Crossing Allenby Bridge

by Michael Looft

  “You sure you’re up for all this walking?”

  “No problem. Not far up the valley is a spot I like to stay in. You can hike all you like, and we’ll meet back up later. I’ll tell you some of the history before you set out.”

  We tried to stay on the shady side of the valley, passing several caves where families once made their homes. A huge coliseum lay off to the right and then a long corridor lined with columns. Tariq gave me a history lesson on everything we saw, the types of people who inhabited Petra and its eventual downfall. After the Roman military failed to invade Petra, they wound up competing it into irrelevance. He suggested I stop and sit down in various places and try to picture the civilization at its zenith, with its thriving economy. He made sure I had enough water, and bid me farewell, giving me explicit instructions and directions on where to find the nine-hundred-something step stone stairway up to the Monastery. After a few minutes of walking, I glanced back to find him nestled in with a group of other guides sitting under a makeshift tent made of brown tarp. Everyone seemed to be drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, laughing, and enjoying themselves. Not a bad life.

  The trek up the stairs took me a few hours at a slow pace. I had to dodge donkeys trying to catch their footing as they made their way down with tourists who wanted to see the sunrise from the top but didn’t want to make the climb on their own. It seemed dangerous enough on foot, given the steep, winding ascent. I felt a twinge of nervousness watching the looks of dread on people’s faces as they clutched at their blanketed saddles hoping to control some part of the process. I was glad I was on foot.

  When I reached the top and saw the Monastery, which resembled a larger version of the Treasury, I knew what drew people to it. Sure, the ruins were great, but by that point I’d seen enough to know what to expect. It was the view that mattered most. One could see the open desert west of Petra from up there and back down to other parts of the old city to the east. The sun had already started baking everything, but a steady breeze kept the dozen or so of us wandering around relatively cool. A resourceful family had opened a small café in the middle of the flat plateau opposite the monastery, and I bought an ice-cold bottle of water for three Jordanian Dinars (just over four dollars). It was a steep price to pay, but the café was on the winning end of the supply and demand equation. I took the water and scurried around the rocks until I found one where I could look out over the desert.

  As much as I wanted to experience that same blissful moment again I had the night before, I couldn’t will it to return. One would think the peaceful setting more conducive to quasi-religious experiences, but I guess it didn’t work that way. I would come to know how rare mine was and how that glimpse into heaven on earth kept me striving on my path hoping to re-experience it all over again. Like a golfer who’d made eighty lousy drives and one clean, beautiful one, it kept me coming back to the fairway. I sat up there considering my life: where I’d been and how much it had changed over the past few years. A few hours later, I made my way back down and we spent a final night in Petra before Tariq drove me out to the Dead Sea.

  My experience in the Dead Sea was brief, but noteworthy. Tariq warned me to float, and whatever I did, I was not to let the water touch my mouth. Not even a drop, he said. Just lie on your back and keep your head up. Of course, just like that time I looked at the sun during a solar eclipse, I disobeyed him and let the point of my tongue touch the tip of my wet pinky finger. My punishment was quick and severe. I spent the next few hours with a horrendous salty taste in my mouth that no amount of fresh water could quench away. Maybe I should have listened, but I also don’t regret now knowing just how salty the Dead Sea is. As instructed, I spent twenty minutes in there before climbing out and washing off under one of the many outdoor showers set up at the small resort where we’d stopped. Several people were on the beach, spreading some gray mud all over their bodies and lying down in the sand. Not sure what that was all about, but I wasn’t interested in getting all dirty. So, I approached Tariq, who was sitting in a lounge chair under an umbrella deep in thought over a newspaper article.

  “You look like a new man, Harry.”

  “Feel like one! My skin feels soft like a baby’s bottom. Amazing!”

  “You’ll be surprised at how long that will last. Maybe weeks.” He put down his paper and looked out over the sea. “You said you were headed to Jerusalem, no?”

  “Yes, I need to be there by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Do you have a plane ticket already?”

  “No, forgot to mention that I thought I would cross overland. Can’t be more than a few hours.”

  “The Allenby Bridge?” He dropped his head in a pensive pose.

  “I know it’s gotta be cheaper and less of a hassle than taking a flight from Amman to Tel Aviv and then having to take a taxi down to Jerusalem.”

  “Hmm….”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s not an easy border crossing into the West Bank.”

  “Even for Americans?”

  “It doesn’t matter who you are, the Israelis control the border. They’re suspicious of everyone.”

  I thought for a moment, considering how much money I spent on seeing Petra and how much more I’d have to spend on a suit and hotel once I got to Jerusalem. I’d grown frugal over the past year, eager to cut a financial corner if necessary. Besides, a trip through the West Bank sounded fascinating. “I’ll try my luck at the border. Why not?”

  “OK.” He gave his head a gentle shake of resignation and pity. “But I would recommend one thing. Take a bus if you can once you get on the other side. Most people already have a ticket booked, so they may ask you some questions.”

  “What kind of questions?” I felt a pang of nervousness.

  “Oh, they will probably ask you questions about where you are going and who you are going to see. Just tell them the truth, but nothing more. Keep your answers short and don’t give them any more information than what they ask for.”

  “Sounds strict?”

  “Oh, you will see.” He shot me a sardonic smile and threw his hands into his pockets.

  CHAPTER 3 | crossing allenby bridge

  Tariq gave a final wave as he dropped me off at the terminal at the King Hussein Bridge (the Jordanian name for Allenby). A line of cars and buses snaked around a bend, but I didn’t see many people in front of the terminal building, hoping I’d chosen an easy day for passing through. There were over a dozen doors, and when I tried to go through one of them, a man in uniform took one look at me and pointed to anther door. When I went through that door I noticed I was in a cordoned-off area that had no one else in it (I noticed the man who’d just helped me). The other side was filled with what I’m guessing were Jordanians and Palestinians.

  I paid the tourist tax and turned my passport over to a polite man wearing an immigration badge. All he asked me was how I enjoyed my trip to Jordan. When I told him of Petra and the Dead Sea, he said next time I needed to go down to Aqaba and Wadi Rum. Tariq had told me the same thing. He wished me luck on my journey and informed me that I’d receive my passport once I got on the shuttle bus that would take me to the Israeli terminal. I walked outside and stepped on the large air-conditioned bus with my small suitcase and backpack containing everything I owned in the world. The bus wasn’t crowded, and I figured I’d lucked out, eager to hear the swish of the door shutting and to be off to the checkpoint on the other side of the bridge. The door shut, and the driver sat down in his high seat. I was a few rows away, and could make out his right side, watching for movement that suggested we were taking off. After a few minutes, I heard him talking on his cell phone and it didn’t seem like we were going anywhere.

  A steady flow of people began to climb onboard, and after each group I again expected to rumble to a start, but the bus sat idling. Sometimes he even shut it off and climbed outside to help people stow their large bags under the bus. Once he stood out there smoking a cigarette, which seemed suicidal given
the heat had turned up to the point where no sane person would be caught dead in the sun. An hour later, I still wondered what we were doing, realizing that he was indeed waiting until the bus was full before making the trip. Perhaps a busy day would have been better. Eventually, I gave up any anxiety or restlessness, assuming we would be on our way at some point. Two hours after I climbed onboard we made the three-mile journey across the bridge.

  I remember feeling hungry, realizing that in my eagerness to get to Jerusalem I’d skipped lunch and not brought any food beyond a few mushy dates. It was silly to assume the trip would take only a few hours from where I started. Even Tariq mentioned something about it and out of foolishness I nixed the idea of stopping before the bridge and heading back to Amman. We filed off the bus and the first thing I noticed were soldiers everywhere with machine guns, even a few working dogs. A throng of porters descended on us and began taking our passports and asking us questions. It was strange having a girl no more than eighteen years old sidle up next to me and begin asking probing questions in an accusatory tone. Where was I going? Why was I going to Jerusalem? Why didn’t I have a hotel? Why didn’t I take a flight? Why so little luggage? With my military background, I knew how to talk to people barking questions just to get a rise out of someone. It reminded me a bit of the first week at the Naval Academy, only a skinny girl asking me questions–and not an unattractive one as well. With her Slavic sounding accent and blond hair tied in a ponytail, she could have swapped the blue uniform in for a little black dress and no one would have guessed where she’d worked if she kept her mouth shut, but she didn’t. After a while her questions started growing more intrusive, if not downright odd.

  “Who gave you something to put in your luggage?”

  “No one.”

  “But how did you get here?”

  “By taxi?”

  “Who was in the taxi?”

  “Me?”

  “You drove it?”

  “No, there was a driver?”

  “Who is he?”

  “Tariq.”

  “He is your friend, no?”

  “He was my driver.”

  “Personal driver?”

  “No, he was my guide.”

  “I thought you said he was your driver. Now he is your guide?”

  “He is both.”

  “But who is picking you up to take you to Jerusalem? Is his brother picking you up?”

  “His brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know about a brother.”

  “But how are you getting to Jerusalem?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I thought there would be a taxi–”

  “You don’t have transportation arranged?”

  “No, I figured I could just get a taxi–”

  “From the West Bank? There are no taxis from here, only buses. You need to pre-book it.”

  “Where can I do that?”

  “From your hotel.”

  “What hotel?’

  “Your hotel in Amman.”

  “But I don’t have a hotel in Amman.”

  “I thought you said you came from Jordan. From Amman.”

  “No, I was in Petra.”

  “You did not stay in a hotel?”

  “I did. In Petra.”

  “But how come you didn’t arrange a bus from Petra?”

  “I didn’t think to. I went to the Dead Sea and asked the driver to drop me off here.”

  “Did he tell you to make this crossing?”

  “No, he told me to fly from Amman.”

  “Why didn’t you listen to him?”

  “I guess I should have. I thought this would be an adventure.”

  “Adventure…” She repeated my word and let it hang there in the air, sizing me up with a scrutinizing smirk as though I was playing some game with her. At least Tariq had warned me that someone might ask inane questions to get a rise out of me. That was their job. I was approaching a tipping point, feeling the well of exasperation working its way up my throat. She tapped the passport in the palm of her hand as though it were a paddle, then invited me to proceed to a small desk away from the main line of travelers going towards the terminal. It felt as though I were in trouble, like I’d done something wrong–like all those times I’d been asked if I’d been drinking during a traffic stop, feeling guilty no matter what. I started to feel angry. I’m an American goddamn it! I look like CIA! Aren’t we the good guys giving you all the guns and money? I glanced at one of the soldiers, who gave me a casual look that said he wouldn’t mind shooting me just to past the time.

  As I stood there, I watched as others were being pulled from the line, many of them Arab looking, which were most of the people on my bus. There were some grubby backpackers that didn’t get much hassle–those would have been the ones I’d target. Of course, it didn’t matter because the ones who made it through the gauntlet of crazy questions then proceeded to a line hundreds of people deep, served by a few kiosks on the other side of the sea of people. I marveled at the inefficiency of it all, but I suppose the chaos of people wandering around, some with guns at the ready, kept everyone off kilter and served its purpose of disrupting anyone’s plans, good or bad. I resigned myself to amusement since the whole sad spectacle more resembled a circus than anything else.

  Fifteen minutes later a short man in his late twenties approached me, holding my passport. He looked at my picture and asked me my name. When I gave it to him he started in on some of the same questions as the girl. Where was I going? Why? Who was getting married? What were their names? Did I have friends in Israel? In Jordan? It all seemed like a warped nightmare, and the thought of that struck me. The entire scene and everyone in it, particularly the guards, did resemble a bad dream filled with fear. This is what fear looks like in its pure manifestation. Power without a rudder. As the young man looked at me with intense, hazel eyes, I felt sorry for him and the whole damn place. Like the child in a dysfunctional family, he tried his best to navigate through a world already set up for him and he’d grown used to. I guess given the option, some people chose to whip rather than be whipped.

  I assumed I passed the test because he shrugged and handed back my passport, motioning me to join the line with the others. I caught site of a few young women in hijabs being escorted to a door that led to God knows where, both visibly terrified as two female soldiers and another male went in behind them and shut the door. I looked over at a middle-aged Arab man next to me who’d also watched this. He caught my eye and looked down in quiet resignation.

  After waiting in the slow-moving line for well over an hour, I wondered if I would have been better off checking my luggage as they wheeled away a cart filled with big 1970s-era suitcases and cardboard boxes wrapped in tape. Because at one point, the same girl who’d interrogated me earlier came up again and asked to inspect my backpack. I unzipped it, so she could peer into it and she also motioned for another officer to take my suitcase. She ordered me to wait and I watched as he rolled it to a small metal desk, where he flipped it on top and unzipped it. Another man brought out a handheld device and they passed it all over the bag as he rummaged through it. I caught sight of a pair of my boxer shorts falling out and laying exposed for everyone to see. Now the entire place knew that I wore shorts with the Grinch’s face stamped all over them. Great. They were the most comfortable pair I had, so I hoped they wouldn’t get confiscated. I noticed the same guy behind me looking at them too and when I caught his eye again I thought he would smile this time, but he didn’t. In fact, nobody smiled, ever. I thought of Churchill’s quote suggesting that if you find yourself in hell, just keep moving–or something to that effect. So, I did.

  After six hours of lines and hunger pangs, I made it through another two checkpoints with metal detectors and more questions, though most of them less disturbing in nature. I saw a bus of people, all Arab looking, being escorted on a shuttle bus back to Jordan. I guess they didn’t give the correct responses. I never did see those two women in hijab
s again.

  My passport and bags back in hand, I looked around at the parking lot. Most of the buses were filling back up with people–many entire groups of travelers that seemed to have had their own quick path through security. I deduced that I’d chosen the longest possible route to Jerusalem. I was starving and tired and angry, but in looking back on the experience, I think I gained some insight into a world inhabited by less fortunate people. Though I wasn’t sure who was less fortunate, for though the Arabs had to endure harsh tones and rough handling by the Israeli officers, I couldn’t help but see parallels between the conduct of a chosen race and what had been done to them for millennia. I tossed my luggage into the trunk of a taxi and slid into the back seat with a mixture of pity and anger. Someone else was in the back seat with me. A diminutive kid that looked fresh out of college, and maybe American. He smiled and said hello to me.

  “Didn’t know it was a shared taxi,” I muttered. “I’m Harry.”

  “Alex. Nice to meet you.” He gave my hand a firm shake, and I could tell by his smile that he had a cheery disposition.

  “You American?”

  “I grew up there, yes.”

  “But you live in Jerusalem?”

  “No, I live in Ramallah, actually. In the West Bank.”

  “That’s interesting.” At that point, the driver, who couldn’t have been much older than Alex, bounced into the front seat. He turned to Alex and they started jabbering away in what I assumed was Arabic. I’d heard Hebrew back in the terminal, which sounded more guttural and scratchy. I looked out the window, watching the traffic and everyone else struggling to get on the road out of there.