The Land of Promises and Congratulations, you have food poisoning!

March 28

I opt to go along with a group consisting of one Spaniard and two Canadians- convient, eh?- to Madaba, Mount Nebo, and the Dead Sea the next day.  Nothing in particular strikes me in Madaba, except an offer by the Orthodox school, stating if any Native English speakers will teach for a school year, they will be supplied room and board along with compensation/small income and Arabic lessons.  That’s really about it, besides the mosaic on the ground depicting a map of the present day Middle East a long time ago (later I would see the same map in Jerusalem).

Street View of Amman

Typical buildings

"No pictures when police around."

The scenic countryside of Petra has mansion-like houses which farmers presumably own.  We drive to Mount Nebo, where I climb a sliding door and an American lady tells me,

“Oh come on.”

Just 'nother day in Jordan.

Sliding rock door.

Oh come on.  It’s a rock.  It weighs tons and it supported its own weight throughout the years.  At some point it was a door.  I am sorry for defacing it. Later I become Moses and show my people to The Promised Land.  Along the way, Arabic school girls ask that I take a picture with them and I listen to German tour guides and shower myself in information.  

Somewhere down there is Palestine.

Sweet car

 Our driver says, “no picture when police are around.”

We go on our way to the Dead Sea.  I shall describe the ride there; curvy, fast, and crazy.  The winding road down a mountain towards the Dead Sea along with a Taxi Driver who blazingly drives the Taxi while smoking cigarettes and makes phone calls fills your head with rush.

People in tents; Bedouins

We reach a checkpoint and our driver says, “Taiwan, Australia” to describe our origins. 

Good thing I brought my Vibrams, those rocks hurt like hell.

Finally floating!

The salt burns like hell when it's in your eyes.

Salt encrusted rock

All mudded up.

Swamp

We get home after a day of the Dead Sea and I set my Vibrams on the window along with a pair of underwear to dry. I would never see either again.

The next day I take a walk around the hood.  The people here are always saying, “Welcome.”  And they really mean it, they do not really care whether or not you buy something from them, they do not even try to convince you to buy something.  I scurry myself deeper into the east city; the old city, and eventually two homeless men call me over and invite me to eat some pita bread and yogurt with them.  One of them tears a piece in half and hands it to me.  I dig in.  They continue their conversation and the stench of an uncleaned bathroom infiltrates my nostrils.  I finish, thank them, walk away, and immediately feel like throwing up because of the stench. 

right outside the hostel

I continue my stroll up to a hill, as there are ruins at the top of the old city.  I walk past a few caves- probably used by Bedouins at some point because of the ash stained ceilings and I hear music playing.  I look up and this dude is just dancing by the ledge o his window.  I look up and he calls me over waving his arms in an enthusiastic manner.  I nudge myself up the hill and go into the apartment building.  Being a rather desecrated building- no windows or guard rails, just concrete stairs, I let my guard up.  I walk into the apartment, through the steel bolted door.  On the right is a kitchen in disrepair.  On the left are closed rooms.  We greet each other in Arabic and continue forward into the apartment.  It appears as I he sustained a head injury, as he is wearing a head wrap with bandages, his hand marked with scars looking like an X from a razor.  The living room has a chair in the corner, a TV- a football game was playing, a few pillows on the ground, and a sound system.  The host calls a friend and goes into another room.  The friend and I start to hang out the window by the ledge, conversing in small talk, or kalaam khafiif.  I knock over a piece of glassware, the host shakes it off, and throws the glass out the window.  Two more friends come over and then the host begins to fiddle with the antenna dish.  I look back at the TV and there is porn on the TV.  I make a touble take and yep- it’s porn alright.  At this point I feel incredibly awkward and uncomfortable.  I take a look at the distance from the window to the ground and possible escapes;  four floors high.  I move from the corner towards the hallway, while inconspicuously bringing my backpack with me.  I pull my phone out and act as if my ex has called me and fabricate and argument- my SIM card does not even work.  I take a look at rooms and then try to figure out the door.  I look back and everyone is focused on the TV.  One gets up to open the door for me and I slowly make my way out while on my phone.  The host invites me back in to sit on the chair, but I signal I must go because o “Al-bint,” the girl.  I get out and am somewhat shocked. 

I do not think they were actually going to do anything, but rather were being friendly and inviting.  They never put pressure on me to stay, but I just felt incredibly uncomfortable. 

Feeling obligation to see Petra, for the sand is pinky and the burning sensation to wonder why so many people go there, I decide to go to Petra the next day.  I dislike touristy areas and I despise being one.  Usually I do not do these things, but the history behind Petra is actually interesting.  People from a long time ago, the Nabateans, capitalized on being traders while actually never focusing in craftsmanship or production.  They based architecture from foreign sources, like the Romans for example, while adding their own touch. 

I call a man from Couchsurfing and tell him I’ll be on my way.  He lives in a village called Amarin, which is just outside of Petra. 

I take off to go find a Taxi to the South Bus Station, which proves to be a minor pain in the ass because all of the silver Taxis are demanding a flat fee of five Dinar.  I walk down the roads of Amman and stumble upon a store with carpets and textiles, buy a pillow case, and go outside, when the next door shop owner greets me. 

“Welcome.”

He directs me in the direction of where the Taxis breed.  I finally find a driver who will drive me to the bus station with the meter on but he continually asks me if I want to go to Petra.  Just as consistent I tell him,

“No- just the bus station.”

About every five minutes he would ask the same question until we reach the bus station.  He drives me to the respected Petra gate and I pay him and tip, he happily drives off. 

“Petra! Petra!” shouts a large man wearing a small vest.

“As salaamu alaykum!  ‘Anaa ilaa Petra!”

I walk into the mini-bus and a Bedouin man greets me.  We start to talk about the small things in life.  He reminds me of Obi-Wan Kenobi.  I do not actually tell him this. 

The ride lasts for about three hours.  During which I meet a man who offers to call his friend to drive me to the village where I was staying, Amarin, but I shoot his offer down because I feel suspicious of his motives. 

I arrive at the Petra bus station and a taxi driver with slicked hair and sunglasses comes up to me, offering to drive me.  I ask him how much it will cost but he insists on telling me that we will talk about it later.  The normal price is actually 25.  I end up paying 20 and five as a rather large tip.  After doing calculations on the distance and the gas mileage of his car, I come to the conclusion that he profits a ton. 

He drops me off at a small market, where Mohamed awaits me.  Inside are some of his cousins.  We go off to his place.  I feel the sand beneath my feet and am happily aware that I brought my desrt boots for just this reason.  I walk into the house into a completely empty living room; absolutely nothing.  I go into Mohamed’s room which has barely anything aside from two bed pads a table, and a few books.

We agree to go see the sites of Petra and scale Jabal Haroun – my mountain – for 100 Dinar. 

The next morning we set out for Little Petra. 

Entrance to Little Petra

Recently constructed stairs

Goat was baaawing, I believe it was stuck

Former homes

The ride costs me 15 Dinar.  I get pissed because we never discussed the actual price, but we continue further.  So we see Little Petra (I could have done the damn thing myself) and head towards The Monastery through the backwoods of Petra- a mountain side.  We reach the Monastery and we get to the point where we are halfway to the Mountain of Aaron.  Here we contemplate on renting out a few mules.  I feel suspicious of Mohamed’s motives.  My theory behind everything was that since everyone here knew one another, it was all a system to support one another.  If you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours type of deal.  So Mohamed tells me that I will have to pay for his mule as well.  The lady initially goes from 45 Dinar per mule till the point where I walk away and she offers 16.  I tell Mohamed it’s costing way too much and we should turn back.  He demands 60 Dinar for the services until that point.

The building is carved from the side of the mountain.  The entrance only leads to a tiny room.

After a walk in silence through the mountain we find his dad and the truck and we drive to his place.  Some awkward silence moments later, we eat lunch and I contemplate leaving to Amman that day.  I express my feelings and he asks me if something is wrong with my head.  He gives his point of view and I feel absolutely broken.  He offers to drive me to the bus stop and I decide to stay for another day.  I take my laptop out with me into the hills and read The Power of Now for the remainder of the day.

So instead of climbing Jabal Haroun, I decide to call this rock with a tree growing out of it my own.

Me at the time typing this belated entry :)

Later into the night, Mohamed invites his friends over to his place and get drunk.

"I promised my grandfather I would not purchase alcohol... But it's not the same if a friend gives it to me."

The next morning we say our goodbyes and I head to Petra.  I feel fresh, adventurous and lively.  Walking down the chasm, I feel as if I am a trader from the old days. 

In Jordan you will find the highest concentration of foreigners in Petra.  I ride a horse for the first time in my life for four Dinars.  The owner hands me a whip but I put it away and just pat the horse gently.  The horse eventually tries to "kiss" me and the owner insist that I tip him, to which I refuse.  I visit monumental hot spots and find a nice spot to sit and continue reading The Power of Now.

I wave down a few merchant women and they invite me over to eat with them "like you are family."  Beans, SPAM, and falafel.  They'd never been outside of Jordan as their culture did not permit them to leave, and were keen on spending the rest of their lives selling necklaces.

"So you will spend your lives here selling necklaces and souveneirs in Petra?"
"Yes." They nod their heads enthusiatically.  

They offer to show me the backway of Petra for 40 Dinar, but I, broke as I already am, turn the offer down and go back the traditional way.  The path they wanted to show me was actually a path where an American man had died some time ago so that stuck into my mind as well as their constant reinforcements that I will certainly not find my way.  Risk aversion won this time.

I must get out of Petra.  But it's Friday so the busses are all out of operation because of the Islamic holiday.  I shop around for prices and eventually settle for 50 Dinars- ouch, to get to Amman once again.  I tell my cab driver I am from Germany and he expresses his dislike for America.  We get into a discussion about religion and calls me the crazy one for believing we will never find an answer in religion.  Back to Amman and Abassi.  I go into the Souks and buy me from fruits, meet some Americans, and get into a professional discussion with a Canadian, a Dutch, and an American.  Although unable to contribute much, they had interesting viewpoints on labor unions.  I crack open a coconut and share it around...

Sunday morning.

I wake up at about 6:30 A.M. with hopes of crossing the Jordanian border into the disputed territory of Palestine, feeling absolutely horrible.  I feel as if my stomach is about to explode and I have an urge to hit the toilet every what seems to be ten minutes.  My head is throbbing and oh no do I- yes Aaron, congratulations, you are pregnant!  Actually, food poisoned.  Ah shit.  No pun intended.

My nightmares have surfaced reality and I immediately know who the main suspect is- Mr. Coconut.  Damn you and your rotten innards.  It reminds me of the time dad bought a bunch of cans of Vienna sausages and just left them sitting in one of our cabinets.  One day in during a rage of hunger, I decide to eat one and fate would have it that I pick the dented can.  I ended up with a week of food poisoning.  There’s also the time I ate old taco shells, and died for about a week straight.  I go up to reception and tell Djima that I have food poisoning.  I consume my first Macropen pills for the first time- thank God for Gergana back in Plovdiv.  If it weren’t for her, I would not have gotten through my minor ailments as fast (and turnitsi)!  I fall asleep while she comes to drop the tea & a wastebasket off.  An hour or two later, I wake up, turn to my side, and just throw up in the waste basket –delicious, hummus- and back to sleep.  I sleep for about two days straight.  In this matter of time I notice the following:

·         In Jordan, the traffic is horrible.  That’s not it though.  Some drivers have bought horns just because of this, so when they honk, it can either be a melody, or just a truck horn.  And when in traffic, they will honk in patterns, making a musical festivity or a beat out of it. 

·         It is loud, especially when your room is on the corner, where traffic comes from both sides; think 90 degrees.

During these two days, the sounds of cars, people, birds, and calls to prayer accompany me through my poisoned insanity.  Day Two of the Food Poisoned Special I try to wake up at 6:30 AM again to go to the disputed territory of Palestine, but cannot make it.  So I decide to stay in Amman one more day and shut the world up and fill my ears with ear plugs and sleep like a child.  Hours later, I wake up with a mind numbing headache and proceed into the main lobby, where everyone is celebrating the owner’s birthday.  Traditional Jordanian instruments, along with food and dance lit the night up.  My body was unfortunately in no condition to move, eat, or laugh, so I sat there like a sedated elephant; similar to me after the trip to the dentist when they removed my wisdom teeth.  I revert to my hermit ways and go back to sleep.