Israel and Occupied Palestine

The border went smoothly and we were off to Jericho in the West Bank. Past the isolated and walled Israeli settlement, we drove up and down the quant and gritty Palestinian town looking for Hisham’s Palace. Jericho didn’t look too different from Jordan save a good number of bicyclists and a lot more trees. We eventually had to ask for directions and two Palestinian police officers warmly pointed us in the right direction.

After Jericho, we drove to Jerusalem to meet Paulina and Anna. We went to the Wailing Wall and wandered the streets of the old city. While we rested on a bench, an American college student struck up a conservation with us ad asked where we were staying.

“Grand Court outside of Damascus gate.”

“Oh my God, dangerous area!”

We rolled our eyes as the area was not in the slightest dangerous, but merely Arab. Later, we hit a trendy restaurant and a beer garden. Packed and hopping on Tuesday, Jerusalem definitely has a nightlife. And the falafel was to die for, though about 20 times more than what I pay in Amman.

The next day we went to Marsaba Monastery, about fifteen miles east of Bethlehem in the West Bank. We had to ask for directions about a dozen times to find it, but the thousand waves of random Palestinian villagers made the trip pleasant. The monastery didn’t allow in women, but sat perched on a cliff in some stunning surroundings. The monks were mainly Greek and Paulina spent some time talking to one in both their native tongues beneath a tree out front. He spent most of the time asking her why she wore such a short skirt.

The skirt caused some more attention in Bethlehem where men stared and called her a “heart breaker.” The Palestinian guard wouldn’t let her into the Church of the Nativity without covering up, so she wore her scarf like a sarong. Surprisingly, the greatest site in Bethlehem was the “security” wall, which was filled with fascinating art. At the wall, we saw a photographer with a security detail. We weren’t quite sure what she was being protected from.

The next day, we waited in line for al-Aqsa mosque and Miss Petra was able to find a stone for a woman in her village, which I’m sure the woman will worship. We saw a million and one churches in the Old City built around locations where events supposedly happened. Paulina, Anna and Miss Petra absolutely loved the Old City, but I was secretly turned off by the hordes of tourists and the invented importance of random spots where mythological events supposedly happened.

After handling a flat tire with the help of a miracle Palestinian tire shop, we headed to Tel Aviv hoping to find some beach time, but was met by a city in scattered showers. We made the best of it, though, and did a bit of walking in the city and frequenting of restaurants, bar and clubs. Tel Aviv was impressively welcoming, but Paulina hated the 1960’s architecture and plastic furniture.

One night we hit a club in a shopping mall where Paulina and Anna were hit on by some Russian Israelis. One chatted with me for a while.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“America, but I live in Jordan.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“What? No. No. Not at all. It’s like the safest place I’ve ever been.”

“Maybe for you. Fucking Arabs, Fucking Arabs.”

We drove to Elat, where I wish we would have spent more time and then passed back to Jordan where I showed Paulina Petra, Jerash, Madaba and Amman. A great trip, but, as always, its nice to be back in Amman.

Marathon in the Desert

For my sixth marathon, I somehow got the brilliant idea that I would run the Amman Marathon. Because I had been working and traveling, I hadn’t trained at all, but was curious to find out about the “cold marathon.” Ironically, being untrained was the least of my worries and it was anything but cold.

Most marathons are in the autumn when it’s cooler and usually in the morning to avoid the noonday heat. Amman had planned to begin at 7:15, but it was 9:30 when it began. A harbinger. My running partner took a look at the organization and said “you know what? I’m just running the 10K – good luck.”

And so I was off alone dodging the incredible turnout for the Amman 10K, which was over 10,000. It was hot early and I was struck early by how few water stations there were. Other than the crowds, things went well for the first six miles, but I was worried about the water and the scarcity of food, Gatorade or anything with calories (2 Red Bull stations was it).

The 10K finished, and an isolated few (only 100 were in the marathon) continued down the long highway hill towards Marqa airport on an annoyingly uneven surface. Water stations were still sparse, so I would grab two bottles at a time and run double fisting. Through smog and past a sewage treatment plant I ran to the turnaround, which meant now that long hill down was now a long hill up. On the way back, I noticed locals were carrying off crates of water from the relief stations. That can’t be good, I thought.

At 21K was the halfway point and the beginning of the second loop. It was also the finish for the 10K and the professional marathon runners (who were just lapping me at that point). It looked grand - they would run into the old Roman amphitheatre, which was filled with people.

But I continued on to my second loop shirtless and exhausted at a little before noon, which hit 95 degrees. My nipple bandages had sweated off so I had to take off my shirt or else I would suffer serious chaffing. Ammanis clicked away and yelled things in Arabic at me as I searched for a water station. They had been dismantled, but the locals would hand me their half-finished waters, peace be upon them. There were no energy stations either on the second loop and I had only drunk two cups of Red Bull on the first loop. Thankfully, a car drove up the road around kilometer 28 and handed me some bananas. I love you. Seriously, I love you.

Again, I went down the road to Marqa airport passing empty stations, but, again thankfully, a few kids with half-finished waters kept me alive. At the turn around (kilometer 35), I was completely spent. So, for the last leg, I ran until my calves’ cramps forced me to stop and walked until the pain subsided. By kilometer 40, there was no running at all and I was simply trying to not pass out from heat and dehydration. Dizzy and ill, I ridiculously asked people at kilometer 42 in mixed English-Arabic “wein finish line?”

Around a corner, it was there. I was greeted by a crowd of fifty Jordanians with a medal and, more importantly, a bottle of water. The amphitheatre was empty. Whatever party they had was long gone. And for the next 45 minutes, I sat in the shade and waited for my consciousness to return

Iraq II

I saw a bit more of Iraq this time. Site after site, I met with hundreds and hundreds of Peruvians and Ugandans. Who knew that I’d use my Spanish so much in the middle of Baghdad? Their presence all seemed normal to the people working there and managing the program. But, in truth there were many things that were seriously wrong and it was so obvious to the outsider.Funny how when things get too close, they get out of focus again. I would love to say more, but the work may be the biggest deal of my career so far.

After sixteen days of working twelve-hour days without a day off, I returned home to Amman. I need to stare at a wall for a while.

Egypt and Wadi Rum

I'd been exhausted from travel, wishing only to spend some time at home in Amman. I took a flight to Cairo only to be sent back to Amman for not having a visa and had to come back the next morning. Once in Cairo, my days were split by a boring conference during the day and trying to see at least something in Cairo in the evening. The Egyptians were as aggressive and as friendly as I remember. They insist. Whether they insist you buy something or insist you sit with them, they will do everything in their power to force you. A young man even pulled me off the street you have Iftar with him and his friends. Going to sites proved difficult with everything closing early to prepare for Iftar. I managed a few wondrous sites that were nestled impossibly in impoverished and dilapidated cement surroundings.

After Cairo, I went to Sharm el Sheikh and got some much needed down time. Surrounded by mostly Italians, I tried not to think about my upcoming Baghdad project. I went sailing, snorkeling, sat by the pool, saw a sting ray. It was nice, very nice.

And nice became even better. My return to Jordan was rushed, but incredibly fun. I arrived and immediately drove south to Wadi Rum to meet Miss Petra for hiking and camping. When I bought my 4-wheel drive Jeep (which is always in 4-wheel drive oddly), I was a little upset that there weren't any economical gas-efficient sedans for sale in the community. The Jeep, though, was fantastic for hauling eight of us around without a guide in the Jordanian desert. At one of the lookouts, a Bedouin came up to me and asked how I got out there. I pointed to my Jeep and he seemed confused. I'm not sure if it was because he thought I would have gotten lost or that we had crammed eight people in.

Night was a hummus and bread dinner next to a campfire under a star-filled new moon sky.

And then, I went to Iraq.

The Eastern Desert

Miss Petra said she had been everywhere in Jordan. And so, we went to nowhere. The drive to the Eastern Desert was a trek into awe-inspiring emptiness. Flat, rocky and completely lifeless, the desert's endlessness stretched beyond human imagination.

But why go into nothingness? Well, there were a few outpost castles set up by various past peoples. And there was an oasis called Azraq.

Azraq, sadly, had been devastated. What had once had been marshy wetland had been reduced to a dry dusty truck stop supported only by Iraqi and Saudi truckers. The wells of Azraq had been overused leaving miles of thirsty bushes. Impoverished Bedouin set up ragged tents between piles of trash. It was a hell, isolated.

The castles were pretty neat, though. One set up by Umayyad in 700 AD featured pornographic images of naked women upon indigo backgrounds. Gasp, those early Muslims were a bit naughty!

Traveling during Ramadan proved to be nice as the castles were completely empty. In fact, the guards, who could not be bothered to open the castles up for us, simply gave us the keys to explore the castles on our own.

Foregone Conclusion

Paulina has cancer.  She wrote me and said she believed she was cursed, certain she would lose her hair and die, and asked how my father dealt with it and how I dealt with him having it.

“I don’t know, “ I said. “Denial, I guess.  I just believed he would live.  I suppose he did the same.”

Though, the tests weren’t back, Paulina was certain things were at their worst and my advice was to counter delusion with delusion.

We imagine the future often with such certainty, even when we have such little information about it.  When the future comes, at least in my experience, it rarely resembles anything I imagine.  Still, despite my errors, over and over, I keep constructing would-be futures in my mind’s eye.

It was in Othello where the term “foregone conclusion” first appeared.  Iago introduced the idea that Desdemona was unfaithful to Othello and Othello, in turn, dreamed about it.  It was just a dream, something based on the past.  But like so many have throughout history, Othello took it as a foretelling of the future.  The foregone conclusion, the supposedly certainly future, was anything but.

The foregone conclusion is as paradoxical as dreaming itself.  Dreams - fuzzy memories interpreted as certain prophecies.  We even use the term “to dream” as thinking grandly of the future when the action itself is more of an insular exploration of the past.

In the end, my father neither died nor was fine.  A third future I didn’t expect unfolded instead.

And again, I have a foregone conclusion that Paulina will be perfectly fine.  I still need to cling to my delusions.

But, deep down, I know nothing is ever certain and that’s what makes life so wonderful and painful, richly.

Syria

I caught a shared taxi to Sham (Damascus). The border went fairly smoothly, although my driver did threaten to leave me because my stamp was taking too long. Luckily, it was an empty threat and after a half hour, I was on my way. I was preparing for the worst since my Jordanian entry stamp was just some chicken scratch written in with a pen. "Ahamduleela" (praise be to God), funny looks from the border agents was all I got.

Unlike Amman, everything in Damascus is old, and with that ancientness comes its benefits and drawbacks. Grittier and prettier, Syria is. The buildings of both the old and new city are falling apart and the streets are a wreck. The city smells and is polluted, but there is a paradoxical majestic quaintness to everything Sham is.

A quick history lesson. First, Damascus was founded and then the Earth cooled. It was subsequently invaded and conquered roughly one billion times. It changed hands practically every day and sometimes twice on Wednesday. It was the center of all commerce, trade and basic human existence. This is a slight exaggeration, but only slight.

Before there were Shia and Sunnis, there were the rival clans of the Umayyads and the Hashimites. Mohammad was a Hashimite, but it was the Umayyad caliphate that controlled Islam after Mohammed's passing. From Spain to India, they spread their religious teaching from Damascus. Long story short, Damascus is considered very holy to Shia and is littered with Iranian pilgrims. The Umayyad mosque, converted from a cathedral and, before that, the Temple of Jupiter, is enormous, but meticulously decorated. Children run around playing oblivious to piety among burqaed women and Western tourists. And, in case you're making plans for the reckoning, the Minaret of Jesus is where JC will return on Judgement Day.

I wandered the sooqs along with the Jewish and Christian quarters. Calm, dumpy and beautiful, I was amazed that the old city had not become a hectic harassment like Moroccan and Egyptian sooqs or a comercial Epcotesque village. Much like the Jordanians, Syrians are cool and little lazy. They don't seem to have the energy or desire to spoil Damascus.

I headed north to Malula, where I ventured through a small Petra-like canyon to a Christian monastery. The monastery was hosting a baptism ceremony, which they happily let me attend. Sadly, I was the only person not allowed to take pictures of it. I then headed to Hama, home of moaning water wheels and the friendliest locals on the planet. I used Hama as a base to see far too many crusader castles and ruins. As awesome as these sites are, there are only so many ruins one can look at before they all begin to run together. The structures and the views were simply amazing, but there can be too much of a good thing.

Alepo and Lattakia closed out my trip. Alepo is known for being the most conservative of Syria's cities and Lattakia the most liberal. Just three hours from each other, most women in Alepo don a hajab while most in Lattakia wear tight jeans and a skimpy tank top. At night, the cars and crowds of Alepo disappear while in Lattakia, they come out and stay out all night on a weekday.


An incredible week and I am exhausted. On to America today. Will I ever really see Amman?