A Dream Realized in the Middle East, Despite Fears of Warfare

In mid-August my wife and I heard about an inexpensive vacation package that would allow us to realize a dream of visiting Jordan and Syria. We would see what Moses saw, walk where pilgrims walked, even ride where Indiana Jones rode, in lands whose importance runs from the Old Testament to the front page of newspapers today. Lands filled with relics and temples of ancient civilizations, places where the Romans were relative latecomers.

Air fares had been prohibitively high, but this package would include air fare, hotels and tours, all at a price comparable to the usual air fare alone. Despite unrest in the Middle East, Janice and I couldn’t resist. We signed up.

Then came Sept. 11. Here is how events unfolded:

Sept. 14: Like much in America now, the fate of our trip is uncertain. Our scheduled departure date is Sept. 29. Should we cancel or defer? Can we do either, since I didn’t buy travel insurance? Even if we want to go, are the airlines flying--particularly there? In spite of jammed phone lines, I get through to the tour company, Sunny Land Tours in Hackensack, N.J., but no one has answers yet.

Sept. 21: We have an answer: Planes are flying again. We will lose our money if we cancel, nor can we defer. Would travel insurance have made a difference? That’s unclear, but it’s moot. We’re going. “Wow, you’re brave,” friends say. I scramble to obtain visas from embassies, whose staffs seem pleasantly surprised to see a prospective tourist.

Sept. 26: “Looking American” becomes a worry. What should we wear--only dark clothing? Should Janice keep her arms and head covered? Clearly, we know too little about the culture. Our neighbor Bill strikes a chilling note: “Not to be morbid, but does your son have a key to your house?”

Sept. 28: We phone our grown son in Oregon, other family and friends, expressing far more affection than usual. I go to church and light a candle.

Sept. 29: It’s Saturday. Airport lines are short but slow. Security is thorough; at the Royal Jordanian Airlines terminal in New York’s JFK airport, the X-ray machine and metal detectors are at the front door. And that’s just the first set. Before boarding we get “wanded” at the cabin door, and some carry-on luggage is searched. We are among the few non-Arab passengers. No one says they feel uncomfortable with us on the plane. We settle in for a long flight.

Sept. 30: Thirteen hours later, we fly over desert as we approach the airport in Amman, Jordan. As we disembark, the crew stands at the hatch thanking each passenger in Arabic--except us. To us they say, “Goodbye, thank you,” in English. Are we that easy to identify? Should we worry? Immigration and Customs are efficient and courteous. A tour company driver takes us to our hotel. “We are all for U.K. and U.S. here,” he says. We start to relax and enjoy the sights. There’s a guy with a camel standing at the side of the highway.

Oct. 1: Our tour bus is a big pink-and-white van that screams “Tourists!” There is only one other American couple; the rest are from Britain. We explore Amman with our guide, Aziz, whose first stop is the beautiful King Abdullah Mosque, which shares its neighborhood with two Christian churches. I like that omen. We also learn that Jordan’s second official language is English. So it may be that Jordanians automatically greet every obvious non-Arab in English. Perhaps we can pass ourselves off as Dutch.

After lunch we tour the crowded vegetable market on our own. It is, as Aziz has advised, perfectly safe. I take some pictures, and a guy asks, “What nationality you?”

Without thinking I answer, “USA.”

He kisses his fingers, looks to heaven and repeats, “U-S-A.” He pantomimes a machine gun and says, “Bin Laden--ack, ack, ack,” showing us what he would do were the terrorist in his sights.

Oct. 2: Our pink-and-white bus breezes by Palestinian refugee camps on the way to the northern end of Jordan. We tour Roman ruins at Pella and more Roman ruins at Umm Qais, overlooking the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan River. Aziz presents a carefully balanced summary of the conflicting claims to the Golan Heights, which looms dramatically across the valley. We travel on to the Dead Sea, following a lunch of “holy fish”--St. Peter’s fish--from the Jordan River. (They’re overcooked.)

Oct. 3: Today’s day trip is to Jarash, one of Jordan’s principal historic sites. At a 1st century Roman amphitheater noted for nearly perfect acoustics, Aziz invites us to sing something. I lead off, belting out “New York, New York.”

Jordanian elementary school students are touring here too. “Hi,” one greets me.

“Hi, how are you?” I reply.

This they find hilarious. “How are you?” they hoot in response. “How are you-u-u?”

In Amman again for dinner, we go off on our own to sample street food: falafel and shawarma wrapped in pita. We eat as we walk, dripping the savory juices on ourselves. We strike up a conversation with one stand owner, who motions us toward chairs on the sidewalk. We turn to talk with him, but he’s down on his prayer rug bowing toward Mecca. We might be a novelty to him, but he has more important obligations.

Oct. 4: We’re on the road again, stopping at Mt. Nebo for the view of the promised land that Moses saw, and at Karak to visit a castle that dates to the Crusades. At sunset we pull up in Petra, which you saw in “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.” The Treasury tomb here was portrayed as the repository of the Holy Grail. We take the weekly “Petra by Night” tour, in which 1,500 candles light the way along the mile-long natural passageway through the rocks. It has taken eight men 21/2 hours to light the candles. An official greets the hundred or so tourists. “I am so glad to see so many people,” he says. “Last week we only had two.”

Oct. 5: Daytime numbers are down too. Aziz says that so many tourists usually crowd Petra’s old passageways that he’s pushed along before he can explain much. Today he can have all the time he wants.

The old city is immense, yet between the departure of the Crusaders in the 12th century and its rediscovery by Westerners in the 19th, most of the world forgot that a once-powerful center of trade was still here, carved into the rock walls and canyons of southern Jordan. During that time it was known only to a few Bedouins. The Bedouins now have exclusive rights to vend souvenirs, albeit to a diminished tourist market. They employ a metaphor to try to persuade us they have reduced prices: “Take a look,” they say. “Happy hour.”

Oct. 6: Today it’s Wadi Rum, Lawrence of Arabia country, at Jordan’s southern tip. We burn through lots of film in the spectacular desert. Then we travel about 200 long miles back to Amman. A member of the blue-uniformed Tourism Police joins us. We’ve seen them at several historic sites, and I’m not sure whether they are protecting us from terrorists or protecting the ruins from us. But it’s a reassurance.

Oct. 7: We go to morning liturgy at a Coptic Orthodox church and spend the day market-hopping. I conclude that I feel safer here than in some parts of Washington, D.C., back home.

We’re to fly to Damascus, Syria, tonight. We kill time watching TV, deciding to meet our ride to the airport at 6:45 p.m. At 6:40 CNN announces that U.S. bombing of Afghanistan has begun. Our driver is unaware, and we don’t tell him. But the porter at the airport knows, and our driver accompanies us all the way to the ticket counter before sincerely wishing us a good flight. In Syria, immigration officials are polite but don’t smile.

Oct. 8: The weather is so pleasant that we sleep with the windows open. About 4 a.m., however, I hear the call to prayer. Unlike in Amman, where all the mosques broadcast the same muezzin’s voice from loudspeakers, in Damascus each mosque does its own call. In my paranoia it seems as if they’re talking to each other--about us.

Once again, though, fears are unrealized. We tour the museums and the extensive souk without incident. As in Jordan, dress ranges widely. Some men wear khakis and golf shirts, other men business suits with Arabic headdress, still others nightshirt-like robes called jalabiyyahs .

Some women are covered head to toe, while others wear Western dress with no head covering. Janice is on the liberal side of the spectrum but not at its extreme. At the Umayyad Mosque, however, she must rent a robe and hood, while I need only remove my shoes.

Pictures of the late President Hafez Assad and Bashar, his son and successor, are posted everywhere. There is no sign of public homage to Osama bin Laden & Co. We sneak looks at TV. The voices are Arabic, but the graphics look like CNN’s. The little splats on the map indicate attacks are confined to Afghanistan. Were it not for TV, we would have little sense of what’s happening militarily. People on the street remain friendly.

We dine this evening on lamb in various forms and succulent fresh vegetables at a Damascus restaurant. It plays live music: “Besame Mucho” and “Feelings.”

Oct. 9: More ruins today. We travel three hours into the Syrian desert to Palmyra. Hardly anyone is there. We also stop at an ancient Christian church near Damascus and join pilgrims seeking divine help before a portrait of the Madonna said to be painted from life by St. Luke. I don’t know if that’s true, but this is a time for faith.

Before dinner we relax at the 300-year-old house where our guide grew up, near the souk. His brother serves us dense Arabic coffee and homemade rice pudding. They chat as brothers do, and from beyond the walls we hear the call to prayer. There is no doubt in my mind that we have made the right choice to come to Syria.

Oct. 10: Emboldened by our experience thus far and unaware of U.S. State Department travel warnings, we go to Lebanon. I’ve wanted to visit since 1967, when my Navy ship’s planned stop was canceled because of the Middle East war.

Visitors can obtain a free short-term tourist visa at the border. We drive with guides to historic Baalbek and then to Beirut, a journey of about 60 miles. Unlike Jordan and Syria, here we are stopped at various checkpoints. The police and militiamen all glance casually into our car, smile and wave us on. I’m not sure what they’re looking for, but apparently it’s not us.

Our tour through Beirut is necessarily superficial, but I can report only a few bombed-out buildings. The streets are crowded with cars, and many people walk the scenic promenade along the Mediterranean Sea. I keep telling Janice, “I’m in Beirut! It’s 34 years late, but I’m in Beirut!”

Oct. 11: Goodbye to Syria. Airport security is tighter at Damascus than anywhere else so far. When we walk onto the tarmac, all checked luggage is out on the ground. If no one claims a particular piece, that piece doesn’t make the trip. Authorities search the carry-on luggage, too, even though it has been X-rayed twice already.

Back in Amman, we pack, relax and watch TV. It’s disconcerting. The video of the Middle East doesn’t match what we’ve seen. Perhaps scenes of teenagers screaming, brandishing posters and burning effigies are more newsworthy than people being gracious and hospitable.

Oct. 12: The flight home. I have a dilemma: Friends in the States consider me brave to have gone to the Middle East. Do I tell them the truth--that we never were threatened or, indeed, felt anything other than welcome? That even strangers on the street returned our smiles with bigger smiles? That if Sept. 11 were discussed at all, it was with a tone of sympathy?

Or do I let my friends keep their illusions?