I am too tired to be frightened. And too curious. I began my journey to the gate of hell alone, through foreign lands-- lands which journalists with acid pens and wretched minds and vengeful hearts paint ever darkly for politics miles away.
I spent one day in the city of Amman, Jordan, after the fitful sleep and pained ears of a ten hour flight. Through the customs terminal at Amman I walk into centuries past. The faces are timeless, ancient, hard. They watch foreigners: a group of young, spirited American men with Southern accents, a pair of Asian men in business suits, two white Europeans, me. It is a mild mix of curiosity, of indifference, of derision and suspicion. It goes both ways.
I had flown first class. It is not my usual way. There are two customs lines in the airport: one for VIPs and First Class passengers, and one for the rest. The one for "the rest" is fourty people deep. There are two people in the VIP line. I feel naked -- unprivileged in a country not my own. I stand with the rest.
There are two men in traditional Muslim dress, wearing skullcaps, standing directly in front of me. I cannot help it --I think jihad: God and fury to a willing death. I think of the devotion represented by their long, stringy beards. They are smiling and joking with each other, as young men do.
An older, veiled woman stands next to them, but she is not with them. Exasperation is in the bags that she picks up and puts down and picks up, again and again.
In front of her is a young Western woman reeking of hated money or she is broke or lost or all three. It is all there in the meticulous cut of her tattered clothes, new shoes, slumped back and practiced, tired face.
The spirited Americans are there, too, and they are oblivious to what surrounds them or they are familiar with it. They are going for money -- for adventure and perhaps unexpected things worse.
I arrive at the front of the line. A bored, young man in uniform takes my passport, stamps it, looks casually at me and hands it back. My bags are not searched. I am alone, officially in Jordan.
I sit down in the dead heat of the airport lobby. I wait for a man to appear holding a sign with my name on it. He will take me to the hotel in the city of Amman, thirty-five kilometers away.
Half an hour later, I am still waiting. I pick up my cell phone, hoping it will work in this foreign land. It doesn't. I decide to find my own way to the hotel.
I walk outside of the terminal and am hit with a blast of hot, dry air. After the dead air of the terminal, it is a relief. An Arab man dressed in a red jumpsuit approaches saying, "taxi? taxi?," and before I can say yes or no, he grabs my suitcase and begins walking towards the terminal parking lot. I ask him if he has a taxi cab and he says, "yes." Another man, wearing a suit, accompanies us. I ask him how much the fare will be. He says, "twenty dollars."
He somehow knows that I am American, though I am dressed plainly and have somewhat Arabic features. As we approach the rows of cars, I ask the cabbie where his taxi is. He points to a rusted, dented Toyota sedan and says, "there."
No. I decline. I gently pry my suitcase from his hands, hand him a five dollar bill and thank him for his efforts. He asks why I will not accept his services. I answer him by pointing to his road-beaten auto and saying, "because that is not a taxi."
I walk back to the front of the terminal, pick the middle taxi in line at the cabstand and get in. The driver smiles openly through misshapen, nicotine stained teeth. Half of them are missing. He is still a handsome man.
We begin driving--at top speed--towards the city of Amman. The ride is madness. Sensing that the driver is trying to rattle me, I resist the pull to fasten my seat belt and instead pretend to sprawl comfortably across the back seat. At 160kph, lights flashing and horn blowing, we rocket within inches of cars in front of us. They pull over to the right lane, and we nearly side-swipe them as we pass. I put my trust in God, luck, and my driver's skill, and gaze out the side window at the passing scene.
It is a barren one, interrupted only by the occasional bush, cracked, weathered house and the strange sight of individual peasants, miles apart, tending vegetable carts. I reflect on the stark juxtaposition of the dry, dusty road and the moist fruits and vegetables in the carts. I wonder how long they will remain attractive to buyers in this harsh, arid setting.
We pull up to the Hotel XXXXXX in Amman. We are greeted by two soldiers with machine guns. They look at us casually, then walk back to their posts in front of the hotel. There are artful-looking concrete obstacles in front of the main door, and the driveway that leads to it is flanked by giant concrete blast walls meant to prevent those seeking God's rewards violently, from causing harm to others.
I pay the driver, remove my bags from the trunk and walk towards the entrance. Before I enter the hotel, my bags are searched, as am I. I pass through a metal detector, enter the hotel, pick up my key and go to my room. It is luxurious, but it is not home and I am exhausted.
After a long, hot shower I try to sleep but it is pointless. I know I will need cash in the morning for the next part of my journey, I go down to the lobby in search of an ATM machine. The nearest one is a block away and it is night. I wait until morning.
I remain awake for most of the night, and at 4:30 AM get dressed and walk down to the lobby, past the clerk and then out the door. The streets of this major Middle Eastern city are deserted in a way like I'd never seen in any city back home. The air is warm and still and gray dawn's first touches silhouette the buildings around me. From a hidden perch, the muezzin calls Amman's people to prayer. In the still beauty of this setting, I am brought to tears.
I sit on the steps in front of the bank and am like that around me.
When the sun rises, I will travel to what I have been told is hell.
