A Purim story in Amman

Late February 2020: The impending COVID pandemic is about to implode on our planet.

“I’m sorry,” I said, with exasperation in my voice, to the boutique Jerusalem hotel desk clerk on Rehov HaNeviim (the Street of the Prophets, who excel in doom). “I am the guide, and this elderly couple was supposed to have vacated their room, breakfasted, gotten luggage downstairs, and been waiting for my arrival and our departure 15 minutes ago.”

I waited for some response as the clock hands progressed and my agitation increased. “Could you call the room again, please?”

“The phone is ringing, but there is no response,” replied the clerk from behind the desk, with brisk indifference.

“Let me go to the room,” I implored.

“It is against hotel policy.”

I responded in desperation. ”Listen. Either the telephone line has been cut or they have been murdered in their bed, or both! Send security to check now, or I will call the police,” I demanded.

Finally, security returned with my disheveled guests and their luggage; the telephone line had been disconnected. Following a hasty breakfast, we decamped to join a larger group of residual travelers who were prepared to trust in providence, fulfilling their wish to visit the Holy Land, however brief, resilient in the face of adversity to the looming perilous plague that hung in the winds.

Because of the earlier problem, we now had only five hours to drive in the bus to the Beit She’an border crossing – before Israel officially closed its land crossing into Jordan – and the border would be sealed because of the pandemic.

One group had already canceled, and of the other two groups, there remained 10 insoluble spirits who had not fled and were prepared to follow their guides; in fact, the other guide refused to go into Jordan for fear of permanent quarantine. Whereas my financial disposition, commitment to my clients, and spirit of adventure dictated that after my initial orientation, I should lead this combined American group to Jordan.

We were now mobilized, leaving Jerusalem and heading north to Beit She’an under a time constraint comparable to the Sword of Damocles. The 1,200-meter descent towards the Jordan River Valley led us through the hills of the Judean Desert, a blessed land covered in late winter with wild grass, which created an attractive contrast to the surrounding desert landscape. We skirted the northern shore of the scintillating turquoise Dead Sea, bypassing the oasis of ancient Jericho and heading up the Bequaa.

At this point, aware of the desperate nature of this journey, I was not sure whether the bus driver had released his foot from the accelerator. Forests of date palms, enterprising Israeli agricultural settlements, and numerous farms and villages along the roadside had transformed the desert into a blooming garden.

We passed by the scenes in haste, without stopping for a bathroom break. To the west, the Samarian Mountain Range flanked the Jordan Valley, and to the east, across the Jordan River, the fertile, verdant Jordanian landscape was covered in market garden agriculture under the backdrop of Mount Neboh, where Moses passed away, and the Mountains of Gilad, where, after a victory, King Saul united the tribes of Israel – all part of the biblical landscape.

WE ARRIVED at the Beit She’an border crossing terminal and were the last group to be allowed to cross over. Ensuring that no articles had been misplaced and with a degree of anxiety, in view of the circumstances, the paperwork was completed, and we passed through the Israeli duty-free shop to alight the shuttle bus for entry into Jordan.

It must be said that during the earlier bus ride, I had announced to the group, via the microphone, that a special festival in the Jewish calendar was forthcoming, briefly filled in the historical background, and informed them that whoever imbibed alcohol to a sufficient depth of inebriation during or after the ceremony would be blessed.

And not only that. This wonderful duty-free shop had some great deals – two bottles for the price of one! And being an exemplary guide, I then recommended a “buddy system.”

Crossing into Jordan is a beautiful moment that can only live on in your memory

We crossed the Sheikh Hussein Bridge, enjoying the view of the chartreuse-colored Jordan River below as it flowed sluggishly and serpentined towards the Dead Sea, caused by the Degania Dam on the Sea of Galilee.

“Please, no photos as we cross the border; no desire to over-indulge the zealous customs officials,” I advised, noting our exuberant purchases.

Our Jordanian guide, Azziz, warmly greeted us and understood the importance of facilitating our exit from the Jordanian terminal before boarding our Jordanian tour bus. However, a Jordanian customs official wished to confiscate my tefillin (phylacteries). I told the Jordanian guide that I was going literally nowhere without them; both physically and spiritually, I would be stranded and unable to return to Israel.

Now, this could have created a diplomatic incident, and since most of my group was already mounted on the bus, Azziz reached a compromise with the deliberation of the customs officials that I would only adorn them in privacy. (It reminds me of the time I traveled with my ex-wife over the same border crossing with a Kama Sutra board game and received the same official reception – another story.)

Our bus climbed into the Mountains of Ammon, where we saw hamlets and villages, typical flat-roofed Arab architecture with multiple levels, concrete or limestone façades, and generally unfinished buildings. Hilly landscapes with vegetable agriculture, a multitude of olive groves, grocery and vegetable stores with their wares on the road, and butchers with goat or sheep carcasses hanging off hooks – very appetizing!

However, we enjoyed a delicious lunch in an upscale Lebanese restaurant when we arrived in Jerash. The variety of Mediterranean salads – gloriously fresh and fragrant – was aesthetically presented, with different types of hummus and eggplant garnished with pomegranate and local herbs, ensconced with the smell of grilled meat juices on charcoal and hot, baked pita bread plucked from the taboon.

Our thirst was slaked by a fresh lemon-mint sorbet. After such a sumptuous meal, it was difficult to get up from our comfortable places.

Located alongside a local riverbed, Jerash is a vast archaeological site within and encompassed by the modern city of Jerash. The enormous, relatively well-preserved site recalls the archaeological park of Beit Shean but on a far grander scale, dating back to a similar time frame; it’s a Decapolis city from the Greek period, around 400 BC but rebuilt to its glory as a Roman city during the time of Emperor Hadrian (mid-200 AD), who was infamously connected to the Bar-Kochba Revolt (132-135 AD) against the Jews and the last of the great exiles.

We entered Jerash through the massive, carved stone columns and triple arches leading along the Cardo (north-south main shopping plaza), past the hippodrome, and the almost entirely preserved Roman theater, with the back rows of seating leading up to the heavens – to the accompaniment of a contingent of bagpipe players from the Jordanian Army playing a medley of local, Irish, and American folk tunes.

We then reached an enormous, circular agora of cobbled flagstones and tall columns, and on the hill above were the taller columns with Corinthian capitals and braced by lintels belonging to the Temple of Artemis – the Greek Goddess of the hunt, the wilderness, wild animals, nature, vegetation, and childbirth.

The main cardo continued and branched at different intersections, and along its passage were temples, nympheums with dried-up fountains, public buildings, smaller theaters, and abandoned ancient shops. Aside from a few other tourists, the visitors were Jordanian families out for a stroll in traditional dress, courting couples with their chaperones, hawkers, and street sellers.

AFTER JERASH, it’s an almost two-hour drive to the luxurious Kempinski Hotel in Amman. The following morning, we viewed Amman from the citadel, an ancient hilltop fortress dating back to the biblical period, surrounded by a city bursting at the seams on various hilltops with a population of around 4 million people, and the immediate vicinity looked very shabby.

In contrast, the uptown commercial neighborhoods, with heavy Saudi Arabian and Emirati investment, were very modern and opulent. The highlight of the day for me was a visit to the Royal Automobile Museum established by King Hussein, who was an avid collector of vintage vehicles and motorcycles, maintained in mint condition as though they had just rolled off the production line.

The itinerary had never included this museum visit before, and witnessing these cars from the 1920s and 1930s was a rare delight. There were Daimlers, Mercedes, Bugattis, Aston Martin, Rolls Royce, Chevrolets, and Buicks; the king, who was married four times and had 11 children, had a flair for luxury vehicles and motorcycles, as well as flying and likely more. My favorite was the amphibious car, with a video showing King Hussein at the wheel, literally driving off into the Red Sea in the Gulf of Aqaba; he looked like 007!

As we returned to the Kempinski, I requested from Azziz that we have some free time, perhaps to visit a shopping mall that might have a stationary store with colored paper for making party hats and whistleblowers. Azziz graciously fulfilled the request. We returned to the hotel with the task of making party hats before dinner, and I informed the group of a room I had reserved to meet after dinner, where we would have our Megillat Esther (Scroll of Esther) reading for Purim; I had brought with me an English translation.

They were all very excited to have this special party and to participate in a biblical, ancient story that took place in Persia about a princess of Jewish tradition, of modest background, who rises in a time of need to save the Jewish people against a tyrant whose name we won’t mention. And, of course, we could not forget to bring our party drinks along with the hats or whistleblowers.

So, after dinner, we met in the reserved room, as requested by the concierge. Seated, we made some well-deserved toasts; after all, we were charging into the tendrils of a maelstrom pandemic and still prepared to take on this tour. I unrolled the scroll and cleared my throat. Then there was a knock at the door. It was the concierge. I motioned to him that we should discuss the matter outside.

“You can’t party here with alcohol; this is a Muslim prayer hall,” the concierge said, looking intransigent. This was embarrassing.  After pondering, I placed $50 in his hands, and the matter was discreetly resolved.

We then began reading the Scroll of Esther about a feast that was full of joy and merriment, and so was our night. But as I write today, I feel the sadness of this time. However, even in times of despair, there was joy – so we are told.

To be continued!

The writer is a licensed Israeli tour guide. Israeljourneys@gmail.com