— ‘It is an, an…, ah yes, an INTERESTING vehicle’, I replied; using the word ‘interesting’ as one does when at a loss for a something to say, but strongly feels that a compliment is expected.

— ‘Yes, it is good—very very good!’, said Abdullah, much pleased, ‘I bought it from my brother, who bought it from my other brother, who bought it from his friend—in Saudia’

It did not require a great stretch of the mind to accept that this vehicle had been pre-owned. One might even suspect Abdullah’s brother’s brother’s friend of not having been the first owner.

The dashboard had several openings that looked as if they were not part of the original design. From these protruded a mess of wires. The odd spark could be seen but didn’t bother Abdullah.

Neither speedometer, odometer, nor oil or fuel gauges exhibited any signs of life. And all non-essentials such as the passenger assist grips, the rear-view mirror and the sun visors had longe since taken their leave.

Still, much of the steering wheel was intact, and several of the gears were in working order. And even the most critical observer could count four rotating, albeit threadbare, wheels.

Yet, this was not a spartan vehicle. The interior was decorated, and lavishly so. There was not a vacant spot that had not been devoted to beautification.

There was, of course, plush dice suspended from where the rear-view mirror had once been. There was a vase with artificial flowers—and there was a small mint-green alarm clock in the shape of a mosque with two golden-domed minarets.

Among the many eye-pieces, a tiny green container was glued to the dashboard. From it emanated an unimaginably powerful scent that hit me so hard, it instinctively had me reach for the handle to roll down the window. Unsurprisingly, it was no longer there.

In any event, that turned out not to be a problem there wasn’t any window to roll down. It was permanently jammed in the lower position.

In Wadi Rum, though, I wouldn’t have wished for another car for the world!

I was standing on the rock formation known as the ‘Little Bridge’ in Wadi Rum, posed for a classic tourist photo.

I am not in the habit of appearing in my photographs. However, on this occasion, I needed some scale to convey the dimension of the scene.

Now, I am no conventional ‘matchbox’ and the ‘Little Bridge’ would have looked less ‘little’ with anyone else standing on it, but needs must when it couldn’t be otherwise.

I felt uncomfortable.

Many would hasten to point out that they, too, would feel uncomfortable if they were dressed like me.

But that wasn’t it.

I was, then as I am now, oblivious to fashion. The conflicting visual aesthetic of my hat, shirt and trousers were in my mind offset by the unity they displayed in their complete unsuitability for my person.

Nor was it the height of the drop.

A fall, if it wouldn’t be too far down, which in this case it wasn’t, held the promise of a good anecdote. And if it would be too far…, well, then at least it would be a memorable passage.

The ‘Little Bridge’ was not the only rock bridge in Wadi Rum, nor was it the most majestic one. But, it was the one closest to the visitor centre, and therefore included as the first stop on nearly all tours of Wadi Rum.

Its absence was likely to be noted, should it no longer be there.

The very presence of a natural stone arch is testament to rock that whithers and erodes quickly. This stone arch was not so sturdy as to be unbreakable—one day it would.

I spoke a silent prayer under my breath that that day would be some time in the distant future. And, that if it was ordained to be on this day, to make it in the afternoon.

My fear, in summary, was the prospect of entering into Jordanian tourism history as the man who broke the Little Bridge—the man who took from the world, permanently and irreparably, one of the most visited attractions in Wadi Rum.

By divine intervention, defiance of physics or sheer luck, I do not know; but, to my knowledge, the bridge is still there.