“Excellent! Welcome! Would you like some tea?”
Two years ago I was shocked by an offer of tea on the Syrian border. Back then, they didn’t even ask, they simply brought us tea. While they stamped your passport why not have a glass of tea in the boss’s office? Tea is traditionally a hot sweet drink which is drunk from a glass. The Syrian office had a shabby couch and dusty floor. The Jordanian customs office is different, but the offer of tea is the same.
Accelerating goodness
Huge shiny Jeeps drive up to the customs building. Slowly, some Jordanians get out of the cars. Only later do I learn that they are not Arabs but Bedouins, a different nationality: darker skin and stronger facial features.
Their white robes reach down to their feet, and they wear red-checkered headscarves. Their unhurried movements convey an awareness of self-worth. Jordan is a rich country. Although I’ve heard countless positive comments about Jordan I still wonder: “And what if people here are not as hospitable? And what if they won’t pick me up when I hitchhike?”
Passport in hand, I walk in the direction of the last customs booth. Once I show them my entrance visa, I’m in Jordan, and I’m here for the first time.
The customs official notices me from afar. He follows me attentively and even calls for reinforcements from another booth.
I notice their impeccably-fitting military uniforms, their berets playfully pushed to the side. Most of them wear neatly trimmed moustaches.
“As-salem, va rahmat Llahi, va va barakyat! Peace be with you, mercy and blessings of the Lord!” I greet them loudly.
“Va-aleikum assaliam,” they answer, brows furrowed, forgetting to smile politely.
I understand their surprise since they only ever see Mr. and Ms. White in big tourist buses accompanied by guides and interpreters. And now they see someone going on foot! And a girl! Alone!
I show my passport and begin to move on.
“Where are you going?” One of the border policemen stops me.
“To Amman.”
“And where is your bus?”
“Mafi. Ana mashi. There is no bus. I am here on foot,” I answer in Arabic.
“Mashi? One hundred kilometers! On foot? One hundred kilometers!
“Tamam. Fine.”
To me this is tamam, while they just blink helplessly. I take pity on them and explain:
“Shvaye-shvaye mashi, seiara. A little bit on foot, and then by car.”
The poor customs officers experience a wave of relief. They cheer up:
“So wait then, we’ll get you a cab.”
“But I don’t need a cab. I need a free ride.”
“OK, OK.” The customs officials are ready to agree to anything just to prevent me from going on foot. “How’s that possible anyway, to go on foot… all the way to Amman?”
I lean on the fence so that the gazes of the border policemen, fixed on me from all sides, don’t knock me over. As soon as I raise my eyes they look away, like tiny mouse-thieves scattering across a room when someone suddenly turns on the light.
In the end, they call me up to a tall black Jeep. I say a warm goodbye to the customs officials.
Inside the Jeep, there are three Arabs. One of them leaves us rather quickly. The driver has a big bushy beard, a great rarity in both Jordan as well as in Syria. An Arab businessman is sitting in the front seat. He is wearing a white shirt, a leather jacket, and sunglasses. His phone rings and he answers in fluent English.
“I’m sorry they stuck me in your car,” I address him cautiously.
“No problem, it’s fine,” he answers and turns back to the windshield.
Some time later he casually asks me where I am going and why, but without any keen interest. Then he falls back into indifferent silence.
We arrive in Amman. The twilight enveloping the city brought on similarly murky thoughts: “Arriving in an unknown city at night…where even by day… you can’t find a hostel… And in a car the customs officials put you into, you didn’t even stop it yourself…”
“Where should we drop you off?” asks the businessman as if reading my thoughts. “Where will you sleep?”
“In a tent. I just need to find a park. You don’t happen to know of one?”
“I do,” says the Arab as if it were an everyday occurrence for some random foreigner to ask about a park where she could spend the night. “There’s one not far from here, I’ll show you.”
And so, despite my assurances that I only need walking directions, the Arab releases his driver and accompanies me, taking all his briefcases and laptops with him.
“I could invite you to my house…” he volunteered in a low hesitant voice.
“No, thank you,” I refuse, seeing clearly that his offer was merely polite.
We find the entrance gates locked.
“It’s OK. I’ll find another entrance, thanks,” and I rush to say good-bye to the businessman who has so kindly wasted his time with me.
“If you wish, you may spend the night at my house,” he offers again, unexpectedly.
I fall silent, trying to guess the reason of his proposition.
“You can have some dinner, take a shower,” he adds. “If you so wish…”
“Of course, I’d be delighted, but won’t I be a bother?”
“Not at all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“All right then!” I answer, genuine gladness on my face, impossible to conceal.
“Then we need a cab.”
We leave our things at his house and drive to dinner in Joseph’s car. Joseph, that’s the Arab’s name. We eat fried potatoes with chicken and vegetables, and we drink Pepsi. He doesn’t let me pay for it.
It turns out that Joseph is from Lebanon and works in Amman, where the company rents an apartment for him and his family.
Without a trace of indifference this time, in fact, quite the opposite, Joseph asks me with sincere curiosity about Russia and the countries where I’ve been.
That evening I managed to expand the boundaries of my journey to cover yet another country as Joseph told me of his beloved Lebanon with much enthusiasm!
Then he allotted me a separate room and even made up the bed, despite my assurances that I could do it myself. He kept coming up with more things to do for me as if he derived some kind of pleasure from it. Like a child who has just mastered a new skill and can’t get enough of it. It was so fun for him!
Bottles filled with sand
I’m looking at the Israeli shore glowing with bright yellow lights; the lights of Egypt are shining a bit further, to the right. I am in Jordan. Between us lies the Red Sea, but the heavy warm blanket of the night has covered the red and turned it to black. The sea is softly tossing in its sleep, the waves splash unhurriedly onto the shore, mumbling and snuffling drowsily.
This morning I arrived in Aqaba, a city on the border of three states. I got picked up by a mini-bus on the outskirts of Amman where Joseph had left me. All the other passengers paid for the ride, but the driver kept reassuring me that I was riding for free.
I am walking in the very center of a wide boulevard. Jordanians are sitting on benches under the trees, together with their friends and families. They don’t pay any particular attention to me. They see too many tourists — this is a well known international tourist resort. Largely because of this I’ve decided not to stay here for very long. Too many shops, restaurants, and streets full of green cabs. It’s hard to make friends in such a city.
All I need is to find the office where I can get my free visa, since I’ve arrived in Aqaba — a “free economic zone,” as the Jordanians themselves call it. I’ll leave the city as soon as I get my visa.