As a result, no doubt, of the brevity of reviews in the guide books, there are only a limited number of places to stay in Karak. We chose to stay at Cairwan (across the valley from the town).
The owner couldn't have done more to make us feel welcome and, despite it being one of the more budget rooms we stayed in during our time in Jordan, we both look back on our night there with fond memories. The owner's sweet attempt to make us feel welcome extended to offering us both Jordan's answer to Capri-Sun while we checked in and, when we got to the room, we found he had left us various biscuits and sweets on the room's table.
Eager to see the castle, we left our bags and set off on the half hour walk into the city. As we clambered up the hill into town in the fierce afternoon sun we understood why it had been such an impregnable fortress for the Crusaders.
The first stop was the town's taxi stop to haggle with the local drivers and secure a lift to Petra tomorrow morning. After a frenzied bidding war, Muhammed agreed to drive us along the King's Highway to Petra for a rate we were happy with.
From there, we walked to what the guide book described as "the focus of town [the] equestrian statue of Salah ad-Din."
This "focus" quickly dealt with, we walked up the hill to the castle. A guide offered to take us around the ruins and help put them in context. We spent a good couple of hours walking among the ruins and enjoying the commanding views across the lush green valley the vantage point from the towers afforded.
As the sun began to set and the staff looked increasingly anxious to lock the gate, we left and strolled through the town's souk. We even entered a spice shop and haggled for some spices. The language barrier had not really presented much of a problem up until now; we had been happy to try to use Arabic sentences we had been taught and, for the most part, the Jordanians we had met had a reasonable command of English; however, the owner of the spice shop didn't speak a word of English. We left hoping to have bought the right blend of spices for fattoush, yet, in truth, uncertain what we had. Anyway the bag was later packed away in G's backpack and served to perfume her clothes for the rest of the trip.
As with its hotels, there are a limited number of places to eat in Karak, but one of its restaurants regularly secures rave reviews: Kir Heres.
Unfortunately, they had run out of ostrich steak when we sat down to place our order. The mixed grill we ordered was a decided miss: overcooked and gristly. Thankfully, the rest of the meal was delicious. The baba ghanouj was infinitely better than the one offered in Madaba and G began to understand why it is such a great dip with its smoky flavour coming to the fore. The labneh with thyme was also better than the one served in Madaba; less salty and more creamy.
We sat at our table overlooking a backstreet of Karak as a young boy repeatedly pushed his bike up the hill in order to race back down it with no hands much to the delight of his watching friends.
Walking downhill out of town was much easier and as we passed another group of children they once again exhibited the friendliness we experienced throughout our trip calling out "Where you from?", "Welcome", "Hello", "I love you" and G's favourite "I miss you". Pretty quickly a swarm of children had surrounded us and were following us as we made our way along the winding streets. We looked like the Pied Pipers of Karak.
Things took a surreal turn when four young boys joined our merry procession holding live chicks. Indeed, their leader made repeated attempts to force one of the young birds into my hand while gleefully waving a knife in the air. As we reached the street corner the children bunched and called out "Miss you" repeatedly as we climbed down the steps to the main road.
On our way back to the hotel we passed a group of men he called out to us to join them. Letting our London-sensibilities get the better of us, we walked on. As G stopped to take a shot of the castle at night, I reconsidered their offer and said that we should go and say hello.
As we returned, the men called out once again and made it clear that we were welcome to join them. After much shuffling, we were invited to sit down on one of the rugs set out on the pavement and watch the game. One of the group, Omar, had a basic grasp of English and explained that they were playing a game called tâb and that there were two teams. In its simplest form, the game required each player to bounce four semi-circular sticks (in this case formed from two separate sticks having been split down the middle) off a rock. In the event that all landed flat-side (white) up, the move was worth six. If one landed rounded-side (black) up, the move was worth one. Two rounded-side sticks resulted in a move of two and so on. This then allowed the players to move counters on the accompanying board. Whilst we picked up some of the nuances such as how to knock the other side's pieces off the board and gain extra throws, in truth we just enjoyed the camaraderie and listening to the spectators running commentary and sighs as their suggested moves were ignored. The trash talking that accompanied every good throw sailed well over our heads, but the principle was understood and made us smile. We later googled the rules and had an insight into what had taken place.
As the muezzin's call rang out. play was halted, prayer mats were unfurled and the players completed the day's final prayer. Completed, play resumed whilst one of the men went to his van and returned carrying a bag, tub, gas stove, kettle and jerry can.
He settled the stove next to the board and as he lit it a great tongue of flame shot out a foot into the night air, causing the poor chap who had been resting his head on his hand nearby, idly fingering his prayer beads and closely watching the game unfold to jump. Slapstick comedy translates in any language and all present laughed heartily. Happy to have caused such merriment, the man with the stove repeated the trick a couple of times before he tamed the flame to a more manageable level and rested the kettle on top to boil. He busied himself washing the glasses and, as the water boiled, added cupfuls of sugar and loose tea. When it was ready, cups were poured and proffered to G and me. Until we had declared it good, it was apparent that no one would be receiving a glass. By now the chill of the evening and the cool of setting on the pavement had left me close to shivering so the hot, sweet tea was a welcome beverage and we were happy to give it the hearty thumbs up.
By the end of the evening G and I had mastered the Arabic for 1, 2,4 and 6, but, having rarely been thrown, 3 and 5 are still a mystery.
As the final evening's game drew to a close, the friends prepared to go home. One man offered us food and a bed for the night, but with the hotel just up the road and, having only eaten two hours earlier, we had to say no. Scrambling around in the back of our guide book for a phrase appropriate for the situation I was able to offer "Shukran Allah ybarrak feek / Thank you God bless you". It seemed to do the trick and I was made to repeat it for the men that had left and were bade to return to hear my felicitations.
Omar insisted on giving us a lift in his van to the hotel door (a mere 400m away). This evening was one of the highlights of our trip. It would be impossible to repeat and in its simplest terms it was merely a cup of tea with a group of men, but what it represented was so much more. It was a sincere welcome from strangers to strangers. In such circumstances, the differences of language were irrelevant. We learnt by pointing, listening and repeating to the best of our ability. We loved learning the rules of the game and the men showed childish glee posing for photos for G. If travel broadens the mind that evening is indelibly seared in my memory as a example of how we are all the same at a base level.
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