeling across the world. Pure, unburdened, weightless.

When we arrived back in Amman, our last venture was to meet Evie’s new friends at the most divine restaurant. Dare I say, this might have been the highlight of the entire trip – seeing just how wonderful and deserving the people who get to be around my sister every day are of her company.

These moments, from the absurd to the profound, are treasures shared with the two most magical people in my life. With its laughter, landscapes, and luminous stars, Jordan has left its imprint. And, in return, we have left behind literal shit, a dog, wrappers of chocolate bars we opened with religious devotion and echoes of our joy in the canyon winds.