Abdullah
points out the ancient wall surrounding modern Amman
Traveling in a foreign
culture is uncomfortable one moment and wonderful the next. Your senses sharpen and adrenaline flows. You are a liminal character, a newcomer, displaced
and unrestricted. You notice details the
local inhabitants take for granted, though your understanding is limited. You take a snapshot of an iceberg, missing many
of its angles, barely aware of the bulk under the water. Your photograph is beautiful nevertheless.
Our first welcome to Jordan came
from my daughter’s Arabic teacher, who greeted us warmly in the Dubai airport. His
family was traveling home to Amman on our flight. My daughters later explained that several of their classmates
and teachers are Palestinian, but their families live in Jordan. In fact, about a third of Jordan’s 6.5
million people are Palestinian refugees or their descendants. Jordan has been a haven for refugees during
much of its history, and currently shelters thousands of Syrians fleeing their
civil war. We tourists would be welcome
too.
It was night when we arrived
in the capital city. Amman’s airport was
crowded and a bit smoky, but organized. We
made our way to the exit, and found Abdullah, our driver and guide for the
tour. He was handsome and looked younger
than I expected, with dark hair, tan skin, friendly eyes, and a stylish overcoat.
He shook our hands in a professional
manner and led us to our car, a Hyundai sedan.
The girls and I squeezed into the back seat and we began the hour-long
drive to Madaba.
Abdullah spoke English well
and filled the driving time with information about Jordan. One of the oldest cities in the world, Amman
is built on seven hills and has eight ring roads or circles linking different
parts of the city. Along the way, we
could see modern lights and buildings give way to dark countryside, interrupted
every few kilometers by a lighted outline of an Arabic coffee-pot, suspended over
a shack by the side of the road.
Abdullah explained that these hospitality stands sell hot drinks,
candy-bars and cigarettes.
As we drove into Madaba, I
noticed piles of rubble and trash filling vacant lots between homes and
businesses. There were pieces of black
plastic caught in fences and trees.
Abdullah stopped at a convenience store to ask directions to our hotel
while I eyed the knot of young men in worn jackets smoking outside. I felt uneasy, not understanding that we were
on the industrial side of town.
We found the Black Iris Hotel
on a quiet street, a few blocks uphill from the business district. The entrance was dark, but Abdullah knocked
and our sleepy innkeeper unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Obed’s bedding was rumpled on the couch of a
living area. A traditional hotel
counter was on the other side of the room along with a lending library, drink
cooler, and bulletin boards with maps and tour information. Obed quickly checked us in, passed out large
water bottles and walked us to our rooms at the far end of the inn.
Dismayed, I noted the faded
wallpaper, unshaded light bulbs, threadbare carpet and worn furniture. We had reserved the ‘family suite’ for four
nights, and it was freezing. Obed turned
on room heaters for us, handed Bob the key on its ancient wooden fob and left
us to unpack. What had I done? I apologized to the family for trying to save
money and stay in charming Madaba instead of Amman; this hotel received positive
reviews on Trip Advisor, mostly because Obed is such a nice guy.
My sweet husband patted my
shoulder and said it was fine. He confirmed
that the sheets were clean, cheerfully pointed out that the rooms were warming
up and helped the girls get organized.
None of them complained. Well, Jordan is not Dubai,
I thought to myself, and we wanted to experience the way people live in
this part of the world. After
finding modern plumbing and hot water in the bathroom, I resolved to mirror my family’s positive attitudes.
I snuggled into the crisp
sheets a few minutes later and relaxed, grateful for Bob’s warmth.
Who says you need four stars to be content?
No comments:
Post a Comment