540
PAUL F. HOYE
Painted Desert. Before us stretched the country of Mada'in Salih, a country
best described by Parker T. Hart, former U.S. Ambassador to Saudi
Arabia, after he saw it from the air 2 years ago:
For about forty miles the valley stretched north-south like a sea of yellow
sand from which rose innumerable great islands of tawny pink sandstone, often sheer walled and several hundred feet in height, sculptured by wind and
sand into columns, pinnacles, spires, saw teeth, natural bridges, profiles and
every oddment of erosion conceivable to man's imagination. At the base of
many, the tomb entrances were clearly visible. The width of the great valley
varies from perhaps ten to twenty-five miles, larger than the Grand Canyon
and far more impressive than Bryce Canyon or Cedar Breaks, sandstone classics of the American Southwest. . .
To which I can add little, except perhaps the sense of surprise at finding
such unlikely country in Saudi Arabia. We got out of the trucks and just
stood there for a little while trying to take it in. Moody and Sa'id set up
their cameras and I wandered off and sat down in a circle of shade under
an acacia tree. By my foot a colony of black ants with golden dots on
their tails scurried about on industrious errands. Overhead, two large, jetblack ravens wheeled and swooped and then, borne by an updraught of
warm air, shot upward and out of sight. One of the drivers pointed east
and there, outlined in perfect profile against the morning sun, was the unmistakable silhouette of a great stone eagle, its wings partially extended,
its beak curved sharply toward the ground. To the north, poised upon a
towering ridge, was still another eagle, this one facing us, his wings spread
wide for flight. "The Valley of the Eagles," someone murmured. Indeed,
indeed.
MARCH 6
This morning, just a few minutes ago, Mada'in Salih welcomed us.
It was barely dawn. The sky was touched with pink and white and the
breeze was cool, and a bird I couldn't see was chirping with what I must
say was understandable enthusiasm. Some distance from camp, Moody,
sweatered and hooded against the chill, was squinting through his long
telephoto lens waiting for the clean fresh rays of morning sunlight to filter
through the valley and bring the rich muted color of rocks and sand to
glowing life. Over the sands behind him, walking swiftly, came an old man
(Fig. 6). He was a Bedouin wearing a black cape and hood and a white
robe. He was barefoot and smiling and in his hand he held a brass coffee
pot with a sharp curved spout.
"Assalumu 'alaykum," he said and dashed thin, tart Arab coffee into a
cup. Three times he poured and three times I drank. "Shukran," I said
PAUL F. HOYE
Painted Desert. Before us stretched the country of Mada'in Salih, a country
best described by Parker T. Hart, former U.S. Ambassador to Saudi
Arabia, after he saw it from the air 2 years ago:
For about forty miles the valley stretched north-south like a sea of yellow
sand from which rose innumerable great islands of tawny pink sandstone, often sheer walled and several hundred feet in height, sculptured by wind and
sand into columns, pinnacles, spires, saw teeth, natural bridges, profiles and
every oddment of erosion conceivable to man's imagination. At the base of
many, the tomb entrances were clearly visible. The width of the great valley
varies from perhaps ten to twenty-five miles, larger than the Grand Canyon
and far more impressive than Bryce Canyon or Cedar Breaks, sandstone classics of the American Southwest. . .
To which I can add little, except perhaps the sense of surprise at finding
such unlikely country in Saudi Arabia. We got out of the trucks and just
stood there for a little while trying to take it in. Moody and Sa'id set up
their cameras and I wandered off and sat down in a circle of shade under
an acacia tree. By my foot a colony of black ants with golden dots on
their tails scurried about on industrious errands. Overhead, two large, jetblack ravens wheeled and swooped and then, borne by an updraught of
warm air, shot upward and out of sight. One of the drivers pointed east
and there, outlined in perfect profile against the morning sun, was the unmistakable silhouette of a great stone eagle, its wings partially extended,
its beak curved sharply toward the ground. To the north, poised upon a
towering ridge, was still another eagle, this one facing us, his wings spread
wide for flight. "The Valley of the Eagles," someone murmured. Indeed,
indeed.
MARCH 6
This morning, just a few minutes ago, Mada'in Salih welcomed us.
It was barely dawn. The sky was touched with pink and white and the
breeze was cool, and a bird I couldn't see was chirping with what I must
say was understandable enthusiasm. Some distance from camp, Moody,
sweatered and hooded against the chill, was squinting through his long
telephoto lens waiting for the clean fresh rays of morning sunlight to filter
through the valley and bring the rich muted color of rocks and sand to
glowing life. Over the sands behind him, walking swiftly, came an old man
(Fig. 6). He was a Bedouin wearing a black cape and hood and a white
robe. He was barefoot and smiling and in his hand he held a brass coffee
pot with a sharp curved spout.
"Assalumu 'alaykum," he said and dashed thin, tart Arab coffee into a
cup. Three times he poured and three times I drank. "Shukran," I said