Journey to the East Chapter 4
Wednesday 2 July, Istanbul.
A few hours' drive took us to the Turkish border, where the surly guards
took their time checking our passports and documents, before
grudgingly, it seemed, waving us on.
Then we were in Turkey, crossing the last remaining stretch of
Europe (that's our truck on the left).
The roads were beginning to deteriorate the further we travelled south,
except near large cities
like Istanbul where they were excellent. We passed lots of tourist
sites--German, Turkish/German--on the way into Istanbul, many seemingly
thrown together.
The city was bigger than I had expected and, from what I could see during the spells I managed to stay awake, much more tourist-orientated. I was thinking that I would hate to have to get into the centre from the outskirts, or worse, try to get from the centre to the outskirts for hitching. I knew that I wouldn't get to see any of the sights this time around--Ali intended staying only to eat, and then heading quickly on--but vowed that I would return. At one point I awoke to see us skirting massive medieval town walls which seemed to stretch for miles, cracked from top to bottom in many places (as I later found out, by earthquakes). These were the walls of Constantinople. In 1453 the last emperor of Byzantium fought and died on these walls, defeated by Muhammad II. This was the end of the Roman Empire, which had endured in the East for a thousand years. Muhammad II was only 21 years of age at the time.
We had dinner in a large restaurant where a solitary bazouki-player (with an electric bazouki!) endevoured--unsuccessfully--to entertain us. No-one was listening. I thought of Fergus back in London, playing Irish music on his new bazouki, and wondered what he would think of this display. But the food was good. In fact I really liked the food everywhere in Turkey, of which there was great variety always apparently made with fresh vegetables. There was also a large variety of sweets and deserts, which I didn't bother about, not having a sweet tooth. After our meal, which as usual Fachri and Ali only picked at, we left the city and continued driving until very late, when Ali was on the point of falling asleep. He stopped and ordered me to go sleep in the car, while he stretched out in the cab. I fell asleep immediately. Thursday 3 July, Istanbul/Iskenderum.
A few hard knocks on the window of the car woke me. It was still dark! I dragged myself into the car beside Ali and we started our drive southwards.
All day long we drove, ever southwards towards Syria,
through towns and villages whose commerce is based on the passing motor trade.
Every place had its garages, work-shops, tire depots, shops with spare
parts. Every workshop had
its complement of little boys busily cleaning and polishing
inscrutable pieces of machinery, or running around with glasses of tea
or snacks, who
spent their spare time cadging cigarettes from the passing drivers.
A problem with the radiator on our truck forced us to pull in at one
of the villages and have it looked at. A welcome opportunity for me
to ramble around, as we were held up for several hours.
Learned some Turkish phrases from one of
the garage boys, who in turn got some English phrases from me, to add to
his stock of German, Arabic and Italian.
I already knew 'Selamaleykum' (peace be with you), and the reply 'Aleykumselam'. New were: gunayden (goodmorning), iyi gunler (hello when meeting someone), or the informal merhaba.
Later we stopped for coffee at
one of the many road-side eating-places, good to stretch one's legs after
being confined in the cab for so long. The coffee is black, sweet and
sticky, with a tar-like consistency. A lovely-looking white furry puppy
rambled up to our table and I bent to pat him, and was summarily
ordered to go and wash my hands by Fachri. Dogs are not looked upon
here in the same way as back home!
The dress worn by villagers is changing as we travel southwards
through Turkey. Ever less European and more Middle-Eastern, especially
niticeable on older people. We
drove right across the country non-stop. I wished there had been more
opportunity to stop off at some of the places on the way--this is
historic territory. We skirted Ankara, now a bustling modern city (but with a history that stretches back to Alexander).
We kept driving, right to the far south of the country, then after Adana the Mediterranean appeared on our right. We skirted an attractive bay with a mountain range to our left until we reached the outskirts of the port of
Iskenderum. This city used to be
called
Alexandretta (Iskander is the Arabic form of Alexander). It was founded by
Alexander the Great, who passed this
way after coming down from Ankara to Tarsus (read about his campaigns here). The battlefield of Issus
was nearby, where Alexander defeated the Persian king Darius in 333 BC.
We had also passed what I assumed were
several Crusader castles on hilltops. This province, disputed by
Syria and Turkey, is called Hatay, and
looked more fertile than what we had seen earlier travelling across the
country.
After emerging from the cab, tired and stiff, I became the centre of
attention among the hawkers and little boys who hang around the truck stops.
I was offered 200 Turkish Lira for my watch (31 Lira=1 pound sterling),
which sounded like good value.
"Saat kac?" (what time is it?) screamed the shaven-headed little boys, who also took a great interest in my tattoo.
In 1909
T. E. Lawrence There was much more noticeable Western influence, dress, etc here, than in the smaller places we had passed through earlier. A new steel mill, one of the largest in the country, is being built here with Soviet help. There were what appeared to be tourist resorts there, for Arab tourists. More girls than I had seen for days. We stayed in a small hotel, not far from the littered sea-shore, with Ali footing the bill. I told him I wanted to go for walk, and he looked at me suspiciously, probably afraid I would do a runner. I strolled around an area containing workshops of many kinds. At one, a tall young metal-worker spoke to me in English. He told me that this area is Arab, and that Syria claims it. He said that France, who administered this part of the old Ottoman empire after its break-up in the First World War, had ceded the territory to Turkey in 1939. Sure enough, when I reached Damascus and got a map of Syria from the tourist office, this territory, including Iskenderum and Antakya, were shown as part of Syria (for some background information, see here). The sea-front was lined with large palm trees and dotted with tea shops and small restaurants, with the hills in the background. There was a rocky foreshore. This particular area was rather quiet--obviously not the fashionable part of the city! Then back to the hotel. What luxury, having a real bed to sleep in! The last bed I had slept in was in Gigi's house in Brescia, and here I was now on the borders of Syria!
Friday 4 July, Iskenderum/Antakya/Latakia.
This morning we drove to a part of the town that consisted mainly of small workshops.
From all sides came the clang of metal against metal, shouting, trucks
revving up. The inevitable little boys charging around with glasses of tea
and dried fruit, or just clamouring for
cigarettes. The occasional goat tethered and looking bored. Further
back from the road were the workshops of wood-workers, tanners and other
trades.
Our cars and trucks were greased and washed down, while I took a walk
around the workshops. Everyone appeared very busy. Mysterious emblems
hanging on walls, like
drawings of hands palm upwards, along with scraps of paper in Arabic
script, presumably to ward off the evil eye. There was more of the
rasping Arabic language to be heard than Turkish, much of the
pronounciation seeming to come from deep down in the throat.
Once the cars and trucks were done to Ali's satisfaction (though he
was never really satisfied) we hit the road, heading south for Antakya, about 70 Km. distance.
We climbed up into the mountains, with a great view of the sea behind us, then through a high mountain pass. Then a slow descent as we navigated tortuous (for a truck, that is) bends, until we reached a fertile plain.
Antakya is a mixture of old and new buildings of different styles overlooked by a range of hills. We drove to what appeared to be an older part of the town, with the usual collection of markets, garages, stores with hardware and car parts and the ever-present little boys.
We left the Merc and the Fiat with Ali's brother. Over a relaxed cup of coffee, while the two drivers bustled about on mysterious errands (possibly to do with papers, but maybe smuggling) he told me
there were many ancient monuments here--this
city was Antioch, of St. Paul fame. There
was a cave in the nearby hills called St. Peter's Grotto, said to have
been immediately behind St. Luke's house and the oldest Christian place
of worship in the world. The ruined fortress outside the town had been
built by the Crusaders. There was a bazaar, a large uncovered market
in the town that sold produce from the surrounding districts. But there
was no time to explore. Another quick cup of coffee to conclude the business
with Ali's brother and we were on our way again. I was sorry to leave
him, he was far more easy-going than Ali or Fachri (of course, he didn't
have to endure all the stress that they did, driving down from Germany twice a month).
We proceeded into the hills that marked
the border with Syria.
At the dusty border post there was the usual queue of trucks and cars,
shouting, muttered curses,
but many of the bearded men were in robes and Arab head-dress,
and the women in pantaloons and shawls, all looking sweaty and bad-tempered.
The passport formalities were a total
mystery to me. As usual Ali knew exactly what to do: calls
over a customs official, says something to him in a low voice, then we are directed
into another line, another official is hailed, something changes
hands--it could be documents or it could be money. Over all gazed the
portrait of Hafez Assad, Father of the Nation.
I needed a visa for entry into Syria, which Ali paid for, and I got
another stamp in my passport. What I didn't
realize at the time was that the Merc in the back of Ali's truck went on my
passport as well, in some of the countries we passed through. I heard of
rules stipulating that only one car was allowed per person entering these
countries. I don't know how Ali managed it, but he may have bribed the
official (he was always doing this) to leave out the car from my passport,
because I didn't have any problems leaving Syria without the car. I
subsequently heard horror stories of people getting caught this way--not being allowed to leave the country until they produced the car on their passport!
The dress in the countryside is getting more oriental, flowing robes
and different styles of head-dress appearing more frequently. Still
hundreds
of little boys from 2-12 begging for cigarettes as we pass them by in the truck.
Camels and donkeys start appearing with regularity.
Driving through the mountains the roads were not so bad, but very narrow and
twisting in places. The villages we passed through were smaller, more
isolated, baking in the sun.
A car overtook us on the road in the mountains near Lebanon. A guy
with
a pistol leaned out of the rear window and fired 3 shots into the road in
front of us. I was shaken, but Ali didn't even flinch. "Zu viel whiskey,"
he muttered, with a wave of his hand.
We then drove on past orange trees and olive groves to Latakia,
a largish town. Arabic script on all
the shops and sign-posts. I was really in Arab country now, I thought!
More Western dress than in the towns in Southern Turkey, but also flowing
Arab robes and head-dress everywhere.
Saturday 5
July, Latakia.
Spent the night in the car in Latakia. Ali disappeared for the night,
whether to a hotel or female friend I don't know. We had a long wait for
papers to come through--until about 4:00 in the afternoon--before we could
set off for Damascus. I couldn't go far from the truck, so had to endure
the pestering hawkers and little boys. I bought bags of tangerines and
shared them with them. A few miles north of here were the vast ruins
of Ugarit, discovered in 1928. Among the ruins tiny clay tablets were
discovered, which contained the earliest known alphabet, later adapted
by the Greeks and then by the Romans.
We drove south along the coast, then turned inland at Tartus, past Homs
and then south into the mountains.
We arrived at the outskirts of Damascus about 10:30 PM.
I took over the wheels of the Merc and drove it
through the
centre of Damascus, following Ali's truck. A dual
carriageway
led into the city, with a raised grass-covered divider with low bushes
in the middle of the road.
We hit a long traffic jam. What does Ali do but drive over the divider,
through a clump of bushes, onto the wrong side of the road, and
continue for about
a mile, horn blaring and lights flashing against the on-coming
traffic. Of course I had to follow--upon which
all the cars behind me did the same! Spotting a gap in the traffic Ali
suddenly crossed the divider once more, and I followed, almost ramming a
car as I came out of the bushes and back onto the road in front of it.
And I was still trying to get the hang of the controls of the car!
It was easy, though, once I got the hang of the
gears--the gear shift was on the steering column. The drivers never seem
to take their hands off their horns, though, or slow down.
Shacked up in a
hotel in the centre of Damascus. Had to sleep on the roof, as the rest
of the hotel was full.
It was difficult to get to sleep with the excitement of finally arriving
in Damascus. I lay awake staring at the stars and listening to the
sounds of the city below. Among the peculiar thoughts that came to my
mind was: is hitch-hiking like
what
Tony back in London said about tripping. He had been tripping for some time,
then one evening on a trip he looked around and thought "Jesus, I'm not
enjoying myself," and never took acid again. Then I drifted off to sleep.
Sunday 6
July, Damascus.
Woken up about 5:00 AM by the noise of the traffic, or rather car horns.
This cacophony is unceasing in the centre of Damascus. It didn't do my
nerves any good, which were a bit overwraught anyway after the journey
here.
I had a wander around the city, almost pinching myself to see if I was
dreaming. I was actually here, in the oldest (continuously inhabited) city
in the world--Damascus is mentioned in the Book of Genesis. For a
summary of its history, see
here. I found myself among some back-street markets, the souqs, a real taste of
the Orient. A labyrinth of narrow, covered bazaars,
strange food, lots of flies. A range of racial types, from blue-eyed
Western types, possibly Druses, or with a touch of Crusader or French blood.
To negro, maybe descended from Bedouin or Ottoman slaves.
Varied forms of Arab dress, especially on the women, their eyes outlined in
kohl. The smells of many
different spices, cries of the vendors advertizing their wares and the
haggling of customers bargaining. Many of
the women, heavily dressed in layers of black and dark blue cotton,
the full-length festan,
their hair and necks veiled, had faded blue tattoos on their faces,
even around the lips. Some more colourfully dressed younger women
wore on their foreheads a line of gold discs. Others wore rows of bangles
and brightly painted wooden sandals.
The men were in baggy cheroual trousers and keffiehs.
I saw younger girls with an entire hand dyed red/brown with henna, a sign of a rite of passage.
Somewhere in the background there was always the hauntingly beautiful
call to prayer, five times a day.
I thought of how
Richard Burton After a couple of hours I was in a
bit of a daze, my mind
still somewhat confused after the travel and virtual non-communication
of the previous few days. I went looking for someplace to relax and
found a quiet little tea-shop, from where I could observe the goings-on
of the city. I was sitting there sipping orange juice in the afternoon and
looking
at an obviously European couple sitting across from me. The man rose
and introduced himself, Maurice, from Jura, Switzerland.
The attractive blond next to him was his wife,
Michelle. They were journalists, 27 years of age, and had given up their
jobs to travel for a year. After exploring the Arab countries they intended
heading south through Africa. They were very interested in Ireland as
their best friends, another couple, had just returned from there.
We spent some time talking and the rest of the day exploring the
city.
Visiting Lebanon had crossed my mind already, but it
appeared too dangerous to travel in at the moment, or at least to
hitch-hike in, though had I had enough money to afford conventional
travel and lodgings I probably would have gone there. In fact I
met only one chap, black, I think he was British, who
had been to Lebanon and ventoured outside Beirut, and
he had been lucky
to get away with his life after a local armed band led him out of the village
he was visiting to shoot him.
There was also a story from Paris: several
police were killed in Paris trying to arrest a leader of the PFLP, a Spanish speaker known only as Carlos. He had shot the police, as well as a Palestinian informant, dead, and wounded another before getting away.
We sat discussing the vast numbers of different peoples and religions
who had passed through this city since its foundation. Before 1947 there
were fourteen thousand Jews living in Damascus, most of whom have now gone to Israel.
Their original quarter is still called Haret al Yahoud (the Jewish Quarter), in the south-east of the old city.
Their religious centre is in Djobar, two miles to the east. There are
many thousand Christians here. Half belong to the Greek
Orthodox Church, the rest are mainly Catholics, Maronites, and declining numbers of Armenians, most of
whom settled here after the Turkish massacres during the First World War.
Minority sects also abound among the Moslems. The Shia Alawi arrived here
from the mountains to the north-west, along with a number of other Shia
sects. The Kurds, brought here by Saladin, himself a Kurd, have their
own quarter. They say that there lies the tomb of one of their holy men, whose
body has never wasted, and the tomb, in proof, has crumbled away to reveal
one of his feet. The Druse, with their distinctive dress and Western features are here too.
Their strongholds are in the mountains, and their unique faith, which diverged from the Judaic/Christian tradition many centuries ago, is like a brotherhood, already formed at the time of the
Crusaders.
Monday 7
July, Damascus.
I shared a room in the hotel this time, but was still woken up very early
by the noise of the traffic. Very uncomfortable--the head couldn't take it.
Headed off about 7:00 AM for the Youth Hostel. This was in a much quieter
part of the city, surrounded by a more middle-class residential district.
And it looked very clean. I had to pay 30 Lira for IYHA membership, but
it was worth it.
Met Maurice and Michelle at the tea-shop.
They had some guidebooks with them on Damascus and Syria, which I took
a peek at, as I didn't have any literature myself, not having expected
to visit Syria.
After refreshments and a long chat it was time to move.
We went into the souqs, the lively
bazaars. Narrow covered streets flanked by open shops.
Now, with the smells and sounds around me, I felt
I was close to the heart of the Middle East.
One of the largest souqs is the Souq al-Hamadiyyeh, covered with a roof of corrugated iron. It was more hectic than the lesser-known ones that I had drifted into earlier.
Among the items for sale in the souqs were wood-mosaic, decorated copper, silver daggers,
textiles of all kinds, jewellery, confectionary, dried fruits. Most were for tourists'
eyes and pockets. The street is criss-crossed with alleys. There is a bazaar for
narghiles and one for carpets, with the carpets laid across the street to be
trodden on by the passers-by. We were shouted at and exhorted to buy from all sides.
Nearby is one of the greatest Islamic monuments, the Omayyad
Mosque (shown on left, with the Minaret of the Bride, the oldest one,
from whose pinnacle a beacon was relayed to Cairo when Mongol armies
arrived on the Euphrates). This was started by the caliph al-Walid in 705, and intended
to be the most beautiful ever built. The Moslems classify it, after Mecca,
Medina and the Dome of the Rock at Jerusalem, as the holiest place on earth.
Its interior was being renovated, a never-ending task to restore the ravages
of time and sieges. The towers of this mosque were the first minarets in Islam--from
them the earliest muezzin called to dawn prayer. In the south-east
corner is the Tower of Jesus, where they say Christ will come on the last day.
The head of Hussein,
son of Ali (cousin and son-in-law of the prophet Mohammed) is
supposedly buried in a shrine inside the mosque.
According to some accounts I had read, he had been beheaded in the year 680 by an army of the Omayyad Caliphate at the battle
of Kerbala in Iraq. Shias ("followers of Ali") emotionally recount the
violent scenes that accompanied the killing, as if it had happened only last
week.
Also here is the tomb of the prophet Yehia, known to Christians as
John the Baptist. His head is in the crypt (although Aleppo, Venice and
a few other places also claim to have his head!).
Near the mosque is the tomb of the great Kurdish warrior
Salah ad-Din, or Saladin, who died in 1193.
Emperor Wilhelm II of Germany donated a new marble sarcophagus in 1898.
Numbers of beggars congregate around the holy places. We visited a museum, which contained some beautifully decorated rooms
and the most amazing miniatures, along with many items excavated from
archaeological sites around the country. There were mosaics from Roman times, when the city was reconstructed along Roman lines, and had grown rich with the convergence of trade of the Silk Route to China and the incense routes of Arabia.
The Christians, of which there are various
denominations, have their own sacred places. The Christian quarter is in the east of the old city, Bab Touma. Among these are the
Chapel of Ananias, a disciple who gave St Paul his eyesight back,
and the tower from
which St Paul was lowered in a basket so that he could escape the
soldiers of the Jewish king Aretas who wanted to arrest him after having
preached in the synagogues (a doubtful feat, according to those who checked it out).
In general I found the Syrians to be quite helpful and friendly
everywhere I went. Language was always a barrier, though.
Later we went to the cinema, to an Arab-made film.
Syrians versus Israelis, the Syrians being the good guys,
and of course after a lot of fighting and drama the Syrians won.
Primitive, blunt propaganda and really pretty ridiculous, but I guess it
differs only in degree from most other films in the West--there has to be
a baddie!
That evening Maurice and Michelle had a dinner appointment.
Maurice told me they had met a Syrian, a middle-aged doctor, a few
days previously, and been out with him a few times. He lived alone in a
large apartment and offered to put them up there for a couple of nights.
They accepted, had moved their bags into the apartment that morning and
were going to meet him for dinner.
Tuesday 8
July, Damascus.
Not feeling too good today. Nauseous, bad stomach pains.
Maurice and Michelle came by, unexpectedly. They had had a bad
experience
the previous night, they said, and were leaving Damascus. After dinner
the previous evening all three had returned to the doctor's apartment.
He offered them a nightcap. On a pretext the doctor took Maurice
out of the room, and asked him how much money he wanted to allow him to
spend the night with Michelle. Maurice was shocked, and said he
wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. They returned to Michelle, and
Maurice said they wanted to retire. The doctor showed them to their
bedroom, but followed them in and remained there talking. When he went
to
the bathroom they closed and barricaded the door, but he tried to get in
again, and kept banging the door and angrily demanding to be allowed in
for some time. They hadn't slept all night, and early that morning they
had taken their luggage to the station and decided to leave.
I spent the day on a bench in
the park across from the youth hostel (the hostel was closed during the
day). Got sick twice,
couldn't eat or even drink anything and felt terrible. I recalled that
Freya Stark At 5:00 I literally staggered back to the hostel, having to stop
every few yards. I lay down for a few hours, but didn't sleep,
and rose again when I heard a lot of voices coming from the reception
area. I met Phil, an American,
and Anne from New Zealand, there. They were travelling to India, but not
directly. When I mentioned that I was heading there as well Phil said it was
the wrong time to go there as if I went directly I would arrive in the middle
of the monsoon season. I was wondering what the best thing to do would be,
when Phil suggested I go to a kibbutz in Israel for a couple of weeks. He
and Anne had worked as volunteers in one
in the North of Israel, in the Jordan valley, and there were
still vacancies for volunteers. The next question was how to get there.
Someone else in the room said it was possible to cross from Jordan into
Israel.
I was sceptical, as I could not imagine the borders being
open
so soon after the recent war--the Yom Kippur war had been only a few years
previously. Someone else said the it was true, it was possible to cross the
Allenby bridge across the Jordan and get to the West Bank, which was occupied
by the Israelis, but special permission was needed, which could be
obtained from the Jordanian Ministry of Tourism. But how would one
return to Jordan? I knew that anyone who had been to Israel
would not be allowed into an Arab country. I was told that I had to at
all costs avoid getting my passport stamped with an Israeli stamp. At
the Israeli border crossing I should have the stamp put on a piece of
paper, which I should then discard upon leaving Israel.
The more I thought about it the better it sounded. There was of
course the risk that having gotten into Israel I might not be able to
get out again. And the political situation in the whole Middle East
was very unstable, paricularly with what was going on in Lebanon, but I
thought I would give it a shot. I got the address
of the kibbutz from Phil--Ashdot Ja'akov, south of Lake Tiberias.
Wednesday 9
July, Damascus.
"Four great gates has the city of Damascus",
Flecker
I was feeling a little better, still far from 100%, but my head was together.
I was reminded of a quotation by
Daniel Boone: I can't say I've ever been lost, but I was bewildered
once for three days.
I went in search of the
city swimming pool, thinking a little exercise might do me good. Found
Chris and Hans (must have been someone from the youth hostel, maybe a couple
of brick-layers that I met there) instead.
Later I continued the search and found the pool and stayed a couple of hours
(too long!) swimming and sun-bathing.
Returning to the hostel, the voices started echoing from the
mosques around the city, one after the other taking up the refrain:
Allah akbar Thursday 10
July, Damascus/Amman.
I woke up feeling stiff and sore from sunburn, but not so bad that I was
prepared to put off my departure.
I met Larry, an American.
Although he was a tall, well-built, tough-looking guy, his behaviour
reminded me of a slight effeminate Woody Allen, but even more paranoid.
He talked non-stop and seemed kinda nervous. I was wondering about him, and then he whispered to me that he was a Jew. He had come into Syria
from Turkey and was now scared shitless.
Some people he had met had told him tales of suspected Jews being taken
aside at the Syrian border crossing and forced to strip to see whether
they were circumsized. To follow that up he had pictured how a Jew caught in Syria would be treated, based on gruesome tales of Israeli soldiers
captured during the wars against the Arab states. He gave me the
impression that if
he were exposed as a Jew he would be dragged off to torture and a
lingering death. I told him that there were still Jews living in Damascus that hadn't been rounded up and executed (though I wouldn't have given much for his chances if Black September had come across him, but I didn't want to make him more nervous than he already was), but it didn't help. Changing the topic of conversation didn't help much either--if he wasn't worried sick about being picked up for being a Jew he was worried
about picking up some disease or becoming ill from the food or water.
I originally intended to get a train, and headed for the
Hejaz Railway Station.
I fancied a trip on the Hejaz Railway, of Lawrence of Arabia fame. The rail line from Damascus to Madinah was built by the Ottoman Turks to carry pilgrims to the Mecca and the Holy Places and was targeted by Arab raiders under Lawrence during the First World War.
Unfortunately there was
some kind of a problem there, ie, no trains. So I ended up going to the bus station and taking a bus to Amman. Progress was slow--there were
many stops and checks particularly around the border. We passed massive defensive
positions around Damascus and at other places, pointing towards Israel.
There was no trouble at the Jordan border, and we got through swiftly. I was wondering what to expect from Jordan. I knew practically nothing about the country, except
the war back in 1970 after the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine hijacked five commercial airliners to
Dawson's Field, outside Amman, where they held 400 hostages. After an armed confrontation with the Jordanian army which left 3,000 Palestinians dead, the Jordanian government expelled the remaining Palestinian groups
in the PLO to Lebanon, an event recalled by Palestinians as "Black September."
About half-way between the border and Amman we passed Jerash, which
was once a Greek city. At the time of Christ there was a league of ten
cities in the Jordan Valley area--the furthest outposts of Western civilization.
They commanded the ancient trading
routes from Damascus to Petra and the way to the Mediterranean Sea.
Brilliant, rich cities with monied foreign traffic passing through them.
Because it was buried for centuries, Jerash still has remains of its
temples, theatres, forum and houses.
Arrived at Amman at around 6:00 PM. Shared a taxi with a Japanese
couple also heading for the youth hostel. 350 fils per night (100 fils=one
pound sterling), about twice as expensive as Damascus. But it wsa clean and quiet, located in a
prosperous suburb above the city.
Friday 11
July, Amman.
This morning I hung around the hostel, chatting with anyone I could
find, hungry for news. I picked up some brochures that were lying around
the hostel and learned something of the city's history. It was
mentioned in the Bible as Raboth Ammon, though later it was renamed
Philadelphia. There are still many remains from its Roman period,
including a well-preserved theatre that can hold ten thousand people.
It was little more than a village, and the home of the
Circassians who ended up here after eviction from Russia in 1878, and the nomad Bedouin,
when it was made the capital of the new country after the first world war.
The new country, the Hashimite kingdom, was essentially a British
construction, after they broke their promise to grant independence to
the Arabs. The city's real growth began in 1948 with the great influx
of refugees from Occupied Palstine, and since those times it has grown
to be a busy and prosperous place.
After I had read all I could find I walked into the centre to do some
shopping. The city is spread over several hills, with steep narrow streets that could be leading
anywhere. Luckily I had a map from the hostel that showed the principal streets and areas. Met
a Jordanian who wanted to practice his English. I asked about the
Bedouin, assuming that many of the inhabitants were descended from
them--I hadn't realized then that the city had seen the influx of
refugees from several ethnic groups. I was told of Bedouin hospitality
in the desert: a guest is allowed to stay for three days without
question, and during this time he must be fed.
Amman is a lot more westernized
than Damascus. I put this down to the British influence. Not a very
big city, squeezed into a long valley with
desolate mountains on either side. The picture on the left shows it when I
was there.
It's more expensive here--an Arab head-dress, for example
("made in England"), was
four times the price here that it was in Damascus.
Met an English guy,
Steve, I think was his name, with a rather supercilious manner. He had been
in Amman several weeks waiting for some money. Easy enough to talk to, well
read, widely travelled, etc, but I wouldn't trust him as far as I could
throw him. He intended travelling to Iraq to look for work with an oil
company, where he believed there was a fortune to be made. He
even had a suit and tie with him, squeezed into the bottom of
his rucksack. However, he helped us out with shopping and general
information. Until recently, there was a war taking place, since the previous
year, between Kurd separatists (supposedly financed by the US in order
to weaken the Iraqis, and supported by
Israel and Iran)
and the Iraqi government, until Iraq and Iran signed a according to which Iran
cut supplies to the Iraqi insurgents. The confusion there might
hinder travel in the region, and everyone I spoke to said it would be
difficult, if not impossible to get an Iraqi visa.
Saturday 12
July, Amman.
The glorious 12th! I wondered how things were back home--I had had very
little news for the past few weeks. Today was the day that, back in
Amsterdam, I had
arranged to meet Mark McKenna at the American Express office in Athens.
Instead here I was, in the Middle East! Pinch myself again to see if
I'm dreaming...
We had to make preparations for getting to
Israel. With
Larry and two other Americans I had met at the Youth Hostel, Bob
Skinner and Donald "Buck" Buckley, I went to
the Ministry of Tourism on Jebel Amman, obtained the necessary forms,
had them stamped at the Intercontinental Hotel Travel Agency, then
returned the to the Ministry. We told everyone who asked questions
that we were
crossing into the West Bank to visit historical sites, and that we had
no intention of going to Israel. Everything went easier than
expected, there were no suspicious looks or probing questions. For
the officials carrying out their duties the whole process had
obviously evolved into a routine.
We all felt relieved that everything had turned out OK, so far, and
went for a coffee to celebrate and shoot the breeze.
Bob and Buck were in the US army--they had joined because they knew
they
would be drafted. Buck was finishing his term, and was going to study
International Law in San Diego in the US. Bob was still on a base in
Munich. Despite this roundabout way of getting to Israel, we thought it was probably safer than flying, as there was always the chance of Isreali planes getting hijacked.
Sunday 13
July, Amman/Jerusalem.
Set off early, but not early enough, with Larry, Buck and Bob. We
didn't realize how difficult it would be to get to the border post.
We needed 3 separate hot sweaty taxis for
different stages. Finally we found ourselves on the banks of the Jordan, among hundreds of
Arabs waiting for clearances to cross the border into Israel. Most of these, we were told, were from
the locality, but whose families, land or businesses straddled the
border, and the Allenby bridge crossing was the only way they could get
to the other side of the Jordan (which was now the border).
The Jordan
at this point was a small stream, not much more than a trickle. The
bridge was named after General Sir Edmund Allenby, leader of the British
troops in Palestine during the first world war, who triumphantly entered
Jerusalem in 1917. This was the start of the British occupation of Palestine, which due to the
conflicting promises made to Jews and Arabs, led to the conflicts that
cost thousands of lives, and which are still on-going.
The heat was oppressive. We got our passports through
relatively quickly, which took
about an hour, and then had a long wait for the bus, squeezed in among
hundreds of sweaty bodies with all their belongings, and clouds of
flies. Is it worth it? I was asking myself, being pressurized on all
sides so that I could hardly breath. I was glad I wasn't alone--if you
fainted here you could get trampled to death.
The babble of the crowed became noticeably louder, and upon my asking
the chap next to me what was happening, he replied that the
last bus would soon be arriving. A mad scramble, pushing, near-riot
for tickets ensued. An old crone in a black veil in front of us was
pushed,
screaming, to one side, by a determined Palestinian with wife and kids
in tow, who continued to force his way forward. We rushed into the
breach thus caused and managed to get tickets and
finally haul ourselves onto the overcrowded vehicle.
The check at the Israeli side was not too bad, compared to other countries I had entered. Larry was overjoyed and nearly crying with relief to be safe in Israel--the dream of his life fulfilled, as he never stopped informing us.
Of course, we had to pay money every step of the way. We got the entry permit
stamped on a piece of paper, which was then stapled to the passport.
Larry changed money, and after coming out realized that he had gotten
twice the amount he was supposed to get. We took an (overcharged) taxi
into Jerusalem and
checked into the Columbian Hotel, near Damascus Gate in the Arab
quarter.
To awaken quite alone in
a strange town is one of the pleasantest
sensations in the world. You are surrounded
by adventure. You have no idea of what is in
store for you, but you will, if you are wise and
know the art of travel, let yourself go on the
stream of the unknown and accept whatever
comes in the spirit in which the gods may offer it. |
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Watched Jordan television in the youth hostel that evening. The news
seemed a bit strange at first: it always featured King Hussein or his
brother for the first five minutes, even if they were only visiting
someplace unimportant or meeting a nonentity, before passing on to more
mundane matters like wars or natural disasters. Enjoyed the film they
showed that night though, the Phantom of the Opera.
