Dancing under the trees in Jordan!

Above: The road out of the Jordan/Palestine border.

Above: Bedouin encampments, looking back across the Jordan River into Palestine.

The friendly chaps at Jordanian immigration welcomed me back. It seems they keep the doors open until the daily deportees from Israel return, usually Palestinians, but the odd tourist also, like myself.

It was 15 km uphill back to the Dead Sea highway. It had been a long day, but tired as I was, I had no option but to climb back onto Rooster, and make the haul.

That’s the thing about cycling; no matter how tired you may be, there’s only one way to get from A to B, and that’s by turning the pedals over, one by one.

There lies the will of it, and in the end, the release.

The road was completely empty of vehicles.

My emotions were still raw from the day’s misadventure, and the isolation on the road heightened the edge, as it usually does. Still, no point fighting what you can't control. and the quickest way from to A to B is to just focus on the job at hand, and let the winds blow where they will.

My water had run out a couple of hours ago back in Allenby, and even though it was approaching 5 pm, the sun still had some bite, and the heat of the day was lingering. Half way up the hill the thirst kicked in.

I need a drink, I need a drink…

Thirst is a hairy, bitch of a dog running up and down your oesophagus, barking uncontrollably and shedding fur.

Three kilometres down and the dog had grown stupider, fatter and was now scraping my insides. I switched my drink of choice to tea, fixing my eyes on the road directly in front of my front wheel, and willing myself up the hill to the highway intersection further on where there were cafes and shops.

I need a tea, I need a tea…

‘Hello, please have tea!’ came a voice from the side of the road. I looked across to the left, and sitting under a row of fruit trees sat a Jordanian family, in a circle, waving.

Well, what could I say? Right on time! Hail Mary, full of grace...

I wheeled the bike around, coasted off the road and cycled down the dirt track leading to the trees. I leaned Rooster against a rock.

‘Hello! Hello! Salam! Salam!’ called the smiling faces, and I gratefully took the tea that was proffered, and sat down on a chair that magically appeared before I could think about where to sit.

Yeah, Arabic tea. Black, strong and sweet. I’m a fan.

Mohammed, his wife and four daughters were from Amman, and were spending the day in the country, having visited relatives earlier in the afternoon. They were now having an early supper before the drive back home.

After the usual questions - name, country, job, religion, kangaroos and views on Jordan, and three more teas, we quickly settled into a comfortable rhythm, alternating between talk, easy silence and food.

I was welcomed, but more than that, instinctively, and surprisingly, I felt wanted by these people. It was as if the blood that ran through their bodies somehow attracted my blood, and exhausted soul that I was, I simply gave into it. Perhaps, in days gone by, I would have recoiled from this feeling, wondering just what these strangers were pulling me, like a magnet, into. I would have gone through the motions, but kept myself apart.

But not today...

The politics and strife of the day suddenly felt like a world away, and I knew, on some visceral level, that the polite rituals we moved through here, under the trees in Jordan, as host and guest, were more than just gestures of intent, but something deeper and older, and they would keep the devil at bay, for now, at least.

I drank more tea.

“Felix, there is thing serious I must to say you, and is important to us you understand the words I say,” said Freya, after a long and confidential chat to her mother.

At 12 years old, Freya was the eldest child, and spoke better English than both her parents and sisters. She was dressed casually in blue jeans and a black top, her finely chiselled face and strong Arabic nose framed by a tight white jilbab. Her appearance was not so much pretty, but rather striking, and even at this young age, commanding of respect. She translated back and forth between the family and myself with deliberate ease, and was obviously a girl who was used to taking responsibility.

I was impressed.

She sat opposite me on the rug with her three sisters, two of whom were twins, Hana and Amina, aged 11, and the youngest, and liveliest, being raven headed, dark eyed Khalidah, who was just 6.

‘I love you!’ Khalidah would say at intermittent intervals in the conversation, and then dash behind her mother for cover. ‘I love you too, Khalidah!’ I would reply, putting my hand to my heart, and making a face which said, ‘I am love struck!’, which I was.

However, having just battled the mind games down at Allenby, I had what you might term 'post Israeli borderline fatigue', and pending this potentially grave 'thing serious' from Freya, I was understandably nervous. I wasn't sure how much more weird shit I could handle.

I turned to listen to what she had to say.

“Felix," she said,"we are not Osama bin Laden!", pausing to gather her words.
“Yes,” I said, immediately, nodding quickly in agreement, but thinking this may be one of the worst moments of my life.

Osama bin Laden? Where on earth was this going?

"And the thing I must to tell you,” she went on, motioning with her arm to include the family, “is that we are Muslim, but we love you.”

I smiled, almost relieved, and nodded slowly.

“Is important my family you understand my words to you,” she continued, and looked up, soberly, waiting for a reply.

I nodded again, taking time to gather my own words, relief flooding my body. This was, indeed, a most beautiful of declarations, and it took me totally by surprise.

My God, I thought, how can you not give your heart to these people?

“I understand that, Freya,” I replied, speaking slowly so as to be clearly understood, “and please thank your family for telling me that. I am very happy to know.”

She passed on what I said.

“And anyway, Freya," I said, when she'd finished, lifting my face directly to hers, "I knew that all along, because you don’t look like Osama bin Laden at all!”

She sat up on the mat, surprised and a little confused, and as I held my ground, I felt her reach straight into my eyes, brave girl that she was, looking for the man who spoke.

A second later she broke into the most delightful of smiles, and for a moment, inside a place where the evening star glows soft and bright in a most immense indigo sky, we danced together, just the two of us, under the trees in Jordan.

It sure beats politics, and I was home.

When she translated the ‘bin Laden’ joke for the curious family, her parents lent back in their chairs and guffawed, and the twins, acutely amused, broke into peals of uncontrollable laughter, and went about calling their big sister ‘Osama’ for rest of my stay.

Maybe they still do?

It was dark and approaching 7 pm when I made it up to the intersection at the Dead Sea highway. I got off the bike and stood by the curb considering my options. There were only two ways to go: back to the Dead Sea and an uncomfortable second night on the beach, or back to Amman, by bus, and a good night’s sleep at the Cliff Hostel.

I chose the bus.