Sharifa Zein’s passion for the Badia stems from the fact that this is essentially where all Jordanians come from: the word “Bedouin” meaning those who live in the desert. She insists that the land is fertile, with many natural resources and hopes to bring people back to their roots away from the overpopulated cities.

Despite being shown the extraordinary plants and herbs of the desert, I was shocked by the harshness of the land.  Worlds away from the golden sands of Petra and Wadi Rum, I found myself surrounded by miles of savage black rock, the result of a volcanic explosion millions of years ago.  No wonder cars can’t pass along here, I am amazed that the camels can.

The police aren’t entirely sure how to deal with me.  They cannot fathom why a small blonde thing occasionally turns up with her camera and films them whilst asking obscure questions.  Situated 7km from the Syrian border, and a long drive away from any sort of town across hostile desert, the police live an extraordinarily isolated life, one that only the Bedouins can cope with.

Asking to spend the night at the police post to film them head off for their nightly patrols was clearly a step too far. Eventually I compromised by filming them at dusk as they set off, spending the night back at the airbase and returning at dawn.  This, in itself, was an extraordinary request of mine as it meant that my poor driver had to navigate the desert completely in the dark.  Being Bedouin, however, meant that he knew everything about the Badia so I shouldn’t have been surprised when we swung off the track plunging deeper into the desert in search of fresh camel milk.  How does he know where the camels are? I queried looking out into the pitch black. ‘He knows’. And, sure enough, a few minutes later we were greeted by low grunts and a flickering fire.

This was the camp of the police shepherds. I huddled round the fire and listened to their old desert stories, bravely sipping my camel milk, though not completely convinced of its healthy rewards.  They strictly refused to give me an interview until the head shepherd spied me attaching a mic to Awayed, my driver, whereupon he promptly smartened himself up and snatched it off him. They may think I am entirely mad but they seem pretty keen to appear in my film.

When discussing ideas for my film in London, a friend recommended I made a trip to the West Bank to visit a charity called Bidna Capoeira.  Despite hearing stories of being subjected to hours of interrogation at the border, my sister and I decided to go.

The journey was disconcertingly smooth and we crossed the King Hussein Bridge, out into Jerusalem and up north to Ramallah without hiccup, to find a city much like Amman – hardly surprising given that around 2/3 of the Jordanian population is Palestinian.

The directors of the charity had organised a Roda in the afternoon for children to come together to play Capoeira.  We gathered in a loose circle, singing and playing instruments while different pairs came in and out in a continuous flow.  Gradually the music got faster and the circle became smaller and tighter until the atmosphere was almost tribal.  Capoeira is a blend of martial arts, sports and dance which is strangely powerful and gentle at the same time.  Huge emphasis is put on being able to trust one’s partner and build a dialogue through the movement.  I could feel the tension and frustration in the group that mounted and eased as the children danced – never touching, always anticipating the other’s next move.

The next day we went to the refugee camp Jalazone to film some of the Capoeira classes.  The girls stared wide-eyed at us and, giggling, queued up to shake our hands and share their juice with us. The boys were much less forthcoming, eyeing us with suspicion.  The incredible energy of the teachers and counsellors helped to loosen them up and soon they were laughing and jumping around . It is hard to imagine what these children have been through, many of them having woken up to discover that their elder brothers were taken away in the night by the IDF (Israeli Defence Force).  Despite the inspirational work the charity is doing, it was hard not to be affected by the palpable disillusionment and despair.

Too soon we were back on the bus, our return journey much less smooth.  To get back to Jerusalem we had to pass through a checkpoint at the Separation Barrier.  Initially we took in everything around us with interest but I quickly noticed we had both become completely silent as we were herded into a cage-like structure where we were held for two hours.  More bus-loads were emptied out behind us and soon the crowd was fiercely pressing in, desperate to be allowed through the turnstile.  The Israeli soldiers on the other side seemed dwarfed by their machine guns and their cheerful teenage faces looked out of place.  Every so often the crowd would begin a chorus of tutting as another Palestinian was turned back from the barrier.   The atmosphere became so tense and so painful that I was overwhelmed by the feeling of wanting to cry and turned to see my sister’s hands visibly shaking.

The wave of relief we felt on crossing back over the bridge to smiles and cries of ‘welcome to Jordan’ was extraordinary. We were back home.

I was given strict instructions from a close friend of mine to gallop up to the entrance like Indiana Jones and have duly done so.  This was so spectacular that the next visit we made, I took a horse up round the back of the mountains and entered Petra from the High Place of Sacrifice, from where you can see the whole city and mountains beyond.  The main entrance however, is through the winding Siq whose walls, smoothed by the water of many powerful floods, towers above you until you catch sight of the Treasury and soon emerge blinking out into the city.

We’ve spent many days exploring the ancient caves and carvings and have still only managed to see a fraction of it all. Little had I been warned that to get to the Monastery would be at least a 15km round trip. Dotted along the way are evacuated caves, recent home of the local Bedouins who were relocated to a purpose-built town called Um Sayhoon after Petra became a UNESCO world heritage site and a Modern Wonder.  After a day of walking, few things could be more rewarding than heading up to the rocks overlooking Petra to watch the sunset. On one such evening, we heard little donkey hooves trapping across the vast flat rocks. Two small boys appeared, riding Murphy and Whisky and invited us to join them for tea, pointing across the rocks at a tiny flickering fire that must have been their tent.  The famous hospitality of the Bedouins is so powerful and engaging that I may well end up staying here long after my departure date.

The first book I read out here was ‘Married to a Bedouin’ by Marguerite van Geldermalsen.  Marguerite was a young New Zealander who travelled to Petra in 1978 and fell so in love with the surroundings and one of the Bedouins that she ended up staying, living with him in a cave for many years and having three children.  Sadly her husband has died but she remains, still very much part of the Bdoul tribe, quietly manning her jewellery stall surrounded by ancient tombs.

Reading her story lying on the peachy golden sun-warmed rocks of Petra, I was carried away by the romance of her tale.  But, as attracted as I am to being swept off to the desert by Jack Sparrow-esque Bedouins, I fear this is not the life for me.

The first of these was HRH Princess “A”, without whom none of this could have been possible.  It was she who mentioned to my godfather (whom she met when he was working as a journalist in Lebanon and was staying with when he was taken hostage by Shi’a militants in 1987) that I should do a story on the Bedouin border patrol, one of the only mounted camel police forces in the world, covering 90km of land along the Syrian border where the terrain is so hostile that cars cannot cross it.  This sounded too exciting to be true. How did it make sense for the Bedouins to patrol a border when Bedouins are defined by their nomadic nature and for whom borders mean nothing? How would I gain access to a police force who worked in an area which had quickly become one of the most highly sensitive security locations in the world?  How would I navigate myself around a country on my own where I don’t speak Arabic and it is unacceptable (and sometimes dangerous) for women to travel alone?  My fears were quickly dispelled as I became aware that anything is possible in Jordan if the Royal Family is helping you.

The second most useful piece of advice was from an American friend I met out here.  Seemingly simple, it has yet to fail to help me overcome apparently unsurpassable obstacles…. ‘It’s ok’.  Faced with any obstruction, ‘it’s ok’, said with confidence and a smile can gain you access to stay in a heavily secured military airbase and permission to film the policing of the Syrian border. I’ve tried it.

The next thing that caught my eye out here is an organisation based in Zarqa, Jordan’s second largest city, north of Amman.  I had only known of Zarqa as home of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, former leader of Al-Qaeda in Iraq.  When I mentioned my ideas to a visiting journalist friend of mine travelling to Zarqa the next day to do a piece on the Muslim Brotherhood, he furrowed his eyebrows and looked over his glasses with the warning ‘stick to the Bedouins’.  Foolishly or not, I have not heeded his advice.

The organisation is called Khawla bint Al Azwar, named after perhaps the greatest the Islamic female warrior who lived during the time of the Prophet Muhammad.  Famed for her incredible courage and determination, she is a source of inspiration and hope for women in the Arab world.  The organisation works to empower women by giving them educational, financial and psychological support where there had previously been none.  After years of abuse and persecution from her husband and family, one of the ladies I have been working with described Khawla as not just a second home, but her entire home and the only place where she could breathe.

So these are my stories.  In the short few weeks that I have been here, I have already been challenged in more ways than I ever could have thought but I have also seen and experienced things I never could have imagined. And as long as the latter outweighs the former, I shall continue to pursue these stories (and my own) until I have made my films.

Flanked on all sides by conflict, Jordan rests, almost untouched by upheaval – an oasis of calm. Ironic, given that 85% of the country is made up of Badia, meaning wilderness or desert.  This odd sanctuary of calm attracted me to Jordan.  I am (trying to be) a filmmaker and I was told that to be a filmmaker, I have to make films. So that is what I am here to do.  I am here in the desert, a complete wilderness, enveloped by silence. Here, in the most holy place on earth, I walk amongst hills overlooking the place where Jesus was baptised, where Moses was shown the promised land. Yet, barely for a moment am I able to escape the fact that I am constantly surrounded by war.  This was to hit home on my very first evening in Amman where I was informed that builders working on the flat had just discovered a bomb underneath my bedroom. It may have dated back to the ’70s but by no means meant that it wasn’t live and that there aren’t many more that have yet to be unearthed…

My first trip outside Amman was south, to Petra and Wadi Rum – Lawrence territory.  Climbing the rocky steps up to the ancient Nabatean Monastery that is the treasure of this Modern Wonder, I was worlds away from London, home, family and friends yet I knew this was where I should be.  I want to understand the Badia.  I want to experience the spirit and madness of the desert.  I want to understand why three generations of my family have lived, worked and written about the Middle East and why now my sister and I are so drawn to it.

On hearing that I was to head out to Jordan to make a film, my father pleaded with me ‘don’t let me lose another family member to the Middle East’.  Within two days of arriving in this extraordinary country I knew I would soon be telling him that his concern had been well-founded.