Madaba

Madaba is the city of mosaics as it sports, well, I am not sure of the exact count, but there are a hecka lotta mosaics. 

Some are in dismal shape, having been destroyed by tourists, raiders, or the church itself. Some are in incredible condition having been restored by trained mosaic restorers. Some were found and protected from the beginning. All are surrounded by a city familiar with tourists and their quirks, and it was into this city that we launched ourselves this morning, but only after Tehva realized she had no underwear, Silas came to the shocking realization that he had grown an inch since leaving Muscat four days ago, and Tian resolved to become fluent in Ibo language (think Pig Latin on steroids). As a result we were delayed getting down to breakfast since Tehva had to have a breakdown about her lack of undergarments, Silas had to ponder the implications of life with cold ankles, and Tian was repeating, “Okay, I want to say ‘I am ready’…I-bo ibambo ribo-eddie. Is that right? No. Okay…again.”

Breakfast came in spite of our late arrival—buttery hummus studded with whole chickpeas and green chili and drowning in olive oil, scrambled eggs cooked in enough olive oil to allow for dipping after the eggs were gone, sliced fresh cucumbers and tomatoes, a plate of whipped labneh, and coffee and tea. This made Silas feel better about his cold ankles as the coffee warmed all of his bits and it gave Tian something to practice besides “I am ready.” Now she could say “C-i-bo-off-ee. Is that right? No? Okay…again.” And Tehva could also break down about something other than her bare bum. The tea was too hot, the eggs were too plain, Silas was too annoying, and the cups were too slow in coming from the dishwasher.

In spite of the moaning and whining, we were out the door in time to see Madaba come alive with the morning. We passed vegetable vendors setting up next to their blue pickup trucks and ooed and ahed at the vibrant colors of the produce as well as the leafy greens picked fresh from the fields. We passed children running through the streets with change clutched in one hand and fresh flat bread clutched in the other. We passed stalled traffic, with cars blaring their horns at the delay, and minibuses parked to block two lanes of traffic, waiting for locals and tourists to board for destinations near and far. Haze and diesel fumes hung in the morning chill.

By late afternoon we had seen all bazillion mosaics to be seen in Madaba, drawn water from the rain water cistern deep in the bowels of the St. John Church (shrine to the beheading of John the Baptist--EWWWWW!), bought trinkets and baubles from half a dozen vendors, enjoyed a cup of tea or two, chit-chatted with fellow American tourists, apprenticed with a sand-in-a-jar artisan, been tailed by a young Jordanian who introduced himself with “Hi-I-am-not-dangerous-I-just-like-to-practice-English-with-yes!”, translated for a Chinese couple, and shattered a snow globe on the floor of a shop. And one of us also cried over that, but I won’t say who he was. But I will tell you it was not Tony.

The sand artist--loved him

The rain water cistern deep under St. John's Church/Shrine

Surrounded by art of the ages and he turns to Games magazine

The embodiment of threatening

As each of the days has passed here, I have been impressed by the easy manner in which real life integrates with the past in Jordan. It is especially impressive in Madaba, where the stuff that surrounds the people here has evolved to spark countless wars, but has also encouraged people everywhere to be good and right. And I think we are all endlessly happy to be here, in spite of the broken snow globes, frigid body parts, and general whininess.