Little aerodynamically shaped swallows fly ecstatically back and forth. Soon the nippy whiff will turn into warm waves of air. Curious rays of sunshine appear in the early heavens, causing long shadows to fall off the battlements of the old city wall. It’s summer in an awakening Jerusalem, becoming more apparent every minute. The small hand of time barely reaches six when, at the Damascus Gate, on the north eastern side, salesmen are setting up their market stalls. Persian rugs are laid on the stone steps, while fresh fruit and new shoes are carelessly placed next to each other. There are strong scents of bread and spices, yet the smells of the triumphant morning prevail.
For the past seven months I’ve been residing in Israel, in both the capital, on the Mount of Olives, as well as in Jaffa, a cozy harbor town at a walkable distance south of Tel Aviv. I don’t have time to get into it now, so hopefully in the next book I can elaborate more on things like the hours-long interrogation upon entry, how I almost got seriously injured by a group of young Palestinian men, my experiences at hostile check posts, disturbing refugee camps, the ancient biblical sites and the exhilarating daily life in poor Ramallah, late Yasser Arafat’s city. And of course much more.
For now, the focus is on the present activity: my hike towards the border, armed in white linen and equipped with backpack and a pair of Nordic walking sticks. You’re allowed to laugh, I don’t care. I happen to like those sticks that give a tremendous support to the body. In any case, when Mother Nature exhumes the battle axe almost immediately the suffering begins. Water is scarce and every green leaf has long been scorched by the increasing heat. Moving forward through loose sand is tiring, as well as hiking through fields of cluttered tennis ball-sized rocks. Once in the dry hills I meet barren places with amber shades. Here I’m getting ambushed by a surprise.
Better yet an intriguing encounter. People had previously warned me against Arabic nomads in the mountains. Tales of individuals that got murdered, never to be found again, are not uncommon. When I stumble upon several Bedouin tents I’m instantly reminded of this. To announce my approach, I call out: “Merhaba!” which translates to hello. Children spot me first. Crazy enough their natural response is to quickly gather gravel and start throwing it at me, some of the stones being the size of decent eggs. Using my left arm to protect my face I keep approaching until they realize, with certain hesitation, that I can’t be Jewish. Then the adults gather and within moments I’m surrounded by a large portion of the tribe. It is somewhat worrying due to the many violent rumors going about.
Not having a fridge or any type of electricity around I assume they store their reserves underground, when I unexpectedly get handed a tin pan of cold water. Judging from the look on their faces I am not the only one that didn’t see that coming. Children are poor and their skin dirty with stains covering their clothing. They point at my wrist watch and try to open my backpack that I placed on the ground. Clever knots I previously made in the strings are preventing that. They have me sit down in the light shadow of a stretched-out cloth when one of the young adults starts to clap his hands. Others follow rapidly and bring self-improvised instruments to the show, putting me at ease. Their new guest, most certainly impressed, is treated to a traditional folk dance of singing nomads! I’m in awe of the unprompted entertainment and get to see the human dimension of this gypsy-like community.
Contrary to daily temperatures the nights are freezing cold. Since a sleeping bag is too much to carry around a small fleece blanket has to do all the heavy work. Once again, I sacrifice comfort for the sake of adventure. In the hours I lie awake at night, by myself in the desert, I survey the stars and try to calculate my location by the different angles of constellations. The silence of long and lonely nights is breached by the distant echoes of bullets whizzing through the pitch black. Often omitted by the media, this war that has already lasted for thousands of years, has never stopped. Daylight invites me to pack my stuff and keep moving. As if the Holy Spirit is guiding my steps I notice a beautiful soft-toned dove constantly following me. But then again it just might be a hungry bird.
In front of the ruins of four-and-a-half-thousand-year-old Jericho I’m held up by a check post, the last one before entering Judea and Samaria, better known as the West Bank. A group of armed Israeli soldiers inquire what the hell I’m doing here by myself on foot. “Well I’m heading east, preferably as far as I can get” is my reply. And that is exactly what I’m doing. After a while I learn they are on high alert, recently having fought against Hezbollah in the north, just below Lebanon. After earning their trust, I receive provisions in the form of fruits and water. Thank you IDF. At our parting a soldier shouts at me from the watchtower: “I will blow away anyone who comes near you!”, recklessly swinging his massive machine gun about. I can’t help to chuckle. No matter how you feel about the Knesset and the regime in power, it’s astonishing that this country is defended by a bunch of teenagers.
Deeper into Palestinian occupied territory the remains of bloody, unceasing disputes from former colonies are reminiscent, with rubble from exploded houses and scattered bullet holes in whatever is left standing. Mine fields are separated from the unpaved main road merely by barbed wire, only the occasional sign strung up with scrap wire warns against this. Once in the city center it seems as if suspicious eyes monitor every movement I make, but I guess I’m no different when it comes to that. Overall it doesn’t make a very safe impression.
Late in the afternoon I arrive at the heavily guarded river, which is the border. One of the three crossings to the Kingdom of Jordan is the Allenby Bridge which was constructed on top of the decrepit remains of the Ottoman Empire. This bridge was named after a British general. The gentlemen at Immigration are dumbfounded to find me all by myself with my walking sticks. That’s something they don’t see every day. And just in case you’re wondering yourself what I’m doing here I agree I owe you a small explanation. I decided to explore the Muslim world of the Middle East by making a journey on foot through countries you usually only see on the six o’clock news. I wanted to find out what’s really happening in these places that we know so little about. After having my passports thoroughly checked they put me on the last bus for the day, that is seconds away from leaving. I feel honored being the last tourist of today. It’s mandatory to take this prearranged bus, as for good reasons it is illegal to cross the border individually.
Upon arrival in the land of King Abdullah the Second, who is a direct descendant of the Prophet Muhammad himself, according to the genealogy on the website of the Jordanian embassy, intrusive taxi drivers are baiting me with sharp prices, in a manner that only Arabs can. However, their skilled rattling is falling on deaf ears. I put my sunglasses on to enjoy the sight of the low orange sun and begin to walk. Thick trunked palm trees make a formal bow as they welcome me on Edomite soil. One can’t help but notice the aggravating and unnecessary litter ruining the place. Dust makes my mouth dry and even the air is needy of moisture. At this hour the traffic has diminished to nothing. With absence of occasional passers-by, I manage to fix myself a place to sleep for tonight. Climbing over a fence an unclear path leads to a fig nursery, where it’s easy to hide between big, dense leaves. In this private-owned patch of land dogs are frequently snooping around. To prevent their barking from exposing my hiding spot I actually sleep with a knife in my hand. Luckily for both parties the night goes by without any harm done.
It turns out to be a bit of a challenge to get clean drinking water. Here the streets have no name and the houses have no numbers. And to make things worse, crossing through dead-end villages, no living soul speaks English. Alongside the road are rusting cars without tires. Occasional houses I encounter are poorly maintained, if at all. Did you know the amount of roadkill dogs are about the same as the living ones? Literally every single one of the last-mentioned group has an aggressive attitude. Seeing how animals are treated by the locals it comes as no surprise. They’re kicked, beaten and shouted at, whilst not receiving love from anyone. If only they knew the joy a pet could bring. At the threshold of the first piece of extended desert that I need to cross, a tiny store allows for cans of orange juice and salty sausage, bursting from garlic. Since this is my last chance to collect some serious ration, I should be stacking my backpack, yet I do not. Without having obtained local currency, due to the lack of ATMs, the handful of exchanged money I carried is now gone, preventing to get properly equipped. Meaning I will be crossing this desolate wasteland entirely on faith. Somehow knowing, instead of hoping, I will be taken care of.
Call it stupidity, call it determination, but there I go in the heat of the day towards a never-ending horizon. Plagued by thirst I pant forward despite my pace slowing down until I drop to my knees. To say that I feel refreshed after a period of rest would be an exaggeration, but I receive just enough energy to get back on my feet to continue. Circling vultures in the sky are paying too much attention to me. Hours pass until a dot appears in the distance. Some more hours pass until I finally reach the dot, now grown into an actual structure. And what do you know? In the middle of nowhere there is this army base. Of course, military staff keeping watch have observed me from far away. Wondering why anyone would solo travel to their compound, let alone survive the desert. Jordanian soldiers who, for reasons unknown, all carry a big mustache, are eager to invite me into their camp. With unsurpassed hospitality I’m received. All the men surrounding me are very interested in my story. While letting me fill up my hydration bladder they are quick to serve ice-cold water, showcasing decency and respect, for they understand, like no one else, I must have endured at least half a day of hardships showing up here. Some of them know a little English, albeit poorly. We communicate mostly with hand signs and now and again I throw in some Arabic phrases which light up everyone’s faces. After thirty minutes the gates suddenly open and the mood changes radically. A small convoy drives in onto the inner court. For a moment you can’t see your hand in front of your face due to the sudden dust. An obviously high-ranked figure, recognizable by the plaque of pin insignias resembling a Mondriaan painting, pinned to his chest, is furious. In a tyrannical way he shouts about, pointing at the gates basically giving instructions to kick me out asap. With hanging heads the men half drag me to where I came in earlier. Before forcibly throwing me back out into the desert they wink and smile as a way of letting me know they don’t agree with this kind of policy. I’m humbled by the soldiers’ gestures but I feel bad for them. All they wanted was a chance to get to know a man from another culture. They finally had the opportunity to chat with a westerner and now this is taken from them. Admittedly, they may have stepped over the line by not obeying protocol, and they may have been disobedient concerning direct orders of the officer but at the end of the day we’re all people.
In an Islamic country like Jordan most hardworking citizens want to live in peace. However, interest in foreign societies, especially in the morally empty western ones, is directly penalized by the ruling organ. The West is most reprehensible to a large number of leading Muslims. They divided the world into two categories according to their holy scriptures, the Dar es salaam and the Dar al harb, meaning the house of peace and the house of war. Well, I’m not implying anything here, but you can figure out yourself which category you belong to, being a non-Muslim. Since they don’t have religion and state separated, everything is ruled by their law. Sharia has the final say.
As the course advances the fight against exhaustion amplifies. Encompassed by sand there seems to be no relief. Eventually a white van pulls over, the thing nearly falling apart. A man wearing a spotless turban steps out from the vehicle and offers a cluster of grapes. Me nibbling away he asks if I needed a ride. Without hesitation I nod, I am too weak to take one more step anyway. The helpful, black bearded man has a posture too big for the small van. He’s comically crammed in between the seat and steering wheel. Lo and behold, we reach a paved road about fifteen minutes later. He takes me to a red painted kiosk at the edge of a cliff, looking out over a small valley with one foot high shrubs, that are tussling plastic bags whenever a breeze sets up.
It’s one of those places where truck drivers stop for a cup of coffee. Cheap plastic chairs and some tables in front of the establishment stand on a flattened strip of dirt. Luckily for me it is custom in the Arabic world to treat the stranger well, thus I am granted something to drink and a meal with rice and chicken. I’m so hungry I start stuffing my mouth straight away like an impure swine. I get short of breath because my esophagus is severely dry which is even preventing me from swallowing the road side dish. When I try to flush it down with water it is just not wet enough. Practically suffocating in my own food I realize I’m no good to maintain my desert hike, at least for now. By the time one of the truck drivers mentions I can ride along I pick my backpack from the ground and throw a smile at him, saying, “Show me the way!”
Heading towards town I dream of having a shower. I can hardly remember the last time I properly washed myself, but frankly I don’t care too much because the smells from my armpits are still socially acceptable. In the banner-overlaid cabin it’s very spacious and the invigorating air-conditioning knows how to turn me into a human being again. My driver wears a grey beard and a royal-blue cap on his head. He likes to listen to secular music with his son, who sits silently in the back of the cabin, shamelessly staring at me with his mouth open. During the ride I witness other drivers stepping out from their trucks. Wondering what they’re up to, I see them placing a small rug on the sand only to kneel down to pray right next to the road with their engines still running! I’ve got to hand it to these folks, they are definitely devout. Practicing believers are obligated to repeat this five times a day. As you may well know, this is one of the five pillars of their seventh century religion, or as some like to call it, authoritarian ideology. Reaching the suburbs of the capital Amman the grit truck empties its cargo which heralds the end of Amal’s long workday. Since we don’t speak each other’s language not many words are shared, so the outcome sometimes has been a bit awkward. My attentive nature causes me to understand him most of the time though. In this case, that means I know he’ll take me to his house to have supper.
Located on a hillside, the terrace on top of this apartment building bestows a magnificent view across the valley. For as far as the eye can see there are residencies by the thousands, all jam packed and shoulder to shoulder. Basically, they’re nothing more than square concrete boxes in comparable colors. The only thing sticking out, and quite literally in that sense, is a gigantic white landmark called the Raghadan Flagpole. Towering all surrounding hills, it is ridiculously tall with a height of at least four hundred and fifteen feet. Evenly impressive is the nation’s flag attached to it, its dimensions being thirty meters by sixty meters. When it was erected it actually was the tallest pole in the world. It is recorded to be spotted from as far as fifteen miles away and when it is lit up at night the pole boasts a dignified allure.
Before I enter the house my driver hides his wife in the kitchen. I am not allowed to see her. How different from the West, where introducing your wife is likely the first thing you do! Over here men dominate every aspect of society. A quick introduction to his children follows, yet while the boys linger, his daughter is off to the kitchen also. Having washed our hands, we are now ready to eat a variety of traditional Jordanian snacks which are being served by his daughter on what seem to be silver platters. After the meal the old truck driver lights up a big, fat joint. It’s insane how many people are using this illegal plant. Even though I do not meet anyone who doesn’t smoke, I politely decline. Like most other locals, he too is completely confounded to hear that I never used cannabis in my entire life. Not even during my five years of living in Amsterdam, where it’s legal to do so, but I am not claiming to have always been a saint. Other substances have been marked on the checklist. When the last cup of tea is consumed, the family suddenly says goodbye. The oldest son opens the gate and takes me to the streets. I have no idea what to expect, other than realizing that they don’t want me to spend the night at their place, since they are more or less sending me on my way now.
Out of some twisted habit the unkempt boy is constantly spitting on the ground. For that reason, I’m not too sorrowful when a bus arrives. Boarding the bus, a question mark appears above me, like the flames on top of the heads of the disciples. Crazy as it seems, the passengers enjoy the same habit and spit anywhere they can. Disgusting. Receiving anything but happy looks I begin to wonder if it’s something else than a habit. Perhaps I’m not welcome here and this is how they choose to show me their contempt. Either way, it appears quite disrespectful. We only have one thing in common. All of us get kicked out in less than an hour at the end of the line, next to an empty square. And just like that I’m on my own again. Now that the sun has set there’s only one thing I can do really, and that’s finding myself a place to crash right here in the center of Amman.
Coincidentally, the last bus stop is exactly where I wanted to go, namely the very heart of the city. The gloom of the last daylight illuminates a Roman theatre. Ecstatically situated against a hillside, this two-thousand-year old structure is the nation’s largest, boasting a staggering thirty-three rows of seats going upward. In fact, it is in such a good condition, conjoined with impeccable acoustics, that performances are held there today. How about that? Beautiful tall palm trees and lights from closed shops make it less of a hostile environment.
For the lack of finding something better, the benches in a park will function as my bed tonight. It’s actually not that disappointing when you keep your standards low. With the time already around midnight I’m not too worried about comfort either and it doesn’t take very long before I doze off. Correspondingly, it doesn’t take very long before I wake up again too, from a bright light shining in my face, a shame it isn’t the redeeming morning sun. Instead two police officers almost ignite me with their flashlights. Against my will I’m taken to the station where a meager inquisition takes place. It’s hard to make sense of it all but I pick up some words here and there. It becomes clear to me that the officers reckon it too dangerous for me to sleep outside alone. Especially now with the current elections going on where sudden riots break out all over the place. It is nice and encouraging to know that they are doing their best to keep a foreigner safe. I’m released with the urging advice to book a hotel in the neighborhood. Well, it’s more of a demand. Of course, I don’t know any hotels. Besides that, and probably more crucially, I still have no money on me. Coupled with the fact that I can barely keep my eyes open, I decide to stroll back to the park I was staying at before, where I fall asleep immediately on the exact same bench, still available. In no way am I concerned about the possibility of my backpack getting stolen, or worse.
Turns out you can’t fool the Jordanian police. In less than an hour the situation repeats itself. This time the two gentlemen escort me to a nearby hotel where they order the owner to give me a room. You see, no need to bring a travel guide along! I cynically think to myself, somehow of the opinion that the universe will automatically balance things out. Playing by their rules I take the lift to the seventh floor.
Getting punished for my nonchalant attitude surely balances things out alright. Bed bugs are attacking from every angle, frayed curtains are saturated with smells of sweat and cigarette smoke, and in spite of it being in the middle of the night by now, the traffic outside remains loud and noisy. I shouldn’t complain though. I have a private room with my own bathroom, a real soft mattress, and perhaps, yes perhaps outweighing all of this, I am out of danger from possible riots outside and get to keep my life.
Due to the itching and scratching I book myself another hotel in the subsequent days. With a safe haven on hand there’s enough time to delve into this secretive culture. In the meantime I’m finally in possession of a pocket full of Dinar (the name of the currency) significantly broadening my options. A visit to the ancient ruins of the Temple of Hercules is time well spent. When seeing the enormous doorways, the myth of the demigod comes alive. He must have been huge. Besides that, the viewpoint from this hill alone is worth coming here.
Nearby parks, however, generate a nasty vibe. A surprising number of closeted gays are staring at me, way too long for my comfort. Perhaps it is some sort of secretive meeting point? Either they are smelling fresh meat, or it is just the fact that there are hardly any women in the streets. If you see a dozen of women a day it’s a lot, although you wouldn’t recognize your own wife. They are wrapped up from top to bottom in all-concealing black burkas.
Armed soldiers are on every street corner keeping an eye on the sporadic tumult. Due to the present elections the city is sheathed with flags and banners, posters and pamphlets. Many cars are even fully plastered with pictures of their preferred candidates, who act as political hero’s over here. Not a day goes by without rallies, loud shouting or small groups fighting. It is safe to say things work a little different here, one time I even see a wheeled bulldozer with outstretched hydraulic arm, carrying three guys in its U-blade. Several times a day prayers echo from the high minarets of the King Abdullah Mosque, with its grandeur aquamarine mosaic dome. The somewhat – to some – intimidating recitation of the Qur’an are delivered by the Imams, who are masters in masquerading the indoctrinations with elegant, harmonic tunes.
Trying to convert me in the process, a portion of the few people I meet proudly show me pictures of their Hadj, the pilgrimage to Mecca. In spite their diligent efforts so far no one managed to do so. Having studied at a university in Jerusalem, where I was taking some classes in religion, I collected my own set of views and believes. I don’t mind them trying to fulfill their task though, I understand it’s part of their world and so I show respect. One that is not interested in faith is Samir, an older man from Lebanon, who owns a transportation company. Visiting Jordan for business the grey bearded man suggests we spend some time together. Guessing his intentions are good, I agree. While buying us lunch he shares considerable inside information about the state of affairs in the Middle East, yet it seems to me that he needs to get this all off his chest. I suppose it’s good to ventilate sometimes. We both know that a discrete westerner is a safe place to dump valuable resources on, things better left unsaid to his direct network. He knows he is constantly being watched too. When we part ways, he realizes how much he told me thus making me swear not to tell his name to anyone. Sitting at home watching fake news on CNN all day surely doesn’t teach you these life lessons, from a total stranger with half a century of experiences. Only when you decide to grab your gear and take some risk by going out by yourself, are enriching encounters guaranteed.
Time for the usual sightseeing. Let’s not forget this fairly small country has much underrated richness. Undoubtedly, no one traveling here leaves without having visited the famous archaeological sites. Well, except me perhaps. Being in mid-travel flow in the north, I must confess it isn’t before the last month of the year 2012 before I finally check out these next two places for myself. First, the Prediluvian Temples of Petra, that fully deserves being put on the UNESCO World Heritage list. The architecture is mesmerizing with unparalleled precision; the details and geometrical alignments still baffle engineers and archeologists today. No wonder, being designed and built with occult knowledge from descendants of the giants that still lived in those days. There’s just no way the official narrative is even remotely plausible. To think that the tribe of the Nabataeans created all that with their copper chisels is utterly absurd. But hey, what do I know? Either way it is marvellous to view how the sun illuminates the red sandstone, not to mention the narrow trail with ninety-degree angled cliffs on either side, with naturally assorted complexions decorating them. You have to see it to believe it. Once it was a prosperous city due to the trade of Boswellia trees. That name probably doesn’t mean anything to you, but from these they extract minerals to make frankincense, a highly valued product in those days. In the history filled air you can easily spend a day without having seen everything. I can assure you, it will leave you contemplating long after on how they were able to establish such societal superiority.
If you’re so close to one of the phenomenal sensations of this earth, you can’t afford to miss the Wadi Rum desert. Possibly the most genuine on this side of the heavens. Khaki dunes interspersed with deep red sand, intriguing layered rock formations abiding in primordial prudence, and an overall astounding beauty of uninhabited lands. Fortified colors are gently broken by a single viridian bush. It’s not exceptional to come across camels either, dwelling abundantly on the plains. If you have a desire to feel as one with the undisturbed nature then surely this is a recommendation. Merely being here in the lonesome nothingness is a remedy for the soul, as if it were healing therapy.
Back to Amman I carry on with my voyage with my Nordic walking sticks. Cloudless skies are brighter than ever – even hurting my eyes. Intense sunshine beats down on my sunburned face. As I keep on walking my fairly new hiking boots are broken in quickly. Not keeping any track of days always produces a legitimate feeling of freedom to me. I am just a man in the world, right here, right now, and that’s it. If I could only hold onto that splendid consciousness while being at work. Unfortunately, my job is too stressful to be focusing on other things. It’s virtually impossible finding a balance between running a business and the much-coveted serenity. They can’t coexist. Still, it’s a funny thing, while working I often dream about traveling, mind you that while traveling I never dream about working.
As I flank smoldering tarmac lanes, the layer of heat rising up in the distance causes them to mirror. Then, it shows that a bus draws near from the Jett company, right through the mesmerizing mirage. As a way to cool down the engine it drives with the valve open, as all of them do. On his own initiative, the chauffeur slows down to ask if I care for a ride to the north, knowing full well that I won’t survive two days here on my own. I reckon crossing a border with a group of people is easier than attempting alone, so I accept his proposal. In all of the surroundings I’ve met zero other westerners and inside the bus it’s no different. To my relief, they at least halted the spitting.
Late in the afternoon we arrive at the border where I am interrogated for hours. So much for crossing it with a group. After a while I have to take my luggage out of the bus and remain behind. Other travelers are all granted access and sit themselves back in their seats. Closing the side hatch, they curiously peek from behind the curtains, without any sign of compassion. Returning to the Immigration office, men in suits inquire how I got into the country. If I tell them the truth that I came via Israel they obviously won’t let me into Syria, since no one is allowed to do so. This is why I travel with two Dutch passports, as I previously promised to explain. The one with stamps from Israel I mailed back to the Netherlands last week in order not to be busted. From the stamp in my second passport they assume that I can’t have entered Jordan by airplane, and right they are. But I’m playing stupid and pretend I don’t understand English, meanwhile trying my best to look as innocent as possible. When every attempt fails this door stays closed. What a disappointment, to get rejected so coldheartedly.
While hiking south, I’m lost in thoughts about what to do next. Dealing with the new insecurities a car pulls over with two guys inside. Generously handing over a bag of potato chips they wonder what this white tourist is doing here. Gluttonously restocking my salt level I explain the situation to them. As if sent from above they plead me to step in and accompany them to their home. No idea what to expect I give in to their persuading charms. Licking the scraps off my fingers I hop into the back. Loud, obnoxious music is blasting out of cracking speakers. Assuming that they are in their early twenties the boys are singing and clapping along enthusiastically with their favorite cassette. Pretty soon we diverge from the asphalt to a lonesome dirt road, mainly existing out of boorish gravel. Leaving a long trail of dust behind we are in for a bumpy ride. The key is pulled out of the ignition when we bob up beyond the outskirts of their hometown Mafraq.
Showing interest in one another I find out the boys are part of a family of settled nomads. It’s just their house and nothing else for miles around. I’m amazed at the amount of sheep that roam about. How can they find something edible between the rocks of this barren infertility? One of their uncles, wearing a red and white checkered headscarf, is happy to see us. Within no time the whole house runs out to see me and I get introduced to the family. Other family members of surrounding villages get summoned to also behold this pale souvenir. There is this tiny voice in the back of my head questioning if my head will be severed by these barbarian people. Of course, it is totally unjustified. I’m shown great hospitality by trays of rice, chicken and various vegetables. We spend all night eating on the floor. Chairs and tables do not partake in their style of furnishing. Instead there’s rugs, cushions and mattresses. When the tribal elder bestows a traditional garment I’m deeply moved. Lines in his sun darkened skin tell tales of sophistication. He just met me and already shows so much kindness. In return I give him a pair of wooden shoes with hand painted windmills on them. I often bring along portable gifts on my travels for special occasions such as this one. We both are appreciative of the gesture and enjoy mutual respect. And to receive as much as possible from my part I tried to adapt to their culture by keeping short hair, not eating pig meat and by covering my arms and legs, even in this heat. By now I learned from experience that I would have never been treated this way if I was wearing shorts or still wearing my blond ponytail. Falling asleep at night with about fifteen others in the living room, I think to myself how anyone can choose a holiday at a lowbrow all-in resort, in one of those overcrowded touristy beach towns.
Having tolerated a night of feisty snores with cliché-like odors of goat and garlic, we are on the move to a neighboring village, again leaving a long trail of dust behind us. Due to my poor understanding of Arabic, let alone their local tongues, I am completely clueless about our destination, or the reason thereof. What I do know is from the second we enter this small settlement, every single resident converges. Am I to expect my ritual onslaught after all? Pleased that nothing like that befalls me, we enter through a green-painted gate made from cast iron. Parking on the property of the nicest house of the street by far, with smooth plastered walls, well-maintained rose bushes, a neat pergola and a wiped-down driveway. Where am I? As it proves to be the case, they have an uncle that enjoys the rank of major in the Jordanian army. Before we enter his house he already approaches to greet us and shakes our hands. This educated individual speaks proper English, thus enabling us to have a real conversation, that he on his turn translates to his household, and the extended relatives also present for the occasion. To know that the entire tribe consists of a staggering nine hundred people! I don’t think they do birthday presents over here. Anyway, small children stare without blinking, cautiously yet curiously hiding behind adult legs and all this time a large group of spectators is waiting in front of the gate outside. Perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of me, as if I am some kind of celebrity rock star – a surreal encounter. The army commander and I talk extensively about several topics, but predictably perhaps mostly about Christianity, Islam and the Jewish-Palestinian conflict. Meeting a man like this naturally sticks for a while.
Subsequently, one of the befriended nomadic boys proudly shows me their rifles. Without firing a shot we climb back into the ramshackle car again. My personal tour guides are kind enough to drop me off at the northern border. In fact, quite close to where they picked me up the day before. Having said goodbye, it’s time to put on my invisible knights’ armor. Today I’m going to test my luck by pulling the same trick as a year ago, of which you could read in a previous chapter, then being at the front lines of India and Pakistan. In a bold yet controlled manner, fully on guard, I step into the Immigration office where I was cutthroat rejected yesterday. In the huge hangar about a thousand overbearing and impatient men are sweating profusely. Ceiling fans are too high up to have any effect at all in the heat of the day. After all, it’s mid-summer. There is no such thing as queues, this concept wouldn’t work in this culture where there is an evident lack of self-control, so everyone is in for their own. When it’s finally my turn, I choose a window with an agent that I hadn’t seen yesterday. I’ve always been very good with remembering faces. Evidently, I’m not the only one with that gift. Only one window next to me they change shifts. Even before finding his seat, the armed replacement looks straight into my eyes, intense enough to recognize me instantly. Of all people I can’t believe I’m being confronted by the same guy from a day ago! Me being caught red handed, the man starts to shout something in Arabic while pointing directly at me! From the corner of my eyes I notice my travel documents have already received a stamp, so in a flash I slide my arm through the partly round pass-through and snatch my passport and papers, only to disappear in the swirling sea of people.
Keeping my head low, I am a needle in a human haystack. While anxiously sprinting in a zigzagging fashion, I aim for the exit where an open door co-operates in my impulsive escape.
While outside, some shrubs provide cover until the coast is clear. I don’t see any surveillance cameras attached to the white facades which could give away my hiding place. Step one is indeed accomplished by officially leaving Jordan. Now I have to enter the southern border of Syria somehow with a suspicious looking passport. And just like you I’m wondering why do I always get myself into these crazy situations? And maybe more importantly, how do I get myself out of them?