Sunday, May 12, Jerusalem
I was standing outside the Damascus gate on a hot, sunny afternoon. Through the gate, in the old city, were the sites I had come to see: the Dome of the Rock, the Western Wall and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I had just arrived from Syria where I had spent a week wandering the souqs, visiting mosques and touring archeological sites. I was planning to hang around Jerusalem for a few days, maybe see Akko in the north and then head to Petra in southern Jordan. That was the plan, anyway.
My first task was to find a hotel. I had decided to stay in East Jerusalem, so I headed down Salah al-Din street into the heart of the Arab district. After checking out a few places, I settled in at the National Palace (250 NIS). My room was large and quiet, but the hotel was a little farther away from the old city than I liked - oh well, my feet would pay the price for that decision.
It was getting late and I was hungry, but I just couldn't resist a quick look around the old city. I entered through the Damascus gate, directly into a teeming market area. I'm afraid my first impressions were not all positive. The lanes were full of activity: there were Israeli and Arab shoppers, porters with their loads, and masses of tourist - more than I had seen this trip. Every third merchant seemed to be selling some kind of religious kitsch and they were right in your face, wanting you to visit their shop. At strategic corners there were Israeli military check points - a reminder, if one was needed, of the tension here.
Despite my initial shock, it didn't take long for the old city to win me over - it is simply marvelous, almost beyond description. The first thing I noticed was the people. I have never seem so many different kinds of dress in one place: Orthodox Jews with black suits and hats, Christian priests and nuns in earth-tone robes, Muslims in white gowns and head-covers and, of course, the tourists in their ubiquitous tee-shirts and shorts.
Then there was the city itself: it just oozes history. So many famous feet have walked these cobble lanes and alleys I felt honored simply to be there. And it's jam-pack with historic churches, mosques and synagogues built of a delightful cream-colored stone - the same material that's used to build the towering walls and imposing gates.
Around each corner I found new delights. As I walked through the Arab quarter I saw freshly painted signs on walls and doorways. They pictured Mecca, the Muslim Holy city, and signify that the occupant had recently returned from a pilgrimage there.
I headed over to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, site of Christ's crucifixion. It's a huge, dark building, really a collection of many separate chapels, where the different Christian denominations perform their rites. I found it interesting to see Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox clergy officiating in the same building, given their history of excommunicating each other. The structure itself is old and sadly showing it's age. Squabbles among the controlling religions have kept needed repairs from being made and many areas are now reinforced with scaffolding.
The church was full of crying pilgrims and photo-clicking tourists - a startling contrast of the holy and profane. I found it endlessly fascinating and visited often. I would sit in the square in front and watch the waves of visitors wash in and out, trying to figure where they were from. Or I would seek out a dark quiet chapel and listen to the drone of voices. I explored it slowly, enjoying it's contrasts and contradictions.
I also stopped by the Western Wall - the remains of the 2nd Century Jewish temple area - where the devout come to quietly pray and leave their written requests in the cracks. In front is a huge open square, guarded by Israeli military, that was always full of activity.
My favorite spot in the old city was the Temple Mount. It's home to many interesting Islamic buildings, a refreshing garden and the Al Aqsa mosque. It also holds one of the most impressive building I have ever seen: the Dome of the Rock. It's blue tiled walls and golden dome cover the spot where Abraham almost sacrificed his son and where Mohammed made his midnight journey to heaven. The spot is sacred to Jews, Christians and Muslims alike.
I visited the Dome of the Rock early the next day. After I took my shoes off and entered, I was delighted to find I had the place to myself. It was so quiet I could hear the rustle of the caretakers broom as he swept on the opposite side. For the next half an hour I walked around marveling at the ornate dome and the beautiful marble-paneled walls. After a while, a buzzing group of Arab school kids entered and I moved on.
Later at the Temple Mount I made an inconsiderate blunder. Tired of the high price of beer at my hotel and the general unavailability of alcohol in West Jerusalem, I bought a small bottle of vodka in the Armenia quarter. Later I decided to revisit the Temple Mount. There are Israeli soldiers at the entrance gate and they checked my pack. When they discovered my bottle of vodka they were very upset. I was reminded that I was entering a holy place where alcohol was forbidden. I, of course, knew this but stupidly hadn't made the connection. They held my pack, and it's offensive contents, while I continued my visit. When I returned to pick it up, I was again reminded of the problem, this time by a very polite Arab. I apologized profusely and with great embarrassment. That's one error I won't make again.
Although my main interest was the old city, I also wandered into West Jerusalem with it's newer Israeli development. To get there I took the bus from Jaffa gate. After the wave of bus bombings just before my arrival, I was somewhat wary but I reminded myself that the most dangerous thing I do - whether at home or traveling - is to be on the road. Injuries in cars and buses are way more common than bombings, a thought that was to prove sadly prophetic.
As I rode in I noticed that most bus stops had Israeli military guards. In addition there were inspectors on the buses looking in passenger's bags. At shopping malls and places where people collect, there were also armed guards. Security was tight, partly because of the up-coming elections.
My first stop in East Jerusalem was at Zion Square which is full of interesting shops and cafes. The feel here is more European than Middle Eastern. I enjoyed sitting and listening to the street musicians. Farther down the road toward the main bus station was a delightful morning market selling various food. It was a wonderful place to wander while looking at the wares, watching the shoppers and taking pictures.
Tuesday, May 14, Jerusalem
I had a leisurely breakfast at the hotel and then headed to the central bus station. I wasn't exactly sure where I was going, but I knew it was time to move on. I thought I might check out Akko, a historic city in the north on the Mediterranean. Previously known as Acre, it had played an important role in the Crusades.
At the station I bought a ticket to Haifa (28.50 NIS), the nearest large city. While waiting for the bus I talked with an Israeli woman who had lived in Michigan for five years. She was surprised, and I suspect a bit disappointed, that I had come all this way and was seeing so little of her country. In fact, she was right. Israel, for me, was a transit and resting point. I had come to see the old city of Jerusalem and now I just wanted to take it easy for a few days before heading back to southern Jordan.
We left Jerusalem heading east and entered the busy outskirts of Tel Aviv before turning north. This bus, like all I rode in Israel, was full of off-duty soldiers - both men and women - and they were carrying their rifles. Armed solders, military check points and guards at shopping malls: I had never seen so many guns in my life. While waiting for a bus in downtown Jerusalem I had stepped backward and bumped into something hard. I turned around and was surprised to see it was a pistol the guy next to me had strapped to his belt. All these guns made me nervous.
The ride to Haifa took about two-hours. The last part is along the Mediterranean with rolling waves on one side and hill-top apartments on the other. In Haifa I caught a local bus (8 NIS) around the bay to Akko. We passed through the busy port area, then through ugly industrial suburbs before finally arriving at the Akko about 30 minutes later.
I wanted a beach hotel and had gotten the name of one from the information desk in Haifa. When I called from the Akko station, I learned that it was located back at the entrance to Akko - an area I had just passed though. So I took another bus back, checked into the very pleasant Palm Beach hotel (260 NIS). I had a wonderful room - it faced the sea and the old city, and each morning I woke to the sound of the surf. After a short walk on the beach, I headed back into Akko again.
This picturesque old city is an Arab enclave completely surrounded by newer Israeli development. As I walked from the bus station in the new part to the old city, I thought about the cultural gulf I was passing through. It was most typified for me by the young women: in Israeli areas they dress in shorts and blouses, often with a stylish amount of midriff showing. In the Arab areas they dress more conservatively with long skirts and blouses and often they covered their heads.
In Akko there were castle walls to walk, mosques to visit and an underground Crusader fort to explore. Around the central square were shady cafés to sit in while watching the residents go about their business. In the middle of the old city was a small, but lively, souq selling vegetables and fish. The old city was quiet and peaceful - horse carts and bike were more common than cars in the narrow lanes.
On the other side of the city, on the sea wall, was a café I particularly liked. It sat high above the water and had a 180 degree panorama. In the afternoon, after school let out, the local daredevils would collect near by and jump from the heights into the sea. For the next two days I split my time between the hotel beach and old city cafés.
Wednesday, May 15, Akko
Mentally and physically recharged, I caught an afternoon bus back to Haifa and then another to Jerusalem. I had a reservation at the Jerusalem Inn ($62) in the west part of the city near Zion Square. The hotel was off the street and quiet but still close to all the activity. I spent the evening walking around, sitting, drinking, and taking to whoever I could find.
Next morning I caught the 7:00 bus to the Red Sea port of Eilat. I had bought my ticket before I left for Akko to make sure I would have a seat. When I asked for a one way ticket the clerk was amazed. "Aren't you coming back?" he asked.
"No," I replied, "I'm going to cross into Jordan."
"Good luck," he replied, showing what he thought of Jordan.
"I have already been there and it's quite safe," I protested, always trying to play the ambassador. He just rolled his eyes. It was clear he wasn't prepared to believe that.
That transaction said a lot to me about the Israeli attitude toward Jordan and it's other Arab neighbors. I realized many atrocities have been committed on both sides but they live so close and know so little about each other. Maybe that's part of the problem. After a few attempts to explain my gracious reception in Jordan and Syria, I realized I was talking to the wrong audience and kept my Middle East travel stories to myself.
After leaving Jerusalem the bus headed due east and turned south within sight of the Dead Sea. The land was hilly and bone dry with no vegetation in sight. Near the end of the trip the road was so close to Jordan I could see traffic on the other side. A little before noon we arrived at Eilat where I immediately caught a local bus, number 16, to the Jordanian border. It wasn't far, only about ten minutes away.
At the Israeli post I paid the 48.70 NIS exit tax and passed through the Israeli check points. Next, I walked across the razor-wire lined no-mans-land to the Jordanian side. Signs proclaimed, "Danger, Mine Field," so I didn't wander from the road. The day had turned cool and cloudy and it started to rain lightly as I walked. The only other travelers I saw were a few heading the other way.
On the Jordanian side there was very little activity. I had to wait to purchase a visa, everyone seemed to be off somewhere. At this point a "friendly" custom official started helping me along, locating the absent officials. Being a seasoned traveler my antenna went up: what did he want? Once I was through the last check points and started looking for transportation into Aqaba, it became clear. He wanted to ride in with me - for free. He was disarmingly honest about it: "I ride home everyday this way." Then he smiled and said, "You sit in front, you're the boss."
"Yeah, I guess so," I grumbled, "I'm paying." But the fare was only 4 JD so I figured I could afford to be generous. But I didn't yet know the extent of my generosity. When we passed two policemen walking along the road, the customs official insisted that we stop and give them a ride too.
In a few minutes we all arrived at the bus station and I headed down to the beach looking for a hotel. Much to my disappointment they were all full, so I walked back into town where I took a room at the Aquamarina II ($70). After washing up, I went over to the business area and found a little restaurant where I had a late lunch. Afterwards, I took a walk around the small, dusty market area. It was Friday, the Muslin day of rest, and not much was happening - it made this quiet town seem even more so. I walked, sat, wrote and drank a few beers. I then exchanged some dollars and called it a day. I wanted to make an early start for Petra. It's a ancient city that was carved out of the canyon walls - you may have seen it in the final part of the movie, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
Saturday, May 18, Aqaba
In the morning I walked back to the bus station just north of the business area. There I ran into a British couple, Jeff and Ferona, who were also heading to Petra. We jumped in the minibus and sat together in the front. It filled up fast and we were soon on our way. There were about 20 passengers, all Jordanian except Jeff, Ferona and me. As we passed thought spectacular rose-colored hills, Jeff and I talked of our travels. Then about an hour into the trip the unthinkable happened. As we watched spellbound and terrified, an on-coming car crossed the white-line and hit the minibus head-on.
When I finally disentangled myself from the bus - which was now laying on it's side - I discovered that my elbow was dislocated. Passengers were crawling out, some sitting and others laying beside the road. Cars were stopping to see if they could help. After walking around dazed for a few minutes, I finally located Jeff and Ferona and we checked each other out. They were cut, scrapped and bruised, but otherwise sound. I was cradling my left arm.
"Jeff," I asked somewhat disoriented, "do you know which way is back to Aqaba?" Without hesitation he pointed to the south. "Good," I said, "the first car heading that way is for us."
As I turned back toward the road, a car with three Jordanian men stopped and asked if they could help. "Yes, can you take us to the hospital?" I asked. "Of course," they replied and opened the door. We jumped in and were rushed (sometimes a little too fast) back to Aqaba.
In the emergency room, Jeff, Ferona and I were split up but not before I told them where I was staying. First my arm was x-rayed and then I was told I would have to be admitted so they could "reduce" my elbow, i.e. put it back where it belonged. I was led upstairs and put on a gurney. As I was being anesthetized, the doctor asked me where I was from and when I said Detroit, he smiled. "I did my internship at Henry Ford Hospital (in Detroit)," he said. It was the last thing I heard before drifting off . I wanted to tell him that I was born in Henry Ford Hospital - it's a small world, eh?
When I woke, I was in an austere private room with my arm in a sling. As I was lying there waking up, two police arrived wanting to take a statement about the accident. One spoke English and asked the questions. "Did I see the car that hit the bus?" "Was the bus driver speeding?" "Where was I hurt?" "Did I plan to take court action against the driver?"
After each question he repeated my answer in Arabic to the other policeman who wrote it all down. When they were done they ask me to sign it. "Sign it," I said, "I don't even know what it says. I can't read Arabic." So he read it back and carefully noted that I did not plan any court action. That seemed to be the salient point - I was not going to sue. So, what the heck, I signed it.
Within an hour I was fully awake and getting restless. I'm sure I was given a private room out of respect for my being a westerner, but after what I had just been through I really didn't want to be alone. I started wandering the halls looking for someone to talk to. There were no shortage of English speakers - the nursing staff all did, as well as many visitors. I was actually something of celebrity: an injured westerner in a Jordanian hospital. Everyone smiled reassuringly and wished me the best. For the next four hours I walked the halls talking to anyone I could find.
At 4:00 my elbow was x-rayed again. The verdict was that everything was fine, but they still wanted me to spend the night and have another doctor look at it in the morning. At this point I balked. Earlier while resting, I had asked myself what I wanted to do now. "Head home", was the answer.
"You want to go home?" the doctor asked. "Yes," I explained, "travel is for when I feel good and home is where I want to be when I hurt."
"OK," he agreed, "but you must sign a release. You're leaving against medical advice."
"Fine," I replied, "Where's the form?"
The last stop was the accounting office where the bill was totaled while I waited. It came to 61.27 JD, a real bargain for a day's stay. Luckily I had enough dinars to cover it - they don't take dollars or plastic. I was then given a receipt written completely in Arabic, of course. (I'm still trying to get my insurance to pay it.)
My arm now in a sling, I decided to take a taxi back to my hotel, though it wasn't far. As soon as I got to my room, I threw off my filthy clothes and took a bath. As I was getting dressed the full impact of what had just happened hit me. I often travel solo and don't mind being alone, but this was one of the loneliest moments in my life. I sat on the bed and looked at the gathering twilight. While I was trying to focus on what I needed to do next, the phone rang. It was Jeff. "You OK?" he wanted to know. "Did you want some company? Is now a good time?"
"You bet," I said, my spirits rising.
He, Ferona and I went up to a café on the roof of the hotel. As the evening darkened we could see the twinkling lights of the Israeli and Egyptian coast. We sat there for the next few hours drinking beer and enjoying the cool breeze. We compared injuries and reminded each other how much worse it could have been. It was a pretty good ending to a damn poor day.
They had decided to try for Petra again the next day - by taxi this time - and wanted to know if I was game. I told them that what I wanted most was to hear from my doctor that my elbow would be OK. Going now was no big deal - I would be leaving only three days early. Later we said good bye and promised to keep in touch.
Next morning I took a flight back to Amman (20 JD) - no more buses for me. In Amman I found that there were no Royal Jordanian flights to London until the next day, so I priced a new ticket. One-way through Amsterdam to Detroit would cost $1200, so I elected to stay the night. I was still feeling a little insecure and wanted creature comfort, so I got a taxi to Amman (10 JD) and got a room at the Marriott (92 JD). I figured I would spent the rest of the day hanging around the pool and reading.
At this point let me digress a little to when I first arrived in Amman, two and a half weeks earlier. After I cleared customs, I took a taxi in to the Manar hotel ($45) in the western suburb of Shmeisani. (It turned out to be the nicest hotel I stayed in my whole trip. It had an incredibly friendly staff.) As it was late when I arrived, I dropped my bags in my room and retired to the bar for a beer and some company.
Next morning I took a taxi (0.6 JD) to the Abdali bus station to make arrangements for my trip to Damascus the next day. The station is actually a large paved area where buses and taxis stop. The drivers then stand by their vehicles and shout their destinations. As I was walking around, I passed a driver shouting, "Jerash, Jerash."
Now I knew two things about Jerash: first, it is about an hour west of Amman and second, it was an ancient Roman city - but I was intent on making my arrangements so I continued on. As I walked, I started to think, "It's not that far and the bus is ready to go." I slowed down and looked back. "Go now," I thought, "and you won't have to look for that bus later." So I turned around and got on.
I met a young man from Britain on the bus (0.5 JD) and, when we arrived at Jerash, we toured the immense ruins together. He had been in Jordan a few days and was heading on to Cairo. I asked his advice about what to see in Amman and then offered a few tips about Cairo, a place I have visited twice. Afterwards we split up. He headed north to visit more ruins and I took a bus back to Amman. The side trip hadn't taken more than three hours.
Back in Amman, I continued my search for transportation to Syria. Shortly I located a company that ran a shared taxi (called a service) to Damascus and bought a ticket for the next morning. I then took a taxi downtown where I visited the Roman theater, did some window shopping and exchanged some dollars for Syrian pounds. I had heard the exchange rate was better here but, as I had never seen Syrian money, I was reluctant to exchange more that $100 - they could have sold me almost anything.
For a large city Amman is surprisingly pleasant. While it lacks great historic interest, it is pretty clean and the residents are very friendly. After a light dinner, I returned to the hotel where I spent the evening visiting with fellow travelers in the hotel bar. In the morning I got up early, took a taxi to the bus station and caught my service to Damascus (see part one: Syria).
Now back in Amman again, at the end of my trip, I was feeling better so I decided to go for a walk in downtown Amman. Still a celebrity because of my sling, waiters, shopkeepers and even total strangers would ask what had happened and how I was. They invariable told me that I was lucky it wasn't worse, that Allah was looking out for me. I did a little shopping and walked around until I tired and then headed back to the hotel where I sat by the pool and brought my journal up to date.
Monday, May 20, Amman
I took a taxi to the airport (10 JD) and caught the 1:25 p.m. Royal Jordanian flight back to London. I then made a reservation at the airport for a room at the Cheshire Hotel ($135) close to the British Museum and took the tube in. Feeling better, I went out for a pint of Guinness at a nearby pub. I noticed here - as I would also at home - my injury was politely ignored. In the west it's not politically correct to make personal comments.
Next day, back at Heathrow, I caught an American Airlines flight through Chicago to Detroit. At the Detroit airport I decided to splurge and took a taxi to Ann Arbor - I was in a hurry to get home. When I hit the door, I yelled, "Yea, I made it!" I have never been so happy to be home and just couldn't wait to see my friends. Next day I visited an orthopedic surgeon who assured me my elbow would be fine. Now six weeks later, as I write this, I have regained most movement and strength, although I'm told I will probably never be able to straighten it out completely.
Despite the accident, this was one of the most fascinating trips I have ever taken. Syrian and Jordanian hospitality made all the difference - I always felt special there, not just another tourist. I wouldn't hesitate to return.
Ann Arbor, Michigan
July 1996
Part one: Syria
Some of the details
Read more of my travelogues
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