Michael Row the Boat Ashore--The Music Video

Pete Seeger may be dead, but he has been stuck in my head since hitting the ground here in Jordan.  You know how sometimes you can get a song stuck in your head but then listen to a recording of it and it’s gone? Well I had this ridiculous notion that actually visiting the River Jordan might wipe Michael Row the Boat Ashore from my mind, thus curing me of the non-stop Pete Seeger concert in my head.

It didn’t work.

As a matter of fact, it has made things worse because now not only do I have the lyrics, but I have a visual to go with it—like my own private music video. Let’s do this verse by verse, shall we?

Michael row the boat ashore, hallelujah,

Michael row the boat ashore, halle-lu-u-jah,

If Michael could row a boat in the Jordan River, it would have to be a very small boat and he would have to be very skinny. Michael would also have to be careful not to inadvertently row the boat into the shore rather than ashore. The River Jordan would more appropriately be called the Brook Jordan, but that lacks the ring that River Jordan has.

Sure is skinny for a river, isn't it?

Michael’s boat is a music boat, hallelujah,

Michael’s boat is a music boat, halle-lu-u-jah

Michael’s boat may be a music boat, but it does have competition. The Jordanian side’s River Jordan-side shelter is a pretty quiet, simple affair, with a thatched roof on wooden stilts. It has the same charm that the rest of Jordan has—unpretentious.

The simplicity of the Jordan side

But the Israeli side is something fancy. There is a polished stone visitor’s center with stone steps leading down to the muddy riverside. And where we on the Jordanian side had a smiling, bomber-jacket-wearing, slick-talking guide, on the Israeli side they had a priest who appeared to be in charge of full time homilies. Frankly, we are not sure whether that priest hangs at the Israeli side for work or if the group of Russian Orthodox Christians brought the priest with them, but no matter where he came from, he was a source of song and prayer that would drown out that music boat any day.

Sister help to trim the sail, hallelujah,

Sister help to trim the sail, halle-lu-u-jah.

And what can we trim that sail with? How about a white piece of fabric? That makes a good sail. Fortunately, that sparkling white visitor’s center, in addition to a homilying priest, has an area where you can rent starched white robes with Christian symbols ironed on the front. I think the idea behind those robes is that they will preserve your modesty while you pursue a religious purge in the Jordan but I for one can testify that those robes do no such thing. I can also testify that Russians prefer striped tighty-whities to boxers and that the women see no need for wearing a bra during a religious purge.

In contrast, on the Jordanian side, only one of our party had come prepared for a Jordan River purge, and he had come that way only by chance. Clad in a black pair of trunks, he entered the river near the reeds at the edge of the wood and thatch roof shelter and doggy paddled parallel to the slimy wooden steps. Then he dunked his head in the silty grey water and emerged, pink and goose-bumpy.

Jordan’s river is deep and wide, hallelujah,

Meet my mother on the other side, halle-lu-u-jah.

Jordan’s river is neither deep nor wide, as was established earlier. And had my mother been at the other side, I could not have gotten to her. In spite of the religious significance of the place, and the peace of the river itself, it was very clear that we were standing on a highly contested border. We had passed curls of barbed wire on the walk in, as well as high flying flags—both the blue Star of David on the white background that symbolizes Israel and the red, white, green, and black that is Jordan’s. A Jordanian soldier snuggled with his gun and napped atop his amphibious vehicle under a camouflage cover, just out of eyesight of the people on the Israeli side.

In spite of this, the only physical thing keeping us from crossing the River Jordan was a length of black netting stretched across the steps down to the river on both banks. On each side, between the lengths of netting and the steps there was a very narrow corridor of water available for a Jordan River purge. In between the nets was about three feet of river water.  And as I said, my mother was not in Israel. Or if she was, she was disguised as a devout Russian.

Jordan’s River is chilly and cold, hallelujah,

Chills the body, but not the soul, halle-lu-u-jah.

In the end, peer pressure won out and I dunked my head in the Jordan River. 

Fellow dunkers unite

There was a small group of Americans on the trip with us, visiting from a Christian international school in China. It was one of their group that took the initial plunge into the river, and his example prompted Tian and me to do our own purge along with Alicia, another teacher. 

The Jordan is the only major feeder of the Dead Sea, and it is brackish due to its proximity to that body of water--the water has the same sweet-salty taste as the Dead Sea, but is much milder. As we dunked our heads in the frigid waters, my nose filled with the stuff, as well as the grey mud suspended in the greenish waters. My head ached from the cold and when I pulled myself out of the water, the cold air stung.

And, yes, Pete Seeger was right. My body was chilled. But not my soul. Halle-lu-u-jah.