Jordan

The driver met us at the Amman airport, puffing on a cigarette. He crammed our luggage into the rear hatch, ushered us into the cramped seats, and off we careened westward toward the Dead Sea.

I made small talk with Ahmed as he drove. His English was rudimentary but effective. He disclosed that he had recently been released from jail for knocking over a foreign pedestrian. “Only three days in prison,” he grinned. I fastened my seat belt as he steered pell-mell toward the lowest point on Earth’s surface.

After twenty minutes Ahmed pulled over, climbed out, lit a fresh smoke and pointed to a sign indicating we were now at sea level. I gazed down the highway. In the hazy distance, 430 meters below us, lay the Dead Sea.

We climbed back in the van and held on tight as Ahmed rode the vehicle’s aging brakes steadily through the long descent to the hotel.

At check-in we were advised that our room was not yet ready. (This was a fabrication. In fact, the tour company had neglected to pay for the accommodation, so the front desk was stalling, waiting for the Jordanian dinars to come through.) We were exhausted. The sun was sinking. But rather than mope angrily about in the lobby, we wandered down to the beach for a look at the sea.

The last rays of the sun were streaking through a curtain of cloud, illuminating a group of exuberant seniors splashing in the water. Across the shimmering sea lay Israel, the West Bank and Palestine. The view was celestial. Then in a flash it was over and darkness descended.

Back in the dim lobby a boisterous fellow, munching on a shawarma, turned abruptly into my path. Despite my fatigue, I athletically dodged an untidy rendezvous with his sandwich – and his tacky outfit. It was my old nemesis, Joe Tourist. He slapped me on the back, “How ya doing?”

“Fine,” I responded cautiously. “And you, enjoying your time in the Middle East?”

“If I told you we didn’t love it here, I’d be lying my pants off.” He laughed hysterically at this. A drizzle of tzatziki sauce dripped onto his ‘I Heart Jordan’ sweatshirt. After a pregnant pause he asked, “You guys going to Petra?”

I reluctantly acknowledged that, indeed, we were planning a visit to those remarkable ancient ruins. Joe Tourist is the type of fellow who wants to know where everyone is going, what they’re up to, what restaurant they’ve chosen for supper, etc., etc. He suffers from a terrible case of FOMO.

“When ya goin’ to Petra?” he inquired. “Carma and I, we were thinking of seeing it too.” Joe looked at his long-suffering wife for support but she was preoccupied, admiring some newly acquired Jordanian jewellery.

Alas, our short repartee with JT was interrupted when the hotel manager beckoned me and, with an abject apology, delivered up the keys to our room. In the morning we returned to the beach, now rested and attired for a bob in the drink. And, Bob’s your uncle, in we waded.

The Dead Sea is not really a sea but a hyper-saline lake. The salinity level is 34%, ten times that of ocean water. It is difficult to describe the sensation of floating in this briny brew. It is hilarious. Like sitting on a wet inflated pillow. Suspended high in the water one can’t really swim, only dog-paddle. It would be a cinch to simply sit upright and enjoy the morning paper.

The Dead Sea’s salinity creates a sterile environment. Plants and animals can’t survive. Thus the moniker. Yet, ironically, the sea has been renowned since olden times for its soothing mineral properties – the original seaside health spa. The ancient Egyptians collected the asphalt that seeps naturally from the lakebed for use in their mummification process.

We performed our own mummy act, smearing our bodies head to toe in Dead Sea mud, before posing on the beach. The goop is supposed to be good for the skin – and the brochures advertise its miraculous healing properties. For us it was just a chance to be silly… and start a ‘name the band’ contest. Entries included ‘Fleetwood Muck’, ‘Earth Wind and Mire’ and ‘The Beach Buoys’, but ‘The Dead Sea Trolls’ took the mud-cake.

The Jordan River is the Dead Sea’s main tributary but the Mujib River, where we were booked to trek the Siq Trail, also feeds the lake. Unfortunately flash floods had recently annihilated some hikers, so our itinerary was moved uphill to a mountain trail. The view overlooking the sea was spectacular.

We stopped under a rocky outcrop, lee of the wind. There, two Bedouin goatherds politely offered us sweet tea. After a ceremonial pour, I put my mug down momentarily to take pictures. Within seconds the cup was swarming with flies.

One of my fellow-hikers (and one of the Dead Sea Trollers) was a good sport, and politely agreed to don the headwear of one of the goat herders. Fortunately she has helmet hair, for there were as many flies residing in his keffiyeh as there were drowning in my teacup.

That afternoon we hit the road for Mount Nebo, from whose summit Moses first spied the Promised Land. The highway was steep, narrow and dangerous, the oncoming traffic frightening. To make matters worse, the tires of our van wobbled uncontrollably and Ahmed’s driving skills were, to be charitable, marginal. Nevertheless, he managed to remain on the proper side of the road nearly half the trip.

Out of fear – and to pass the time – I pulled out my ever-present ukulele and struck up a singsong. Ahmed was giddy. At the end of each ditty, he would abandon the steering wheel and applaud vigorously until the misaligned vehicle was mere inches from cascading into oblivion.

“Listen Ahmed,” I said, “I’ll continue playing on one condition. Please don’t clap.” Acknowledging this understanding, on the next steep treacherous curve, Ahmed did not put his hands together. Instead he took out his phone, let go of the wheel and started to video the festivities.

It was late in the afternoon before we stopped for lunch. Ahmed took us to his cousin’s restaurant and (surprise) ‘souvenir shop’, where we were treated to overpriced trinkets – and a remarkable traditional Jordanian meal. Mansaf is lamb stewed in a vat of fermented yogurt and served over rice. I devoured so much I thought I’d never eat again.

When we pulled into Petra it was dark. We were as worn out as the tires on the tired van. I collapsed into a chair in the hotel courtyard and looked up at the twinkling universe, reminiscing about our time in Jordan. The experience had been remarkable – but I must say that running into Joe Tourist at the Dead Sea 1500 feet below sea level was definitely… the low point.

Gerry