Breaking Free

by Jeffrey Vonk

  Better yet an intriguing encounter. People had previously warned me against Arabic nomads in the mountains. Tales of individuals that got murdered, never to be found again, are not uncommon. When I stumble upon several Bedouin tents I’m instantly reminded of this. To announce my approach, I call out: “Merhaba!” which translates to hello. Children spot me first. Crazy enough their natural response is to quickly gather gravel and start throwing it at me, some of the stones being the size of decent eggs. Using my left arm to protect my face I keep approaching until they realize, with certain hesitation, that I can’t be Jewish. Then the adults gather and within moments I’m surrounded by a large portion of the tribe. It is somewhat worrying due to the many violent rumors going about.

  Not having a fridge or any type of electricity around I assume they store their reserves underground, when I unexpectedly get handed a tin pan of cold water. Judging from the look on their faces I am not the only one that didn’t see that coming. Children are poor and their skin dirty with stains covering their clothing. They point at my wrist watch and try to open my backpack that I placed on the ground. Clever knots I previously made in the strings are preventing that. They have me sit down in the light shadow of a stretched-out cloth when one of the young adults starts to clap his hands. Others follow rapidly and bring self-improvised instruments to the show, putting me at ease. Their new guest, most certainly impressed, is treated to a traditional folk dance of singing nomads! I’m in awe of the unprompted entertainment and get to see the human dimension of this gypsy-like community.

  Contrary to daily temperatures the nights are freezing cold. Since a sleeping bag is too much to carry around a small fleece blanket has to do all the heavy work. Once again, I sacrifice comfort for the sake of adventure. In the hours I lie awake at night, by myself in the desert, I survey the stars and try to calculate my location by the different angles of constellations. The silence of long and lonely nights is breached by the distant echoes of bullets whizzing through the pitch black. Often omitted by the media, this war that has already lasted for thousands of years, has never stopped. Daylight invites me to pack my stuff and keep moving. As if the Holy Spirit is guiding my steps I notice a beautiful soft-toned dove constantly following me. But then again it just might be a hungry bird.

  In front of the ruins of four-and-a-half-thousand-year-old Jericho I’m held up by a check post, the last one before entering Judea and Samaria, better known as the West Bank. A group of armed Israeli soldiers inquire what the hell I’m doing here by myself on foot. “Well I’m heading east, preferably as far as I can get” is my reply. And that is exactly what I’m doing. After a while I learn they are on high alert, recently having fought against Hezbollah in the north, just below Lebanon. After earning their trust, I receive provisions in the form of fruits and water. Thank you IDF. At our parting a soldier shouts at me from the watchtower: “I will blow away anyone who comes near you!”, recklessly swinging his massive machine gun about. I can’t help to chuckle. No matter how you feel about the Knesset and the regime in power, it’s astonishing that this country is defended by a bunch of teenagers.

  Deeper into Palestinian occupied territory the remains of bloody, unceasing disputes from former colonies are reminiscent, with rubble from exploded houses and scattered bullet holes in whatever is left standing. Mine fields are separated from the unpaved main road merely by barbed wire, only the occasional sign strung up with scrap wire warns against this. Once in the city center it seems as if suspicious eyes monitor every movement I make, but I guess I’m no different when it comes to that. Overall it doesn’t make a very safe impression.

  Late in the afternoon I arrive at the heavily guarded river, which is the border. One of the three crossings to the Kingdom of Jordan is the Allenby Bridge which was constructed on top of the decrepit remains of the Ottoman Empire. This bridge was named after a British general. The gentlemen at Immigration are dumbfounded to find me all by myself with my walking sticks. That’s something they don’t see every day. And just in case you’re wondering yourself what I’m doing here I agree I owe you a small explanation. I decided to explore the Muslim world of the Middle East by making a journey on foot through countries you usually only see on the six o’clock news. I wanted to find out what’s really happening in these places that we know so little about. After having my passports thoroughly checked they put me on the last bus for the day, that is seconds away from leaving. I feel honored being the last tourist of today. It’s mandatory to take this prearranged bus, as for good reasons it is illegal to cross the border individually.

  Upon arrival in the land of King Abdullah the Second, who is a direct descendant of the Prophet Muhammad himself, according to the genealogy on the website of the Jordanian embassy, intrusive taxi drivers are baiting me with sharp prices, in a manner that only Arabs can. However, their skilled rattling is falling on deaf ears. I put my sunglasses on to enjoy the sight of the low orange sun and begin to walk. Thick trunked palm trees make a formal bow as they welcome me on Edomite soil. One can’t help but notice the aggravating and unnecessary litter ruining the place. Dust makes my mouth dry and even the air is needy of moisture. At this hour the traffic has diminished to nothing. With absence of occasional passers-by, I manage to fix myself a place to sleep for tonight. Climbing over a fence an unclear path leads to a fig nursery, where it’s easy to hide between big, dense leaves. In this private-owned patch of land dogs are frequently snooping around. To prevent their barking from exposing my hiding spot I actually sleep with a knife in my hand. Luckily for both parties the night goes by without any harm done.

  It turns out to be a bit of a challenge to get clean drinking water. Here the streets have no name and the houses have no numbers. And to make things worse, crossing through dead-end villages, no living soul speaks English. Alongside the road are rusting cars without tires. Occasional houses I encounter are poorly maintained, if at all. Did you know the amount of roadkill dogs are about the same as the living ones? Literally every single one of the last-mentioned group has an aggressive attitude. Seeing how animals are treated by the locals it comes as no surprise. They’re kicked, beaten and shouted at, whilst not receiving love from anyone. If only they knew the joy a pet could bring. At the threshold of the first piece of extended desert that I need to cross, a tiny store allows for cans of orange juice and salty sausage, bursting from garlic. Since this is my last chance to collect some serious ration, I should be stacking my backpack, yet I do not. Without having obtained local currency, due to the lack of ATMs, the handful of exchanged money I carried is now gone, preventing to get properly equipped. Meaning I will be crossing this desolate wasteland entirely on faith. Somehow knowing, instead of hoping, I will be taken care of.

  * * *

  Call it stupidity, call it determination, but there I go in the heat of the day towards a never-ending horizon. Plagued by thirst I pant forward despite my pace slowing down until I drop to my knees. To say that I feel refreshed after a period of rest would be an exaggeration, but I receive just enough energy to get back on my feet to continue. Circling vultures in the sky are paying too much attention to me. Hours pass until a dot appears in the distance. Some more hours pass until I finally reach the dot, now grown into an actual structure. And what do you know? In the middle of nowhere there is this army base. Of course, military staff keeping watch have observed me from far away. Wondering why anyone would solo travel to their compound, let alone survive the desert. Jordanian soldiers who, for reasons unknown, all carry a big mustache, are eager to invite me into their camp. With unsurpassed hospitality I’m received. All the men surrounding me are very interested in my story. While letting me fill up my hydration bladder they are quick to serve ice-cold water, showcasing decency and respect, for they understand, like no one else, I must have endured at least half a day of hardships showing up here. Some of them know a little English, albeit poorly. We communicate mostly with hand signs and now and again I throw in some Arabic phrases which light up
everyone’s faces. After thirty minutes the gates suddenly open and the mood changes radically. A small convoy drives in onto the inner court. For a moment you can’t see your hand in front of your face due to the sudden dust. An obviously high-ranked figure, recognizable by the plaque of pin insignias resembling a Mondriaan painting, pinned to his chest, is furious. In a tyrannical way he shouts about, pointing at the gates basically giving instructions to kick me out asap. With hanging heads the men half drag me to where I came in earlier. Before forcibly throwing me back out into the desert they wink and smile as a way of letting me know they don’t agree with this kind of policy. I’m humbled by the soldiers’ gestures but I feel bad for them. All they wanted was a chance to get to know a man from another culture. They finally had the opportunity to chat with a westerner and now this is taken from them. Admittedly, they may have stepped over the line by not obeying protocol, and they may have been disobedient concerning direct orders of the officer but at the end of the day we’re all people.

  * * *

  In an Islamic country like Jordan most hardworking citizens want to live in peace. However, interest in foreign societies, especially in the morally empty western ones, is directly penalized by the ruling organ. The West is most reprehensible to a large number of leading Muslims. They divided the world into two categories according to their holy scriptures, the Dar es salaam and the Dar al harb, meaning the house of peace and the house of war. Well, I’m not implying anything here, but you can figure out yourself which category you belong to, being a non-Muslim. Since they don’t have religion and state separated, everything is ruled by their law. Sharia has the final say.

  As the course advances the fight against exhaustion amplifies. Encompassed by sand there seems to be no relief. Eventually a white van pulls over, the thing nearly falling apart. A man wearing a spotless turban steps out from the vehicle and offers a cluster of grapes. Me nibbling away he asks if I needed a ride. Without hesitation I nod, I am too weak to take one more step anyway. The helpful, black bearded man has a posture too big for the small van. He’s comically crammed in between the seat and steering wheel. Lo and behold, we reach a paved road about fifteen minutes later. He takes me to a red painted kiosk at the edge of a cliff, looking out over a small valley with one foot high shrubs, that are tussling plastic bags whenever a breeze sets up.

  It’s one of those places where truck drivers stop for a cup of coffee. Cheap plastic chairs and some tables in front of the establishment stand on a flattened strip of dirt. Luckily for me it is custom in the Arabic world to treat the stranger well, thus I am granted something to drink and a meal with rice and chicken. I’m so hungry I start stuffing my mouth straight away like an impure swine. I get short of breath because my esophagus is severely dry which is even preventing me from swallowing the road side dish. When I try to flush it down with water it is just not wet enough. Practically suffocating in my own food I realize I’m no good to maintain my desert hike, at least for now. By the time one of the truck drivers mentions I can ride along I pick my backpack from the ground and throw a smile at him, saying, “Show me the way!”

  Heading towards town I dream of having a shower. I can hardly remember the last time I properly washed myself, but frankly I don’t care too much because the smells from my armpits are still socially acceptable. In the banner-overlaid cabin it’s very spacious and the invigorating air-conditioning knows how to turn me into a human being again. My driver wears a grey beard and a royal-blue cap on his head. He likes to listen to secular music with his son, who sits silently in the back of the cabin, shamelessly staring at me with his mouth open. During the ride I witness other drivers stepping out from their trucks. Wondering what they’re up to, I see them placing a small rug on the sand only to kneel down to pray right next to the road with their engines still running! I’ve got to hand it to these folks, they are definitely devout. Practicing believers are obligated to repeat this five times a day. As you may well know, this is one of the five pillars of their seventh century religion, or as some like to call it, authoritarian ideology. Reaching the suburbs of the capital Amman the grit truck empties its cargo which heralds the end of Amal’s long workday. Since we don’t speak each other’s language not many words are shared, so the outcome sometimes has been a bit awkward. My attentive nature causes me to understand him most of the time though. In this case, that means I know he’ll take me to his house to have supper.

  Located on a hillside, the terrace on top of this apartment building bestows a magnificent view across the valley. For as far as the eye can see there are residencies by the thousands, all jam packed and shoulder to shoulder. Basically, they’re nothing more than square concrete boxes in comparable colors. The only thing sticking out, and quite literally in that sense, is a gigantic white landmark called the Raghadan Flagpole. Towering all surrounding hills, it is ridiculously tall with a height of at least four hundred and fifteen feet. Evenly impressive is the nation’s flag attached to it, its dimensions being thirty meters by sixty meters. When it was erected it actually was the tallest pole in the world. It is recorded to be spotted from as far as fifteen miles away and when it is lit up at night the pole boasts a dignified allure.

  Before I enter the house my driver hides his wife in the kitchen. I am not allowed to see her. How different from the West, where introducing your wife is likely the first thing you do! Over here men dominate every aspect of society. A quick introduction to his children follows, yet while the boys linger, his daughter is off to the kitchen also. Having washed our hands, we are now ready to eat a variety of traditional Jordanian snacks which are being served by his daughter on what seem to be silver platters. After the meal the old truck driver lights up a big, fat joint. It’s insane how many people are using this illegal plant. Even though I do not meet anyone who doesn’t smoke, I politely decline. Like most other locals, he too is completely confounded to hear that I never used cannabis in my entire life. Not even during my five years of living in Amsterdam, where it’s legal to do so, but I am not claiming to have always been a saint. Other substances have been marked on the checklist. When the last cup of tea is consumed, the family suddenly says goodbye. The oldest son opens the gate and takes me to the streets. I have no idea what to expect, other than realizing that they don’t want me to spend the night at their place, since they are more or less sending me on my way now.

  Out of some twisted habit the unkempt boy is constantly spitting on the ground. For that reason, I’m not too sorrowful when a bus arrives. Boarding the bus, a question mark appears above me, like the flames on top of the heads of the disciples. Crazy as it seems, the passengers enjoy the same habit and spit anywhere they can. Disgusting. Receiving anything but happy looks I begin to wonder if it’s something else than a habit. Perhaps I’m not welcome here and this is how they choose to show me their contempt. Either way, it appears quite disrespectful. We only have one thing in common. All of us get kicked out in less than an hour at the end of the line, next to an empty square. And just like that I’m on my own again. Now that the sun has set there’s only one thing I can do really, and that’s finding myself a place to crash right here in the center of Amman.

  Coincidentally, the last bus stop is exactly where I wanted to go, namely the very heart of the city. The gloom of the last daylight illuminates a Roman theatre. Ecstatically situated against a hillside, this two-thousand-year old structure is the nation’s largest, boasting a staggering thirty-three rows of seats going upward. In fact, it is in such a good condition, conjoined with impeccable acoustics, that performances are held there today. How about that? Beautiful tall palm trees and lights from closed shops make it less of a hostile environment.

  For the lack of finding something better, the benches in a park will function as my bed tonight. It’s actually not that disappointing when you keep your standards low. With the time already around midnight I’m not too worried about comfort either and it doesn’t take very long before I doze off. Correspondingly, it doesn�
�t take very long before I wake up again too, from a bright light shining in my face, a shame it isn’t the redeeming morning sun. Instead two police officers almost ignite me with their flashlights. Against my will I’m taken to the station where a meager inquisition takes place. It’s hard to make sense of it all but I pick up some words here and there. It becomes clear to me that the officers reckon it too dangerous for me to sleep outside alone. Especially now with the current elections going on where sudden riots break out all over the place. It is nice and encouraging to know that they are doing their best to keep a foreigner safe. I’m released with the urging advice to book a hotel in the neighborhood. Well, it’s more of a demand. Of course, I don’t know any hotels. Besides that, and probably more crucially, I still have no money on me. Coupled with the fact that I can barely keep my eyes open, I decide to stroll back to the park I was staying at before, where I fall asleep immediately on the exact same bench, still available. In no way am I concerned about the possibility of my backpack getting stolen, or worse.

  Turns out you can’t fool the Jordanian police. In less than an hour the situation repeats itself. This time the two gentlemen escort me to a nearby hotel where they order the owner to give me a room. You see, no need to bring a travel guide along! I cynically think to myself, somehow of the opinion that the universe will automatically balance things out. Playing by their rules I take the lift to the seventh floor.

  Getting punished for my nonchalant attitude surely balances things out alright. Bed bugs are attacking from every angle, frayed curtains are saturated with smells of sweat and cigarette smoke, and in spite of it being in the middle of the night by now, the traffic outside remains loud and noisy. I shouldn’t complain though. I have a private room with my own bathroom, a real soft mattress, and perhaps, yes perhaps outweighing all of this, I am out of danger from possible riots outside and get to keep my life.