As the sun shyly emerges out from the shadows of ancient ruins, the soft blush of pink washes away any remaining darkness of the chilly desert night. On cue, the morning prayers echo through the slopes of sleeping streets, interrupting the chorus of birds to awaken the city of chaos. A tall, muscular man stumbles out from his pale house; he clutches a roll of lamb mince as he approaches his humble shawarma stall. Even in the earliest hours, the intense aroma of exotic spices linger in the air, as he begins to tend the queue of workers, still half asleep. From the same house appears his wife, hidden under layers of neatly draped fabric, with a car key in her left hand and her son’s hand in the right. In her shabby gray car she heads North, where the usual traffic swallows her whole in its glaring sea of red. Like a colony of ants, the mass of cars race uphill towards the striped flag, that sways with the gentle breeze while it overlooks the proud kingdom.

Emerging out of the traffic, a tour bus makes its way through a series of narrow roads - away from the bustling city, and out to the desert with only faint signs of life. By now the sun is at its pinnacle, piercing through the rich blue of the sky and bathing the sand in luscious gold. Even with the air conditioning, the ferocious heat of the hostile weather drench the tourists’ shirts in sweat. Nonetheless, they continue to admire the currents of molten gold they sail across. The bus drifts past the stranded islands of ever-evolving rock formations; they tower over the people as if to accuse them of disturbing their peaceful sunbathing. Gradually, the journey comes to an end, as the network of roads gather in front of a colossal gate…

Petra.

In the corner, a lone woman cautiously makes her way through. She is well prepared for the ambitious adventure that awaits; a camera hangs loose from one shoulder, while she carefully studies the torn map in her hand. Ignoring the whistles from the pack of young men, she makes her way through the glimmering sand dunes and patches of scarce green as countless silk traders in the past have. She seamlessly blends into the landscape like a photograph, as she soaks in the works of her distant ancestors, in the form of a plethora of intricate tomb designs. The surrounding people eye her with a sense of peculiarity, when she stops to perch herself on a rusting bench and closes her eyes to savour the whispers of the wind that tickles her hijab. She finds herself immersed in the serenity of the moment - the loud chatterings of other tourists long forgotten, as she silently enjoys the way the sand dissipate into freckles of dust.

As the sun hides behind the flock of clouds, midday stumbles upon the ancient city that now pulses with life. While some locals take this as a signal for yet another tedious prayer, the mass of tourists synchronises to promptly make their way to the stalls that crowds the space. Laughter begins to fill the air. The customers hidden behind the shroud of shisha smoke merrilly dig into their stack of fresh breads, while returning locals indulge in their daily dose of caffeine served in elaborate copper pots.

It’s in moments like these, where many forget that they’re in one of the most treasured archaeological site in the world.

However, not everybody here has the luxury to appreciate the jubilant colours of Petra. Behind the usual commotion, a girl gingerly crawls her way out of a battered shack that barely manages to erect itself. She is clad in nothing but a flimsy excuse of a tattered dress, which exposes the brittle bones underneath her skin that withers like thirsty vines. With every step she takes she flinches uncomfortably; her naked frail foot sinks into the sharp stones that coat the earth. She shoulders the burden of the tourists’ careless litters, even as she struggles to heave through her lungs smothered by dust. When she warily approaches a group of men, she swallows the last of her pride and holds out a pair of rickety hands - hoping that someone would finally take pity in her and drops some coins. However, in the horde of tourists she is completely pellucid. Not a single soul bothers to even spare her a glance. But like her mother tells her every morning, she must force a smile. She must.

As the sun begins to disappear behind the swell of sand, she settles on a rock and watches the grand facade - the Treasury - be illuminated in vivid amber. She listens to the clattering of metal from the exhausted horse that passes by; it limps as it hastily drags along the last family of tourists in a ramshackle carriage. With a certain sense of nostalgia, she then observes a baby camel nestle its head on its mother’s warm back. With the last flicker of light slowly fading away, she closes her eyes and lets sleep claim her.