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.

On the Road to the Valley of the Crescent Moon

We arrived in Wadi Musa (that translates roughly as Moses’s Valley River) after two days in the warm but pricey embrace of the Dead Sea. Staying in a five-star resort was the big splurge of our trip and we had to half-starve the kids to afford two nights there. I thought, therefore, that they would be relieved to go, but the hunger must have gone to their heads because there was much gnashing of teeth as we left the Dead Sea resort strip.

The Dead Sea cost such a fortune that we were left to scavenge for salt crystals

We had just stopped at an over-priced shop for a bagful of dry goods to keep us in eats for the trip away from the Dead Sea and back into the mountains, and were pulling away from the store when Tian sighed and said, “Silas, what was your favorite part of the trip so far?”

He sighed in response and looked out the window. “I loved the Dead Sea resort.”

Tian’s tummy rumbled (because she hadn’t eaten much in the previous 48 hours—no outside food allowed past the X-ray machines and the resort charged five-star prices) and then she sighed. “I also loved it. It was my favorite part, too.”

Ah, the medicinal mud

They sighed and reminisced for most of the first hour of our drive, while we followed the wide, two-laned King’s Road. “Do you remember when we floated in the Dead Sea? That was amazing.”

And the medicinal waters

 “Yes, and the mud scrubs we did? Those were great. My skin still feels soft.”

Lovin' the mud

Along the road up toward Petra

Looking back at the valley we had climbed. Sheep ahead...

They continued like this until we finally saw a small brown sign directing us off of the main road and up into the mountains. The road took us past a collection of canvas tents stamped in faded blue ink with UNHCR. “Refugee camp?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” These tents were another reminder of what we kept running into here—Syria and her plight. Tourism was down, the Jordanians said, because of Syria. Fewer jobs were to be had in the country in general because of the Syria. Food prices were up because of Syria. In the Dead Sea resort we had been insulated from this reality, although only barely. Just before we were waved through the final security checkpoint that guards the Dead Sea from the rest of Jordan, we had passed a ramshackle sprawl of UNHCR tents. 

Syria and the collection of refugees we were passing at that moment quieted everyone for a bit, but just a bit. Tian fell asleep. Silas gazed out the window at the mountains, and the rows of tomato plants that were ripe for harvest. Tehva listened to a book. We snaked further into the mountains and into a tiny village. And then another tiny village. None of these villages had names. Were we going the right way? I was once again reminded that we were without a map in an Arabic-speaking country where none of us spoke enough Arabic to get past, “Where is the toilet?” and “Give me the red ball.”

And then Tony brought the car to a screeching halt.

Oh crap

A sea of goats and sheep surrounded us on a crumbling road hanging off of the side of cliff. We sat like the Americans we are, unsure of how to react to a flock of livestock in the middle of road. Should we honk the horn? Turn around? Sit patiently and wait? Step out of the vehicle and flag the nearest shepherd?

“Silas, will you get out of the car, please, and get the sheep out of the road?” It came out of my mouth almost before I could conceive of the brilliance of my solution.

Instant shepherd

Silas jumped out, did a few “Yah”s, and the way forward opened, like the parting of the Red Sea. And how appropriate that this parting landed us very quickly in the town of Wadi Musa, Moses’s River Valley, and in the town that abuts Petra. You know? Petra.

Yes, you know. Petra.   

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.