Jordan - And So The Trials Begin

Well, I proised to fill you in on my happenings since we left Bulgaria, but alas, Turkey and Syia will have to wait. oth of these countries were absolutely amazing - my favorite by far, up to now, but the week beginning with our entry into Jordan until now has been so ridiculous as to boggle the mind. It honestly feels as if the wheels just fell right off the Jerry train... either I'm really starting to show my age, or I'm reliving a mythical odyssey, having offended some deity or other. Don't expect iambic petameter, however, or one-eyed giants, but hopefully, you'll find at least some amusement in my not-so-epic struggle.

It all began as we entered Jordan from Syria. Here we were, three intrepid travellers, entering the lands o the Bible. The scenery was (I think I'm starting to over-use this phrase by now) breathtaking as we rode trough desert hills in the fading light of day. However, we were heading to Amman and as a result I was in a bit of a funk - I was citied out, and missed our encampments. Also, we were bypassing Jerash and other amazing historic cities for the hustle and bustle, and chaos, of yet another middle eastern metropolis. And so, when we turned of the higway to get some pictures of our bikes as the sun set on the desert landscape, I charted my own path trough the sand... directly towards a gapig hole, hidden from me by the adjacent dunes. Seeig it at the last moment, I swerved and dumped my bike. And then I kicked Buffy while she was down. It wasn't her fault, but I kicked her anyways, and maybe, like the eponymous vampire slayer, she really, really didn't like it... I think that I've been atoning ever since, as you will see as my story progresses.

We etered Amman at night, and made our way to the city centre. I, and apparetly Tom, had been led to beleive that Amman was the prototypical westernized middle-eastern city - all modern glass and concrete, sweeping vistas and flowering gardens - but this was nothing like that. It looked shabby, run down, and rather grimey when we inally stopped to look for a hotel so much so that Tom was convinced we were in another city. A police officer found us then, and explaine we could not park the ikes on the sidewalk - he generously stuck around as we (slowly) unloaded our luggage and brougt it up to our hotel room, then personally directed us to a nearby parking garage where we could park our bikes. Once there, he even bargained on our behalf to get us a decent rate - very generous and decent of him.

We wound our way ack to the hotel, and started looking in the guidebook for some place to eat... in the process, we discovered that we had somehow decided to stay in East Amman, which is home to thousands of palestinian refugees. We decided to head off to West Amman to see the modern half of the city... it was worlds apart. The streets were bright and wide, the guardrails of the highways were trimmed with LED lights, the shops were large and airy, and the uildings modernist constructions of limestone, glass, and concrete. I simply could't beleive that this was the same city as where we had just come from - the standards of living must defy calculation.

That night, when we got back to our hotel (a ordeal in and of itself, as none of us had bothered to remember the names of the hotel, street, or city district - the cabby who picked us up told us to say something like "because Illnini" or alternately "wanted Husseini") we decided to plan our stay in Jordan. You could cut te air with aknife, the tesion was so thick. Tom wanted to see the Dead Sea, and if possile, Jerash as well, in addition to Petra and Wadiu Rum. This was, he kept saying, the country he was most looking forward to, and he wanted to give it at least 2 full days. Tyson on the other hand, was worried about catching the Aswan ferry (the one we just missed in the aoe post) and felt that if we skipped Jerash and the dead sea, and made a beeline for Petra along the King's highway, we could shae a day off of our schedule, and leave some room or unexpected events. For my part, I wanted to see the Dead Sea as well, though Jerash was probably a lost cause, as it required some backtracking, but my real goal was Egypt - land of my childhood dreams. In the end, we settled for a compromise - we would veer off the King's highway to see the Dead Sea, make our way to Petra ad possibly check it out either that eveing or the following morning, then head to Wadi Rum, where we would camp before taking off for Aqaba, and the ferry to Nuweiba, Egypt. Basically, we had settled on 2 days... the room for error was gone. You may insert ominous music here, if that is your want.

And so, we woke early the next day, got our bikes, ad were on the road by 8:30 am. Our route took us soutward, along the Jordan river through a spectacular canyon with winding, climbing roads. I flet like I was a charioteer in Ben Hur, wizzing by the rock-strewn desertscape, flying past donkeys shuffling along on the shoulders under collosal palm fronds. the cliff gace rose dizzyingly above me, and I could almost see anciet scribes usying away on scrolls in the caves that spekled its sheer facade. And then the canyon openned up, reealing the Dead Sea and expanse of sapphire blue tinged with turquoise and the purest, crystaline white. The shores were encrusted with salt, and salt seemed to precipitate right on the water itself, forming paisley patterns on the currets and eddies contained within. We drove along in awe at the sight - we had each of us predicted the Sea to be fairly hidden by exclusive and swanky resorts, but no - after aout a kilometer or two of soem widely spaced resort hotels and beaches, it was barren as barren could be, but for a few desolate military outposts... whether keeping people out, or in, or both, I could only guess. Israel was a scant kilometer or so across the water - and Jerusalem a few kilometers more beyond that... history, and politics, weighed heay here. We bypassed the resort beaches, thinking that we would take a dip in more secluded waters further south, prior to the turnoff leading to the King's highway. However, the further south we went, the more muddy the beaches became, until the best option afforded us was to ride out onto the salt pan, and find a spot to enter the water there.

Now that was a blast! We rode off the hiughway, down a rock-strewn dirt road (no fireblades allowed) and thence, onto the mud of the salt pan. Man oh man, I loved it! It was technical riding, ut so much fun - I blasted by ike through ruts, over rocks, around trees, up muddy terraces... we finally came to a rest about 100 meters from the water, a short jaunt across the mud and salt. After taking copious shots of my bike, I changed into my swimsuit, and made for the water. 3 locals were already there, and preparing to get in - they were fasciunated by oiur bikes, and the story of our journey. One of them took off his shoes, and started into the water. I thought he was putting on a show, for he verilly ran in, kicking his feet up like a marrionnette, ad shreiking all the way. Bizarre. When Tom did the same on his run in, I started to wondering. I went next, and as my feet hit the groiund, I finally realized what the fuss was all about - you could not design a more painful experience if you tried. The mud was deep and was searingly hot - my feet were scalded each time they sunk into it, and I finally realized why lobsters shreik the way they do. On top of this, the mud was encrusted througout with salt crystals as big as rocks - their shart facets cut my skin with each step, and soon, my feet were as lacerated as if I had walked through barbed wire. And then... the water. Although it stang my woulds, it felt incredibly good - it was as warm as bath water, and had an almost oily consistecy due to the high salt content. I immersed myself in it, and whammo! my feet popped right back out like a couple of corks. What an experience! The water was so bouyant, it was actually difficult to walk in - I was floating around on my stomach, feet and arms splayed out and out of the water, and my face was one dry! I did a few log rolls, a couple of twists... all the while, I just lay there, floating just at the surface of the water! The experiece was actually, at least in my mind, well worth the pain of entry, and of the impending exit as well.

You may be wondering in what way this experience can be construed as a struggle. Well, hold your horses - I'm getting to that. Even Odysseus had his scenic boat rides, no?

We exitted the Dead Sea in another agonizing exposition, tended our wounds, chaged, and mounted our steeds once more. Our goal now was the King's highway, one of the world's most spectacular roadways, passing as it does through the mountains and valleys ranging from Syria to the Red Sea. First, however, we stopped at a service station to get some supplies.

I had been noticing a strange sound in Buffy's motor each time I opened the throttle, and asked Tom to check it out for me. I gave him the keys, having taken my gloves and helmet off, and he took off down the road. I went to sit with yson under the awning, and awaited his return. Some kids were milling around us, and we exchaged names, and struck up a conversation in pidgeon english and arabic, and various overly exagerated hand motions. Tom came back, and not having hear anything out of the ordinary, we sat there for a while, eating snacks and drinking Fantas (our drink of choice in the hot middle eastern sun). I got up, went inside to buy some more snacks, and returned to a veritable uproar. While I was inside, some other kids had shown up, and apparently, that was all the spark it took to set our previously amicable friends off. Now, Tyson was arguing with one of them over his knife - it had mysteriously aished from where he had placed it. Of course, they wanted money for it, ut Tyson managed to get it back by offering it upon return, and then refusing to pay up. Now, they wanted money for everything. Suddenly, it was time to leave. I went to my bike, they followed, and started gearing up. My gloves, however, were nowhere to be found. Glummly, I realized that I usually place my gloves on the panniers at a stop, and that Tom must have ridden away with them still there. We searched up ad down the road and quizzed the kids to see if they had picked them up - all to no avail. And so began my spree of losing items hiter and yon.

Dejected at having lost my favorite pair of gloves just as the riding was getting hot, we rode up into the mountains. I was lifted in my spirits by the sight of clous curling around jagged, rocky boulders, and the glorious vistas formed over millenia by earthquakes, floods, and wind in this aged mountain range. Canyons scarred the bright, weaterbeaten faces of gumdrop mountains, and bedoin plyed their calves and sheep across scrub grasses through high mountain plateaus. we rode through pass after pass, valley after valley, along mountai ranges... all around us, the landscpae strectched far and wide in resplendent, panoramic beauty. It was easy to see why these lands were so coveted by countless civilizations - their strategic importance in no way oversadowed their incredile beauty. The only downside of this ride was the people - some of the children lobbed rocks at us as we passed, or whipped us with ropes... Tyson even got dinged in the knee in one of these ambushes.

However, we finally made it to Petra as the sun was begining to set (after admission hours, however), and settled in for a early start the next day... but not before I recieved some bad news via e-mail that trew yet another wrench into my journey.

The next day, we awoke in Petra, and eelined for the ancient site. We parked our bikes by the police station, with the permission of the constable on duty, and entered the complex. The site was entered by way of a winding canyon fissured into the rock by an ancient earthquake - the base of the walls was carved into an elaorate series of catch basins no doubt designed to bring water to the complex below. We reached the treasury building just as the sun was breaking down into the canyon - the lighting wasn't as cinematic as in The Last Crusade, but we buzzed around te site taking shot after shot, experiementing with our camera setting trying to get the all-illusive money shot. We then ambled further into the complex - it really was an impressive site! A byzantine monastary was carved into the cliff face on one side, flanked by yet more rock-carved temples. Mausoleums dotted the cliffs, and the remains of roman-era temples and fori stood stolidly on the desert floor. We traipsed trough the mountains, leaping from outcropping to outcropping, and I couldn't help but be reminded of the Deccan plateau in India, and my traipsing through the ruins of he Vijayanagr culture. Fortunately, the end result was not the same, ad I left the site with all limbs intact and in proper working order. My bike, however, was not as lucky. Apparently, the constable on duty had not othered to inform anyone else tat we had permission to park in the police parking lot - when we got back, Tom's ike had been moved, and an angry letter was jammed in our mapcases. Morevoer, once we got going, I noticed my handling was off - the bike was wobbling at low speed. Quickly, I pulled over, and called to Tom for his pressure guage - yep, someone had let all te air out of my front tire. Whether it was teh police, or someone else, I guess I'll never know... but it certainly was a potetially dangerous and spiteful act.

We then headed back onto the King's highway, to Wadi Rum and my next trial. Wadi Rum is a famous desertscape - T.E. Lawrence stopped here on his drive to Aqaba across the desert, and we wnated to see if we could camp amongst the historic dunes. It really was a sight to behold - this was the desert to end all deserts. Expansive, wide, and all-encompassing, the sand poured and flowed about the road like water. The wind sent it flying, like ocean spray, into our helmets, throughout our clothes... I could just imagine Rommel conjuring up his tactics of desert warfare whilst envisioning ships plying the endless waves of sand. We entered Wadi Rum, but were dissapointed to find that we couldn't take our motorcycles into the desert. This was probaly just as well - the little bit of desert riding we did do resulted in my dropping the bike no less than 3 times - the KLR650 was a beast to hadle in the deep stuff... so vastly differe from the little 230 cc Honda I used to carve up the Mohave desert all those months back in California. Not to be discouraged, I tried a few more times outside the park, with varying results, but I was certainly improving, I thought. We were winding our way through a small Bedouin town when we pulled over to decide on our next campsite. Suddenly, a pickup truck pulled up in front of us, and a man jumped out of the cab. He yelled something unintelligible, went to the flated, and pulled out a blue bag. It was torn and mangled in spots - it looks as if it had been run over. I looked at it quizically for a moment, and suddenly, I realized what I was looking at... my blue MEC drybag, the one I had kept strapped to my bike. There's no way it could be called a drybag now. Moreover, I realized in panic that my sandals and swim shorts, which I had placed in a bag and strapped on top of the drybag, were gone. Suddenly I understood what had happened - the drops must have loosened the sandals bag, ad going over some of the speedbumps i town must hae jarred the whole ting loose.

I set the crew back to see if they could find them, and reattaced my no-longer-drybag to my bike. I then set off back throug town to see if I could spot them, or find someone who had, myself. Here, I was assisted by a group of kids who flagged me down just on the outskirts of town -one of them goit on the back of my biuke, and we rode through town - him looking at the side of the road and inquiring about the bag, and me, I guess, giving him a bit of a joyride. Alas, nothig came of this search, and I resigned myself to their loss. Damn - those were my favorite sandals - they were with me in Peru and India, including my trials on the Deccan plateau, and I was particularly attached to them. Ah well, as Tom said, they're on another adventure now, much like Dr. Sam Beckett in TV's Quantum Leap... in one fell stroke, he dated both of us.

By now, the light was fading fast, and not having the time to hunt for a suitable campsite in the desert, we headed off for Aqaba, to spend the night on the shores of the Red Sea. We stayed at a place called Bedouin Moon Village - we slept that night under the stars, the sea breeze cooling us, and the sounds of the waves crashing to the shore lulling us to sleep.

The following day, we had planned to catch the Aqaba to Nuweiba ferry - the only plausible route into Egypt which avoided the dreaded Israeli stamp (which would deny us entry into Sudan). W had some time in the morning though, and decided to fill it with an hour and a alf of snorkling. The Red Sea is famous for its coral reefs, and the myriad of sealife one can find nestled within and about - and rightly so. My experience was downright magical - I had dived previously in Tobermorry (in Northern Ontario), but never in tropical waters - this was just incredible. te colours boggled the mind - sparkling blues, vibrant, flashing yellows, crimson reds... it was all there. Fish flashed by not 3 feet away from me, sea anemones blew lazily in the ocean current like an alien wheat field, and spikey sea urchins crawled alog the sea floor and amongst the cracks and crevasses of the reef. I was actually sad when the experience finally came to an end, but Egypt beckonned. Just as I was leaving the Middle East to cross into the land of my childhood dreams and longings, so too did I hope to leave my string of bad luck behind, and settle back into the carefree groove of the first 3 weeks. Alas, I couldn't be more wrong.