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Cave pirates and midnight mule riding, it was the type of whirlwind adventure travellers’ lust for. With the sun scorching overhead I wandered the lost city of Petra, admiring the ancient ruins carved into imposing stone cliffs. Locals hounded me, trying to sell mule rides or little trinkets. I waved them away, the luxury of solo travelling rapidly wearing off. I suddenly felt a huge craving for genuine company. It was around that very moment I ran into two German guys staying at my hotel. With a little small talk and a big smile, an instant friendship was struck. They were walking to the Monastery. Did I want to join? We trailed up the 850 steps, the hazy glow signalling the day drawing to a close. Tourists flocked in the opposite direction, as we continued our steep ascent. Finally, atop the cliff we stood in awe of the now vacant ruins, mountains and desert for miles behind us. That’s when we met the cave dwellers. They looked straight out of Pirates of the Caribbean, donning curly black locks, red bandanas, low-crutched pants and coal eyeliner. The afternoon winds started blowing fiercely from the desert, so they invited us in. The dwellings were simple: tarpaulins as walls and a make shift veranda adorned with hanging lanterns. Their world-class views of the Monastery? Priceless. Being Ramadan, it had proved impossible to find any alcoholic beverages in Jordan. When they offered us Bedouin whisky our faces instantly lit up. It turned out it was just black tea with sugar. The taste was both sharp and sweet, the aftermath lingering on your tongue. Its immense popularity visible in the local’s teeth, as black as the coal rimming their eyes. They told us stories of travellers who had stayed with them. An old digital camera was passed around as we scrolled through their memories, friendly faces from all over the world. One Bedouin proudly sported a Fjällräven jacket, a testament to a friendship with a Swede. After many a round of Bedouin whisky we were invited to Admed’s cave for dinner. In moonlight we began the slow descent down the cliff face. Dense clusters of stars began to emerge, almost competing with the city twinkling beyond the mountains. Ahmed insisted I ride the mule down the steep stone steps. I tried to protest, but blisters from hours of walking were burning. Next thing I was clutching onto a mule intent on walking insanely close to the cliff edge. Silence hung heavy, interrupted by the rhythmic hooves clinking against the slippery facade. After a terrifying journey we got to Ahmed’s cave, and were surprised to find three other solo travellers. Nestled around a fire drinking (of course) tea, they chatted candidly as dinner slow-cooked on the embers. We ate the stew with bare hands and bread, talking travel and life. Afterwards we were whisked onto the back of mules, riding double with the Bedouins who were dropping us to the village. It started out magically, riding mules by midnight’s moonlight racing through the empty plains. I suddenly looked back, our pack of horses had dispersed. All the riders had disappeared into the dead of the night. I had a moment of panic, eerie blackness ahead and a lot of trust being placed in Ahmed who we’d met just a few hours earlier. Seeking to silence my fears I focused on the rhythm of the mule, dancing almost as it leapt across the inky vastness. After what felt like forever I saw a dim light come in focus. Then another. We were approaching a small village. My heart beat loudly, we couldn’t have got there fast enough. We passed a few empty streets, then I saw the Germans. We all smiled in mutual relief. As we thanked Ahmed and the day of adventures played before my eyes. So many moments so surreal, they felt as if they weren’t real. The people of Petra had been some of the kindest, most genuine souls I’d met. It was one of those experiences you could never pay for, never create or never seek. We’d just fallen into it a real Arabian nights adventure – straight out of an Indiana Jones novel.