Escape From The Middle East

Palestine Mensa Group- application: 

Rich is currently in Jerusalem. He should be at the airport in Amman, Jordan, no later than 2 PM to check in for an international flight to Bangkok. It takes 40 minutes to get to the Israeli/Jordanian border from either city. At what time should Rich leave to insure he makes it there on time?

A)         Leaving at 11 AM gives you an hour forty minutes to cross the border, that should be plenty.

B)         7 AM??

C)         Haha! What a joke, this is the Middle East. You need to leave the previous afternoon.

D)         Sometime before the 1967 Israeli/Arab war

E)         Around the time of Christ

This is actually a test question on the membership form for Mensa of Palestine, and those answering A, B, or C are believed to have demonstrated sufficiently low levels of intelligence  to be referred directly to Islamic Jihad: Suicide Bomber Division (more popularly known as “72 Virgins in Paradise for Idiots.”) 
The correct answer is: What the hell are you doing trying to cross a border in the Middle East in the first place??

At Needle Point Church- picture of Jesus carrying his own cross. "So, what would happen if I didn't help carry my cross?" ...  "We're not carrying it for you."
"Well okay then."

Having already developed a bad taste for Middle East border crossings, I traveled back in time, to before I arrived in the region, and cancelled my trip entirely. Unfortunately, my Mom wouldn't let me, (“Richard, no, you’ll hurt yourself!”) leaving me a departure time from Jerusalem of 7 AM, correctly anticipating “delays,”  by which I mean- not being allowed to cross the border.

Let’s join Rich and on his misadventure out of the Middle East. Imagine the movie “typing sound’ of each time stamp as we get set for this blockbuster spy-thriller.

6:30 AM—Our hero wakes with a jolt. Realizing that while less than 2 hours away from the airport, and with 9 hours til his plane leaves, our hero still has to cross a Middle Eastern border!

6:31 AM- Using a meditative breathing technique he learned from Buddhist Monks in Tibet, our hero manages to re-center himself.

6:38 AM- Picks the locks on the hostel doors, barely leaping to avoid the three snarling pit-bulls chasing him. Greeted outside by a rising sun.  

7:00 AM- Walks through the gates of Old Town Jerusalem, glances nervously at his watch, then relaxes, after realizing he doesn’t own one.

7:18 AM- Stops for a juice. Nearly makes the mistake of ordering pomegranate, before remembering he’ll likely have to spend another month in this Hades for each seed he eats. 

7:19 AM- Downs his orange juice.

7:45 AM- Locates shared van ride to border. Bus is full. Driver tells him to take next one. Hero tells him he has less than 8 hours to cross the border. Driver immediately tells other tourists to make room, or he’s “kicking the fat one off. “

7:55 AM- Van leaves building, immediately gets stalled in traffic.

8:20 AM- Bus hit by roadside bomb. Hero performs mouth to mouth on all passengers, except for the obese Canadian, who dies just as the ambulance gets there. Other Canadians thank hero for saving their future health-care tax dollars.

9:20 AM- Hero hitches ride from the obligatory hot passing Israeli female commando, finally arrives at the to King Hussein border crossing.

9:30 AM- Piles of paperwork, including $40 exit fee.

9:35 AM- Exit interview by Israeli Commando. Hero does all he can not to give away that he is a top covert CIA agent who's assignment is to overthrow the Israeli regime, which exit officer suggests several times trying to trip-up Hero. 

9:55 AM- Hero breathes a sigh of relief. Believes he has enough time to make it to the Amman Airport, even if kidnapped by Al Qaeda on the other side. Takes a victory lap around the building to stretch his legs.

10:20 AM-- Approaches very surly, old woman, Israeli border agent. Hands her his passport. After looking through it she states, "You cannot cross." Then smiles her first smile in ... the last decade?

10:21 AM-- Argument continues. 

Hero: "What, first you don't want me in your country, now you won't let me leave?!!" 

Surly old Agent: "We don't care if you leave, (so long as pay us the $40 exit fee) it is the Jordanians who won't let you pass, as you do not have a Jordanian Visa."

Hero: "Yes I do, I got one entering Jordan from Syria."

Surly Old Agent: "You have been to Syria? Who let you into our country!"  (flops on floor, having a heart attack)

Hero: "Doctor! is there a doctor in the house, because i need a second opinion on this visa situation!"

10:25 AM-- Surly Old Agent dies. Ten Uzis are pointed at our hero. "Can someone call me a cab?"

11:00 AM-- The helpful, and ever friendly Israelis, refuse to let Hero use their computer so he can check his flight status. Hero childishly slams hat he is wearing to the ground. Special cab arrives. Hero tells border guard that next time he is in Israel he will set-up a stand outside a Jewish Synagogue where he will give away, “Free Pork,” the dichotomy of which will likely make Jewish heads explode.

11:01 AM-- Dodges Uzi bullets, leaps into cab and yells, “GO!!”

1,000 + year old olive trees

11:05 AM-- There are three border crossings between Israel and Jordan. It turns out that the only one you from which you cannot cross into Jordan without a super duper official visa (not the one hero has) is the Jerusalem crossing, which makes a lot of sense, considering it is the one most used. Welcome to the Middle East. The Northern border is 2 hours away, and from there another 2 and a half hours back to Amman. Hero asks nice cab driver who is only charging him $175 for the first part of the trip if he thinks he has a chance at making his plane. Hero cannot help but be encouraged by response which is, 'Not a chance." 

11:06 AM-- "Step on the gas please." 

12:10 PM-- A little more than half way there, in an effort to help him along, the Israeli Army stops hero's cab to search it. Hero points out to them that he is an American, and is on his way OUT of Israel. This logic only delays the process. Cab driver can't help but laugh. 

12:25 PM-- Hero passes search. Israeli commandos exchange warm waves with bandana clad, AK-47 waving Arabs driving a pick-up truck some with wires coming out of their clothing. Hero is pretty sure this was a set-up, and the Israelis were mocking him. Hero momentarily considers stating, "I'm with them," then thinks better of it. 

1:03 PM-- Due to the advent of flight for cars, hero makes it to the border. Fills out paperwork, pays exit fee, sprints to Jordanian side where he has to wait, for a bus; to come back; which has just left. It would be much faster to walk, but if he does, he'll be shot.

1:08 PM-- Pays $5 bus fee. 

1:09 PM-- 70 meters later the bus comes to a halt and dumps everybody off. Hero slips on slick floor, trying to get to counter first. 

1:15 PM-- Jordanians stamp his passport. Hero gives a "saluti a tutti" to the Israeli side, otherwise known as "the bird."

Don't believe the sign

1:19 PM-- Hero pays another $80 to be driven to the Amman Airport. Has cabbie stop at world famous Jordanian Money Tree.

1:22 PM-- Promises cabbie big tip if he can halve a two hour + ride. 

1:25 PM-- Cabbie starts driving like Mario Andretti. The ride from the Northern border to Amman is largely mountainous, and throwing caution to the wind might be very scary if you could hear the bald tires screeching around hair pin turns, but you can't since we're traveling faster than speed of sound.

1:45 PM-- Hero notes Andretti is a fantastic driver. Car nearly veers off a cliff. Hero indifferent, as he plans to kill himself if he has to spend another night in the Middle East anyways. 

2:12 PM-- Mario Andretti expertly passes car after car, roadblock after roadblock. Hero tries not to get hopes up. 

2:38 PM-- Cabbie arrives at airport!! Hero gives him every single last Jordanian Dinar he has (about $16 worth) Cabbie very much deserves tip, hero promises him he will get him a NASCAR deal back in the US.


2:39 PM-- Hero realizes he has been dropped off at the wrong terminal. Sprints to other side of airport. 


2:45 PM-- Helpful Jordanian staff do all they can to get him on his airplane, even opening up a new line specifically for him! If you are friendly with Arabs and treat them with respect, they really try to do more for you than any other culture hero has seen. 


2:55 PM-- Hero races to gate, boards his planes moments before they are to close the gate, collapses in heap on floor, grateful to have Escaped from the Middle East!! 


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Aqaba, Jordan- Burkas, Purity + Environmental Degradation

Aqaba

With Mahmoud performing his stand-up comedy routine, deploying his mega-million catchphrase, “Big asshole,” like a laser guided missile striking our laugh centers with perfect accuracy, the two hour ride into Aqaba passed quickly, its enjoyment tempered slightly by the gray sky outside: the perma-cloud cover of heavy pollution that covers all of Jordan, even fifty miles from the nearest town.

Mahmoud drops us off with a huge smile and a hug. He speaks with a local cab driver to insure we won’t be cheated and instructs him to help us find our budget accommodations. 

Yoni and Zuzka in dry Petra, Jordan

The Red Sea port of Aqaba is scorching. I love hot weather, but being from California, I’m used to dry heat: the weather here is over 100 Fahrenheit, with 95% humidity. I’m a normally super energetic guy, but I have zero desire to move. I cannot ever remember feeling so lethargic.

The Red Sea is world renowned for its diving sites, but as a sample I merely rent flippers and a mask and venture out onto the local beach. There were wonderful sites to be seen in the Jordanian waters: colorful fish, sea urchins, reefs; also used tires, beer cans and bottles, and plastics that had descended the twelve feet to the bottom. The beautifully colored water atop is merely a veneer for what lies below. Mankind’s assault on Mother Nature continues.

I left the water a half hour later, and sat reading a book on the sand, feeling fully refreshed. It took an entire ten minutes for the sun and humidity to wear down my shield of cool.

I look around, and spot women in full burkas resting on the sand. I find it intolerably hot, and I am freshly removed from cool water, I cannot imagine how these women are surviving. Now here comes Zuzka, my pretty Czech friend, jumping into the ocean in a long, one-piece bathing suit. I watch all Arab eyes swing her way, both male and female. Such a site is rare. Zuzka later related how uncomfortable she felt, like the whole world was staring at her.
She towels off and throws on a shirt. Even dressed, this blond still stands out amongst the dark population. We walk to the group of burka clad older women.

“How do you remain covered head to toe, in black, on a day this hot?” I inquire.
“We do not have a choice,” comes the difficult translation, “It is our culture. We MUST dress this way. Even in this heat.”
“My friend Zuzka, is able to swim and wear a bathing suit, would you like to as well?”
It is difficult to understand them, but I gather that they don’t like the fact that Zuzka is here “parading around” in such skimpy clothing, which in California would only draw a second glance if it were worn to a board meeting. I couldn’t understand for sure what they meant, but Zuzka wasn’t terribly comfortable, so we went back to the hotel so she could dress more “appropriately.”



a razor thin edged limestone cliff in Petra

We stop in a local store to purchase some sweets. I’m twenty-five cents short. A man visiting the owner inquires where I am from. Turns out that he recently returned from the US, having studied environmental engineering. I’m excited to speak with him, explaining my surprise at the utter environmental degradation I have seen throughout the Middle East, explaining to him what I had just witnessed in the water.

He shakes his head, and nods in assent. “It was not like this years ago,” he states, “We have a long ways to go as a society to catch-up with Europe in our policies and consciousness.” It’s a very pleasant conversation, and at the end of it, the store owner waives off the twenty-five cents I owe him. When you are friendly with Arabs, what’s theirs is yours. 

Me exploring Petra, rugged terrain

At night we find an Internet Café. The girl there is not wearing even a hijab. She’s the prettiest girl I have seen so far in the Middle East. Turns out she is a Christian, and thus has no religious reason to wear the hijab. She tells me she is often hassled, and called “impure.”

How dare anyone be different, and that most goes for most societies, not just conservative Islamic. Express yourself differently than the herd, and be prepared for generally un-wanton attention.

There isn’t a lot to do at night here. Thank God it cools off, at least a little. The next morning we are set to cross the Israeli border, which, as you’ll find out, while it takes longer than building the pyramids, it is also more of a hassle. (but in all fairness, it's a lot less pleasant too)

CIA Investigates Missing American in Middle East

Petra Overnight

the narrow mountain alley leading to the Treasury

Atop the limestone cliff, 300 feet above the ground, after having hid from what we thought were police spotlights (it turns out they were!,) in a Petra cave, we awoke on the limestone cliff, with the gentle nudge of the dawn sun, marveling at just how caked in dust and dirt we were. I think even a heroin addict placed in our grimy shoes would choose a shower over actually catching the dragon.
I used to believe that if I lived in the time of Lewis and Clark, I would be the first to volunteer for their expedition. After one night out in the wilds of the Jordanian mountains I might be reconsidering my application. “No Richard, you need a real job! Apply dammit, apply!” I can hear my Father yelling in the background.

Strategizing our departure from the Petra, we decided to wait until the gates opened at 7 AM, and then proceed out as other tourists entered to avoid being arrested for our overnight activities.

“We came, we saw, we left. Sooo lame,” I informed utterly confused tourists as we walked the trail away from the Treasury during the first few minutes of the park’s opening.

“I thought we were the first people in line,” remarked the British woman to her husband.

“Mommy, how did they get so dirty?” asked their little girl.

We arrived at the park entrance, trying to sneak out as casually as possible, but the guard got very excited upon spotting us. “You are the American!” he exclaimed.

“The American?” I responded, feeling as though I had just been picked out of a police line-up for a robbery I DID commit.

 “You spent the night here last night?” The evidence was all over my clothing. I nodded. He animatedly shouts Arabic into his walkie-talkie.

“The tourist police will be here shortly, please wait here.”

The police. After us. In the Middle East. And we knowingly broke the law … This would bode a lot worse if not for the fact that the guard seemed genuinely happy to see us.

Ten minutes later the police haven’t shown up. Zuzka walks away, then doesn’t return. Yoni and I are confused. We begin to look for her, and not finding her, I hire a cab for a couple dinars in hopes of chasing her down. On the second time up and down the hill we spot her. She’s furious with us, apparently having told us “let’s go,” and neither of us following. She refuses to get in the cab. I leave Yoni to deal with her, agreeing to meet them at their hostel in an hour or so.

I walk into my hotel. (the hotel owner who I described in this post) Mahmoud’s jaw drops when he sees me. “That wasn’t nice,” he states.

I am momentarily confused, Mahmoud explains: “Last night I made dinner for you. The park closes at 6. I thought you’d be back by 6:30 at the latest. 7 o’clock arrives, and you still aren’t back. No doubt he’ll be back at 7:30. 8 PM and you still are not here. He MUST come back by 8:30, there’s nothing to do in this town for God’s sake. 8:30 comes, dinner is totally cold, I haven’t eaten because I  am waiting for you. 9:00, I call tourist police and report you missing.”

“I spent the night in Petra,” I explained, “Surely someone has done that before.”

“No!” bellows Mahmoud, “Aside of the fact it is illegal, No one else is stupid enough to pay $50 for a bed so they can sleep out on a dusty cliff with scorpions.”

As if on cue, two policeman enter the hotel. They point to me and utter, “The American!”

I haven’t done anything that bad, have I? They aren’t going to cut off my feet for stealing a few extra steps in Petra after closing time? I mean, this isn’t Saudi Arabia, right??! Hell, they already tried to gas me. I stand frozen, no place to run, no place to hide.

They walk over to me, and honestly, are beyond polite. They explain that I was reported missing, and that they just wanted to make sure I was alright. Tourism is one of Jordan’s few forms of foreign currency, and they take the protection of travelers very seriously, not wanting to have their reputation as a safe destination stained. They laugh when I tell them I spent the night in Petra, shaking their heads at the crazy American Cowboy. They leave soon after.

Mahmoud shakes his head. “You make me worry about you. You big asshole. I wake up at 2 AM and call to find out if you came in. I don’t sleep.”

“I’m really sorry Mahmoud.” Really I was. How could not be for putting out someone who cared for my well being and had made me dinner. “Is it okay if I go shower?”

Mahmoud dismisses me. I go upstairs and allow the cool water to wash away the dusty sin from my heinous crime. Re-birthed, I walk downstairs.

Mahmoud’s cell phone rings. He immediately switches to English. “Why should I call you? Police call you …” Suddenly I wonder if he’s talking about me. “No, no, you big asshole,” he yells into the receiver. “Okay, okay, I call you next time. Bye-bye big asshole.” He hangs up.

Exploring Petra

“That was CIA,” he explains. “My friend mad at me for not calling him the moment you got back. They were about to call your parents to tell them you were missing.”

I couldn’t imagine my poor, overly worried Mother reacting to the news that I was missing in the Middle East, on a trip that she begged me not to go on, telling me she had a “horrible feeling” about it. Turns out that while working with the American army in Fallojuh, Mahmoud had made friends with CIA operatives and had also called them to report that I was hadn’t turned up last night. They were mad that they weren’t the first people he called upon my return, and that it was rather via contact with the Jordanian police that they became aware of my reappearance.

For my part I can only thank God they didn’t call my Mom.

Exploring Petra, Jordan + Spending a Night Illegally in Cave like Al Qaeda

The Magnificence of Petra

Mahmoud drove me to Petra’s gate early in the morning, where I parted with the rather hefty $45 entrance fee, thrilled however to be seeing one of the Seven New Wonders of the World.

As I hike the trail, the mountains slowly close around me like the coils of a snake, until I am walking a winding path just a few feet wide, sheer cliffs on either side of me. Ahead, the tunnel opens, sun shining through, its golden light illuminating The Treasury.

Petra's treasury, discovered by Indiana Jones

The Treasury is carved directly into the limestone rock, and received its name because it was rumored that an Egyptian Pharaoh had hidden his wealth inside.

Check out the Treasury!! Move over Indiana Jones


(To see The treasury in person is jaw dropping.)


The magnificent treasury of Petra

Yoni and Zuzka

While admiring the Treasury, a 25 year old Israeli, Yoni, asks me to take a picture of him and his girlfriend, Zuzka.  We start walking around together, agreeing to jointly undertake the exploration of this ancient civilization, with me getting dibs on pharaoh’s treasure.


The many hones in the carved in the mountains of Petra, Jordan

Chiseled in the cliffs are the former residences of these long lost people. We pass by an outdoor coliseum, I daydream about what spectacles were once witnessed here: Gladiator fights? Public executions? Unveiled Muslim women? My fantasy comes to an abrupt end, as none of these are exactly appealing visuals for the imagination.



The coliseum of Petra

We climb the cliffs and admire the surrounding view of the parched mountains, enjoying a lunch consisting of canned tuna and pita bread. As I listen to their travel stories, I realize what I love about trekking the globe are the variety of adventuresome people you meet.

Yoni, in Israeli tradition, is intense, loud, and attempting to renegotiate my claim to pharaoh’s gold. He recently completed his required service in the Israeli army, and is looking forward to marrying his salsa dancing Czech girlfriend, Zuzka, whom he met in South America, the announcement of which I predict will be deemed by Yoni’s mother akin to dropping the Hiroshima nuclear bomb directly on her head, and the radioactive guilt she will release will have a half-life equal to her own.

Zuzka for her part, is a software engineer living in Canada, who lives to travel. She has a very nicely shaped face with a squarish jaw, and being adventurous, open, smart, and brave, I dub her as one of the coolest girls I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.

A Brush With Death
We climb the cliffs up and down, dipping into caves, admiring the scenery, exploring as much of Petra as anyone could hope to. Yoni is the best mountain climber of the three of us, and generally leads. The cliffs are generally quite steep, and it becomes important to plan your moves in advance, not to just take the next easiest step.

We begin to climb another mountain, far beyond the path most tourists take. This time I lead. Near the end, the cliff becomes nearly vertical, with few places to grip or place your feet. I’m only ten or so feet from the top. It looks somewhat daunting, but with resolve, I push off from my resting place. I climb the first half with ease, but around ¾ of the way, my grip of the rock starts to slip.

My heart skips a beat, a fall here likely means death, not only for me, but odds are I’ll be taking Yoni and Zuzka with me as they are directly below me. My hand continues to slide off the rock. 
Do something!  
I can’t breathe. With seemingly no other option but to take a mighty gamble, I use what leverage I have from my legs to push upwards on the rock, I rise just enough for my hand to find a slightly better grip. I push off with my legs again and scamper up the remaining distance, and onto a small overhang.

A minute later we are all resting safely on the ledge. I’m not sure if Yoni and Zuzka have any idea how close we were to disappearing in the Middle East, likely to be found by flies and scorpions long before any human.

Middle East Politics

Having survived another cliffhanger brush with death, I throw caution completely to the wind and start discussing politics with an Israeli.

Yoni tells me that he used to dislike thinking of himself as an Israeli, with most of the world hating his country, but today he’s proud of his heritage. I wonder whether just having completed his service in the Israeli army has anything to do with his changing mindset.

He wishes there was peace in his land. He doesn’t like the old guard or the fundamentalists, on either side, that help foment this never ending struggle and hatred. He is hopeful that his generation can do something to change that. He hopes to be one day involved with the political process.

He says that part of the reason the world hates Israel is that the Palestinians have a better PR machine, and control the story much better than the Israelis do.

“I want peace,” states Yoni.

“How would you accomplish that?” I inquire.

“I have a plan,” reveals Yoni, “When I arrive at the forefront, I will change the narrative the world hears. I will tell the Israeli side of the story and as the world understands the Israeli position, the Palestinians will not have the same leverage in negotiations they have now.”

I’m shocked by this response. Changing into a fancier suit and hiring a publicist to sway the opinion of your peers, is a positively futile undertaking, and will never change the underlying relationship between you and your wife, if she continues to show up for events with bruises all over her face. (and of course this goes vice-versa for the Palestinians, as both sides are guilty of shameful deeds)


Residence of ancient Petra

Later on in the conversation, Yoni does an about face, asking whether I know who Gilad Shalit is.

“Yes, the Israeli soldier who was abducted by Hamas in a cross border raid, and sadly, continues to be held, victim of the political struggle.”

Yoni pauses, and then says, with a seemingly guilty conscience, “One Israeli is kidnapped, and we go beserk as a nation. Most days, the IDF, (Israeli Defense Force) kidnaps three Palestinians off the streets, and interrogates, sometimes tortures them, because we think that those individuals will be able to provide intelligence on where the next attack on Israel might come from.”

Violence, coupled with the need to survive, begets more violence, and decency and morality are the first to be thrown by the wayside. Both sides are at fault, in this seemingly ceaseless ideological, egoic struggle for this “holy land.”

(Check out what lies outside the Treasury)

Overnight- Sadaam’s Chemical Weapons

It was getting late, and the three of us were sitting on a ledge high above the ground, playing a game of chicken to see who would buckle first at spending the night in this ancient civilization. No one blinked.

We had water, and some pita bread to last the night, and with the park now closed and the sun setting, and the government workers, apparently unaware of our remaining presence, unleash Sadaam Hussein’s chemical weapons.

A truck, drives down the gorge below, spraying the entire area with a thick poisonous cloud meant to eradicate flies from Jordan’s #1 tourist destination. It seems like overkill, literally, as the toxic haze drifts towards us, causing us to violently cough and flee to the other side of the mountain, moving as quickly over the rocks as the combination of low light and lethal gas chasing us will allow.

Eventually, we reach the peak and descend to the other side, finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. Twenty minutes later, a series of SUV's clamber down the road, shining search lights on the rocks. Are they looking for us? Quite possibly, it’s illegal to spend the night here, not to mention dangerous. Perhaps we should hide.

We duck into a cave, and wait for an hour, murmuring amongst ourselves. The search lights disappear, we head out onto a limestone ledge, a couple hundred feet off the ground. We lay down on the flattest places available and look up at the stars. At three AM the full moon rises over the mountains, showering us with translucent light. Slowly, we go fall sleep, not knowing that the CIA is already working on the case of the missing American in the Middle East … (follow up story link)

Rolling with Mahmoud- Wadi Musa Style

I think I've been Cheated

I make my way to the Amman bus station, where I board a crowded van headed to Petra. The driver asks me for eight dinars. “I was told it was four,” I retort.
“No, six dinars, two more for big bag.”
“Really?” I ask, almost positive I’m getting ripped.
“Yes, yes, I know price.”
Whatever, cheat me a few dollars. “Here you go.”

Now, I’ve booked reservations in Wadi Musa (the mountainous town acting as the gateway to Petra) and like many touristic areas the prices are by no means a steal, so when the bus made an impromptu stop at an inn on the outskirts of town, the driver announced they had vacancy, and the price was half my booking, I jumped at the possibility. After seeing the room, I informed the owner I would be happy to stay if I could cancel my other accommodations. I check the terms of my reservation on the net, no-go.

“No, no, no, I know the owner,” states the inn’s proprietor, “He’ll let you off, don’t worry.”
“I have to hear that from his mouth, and get an email from him stating so.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you kidding me?”

Begrudgingly he dials, mumbles a few words of Arabic into the receiver with little enthusiasm or hope, and hands me the phone. I look at him dubiously as I start speaking.

I explain my situation, the deep voice on the other end refuses to let me out of the booking. “My hotel is much better!” he states emphatically, “why would you even want to switch?”

“Trying to save money.”

“No, absolutely no! You show, you have place to stay, you don’t show, I charge.” Now he asks me to explain how I ended up on the phone with him.

“Stay where you are, I will come get you,” he commands.


The Warpath


Minutes later a large silver van shows up. Out steps Mahmoud- bald, 6’2” and 275 pounds, the Arab version of Andre the Giant.

His first order of business is a “frank” exchange on business ethics with the owner of the inn, but when he comes back to me, he’s more interested in the bus. He asks me details, anger clouds his face. “How much did you pay for the ride?”

“8 JD,” I reply (almost $12).

“Oh you pay very much. Very much.”

I load my bags into the van. Mahmoud is on a warpath, racing to get to the bus station before the driver is able to return to Amman …. SCCCRRRREEEEEECCCHHHH!!!!!! Mahmoud SLAMS on his brakes going down a slope steep enough to double as an Olympic Ski-jumping ramp. We skid to a halt maybe a foot away from a tin-box car, the driver wincing, unable to open his eyes.

“Oh my God!! Are you trying to kill me?!” I yell.  

HOOOONNNNKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!! “This big asshole,” shouts Mahmoud shaking his fist, “he’s going the wrong way. That’s a one way street.” Mahmoud points to the sign.

The other driver seems to shrink in his seat as Mahmoud sticks his head out the window and bellows at him in Arabic. I am unable to translate what he said but “Have a nice a day,” can be safely ruled out,

Mahmoud is on a mission, he pulls away. Upon reaching the speed of light traveling downhill he slams on his over-used brakes, again barely avoiding another head-on collision.

“Oh my God! You are the worst driver. Discount on my stay!” I shout, attempting to leverage a price-break while my heart is on the verge of exploding.

“No, no! No discount. He big asshole, don’t know how to drive!!” He BLARES the horn with contempt, as he points another one-way street sign on the street the driver just pulled out of- No discount.

Mahmoud races onwards to the bus station; we’re in luck, my bus is still there. Now, the driver is a thin, wiry man, standing 5’ 4”, while Mahmoud is the size of Mount Olympus, his thunderous voice warning of lightning that need never land. Indeed, the Jordanian Zeus doesn’t even bother exiting the van. Despite not comprehending a single word, I know the bus driver doesn’t stand a chance in this argument.

It’s like watching a featherweight boxer who’s just poured his Bloody Mary atop the head of Mike Tyson’s Mom, wearing her Sunday’s Best, on Mother’s Day, in public, while she’s cooing over her infant granddaughter, and when Tyson stands up, towering over him, with the everybody staring, his only defense is, “I’m sorry Mr. Tyson, I didn’t that was your Mother.” And now Mahmoud Tyson has him on the ropes, pummeling him with his deep voice, the bus driver tries to slip away but Mahmoud won’t let him. “How much did he charge you for the ride?” Mahmoud asks me.

“Eight dinars.”

“Eight dinars,” Mahmoud repeats to him.

“No, I charge him four.”

“Eight,” I state calmly.

The driver pulls three dinars from his pocket and hands them to me.

Mahmoud clears his throat. Utterly defeated, the driver drops his chin to his chest, reaches into his wallet and hands me one more dinar. Mahmoud then tells he is reporting him to the police, and to expect a ticket.

“He big asshole,” explains the victor, using his favorite phrase yet again, “he knows he’s supposed to go straight to the bus station. Not allowed to stop. He tries to steal my business. Big asshole.”

“He big asshole,” I repeat, mirroring Mahmoud’s tone. A chuckle emanates from the giant.

Mahmoud drives me to his hotel, and checks me in. “You see, hotel much much better,” he beams.

“Yeah, too bad owner is big asshole,” I reply, getting a hearty laugh from my new friend.  

It is too late in the day to visit Petra so I walk around Wadi-Musa, which economically is entirely dependent on the flow of tourists visiting one of the Seven Wonders of the World. After a few hours, I return, and Mahmoud invites me to run some errands with him. I’m actually excited to see what new adventure will find us.

the mountains around Petra

He generously buys me dinner, we talk. Turns out Mahmoud learned English in the employment of the US Military, working in Fallujah at the height of the conflict, of all things, as head of army base’s gift shop.

“I never left the base,” explains Mahmoud, “If the Iraqis found me walking around, they would have slit my throat.”

“How did you find the US soldiers?” I inquire.

“Bunch of big assholes,” Mahmoud states warmly. You can count on him using this term at minimum once every three sentences, you have to tell from his tone whether he means it affectionately or not. “After war, I take all I earn, all I have saved, and my family and I buy hotel. I work hard.”

Indeed he does. “Come on, I take you to meet my friend, he big asshole too.”

Mahmoud introduces me. “I hear you big asshole,” I remark to his amigo. Mahmoud laughs, this coupled with my friendly tone protects me from being punched. We drink the traditional Arab offering of overly sweetened tea watching the sun descend behind the mountains. Eventually we say our good-byes and proceed back to the hotel. As we walk in, and I’m about to head up for the night, I ask Mahmoud for one more piece of information: “Am I big asshole?” I inquire.

Mahmoud chuckles and puts his arm over my shoulder like an old friend, “You biggest asshole of them all.”

It’s nice to be loved.

The Unbelievable Hospitality one Experiences in the Middle East (Amman, Jordan)

Amman, Jordan
It takes another hour and a half to get to Jordan’s capital city of Amman. We finally escape the bus at 1:30 AM. Badr is greeted by his three cousins there to pick him up, who warmly embrace their Syrian counterpart. At Badr’s behest they unquestioningly agree to take me to the hotel I haven’t booked yet. I load my bags into Mohammed’s small car. They insist that I ride shotgun, while they squeeze three into the back.
Mohammed speaks the best English out of everyone and does most of the talking. He is a graphics designer with a penchant for film, and I am the first American he’s had the pleasure to spend any time with. Hopefully, in hip-hop terms, I’ll “represent .”
I am immediately struck by the visible signs of Westernization that have befallen Jordan; KFC, Mickey D’s, Pizza Hut, and the added poundage they bring to the population of Amman. My new friend Mohammed is one them, patting his small pot belly, while describing his affinity for McDonald’s cuisine, which he eats so regularly it landed in the hospital with persistent stomach troubles at the ripe age of 23.
My hosts pepper me with questions about my travels, about America, about how I find the Middle East, and I vice-versa, while we dine on a late night snack of Lebanese pizza.
It’s nearly 3 in the morning by the time we’re done, and all four of them are driving me around to help me find accommodations when they should be home in bed.
Honestly, if you are a guest in any Arab society, it is mandated by the culture that they treat you with respect, lay out their best wares for you, and go out of their way to helpful. It seems impossible to feel unwelcome in this society.
For a moment I forget all I just wrote about Arab hospitality, the Pavlovian response of anger races through me. Graffiti on a wall - in black letters is scrawled, “Osama.” It takes me a second to realize that this is a common name in the Arab world and merely a tagger seeking to meet his need for significance externally. “Osama is a bad word in the West,” I remark to my new friends.

At 3:30 AM we find a suitable hotel, at $50 a night it is by no means cheap for this region of the world, but it’s far too late to keep looking. My Arab friends have been kind enough as it is.
My room is HUGE, bigger than my two bedroom Los Angeles apartment. You could get lost in here. On the downside, electrical wires peak out of the walls in every direction, some with the copper directly exposed, the plastic covering stripped. It’s probably even money that I die in a fire tonight: Russian Roulette with worse odds. I book the bet, far too exhausted to move.
I wake up and marvel at my good fortune. From wrestling wild crocodiles in Ghana, to surviving the sloppy electrical wiring, it seems that the Grim Reaper seems to have no immediate plans for me.

Check out this quick video of Koran TV-- 24 hour satellite station, non-stop Koran (common through the Middle East)

My first order of business is to find Internet and grab some breakfast. Should be easy in a big city like this right?
WRONG: Today is Friday, and in Islamic tradition, everything is closed,.
The bank, the exchange, the laundry-mat, restaurants—All closed. For such a huge city this place is a ghost-town, no movement whatsoever. I walk around for an hour before deciding to take a taxi around to investigate if there is more to see.
There isn't: Amman is dirty, dusty, old, and ugly. The buildings are worn down, the ancient cars spout noxious fumes into the air, furthering the surrounding blanket of pollution that makes it all but impossible to breathe. Venturing to the Middle East with asthma would be suicide.

The Treasury in Petra

I have been invited to have dinner with Mohammed and his family at their house. I’m picked up in the late afternoon, and driven to the outskirts of town and their modest home.
Mohammed lives with his large extended family under the same roof along with his wife who is also his cousin. Both these scenarios are common amongst Arabs.
I am fed a small meal of chicken and grains, before we adjourn to the patio for a talk. I am eager to find out what Jordanians think politically. I ask. It’s not as taboo a question as it is in Syria where if you ask someone their opinion, they answer back is, “An opinion? What’s an opinion.”
As eager as they are to please me, they answer, but honestly, they "really don’t care about politics one way or the other, they just want to live a happy, peaceful existence."
The family is of Palestinian heritage. I ask Mohammed what he thinks of Israel. The unmistakable micro-expression of anger flashes across his face. He plays it off, again stating that he doesn’t really care about Israel he just wants to live his life. I back off the political, they invite me on a tour of Amman.
We drive to the main drag where twenty-somethings congregate, puffing away on their cigarettes amidst an ocean of storefronts selling sweets and drinks. You won’t find alcohol here, although underground clubs reserved for the wealthy do serve it elsewhere.
My friends are proud of Jordan’s modernity, at least as compared to the rest of Arabia. It’s still ultra-conservative compared to the West. To give your fiancée so much as a peck on the cheek in public would be considered quite risqué.
Amman’s shopping district seems to be additional source of pride for Jordanian’s, a confirmation of the relative progressive nature of their country, and the availability of quality goods that come with it. From my standpoint I just see another Western mall, with such names as Gucci and Tiffany- a tribute to mankind’s egoic nature and never ending need for validation.
I discuss this with Mohammed who tells me that he is infected with consumerism. “I see something advertised, I want it bad. I can’t not have it.”
“What does that mean?” I inquire.
“I am in debt,” Mohammed explains, “This car. Thousands of dollars in debt. My computer, I had to have it, another $1,200. I pay interest on this money too.”
“Well,” I answer, “Your car gets you around, you can move heavy items in it. You can communicate with the world using your computer, and you edited your short films on it. You invested money in things that increased your quality of life. If you are going into debt to purchase something, I don’t know any reason more sound.”
“But I see something, and then I just want it.”
“Again, if you go into debt $3,000 to purchase a Prada hand bag to be able to walk around with it and show it off, then that’s Madison Avenue manipulating the human ego at its worst. If you buy something of quality because it increases your productivity/ makes things easier, what’s wrong with that? The important thing is to understand the reasons behind the impulse. Having that Prada bag won’t change who you are, but for a split second your un-satiable ego might take a mollified breath and tell you that you “are” something: worthy/good/important, but that car will get you to work every day. Like right now, I’m going to buy you all ice-cream. Why, cause I’m having a lot of fun with you guys and I feel like it.”
“Oh, we cannot let you do that, we will buy you ice cream.”
Damn Arab hospitality. “No, this time I treat you.”
So we all enjoyed our sweet treat, on this warm night in the Middle East, under the lights of the Prada and Tiffany signs. Consumerism has invaded. I’m at peace with that. If I wasn’t, how could I enjoy this moment?