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. 

Umm-Kay...I mean, Umm Qais

An overseas trip to a developing country will teach you a lot of things about your children. Their intolerances and discomforts surface first. Their deepest desires surface next. And of course there is always the reconfirmation of the things that you already know but manage to ignore most of the time when living in the relative comfort of home.

Silas’s discomforts surfaced right off of the plane. The person who so kindly rented us a car without a deposit or credit card number picked us up in his 1969 Land Rover. We rocked through the area surrounding Amman’s Queen Alia Airport, driving the wrong way on one way roads, trying to escape the airport without paying for parking, and attempting to conjur enough English to make small talk. I was doing the same with my very lame Arabic. If someone wants to talk about their green balls or oranges they bought, I am game, but plunk me in a car in Jordan and I am lost. I was so involved in my contemplation of the conjugation of “to like” that I failed to notice Silas nearly in tears.

When we finally met up with our rental car, in a parking lot that looked like the apocalypse meets the Mojave Desert, Silas wandered off. When he returned to us he lamented, “Why do I feel so…outcast?” Of course we laughed at him (mistake one) since I have never encountered Silas using this word in conversation. This made him feel even more outcast. Then we asked for clarification (mistake two) since Silas does not clarify. Ever.

But we finally managed to squeeze from him that he was less than impressed with the general state of Jordan’s architecture. Even a brief history of Jordan’s recent history explaining the reason for the look of things did not cheer him out of his outcastness.

 Once we hit the Roman ruins at Umm Qais, though, he perked up a bit. Masha’allah.

Still not thrilled about this Jordan thing

But the Roman toilets made everything better

Tian on the other hand was Miss Chipper from the moment we hit the ground in Amman. After I pointed out how people were greeting one another at the airport (smooch other person’s hand and then press hand to forehead several times, then kiss on one cheek once followed by two kisses on the other with a pause after the second, and then a third kiss) she went wild with the observations. And she persisted in observing all the way to Umm Qais, which was an inexplicable distance away from Amman. According to my phone’s GPS, Jordan Lonely Planet, and the Jordanians we had spoken to, Umm Qais was just 100 km from Amman—an easy 90 minute drive.

It took us about 3000 hours to get there. And I swear we drove through Israel, Lebanon, and Syria on the way.

And for all 3000 hours, Tian was making observations, satisfying that deep-seated desire to know everything about the world RIGHT NOW. “Dad, I think we are going in circles. Look, there is another Flower Petrol Station!”

“Tian, it’s a chain.”

“Oh. Oh wait! Look! There goes another Flower Petrol Station. Dad! Turn around! You’re going the wrong way!”

“Tian, chill. And buckle your seatbelt.”

“I don’t have a seatbelt. I wonder if all cars in Jordan lack seatbelts? Does it smell like cigarettes in here to you? I wonder if lots of Jordanians smoke. Dad, did you notice that there are lots of little stands on the side of the road here? I love this! And look at all the trees. Look! There are pine cones! Oh wow…look at that. Can we stop there? Dad. You are going in circles. When will we get there?  Oh! Look! Another sign for Umm Qais. Oooo, I think we just turned the wrong way…I just saw that Flower Petrol Station again.”

Miss Perky with the guide

Miss Perky staring into catacombs

Miss Perky with a centuries old bead that a mole unearthed and left behind on the Roman road

And Tehva has been continuing in her search for the perfect family that will take her in. The only condition is that they not be us. Other than that, anybody will do.  In Muscat we are able to ignore this because she has polled all available families and, sadly, no one can accommodate her right now. But Jordan is a whole new country with a population not yet immune to her charms.

Tehva...pretty typical of her first day in Umm Qais...outside of the Grotty Hotel

We arrived at and checked into the Grotty Hotel (name changed to protect the grotty) in Umm Qais and Tehva started working it right away at the falafel shop out front. She managed to score a handful of falafel fresh from the deep fryer within seconds of hitting the pavement and, within an hour every shop keeper on the Main Street knew her name. But no one offered her kinship and so she remains with us.

Yes, travel teaches much—especially travel with children.

The Star Party

“Do you have a GPS?” asks Srey as she climbs into the car.

“No, you are it.”

“Oh, well do you know where you are going?” Srey asks.

“No, but you do…don’t you?”

Srey pulls the door shut and nods authoritatively. “It is easy to get there.” Srey doesn't mince words when it comes to adventure. So off we go, me hoping that it is actually as easy as she has said, for I have neither a clue nor a contact number if we are to get lost. 

Srey scopes the course

The road to the desert, it turns out, is a straight shot, with the exception of one left turn off of the highway, which we take with the able guidance of Srey the Human GPS. 

The girls sit in the back and wear down my cell phone’s battery with trivia games while Srey and I gossip (mostly my job) and navigate (mostly her job), simultaneously keeping our eyes peeled for produce stands on the side of the road. What else do you do on the way to the desert?

After we leave the highway and start to curve our way through the stubby mini-mountains, the terrain melts into monotony, broken by the occasional camel and prickly shrub, until two hours into our trip when we come to a screeching halt in the middle of the town of Ibra.

Oh no. Juma’a prayer. 

It is just after noon and we have ground to a halt in front of the only mosque we have seen in miles. Friday is the Muslim equivalent to Sunday—the holy day. And what we have just driven into is the equivalent of the after-church lunch rush, where all of the well-dressed and recently- churched head to the local diner to cash in the church bulletins for 10% off the Sunday special. 

Except in this case no one is headed to the local diner. They are headed back to the labor camps.

Headed back to the labor camp at a turtle's pace

And they are not in a hurry.

We sit and watch dozens, hundreds, thousands of men stream out of the mosque and climb into trucks or slide easily into SUVs and 4x4s. Then we watch them sidle their vehicles up to one another for a chat. 

After their chats, they pull out in front of where we sit in the road and they also sit, engines idling, still chatting. A few of them smile and give us the “just wait” signal, which always reminds me of a stereotypical Italian gentleman gesturing to make his point clearer. They pinch the fingers of their right hands together and point them straight up in the air, shaking their hands toward and away from their heads.

We sit and sit and sit, wondering how far we are from the Mintrib Roundabout. 

And then, as if the Red Sea is parting, the traffic parts and off we dart to Mintrib, sliding into the meeting point just in time to be, well, extremely early.

This is the meeting point for the monthly astronomy tour which is in the desert this month. For just

5 OR per trip, we are allowed to follow the Astronomer Guy, we will call him AG, into any of a dozen far flung locations around Oman. This monthly adventure usually comes at the new moon and includes hours of star gazing, both with and without telescopes, laser pointers which shine beams that seemingly touch the stars, and a varied group of people to chat with for an evening.

We pull into the Shell Station and AG comes stomping up to the car. Since we are the only ones present, he can take the time to instruct us in tire deflation (“No more than 20 psi in the desert!”), sand driving (“Keep those tires straight and don’t stop moving no matter what or you will be stuck! And we don’t want that!”); following distance (“No closer than about 200 meters please”—as an American I am still somewhat metric challenged and thus fail miserably at trying to visualize this distance, resolving instead of follow a really long way behind everyone else); braking in the sand (“DON’T!”); and red light use (“Be sure your lamps have a red light setting—white light will destroy our night vision—set the lights on red please.”)

People begin to trickle into the meeting point--Belgians, Sri Lankans, Brits, Emiratis, more Americans, Australians, Canadians, Venezuelans, Colombians—and then, after an hour of tire deflating and gassing up, we are off. 

The "road"in

I am white knuckled into the first kilometers of the desert. I let the others drive so far ahead that they look like nothing more than puffs of dust in the distance. I NEVER touch the brakes. But then I realize that driving in the sand rocks! The orange sand is fine like no beach sand I have ever seen but is also supportive of the Santa Fe, and as the desert cools the chilly temperatures cause the sand to compact and become even more solid under the tires.

Who would fuss at these cherubs?

We stop in a particularly solid spot, on top of a massive dune, to have AG yell at us for allowing the girls to hang out the windows.  Okay, in truth they were actually sitting with their bums on the windows and their upper bodies nearly slung across the roof’s luggage rack, but they were channeling their inner Bedouins and loving the feel of the wind in their hair and the grittiness of the orange sand in their teeth. 

They grumble and groan and pull themselves into the car but are recovered enough by the time we reach the camp to good-naturedly set up the tents. 

The evening is an astronomy feast with views of Jupiter, the stars, nebulae, constellations, and even the Andromeda Galaxy, followed by the sun the next morning.

The solar scope revealed more sunspots than AG had ever seen before 

And sand...lots of sand. In the morning the wind picks up a bit and carries it in curls off of the dunes. 

There are many places in the world that have deserts and dark empty spaces where the stars look close, but I would bet that there are precious few AGs walking around with telescopes and an interest in explaining celestial bodies to absolute strangers. And even fewer who will tolerate teens hanging out windows as they cruise through the desert.