2/15/13
Breakfast at the Imperial was slightly worse today, with more people and less olive oil. Since Basem was busy in the morning, we took a rushed city tour with the same cranky old man, who drove us down empty streets, as all Muslim shops are closed on Fridays, and extolled the virtues of the old city. He took us up to the Citadel, which was a small city/fort on the highest hill in Amman, and we browsed the ruins quickly before embarking on a personal mission to show us how depraved the foreign rich residents of the city were. We drove past empty, raucously designed mansions on a hill, listening to the old man rant against wealthy Iraqis who, he claimed, “cannot be really happy.” Then he took us to a Dead Sea products shop where the women oohed and aahed over various forms of packaged mud. This went on for far too long. I would have rather spent the time in the old city. I really think this city would be great for street photography, if I could just get out and actually, you know, do it.

Basem, Mohammad and Fahed were waiting at the hotel when we got back, and we set out soon after, driving down, down, down off the high plains, towards Israel. The sun came out, and the temperatures rose. We drove past camping Jordanian families under fig trees, past the place where Jesus was baptized, and to the coast of the Dead Sea, which is at its present rate supposed to disappear in about 50 years. Fortunately, (or unfortunately if you’re not a fan of the Dead Sea), the area’s governments have come up with a plan to pump water from the Red Sea to the Dead Sea (Better Dead than Red, I guess). Basem’s family owns a chunk of land on the coast, complete with a shack and a pool for hot spring water piped in. We dumped our stuff and proceeded down to the coast, stopping first at one of the gullies, crossed by a bridge. Basem, the smallest of his brothers as well as the oldest, disappeared down a rocky slope, and everyone else but me sensibly decided not to follow his example. For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to pick my way down the steep, rocky slope, starting several small avalanches on my way, until I found at the bottom a straight drop to the river bed. “Just jump!” Basem said, completely unhelpfully. I hung down as far as I could, but I was still several meters short. There was nothing for it except to let go, and I bounced off the bottom and fell over, thankfully with nothing more than a few scrapes and bruises. “I fell down too,” Basem admitted, adding, “I just wanted to see someone else fall.”

We made our way out to the coast, where some of our party were hoping to float in the water, but I was less than enamored with the idea of dipping my scrapes in such salty water, plus I had a headache. So I wandered around a bit instead.

Back at the shack, I took a dip in the pool, which, while containing deliciously hot water, featured a slippery bottom that made standing difficult. Basem’s other younger (but by no means little) brother showed up and lent his hand to making dinner. Festive lights and Muslim hits on a large speaker soon had the Jordanians dancing and shouting between courses of barbeque. It was a great, fun night, and we ended up sitting around the fire chatting until we all fell asleep under the stars.

2/14
It was misty and grey outside in Amman when we got up this morning; the headlights of the cars on the road downstairs reflected in the wet roads, though there was no rain. A guard was huddled in his hut across the way from the hotel’s entrance. Apparently we’re right next door to the Prime Minister’s something or other. Chenbl and I walked down to one of the many roundabouts, where thousands of accidents almost happen every day, to try and get an unobstructed view of the city, but to no avail. We walked up the block a bit and even infiltrated an unfinished luxury building, but the door to the roof was locked. Traffic police laughed as we skipped through traffic 15 times for each of the lanes leading to and from the traffic circle on the way back to enjoy the hotel breakfast, which was sparsely attended (all the more for us).

Mohammed and Fahed showed up with another fellow, Nabil, who was driving a van for us to Aljoun, up north in greener hill country more similar to that of Southern European climes. A cold wind whipped and snapped at us as we climbed the steps of the ancient castle ruins above the town. The place was ingeniously constructed, with fascinating architectural features a guide probably could have told us had we had one. We did note the rainwater collection system and lighting via windows.

Our next stop was the ancient Roman ruins of Jerash, which are vast to say the least. We entered through the usual barrage of booths selling trinkets, through a large gate and past a large horse track, into the actual city, or what’s left of it, even after an impressive restoration effort. I turned a corner just past the track to find Chenbl drinking ginger-flavored coffee with a picnicking Jordanian family. I had a cup or two as well.

We climbed up to the temple of Zeus, and then around to the amphitheater, where apparently the acoustics are so good the whole audience can hear anyone on stage speaking in a normal voice. Of course, this was rather difficult to discern as a man in traditional costume was belting out kindergarten hits with his bagpipes. From the ear-popping heights of the theater we could see herds of goats roaming over the green hills and ruins of the rest of the city. It must have been impressive in its day, with grand avenues and running water. A young Jordanian man with a real talent for languages showed us the secret to making one of the massive pillars of the temple of Aphrodite wobble (Hint: You have to lean on it and push).

We had lunch at another roadside restaurant, and although we always seem to be eating in empty restaurants where the staff are all busy putting things away, I have to say that I really like the food in Jordan so far. Even the spicy dishes, which I usually avoid, appeal to me.

After returning to the hotel for a bit, we headed out to a trendy shopping district, where we walked around a bit. “Pay whatever you want,” the cabbie said, though his meter, conveniently hidden, said a dollar and change. We had just entered a trendy mall and were looking down at the various levels when a couple of security guards rushed past. A moment later I heard a huge crash, and when I looked over, the glass door of the Bally store had disintegrated.

Upstairs, we looked at things and had some drinks and wi-fi. Then it was late, and time to go back to the hotel. “Five dollars,” the cabbie said. We paid it; his meter was blank.

2/12/13

We were driven to the airport by a robot. I mean, he was apparently a human driver, but he didn’t react to our conversation, nor did he flinch or even remark upon the fact that the car just ahead of us had just hit a bird with such force that it produced a fireworks show of feathers in our path for roughly half a second. That said, I have to say Taiwan’s traffic controls seem to be working pretty well.

Our flight was leaving from the old terminal, but it had been spruced up since I’d last seen it, covered in 70’s-era wood and other highlights that actually made it cooler than the “new” terminal. God knows what they’re going to do with the new Terminal 3 – Steampunk would be my best guess. One area in which they either haven’t improved yet or have decided to go full-on retro with is the automatic face recognition immigration controls, which I’ve used on several occasions and find rather convenient. Fortunately, lines were short.

Our Airbus took off into the sodden clouds, bursting suddenly into bright sunlight with no warning, and we were soon winging our way over the white cotton quilt to Hong Kong, home of convenient free wi-fi and a Popeye’s Chicken branch that continues the tradition of making me wonder what was so wonderful about this stuff that I had to have it instead of a real meal.

We had to stop over in Bangkok to pick up more fuel so that we could make the flight to Bangkok, instead of going directly to our destination of Amman, Jordan, which would have obviated the need for a stopover – if that makes sense. In any case, the layover in Bangkok was rather boring and filled with dodging various Thai cleaners, as we weren’t allowed off the plane for the two-hour water-free stretch. The newcomers on our plane consisted of more European passengers with more voluminous carry-ons, and a Middle Eastern crew with 53% more attitude. The fellow in front of me proceeded to put his seat all the way back, only raising it for a few seconds whenever asked to do so by a crewmember, putting it back again the moment backs were turned. He also never bothered with his seatbelt.

I watched some TV shows and movies on the way, and then slept with my Ostrich pillow on my head. At one point I awoke from the unnatural position I was forced into, and looked out the window to see sub-continental India spread out before me, various huge metropoli marching towards the horizon under a spectacular array of bright stars. A while later the golden coast of Dubai slid slowly under us. The stewardess at the back of the plane seemed relieved that I’d accidentally spilled water all over the counter. “It will give me something to do!” she told me when I apologized. About an hour before our arrival, a Middle Eastern woman came charging after a European woman who had just come out of the bathroom. “WHY DID YOU DO THAT?” she shouted, accusing the latter of cutting in line. After we landed, people started getting up to get their luggage, and a steward had to command them, dog-like, to SIT DOWN. They ignored him. Outside, it was still pitch black at 6:30 a.m.

After disembarking at the airport, we waited a long time in a short line for immigration rather than visit the rather dirty, broken bathrooms. The immigration guards tickled each other for fun. Outside, our Jordanian friends met us with hugs and a pair of SUVs, in which they took us to their offices, where they served us spiced coffee and freely discussed the little packets of perfume that all Jordanian men apparently carry. The coffee was, I have to admit, probably the best I’d ever tasted. Our presence in the office was tinged with embarrassment, as we seemed to be in the way of people and staff there.

Basem, one of our Jordanian friends, had spent quite a bit of time and effort, along with his little brother, Mohammed, to arrange our schedule. This involved taking us to a pastry shop whose fares were entirely too sweet, which I’d never really considered a possibility before.

Basem had Important Work to do, so we took a van driven my an older man who seemed rather sore at the influx of rich Iraqis to the neighborhood, to lunch on chicken served by a waiter who didn’t understand Chenbl’s enquiry about a “camel sandwich”. I spent most of lunch gazing longingly out onto the street, where fascinating scenes were playing out under great light.

After lunch, the restaurant’s manager packed all seven of us into a small van and sent us to with one of his young cubs to stroll the streets of the old downtown, full of alleys, shops, men smoking on balconies and men walking stridently in front of approaching vehicles. Amman seems to be densely packed with crème-colored buildings, cheek-to-jowl across hills and valleys, making it a fascinatingly three-dimensional place. It was fun, and I got the first inkling of a feeling that I was actually in Jordan. It would be lovely to be able to do some street photography here on my own someday. The cub rubbed cheeks and noses with various peers in shops and lanes, and we explored an old Roman ruin lousy with cats, and found ourselves at a large mosque where men were allowed and women weren’t (unless their heads were covered, I guess). I bought three hats. I will buy more.

The call to prayer was echoing through the city as we arrived at the Imperial Palace Hotel, where we found the sink drain stuck closed, the fridge full of broken glass left over from a bottle explosion, and exorbitant wi-fi charges. We went out again for nice dinner at a rest-stop place with Basem, Mohammed, and a furry young nephew named Fahed. The mint-lemon tea was excellent, and for some reason Chenbl decided to embarrass the entire kitchen staff with a full-on press event tour of the kitchens. In the meantime, our hosts explained the word “Sababa” as we ate.