Jerash and the Qala’at Ar-Rabad

een December 11th

…I am in the middle of a set of exercises. I am lying on one side, propped up on my elbow. My legs are outstretched and my other arm is raised above me pointing upwards. My lower torso forms an L-shape. I am holding the position for as long as possible. It is excruciatingly painful. I grit my teeth. Each exercise I do is designed to work the core muscles of the abdominals and the spinae-erector muscles in the back. The routine usually takes an hour, the frequency is three times a week. In return my spine will do me the courtesy of remaining in a relatively straight position, and not be twisted by the scoliosis that affects it; which will, in turn, then prevent it from intermittently putting pressure on the transversal processes in my lumbar region. The overall affect is one that allows me to lead a normal lifestyle, physically (the last time my back went, I was on codeine and prozac for a week. This was the only way the doctor could force my muscles to stop twisting my torso 90 degrees to protect itself). It is time consuming though. I finish this set and lie on my back. Three sets of 30 leg raises, from the lower abdomen. How much fun?…

Today we got up late, probably a mixture of too much food, alcohol, and a good massage. We planned to visit , wait for it - the city of Jaresh with its reputedly superb Roman ruins. We met a taxi driver the night we arrived and he quoted a price for hiring his taxi for the day far cheaper than what the hotel had - so we rang him. He arrived at the hotel about 10mins later and gave us a extortionate quote for his services for the day. Little did he know he was dealing with some bad-ass hagglers from downtown Damascus. By the time we left we had shaved 1/3 off of the recommended price. It was touch and go for a moment as he nearly walked out on us. It is all part of the great game though, so 10am found us heading north, avec a very sulky driver, first bound for the city of Jerash.

…We are sitting in the taxi. I am listening to Merryl’s i-pod nano. Mine broke in Turkey which absolutely gutted me. I love music. It recharges my batteries and refuels me emotionally. If poetry is food for the soul, music is food for the mojo. I never asked Marcus to borrow his as some things between us I would consider rude. Merryl is asleep on my lap and was happy to lend it to me. I am listening to Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah. David did indeed play a secret chord - I wonder very much if it pleased the Lord though. The sun is warm on the car, and I am watching the road roll by abstractly, listening to the lyrics “it’s not a cry that you hear at night, it’s not somebody who has seen the light, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah”. It is evoking a memory from a long time ago, of a crippled and miserable soul who lived and breathed those words. I find myself staring inward; that strange phenomenon that occurs when you switch between your sensory input and your internal world, when your eyes glass over and you look under the looking-glass. Time and space are indeed relative, inside your mind the universe is recreated in your image. Inside is out, and everything that can be imagined is possible; especially the nightmares. Once you are free to explore this world, you are in the realms of your mind’s genius: the subconscious. However not right now. Merryl stirs and we pull into the carpark…

I was surprised to find myself surprised by Jerash. I have seen so many ruins from Arabia Romana I am pretty fed up with them as a rule, but this really piqued my interest. They were so complete and well preserved. Very much like Palmyra or Ephesus. The exploration of the ruins themselves took over three hours. But the real joy of this experience was the chariot racing, gladiator fighting, and Roman Legion military manoeuvres that are performed three times a day. This involves sitting in a group of tourists on the elevated stands in the ancient hippodrome. In its heyday these stands would have seated 15,000 spectators. On the day we attended, I think there were circa forty of us. Our compere was a young Jordanian guy, decked out in the uniform of a centurion. His English was impeccable. He must have studied the military accent of an English drill-sergeant to the letter. It was slightly out of place amidst the VI Legion Ferrata of the Roman Empire, but I appreciated the effort he put in. He was an excellent orator and the show was pretty cool. The legionnaires were actually members of the Jordanian army – but they made a great effort and were decked out in full, polished, armour. God I didn’t envy them for the coming summer months. They also performed all their drills in Latin, which they must have learned by rote. The charioteers were a bit lame though. The gladiators I think they rounded up from the the local gym. They were all beef-cakes with too much lard in their diets, however they put up a good fight.

The journey round the ruins afterward was fantastic. It was a warm day, and Merryl got her first experience of a cardo maximus leading on to the decumanus; the north-south east-west crossroads, with a tetrapylon situated in its centre. The road was amazing. It still had the original chariot tracks scored into the stone. The road was deliberately laid in an uneven fashion to draw attention from the haphazard foundations of the buildings on either side. One interesting fact our Centurian commander imparted to us was the use of the races, games, and events to manage the mood of the people. Just as with today’s modern media, the games were held three times a day, seven days a week. The motivation was very simple: if you keep the masses distracted on a semi-permanent basis, you will suppress civil unrest. We also discovered another; actually one of two, extensive amphitheatres. The main one being home to a band of Jordanian bagpipe players. Surreal did not suffice as a description. We negotiated a reduced buffet meal in a restaurant outside of the complex and then headed north to Qala’at Ar-Rabad.

… The Centurian is standing before us. His composure is one of supreme self-confidence; he is an actor. He speaks slowly and clearly; a skill which only professional orators can muster. He is a very good looking young man. His English is clipped, like he has studied with the Lawrence Olivier school of timing. He knows his audience well and he loves his crowd loving him – and so he should. He is very professional. The legionnaires amassed behind him are executing the orders he barks in Latin, with military precision. He explains each manoeuvre as it takes place. They are currently performing the tortoise shell [The Roman army had studied the art of war without exception. They could apply military strategy to any foe, on any terrain, in any circumstance. Most of their warfare was psychological; in short, they were unbeatable, the essence of this lay within the fact that if they were bested once, they would learn not to lose this way again – in order to succeed we must fail; this is why viruses are so effective]. The Charioteers come on next. Merryl and Marcus are not as impressed with their equestrian skills as I am. They have grown up with horses. My experience with them, however, does not befit the etymology of my name.

We got to the castle very late in the afternoon. By now we had become experts in the exploration and reconnaissance of desert fortresses. This one was reasonable in terms of structure, form, building, and strategic viewpoint. We spent two hours exploring it; until night fell basically. What makes this castle is unique in that it was constructed by the Arabs as a defensive position against the crusaders; rather than the converse. Much of the north-east section of the castle is in ruins, an therefore inaccessible. In the spirit of true Middle Eastern archaeological sites however, everywhere else you can reach with a torch and a little courage. Some of the views from the turrets are unbelievable. You can see all the way to Syria, the Mediterranean, Israel, and even the dead sea, winking at you in the south. Merryl and I sat, and took in the evening sunshine, in a stone armchair we found, high in the battlements. Marcus explored the outer wall and took pictures.

… I am standing on what is, as far as I can make out, the apex of the castle’s construction. Everywhere I look the world drops away, into valleys of glistening green, with rivers like diamond veins. The sun, low in the western sky, lends a flair of the dramatic to everything: even we look impressive in this light. I think, maybe for the millionth time, how lucky I am to have experienced this…

[ I have often lain in bed at night, alone, and wonder how I am going to make it through tomorrow. I doubt myself constantly, and even as an incidental tourist, I frequently find myself lost and cast adrift. Yet I persevere: my keywords, are, and has always been, hope; and courage. Courage is actually a variable; there are two other constants, but I won’t deal with them just yet. Courage is a much misunderstood term. If you can do something no-one else can, with apparent ease and with no difficulty, it does not warrant courage, even if someone views it as courageous. Courage is to face your fears, in what ever form they take. We each of us as human beings experience the same feelings of hope, fear, love, greed, compassion, lust, envy, hatred, anger – the spectrum of emotion is endless. We all are subject to exactly the same daemons, throughout various points in our lives. What defines us as human beings is how we interpret these emotions, and the choices we make. I have immeasurable respect for a person who faces their fears. I don’t mean, by this, someone who can race a motorcycle at 180mph around a track for over two hours, or for a person who can mount a stage and sing a song in front of a 20,000 people - This isn’t to say I don’t respect the people who can do this – what I am trying to say is that this does not necessarily encapsulate the awe-inspiring capacity for human valour. Sometimes courage is not a roar that cannot be quenched; instead it is the quiet voice in our minds that says ‘I will try again tomorrow.’ For an agoraphobic, being able to leave your front door in the morning is an act of selfless bravery. For some people, amassing the daring to ask the object of their affections for a date is submitting themselves to a hell of their own making; for others it is a breeze. Or perhaps, to give up your job, your culture, and your identity, to go and live in a place unbeknownst to you, where everyday will be a struggle, to bring some joy, however perceivedly meagre, into someone’s lives, at the expense of your own is a selfless and noble act. For a parent; who’s very soul is their child’s future – who must watch them grow up, knowing any single action, however small, that fills them with unexplainable pride, also takes the very thing they live for a step away from them, each and every day. To know and accept this takes courage. For a victim of abuse, sexual, mental, physical, facing their tormentors is worse then inflicting the pain on themselves with their own hands, can you even imagine? I know someone whom I love very much who had to face a sexual tormentor from their childhood, riddled with arthritis, in a court-room. The bravery they drew upon to see that task through, has never, and will never, ceased to amaze me. That, I believe, is courage: to summon strength where there is none – to face your daemons and to remain a human being in spite of them. We can all achieve this. We must; for if we don’t aspire to this, how can expect anyone else to try?

… I feel a little sad for writing this way; wading through these feelings. But then I recall the memory that prompted me. ‘God loves you!’ a voice says in my memory. I remember a conversation some time ago, with a very good friend in Camden, and I smile. Perhaps there is hope for us yet: Even myself...

'Not yet is the spirit of that pristine valour
extinct in you, when girt with steel and lofty flames,
once we fought against the empire of heaven.
We were -- that I will not deny -- vanquished in that conflict:
yet the great intention was not lacking in nobility
Something or other gave Him victory: to us remained
the glory of a dauntless daring.
And even if my troop fell thence vanquished,
yet to have attempted a lofty enterprise is still a trophy.
Yet to have attempted such a lofty enterprise is still a trophy.’

La Strage degli Innocenti
Giambattista Marino (1569-1625)

Again we had a quiet night, although I repeatedly harassed the owner of the hotel for a nargile to drink with my whiskey; at least it wasn't cherry flavoured.