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Floating in Jordan

Typical street in Amman Traditionally dressed woman on an Amman street

This entry is part of an ongoing series by Andrew Coté who is working as a beekeeping consultant in Iraq. See his author page for more information. This episode covers his multi-day stopover in Jordan en-route to Iraq.

It was two o'clock in the morning when I reached Amman. It was sweaty, humid, and crowded. I waited near the carousel near a lanky American man in his late fifties whom I had heard extol in passing, on two separate occasions (once in the waiting area of the terminal and once on the plane while loitering near the lavatory) that he was on government business that he could not discuss. He was also the proprietor of one of the most ferocious, unsightly, greasy combovers that I believe has ever been bejeweled by man. Even at the luggage belt I heard him confide to a woman who could not have been near him for more than thirty seconds that 'There is no one here to meet me this time, because no one really knows that I am here. At least, that is the way I would like it to remain!' Guffaw.

Bags in tow, I ambled out to the meeting area. I had forgotten, or had to stop to remember, what it is like to enter the arena of taxi drivers in the developing world's airports (apologies to Jordanians who may take offense). But, I was swamped by baggage handlers and taxi drivers who wanted to offer me their services. It was not as bad as, say, India, but it was pretty irritating. As it happens, I had the opposite feeling of my lanky covert acquaintance: I very much hoped my ride was waiting for me, and I eagerly sought out a sign with my name.

My point of contact in Amman was a fellow named Mahmoud. Mahmoud and I had communicated via e-mail, and he said that he would meet me at the airport. I had also been told not to get into a cab with anyone else. So, when I got there, though I had not met Mahmoud, I was fairly sure that the person holding the card bearing my name was not him. So, I walked past that man, found a phone, and called Mahmoud. Mahmoud was sleeping at 2:30 that morning when I phoned him (imagine that!) but he told me to go with that man. So I did.

I was delivered to a five start hotel in Amman, where I settled nicely into my room, and even though I was not hungry, I ordered room service. Because I could. I had bread and hummus and vegetable soup. I flicked on the TV, showered, and soon fell into a deep sleep. Once again, thank you U.S. taxpayers.

I was supposed to leave for Baghdad the next day, but through a series of events, including sandstorms delaying flights, overbooking, and negligence on someone's part, I ended up with three or four days in Amman. They were not misspent.

On the first free day I visited an old church with nice mosaic in a Byzantine church in Madaba. These remarkable mosaics were discovered by chance. The best known mosaic is a map of Madaba in the Greek Orthodox Church of Saint George. Its floor has a remarkable mosaic map of the Holy Land. It was made from over two million pieces in about 560 C.E. (about 1,440 years ago). I took it in, and then headed for Mount Nebo, the resting place of Moses. There were a lot of detours and traffic because, my driver told me, the King was in town.

We arrived and there was a good amount of security at the base of the hill, but I just walked onwards, and no one prevented me. I went to the top of the hill to the church atop Mount Nebo. This is the spot where, it is said, Moses looked over the land of Canaan, which God had forbidden him to enter. This is also where Moses is said to have died, and is buried.

The inside of a mosque. A lot of men just hang out inside there, relaxing, sleeping, talking… it is not only a religious center, but a low-key social atmosphere. This man just washed his feet and is on his way into the mosque. Washing the hands and feet are an important ritual in entering the mosque clean.

I reached the church, went in and sat down to take notes. While I sat there with my head down, the church filled with a small procession of men, and near the forefront was a man with a red and white checkered cloth piled around his head, and wearing a modern suit. He looked familiar and happy. I did not really notice him, however, until I had stood up, walked a few paces, and bumped into him. I reflexively pardoned myself in English, and he looked surprised for a second, and then started speaking with me in perfect English with a slight British accent. (I have since heard from more than once source that King Abdullah II speaks English better than he does Arabic, owing to the amount of time he has spent out of his kingdom.) Thus I met the King of Jordan. Our encounter lasted something less than one minute, but it was nice to meet a king. It was also somehow empowering to me, a person of average physical stature at best, to find that I am taller than a king (albeit the King of Jordan).

Moments later, feeling somewhat regal myself, I headed over to the Dead Sea. I had heard about the Dead Sea and how one can float in it. I wanted to try it myself, since I had nothing better to do, a taxi and driver rented for the day, and a lot of sunblock. So, a short nip through windy Bedouin infested roads later, there I was.

The Dead Sea was about as I had expected. It is called the Dead Sea because nothing can live in it. It is some of the saltiest water in the world, about seven times as salty as the ocean. It is completely landlocked and is the lowest point of dry land on Earth at 1,300 feet below sea level. That the lake is at the lowest point on the planet means that water cannot drain from it. Every day, 7 million tons of water evaporates, leaving the minerals behind, causing the salt content to ever increase.

So, hot-footing it across the sand and down to the shore, and in just a few inches of water, my weighty self floated like a cork on the high seas. I have never felt so buoyant. One piece of advice if you happen to go there yourself: don't get the water in your eyes. The high salt content stings like a bee (sorry, even I cannot resist the occasional bee pun).

It is an odd to concept to have water with nothing living in it. No fish swimming, no crabs to bite your toes, no jellyfish to sting you, nothing squirming or slithering. Sometimes, fish accidentally swim into the Dead Sea from one of many freshwater streams that feed into it. These unlucky little scaly creatures are instantly killed, their bodies immediately coated with a preservative layer of salt crystals, and they are tossed onto the shore by the wind and the waves. Fish no more.

I secretly hoped to see the same fate befall one of the tourists. A busload of Spanish tourists had just entered the water near to where I had been peacefully floating, totally interrupting my harmony. I floated away as far as I could, but their screeching had ruffled my wa. I did not really begrudge them; I was more jealous than anything else, since I was on my own and could not make the same obvious observations to anyone, like, 'It's really salty!', or, 'I feel like a ball!'

So I floated out and rinsed off at the fresh water showers, trudged up the hill to where my driver sat drinking tea and smoking cigarettes, not bothered one whit by the flies who had congregated on his table, which sat lazily in the shade, much like this group of taxi and bus drivers were doing themselves. The men sipped tea from little cups, the flies from what remained in the saucers.

We were off to the highlight of my day (yes, even more important to me than an audience with royalty): to the apiary.

The high point of my day -even more important to me than regal rendezvous or a visit to an ancient Biblical site- was a visit to an apiary (bee farm) on the way back to Amman. There I met a man my father's age, the bee master whose name I cannot read from his Arabic business card. (But no matter, I doubt any of you know him). He is a devout Muslim, at least in word and dress, and an engineer by trade. Still, he makes his living on the heels of the honeybee. He, like my father, works with his two sons. Though I was unexpected, I gathered that he received few visits from foreign beekeepers, and he made a place for me to sit in his office. His son brought me some samples of their honey to taste. I have to confess that I loved the eucalyptus honey, and the yellow star thistle honey was excellent as well. He told me that his bees gather honey at the lowest elevation of any other bees in the world. Maybe so. They certainly make excellent honey.

I think it is worth nothing that in Jordan, where the average weekly income is the equivalent of $67.00 ($3,500. per annum), honey sells for the relatively high price of five Jordanian Dinars per kilo, which comes to about $3.50 per pound. I can buy honey cheaper than that in some areas of the United States. Good, pure honey is highly valued. As it should be.

The next chapter is now available. Andrew spends his first days in Iraqi Kurdistan in Wasps and Suicide Bombers.

Subscribe to TravelBlogsPosted by Andrew Coté on August 3rd, 2004 in Articles.