Rock of ages...

All the guide books say the same thing: if you only see one place in Jordan, go to Petra.





Before I had ever even heard of Jordan I knew of Petra, if only thanks to the great scenes filmed outside the Treasury at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Petra is known as the Rose-Red City because it was literally carved out of the swirling multicolored rocks of all shades of reds and oranges by the Nabataens thousands of years ago.



We got the earliest start we could, and headed out through the Siq, a stunning chasm, which stretches quite a ways, down into Petra. I tried to imagine the excitement Burckhardt, a Swiss explorer, must have felt back in 1812, when, disguised as a sheikh, he talked his way into the city long hidden from outsiders. His heart must have been beating wildly.


The Siq was created by tectonics, not water, and it is believed that this is where Moses struck the rock with his staff and water flowed out for the Hebrews as they fled from Egypt, the Pharoh hot on their heels.

al-Siq

Here and there were carvings in the walls, a mystical, beautiful place, anticipation building for what we knew laid ahead. Then, finally, the walls opened up to reveal that place I think you'll recognise from the Indy movie:

The Treasury (Al-Khazneh), grand beyond description.

I was floored by the symmetry, the sophistication of the carvings, and the massive scale of the building. I was also really grateful to my old camera for dying before we got to Petra and couldn't replace it.

It took awhile for the awe to ebb enough to take stock of the rest of the area. This process was helped along by being persistantly informed, over and over again, that there were donkeys for hire. It was still relatively cool, and we are nearly as stubborn as any mule, so we determined to hike for at least some of the time.

The donkey riders, young men hardly more than boys on their short, sturdy, and colorfully rugged and tasseled equines followed us undaunted, calling out prices for rides, skillfully bringing the kids into the equation...didn't the little ones want a ride? Come ride my donkey baby (to Thomas and Bethy, not me!)...asserting us that we had no idea how difficult and steep the really good places were to get to.

Mike had an itinerary planned, and both he and I assured them that we'd use their services once it got hotter or steeper, but not before. There were few tourists at this hour, so we were in no hurry to secure a ride.

Mike led us North along the Road of the Façades, where the living and the dead existed side by side in Nabatean times, and it seemed that every turn led to new buildings carved into the vividly striated rock. Some, like the Treasury were well preserved, others had been exposed to the elements and softened. There were staircases somehow carved into the steep walls above entryways that led up to nowhere, for the occupants of the tombs to find their way heavenward, and portals everywhere. The caves intrigued the kids (and kept us busy keeping the kids out) and the carvings interested us.

Further along was the Theatre (lower righthand):

Horizontal rows of seats cut out of the rock, through tombs and caves, and later enlarged by the Romans. See the tiny figures at the bottom on the steps, some a-donkeyback, to give you an idea of the scope of the place? All along were more donkeys, camel riders, and an incredible variety of different styles of architecture demonstated upon the walls, giving silent but persuasive testimony to the history of Petra. Roman, Hellenistic, Mesopotamiian, Assyrian, Egyptian, and classical Nabataean. How could this be, in the middle of the desert?

The Nabataens, an Arab people, thrived by first plundering, then in a more civilised sounding but equally effective manner, taxing and perhaps offering protection to traders along the Silk Road. Their society must have been a rich and complex one, judging by what remains, affected by the peoples of each time as they came along. Bedouins live here still, most of whom have been moved just outside of Petra to modern housing, though some still prefer cave life. Certainly they do their very best to make a living from the constant influx of visitors into their home, and I don't blame them one bit.

We did a lot of walking. The entire site was so extensive, so staggeringly huge, there was no way we'd be able to see more than select portions of it. We traded off kids and exploring, walking and walking along the sand and stones. With all the hiking I was especially happy there had been a few days between the half marathon and this and was also quite pleased that my vigilance with not allowing anyone in our family to touch lips to the tap water had paid off; while I had read over and over again in blogs and reviews about folks dragging themselves to the sites of Jordan, feeling awful, we were all feeling digestively great.

There were hawkers of everything from scarves and postcards to knick-nacks, water and rocks, though not as many merchants as I thought there might have been, and for which I was glad. One man offered me a wicked looking dagger "For you husband!" he said.

"No thank you!" I replied, "I like him and am going to keep him."

The seller looked confused but the woman merchant next to him's deeply lined face broke into the even deeper lines of laughter. She waggled a finger at me and made stabbing motions straight out of Psycho, grinning the sisterly grin of womanhood.

Thomas doing his very best "Hee-Haw!!!"

We had decided to miss the High Place of Sacrifice (Al-Madbah), what with our small children and the whole gravity thing. Further along was the Collonated Street, extensive ruins with a distinctly Roman look, a Crusader castle, (the Crusades "look" is best described as daunting) and here we agreed to let the kids get up on the donkeys that had been following us from the Treasury after, of course, a price and destination were negotiated, not terribly skillfully by us, and quite well by the two young Bedouins. They were old hands at the game, yet managed to come across as innocent while leaving no doubt as to their expertise.

Next stop, by donkey, Petra's mountaintop Monastery.

Blowin' in the wind...

Checking out of our Amman hotel for the second time, we headed out onto the road. I had thought it was going to be Easter Sunday and had carefully packed all sorts of Cadbury chocolates for the bunny to bring. However, when we got to Jordan I happened to look at a calendar which said that Easter was the 19th, not the 12th.



Knowing how impossibly handicapped I am with messing up dates I figured I'd made a mistake and packed the goodies for nothing. The chocolates had melted by that point anyway; fortunately I had prepared for that likelihood, bringing non perishable gifts for the kids' baskets as well.



Before we got on the road we stopped to pick up snacks for the road trip and cash and discovered that something had gone very wrong with my camera. It seemed to be working OK, except in one small detail: all the photographs were completely black. So, in desperation, I picked up another camera from a very limited selection (I had a choice between Polaroid, decided no, and GE---did you even know GE makes cameras?!) and hoped for the best. No one was in a great mood, heading out later than we liked and tired from stomping around Jerash the day before.

Yellow blooming olive trees and tea on Mt Nebo

That Sunday we went up the biblical Mt Nebo, the place where Moses was supposed to have finally glimpsed the Promised Land, and then died, to be buried by God in an unknown grave. We went to look over Israel ourselves, to see the olive tree planted for peace by Pope John Paul II, and we did those things, but that day our children decided to be bad.

Bethy and Mike, the Promised Land beyond

Well, maybe not bad, exactly... but close enough. Thomas flung his sunglasses over the fence towards the West Bank to be lost forever (whereupon Mike taught him to say his sunglasses were "resting with Moses"...I can't take them anywhere) and Bethy pitched loud fit after fit about absolutely nothing. It was awful. Probably no one's fault but our own; we'd asked a lot of our kids.


However, after we left, driving through the hills, past vineyards, herd after herd of sheep:





and curiously slanting trees, telling the tale of how fierce the winds can blow across that part of Jordan:





we managed to get our happy traveler selves back and relaxed. Mike got a particular guffaw out of this sign:


(OK, maybe I did too), and if you don't see what's so funny about it, good for you.




The ancient King's Highway that we were on is not the quickest way to get anywhere, but we had heard that it is one of the best ways to see the country, and gave it a go. The most striking landscape along the way was that of Wadi Mujib (formed by the biblical Arnon River) where the road wound and twisted down, down into the gorge and then steeply back up the other side. We once again sent silent thanks to the travel gods that we'd gotten an upgrade for our car.

Wadi Mujib

During a potty break Bethy found a positive boulder of some sort of fine grained yellow quartz which flaked easily and loaded her pockets with it. I had to satisfy my rock hound desires by haggling with a roadside merchant at an overlook for a rock loaded with sea fossils and also a perfect little barite sand/desert rose. We stopped on the far side of the Wadi for lunch at the first place we saw:

Barking dogs outside that were unceremoniously smacked away by the workers not withstanding, we were pleased to go in and find a delicious buffet, including most of the lower half of a lamb which, when carved, yielded the tenderest meat I have ever eaten. Plenty of food, most of which I had little or no clue as to what it was.

I did accidentally steal the "Jordaine" (as opposed to Jordan) Lonely Planet book that was sitting on the bench next to us...the Frenchwoman to whom it belonged politely asked for it back after I put it in my purse. Tres embarassant! It honestly did look exactly like ours, except for that little detail of what language it was in.

To wrap up the meal we had tiny cups of strong coffee and a dessert I had never tried before, a sweet semolina sort of cake, slightly sticky, cut into diamond shapes in a large pan, each piece crowned with an almond. Complimenting the gray haired owner on it, I asked what the pastry was called. Basbousa, he told me, and, as far as I could tell, offered to get us some to take with us. Stuffed, I declined, thanking him for his generosity, and we got up to leave.

In the sand and rock parking area a good way from the building we were just starting to back out when he chased us down, carrying two plates carefully wrapped in aluminum foil for us to take with on the road. I was really touched by his gesture and thanked him profusely once again. He seemed pleased.

One of the most interesting sights along the Kings Highway, down in a wadi near herder camps was the small children who, seeing our car coming, would hold up a single egg or, one time, a bunch of herbs to sell. I rather wished we'd had a need for eggs, but there was no way to cook them, and I didn't see the herb seller until he was behind us. How one could choose from which of the kids with their wistful eyes and offers held high you should buy your eggs out in the desert, I really don't know.

We drove past Al Karak, a formidable Crusader castle along the King's Highway, but after an extended friendly debate with ourselves decided not to stop. The castle and the town seem to have grown into one another. While we would have loved to have delved into the history of the castle, and I was tickled by the tale of attackers who besieged the castle, leaving the wedding chamber unmolested as a gesture of chivalry to the bride, (!) we were off to Petra, and had made some wrong turns already, (shocking, I know!) so we kept on the road until we got there.

And it wasn't until the next Sunday, back in Dubai, that I found out that there and in the USA Easter had already gone by the week before, while it was indeed being celebrated in Jordan on the 19th, as according to the Greek Orthodox calendar.

So, I guess we were on Mt Nebo overlooking Israel on Easter Sunday...sort of.

Ancient walls of flowers...

Walking over the uneven pavestones of Jerash in Jordan was a trip back in time. The expanse of the site was dumbfounding; we could have explored there all day amongst the flowers and columns and ancient stone, trying to imagine life as it was.

Temples to the Gods, promanades, graceful carved scrolls, spaces which had enclosed shops along the walkways, staircases, and all the architecture one would expect from an ancient Roman city.

Mosaics and wildflowers. There were scarlet poppies and irises and hollyhocks among the yellow blossoms which dominated the landscape, wreathing the city in a garland of exuberant spring.

Groups of Arab youths were going around in groups separated by gender, and many of them had brought drums to accompany frequent and seemingly spontaneous bursting into song and dance. Often call-and-response verses and steps that everyone seemed to know.

The leader of the group pictured above is the one with his red-and-white checked keffiyeh (headscarf) in the middle; he waved it around as he cavorted back and forth between the others in lines who held each others' hands and danced and sang back to him.

In the South Theatre amphitheatre there were Arab bagpipers playing, amusingly, Yankee Doodle and Scotland the Brave, to demonstrate the excellent acoustics. They couldn't quite hit the high notes but they were united in being almost exactly half a step down when they stretched for them.

Every time I have seen the seemingly innocuous combination of Arab and bagpipe I have enjoyed the novelty of the whole idea. Fresh out of coins, I threw some paper Dinar in their bucket, something I noticed few of the tourists who had crowded in to get their photos taken marching with the bagpipers during their performance did. Huh.

Bethy and a couple in the South Theatre, the woman showing only her hands and eyes. We have gotten entirely used to this style of dress and barely even notice anymore, except in making an effort not take their photographs...in anything but a sneaky fashion, that is.

The kids did extrordinarily well with being dragged all over for hours under a bright sun. Thomas got his arm stuck down into a hole in the Colonnaded Street, the main thoroughfare, and needed prying out, and fell more than once, leaping from one abbreviated column to the next or toppling off of unbalanced stones. Quote of the day from Thomas: "I want to climb on the ruins!"

Neither child plunged to certain doom off high walls despite several good opportunities for such an end. A theme for parenthood in the Middle East...try to notice such things as there really are no safeguards. Both kids posed uncomplainingly for innumerable photographs, mostly taken by fellow tourists.

At one point, a good 5 hours into our self-guided tour, Mike went off ahead to view Artemis' Temple, which I knew the kids and I wouldn't get to. Remaining behind, we amused ourselves by exploring a series of stone rooms open to the sky, first ducking through a doorway better suited to the kids and not myself.

Wanting to avoid the squeeze on the way out, I tried to go another way with Thomas and ended up climbing higher and higher atop the walls, thinking I'd get to a point where we could easily get back down and finally settling for relatively safely, lowering Thomas and then hollering at him to stay put while I went on my stomach then squirmed backwards over the edge and down next to him. Not my best moment, and not unlike a cat getting stuck up a tree.

Part of the issue was giving a wide enough berth to the enormous shiny black millipedes everywhere. These were at least an inch wide and some were damned near to a foot long. At the time we thought they were centipedes and none of us wanted to find out how poisonous they were. As is turns out, they were African Giant Millipedes, quite harmless, apparently make great pets. Missed a photo op there as you can see if you do a search on Google for African+millipede.

Trust me, it's worth it.

Gratuitous (non-millipede) photo of yours truly, thanks to Bethy for the I-was-there documentation.

Mike with the guidebook map. Modern Jerash can be seen beyond ancient Gerash.

Other creepy crawlies included the large lizards sunning themselves on the stones, watching us bemusedly, and the black dung bettles that Thomas in particular delighted in catching. He commissioned his little bucket hat as a bettle holder and scampered after the hapless bugs, expertly picking them up and carefully securing them in his hat, folding the edges shut. At one point there were at least ten in there, all wishing themselves elsewhere, I am sure, and I hope they appreciated our catch-and release-policy.

Finally, after hours and hours, in the late afternoon we conceded it was time for an overdue lunch and a bathroom. (The only facilities we had found within the paid area were locked, and while outside and diapers were OK for the three others...) After exiting I tried a previously unnoticed bathroom down the hill from the ticket takers and came face to face with yet another potato-scarf bathroom woman, eerily similar to the first one. I shied away from the proffered tissue, managed just fine, dashed ahead of her to turn on my own water at the sink and dried my hands on my jeans, thwarting attempt #2 at the tissue offer. Ha! She looked disappointed but resigned, though that didn't stop her from holding out her hand. I smiled, thanked her...and left.

Also near the ticket takers was an open air restaurant offering a buffet and we went for it, ravenous. All sorts of Middle Eastern foods, and freshly baked flatbreads. I took Bethy to see the man baking the breads in a stone oven and he told me, with a combination of signs and words to go get my camera to take a photo:

Which I then paid for. Sheesh.

Well, at least Bethy got heart bread.

It had been another long day, full to the brim with new experiences.

so unbelievable...

Jerash, one of the 10 great Roman cities (the Decapolis) and astonishingly well preserved, was hands down our favorite place in Jordan. It was flat-out amazing.

We drove north in the morning, me pretty much hobbling around from the half marathon. You know it's bad when you make inadvertent noises whenever you try to move.

Our first glimpse of the ancient city of Jerash, known as Gerasa 2000 years ago, was the striking Hadrian's Arch at the entrance to the ruins, reconstructed now at 13 meters tall for the center one of three, but apparently twice that tall when it was built to welcome the visiting emperor in AD 129. The current height was just fine to welcome us.

We made our way through the touristy souk at the base and up the stairs and through the center arch, and saw, beyond, the expanse of Jerash.

A group of young Arabic women descended upon us like chickens to feed and began manhandling Bethy and Thomas. They were far too aggressive, absolutely heedless of their effect on the kids, particularly in pinching the kids' cheeks hard. Both kids were shocked and near tears and I couldn't stand it. Getting aggressive myself, I bodily snatched our children away, fleeing without a backwards glance at the loud protests from the women.

Regrouping with Mike, all of us breathed deeply. Our experience with strangers had been positive until then, even having some of the girls we met at the Jordan River calling out "Thomas! Thomas!" when they spied him with Mike at the end of the Dead Sea race. But this was something else entirely, and none of us liked it.

To the left was the Hippodrome, which at one time seated 15,000 spectators. Hawkers encouraged us to come get our tickets for the "RACE" show (Roman Army and Chariot Experience, catchy name there). We figured why not, the kids would probably like it, though I didn't have any sort of high expectations.

Boy, was I wrong. While we sat on the stone seats of yesteryear, they gave us a show.

The Legionnaires paraded in to a prerecorded narrator and music (which Mike swore was from the computer game Warcraft), carrying their shields that we were amused to see had been crafted from halved oil drums. Made sense. We clapped dutifully for the Centurion and got a mini history lesson about the life of a Roman soldier which was interesting. The men did some tricky military drills, demonstrating various types of moves and war strategy to commands given in Latin. So far so good.

The company aimed their spears at the audience at one point, and there was a definite shifting of buttocks in the seats among the spectators. Yes, we could see how that would be intimidating.

Mock battle by the Jerash soldiers

The legionnaires concluded their demonstration. Then the gladiators came in.

Ave, imperator, morituri te salutant!(We who are about to die salute you.)
These guys weren't playing around. The fighting may have been staged, but it was impressive. Most of the punches were thrown, kicks held back just enough, and it was carefully choreographed, but these were some seriously physical acts. However excellent their training, more than once we heard an ugly thwack from a misjudged hit that made us cringe. They threw each other, they scrabbled in the sand, fighting with sword and trident, fists and nets whipped about.



And these guys do this twice a day in the hot sun.


At the end of each fight the audience was asked to decide the fate of the vanquished gladiator. Bethy got a kick of sticking her thumb out there. Most lived, but there was one who stabbed another in the back after a match, then tried to flee into the audience. The scoundrel was chased down and dragged back into the arena, then playfully squirted blood all over the place when his throat was cut. Nice. They dragged his corpse disdainfully away.
Thomas loved every second.
Then came the chariots.



Bethy's eyes were huge when the three chariots came flying out. Rooting at the top of her lungs for "White horse! White horse!" she and I dare say all the spectators were riveted. The drivers hollered encouragement to their teams of two as they charged the traditional seven times around the hippodrome's oval, the horses lathering and pulling, whips cracking and sand being sprayed up behind the wheels of chariots that seemed hardly substantial enough to hold the drivers at the speeds they were going.



People were roaring their approval, I took as many photos as I could of the action, and loved every moment of it.



At the end of the race the winner was crowned with laurels and drove before the crowd with a palm frond, symbolising triumph. The horses were blowing from the exertion, but obviously healthy, well-cared for animals as they recovered well.

As the show drew to a close we were invited to take photographs with the Romans. One of the gladiators called to have his photo taken with Thomas, and I was pleased he didn't hold his blade to our son's throat as many of the others were doing to the tourists. Bethy and I got to stand in her team's chariot, big smile there.



Feeling completely satisfied by the performance we headed along a good walk to the entrance to the rest of ancient Jerash.

A young boy intercepted us, trying to "gift" us some small packets of gum. I repeatedly told him no, firmly, in English and Arabic, but he unwrapped a piece and gave it to Thomas and another packet to Bethy. Then he asked for money, and I frankly didn't have much in the way of coins. He put on either the best or the worst act, depending on your point of view when I offered him what I had, and made me quite angry.

I had seen other tourists being outright rude to the children selling things and thought it deplorable, but now realised that anything less to the more experienced kids was the mark of a total sucker. I told him that he had chosen to give the gum and that it was his problem, not mine if he didn't want the amount I offered him (which was more than the gum cost in the stores regardless). I felt completely awful about the whole thing, guilty, and mad that he'd ruined the happy post-show feeling by choosing us as his victims.


Finally getting to the second entrance, beyond which we could see the tantalising beauties of the ancient city, we found out that you had to buy your tickets to get in back at the souk.
Oh criminey. So, stiff and sore but with some residual crabbiness over the gum situation to walk off, I went all the way back through the crowds and dust, the children selling strawberries and reeds carved into flutey whistles while the ticket takers were amused by the kids and Mike waited patiently.

The tickets were sold right next to the restrooms, so I ducked in, thinking I could make a quick pit stop. Smart, right? There was quite the gathering of women waiting inside, and I took a place in line. A woman who looked very much like a potato wrapped in a scarf came over with a box of kleenex and offered me one. Well, OK, I took it and thanked her. As I waited it became apparent that the line thing was just for show. Survival of the fittest, the fastest, the most devious, and the loudest reigned. Thwarted again and again, I stood with a European woman, both of us getting more and more frustrated. I gave up...the family was waiting on me and I had little patience with the values being demonstrated. I wished the other lady good luck and headed towards the door.

Ah, but not so fast. Here came potato kleenex lady. I had taken the tissue, now I must pay. Oh, for heaven's sake. I didn't use it, I said, and I have no money (having given all my coins to the gum kid, do you want it back? She tried again to get me to pay and again I refused, so she cursed me out in some language. I tried not to be the Ugly American and rolled my eyes at her after I had gone past and she couldn't see me. Given that I still would have liked to go to the bathroom, this did not put me in the best of moods.


However, tickets secured, once we walked into the Oval Plaza, also known as the Forum, any and all residual irritation washed away, replaced by awe at the sheer scope and beauty of the ancient ruins.

castles stand on pillars of salt and pillars of sand...

After the race I would have preferred not to move for the rest of the day, but we didn't want to "waste" any of our vacation, so it was off in the car again. Not far from Amman is Qasr Iraq El-Amir, an unfinished palace, also known as Qasr al-Amir, palace of the slave, built around 175 BC.



The drive out though the countryside west of Amman was what I imagine Greece to be like; olive groves, hillsides of pale rocks and blooming flowers, a blue sky. All along the winding road were people riding donkeys, children getting into mischief, families out for a picnic, goats picking their way along, and brightly colored laundry hanging in the sun and breeze to dry. The hills were full of caves, some of which are apparently quite famous. Some contain tombs, others, legends.

Can you see the family sitting on the outcropping on the right-hand side, looking out over the valley?

Cheerful Jordanian boys, looks like they're up to no good.

The castle itself was set in an idyllic spot surrounded by a sea of yellow flowers, its white marble blocks and columns rising up and colorful wildflowers growing from every crevace in the floor. It was enchanting. I expressed such to another tourist who merely shrugged and said, "It's no Jerash."

I took silent umbrage at this comment. The place was beautiful, with carved marble lionesses, one nursing her cubs, and eagles at the corners and a panther fountain on the outer wall. Qasr Iraq al-Amir was created from the largest blocks of any ancient structure in the Middle East, and has a mysterious past, having been built by a man named Hyrcanus Tobiad who died an unnatural death, after which the palace was never completed. Then it was flattened by an earthquake in AD 362, but luckily for us had been largely reconstructed.

Beneath the entrance archway there were children "giving" necklaces of flowers, ("Gift, gift") for which they expected to be paid, but never directly asked for even when I asked "How much?" both in English and Arabic. Bethy accepted one of the flower chains and then the givers followed us around until we finally got the idea and turned over some coins. Apparently the amount was suitable.

A flower seller and the castle's gatekeeper

My photographs do no justice to the peacefulness and the beauty of the idyllic site, but it was lovely. Archeologists think that at one point the castle was surrounded by a reflecting pool, and the thought was positively romantic. Within moments the kids had found playmates and our family had been invited to a local's home for dinner. Sadly we had to pass on the invitation, since we were already meeting Jessica, my new friend from the half marathon in the evening.



It was fortunate that I had mentioned to Mike as we were getting out of the car that I'd finally found out how to say "no" nicely to an invitation: by placing your hand over your heart, bowing slightly, and saying, "Perhaps some other time, Inshallah." With the dinner invitation he got to try it out right away!





Driving back we were amused to see a woman completely coverted in the traditional black garb walking with a man, probably her husband, who was carrying a small child and wearing a Hooters shirt. Talk of your contrasts!



Jessica suggested Applebees for dinner (yes, that Applebees) which made Bethy deliriously happy---it's one of her favorite restaurants. We spent the evening listening to Jessica's compelling tales of being a single woman in the Middle East and impromptu Arabic lessons. The kids were too tired and goofy to get to stay as long as we might have liked, but Jessica was sweet about it and I think we all had a good time. Time for bed after a long, long day.

It keeps you running...

Neither Mike nor I got much sleep the night before the Dead Sea half marathon; too worried about missing the wake up call and still reeling from the day's stress. It was a relief to get up and head quietly downstairs in the morning. However, arriving down in the lobby spot on time at 5:15 am, was there a driver to take me to the race bus pick-up? No, there was not.



The staff were torn between staring at my spandex clad white legs (though they tried not to---I was feeling a little naked there for a while) and making sure I wasn't upset there wasn't a driver. Neither of the two men spoke much English, but even so the security guard tried to distract and amuse me by proudly pointing out who each of the royals were in photographs displayed on the lobby. The reception guy made phone calls, gesturing and speaking loudly while watching me out of the corner of his eye to make sure his performance was observed.



I tried to be as enthusiastic as I could about the royal family, but the minutes were ticking by. The buses, according to the information packet, left at "6:15 sharp" and I wasn't entirely assured that the driver would find it as easy to find as I had been told. 30 minutes passed. I was trying to somehow communicate how important is was to be on time without being unplesant.


Eventually they couldn't help themselves and asked about my legs. Was I going to a swimming competition? You must run too much, the one said, your legs, they are...he drifted off into silence, staring, then embarassed, jerked his eyes away, fumbled with paperwork, then as a man grasping a lifeline, seized the phone and renewed his loud yelling into it, though whether he actually dialed first is questionable.



The phrase too much tends to mean "a lot" rather than "too much" as we would use it, by the way, so his comment was open to interpretation. Do with it as you will.



Half an hour became 45 minutes. It was nearly six and I was jumping out of my skin. Finally the driver arrived: a taxi. Apparently they don't have their own driver after all. I nearly left my gear and change of clothes behind in my haste to get into the car; the security guard dashed after me and pushed it into my arms. Zoom, we were off.



There wasn't actually a meter in the taxi, so I hoped the driver wouldn't ask for more money than I had. He'd fallen asleep, he unapologetically explained. I think I was supposed to yell at him at this point, but I didn't and he grinned widely at me. He drove in the classic Amman style, straddling two lanes, the divider line square down the center of the car. But he drove the correct direction, and we found the place, following the blinking blue lights of police cars doing crowd control. I overpaid him and dashed out of the car. Undoubtedly the sucker of the year, but if it made his day, fine with me. I was happy to finally, finally reach the elusive bus pick-up point.



Crowd control was indeed necessary, but not all that effective...it looked as though the entire youth population of Amman, perhaps Jordan, had turned out for the race. There were rows and rows of buses, and no one, not the officials, nor the runners, seemed to know what to do or where to go.



I wasn't wearing a watch and didn't even want to know if 6:15 had come and gone. I pushed and cajolled my way through the crowd, taking care not to get burned by the cigarettes waved about carelessly to punctuate a point.



I felt buried in Arabic. Despite the babble of raised voices, no English words were spoken within my sphere of hearing, and I was getting desperate, feeling stupid and inept. What in heck was I thinking, running a half marathon in a strange country? I hate crowds anyway, being jostled and stomped on, claustrophobic. My some miracle I pushed my way to a man in a safety vest standing in front of a sign that said, oh, thank you, thank you, there is a God, "21K".

He wouldn't let me past with my bag, and pointed me back to the baggage trucks. I scurried around the perimeter, handed the bag to someone who gave it a casual fling onto the top of the pile and shoved my way back to the man with the sign. He allowed me past to where, oh glory, there was a 21K bus.



Another handler at the door. "Half marathon, 21K!" I gasped at him, showing my yellow race number on my chest.



"There is only room for one more." he said, glowering at me.



"I'm your woman!" I assured him brazenly, giving him my very best crazy American grin. Just one, yes just one, well OK then. He moved aside and I got on. In the very back was one spot if some shifting was encouraged and I plopped down. Next to me was another runner, she wearing an Arizona Wildcats shirt. I nearly cried with happiness. An American!

Our goal: the Dead Sea shore, lowest point on earth.

Fortunately for her, she turned out to be not only outgoing but cheerful and chatty and the perfect new running buddy. Jessica is indeed from Arizona, living abroad in Jordan for a year to study Arabic. I was suitably impressed. A single woman, living in Amman. Wow.



I interviewed her thoroughly, both before and during the race as the miles went by. What was it like to be alone in Amman? How was she treated? Did she usually wear a ring? (Yes.) Did she train outside? (No. She was pretty sure one could get arrested for that as a woman.) And so forth. Here is her blog, with her take on the half marathon and some commentary on the VanCleave clan as well: http://jessicarosemorris.blogspot.com/2009/04/whole-new-jordan.html



The port-a-potties, the major attraction for us as we waited to run, had no toilet paper, nor did they flush, nor were there sprayers. This made hygene...difficult. However, I read another person's report that the ones at the marathon start were locked shut, so apparently I should have been grateful for what we had. About an hour after the race was scheduled to start they set us off to run. Our side of the road was closed down so we wouldn't get smashed into roadkill, and there was lots of machine gun carrying (of course) police presence along the course.

Herding camp along the road.

The first part of the race was a steady downhill towards the Dead Sea, then turning at the Baptism Site and along the coast to the finishline. I was looking forward to the distance: half marathon has been my favorite race since I started doing them a year ago. This was to be my fourth. Jessica and I were well matched in pace. She'd done all her training on a treadmill, an idea that gave me the shivers. That's devotion, and not for me. Though, I suppose if I had to choose between that, not running, and jail, well...



We chatted and sweated and pounded the pavement. I completely enjoyed her company. Our race times were being called out as we passed critical points, but unfortuately for me, in Arabic. However, Jessica who did understand the Arabic said the times made absolutely no sense to her; apparently I didn't miss anything. The herding camps along the road, the gawkers, the mosques and tents and low buildings made for good scenery.

Views and a fine companion to run with to the lowest point on earth, but something was very wrong; my hips hurt all the way down to my feet with every stride, and I was getting tired out much faster than I expected. Perhaps it was sitting in a car driving around the country for seven days, or the stress of the night before, or the sinus infection I'd been fighting for 10 days, no matter what it was, this was turning out to be awful.



At 16 kilometers I stumbled to a walk and waved Jessica on..."I'll catch up," I gasped. Fat chance of that. I had taken advantage of the water stations, and even eaten a banana proffered by a race volunteer but nothing wanted to work. I gave myself 30 seconds and started running again, and this time, after only a little ways, my legs simply stopped.

I didn't stop them, they gave up and refused to go more than a slow, jelly-legged quivering walk. I simply didn't have anything to make them go. I was gritting my teeth and trying to speed up and suddenly running was the most difficult thing in the world. It was worse than awful, it was betrayal. My legs were traitors.
I threatened with a firing squad, but they knew I was bluffing.

We were starting to get into the throngs of 10K walkers, teenagers who were out for a good time with their friends away from their parents. Now, while I completely understand their desire to have the silly crazy fun of youth, support it even, I do wish they hadn't walking shoulder to shoulder in gangs, throwing empty water bottles all around the course which made footing hazardous, and spitting water at one another. It only took a couple of times of getting caught in the crossfire to make even a forgiving soul like myself think bad, bad thoughts.
Though the last kilometers had been described as flat, they lied. Lots of lumpy hills. I did get to run through a checkpoint and not even have to give the Humvee with its machine gun turret a second glance. I'd turned up my walkman all the way to 11 and the best songs, head down, get this damned race done already.

Finally, finally, I ran across the finish line in 2:00:04, which was, surprisingly, an OK time overall (6th in my age group of 30-39 year old women and the 24th of 162 women) but my God, did I hurt.


I figure it was the downhill that contributed to the OK time and at least some of the pain. I clenched my jaws and wandered around, trying to find Mike and the kids. I did manage to smile for a friend's camera. Note that my jacket is tied backwards around my waist and I'm too shell shocked to notice.



My muscles were stiffening and congealing, and I was wet with mostly sweat, probably some ptooey water mixed in there somewhere. There was one heck of a party going on...singing, dancing...the Jordanians know how to get down, but all I wanted to do was go home.

I found Jessica among the multitudes and arranged to get together for dinner in the evening, congratulating her on kicking my butt. Always important to be a good sport, and she earned it.
After sifting through many piles, I found and dug my bag out at baggage claim, met up with Bethy and Thomas and Mike, and after putting my medal over Bethy's neck, grabbed an ice-cold shower in the overcrowded little bathroom. I also got to have an interesting conversation with a Swedish runner in her 60s as we waited (and waited and waited) in line for the potties about the impressive gashing of her thickly bandaged chin and badly skinned-up hands.

I traded sympathy and tourist information about Dubai for the story. Apparently she'd caught a toe on one of the metal strips embedded in the concrete that the Jordanian authorities use to signal "slow down" to drivers. For her it had meant face first slowing down, smack into the street.
I'd done some hopping over those things myself, and could easily see how she'd gotten caught. She was a tough gal for one so soft spoken and thin, and had wanted to run the rest of the race before allowing them stitch her up. She was bleeding too badly, though, so had to content herself with finishing post-doctoring.

On the way back to the car, I saw my friend Sara and her husband Tom, both of whom you may remember as being on my Wadi Bih relay team. He'd wisely run the 10K and she'd just finished running her first ultramarathon. No matter how tired I was, I had to at least check in with her. She looked pretty good for a woman who'd just run 50 kilometers. "How was it?" I asked. "Oh, it was good," she replied, almost nonchalantly. I made several we are not worthy comments and bows in her direction and followed after the kids and Mike.

What I didn't know was...she'd WON. Her first Ultra, and she took it by storm. I wish I'd known, but apparently she didn't really believe it until hours later.

Later that afternoon, tired, vaguely disappointed, thinking about the race, I went down to the front desk of the hotel for something.

"You are happy today!" exclaimed the concierge. "You are smiling!"


"Really?" I asked.

"Oh, yes." He beamed.

I ran this morning, I told him.

Looking at the world through a windshield

Back in Amman, we checked into another room in the Hisham Hotel, larger and more comfortable than the first...no mini shower. A real, honest-sized shower. We could turn around in it and everything. Happiness abounded, but only until we tried to go out and find where I was supposed to pick up my race numbers and the bus pick-up point for the Dead Sea Half Marathon. Actually, it was the pick up point for the Ultra (50 km) the Marathon (42 km) the Half Marathon (21 km) and the 10K (self explanatory).



We drove and drove and U-turned and swore as kid-friendly as we could for literally hours. I think it was on this portion of the trip that Bethy learned (and thank goodness forgot) at least one extremely non-kid-appropriate word. Perhaps if I hadn't hit Mike after he said it she wouldn't have zeroed in, but I couldn't help it. She chanted it in the backseat a few times while we burned with shame in the front.




The strawberry sellers rushing up to the car at stoplights, risking their lives in the traffic, the houses built into the hills, the banana selling stands and even the occasional donkey lost their luster for the occupants of our car as time ticked by and all of us decided we dislike Amman. Intensely. Or at least driving in it.







Now, I know you must be thinking at this point in getting to know us that we are truly navigationally challenged. It cannot be denied that we were missing the GPS sorely, but the directions to the race number pick up were: " located in Shmeisani, (a neighborhood,) second right after Burger King, third building to the left. Hussein Al Jisr Str, second floor."



We had actually found the Burger King in a previous getting-lost episode (then we were looking for a gas station). We did find it again, which was quite good, after several tries, but then it was on a street that went both ways, and had another street running alongside. After Burger King which way? North, south, towards a hotel, give me something to work with here, people!



I asked a woman sitting, eating her supersized whatever and she immediately hoisted herself up, ignoring my protests that she should sit and eat, and in rapid fire Arabic queried the workers at the counter for me. The burger flipping guys inside had no idea where the society was, and apparently had been asked by other lost looking "British" during the day. I thanked her profusely and tried to look more confident than I felt so this good-hearted lady could sit down and finish her lunch.



Mike and the kids ordered something to eat while I headed out on foot. Would you believe I actually did manage to find the place, and there I asked the nice volunteer stuffing race shirts into bags how to find the start. "Oh, it's easy!" he exclaimed, "no problem at all. You've been driving around Amman, of course you know the city?"



"We've been driving around, yes, but have been lost for almost all of that time," I told him, "I need really, really good directions. Idiot proof."



He sketched me out a map, off the 7th Circle, here is the store everybody knows (I didn't and said so), don't take this turn, drive up this hill, if you go this way you will be wrong....it will be no problem.









No problem, easy. Why did those words send a chill up my spine? But, I had the city map, and now this hand drawn map, How bad could it be?




Apparently quite bad, as, again, hours later Mike was gripping the wheel with white knuckles, closer to crying out of sheer frustration than I'd ever seen him. I was apologising over and over again for even liking running, the kids were in the back keeping their heads wisely down most of the time, whining when they couldn't help it.



Some time, during the driving around and trying not to scream because the street signs didn't match the map at all, I realised the problem. Whereas the map might say Al-Ameer Ali Bin Al-Hussein the street signs said "Prince Hussein St." Oh, hell. So, Al-Ameerah Bint Talal was "Princess Talal St," and Al-Shareef Abdul Hameed Sharaf Street was what, again? I'd figured it out on Al-Malekah Noor St: Queen Noor St. I was reading her autobiography, after all.

At least we learned the words for prince and princess and queen and king (king is malek). However, while decoding the map helped, it didn't get us there, not by a long shot, and the hand-written map simply didn't have enough information for us, even if someone else would have found it patently obvious.



As daylight was beginning to fade, I got a great idea. We'd go to the pre-race pasta feed and ask the folks there. I had friends from Dubai also running the race, they'd know. We abandoned Traffic Circle 7 and headed towards the dinner, which, according to the directions was at Zara Centre off the 3rd traffic circle.




Need I tell you how that went? After asking and driving and asking and more driving, now in the dark, we finally found the place, where they were packing up the food. I suppose it was not their fault we took an hour and a half to find it, though it was 7 and the dinner was supposed to go until 8. Dashed in, got some noodles for the kids. I asked a fellow runner who looked like he spoke English how to get to the start gathering point. He looked surprised. "You take the bus from the hotel, of course."



Ah. The bus from the hotel if you had booked your hotel through the race's tour company. The same ones who would have brought the race numbers to our room, had we booked through them. A light was beginning to shine, got it: use the tour company or you are on your own, bucko.



Accursed map in hand, I cornered the race director, interrupting the gushing from her admirers as soon as I deemed it reasonable. "Show me where the buses pick you up to take you to the start." She looked surprised. "But it is so easy!" She said. "Just off the 7th Circle."



"Show. Me." I said again. She never even looked at the map. "Take a taxi," she said, dismissing me. "They will all know where it is. No problem."



Trying not to cry into the map, completely worn down, looking for something substantial to bang my head against, I had another idea. The front desk at our hotel had mentioned several times that they had a driving service for folks to and from the airport. I could use them!



I had heard that the taxi drivers in Amman were notorious cheats and while I didn't care overmuch about the price, I didn't need to be taken on a wild tour of the city to run up the meter while missing the bus to the race start. Nor did I want to pack Mike and the kids into the car and repeat our no-finding adventure: it simply wasn't worth it. I queried at the front desk, they set it up for 5:15 AM, plus a wake-up call, and we went to our room and collapsed.



No problem, right?