I thanked him for everything, shook his hand, and I was gone. So was he.
Part V | THE middle east
CHAPTER 1 | baltimore to amman
Four stops and fifty-two short hours later and I was in DC. Those earlier trips were shorter, though leaving me feeling crushed by the end of them. For some strange reason, this one felt lighter, easier. I felt lighter, easier, I suppose. It helped to catch up on movies I’d missed while down in the jungle. I also found that in Java I had learned to take an interest in others and in life itself. Everything seemed exciting, although for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. If I could go back and talk to myself that first year I would have given some stiff advice about lightening up and going with the flow instead of being worried all the time about pretty much everything. Oh well.
I arrived in the late afternoon on a Saturday, renting a car and stopping just outside of Baltimore. I was tired and wired, and checked into a roadside motel before crashing out for fourteen hours. I woke up and went for a run through a lush field of green. It felt good after so many months of either dodging wild dogs or talking myself out of the adventure of being hunted down by confused animals watching a man running past them–something they never habituated to or even tolerated. The air smelled different, a different kind of humid, and it brought me back to my childhood, those smells I couldn’t describe but knew right away were of home.
Traffic was light heading into the city–Sunday morning. I passed by the downtown harbor, which had changed as part of Baltimore’s redevelopment plan that I’d heard about years before but never seen with my own eyes. I suppose it looked better than the burned-out dreary brick atmosphere I recall–save the massive electric guitar on the side of some building that looked tacky and represented everything wrong with American style. It was still difficult to imagine the whole place being a tourist attraction, but at least the city had tried to do something to bring a few dollars in and turn back a century-long descent into despair. My old neighborhood hadn’t changed much though, and it occurred to me as I pulled up in front of the house that I’d not spoken to either of my parents in several years and hadn’t even given them a heads up that I was coming. I couldn’t be certain they were still alive. I noticed my father’s tall foul weather boots beside the door and that put me at ease. I doubt my mother would have kept them out there for nostalgia had he passed on. She would have gotten in touch with me had he croaked. I took a breath, got out of the car, and knocked on the door.
My mother answered the door, squinting at me as she struggled to recognize who it was on her doorstep. After a few moments, her face wrinkled into a smile and without a word, she stepped out and buried her body into mine. I think it was the first time I’d felt the warmth of one of her hugs since I was a child. The other times I waited for it to be over with, rather than taking it all in as I did after so many years. I had forgotten that like my father, she was quiet and didn’t speak much. However, unlike him, her eyes and facial expressions communicated more than anything her mouth could say. She pulled back to look into my eyes, and I saw a mixture of joy, pain, sorrow, and a hint of anger all at once floating through her. When a wave of gratitude washed over me, I swore I could see it pass onto her and she lit up like a bright light in a dark room.
“Harry…” she whispered, turning to pull me into the house by the arm. I’m pretty sure I was smiling, even after passing through the musty foyer whose scent never left my memory, and moving to the kitchen where she plopped me down and without a word made me a bacon sandwich. As I watched her back at the stove, moving pans and spatulas and dials around, I sensed that she wanted to wait to let my father know who’d come home. A sensitive person, I bet it was just too much for her to see me out of the blue and without warning. She needed time to let it sink in before bringing my father into the mix. I was in no hurry either. In fact, I had half hoped he was either out or dead, though the latter thought still a remnant of how I used to feel. The air flowing through my nose smelled different this time. Not just in the house or the neighborhood, but everywhere. Indeed, I wanted to see my father.
Half way through eating my sandwich I felt a soft hand on my shoulder. When I gazed across the kitchen table at my mother, I noticed the sparkle in her eyes and her looking up with love at the other end of the hand.
“Hey sailor,” I heard my father say with a grunt. I turned around and for one of the rare times in my life, I saw him smile. Time had withered my father. Nevertheless, to see those shining teeth looking down at me I wondered if he was pleased to see me or had somehow found his own peace–perhaps both. I wouldn’t find out, spending a single night there, with my flight to Amman, Jordan booked for the following night. That timing was deliberate.
My father and I watched an Oriole’s game on television, talking in bits and pieces over a few beers. I enjoyed it, and it did appear that he’d mellowed with age, perhaps recognizing his own mortality and so few days left on earth. He said goodnight around nine and let his hand touch my shoulder as he climbed the stairs to his room. The next morning at the crack of dawn, I heard the front door shutting, my father heading off to his old boat for another day on the water. That was the last time I heard him.
I drove by Thomas’ old house before I left the neighborhood. It was strange seeing it again after all these years. Had he a grave, I would have visited that too. I even thought about driving back out to the Monongahela Forest. However, there was no time for that, and as I looked at that front door I’d knocked on so many times so many years ago, I realized I had made peace with what I’d done or not done with him. He was part of a memory of a person I used to be who I hardly knew anymore. Perhaps I’d see him in the afterlife and apologize. Something told me that dead people grow wiser and he’d long forgiven me–and forgiving myself was what made it easier to wave goodbye to his door and leave for the airport.
Getting bumped up to first class without warning is one of the best things in life. I was sitting back in economy when the flight attendant approached me just prior to takeoff, calling out my name and handing me a new boarding pass with the seat assignment 4A. After an eventful few days, goodbyes to my mother, and the drive to the airport at the tail end of rush hour, I had pictured a bleak trip across the Atlantic. So, it was with new life that I rose up and sat back down in a seat up front that turned into a bed. I had missed that luxury the past few years. When I arrived in Amman late the next day, I felt rested and refreshed.
It was my first trip to the Middle East. From a lifetime of media reports, I expected to be greeted by hordes of angry, rock-throwing peasants. Instead, I found everything drenched in calm, kind and slow-moving people all around. Maybe it was the heat, for as I walked outside with my hired tour guide I felt as though I’d stepped into a furnace. People live in this heat? Tariq, who was also my driver, was an older man who spoke flawless English. Zach had given me his name and I contacted him ahead of time to help with booking hotels and figuring out my sightseeing agenda before heading to Israel for the wedding. As soon as I met Tariq, I knew I was in good hands.
For some reason, I assumed the drive out to Petra would take an hour or so. Instead, it took half a day of long straightaways cut through a barren desert. At least we had air conditioning, which I didn’t appreciate as much until we stopped at a roadside coffee shop along the way. Tariq had a wealth of knowledge about his country and the history of Petra, which he described in immense detail. I was fascinated by this city carved out of rock, envied by the Romans who made several attempts to subdue it. After both Tariq’s and Zach’s descriptions, I was excited to see this place hidden deep in the arid lands. The desert has always made me nervous, having spent most of my life close to a large body of water, but this desert seemed magical in a way. Maybe it had something to do with the few cars and buses going out there, all headed for the same place as if drawn into a vortex. When I asked Tariq about the relative lack of traffic, he said that ten years ago there’d been lots more. Though Jordan was one of the s
afest countries in the Middle East, it couldn’t escape the region’s stigma that had shattered the tourist industry after September 11th.
CHAPTER 2 | petra
As we entered the area surrounding Petra, I noticed a few large chain hotel buildings rising from the sand, the kinds of places where I used to stay. Traveling on a budget these days, I had Tariq put me in a cheaper place, which turned out to be a quaint little boutique hotel run by a sweet older couple. I suppose it didn’t matter where I stayed since the main attraction was the old city and all one needed was a bed for the night. Tariq mentioned that he stayed with a cousin whenever he was in Petra. He asked me if I needed time to relax, but despite being tired from the long trip, I was too excited to stay indoors. It was late in the day, but we still had a few hours of sunlight. So, he showed me some of the areas near the main entrance. I thought about Zach a lot, wondering as I passed each site what he’d thought of the architecture and ruins.
After passing a few street vendors, one of which sold me a bag of dates that I ate while we walked, we descended a large sandy road. Large rocks lined the sides of the road, some rounded by nature, some showing small caves, and a few enormous cube structures. Tariq referred to them as Djinn Blocks, or God’s blocks. Humans had carved designs around them, though these bruised and faded over time. I noticed one with a tiny doorway. He said scholars think they may have been used as tombs. He also mentioned that the Bedouins steered clear of them, believing they contained evil spirits. A covered two-wheel carriage pulled by a white horse passed to the left of us, going back up the road on an elevated dirt road designed for non-pedestrians. A fat, greasy European-looking man and his haggard wife reclined in the back behind the driver, looking worn out from a long day. The driver stared ahead, steadily whipping the horse to get her to pull them up the hill. The driver’s head was wrapped in a headdress, and his clothing and everything else about his carriage appeared camera ready. It struck me as odd that the couple in the back wore shorts and tank tops. Even background characters and extras in movies dressed like Indiana Jones to play the part of world travelers, but in my travels, I saw so few fellow tourists doing the same. Many of them looked like they were on their way to the gym or Disneyland. I suppose it didn’t matter, but I wonder if they’ll look back on those travel photos and wonder what the hell they were thinking standing in front of an ancient wonder wearing a tank top with the words Tang splashed across the front of it.
Although the sun was beginning to go down, the heat still beat everyone down who remained too long underneath it. I had a wide-brimmed hat, so between that and munching on dates I felt fine. To our left we passed what Tariq referred to as the Obelisk Tomb, the burial place for a king and his family. The façade of the tomb spread high over the face of a large rock. It must have taken years to carve its intricate features. The first level reminded me of the entrance to a mausoleum, and the top level had jagged arches that looked like dragon’s teeth biting into the sky. We stuck our heads into a few of the cave entrances. Not much to see in there, though. Part of me was hoping to see a few bodies on display, but the chances of that happening were close to nil.
We continued to the entrance of Al-Siq, a narrow road a mile long, cut deep into the rock and leading down to the rest of the Petra ruins. Tariq suggested we wait until the morning, when it would be cooler. So, we set off back to the little town, a place dependent on tourists spending their money on food, drink and shelter. I reminded Tariq that I was on a tight budget, and he took me to a small kitchen where we both sat down to fresh-squeezed orange juice and large chicken shawarmas filled with hummus and vegetables. The place was packed with tour guides and other men that looked old and local. Everyone was eating, drinking, or smoking. I heard an oud playing music in the background, and after a while what sounded like singing. When I asked Tariq about it, he waved his hand, saying it was the call to prayer.
“It sounds beautiful,” I said.
“The song of God. But they’d never admit it was singing,” he said with a chuckle. “You said earlier this was your first trip to Jordan. Is it also your first time in the Middle East?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, well, you picked a good place to start. So far, is it what you imagined?”
“Some of it, but honestly, I didn’t expect people to be so nice and polite.”
“I hear that every week, you know.”
Two young women passed by us wearing bright yellow headscarves, bronze faces gazing forward, looking like they were a hand-carved artist’s dream. Shining beauty. Both Tariq and I paused and watched them glide past us. I couldn’t make out their figures, but the way they moved suggested they were comely. They radiated class. In fact, their radiance blasted me out of myself and I noticed the entire world taking on a crispness akin to a new set of sharp glasses after years of blurry vision.
“And what do you think of our women?” he asked with a serene smile, raising grey eyebrows.
“They certainly have a way about them. Funny, but back home women show a lot more skin and hair. Many of the women here only show their faces, but somehow, they seem more beautiful. Maybe it’s because I’m not used to it. Exotic, mysterious, maybe. The hijabs are exquisite. Accentuates their faces. Makes them look more elegant.”
“I would have to agree with you. I think the hijab makes a woman look sexier.”
“Do you have a family, Tariq?” I asked, wondering if that was an appropriate question in this part of the world.
“Yes. I have a wife, two daughters, a son, and five grandchildren,” he answered with a prideful grin. He was missing a few teeth on the bottom, but he had the face of someone who’d achieved success and happiness.
“Must be nice.”
“My family is everything. This is good, being here with you, taking people to see the sites and explaining various aspects of my cultural heritage. I got into this a long time ago to learn English.”
“Which is flawless, by the way. Better than most Americans,” I interjected.
“Thank you for that,” he said with a casual smile, returning to his thought process. “When I go home to my family, it is my Petra, my rock.” A skinny young boy brought over two small glasses filled with coffee. Tariq said shukran (thank you) in Arabic, and gave him a stately nod. The air outside started to cool, and I listened to the music, drinking my coffee with Tariq, both of us watching tourists and locals passing by, most of them walking away from Petra to hotels and taxis. I felt a giddiness wash over me. It had started when the two women were passing by, but took some time to sink in while I sat there chatting with Tariq. I will never forget that moment.
I can’t describe it any other way but that it resembled an absence of anxiety or dread or boredom or whatever else I was used to feeling brewing just underneath the surface. Even at other times in my life when I was experiencing joy this other dark streak loomed in the background, eager to ruin it. That phantom disappeared for a good half hour, maybe longer. The sky had turned twilight, and everything continued to burst into bright color and sharpness. The last time I remember anything close to that feeling was playing stickball in the street on a late summer day in my childhood, me and the other kids screaming in laughter at just being alive. I felt a certain lightness of spirit I recall Zach once trying to explain to me that I couldn’t quite grasp. Now it was clear. I had let go and in turn let whatever goodness was out there in the world enter me as though forever knocking on the same door for over half a century, patient as a conscientious chambermaid. Later, I would wonder if I’d been in such a hurry earlier because part of me must have known what was coming. Of course, half an hour of borderline enlightenment, or whatever you choose to call it, might make for a better story on some mountaintop. Instead, I felt it in a dirty roadside kitchen. I glanced over at Tariq, who gave me a warm smile as he took a slow sip of his coffee. All the time in the world, I thought.
That night I sunk into a deep sleep, waking up to the call to prayer outside my open window while it was still da
rk out. The day before I might have responded with a grumpy huff; but I felt new, different. Nothing seemed to bother me. Even the fellow at the hotel who messed up my egg order to-go got a smile from me.
As promised, Tariq came around the hotel at sunrise. I made a slapdash egg sandwich out of the breakfast bag and ate it while we made the walk back down to Al-Siq. We didn’t talk much, enjoying the quiet and the occasional sounds of horse hoofs on the dirt track beside us or the chatter among the sellers we passed as they set up their stalls for the day. They were all too tired to ask me if I wanted to buy anything, and I was grateful for that. Tariq seemed a master at reading a situation, and he adhered to our tacit vow of silence as we descended an old stone path cut into the rock. High cliffs reached up above us, gleaming in the rising sun. I felt like I could break out into a run, excitement at just being alive overtaking me. I kept walking at the moderate pace Tariq had set. He was pushing eighty years old, but could outpace any teenager I’d met.
After twenty minutes of walking through the meandering gorge, we reached an opening into a small valley. Opposite us stood a massive façade etched into the stone. Tall Corinthian columns held up a second level and the whole scene looked like it had been imported from ancient Rome. The sun had started to peak over the hundred-foot cliffs and poured into the valley, exposing the structure’s exquisite detail and bathing it in bright light. Without looking at me, Tariq broke the silence.
“The Treasury.”
I said nothing. I simply stood there and took it all in. A single thought raced through my mind. Since the beginning of time people had relied on some version of money to measure work, success, and trade. Too often we mixed up our self-worth with our net worth in a struggle to survive on limited resources. I nearly plunged to my death because of it. It was silly to think that because I had no money that somehow, I as a person had no value. There you have it, the ego unmasked. I breathed in dust and spirit, watching as the ascending sun shrank the shadow over the Treasury, lighting it up. It was a magnificent sight, and I could hear Tariq’s slow breath next to me. It dawned on me that this old man was planning to spend a hot summer’s day with me walking around rocks in the desert. I turned to him.
Crossing Allenby Bridge Page 24