by Jeffrey Vonk
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 t
he 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?
9
Syria
Assyria, known by this name by tribes and people for thousands of years. Throughout millennia this country with solely parched lands has been victorious at times and conquered at other times. It has been inexplicably connected to war since days of old. Before the more recent war, eventually resulting in the massive European refugee crisis of which ninety percent are economic migrants and fortune seekers from other countries tagging along, we did not know much about the country. Neither was there much heard about it on the news, with the exception of the Golan Heights or an occasional car bombing or the like. Before its destruction of being utterly laid to ruins, it has to be said the Syrian Empire was captivating in many ways. I count myself lucky to be among those who’ve seen it in days of full glory.
Of course, just like anywhere else in the Middle East the administrative rigmarole is hideous and time consuming. Arriving at the border, after just having escaped neighboring Jordan, I am launched into a direct confrontation with red tape as I have to maneuver between three separate buildings in order to get a visa, coupons and stamps, and cash. Especially the last thing turns out a pain in the ass, because if you think you can pay the entrance fee with Syrian pounds or with Jordanian dinar you’re mistaken. Necessary documents are issued only with American dollars. Aha, so you’re saying the current war started when Bashar dropped the dollar? That’s another story in itself. Anyway, I happen to not carry those around anymore. At a small bank nearby they refuse to exchange foreign currency which creates the next problem. To my advantage I run into a Taiwanese couple that are traveling in the opposite direction. Showing sympathy for my situation they are willing to make a monetary deal to procure some cowboy money. Once again Asians save the day. When all is settled I cross huge concrete tunnels on pillars. Above the entrance the top is decorated with a billboard size photo of the president and his father. It’s hard to believe I actually made it inside the country.
Step by step resuming the journey with walking sticks in my hands, dark sun
glasses on, and wearing an Indiana Jones type of hat preventing my face from burning, I find myself now on undisclosed soil. Locals are compelled to watch as I must be an attraction to their sight, and rightly so. Being the only westerner in the region and even on foot is kind of asking for attention I suppose. Intrusive as Arabs can be, I pull a crowd in no time.
From here it is one hundred and nine kilometers to Damascus. According to my calculations about a three-day walk. Energized by all the new impulses and being only twenty-seven years old, what can go wrong? With my hiking shoes becoming more comfortable by the minute having found their steady pace, a man pulls over with a tiny rusty truck. In the open back of the imported Chinese hovel are his two sons. Sitting on a pile of watermelons they seem pretty comfortable, or at least used to it. The hovel doesn’t have air conditioning, nor a windshield either as a way to compensate the lack of it. While getting out from his vehicle the man mumbles some Arabic phrases and all of a sudden pulls out a huge knife! In my ignorance I can’t imagine him starting some sort of a jihad right in front of his kids. So I just stand there watching his next move. Fortunately, he only uses the blade to cut slices off of his fruits before offering them to me. It’s easy to misjudge a total stranger, but far from innocent he turns out to be. While sitting down in the dry grass enjoying a conversation I notice the man slipping my cellphone into his pocket with a stone face. I pretend I didn’t see anything until our eating is finished. After all he’s still in possession of a seven-inch blade. As soon as he tucks that away I demand my phone back. Now he’s acting all oblivious of how the device ended up in his pants. My first real one-on-one encounter with an inhabitant and this is how I’m treated. When his hands keep reaching for my backpack it’s time to move on. Occurrences like these are one of the reasons why I do not recommend girls to go backpacking by themselves.