Jordan Part IV: Amman, Jerash, and the Border

Jerash--the ancient Roman city of Gerasa
Saturday morning we went north to Jerash (the ancient city Gerasa of the Decapolis), an extensively excavated Roman city, complete with all the requisite public buildings--theaters, baths, magnificent temples, housing blocks, and a long colonnaded avenue. It was magnificent to explore.

Only the journey there was annoying. I had to go to the bathroom like it was going out of style, and there was none to be found at the bus terminal. The 16 or so seats on the bus were nearly full when we got there, so we knew we'd leave soon. But this was not so; patterns don't always hold here. It took another hour for the last two seats to fill (bus does not leave until all seats are full).

The bus was mainly populated by somber Jordanians, but a hard-to-miss, big-boned Dutch woman was getting visibly impatient. Tapping her foot, grimacing, obviously irked that the bus was not departing. Suddenly her fuse ended and she blurted in English, "This is absurd! Where is the bus driver? He made me hurry and guzzle my coffee as if the bus were going to leave, he's had a few leisurely cigarettes and now he's MIA!" (or something to this effect). Pacing down the aisle of the bus and out the door, she was dramatic, but we all just watched her dully, expressionless. I wanted to remind her that this is not the organized, well-functioning Netherlands that provides open, public toilets to the populace so they don't pee on the street (which was all I could think about), but there was no point. Besides, I was not only annoyed as well, but in pain at this point and the bus hadn't even left! I couldn't think about talking, let alone focus on anything. I knew that if I ventured out for three minutes even to find a toilet, that is when the bus would fill up, Muphy's law would hold, the bus would leave without me, and there would be no more buses for the entire day. I would not be able to call Ben because I don't have international dialing, and would end up sleeping on the street and missing the bus the next morning to Israel. A little physical agony is better that that dreadful scenario.

Eventually the bus did leave. We arrived in Jerash one hour later. Thankfully but painfully I made it. We explored the ruins for several hours and sat to eat lunch upon the Temple of Artemis. Ben was looking out at the avenue when he recognized two of his classmates. He didn't bother to say hi, but suddenly there were not two, but twenty! They made their way up the monumental temple steps and plinth, and caused such a ruckus of gabbing and antics! It was everything you'd expect at a junior high school field trip. Photos and posing and yelling and bunny ears. And Ben is their age? He told me he often skips class to go exploring and hangs out with this crew on occasion, but not regularly. They think he's aloof, independent, mysterious. He thinks they're too group-oriented, no sense of individuality. I was reminded of a conversation with Sarah's friend in September; he grew up in Colorado and went to UW. His take on Seattle was that it's a great place to be an individual, do whatever you feel, be whatever you are, and not worry about what anyone thinks of it. I've mulled over this since then. Amman's Redemption
Upon returning to Amman in the evening, we went to explore the old part of town. I was excited for this because at this point, there was no place in my heart for Amman. If Rome is your mistress, Amman is the one you never bothered to call back. It is a city completely devoted to automotive movement. Cars are king. Highways traverse the city with neither hide nor hair of stoplights. Pedestrians walk alongside fast cars and cross at roundabouts in perilous fright. The whole city seemed like one big Aurora Avenue, the part north of the ship canal (for yous in Seattle) minus the crossings Aurora has every half mile or so and the view of the space needle and the troll and all its other redeeming qualities. There were no charming neighborhoods that I had yet seen and the nostrils were constantly offended by exhaust fumes. Add the lack of cafe and bar scene, sparse people-watching opportunities, no coastline or prominent river, and it is as far from my kind of town as you could possibly dream up. I needed something to like about this city--so far is had only some interesting topography...

The next phase redeemed it. We walked down from the fort, through a series of alleys on a hillside with intriguing signs on doors, rugs hanging, lots of stairways, and views across the low-lying valley where the old roman theater is carved out of the opposite hillside, then descended into the colorful and boisterous market. I was starving now and in tried to buy one banana; the vendor thought this quantity so absurd, he gave it to me for free. I gobbled it, he chuckled, and I then bought some dates, walnuts, and golden raisins. The dried fruits and nuts in the Middle East are unparalleled. The aroma of shwarma and shish kebabs on a grill lured us into a small crowded restaurant and we, exhausted, sat in relief and anticipation of the deliciousness we would soon encounter. I overdid it on the hot peppers and then wanted to buy a coke because I liked the bottle with Arabic writing on it. The guy said I couldn't take it out of the restaurant because of the bottle deposit. "But I want to. I'll pay for the bottle." This was unheard of and it was too confusing so he said to just take it, never mind it all, don't pay for the bottle, in fact, don't even pay for the coke. Enjoy! Shopping opportunities abounded here and everywhere I looked was a feast for the eyes. The stores were clustered according to type of goods sold and one row really caught my eye--the shisha shops! After a purchase or the ornate blue-glass fruit tobacco water pipe, lo and behold, a liquor store popped out of the woodwork (hard to find here)! This was shaping up to be a night of vices. I also spent a good amount of time perusing the goods here. Jordanian arak (licorice liquer), brandy, even Petra Beer! I worried about the heavies and breakables that would be in my bag on the journey home, but the alcohol was so much cheaper here, and different items. Consumerism got the best of me and I went home with a quantity of material goods George W. would have been proud of in 2008 when he gave us the consumer stimulus. Back to Ben's flat, I assembled all the parts for shisha and readied the cherry tobacco with foil on top. I invited the roommates to join in the festivities but they all declined. One guy was busy on his computer. The other guy snuck out of the house with his girlfriend to walk her home. The conservative landlord told the boys they aren't to have women in the flat (no inviting female friends over for dinner parties and the like). This just plain doesn't work for those of the western world (or far eastern, or anyone but Arab world I suppose) so I was also nervous to be seen walking in and out of the building (so conspicuous as I am). Nonetheless, we enjoyed good conversation and very nice Arabic treats into the night.
Over the Jordan River and into the Promised Land
At 6 am, I caught a cab to the bus station, bought an egg/falafel sandwich, and a mint tea for the ride. All was well until the border crossing, agonizingly long and never knowing what was going on or what absurdity we were waiting for. At the Israeli immigration, all the Palestinians were prancing through (this is the one crossing they can go to, and Israelis cannot) the agent took my passport and continued to pass everyone else through as she indicated to step to the side of the window. She made a phone call.
"What is going on? What is wrong with my passport?"
"Just wait a minute (grunt or something incomprehensible)"
"But what's the problem?"
Ignore.

After 15 minutes or so and watching the horrible line stack up in front of me for the next event in the process, I decided to be in the way. Thinking, I have to go to work today, I don't have time for this (so American I am, my time is valuable, opportunity-cost failure here). I moved from the side to the front of the window, so it was difficult to carry on business. She wants me to be in the way so I will. I started acting out my antsyness. So odd, no explanation whatsoever. I looked at my lonely passport laying on her desk unstamped. The Canadian went through just fine. So did the Romanians. Why me?

After what seemed like two hours another woman moseyed along and looked at my passport, muttered, then stamped the page and returned it to me. A big resounding "whew" in my head. The next seventeen stages were relatively painless. So then it was the overpriced "sherut" (shared taxi) to East Jerusalem, the light rail to the central bus station, the bus to Tel Aviv, the walk home, the bus to work. Except the latter didn't work out because I didn't feel like going in after all.

I unpacked my bags and went to the beach. Just me, the bike, the house key. I swam in the mesmerizing Mediterranean loveliness until it was mid-afternoon. The sun sets early these days; it lost its warmth, the cold breeze blew and I got out of the water. I pedaled home smiling in the freedom-bike-riding-salty-air-own-the-road feeling that I love.

What a week! I needed some time to decompress. I'm not even sure I had the "nice to be home" feeling, save the beach and the bike. Excitement, awesomeness, randomness, best of everything every day of the Jordan trip.