As with wandering Jerusalem and other parts of this world there is no expectation that the sites you visit are the real thing. After all there are numerous ideas about where Jesus was born, crucified and even buried. But knowing you are wandering the same place and taking in similar views is enough to have an impact, far beyond what I expected when I fist visited this part of the world ten years ago.

Mt Nebo is a short drive out of Amman and is the place where Moses supposedly took a look at the Promised Land, though denied entry (he would feel at home in this part of the world still!!). Even if it is not the precise spot you certainly get a good idea of what he might have seen. I was struck by the short distances involved. From here you could just make out the Jordan River, Jericho and the blue hills lifting up to Jerusalem through the summer dust and haze. On a clear day Jerusalem is visible. It all must have seemed so much in his grasp as he looked across the plains in front of him.

And of course Joshua would have stood up here somewhere too, planning his strategy from these heights which dominate the plains. You get a good appreciation for why he came this way as well – pushing up along the sides of the lake would have presented the plains people with an easy way of defending themselves. Indeed, Jehicho is strategically placed not only on the highways but at the head of the west side of the Dead Sea, to better cover the approaches from the south. It makes a difference being able to see this ground first hand.

On top of the mountain is an excavated church, the destination for early pilgrims. It is carefully preserved, and covered from the elements and worth the visit if only from an historical perspective. What am I saying? That is the main perspective here is it not? It’s a serene place. Well, was for a few minutes when the generator was turned off for smoko. A couple of workers, dressed like the Sith to stay out of the sun, were drilling into the rock to set up some steps for visitors, and the stillness of the place and the chatter of sparrows in the pines were all lost once you got out onto the top of the hill. In the background is a piece of symbolic sculpture – serpent and staff.

Not much more you can say in a title without trivialising the experience. And I am not even sure what to say about the place that has not been said before. We all know you float like an apple in a barrel in this water. In fact, trying to swim on your front demonstrates to the locals (all hiding in the shade since its 45 degrees out here) that there is an idiot in the water – the buoyancy flips you over and your legs won’t stay down. So there you are thrashing around trying to look like you have it all under control. The two others in the water just sat on the sandy bottom and looked at me in silence, the old guy shaking his head every now and then. Soon the stuff was in my eyes and the fooling around stopped as acid ripped them out of my head. I weighed up letting it work its way out or running over the broken glass, which is the salt encrusted beach, to get my towel. I stayed in the water. Floating around is the key. Just give in to it and let it hold you up. I am not sure reading a book is really that feasible – I value my books too much. It feels like light machine oil. Indeed, if there is anything tactile about you then this place is heaven. But the surprise was that despite the slight oily texture the water is very clear. No vegetation to foul it up and discolour it I guess. The surface tension is so “tight” (is that the right word?) bubbles created in the aforementioned thrashing around sound like rice bubbles snapping and popping. Oh, and by the way those couple of small shaving nicks from yesterday now feel like major wounds. The blueness of the lake, fuses with the distant hills lifting towards Jerusalem which in turn fuse into the furnace sky. (Jericho is over my left shoulder by the way). Blue on blue. The air is heavy and oppressive, a sensation less of humidity and more of weight. Salt crystals form on the waters edge. White and bright in the shallow water, when crushed in your fingers they turn to salty sludge and dissolve. Stones have salt crystals growing around them in the shallows. Not unlike quartz. And the sand from the bottom when stirred up takes ten minutes to settle again. Thirty minutes was enough – I was going to turn into a pillar of salt if I was not careful. Rinsed off, got dressed then had a lunch of goat’s head and rice. I think I have acquired the taste!

Back in 1982 I was caught up as a minor minion in the security surrounding the visit of Queen Elizabeth II to Canberra. Sorry, Canbra. It’s a thankless task although on the day she and Phil were leaving town I had the good fortune to have her slow and and wave at me, Phil getting a nudge to look as well. I had the presence of mind to wave back – a salute was out of the question! But I think she was actually having a laugh at the one floppy ear of my retarded looking police dog and did not notice my poor protocol. That visit sprung to mind (yes, my mind connects in ways even I don’t understand) as I walked out for my early morning wander and found the hotel locked down with soldiers everywhere and a Hummer at the front door rigged up with a pintel mounted machine gun. Trouble is the Hummer was hemmed in on each side by two buses that had pulled in to carry the entourage (as it turns out) of the President of the Maldives who is visiting this place as well (I hope he has the room on the other side of the screaming baby, something might get done). If it all turns to custard this guy had an arc of fire of about 5 degrees, could not cover the street or support any of the soldiers lined up all over the place. The best he would be able to do is dust pigeons off the hair salon directly in front of him. Blaming the bus drivers was going to sound pretty weak. I felt sorry for him for a moment then remembered it was he who chose Army instead of Air Force!
3 Sept 07

Running around today and finally finishing early by Arab business standards – about 8pm. Back to back meetings and dashing about town. Actually that gives the wrong impression – at about mid afternoon the city gridlocked and we crawled. Locals blamed the visit by the Italian Prime Minister for streets being closed, hastily assuring me the town was not normally like this. I made soothing sounds.

Watching a movie in another country is always an interesting experience, especially if the English original is dubbed in one language, subtitled in another and you are left with no English. Happens occasionally in Asia. Then there is the different etiquette expected – trying breaking any of the rules about where to sit in Singapore and they want to stop the movie so they can sort out the seating. Even when there are only 15 of you in the theatre. In Amman this evening the theatre had a decidedly family theatre feel about it. It was small as far as theatres go but we were up against local pop movies and all the kids were filling what I expect were larger halls. The predominantly male audience crowded into a space with seating for maybe 200. The screen was distinctly warped, like one of those carnival mirrors that adds weight to your waist or stretches your head into a cone. If the size of the place was not enough to give a sense of being in a family theatre the constant chat among groups, which back home would have irritated me, seemed appropriate. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. Heck, even I ended up firm friends with a couple of Jordanians who are students in Texas and are currently home visiting family. People wandered in and out, phones were answered, messages checked, and when Jason wasn’t hurtling along in some frantic dash those conversations burbled along. And when Jason got on top of things at Waterloo station there was polite applause. But a clap and cheer each time he bested his CIA rogue minders. And a laugh of relief and theatre wide applause when the final scene with Nicki reveals all is not lost. Whatever your TLA (three letter acronym) everyone wants the good guy to win in the end. Even if he is CIA.

Outside the window the normal hotel pool parade is going on. Young fit men strut their stuff. So do fat men who are just beyond caring and who waddle around defying anyone their right to a place in the sun. They all spreadeagle in the sun and defy it to do its worst. Some hairy chested types are basted walnut stain brown. And still they lie out there for hours, aiming for an even darker hue. Young women start the parade earlier than the men however. They are out there on their own shortly after breakfast and are lathering up the oil so when the sun lifts to mid morning they are glistening like a newly polished hotrod (except you wouldn’t leave one of those out in the blistering sun). It is now five hours since the first one arrived and she is still there on her sun chair. She has shifted around from side to side, end to end but has been roasting without a break - I’ve organised meetings, had lunch, walked to the shops, sorted visas and done a host of things while she has been working on her skin cancer. But that is not the thing that stands out – there are “sun idiots” the world over. What is striking is that a short hop across the border is a whole kingdom that locks up their women. They can’t have jobs, drive, or be themselves outside of the home. On this side of the border they wear bikinis and worship the sun. If there is a truism about the Middle East it is that there is no such thing as a typical Arab world. It’s about as diverse as anything you can imagine which shares the same language, prophet, cultural roots and geography.

We fly up along the Saudi/Iraq border. The haze over the Arabian peninsular means there is little to see. As we swing into Jordan the air clears and the landscape sharpens up. There is a lot that is familiar to Australian eyes. Sweeping dry riverbeds carve up the landscape. But there is a constant dun to the sand and rock, the Australian brass, oranges and reds missing. As we drop lower dry water course show up scanty vegetation following their underground resources while the number of farmlets increases. Goats and sheep, standing around truck handing out hay. How very familiar. Contour ploughing and lines of trees, possibly olives planted along the contours as well. Dust. Haze. Weedy paddocks and rocks. Perimeter rushes up on us, guard towers every so many hundred metres and here we are. Welcome to Jordan. I messed up the transfers into the city to jumped a taxi whose driver ripped me my change but who pretty much stuck to his lane, got out of the way of speeding BMWs and got me into the city in one piece OK. You can’t ask for much more than that.