December 8th
We travelled from Damascus on a luxury bus. We had grandiose plans of arising early and visiting the Aramaic village of Maalula in the morning. Unfortunately the Oh-God of hangovers had claimed us. For anyone unfamiliar with this deity, please refer to Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather. He is the God of hangovers (due to the nature of his existence however, it is necessary to add the Oh.. whenever referring to him). So our plans of being up and about at 8am were sorely scuppered. Instead we managed to pack and check out at midday. By the time we had got to San Maria, it was around 2pm. We got a bus at 3pm and crossed the border around 5ish. The crossing was relatively painless. Apart from exiting Syria: unfortunately, as we were leaving the country so were three – yes count them – three busloads of Azerbaijanis were also trying to cross the border. The Syrian immigration department did not know what had hit them. We knew what had hit them - somewhere in the region of 120 passports, that’s what. At one point we thought we really were going to be in immigration all night, however our bus driver invoked that fantastic Middle Eastern principle: I am going to push in front of you, habibi, and waggle my passport in front of this officer’s face, ha ha ha ha. On the Jordanian side, we had our visas approved immediately. Then, after a quick nip into the duty-free shop, and our bags unloaded - and not checked - we were winging our way to Amman.
…I am cold. We are standing outside our bus in no-man’s land between Syria and Jordan. We have all been ordered off the vehicle and our bags are laid out beside us, as if our guilty secrets have been dragged out of our closets, bones-n-all, and are on show for the world to see. Marcus, Merryl and I are tickling each other. We are all munching chocolates from a bumper bag we bought from the duty-free shop and the glucose has given us a sudden burst of energy. I am feeling sick from my gluttonous behaviour. So sick I eat another one. People are sitting around the bus under the garish lights. Luggage is strewn everywhere. The smell of diesel and oil hangs in the air. A mother and her daughter are sitting watching us. The child’s face is expressionless but her mother’s visage is one of bemusement. The guards responsible for our delay are poking our bags half-heartedly. They do not open a single one of them. The inside of my head is throbbing with a dull ache, my brainstem feels as though it needs a lie down - all by itself. I am silently praying the Azerbaijanis don’t turn up…
We got into Amman fairly late. Around 7pm. We checked into a hotel in the downtown area.
Amman is a very strange city, geographically speaking. It has been a while since we have been anywhere… mountainous – Syria is a very flat country; Jordan isn’t. The whole city is built on concentric circles, each on different levels and elevations. Where we are staying is relatively low. We are in the valleys, so to speak. As with every new country, a different currency - Jordanian dinars are where it is at here - They are roughly equivalent to the Euro. Syria was fantastic as the Syrian Pound is currently 100:1 GPB. Apart from that though, Arabic is still the first language. We noticed immediately though, English is understood better here. This was good and bad. Jordan is much more geared toward tourism. We felt a little bit westernised once more. But again, whether or not this was good or bad was still undecided.
… It is our first night in Amman and we are sitting in the Blue Fig Café. It is recommended in the Lonely Planet as one of the funkiest places to eat in Amman. It is. We have spent a month in a very Arabic country. Now we are sitting in an eatery with art for sale on its walls. Everyone in the café is dressed in western clothes. They are all preened and manicured. The women are bareheaded, bare shouldered, and are equivalent to London socialite; however I am salivating over the menu choices. The prices are extortionate. To boot, we are dressed like pikeys, and we are all hungover and tired. But we don’t let this dissuade us. Merryl does not know it yet but she has come down with another virus and will be in bed all day tomorrow. We gorge on a mixture of oriental, Italian, and south American dishes. We drink red wine and a cornucopia of cocktails that the waiters, who speak impeccable English, keep serving us. We are recalling the cab-journey to here and laughing: Our cab driver had one-eye and had not the first idea of, as we understood, what city he had been deposited in. He had never heard of the place we were trying to get to and spoke as much English as we did Arabic. He finally pulled over and seconded a French concierge to relay our destination to him. Halfway through the explanation our driver suddenly became extremely excited and drove off – tyres squealing – leaving the concierge still bent over with his arm extended, trying to explain the Café’s location. We shake our heads in amusement. The waiter returns and it is time for another cocktail…
We travelled from Damascus on a luxury bus. We had grandiose plans of arising early and visiting the Aramaic village of Maalula in the morning. Unfortunately the Oh-God of hangovers had claimed us. For anyone unfamiliar with this deity, please refer to Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather. He is the God of hangovers (due to the nature of his existence however, it is necessary to add the Oh.. whenever referring to him). So our plans of being up and about at 8am were sorely scuppered. Instead we managed to pack and check out at midday. By the time we had got to San Maria, it was around 2pm. We got a bus at 3pm and crossed the border around 5ish. The crossing was relatively painless. Apart from exiting Syria: unfortunately, as we were leaving the country so were three – yes count them – three busloads of Azerbaijanis were also trying to cross the border. The Syrian immigration department did not know what had hit them. We knew what had hit them - somewhere in the region of 120 passports, that’s what. At one point we thought we really were going to be in immigration all night, however our bus driver invoked that fantastic Middle Eastern principle: I am going to push in front of you, habibi, and waggle my passport in front of this officer’s face, ha ha ha ha. On the Jordanian side, we had our visas approved immediately. Then, after a quick nip into the duty-free shop, and our bags unloaded - and not checked - we were winging our way to Amman.
…I am cold. We are standing outside our bus in no-man’s land between Syria and Jordan. We have all been ordered off the vehicle and our bags are laid out beside us, as if our guilty secrets have been dragged out of our closets, bones-n-all, and are on show for the world to see. Marcus, Merryl and I are tickling each other. We are all munching chocolates from a bumper bag we bought from the duty-free shop and the glucose has given us a sudden burst of energy. I am feeling sick from my gluttonous behaviour. So sick I eat another one. People are sitting around the bus under the garish lights. Luggage is strewn everywhere. The smell of diesel and oil hangs in the air. A mother and her daughter are sitting watching us. The child’s face is expressionless but her mother’s visage is one of bemusement. The guards responsible for our delay are poking our bags half-heartedly. They do not open a single one of them. The inside of my head is throbbing with a dull ache, my brainstem feels as though it needs a lie down - all by itself. I am silently praying the Azerbaijanis don’t turn up…
We got into Amman fairly late. Around 7pm. We checked into a hotel in the downtown area.
Amman is a very strange city, geographically speaking. It has been a while since we have been anywhere… mountainous – Syria is a very flat country; Jordan isn’t. The whole city is built on concentric circles, each on different levels and elevations. Where we are staying is relatively low. We are in the valleys, so to speak. As with every new country, a different currency - Jordanian dinars are where it is at here - They are roughly equivalent to the Euro. Syria was fantastic as the Syrian Pound is currently 100:1 GPB. Apart from that though, Arabic is still the first language. We noticed immediately though, English is understood better here. This was good and bad. Jordan is much more geared toward tourism. We felt a little bit westernised once more. But again, whether or not this was good or bad was still undecided.… It is our first night in Amman and we are sitting in the Blue Fig Café. It is recommended in the Lonely Planet as one of the funkiest places to eat in Amman. It is. We have spent a month in a very Arabic country. Now we are sitting in an eatery with art for sale on its walls. Everyone in the café is dressed in western clothes. They are all preened and manicured. The women are bareheaded, bare shouldered, and are equivalent to London socialite; however I am salivating over the menu choices. The prices are extortionate. To boot, we are dressed like pikeys, and we are all hungover and tired. But we don’t let this dissuade us. Merryl does not know it yet but she has come down with another virus and will be in bed all day tomorrow. We gorge on a mixture of oriental, Italian, and south American dishes. We drink red wine and a cornucopia of cocktails that the waiters, who speak impeccable English, keep serving us. We are recalling the cab-journey to here and laughing: Our cab driver had one-eye and had not the first idea of, as we understood, what city he had been deposited in. He had never heard of the place we were trying to get to and spoke as much English as we did Arabic. He finally pulled over and seconded a French concierge to relay our destination to him. Halfway through the explanation our driver suddenly became extremely excited and drove off – tyres squealing – leaving the concierge still bent over with his arm extended, trying to explain the Café’s location. We shake our heads in amusement. The waiter returns and it is time for another cocktail…
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