A cultural day

Wednesday, 6th April: I slept heavily. There were no sand storms, braying donkeys or dogs. But when I woke in the morning and moved to get up, the little toe on my right foot made me say 'ouch!'. Yes, there was a blister (and, to be honest, I'm not surprised) but the toe was twice the size it should have been, bright red, and tender to touch. I took paracetamol and prayed. The swelling didn't go down, although the pain eased a little.

I managed to get my soft hiking trainers on but I was hobbling. Today was to be a gentler walk of just six hours, ending in Little Petra. But there was no way I could trek. I was disappointed.  

Theo asked the group who wanted to miss the day's trekking after the exhausting time we'd had over the last couple of days. Nearly half the group opted to stay back. Most would be taken by truck to meet the group at lunch and then walk the last couple of hours into Little Petra. Four of us were unable to do that so we'd have to miss it, and would be driven to the next camp to wait for the return of the others.

We waved off the brave walkers and hung around for a bit. It was lovely to sit and talk and to get to know one another a little more. There'd been no down-time since we'd left the Dead Sea; it had been all about trekking from one camp to the next. After a little while we explored the area around us. A Bedouin lady sat beside a cave (that was lived in) and spread out scarves and bags. She showed us how she weaved the wool and let us take her photo for 1JD (£1.08). She painted the fingertips of a friend, as if in preparation for a wedding.

The afternoon trekking group left, now we were four.

The camp now cleared away, Mousa took us with him to fill a tank on the back of his truck with water. He promised to take us to Little Petra later that afternoon so we could have a quick look around. We stopped to look at camels, and in a short while, arrived at our new camp.

As usual, the day was baking hot. The camp was nestled between rocks and Mousa took two foam mattresses up to a ledge in the rock that was in the shade. We followed and he set about collecting kindling and making a small fire. He produced his kettle and we sat about chatting while he made us sweet tea. We watched the people below setting up the camp. We watched the chemical toilets arrive (as you can see, they were a big feature in my life that week!).

Mousa disappeared and came back with lunch: flatbread, hummus, a tray of warmed vegetables and potatoes in tomato sauce. His eleven-year-old son joined us and I gave him some of my sweets. We laughed, talked some more, and settled down to doze.

And then the wind picked up. It whipped up the sand. It blew down the main tent in the camp. Mousa banged all the pegs in strongly and we took refuge in our tents. It wasn't as bad as the night sand storm but once again, fine dust covered everything in the tent. The camp team had started to prepare dinner but they had to relocate to the local village - they couldn't cook outside in those conditions. Mousa left with them; Little Petra, for us, was cancelled.

The four of us were left alone in the camp. We chatted and blinked against the sand. We watched some mountain goats come down the rocks and through the camp. The two dogs with them scavenged through some bags left from dinner preparations. After a while they all disappeared into the desert.

It was a strange feeling being left alone. I was filled with overwhelming sadness. I had let Tim down again. I examined my toe: it was no better. I'd miss walking into Petra tomorrow. I began to feel sorry for myself.

Time will do that. It will let the demons come in and play with your mind. While I'd been trekking there had been no room for any thoughts except for how lovely the view was or how the hell I was going to get up the next hill. At home I'm used to distracting myself and keeping busy. I don't like having nothing to do.

Someone's phone pinged! We had signal. I paid for some data and messaged the kids. I told them what a failure I was. I told them I wouldn't be going to Petra tomorrow. They bolstered me up, pretty much told me to put my big girl pants on, and hop there if I needed to! It was the straight-talking I needed. I was just tired and hot and disappointed. And my toe was throbbing.

The group of trekkers returned bringing laughter and excitement. It was great listening to their stories of the day. A friend suggested I speak to the doctor about my toe. I said it was okay but she called him as he was passing by. The diagnosis: an infected nailbed - the 'blister' was now covering about half my toe. The swelling had gone down quite a bit, due to resting it. We strapped it up, I took paracetamol but he said I needed antibiotics. The only problem was they'd only got one lot and they'd already given it out. Okaaaay. He said it should be okay till I got home but to keep an eye on it. I decided to ignore it.

I was suddenly hopeful that I might make it to Petra after all. The excitement in the camp was palpable - this was our last night camping. Everyone was on a high.

We watched the sun set, then all crowded into a tent for dinner. The atmosphere was electric. So much laughter, and the burners for keeping the food warm made our cheeks red. Another briefing from Theo and then outside to find our tents. The wind had dropped and the sky was filled with stars.

Jane Lomas is fundraising for The Brain Tumour Charity (justgiving.com)