532
PAUL F. HOYE
Outside Medina
MARCH 2
Somewhere in the darkness over this hill, where we've made our first
camp, lies Medina, the Second City of Islam. They call it the "Radiant
City" and the man who coined that phrase was as observant as he was
poetic. I wouldn't be surprised if he first saw the city as we did today—
through a break in the low brown mountains at the precise moment when
the hot brassy glare of the afternoon sun was giving way to the soft redgold of sunset. We had just rounded a bend in the road when the driver
silently raised a finger and pointed. And there was Medina, a dramatic
flash of white in the distance, a long rectangle of low walls and high
mosques, the thin needle points of the minarets and the dome of the
Prophet's Mosque poking up from a jumble of low whitewashed buildings.
We stared entranced and then it was gone and we were jolting west across
the sands in search of a place to camp.
Until that point, it had been a drowsy day. This morning, late, and in
that state of confusion that no amount of advance preparation can ever
quite allow for, we left Jiddah, lumbering past the handsome palaces that
look across the coastal boulevard to the harbor, and then heading north
up the coast. At first there was the usual lift of excitement, but as we
droned along, roadside signs ticking off the kilometers, there was less and
less of note to see. Traffic, heavy around Jiddah, dwindled and soon there
was only an occasional bus carrying pilgrims north to Medina. Off to the
left, west, the Red Sea sparkled in the hot sun and off to the right the
flat gravel plains stretched off to shadowy hills in the distance. By the roadside, at intervals, stood simple accommodations for pilgrims and rude
stands where soft drinks and food are sold. Occasionally a man would
wave his hand or a child would yell and once, just before we swung inland,
we swept by a caravan of camels—there were exactly 73—marching along
in that steady awkward rhythm that is the camel's own. But still time
passed slowly and eventually I began to think about our destination and
to review what I'd read about it.
Mada'in Salih, I recalled, is a valley some 500 miles north of Jiddah
where an ancient people called the Nabateans carved a series of tombs
into the rock, and where, according to tradition, a prophet named Salih
later called down a curse upon the inhabitants when they killed a miraculous camel brought forth from the rocks by God. From that time on, naturally, the Bedouins and most travelers generally avoided the place, which
accounts, I suppose, for the relative isolation of Mada'in Salih despite its
location on a major caravan route and the old Hijaz Railway. Few dared
PAUL F. HOYE
Outside Medina
MARCH 2
Somewhere in the darkness over this hill, where we've made our first
camp, lies Medina, the Second City of Islam. They call it the "Radiant
City" and the man who coined that phrase was as observant as he was
poetic. I wouldn't be surprised if he first saw the city as we did today—
through a break in the low brown mountains at the precise moment when
the hot brassy glare of the afternoon sun was giving way to the soft redgold of sunset. We had just rounded a bend in the road when the driver
silently raised a finger and pointed. And there was Medina, a dramatic
flash of white in the distance, a long rectangle of low walls and high
mosques, the thin needle points of the minarets and the dome of the
Prophet's Mosque poking up from a jumble of low whitewashed buildings.
We stared entranced and then it was gone and we were jolting west across
the sands in search of a place to camp.
Until that point, it had been a drowsy day. This morning, late, and in
that state of confusion that no amount of advance preparation can ever
quite allow for, we left Jiddah, lumbering past the handsome palaces that
look across the coastal boulevard to the harbor, and then heading north
up the coast. At first there was the usual lift of excitement, but as we
droned along, roadside signs ticking off the kilometers, there was less and
less of note to see. Traffic, heavy around Jiddah, dwindled and soon there
was only an occasional bus carrying pilgrims north to Medina. Off to the
left, west, the Red Sea sparkled in the hot sun and off to the right the
flat gravel plains stretched off to shadowy hills in the distance. By the roadside, at intervals, stood simple accommodations for pilgrims and rude
stands where soft drinks and food are sold. Occasionally a man would
wave his hand or a child would yell and once, just before we swung inland,
we swept by a caravan of camels—there were exactly 73—marching along
in that steady awkward rhythm that is the camel's own. But still time
passed slowly and eventually I began to think about our destination and
to review what I'd read about it.
Mada'in Salih, I recalled, is a valley some 500 miles north of Jiddah
where an ancient people called the Nabateans carved a series of tombs
into the rock, and where, according to tradition, a prophet named Salih
later called down a curse upon the inhabitants when they killed a miraculous camel brought forth from the rocks by God. From that time on, naturally, the Bedouins and most travelers generally avoided the place, which
accounts, I suppose, for the relative isolation of Mada'in Salih despite its
location on a major caravan route and the old Hijaz Railway. Few dared