Cycling in the footsteps of Jesus to India!

Sara & Lara Land in Ramtha

2010-05-20T13:49:00.000-07:00

"What is your name?" I asked the little girl, slowly and deliberately.

She stood defiant, with her hands on her hips looking me straight in the eye, as you would if you were about 4 and a strange European looking man with long hair and a bicycle had suddenly appeared your Jordanian lounge room.

She said nothing, but continued to stare, as only little girls can.

Above: Lara, the youngest, after we'd overcome the 'name problem', and settled down to the more serious work of getting to know each other.

Above: Sara, the oldest, also getting to know me. However, in the bottom photograph you can see that Lara has returned to the TV, and Sara is working the game on the cellphone, which just goes to prove that no matter how hard you try, in the end, you are just some boring guy.

After getting turned back at the Syrian border, I rode back into Jordan, intending to return to Irbid, and Plan B.

There was a hot easterly blowing across the road, and the dust was picking up, as was my thirst, so at Ramtha, a small town a couple of kilometres down the road, I stopped at a convenience store to stock up on water.

Out of the Car Insurance shop next door came Salah, a Ramtha local, and invited me in for air-conditioning and tea. A few hours later I was sitting in his loungeroom, my bags unpacked, sipping on more tea, while his wife did my laundry.

Having been turned back at the Syrian border, and not actually having a Plan B, I needed time to think, and a cool, comfortable, home environment was a welcome respite from ‘the road’.

“Stay as long as you like, Felix,” said Salah, “a week, a month, it’s up to you!”, Jordanian hospitality being what it is.
“That’s very kind,” I said. “I’ll stay tonight, and see how we go in the morning.”

Two little girls came bounding into the room. “These are my daughters, Sara and Lara,” said Salah, smiling broadly. Sara looked to be about 6, and Lara, about 4. They both stopped and stared.

Lara, the youngest and the boldest, stood in front of me, holding her ground, while Sara, a little older and wiser perhaps, moved across behind her father, happy to wait and see what the strange man would do.

“What is your name?” I asked. Lara said nothing, but just stood with hands on hips, staring me in the face.

I tried again.

“You Lara, me Fee-liks!” I said, pointing at Lara and myself in turn. I smiled.

She screwed her face up, lifted her fists up to her ribcage in high indignation and launched into a rapid stream of Arabic, looking to her father for acknowledgment. It sounded like, ‘Blahblahblahblah LOR-ROR blahblahblahblah LARA! Blahblahblahblah?’, and offended.

Now, my Arabic is so small as to be almost non-existent, but I understood what the little girl was saying, read: ‘Daddy, this fool is calling me LOR-ROR, and my name is LA-RA! What’s his problem?’

“Sorry, sorry,” I said, “It’s my accent.” This little girl was full of fire, but I like a good fire.

I tried again, working hard to keep the ‘A’s short and the ‘R’ clipped. “Hello, Lara, me Fee-liks!” I said, or at least, that's what I thought I said.

She threw her hands up in disgust. “Blahblahblah - LOR-ROR! LOR-ROR! Blahblahblahblah!” she said, which no doubt translates as ‘Look, he’s saying it again – LOR-ROR! LOR-ROR! This man is an imbecile!’

Sara giggled, and I was sweating. Just as well I wasn’t facing an alien with a ray gun – I’d be zapped by now.

“La-ra, La-ra, La-ra…,” I repeated, over and over, until I started to approximate a reasonable rendition of the correct Arabic pronunciation, according to Lara.

Slowly her facial muscles relaxed, a little, so I knew I was on-track, and eventually, judging by the arms coming down and the fists unfolding, I knew she was placated, if not wholly satisfied. Sara looked on, highly amused, and at least that’s one bonus with kids – there’s no mistaking how they feel about a situation, and where you stand.

From then on we had what you would call a ‘good working relationship’, and things settled back to normal in the Sara and Lara household, or as normal as can be when there’s a cycling weirdo with a speech impediment in your house.

I stayed for three days.

The Al-Rakib Hotel

2010-05-19T09:51:00.000-07:00

Above: The Al-Rakib Hotel, Irbid, northwestern Jordan, close to the Syrian border.

The owner, Mr Ali, was a small, friendly, gnome of a man, about 60 years old, who spent most of his time juggling the needs of his guests, and that of his two wives and 12 children.

His wives lived upstairs, but this being ‘Arabi’, you never saw much of them, and when you did they were so well covered up in sheets as to be virtually unrecognisable. I never could tell them apart. The kids, the ones who were still at home, moved freely though the hotel, part of the furniture as much as the TV, only more entertaining.

There were four fans in the sitting room, one in each corner, and when they came on around midday, they rattled incessantly. It sounded like we were on the inside of large Russian propeller driven cargo plane, struggling to get over a mountain.

The TV played Syrian serials most nights, some of them soaps, but also some well made historical dramas, which I took an interest in. They were all in Arabic, of course, but you could follow the drift well enough, if not the details. The historical dramas seemed to feature, almost without exception, evil Turks and Frenchmen, in all of their devious complexity, Syria having been under both Ottoman and French rule at various times in recent history.

The shows out of Syria were interspersed with the occasional Arabic pop music presentation coming out of Lebanon, the most liberal of the Middle Eastern states. The racy female presenters wore off-the-shoulder gowns, painstakingly complex hairstyles and heavy eye and face makeup, displaying just enough cleavage to keep you hanging on.

Sitting in an armchair in conservative Jordan, where there is extremely little flesh on show, it was riveting stuff.

Late at night, when the family and most of the guests had gone to bed, Ali would sit up on the office computer and surf porn on the internet. ‘Mr Felix, please in English search for me’, he would ask, and I’d oblige.

It sometimes took a little while to work out just what Ali wanted me to search for. “Ah, who or what is it you want to see to be doing what to whom, or what, Ali?” I’d ask, seeking clarification. Thence would follow an insane pantomime of lewd gestures, and you had to wonder, with such a strong imagination and two wives, why Ali needed the internet at all.

Eventually I’d get the gist. ‘Ah, isn’t that illegal, Ali?’ I’d ask.‘No, no, no!’ Ali would say, excitedly.‘OK, whatever, man’, I’d say, and type the specifications into Google, hitting the return button, and leaving him to it, usually.

In the room next to mine lived Amir, a large, fat Libyan chap from Benghazi, He was about 35, his face was boyish, he had full, round lips, and he wore a loose fitting black suit, day in, day out, morning, noon and night. I never saw him out of it.

There was something wholly sensual about Amir – the languid way he moved, the delicate way he picked up his glass of tea and pursed his lips as he took a sip, rolling the tea around in his mouth, before he let the hot, sweet liquid roll down his throat, and I did wonder whether this was the quality that had brought about his undoing back in Libya.

“Mr Amir, he has big family problem at home,” Ali had whispered to me late one night, hinting darkly at something to do with ‘a woman’. Whatever the problem was, it seemed Amir couldn’t go home for sometime yet.

He didn’t speak a word of English, and sometimes we’d sit opposite each other in the old floral armchairs by the bay windows, in total silence. Amir would smile easily to himself, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular, as if enjoying a private delight, and then just as quickly his face would fall, betraying deep sorrow. I would watch his eyes slowly turn into black holes.

After a few moments, he would reach for a cigarette, light it up, blow smoke out in thick, soft clouds, and slowly return.

It was like watching a large cat albeit with its back leg in a snare, and you just hoped that the dogs didn't rip him apart.

Down the corridor lived Omar, a local Jordanian, replete with finely chiseled moustache and slicked back hair. He kept his striped shirts open to the chest, sported a large gold watch and wore pointy, black leather shoes.

Verging on middle age, Omar was not the kind of man you would trust with your wallet, nor your daughter. ‘You are my very good friend, Mr Fee-liks,’ he would tell me most days, conspiratorially, ‘perhaps my only true friend!’

He would then lean on me for a Dinar (about a dollar), and never pay it back.

This went on for two weeks, and about 10 Dinars, until I finally drew the line at ‘Please lend me 50 Dinar, Mr Fee-liks’. The look of hurt on Omar’s face when I refused him was almost real. He carried around a wounded expression for the next few days, and then one morning he was gone.

“Men come looking for Omar, he must leave,” said Ali. “He go to Syria.”

I almost felt sorry for him.

If I ever made it up to Damascus, I felt sure I'd run into my only true friend, Omar. There he would be, and there I would be, in some back alleyway, and it would be like old friends meeting.

I wished him well.

At Ramtha, on the Jordan-Syria border

2010-05-16T12:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I attempted to enter Syria, without success.

I am now officially barred from entering there, and along with that, one can assume Iran. This unfortunate state of affairs is wholly due to the rather punitive Israeli 'Entery Prohibited to Israel' (sic.) stamp in my passport, which I managed to collect a few weeks ago, having been barred from entering there.

The reason? I truthfully (stupidly?) told the adolescents at Allenby (the Israeli entry point at the West Bank) I was intending to visit some Palestinian areas, and, as I soon found out, this is a big no-no. The Israelis, it appears, do not want the international community seeing what they are actually doing in the Palestinian areas, so they refused me entry, a not totally uncommon practice in the Zionist State.

The 'Entery Prohibited' stamp, of course, was purely unnecessary, the border children knowing full well it would cause me trouble in both Syria and Iran - thank you, Israel, you are most kind. :(

This now officially shoots a massive hole in this planned journey of mine from Jerusalem to India, so I now return to Irbid and Amman, here in Jordan, and do a major rethink.

I have been here in Ramtha for two days now, enjoying the people, taking a bit of time to think, and sleeping at the houses of my friends Majdid and Salah.

Ramtha is a small town, with a close-knit community, and indeed, it's hard to beat the hospitality of the Jordanians.

Photos to follow.

Between 2 Arrows - The Palestinian Refugee Camp, Part 2.

2010-05-10T12:59:00.000-07:00

The Palestinian Refugee Camp, Part 1.

2010-05-07T07:52:00.000-07:00

Meeting Daffy Duck in Zarqa!

2010-05-03T13:16:00.000-07:00

Above: The souk (market) in Irbid, northern Jordan.

Today’s plan was to make from Amman through to Irbid, Jordan’s second biggest city, some 100 km away. Irbid lies on an elevated plateau in the northwest of the corner of the country, a short 25 km from the Syrian border.

100 km is about a 6 to 7 hour ride by the time you throw in a few coffee breaks, lunch and a long philosophical chat with a lady Arabic belly dancer, who has beckoned to you from behind the drapes of a first floor window, under which you consult your map.

You never know...

I’d intended to exit Amman in the northwest corner of the city, and take Highway 35 running due north direct to Irbid via Jarash, Jarash being a former 2nd century Roman provincial capital, very much on the tourist list in Jordan.

I was curious to see it, but I do find that just looking at 'bricks and stones' bores me rather quickly. I get more speed out of sitting in an ancient church, for example, and doing exacty what thousands have done before me, in exactly the same spot.

I had a leisurely breakfast in Amman, and didn’t actually climb onto the bike until 11 am, there being no great rush for an experienced cyclist like myself.

I set off up the hill from the Cliff Hotel, in the centre of the old town, in a roughly northwest direction, my Amman city map being too small to be of any use.

No problem, I’d just nose my way forward.

After puffing my way up the first hill and winding road, more hills and winding roads just kept coming, for twenty kilometres. Half the time I got off and wheeled the bike, and my schedule was looking decidedly dodgy before I’d even left the city.

Take it from me, there a lot of hills in Amman. The sun beat down, and I was directionless. So much for pride in one's current and previous achievements.

Two hours later I found myself stranded on a freeway cloverleaf at the north eastern edge of the city, and confronted by a big sign pointing to ‘Al Zarqa’. I’d obviously taken a wrong turn somewhere.

Judging by the map, Al Zarqa looked to be a sizable city, some 20 km further on, but more east than I wanted to go. Oh well, add on a few kilometres to Irbid (10, 20 or more?), and so be it. I wasn’t about to double back into the hills of Amman and find out where I’d gone wrong.

A flexible cyclist is a happy cyclist.

When I finally got out onto the highway, and clear space, I switched on the Ipod, put my head down, pumped the pedals, and listened to Leon Russell over and over. Repeating songs ad infitum seems to go with the act of cycling, I find...

Roll away the stone,
Don’t leave me here alone!
Resurrect me,

and protect me,
Don’t leave me layin’ here,
What would they do in 2,000 years?

With the rugged, barren hills of Biblical Jordan slipping slowly by, it was apt. I sang along. It was approaching 2 pm by the time I got to the ‘Welcome to Al Zarqa’ sign.

I turned off the highway and made my way up a small side street, looking for a well earned Pepsi, and as I pulled up at a small corner store, my front tyre went straight down. Pssssssst!

I hadn’t even dismounted. Right on time…

‘Thank you, Lord, for deflating-eth my tyre now, and not 7 kilometres back up the road on the highway with all the big trucks making my life miserable-eth. Over and out, cheers!’

A positive cyclist is a happy cyclist.

These tyres were looking decidedly dodgy…

I’d bought them in Indonesia almost a year ago when I’d been out in the wilds of Sumatra doing a loop around Riau Province. They were Chinese made, and extremely cheap, but I figured they’d last for a 4 week Indo ride, which they did.

Two months ago, before I set out for the Middle East, I’d meant to replace them with some hi-tech puncture-resistant Space Shuttle brand or other in Thailand, but like the fool I am, I’d balked at the price in the bike shop in Bangkok.

Now I was paying. I’d already had two flat tyres down south of Amman on my way to Palestine.

Rule number 4 for cyclists: Always equip your bicycle with expensive, hi-tech, puncture-resistant tyres.

Oh, well, let’s get a drink…

I walked into the corner store, greeted the large bald man behind the counter (‘A-salam-mel-ai-ee-coom!’) and grabbed a big bottle of water and a can of Pepsi from the refrigerator.

When I plonked them on the counter and began to take out my money, the large man began waving his hands in the air. “No pay, no pay, welcome to Jordan!” he said.

No matter how much I protested, he wouldn’t take the money.

“Shukran, shukran! Thank you, thank you!” I said, and he gave me a wide grin. Hell, what’s with these people? The kindness to strangers in Jordan is almost disturbing.

I stood outside the door in the shade and took a large gulp of Pepsi, letting the carbonated bubbles work their magic on the inside of my dry throat. Before I could take a second draught, the large bald man came scurrying out with a plastic drink box, and motioned for me to sit.

“Shukran, shukran!” I said, and sat down, feeling very much wanted.

Free drinks, free seat. You can’t complain.

In the vacant allotment across the road, a group of about a dozen young boys had gathered for an impending soccer match, and I settled in to watch. Like boys anywhere, they squabbled and gesticulated madly until the teams were sorted and the all-important rules agreed upon, the bigger boys, naturally, holding sway.

“Hello, what is your name? What is your country?” called one of the boys. He was dressed, like the others, in a grubby tee-shirt, short pants and bare feet, and was grinning from ear to ear. All the boys had stopped to look.

“Mr Fee-liks, from Ors-tray-lee-ar!” I shouted back, which got a rousing shout of approval, and a few thumbs up.

I felt even more wanted.

The game commenced.

The gravel-dry pitch lurched dangerously down towards the right, and the goals at each end, perhaps 30 metres apart, were marked by old truck tyres. This was no big stadium match, but the intensity after kick-off was approaching a Barcelona v Real Madrid El Classico, complete with an international audience of, in this case, one.

I shouted encouragement. This boy’s business, like boy’s business the world over, was serious stuff.

Clouds of dust swirled into the air, and pairs of crazy feet skidded to and fro in singular pursuit of the ball, and glory. 1-0 to the team kicking uphill to the left.

I cheered and clapped. The boys waved back.

This suburb was no doubt at the lower economic end of Zarqa, and there wasn’t a green thing to be seen. The sandstone coloured brick houses, two and three story square boxes split by tight lanes, were roughly hewn and coated in yellow dust. Graffiti ran along the walls. Most of it was in Arabic, but some I recognised.

‘Free Palestine!’ and ‘We will return!’ were painted in large black Arabic letters across the bricks at one end of the yard, as was the ubiquitous ‘LOVE’, in English, under which was drawn an arrowed heart, bordered by a map of Palestine.

One had to assume this was a Palestinian area.

Over by the down pipes beside one of the lanes, I also spotted the word ‘Drogpa’, which I assumed referred to the renowned Ivory Coast striker who plays for Chelsea, one of the top English Premier League clubs. Football is never far from the popular mind in Jordan.

Gusts of hot wind pushed plastic bags down the road, and I sucked on my drink.

This store was busy.

Kids, large and small, wandered in at short intervals, alone and in small groups, always surprised at the odd man sitting on the plastic box beside the door. They stopped a metre or two away, smiling shyly, not quite sure how to proceed, but drawn in by the curiosity that had appeared out of nowhere onto home turf.

“Ah-salam-mee-lie-ee-cum!” I would say, which would magically break the ice.

We would shake hands and exchange names, and after working out that I was from Australia, and that I was riding a bicycle around Jordan, they went away laughing and talking excitedly amongst themselves, laden with ice creams, sweets and a most strange and unexpected encounter at the corner shop.

These kids were gems.

I finished the Pepsi and moved on to the water.

“Why do Western governments support Israel, Felix?” asked Ahmed. Ahmed was about 40, spoke good English, and had come to sit beside me on his own plastic box, drinking a can of orange Punch, a popular local brand.

He was a lieutenant in the Jordanian army, and this part of Zarqa, he told me, was entirely Palestinian. His own family had fled from Palestine in 1948, escaping what was the beginning of a long and brutal Israeli land-grab that continues through to today. They had settled in Jordan, where he was born, and like two million other refugees, had started from scratch, re-building communities where they could.

That’s if you believed the stories, of course, and the stories I was hearing all over Jordan were common to all Palestinians, and invariably consistent.

“That’s a big question, Ahmed,” I replied, grasping for something politic to say. I felt awkward, and sitting there on my box, exposed.
“Can’t the West see what the Israelis are doing to us?” he went on.
“I don’t really know, Ahmed,” I said, looking down at the ground, trying to gather my thoughts.

Since I'd been in Jordan, the Palestinians had gotten under my skin, and I really didn't want to just real off the usual platitudes.

As a Westerner, I already felt uneasy about the politics, and Dumbo the Elephant could see that they were at the pointy end of a very big political stick. As a race of people they'd had been cut adrift, by and large, by the rest of the world community, the Arab states included. No matter where you looked, the 'politics of Palestine' were so murky and convoluted that you didn't hold out much hope.

In talking to the Palestinians, you couldn't help but note a deep and real suffering, and it demanded respect. In the face of all that I'd seen, the smooth hand of easy platitudes would be an insult.

“I guess it’s historical as much as political, and I guess the media doesn’t help,” I said. “Arabs across the board, and in particular, Palestinians, don’t exactly get a good showing in the West.”

Ahmed nodded. “Do Westerners think we are terrorists?” he asked. “Or are we just barbarians?” There was a playful humour in the question, but, I also felt, an underlying seriousness, and I turned to look at him. Perhaps, I wondered, deep inside the dark cave of my root programming, I believed that.

One of my favourite cartoon characters is Hassan, the mad, scimitar welding, camel riding Arab, arch foe of Daffy Duck. He is a bearded, barbarous, towel-headed chap, and in the days before we knew the word, total jihad.

The late, great Chuck Jones, arguably the father of modern animation, drew both characters for Warner Brothers in the 1950s and early ‘60s.

In the Warner cartoon, Hassan is the keeper of Ali Baba’s treasure, a rather large stash of stolen gold and jewels sequestered deep inside a secret cave. A magic stone guards the cave, and only the right words will dislodge it.

Daffy, being a desperately egotistical chap, is trying to steal the treasure.

The subtext of the cartoon, of course, is that the treasure is ‘stolen goods’ anyway, so you can forgive Daffy this acquisitive foible, nobody being totally clean in this war (as Ed Hoffman, head of the CIA’s Middle East Division, played by Russel Crowe, reminds us in the recent Hollywood film ‘Body of Lies’.).

After much sweaty endeavour, Daffy finally gets into the cave, and starts heaving the loot out into the open, ready for escape. Hassan appears with sword in hand, and screams, ‘Hassan chop!’ and you must admit, Hassan bears all the hallmarks of a terrorist.

Now, whether Hassan is actually a Palestinian, Syrian, Saudi, Libyan, Kuwati, or even a Bedouin, was a no-issue finer point lost on my schoolboy mind.

Hell, these Arabs were barbarians, and the Zionists were probably right to kill them!

“It’s all mine!” shouts Daffy, spread-eagled atop the treasure.
“Hassan chop!” screams Hassan again, waving his sword around, and on it goes.

You had to laugh.

There’s no question in my mind that there’s a little bit of Daffy Duck in us all, the Zionists included, and I did wonder, sitting there on my box, just how much Daffy has driven Western foreign policy over the last 60 years.

It was a disturbing thought.

It also struck me that Daffy Duck would have been an incisive way for the clergy to teach young Catholic schoolboys about the insideous, self-serving workings of the devilish mind, viz.;

Scene: Whitefriars College in the outer eastern suburbs of Melbourne, sometime in the 1970s.
The priest strides into the classroom to begin ‘religious instruction’. “Here,” he announces boldly, to the bored class of 40 schoolboys, “is a picture of the devil!”
He holds up a full colour photo of Daffy Duck.

My fuckin’ mind would have collapsed.

“Well, Ahmed, when I was a young I was taught that the Jews were good, and the Arabs were bad,” I said. “And Palestinians are Arabs, therefore…” My voice trailed off. After all that mental activity, I couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say.

Ahmed looked up, and smiled a sad smile. I guess I'd just told him what he already knew. He stood up and patted me on the shoulder. "I get you another drink, Felix, you look like needing one," he said, laughing. "Punch or Pepsi?"
"Punch," I said, and was left alone for a few minutes to contemplate my sins.

I must say, that one of the funny things I've noted about sins, is that once drawn out, they are invariably wrapped in shame.

We were still sitting at the shop come 4 o’clock.

The soccer game had finished (I’d lost track of the score), and Ahmed got a call from his wife. “She wondering where I am,” he said. I made a gesture of What can you do?.
“Same thing in the West, Ahmed,” I said, and he laughed.
“I think it too late for you cycle to Irbid today, Felix,” he said “but you can stay at the Gaza Hotel. It just up the hill, and cheap.”
“I think I might do that,” I said. It had been an interesting day, and I really didn’t need any more stimulation.
“Thank you for talking, Felix, and welcome to Jordan,” he said, as we shook hands and parted. “Don’t forget us.”
“My pleasure, and I won’t, ah-salam,” I replied, and stood watching him walk across the vacant lot, disappearing into one of the alleyways between the houses, never, I guessed, to be seen again.

I said my goodbyes to the large bald man in the shop, and wheeled the bike up the hill, past the mosque, and checked into the hotel.

After I fixed my tyre, I headed down to the souk for some food. An hour later I was back in my room, and I switched on the tube.

Al Jazeera was doing a piece on illegal Israeli settlements in East Jerusalem, and some Palestinian boys were throwing stones at Israeli soldiers in protest. The soldiers were grappling with a few boys, and then shoving them head first into the dark interior of the waiting armoured vans, never, I guessed, to be seen again.

Tomorrow I’d head to Irbid.

I had a dream...

2010-04-25T08:12:00.000-07:00

Above: Mr Felix at the Hillary Step on Mount Everest.

The Hillary Step is a 15 metre (5 storey) vertical rock wall, the last hurdle before you reach the the summit of Mount Everest. The summit is a further 100 metres further up along the ridge, with a 3,000 metre drop on both sides.

----

I had a dream...

I am dragging my bicycle up the vertical edge of the Hillary Step, cycling to the summit of Mount Everest.

Night is closing in.

I am almost at the top of the Step. I am jammed between the rock and an ice overhang. I hold tightly onto my bicycle, shivering in the cold.

I look up and realise that to go on may be extremely foolish.

Cycling along the icy ridge to the summit is close to suicide. To be able to do it, I will need to cycle at top speed.

One slip and I am dead.

Perhaps, I think, discretion is the better part of valour, and it may be sensible to just stop here and return back down the mountain.

I can't make up my mind.

I figure I've got one shot in a hundred of making it, but is that enough? I hate the shame of giving up, but then again, pride can be destructive.

I decide to turn back. My stomach sinks...

I wake up.

The Jesus Route begins in Jerusalem, goes north through Damascus and Aleppo in Syria, east to Mosel in Iraq, then continues straight across Iran to the city of Meshad.

From Meshad, the route crosses into Afghanistan at Herat, and pushes onto Kabul and Jalalabad in the far east of the country, bordering Pakistan.

Crossing into Pakistan, it goes through to the ancient city of Taxila and nearby modern day Maree, north west of Islamabad. From Islamabad it’s just a short hop into India, and up into Srinagar and Kashmir.

Iraq and Afghanistan are pretty much out of the equation to be begin with, for obvious reasons.

However, it is possible to enter Kurdish northern Iraq through Turkey, and I did hear of a backpacker who got through to Mosel, with a military escort.

It is also possible to go to Kabul and Jalalabad in Afghanistan, although 'backwards' from Pakistan. However, the word is that it is best to fly from Islamabad, rather than catching the bus. The route goes up through the Kyber Pass from Peshawar, and these areas are unstable. Cycling would indeed be suicide.

I don't fancy ending up on Al Jazeera.

It gets worse...

Now, here in Amman, Jordan, with a brand new Israeli ‘Entery Prohibited’ (sic.) stamp in my passport, it’s now probable that Syria and Iran are off the map, the politics of passport stamps being what it is.

That really only leaves Pakistan and India as sure bets, and it may be that this trip is doomed before it has begun.

Tomorrow I leave Amman, and cycle 85 km up to Irbid in the north of Jordan. On Wednesday or Thursday I expect to be at the Syrian border, and will then find out whether I am ‘allowed in’, or not.

"Ah, Mr Feeliks," says the man at the Syrian border with the bushy mustache and large belly, "we've been expecting you!" He grins.

If do get into Syria, I continue on, and see if I can get an Iranian visa in Damascus. Whatever happens then, I can at least cycle up to Turkey, and attempt to get into northern Iraq.

That would be something at least.

If I’m not allowed into Syria, I can also, I figure, say goodbye to Iran, and the trip, pretty much is stalled, just like on the Hillary Step.

“What is Plan B, Feely?” asks Mr Pumpy, cheerfully, as we sit watching the tube with four Japanese students and a one-legged Egyptian ex-bus driver, at the Cliff Hotel in Amman.
"Ah, I'm still working out the details, compadre," I say, looking back to the teev, where Al Jazeera is rolling out the latest explosion somewhere in Pakistan. It looks bad.
“Ah, Feely," he asks again, after a moment, "do we have a Plan B?”

Outside in the street, through the lattice windows, comes the sound of car horns blowing and young men shouting. Barcelona has just beaten Xerez 3-1 to stay top of the Spanish league, and Jordan is erupting.

----

Of course, the dream may have nothing to do with the route itself. It may have more to do with why I'm doing what I'm doing, and the demons that drive me on.

Maybe it really is time to stop?

Walking around Amman

2010-04-19T12:33:00.000-07:00

Dancing under the trees in Jordan!

2010-04-18T14:12:00.000-07:00

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.

The Funny Bus back to Jordan!

2010-04-17T06:25:00.000-07:00

I climbed onto the bus, nodded to the driver and sat down on the first seat to the left, dropping my pannier bags beside me. Rooster was stowed into the luggage compartment underneath.

“Welcome, Mr Fee-liks,” said the conductor, smiling broadly as he walked towards me from the back of the bus.
“Yeah, cheers,” I said, not really feeling like smiling myself.

Man, what a day!

I’d just been denied entry into Israel at the Allenby border crossing, and was being deported back to Jordan.

To my right was the quiet Arab chap in the dark suit who'd been sitting at the back of the bus on the way into Allenby earlier in the day. I nodded and smiled, and he returned the greeting. I guessed he was being deported too.

I’d spent a total of 4 hours in Israel, or to be exact, Israeli immigration, and it had been an unpleasant experience. I’d gotten grilled for over an hour about my ‘plans’, made to wait for almost another three hours, and then escorted out of the building and put back on the bus to Jordan.

Well, that nailed Jerusalem in the ‘Jerusalem to Kashmir’ ride. How about ‘Bethany-beyond-the Jordan to Kashmir’?

It didn’t have quite the same creative ring to it, but I’d work on the branding later. Creativity, like life, is a plastic process.

In the meantime, I actually felt OK to be heading back to Jordan. It’s laid back, the folks are basically friendly and trustworthy, and I wasn’t going to be confronted with wholesale ethnic war.

A year in Malaysia listening to my Palestinian friends tell their stories, and a couple of weeks in Amman, listening to the same, had somewhat coalesced my views on the Zionist regime. I’m not a big fan.

The bus pulled away from the curb, and I settled into my seat and took a breath – I needed to collect myself. I felt like I'd been in a pressure cooker for the last few hours, and however I emerged, rare or well done, I’d be dining out on this experience for a while.

I felt a mixture of emotions; sad, angry, annoyed, happy, and not the least, ‘what the fuck!’, but I also felt shamed, and in a way, humiliated by the experience.

I was the boy who’d missed the penalty kick, and the team lost. I was the dummy at the bottom of the class who’d failed the maths test. I’d forgotten my lines in the Nativity Play in front of the entire school, and I’d be eating my sandwiches alone in the playground for the next week, at least.

Shame, I mused, as I sat alone in my seat, is like taking a shower and watching yourself drain away down the plughole, and I did wonder how the Palestinians in Israel cope with it, day in, day out.

How do you not throw stones? How do you not let hate overtake you? How do you keep the ventricles of the heart open?

I also wondered how much of the pain and struggle of human existence is simply the need to be treated as, exactly that, human. Of course, this sword cuts across the whole spectrum of social interaction, in both directions, and how was the human race, I further mused, going to cope when the United Nations finally disclosed that there were alien bases on the dark side of the moon…

Shit! My passport! I don’t have my passport!

“Stop the bus!” I shouted, leaping out of my seat. “Stop the bus!” The conductor and the driver turned around with looks verging on horror. “My passport, my passport! I don’t have my passport!” I called.

Somehow in the strained atmosphere of Allenby and all things Borg, I’d completely forgotten about it on my way out of the building. Perhaps I'd gotten distracted by the children running around with the machine guns?

“Hey, no problem, no problem, Mr Fee-liks!” said the driver, keeping on driving and holding my passport up in his right hand. He handed it to the conductor who passed it across.
“Thanks,” I said, much relieved, “I thought I’d forgotten it.”
“No problem, no problem!” laughed the driver. Well, that explains how they knew my name.

I opened it up to take a look.

Oh, fuck! Oh, seriously, fuck, fuck, fuck! My stomach dropped.

The Israelis had put a very large, and very obvious ‘Denied Entry into Israel' stamp into my passport, and this was potentially disastrous. My planned route was up through Syria and Iran, and any whiff of an Israeli connection at the border of either of these countries meant you don’t get in.

Iraq and Afghanistan were 'off the map' from the get go, and now taking Palestine, my starting point, along with Syria and Iran, out of a cycling trip that followed Jesus's supposed route to India, didn't leave much.

Specifically it left only Pakistan and India. Hell, I could have just flown to Delhi and done a little loop!

Looping around Pakistan and India in the footsteps of Jesus on a bike?

“This is insane!” I said, out loud, holding up the passport for all to see. “What is wrong with these people?”

All three faces turned to look.

‘They’ve given me a reject stamp! What the fuck! Why did they do this?” I was outraged. At Allenby I’d asked specifically for ‘no stamp’, and I couldn’t help but think that this reject stamp was purely punitive.

Ok, don't let me into your country, fine! But why make life difficult for me after I'd gone? The bastards knew it would create problems...

"And they've even spelled it wrong!" I said. The Israelis had spelled 'Entry denied' as 'Entery denied'. "They're fuckin' morons!"

I was very pissed off.

The Arab chap across the aisle turned and chuckled. “They are Israelis, Mr Fee-liks, they can do what they want!"
“Yes, happens all the time, Mr Fee-liks, nothing to worry about,” said the conductor, also chuckling.
"Yes," I said, "but why me?"

There was a momentary pause, and all three began to laugh.

"Fuck, what's the joke here?” I asked, staring into three highly amused faces. All three gazed back, teeth shining in the half light of the bus.

Well, it was obvious that the indignant Australian cyclist flipping out in seat 1A was the joke. “This is nuts!” I said, exasperated, and throwing my hands in the air.

“Yes, Mr Fee-liks, it is nuts!” said the conductor, and he looked at me with such kindness and genuine amusement, that for the first time since I'd entered Allenby, I didn't feel completely alone, nor a total fool. "It is Israel!" he added, shrugging his shoulders.
"Oh, man!" I said, "Maybe I should go back and complain about the spelling mistake!" which brought a renewed gale of laughter from all three men.
"Yes, yes, I can take you back!" said the bus driver.
"No, forget it, man," I said, now laughing myself. "Fuck 'em!"

This bus was Loony Tunes, but I kinda liked it.

We drove past the white porta-huts behind the cyclone fences on the Israeli side of the border, and if the men in the huts with earphones on were tuning into the conversations, all they would be hearing is insane laughter

At least we're having fun, you fuckers!

I told my story.

“You told the Israelis the truth, Mr Fee-liks?” asked the conductor when I’d finished, somewhat dumbfounded.
“Well, yes, kind of,” I said, which ignited more laughter. This was one hell of a bus.
“Always, the Israelis do this, Mr Fee-liks,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. "They do not want you to see what they are doing in the Palestinian areas."
"How many people do they chuck out?" I asked.
“Always we have people on the bus,” he said.
"Idiots like me, you mean?" I made a face, and shook my head.
"No, no, Mr Fee-liks, you are our friend!" called the bus driver, and he honked the horn, Toot! Toot!

Yep, this was my kinda bus all right...

It looked like this was the best part of their day, viz,; ‘How are the deportees going to react today?’

I felt very much better, almost terrific.

I introduced myself to the Arab chap across the aisle.

Adil was a Palestinian working in Amman, and was trying to get back to Gaza to visit his family.
“They rejected you, too?” I asked.
“Well, yes, I am Palestinian,” he said, with a turn of the head. Being Palestinian, Adil was obviously better acquainted with the whims of Israeli border control than myself, and a lot more philosophical.
“How will you get back home?” I asked.
“I go back to Amman, and maybe tomorrow try at another border crossing,” he said.
“What are your chances?”
“Well, you never know,” he said, quietly, a faint smile crossing his lips. ”And as you say, Mr Fee-liks, it is… insane.”

Adil’s reply caused another ripple of laughter around the bus, and there was no doubt about it, I felt good.

I liked these guys. Maybe we could take the bus all the way to India?

Mr Felix gets the boot from Israel! The Geography Game

2010-04-13T13:57:00.000-07:00

I handed my passport to the Immigration Officer behind the metal bars. She glanced up from her seat, took it, and then began ruffling through the pages, paying me no mind.

I stood and waited. It was almost 1 pm.

I was at Allenby Border Control, about to cross into Israel (Palestine), from Jordan, at the West Bank. I'd been warned that the security was tough, and to expect questions, but all the world loves a cyclist, so let's roll...

Rooster, my bike, was leaning against the railing to my left. I'd cycled down from Amman, Jordan, a few days ago, and so far had been enjoying the riding, the roads, and the surprisingly warm and open arms of the Arab people I'd encountered all over Jordan.

Now for the Israeli experience.

I figured I'd be through the questions, through the gate, and on my way pedaling into Jerusalem in no time at all. The city was only 30 km away, due west.

The Immigration Officer was short and plump, and her sandy coloured hair hung loosely down across her forehead, framing a smooth, creamy, unlined face. Like the rest of the late teenager, early twenty-somethings here at Allenby, who were busy as bees, and just as numerous, she was dressed in loose tee-shirt and jeans.

It looked like the kids were running the institution, and it disturbed me.

Not only were they were so young and in possession of so much power, and fire power - some of the young lads carried machine guns, but I couldn't help but think there was almost a Borg quality about these young people. They moved with a communal mind, and dare I say it, an unforgiving demeanor.

These kids were with the program, and wired, and it was scary.

“What is the purpose of your visit to Israel, Mr Felix?” asked the girl.

In this game we were playing, the Immigration Officer always leads off, and the Purpose Question is the standard opening play.

“Ah, I’m a tourist,” I said, brightly. She looked back, not exactly hostile, but sure as hell not interested in sex.

Note to self: Forget about flirting, Felix.

“And where do you intend to go in Israel?” she asked.

This is called the Place Question, which quickly leads into the more important Activity Question, viz.; ‘What are you going to do in our fair country, drink beer, or bring down the government?’

Everything was going to pattern.

“Well, I have a bicycle, and I thought I might stay in Jerusalem for a few days, then go down to Bethlehem, and then cycle up to Nazareth in the north,” I said, easily.
“Why are you going to Bethlehem?” she asked, flatly.

I was momentarily flummoxed. "Um..," I mumbled.

I hadn't expected that. My brain whirled...

I kinda figured mentioning 'Bethlehem' and 'Nazareth' in the same breath would imply the obvious, viz.;
Bethlehem + Nazareth = Jesus = Christian = (peace loving spiritual guy),
and so, peace loving spiritual guy that I am, I walk straight in.

However, there was something in the way this girl asked 'Why are going to Bethlehem?' that told me I'd walked into a brick wall.

Bad start, and I had no idea why...

Perhaps presenting myself at the Immigration booth with long hair flowing and my shirt hanging out, wasn't such a good idea. Perhaps I looked a little free thinking for her tastes? It may also have been the three day growth, and the overall sweaty demeanor. I had, after all, cycled up from the Dead Sea today, via Bethany-beyond-the Jordan, and it was pretty hot out there.

Or maybe, I wondered, being Jewish, the Immigration Officer didn't know who Jesus was. Perhaps it's not covered in the school curriculum, and this girl was definitely not long out of school.

What is this brick wall made of? What is this brick wall made of? What am I looking at...

The other thing was that she totally ignored the bicycle reference, usually my strongest card. All the world loves a cyclist, I think, viz,;
(peace loving spiritual guy) + bicycle = (peace loving furry spiritual guy who cares about the environment).

Mind you, that can easily start leaning over into environmental activist, which is not too far from peace activist, which is not so far from Palestinian sympathiser, which means I may well be here to bring down the government!

Shit, I'm a cyclist on a slippery slope...

“Mr Felix, why are you going to Bethlehem?” she repeated, fixing me with a cold stare.

I obviously wasn't answering quick enough for the program. Was she smelling blood? Was I bleeding?

What the fuck?

Surely going to Bethlehem couldn't be a problem? Surely? The baby Jesus, the crib, the shepherds, the lowing sheep! (Do sheep 'low'?) What could be cuter?

Hell...

“Ah, Jesus was born in Bethlehem,” I said, “and ah, I thought I’d look around, and stuff.” (When in doubt, stick to the basics.)
“Look around?” she asked, flatly. This girl was a Rottweiler.

What on God's good earth could be wrong with looking around Bethlehem? What dark secrets could it hold? What planet are we on?

“Ah, yeah, you know, look around, take a few pics, see the church,” I said, lamely. She bent down and scribbled some notes on her pad, ignoring me for a minute or so.

I stood there like the proverbial shag on a rock.

This wasn't going well. I felt terribly wrong-footed, and there was definitely something I wasn't getting here.

She looked up. “How will you get to Nazareth?” she asked.

More geography questions! We seemed to be stuck in Place, and were never moving into Activity. Was Activity somehow implied by Place in this game? It was confusing. Why not just ask me if I am working for the Palestinians?

Felix's mind to the Rottweiler behind the bars: I am not working for the Palestinians, I am not working for the Palestinians...

The whole thing was turning into Orwell's 1984. What was I suspected of? What was she looking for? What was she afraid of?

"Well, as I say, I have a bicycle, and I'll probably just go up through Nablis, I guess.” I said. “I haven’t really sorted it out exactly."
"Why Nablis?" she asked. Geography, again, Christ!
"Well, I saw it on the map and I kinda liked the name!" I said, attempting a little humour.

I gotta say, humour has gotten me out of more tight spots than Batman in a bad year, and it's one of my best interpersonal skills.

The girl snarled. This time I could see both canine teeth.

She's really got issues...

She took more notes, and then looked up. "So will you be visiting any Palestinian areas while you are in Israel, Mr Felix?" she asked.

A change of tack, but still another Place question, and then it hit me! Maybe this is what this whole thing is about. Maybe they don't want anybody visiting the Palestinian areas?

In which case, it also struck me, I was fucked the minute I opened my mouth. Bethlehem is in a Palestinian area, as is Nablis, and some fool, cycling free-form around the country, was sure to be crossing into Palestinian territory.

Well, it was too late to backtrack now...

"Well, I haven't really checked the map that closely, so I'm not perfectly clear on what is a Palestinian area and what isn't," I said. "But if you are asking me if I have any specific business in the Palestinian areas, I don't. The main thing is just to head north from Jerusalem, and then cross back into Jordan, and then I'm cycling to India."

In a nutshell, that was the basic truth of it, but then in this Orwellian landscape, truth was the wail of a baby lost in the woods. Mentioning India, really, was one last roll of the dice. Leading the Rottweiler out of home turf was about the only play I had left in this insane scenario.

"You are cycling to India?" she asked, surprised.
"Yes, that's what I said," I replied, coolly.
She fixed me with a stare, "That's strange," she said.

Strange? Strange! Am I dealing with a moron, as well as a dog? No wonder this has been so hard.

I looked her straight in the eye. "Well, not really, people cycle all over the world, sweety," I said, and I could hear a melody wriggling free from inside the tangle of my vocal chords.
"Can I ask a question?" I said.
"Ah, yes," she replied, a little surprised.
"Have you ever been out of Israel?" Over to my left, the cycling demon was stirring inside Rooster's left pannier bag, and I felt better. I knew I was going down...

She looked away, and took notes.

"What will your route to India be?" she asked, after a minute.

Geography, geography... and of course, I knew what she was getting at. India had opened a door wide enough for Blind Freddy driving a Mac truck to fit through, and this well programmed little girl was already warming up the engine.

I listed the countries: Jordan, Syria, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan and India. Of course, both Syria and Iran are effectively at war with Israel, and going there from Israel, or coming to Israel from there, is about as welcome as a ham sandwich at the Wailing Wall.

She took notes.

"Why are you going to Iran?" she eventually asked.
"Because it's on the way?" I replied, almost laughing.

Yea, the cycling demon was up, as was the Game, and I really didn't give a shit anymore.

Though I ride through the Valley of the Borg,
I will fear no evil...

I smiled. She snarled. Game over, and what can you do? Hail Mary, full of grace...

I was told to go and sit by the big rubber plant near the long row of plastic seats that bordered the back of the room, and wait. "We need to process your request to enter Israel, Mr Felix," said the girl.
Wonderful!" I said, giving her a big smile.

She snarled.

Now that the game over, I was starting to feel sorry for her...

I wheeled my bike to the back of the room, leaned it against the rubber plant, then curled up on the seats and went to sleep, as only weary cyclists can.

At 4 pm I was escorted out of the building and put on the bus back to Jordan.

Mr Felix gets the boot from Israel! The Prelude

2010-04-11T04:25:00.000-07:00

I was finally off to Jerusalem.

Today's plan was to leave Jordan at the Abdullah Bridge, cross into Israel at Allenby in the West Bank, and then cycle the 30 kilometres west to Jerusalem. With luck I’d be there by dinnertime.

I turned left off the Dead Sea highway and rode 15 km down past small huddles of orchard groves and the numerous Bedouin encampments stretched out along the Jordan River plateau. Their encampments, each a collection of perhaps 4 or 5 large, square tents, with accompanying goats, camels and motorised vehicles in various states of disorder, looked for all the world like Barnum and Bailey had come to town, in a big way.

Oh, to be a boy again!

At the bottom of a long, straight hill, the Jordanian Immigration building loomed into view.

Once inside, I handed my passport in through a little opening at one end of a wall, called out ‘No stamp! No stamp!’, and picked it up 20 metres along, at another little opening. All I could see through the small openings were hands, but they seemed to be working well.

So far, so good.

The ‘no stamp’ issue is politics in motion.

If you have a Jordanian exit stamp at King Abdullah Bridge, and a corresponding Israeli entry stamp at Allenby in your passport, this means you have been to Israel, and subsequently you will not, under any circumstances, get into Syria, Lebanon or Iran, the politics of the region being what it is.

The way around the impasse is to ask for ‘no stamp in the passport’, in which case you are issued a piece of paper, and there is no permanent record of visiting Israel in the passport itself. Once out of Israel, you can ‘lose’ the paper.

I was eventually heading up through both Syria and Iran, so I was definitely in the 'no stamp' program.

Nothing to worry about…

It was approaching midday when I climbed on the bus that was taking us out of Jordan Immigration, across the river, and further on through a few kilometres of No Man's Land to Israel at Allenby Border Control. Rooster, my bike, was safely tucked into the luggage bay of the bus.

It was all moving like clockwork.

The bus, a large, white, modern 40 seater, was half full, and populated by the usual energetic backpackers, mostly Westerners of various nationalities, on school holidays of some sort. Across the aisle from me was an attractive, thirty-something German girl, and up at the back of the bus was a middle-aged man in a dark grey suit, presumably an Arab of some description, sitting quietly by himself.

The bus came to life, and very soon the rough desert landscape of No Man's Land, with it's maze of steel guard rails and barbed wire fences positioned higgledy-piggledy on each side of the dirt road, began to slip by.

I smiled at the German girl, we made our introductions, and once she started talking, she just wouldn't shut up. On and on she went about working for some NGO or other in Amman and getting 'absorbed' into a Bedouin tribe (whatever that entailed, I didn't want to know), until I eventually lost track of her somewhere in a sandstorm in the Sinai, or was it on a bus in a tunnel in Egypt with a tank blocking the exit? Beruit was somewhere inside the long narrative, as was Libya, and I wondered if I shouldn’t have sat in the back with the Arab chap. He looked like the kind of guy I could get on with.

Next thing she was in Dubai, and I wished I was on my bike.

I gazed past her head, made 'aha' noises, and slowly, mercifully, drifted away. I recalled a conversation I'd had with a Palestinian friend in Malaysia some months before. I planned to visit his cousin in East Jerusalem.

"Can I cycle across the border into Israel, Mohammed?" I asked.
"No, Felix, they will shoot you!" he said, somewhat startled. "You must get the bus." We were sitting together in an Indian cafe near the university where I taught, and Mohammed, tall, thin and in his early twenties, was a student.
"But, Mohammed, this is a cycling trip I'm doing and it's important that I cycle all the way," I said. "Catching a bus is, you know, not on, not kosher, haram." (Harum is Arabic for 'forbidden'.)

Mohammed gave me a look which clearly said, 'You are nuts!' His hair was beginning to stand on end.

"No, Felix," he repeated, forcefully, "they will SHOOT YOU!"
"Oh, come on! They’re not going to actually shoot me, surely!" I said, leaning back in my chair, and waving a hand dismissively in the air. “All the world loves a cyclist, man!”

I’d crossed enough international borders in my time, on a bicycle, and I wasn’t about to be phased by the emotive outburst of a testosterone charged student.

In my job students flip out on a weekly basis, and I'm used to dealing with young, reactive minds.

Creative Media, by its nature, is an emotive process, viz.; The student presents his or her work. You tell them it's a piece of shit. They jump up and down. They get in your face. They tell you that you are a no-talent-idiot-loser-megalomaniac-fascist who is destroying their great artistic opus, and 'A pox on you, Sir!' etc etc, and so be it.

However, being the lecturer, I hold the gun. I am the keeper of the gate, and my word dictates whether the student 'gets through', or is sent packing, maybe for another try later, or maybe never to be seen again.

Power, I tell you, is a long, cool woman in a black dress...

So you brush aside the barbed rhetoric, and settle down to work with the facts.

You point out that their precious film, for example, has no characters, no plot, no set up and hence no possible resolution, but still, not all is lost, it does have nice title graphics. However, you explain, 'Special thanks to God!' in the end credits may skew the audience's perception of what the student film maker is trying to say, and is possibly best 'removed'.

After a small theological discussion, viz.; 'You are an athiest dog, Mr Felix!', you move on, and finally get through to an agreed and sober working reality.

I love working with students, but you do have to keep your humour up.

Mohammed wasn't about to be brushed off...

"Felix, listen, I'm a Palestinian, and I live in Jerusalem," he said, leaning across the table and fixing me with steely eyes. "IF YOU CYCLE ACROSS THE BORDER THE ISRAELIS WILL SHOOT YOU!"

What's with these Palestinians?

I went back to gazing past the German girl’s head. She was in Yemen, I think, eating something bad.

We crossed the Abdullah Bridge into Israeli territory, and on the right of the cyclone fence that ran alongside the road, small white porta-rooms began appearing, one after the other, like workers' huts in a construction site. Each hut had an array of aerials sticking upright out of its roof, and you did wonder whether inside each little hut there was an Israeli soldier with earphones on, listening into the conversations on the bus. I pity the poor chap who was tracking the German girl.

I felt like I was entering another reality, and it made me oddly, and unexpectedly, ill at ease. Maybe they were monitoring our thoughts?

I had strict instructions from Mohammed not to mention him or his cousin at the border. "It will create problems for us, Felix," he said, darkly. Exactly what problems he didn't specify, but I figured the Israelis kept tabs on the flow of Palestinians in and out of the country, and international visitors on bicycles may illicit suspicion - who knows?

Ok, don't think about Mohammed, don't think about Mohammed...

Maybe the Israelis were just overloading the electro-wavosphere with all the radio activity and it was disturbing the neural balance in my brain?

Maybe that was the idea?

I was on a sailing ship some years ago crossing the Andaman Sea from Thailand. A couple of nights out, around midnight, we ran into a vicious storm blowing in from the Indian Ocean. The boat lurched too and fro, the deck swayed up and down, waves crashed over the railings, and finally, as much as I tried to hold it in, I just hurled my guts. Everybody hurled their guts that night, and it was a ghastly scene.

I am standing at the Israeli checkpoint. The man with the curly hair looks deeply into my eyes. "You have been thinking of Mohammed, haven't you, Mr Felix!" he says. It's not really a question, but more a statement of fact. The man leans down and turns up the electro-wavosphere machine. My brain sways up and down...

"Yes, I have!" I shout, voiding myself of all knowledge, honour and hope for redemption in one great hurl. "His name is Mohammed Blah Blah and he lives in a safe house in Blah Blah Street... his cousin's name is Blah Blah... his known associates are Blah Blah... whatever you want to know, I will tell you... groan!" The sound of a man betraying his friends is a pitiful thing.

Maybe I'd just eaten too many falafels in Jordan?

In any case, all the world loves a cyclist, so what was I worried about?

The bus pulled up in front of a white, low-slung concrete building, and began disgorging its load, just as the German girl was riding a camel in Syria and fighting off an overly amorous tourist guide. Man, she could talk!

My feet hit the ground and I conveniently lost her in the shuffle.

The first thing I spotted were three young men in sloppy tee-shirts and jeans, each not a day over 22, standing with legs apart by the railings of the baggage check-in area. They chatted and laughed, turned to say something to the two Israeli girls walking by, also in jeans and tee-shirts, who chuckled and quipped back. The boys smirked. The whole scene was reminiscent of a Sunday afternoon at the marina at St. Kilda beach, a popular hangout spot in my hometown of Melbourne, Australia.

The only problem was that each of the young men was sporting a very large, and very lethal looking machine gun, slung from the shoulder and hanging loosely, Rambo style, down across their respective genital areas.

What the fuck is wrong with this picture? My brain reeled. They looked like kids who'd just gotten back from a successful raid on Toys-R-Us.

Having cycled around Asia off and on for last 20 years, I'm actually cool with chaps with machine guns. The difference in Asia being that the deadly ones are normally wearing a uniform and exude 'high discipline'. When it comes to lethal killing machines, I'm totally into high discipline.

You may not like the shiny buttons, you may not agree with the politics, and you may even turn your nose up at the 'Yes, sir, no, sir, let me polish your boots, sir!' mindset, but when it comes to 'is he going to shoot me, or no', you instinctively know with hard drill chaps in shiny buttoned down uniforms that if you stay to the right of the line, you live, and the line is very clear and very well defined.

Even if you do cross to the left, there are strict protocols in place before you get atomised, viz.; 'Hey, you with the bike, go back to the right of the line!', followed by, 'Let go of the bicycle and lie down on the ground, now!', and finally, if you haven't got the message yet, 'If you as much as ring your bell, Mr Cyclist, you're a dead man!'

All of the above instructions are easy to understand, easy to comply with, and if you follow instructions, you live. Living is good.

Imagine if my students carried machine guns...

Still, appearances can be deceptive, especially first appearances, and who knows what I was looking at? This was Israel, and all young people are required to do a couple of years in the army, but still, I didn't expect the beach party atmosphere. It was strangely menacing.

We're all going on a summer holiday,
Doin' things we always wanted to.
Fun and laughter in East Jerusalem,
For a week or two-oo-oo,
Me and Mohammed too-oo-oo... (Fade out)

The only way to find out what was going on was to actually visit the place, and I was almost there.

Bethany-beyond-the Jordan, where it all began!

2010-04-09T13:02:00.000-07:00

Bethany-beyond-Jordan sits at the south end of the Jordan River, where the river is joined by Wadi Kharrar, and just as it empties into the Dead Sea. I cycled through the Baptism Site front gate right on 6 am, and with no one in the ticket booth at this early time of the morning, I kept going, as you do (on a bike).

A couple of kilometres further along the small winding road that leads off in the direction of the Jordan River, I came to the site itself.

At first I was a little disappointed. It looked like just another grouping of rubble and embankments, and you may need to be a trained archaeologist (Indiana Jones?) to be able to conjure up an image of the original early Christian, Roman and/or Byzantine structures in all their glory.

Still, lack of imagination or not, archaeological digs tell us that this is most probably the actual spot where, according to the Bible, John the Baptist baptised Jesus some 2,000 years ago. Thus began the ministry of Jesus Christ in the world, with its baffling inside-out message, and subsequent confusing complexity.

See: Sacred Sites - Bethany-beyond-the Jordan
http://www.sacred-destinations.com/jordan/bethany-baptism-site
See: Bible Places.com - Bethany-beyond-the Jordan
http://www.bibleplaces.com/bethanybeyondjordan.htm

'.. Jesus came from Nazareth in Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. As Jesus was coming up out of the water, he saw heaven being torn open and the Spirit descending on him like a dove. And a voice came from heaven: "You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased." At once the Spirit sent him out into the desert...' (Mark 1:4-5, 9-12)

I wheeled the bike along the dirt path, down past the palm trees and dry wells and on into the ruins of the early Christian monastery that overlooks Wadi Kharrar. From here I could look out across the thick reed bed that springs from the wadi, which runs all the way down to the Jordan River, a couple of kilometres to the south.

It was a beautiful sight.

I sat down and remembered how my own cry for Christ, some years back now, had torn me open, and what was inside came rushing out. Not that I knew what I was doing, or even where I was going - all I knew was that I didn't believe in the world anymore, and so I let go.

The cry surprised me. I didn't expect it, and didn't even know it was there until it pushed its way out, a little bit like Sigourney Weaver's experience in Aliens. I can certainly relate to that film.

And then the waters flow, and you are no longer alone. Then it gets really interesting...

Though I ride through the Valley of the Shadow of Speeding Buses,
I will not be afraid...

I pushed on down into the wadi itself, and wheeled the bike along the track that weaves through the tall bank of reeds. Every now and then the thick, impenetrable clusters of growth opened up and gave me short glimpses of the surrounding yellow cliffs and rough, cave strewn escarpments that mark the boundary of the Jordan River Valley plateau.

This sure was a good spot. John the B. knew what he was on about.

The hours slipped by, and it was approaching 10 am when I rolled back out through the front gates of the site. I cut out onto the highway and rode the few kilometres up to Dawood's coffee stall, stopping to get a well earned pick-me-up. My less than restful sleep was taking its toll, and I was beginning to flag in the heat.

A half a click up the road was the turn off to the King Abdullah Bridge, the crossing into Israel-Palestine at the West Bank.

"Bridge Abdullah fifteen kilometre from highway, Fee-liks," said Dawood. "Turn to right!" he added, gesturing left.
"You mean turn left," I said.
"Yes," he said, and smiled.
"You're a good man, Dawood," I said, and smiled also. Dawood smiled back. We had a good thing happening.

I was reasonably sure the bridge was 'to the left' off the highway, down towards the Jordan River, but I'd work it out when I got to the turn off. Cycling is a stage by stage operation.

With luck I'd be in Jerusalem by nightfall.

The Dead Sea - the lowest point on earth!

2010-04-09T05:25:00.001-07:00

Go to big road map: The Dead Sea

Above: Yes, I can confirm, you 'float' in the Dead Sea, it being not only the lowest point on earth, but also the most saline. You can even float in your bicycle shorts, it makes no difference.

Above: The view from my hammock, early evening. The lights across the water are in Palestine. I guess they are doing the same thing as us, on the Jordanian side.

I left Dawood the coffee boy, and cycled the 3 or so kilometres down the straight road to the Dead Sea.

It was late afternoon, but the sun still had plenty of bite. I passed the turn off to the Baptism Site (viz.; John the Baptist and Jesus on the River Jordan), the occasional Bedouin tent, the occasional angry Bedouin dog and also the occasional Bedouin camel ride for the occasional tourist.

The main concern was where to stay. I always carry a hammock, but cycling in South and Southeast Asia, where I normally go, a tent and sleeping bag are somewhat redundant, so I don't carry those. The problem is that here in Jordan, the nights are very cold, the temperature dipping to around 5 degrees Celcius, which is kinda nippy for cyclists. I needed shelter.

A couple of Harley Davidson's roared by, and stopped up ahead by the carpark overlooking the sea. I cycled up.

"Excuse me, you don't know a cheap place to stay for the night around here, do you?" I asked. Mohammed and Said were decked out in full length leathers, and certainly looked the biker part - on first sight, almost scary. They looked me over, a glint of 'this guy must be nuts' in the eye, as is the way of bikers riding atop big metal motors, but, as is usually the case, nothing like a mad cycling fool to lighten up the day.

We introduced ourselves and shook hands. They handed me some water, laughed at my planned route through to India, and all three of us stood on the lowest point on the earth, looking out to sea, smoking cigarettes. It was almost a perfect moment.

"It's all 4 and 5 star hotels around here, Fee-liks," said Mohammed, "but you can camp on the beach in the public area. It's not so expensive. They have showers and a kiosk." If I had of had a tent I would have simply slid off the highway and muscled my way in amongst the Bedouins, befriended the mad Crusader hating dogs, chatted to the goats and kids, looked pathetic and alone come dinner time so as to engineer a home cooked meal, but no such luck. I planned to buy a one-man tent in Israel next week.

I left Mohammed and Said, rode down the highway past 3 or 4 big hotels, waved to a couple of well turned out local girls, who were, of course, working their mobile phones, and came to the public area. It cost 10 JD to get in, and further 10 JD for 'camping rights'. (About $25 all up, and way through my budget.)

The Dead Sea is a popular spot for local families, and 10 JD for a large Jordanian family is not so bad, but traveling alone has its drawbacks. A tent was going to save me a lot of money.

The folks on the beach were, naturally, curious and friendly, and as I slung my hammock up between the poles of one of the open shelters, I got a quick invite for dinner. You are never without company in Jordan.

"The big difference in the culture here and back in the West," said Khalid, a middle aged Jordanian who'd lived for 15 years in Canada, but who had eventually returned to open a business and raise a family, "is that everything here is done in groups, and everything you do is tempered by that, from the moment you get up, to the time you go to bed."
I nodded, and started working on my third kebab. "It doesn't sound so different to Southeast Asia," I said.
"Could be," said Khalid. "In the West you are pretty much free to express yourself, as you feel like, whenever you want. Not so in Jordan."

It was that age old difference between the world I came from, and the world I traveled in, and you could be happy or miserable in either, or both, which was a head scratch.

The whole Dead Sea scene was reminiscent of some of the popular beach areas within easy one day car distance from Melbourne - families, kids, barbeques, beach balls, frisbees, but minus the Labrador dogs running up and down the beach barking and kicking sand around willy-nilly, this being a Muslim state. And I do miss the chaos of furry dogs, I must say.

I went for a wade and a float, but with the wind picking up and the sun already down, it got cold after a few minutes, and so I returned to base, had a shower and prepared for some well earned shut-eye.

I drifted off to sleep to the sound of young girl's voices singing musical 'round songs'.*

The girls, about a dozen of them aged in their early teens, were camped 20 metres off to the left of my hammock. They were well rugged up against the cold, sitting on mats around the fire, and having an enormous time of it. My guess is they were possessed by sprites.

The songs went around and around, the pulse percussive and persistent, and inside this half ordered, half chaotic rhythm of voice and hand clap ran a silver brook so joyful and so mad, I had to laugh. Each song would start up, slowly gaining in force, tempo and rhythm, until a crescendo of laughter would signal the end, and the beginning of another, and on it went.

Of course, it was all in Arabic, and I didn't understand a word, but it didn't make much difference. The laughter of young girls needs no translation.

Not having a sleeping bag, I'd wrapped myself up in every piece of clothing I was carrying - 3 tee-shirts, 2 shirts, one light jacket, 2 pair of pants, 2 socks, and a sarong as coverall. I woke at 4 am, in serious pain from the cold, and popped my head out of the hammock.

"Good morning!" chorused the girls. I had to laugh, as pained and groggy as I felt. Obviously, local people didn't come to the Dead Sea to sleep.

An hour later I was packed up and back on the road, looking for a coffee shop. The plan was to head back to the Baptism Site on the Jordan River, and then cross into Israel later in the day.

It did strike me that cycling out of the Dead Sea, the lowest point on earth, meant that wherever I was going, in the whole wide world, was 'up from here', which is not exactly a pleasant thought if you ride a bike. But so be it. We choose our path, we end up where we end up, and it's only then that it starts to make sense...

---

* A musical 'round song' is a children's song that is sung in rhythm, often to hand clapping, and tells a story in simple circular rhyme. For example:

Felix had a bicycle,
The bicycle had a bell,
The bicycle went to heaven
And Felix went to hell!

The dogs are on the highway,
The cops are in the park,
Felix and his girlfriend
Are kissing in the...
DARK! DARK! DARK!

(All the girls laugh...)

Into the Jordan Valley!

2010-04-07T19:36:00.000-07:00

Above: A premonition on Mount Nebo? No such luck, I'm working blind. But the similarities between myself and Moses are stacking up...

Above: At the Dead Sea sign, just around the corner from the Mount Nebo carpark, and just before the long fall into the Jordan Valley.

Above: You may get some sense of the vertical drop over the edge into the Jordan Valley from where I'm standing, although granted the photo is not good. (I hate to blame my equipment, but the lens on my rather cheap video camera is poor.) It's about 6 km of pure cycling exhilaration straight down the mountain from here, the road twisting back and forth like a confused serpent, before the it smooths out somewhat into downhill sanity for the last 5 km onto the flats.
There's hardly any traffic, and up to the left and right, all around this crusty, dry landscape, Bedouins camp, and herd their camels, goats and sheep. It's a nice run!
I did hear the barking of dogs from an encampment about half way down the hill, and had momentary visions (with accompanying fear spasms) of getting chased by ugly Bedouin mastiffs, genetically bred some one thousand years back to maul Crusaders. I quickened my pace, as you do, and the barking receded. I must say, after all these years cycling, I still ask the question, 'What is it with dogs and bikes?'

Above: Almost at the bottom. The Jordan River runs from the right (north to south), emptying into the Dead Sea, centre.

Above: Down in the Jordan Valley, looking back up to Mount Nebo, and further over the mountain range to Madaba town.

Above: At the bottom, with Dawood the coffee boy. The Dead Sea is a further 3 km to the right (south). It was blazing hot, and dusty, but Dawood was seeing me right...

Above: The best coffee in the Jordan Valley! It's served sweet, black and strong, in the Arabic way. About 40 cents a cup.
After a coffee and a rest, the plan was to cycle down to the Dead Sea, stay the night, and early next morning head up to the nearby Baptism Site on the Jordan River, the place where John the Baptist ostensibly baptised Jesus. Later I would backtrack my route north and cross into Palestine-Israel at the King Abdullah Bridge, about 20 km away. All going well, I figured I'd be into Jerusalem by nightfall.
In effect, Jerusalem would mark the 'start' of the ride, even though I'd entered the Middle East through Amman.
Anyway, that was the plan. Moses had a plan, I had a plan, and the devil loves plans too.

Mt. Nebo

2010-04-06T14:27:00.000-07:00

Above 1: At Mt. Nebo with some other cyclist chap in an AC Milan teeshirt. He looks very excited. Maybe it's the white shorts?
Above 2: The Promised Land! The plan was to head down to the Dead Sea, and then unlike Moses, head on into Palestine-Israel.

Mount Nebo, according to the story, is the place where God showed Moses the Promised Land. Moses though, unlike myself, was barred from entering said Promised Land, but that's what you get for angering God, I guess.

The mountain itself is really only a bump in the greater mountain range that straddles the eastern edge of the Jordan Valley.

In fact, roller coasting down the road from Madaba (10 km), I nearly missed it. If it wasn't for George, the Jordanian chap I'd chatted to on the road some few kilometres before, yelling and waving frantically at me from the car park - 'Stop, Mr Felix! Stop!', I would have kept going, and missed the view.

Lucky, I guess, that Moses was not a cyclist, like me. History would have been different.

'Kept going' would have taken me (and Moses) around the bend, past the Dead Sea sign and down the very steep incline leading off the front side of the mountain, never to be seen on Mt. Nebo again.

The road down into the Jordan Valley is so steep there's no way I'd be retracing my tread marks back up the hill, and I imagine Moses would have felt the same.

"Moses, get thee back up the hill!" says The Angry Voice.
"You gotta be kidding!" says Moses, casting a gloomy eye, as only cyclists can do, over Highway 7, which slides like a desert asp up the cliff face of this dry, rocky and very steeply inclined, barren land.

Still, it pays to do your research, and it looks like Moses was actually climbing up the hill, God fearing cyclist that he was, viz.: "And Moses went up from the plains of Moab to Mount Nebo..." (Deuteronomy 34:1)

If I had to climb up that hill I'd be having visions too.

What on earth am I talking about?

On the mountain itself there's a few early Christian and Byzantine ruins and a couple of mosaics dating back to the 4th Century. Unfortunately, the main Byzantine church itself is currently under reconstruction, and is off limits to tourists.

See Sacred Destinations:
http://www.sacred-destinations.com/jordan/mount-nebo.htm

The main attraction, however, is really the place itself, considering its history, and the view.

Walking along the pathway to the mosaic pavilion I spotted the distinctive brown robes and sandals of a Franciscan monk. The Franciscans are supervising the reconstructions, and act as caretakers to the mountain.

Father Fabian has been resident on the mountain for the last 4 years. He's a small man, perhaps about 65, slightly built and slowly, it seems, going bald.

I liked him on sight.

"So, what team do you barrack for?" he asked, after I'd introduced myself and told him I was from Melbourne.
"What team do I barrack for?" I repeated, a little startled. I was not expecting another Australian, and this most 'Aussie' of questions.

Melbourne is the 'Mecca' of Australian Rules Football, and most other Australian sports for that matter, and 'football' is about as close as we get in Australia to dark feelings of violent jihad. (We live on an island, albeit a big one, and like island people the world over, we tend to go surfing rather than hacking each other to death, when need arises.)

I had to laugh."St. Kilda, Father," I said. "The Saints."
"Oh, that's my team too!" he said. "Can you tell me what happened last year? I missed the match."

So much for deep spiritual discourse...

In 2009, after many years of loss, the Saints had finally made it into the Grand Final, that big 'one day in September' when all the nation stops. Unfortunately, we ran up against Geelong, one of the best teams to ever grace an Australian football field, and we got thrashed.

The pain, like a Promised Land lost, lingers.

After a short, clipped summary of the game, which is indelibly imprinted in the 'emotional trauma' compartment of my brain, I finished with, "You know, Father, the only way we could have won that game was if somebody had of run onto the field and taken Gary Ablett Jnr. out with a baseball bat." (Gary Ablett Jnr. is the Lionel Messi of Australian Rules football. His father, Gary Ablett Senior, was the Diego Maradona.)

Father Fabian lifted his right hand to his chin, rubbing it back and forth, giving due consideration to my weighty words. "Yes, from the sounds of it, I think you're right, Felix," he said, soberly.

Considering the painful subject matter, I felt immediately better, lighter, like I'd gone into the confessional and uprooted my darkest secret, only to be told, 'That's cool, my son, you were right to go out and kill that man!"

Freedom is only a football match away...

I felt at ease around Father Fabian. He had that lightness of being that contemplatives so often embody, and I invariably enjoy their company. In one sense he was 'not there' and was causing no waves, and yet, in another sense, he was 'completely there', and brought me into focus. It left me in less of a hurry to get where I was planning to go. Why move when you've already arrived?

"When thou givest God thy nothingness,
He gives to thee His All."
Hasan Khurqani, Sufi, died 1033.

What on earth is Hasan talking about?

It was time for Mass in the nearby chapel, and as I left, I assured Father Fabian that the Saints would 'win the flag' this year. "I've got a good feeling about 2010, Father!" I said. He laughed.

There are many yawning chasms in life.

The Mass was said by a young priest from L.A., leading a group of Korean Catholics on a Holy Land tour, which explained, to my eyes, the overly bright apparel worn by the small congregation.

Still, one must grasp the form bravely to be able to see the cascading light within; it's just that I'm not really used to loud teeshirts and wrap around sunglasses, together, inside the chapel, all at once.

However, no doubt on a US-Korean blog somewhere in cyberspace there's the other side of the story, viz. 'We had Mass at Mt. Nebo which was elevating, except that it was attended by a scruffy late comer in short pants who exuded strange vibes. I kept my credit cards close...'

During the reading the priest read from Deuteronomy: 'So Moses, the servant of the Lord, died there in the land of Moab... and they buried him opposite Bethpoor, but no man knows the place of his burial to this day.'

Of course, if I was a younger man, I would have leapt from my seat and challenged the conventional view, viz; "No, Father! I know where he's buried! I know! I know!" The congregation is startled.

All eyes turn to look at the heretic.

I go on, brashly brushing heretical fears aside. "According to my book, 'A Search for the Historical Jesus' by Prof. Fida Hassnain, Moses is buried in Kashmir where there is a Moab and a Bethpoor and a tomb that the local Kashmiris say is his...!"

'Knowing you don't know' is probably a better spiritual state than 'thinking you do know', and it's a hell of a lot safer, viz.; '...and they took him to the edge of the mountain top and threw him over.'

Like the mature man I am, I held my peace. It was time to get back on the bike and head down to the Dead Sea.

On the way out of the carpark, an extremely buffed up water bottle seller, who introduced himself as Mohammed, insisted I take a free bottle. "Welcome to Jordan!" he said. "You are a strong man!" He shook my hand. His muscles bulged. He reminded me of Sylvester Stallone.

What can you say?

I thanked him, mounted up, veered onto the right side of the road, and began rolling down the hill.

On the way to Mt. Nebo...

2010-04-06T03:41:00.000-07:00

Above: Before I set off for the ride down into the Jordan Valley, I went to early morning Mass at the Church of John the Baptist in Madaba.

This Roman Catholic church sits up on the hill, square in the Christian quarter, surrounded by Roman ruins and overlooking the mosques and numerous other churches of various denominations that inhabit the Madaba landscape. Madaba has been a Christian religious centre since the 1st Century AD.

The Mass was in Arabic, and so I can confirm for my pinheaded Malay Muslim friends who like to set fire to churches in Kuala Lumpur, that yes, most definitely, the word 'Allah' is used for 'God' in the Christian Arabic liturgy, and as such, one may assume, likewise in the rest of the human occupied world, 'Allah' is not exclusively a 'Muslim word' denoting the 'Muslim God'.

In fact, some days previously in Amman, I was chatting to a nun at St. Joseph's Church near Jabal Amman (the Amman Hill), and she turned to talk in Arabic to a young student who had come across from the school opposite. After a flow of Arabic words, I heard the distinctive 'Insha'allah' as the parting phrase.

Being a teacher myself, I guess the student was saying something like; 'Excuse me, Sister, my assignment is late today but I promise to hand it in first thing in the morning.'
"Insha'allah! God willing!" says Sister, with a toss of the head, and goes back to talking to the Australian chap with the bike and the distinctive electrical box sticking out of the top of his head

Well, I guess I can forget about this Malay idiocy for now.

"How are Christians treated here in Jordan?" I asked one of the parishioners after the Mass, as we stood chatting, dwarfed by the many 2nd Century Roman columns and statues in the front courtyard of the church. Christians make up about 7% of the population in Jordan, and being non-Muslim in a predominantly Muslim country can be problematic in some countries. Islamic acceptance of things non-Muslim is a rubbery phenomenon.

"On the whole, very good," she said. Teresa was about 45 and lived a short walk from the church. She was modestly dressed in black skirt and coat, as is, it seems, the favoured 'church attire' worn by the more traditional Catholic women in Jordan. "Some (Muslim) hardliners make a bit of trouble sometimes, but Jordan is a tolerant country, and Christianity is part of the society here. We have a long history." She joined both hands together through the fingers to indicate 'knitted'.
I smiled. "Well, that's good to hear, Teresa," I said.
"Yes, we are happy enough," she added, before thanking me for coming, and wishing me well on my journey. "Please come and see us again if you come back this way."
I will," I said. I was genuinely touched by the welcome I'd received in Madaba, across the religious board.

From what I have observed, Jordanians work hard to keep things basically fair and equal, no matter the race or religion. It was often a topic of conversation, and in some ways, a point of national pride. It was, I might add (hopefully for the last time...), a welcome change to Malaysia, where I'd been living in 2009, and Israel, as I was slowly beginning to learn.

On the way to Mt. Nebo...
Above 1: At a scenic rest stop, with Ahmed the builder's labourer.
Above 2: John the Baptist may well have stocked up on thistles at this very locale while he was wandering in the Jordanian wilderness. Today they sell Cokes, ice creams and Snickers bars. I had a Coke.

Mt. Nebo, the place where Moses (Moosa) looked out over the Jordan Valley and God said something to him like, 'Behold, Moosa, before ye is the Promised Land! Go forth and occupy, neither letting Palestinians nor Australians on bicycles stand in your way!'. Mt. Nebo lies 10 km downhill from Madaba town.

Being a cyclist, favoured by God or not, it was good to be actually sitting on the bike and going somewhere. The wheels go around...

Today's plan was to get to Mt. Nebo and then push further on down to the Dead Sea, where I would visit the spot on the Jordan River where John the Baptist baptised Jesus, sometime around 30 AD, as the story goes.

This being Easter, tomorrow I planned to cross into Palestine and visit Jerusalem.

The Madaba bikeshop experience...

2010-04-03T15:13:00.000-07:00

Above: The bikeshop.

I cycled out of Amman heading to Madaba, a small town some 40 km south of the capital. Climbing out of hilly Amman was tiresome in the morning heat - the humidity is low, and even though there was a cold wind blowing, the sun is intense. I wheeled the bike up the steep hills as much as I rode it, and got called in for tea at least every twenty minutes.

Once out of the city and onto the main highway, the traffic was moderate, the road good and the locals friendly, as is the case in Jordan. My goal was to eventually make it down into Israel in a few days via the King Abdullah Bridge crossing near the Dead Sea (see upcoming blog entry).

I wanted to spend Easter in Jerusalem, which seemed like an apt start to 'Cycling in the footsteps of Jesus to India', indeed.

However, on the way into Madaba town I got my first flat tyre, which, of course, if you don't cycle, is kinda boring, but if you do cycle, is riveting stuff of high and intense interest.

Scene: Two cyclists meeting on a road in outer Kazakhstan.
The conversation can go like this...
After the usual introductions - name, nationality, destination, starting point etc.
Cyclist 1: How many flats you got?
Cyclist 2: Man, dozens!
Cyclist 1: Cool!
Cyclist 2: Yeah, I got a beaut coming down the backside of the Karakoram!
Cyclist 1: Really?
Cyclist 2: Yeah, ran over a goat and it shredded my inner tube like cabbage in a Chinese restaurant!
Cyclist 1: Very cool, bro', I envy you that experience.

Considering I'd bought the tube in Indonesia some 10 months back (I was cycling in Sumatra), and had patched it on more than a few occasions, I figured I'd find a bikeshop and simply replace the tube, rather than go through the ritual of dismantling the bike and applying the magic patch right there on the street in Madaba.

Like the human heart, an inner tube can only take so much patching up before it needs replacing.

I stopped at a teashop.

"Welcome to Jordan!" said the young man behind the ubiquitous silver urns. After a tea and the usual 'Where you from?' and 'I love Australia!' I asked about a bikeshop. No problem, there was one 'just up the road'. I wheeled the bike 100 metres up the main street of town ("Welcome to Jordan!" called the kids), and into the bike shop just left of the traffic lights.

I love bikeshop guys, and the Jordanians didn't disappoint.
"This is my first puncture in Jordan," I said.
"Cool, bro'," said the bikeshop guy, "I envy you that experience."

Around Amman...

2010-04-03T09:19:00.000-07:00

Above: Down by Masjid Husseini in the old town. Our motto at Team Pumpy is to 'blend in'. I believe we do a good job.

Above: More 'blending in' at some 2nd Century Roman ruins near Masjid Husseini. 'Blending in' is all in the mind; you must 'believe' that you are no different than anybody else, but of course, the trick is getting to the belief.

Above: One of the many alleyways around town. This one is adjacent to the Cliff Hostel, where discerning cyclists stay. It costs 6 Jordanian Dinar per night, single room, share shower. 1 JD = $1.30 US

Above: The Al-Boury Salon. My friend Mohammad, the 'second barber', is in the doorway wearing a white shirt. "I would like to get my hands on your hair, Felix," he says, and laughs.
"No way," I reply, not laughing.
I drink tea here every morning.

Above: Munir, the head barber, works his magic. "Your hair is very beautiful, Felix," he says.
"Thank you, Munir," I say, and go back to my tea.

Above: Out and about around town. The St. Sophia Coptic (Egyptian) church, near the large King Abdullah mosque, about 3 km out of the centre of the old town. There is a large Egyptian population in Jordan.
I wandered in to take a look.
"Welcome, welcome!" said the laughing man at the gate. He was about 70, had a very hooked nose and was dressed in white robes with a black head scarf. I nodded, and walked past him across the small stone courtyard into the bookshop.
The bookshop contained a plethora of religious paraphenalia, including a life sized picture of a smiling Jesus in red robes and holding up a large golden orb. It was pretty good.
"Hello, my name is Dina," said a smiling face that had crept silently up behind me. "I will show you the church!" Dina was no more than 14 years old, had jet black hair, almond shaped brown eyes and a lovely aquiline nose, in the Egyptian tradition. I was immediately charmed.
"Well, that's very kind of you, Dina. My name is Felix, and I come from Australia," I replied.
"I love Australia!" said Dina, lighting up in genuine appreciation of, I guess, kangaroos and all things furry antipodean.
She bounded up the winding stairs that led into the church proper, and I followed.
"Here is the church!" she said, pointing out the obvious, but what the hey, this isn't a professional tour. Or were we experiencing a language problem? Maybe 'show you the church' meant 'show you where it is', and not 'show you around'.
"So it is..." I said, while Dina stood mute, as only teenagers can. With no accompanying 'This church was built in 1927 blah blah...' I figured that was pretty much the end of the tour, if it was a tour.
Dina remained mute, but held her gaze. For a 14 year old, this girl was intense! What on earth was she on about? Not knowing what else to do, I nodded and moved off, going from icon to icon around the entrance under my own steam. I could feel her eyes on the back of my head.
Over by the stained glass windows on the south side I came to a small shrine to the Blessed Virgin, and paused. The shrine was inset into the wall, and contained a decorative head and shoulder view of the Virgin. She was dressed in deep blue robes with silver edges, and there were seven shining stars on the wrap around her forehead. It was exquisite, and it disarmed me.
"I might just go inside and say a few prayers, Dina," I said, after a little while. "I'll catch you later." Dina nodded, and I went into the church and settled down in a pew for some quiet contemplation. Ten minutes later I walked out feeling measurably more whole, and Dina was waiting on the stairs.
"Did you have a good prayer?" she asked, brightly.
"Yes, Dina, it was good," I said, exuding wise post-prayer vibes.
"Oh, that is good," she said. "Please give me one JD!"
(A JD, or Jordanian Dinar is worth about $ 1.30)
"What?!" I replied, genuinely taken aback. "Ah, is this for the prayer or the tour, Dina?"
But Dina, being a true professional, wasn't about to get into obfuscating mental eddies with a tourist who was already over committed.
"You give me one JD, yes?" she repeated.
I sighed. "OK, what the hell," I said. "You got me." I handed over the money and gave her a smile. She grinned back, and then went skipping off down the stairs with flashing eyes, never to be seen again.
As I climbed on the bike I reminded myself that money is the oil that moves the hearts and minds of men (and young Egyptian girls), and it's a wise man who prays before he leaves the house.
I thanked the laughing man at the gate, climbed on my bike and rode away.

Above: After my encounter with Dina, the Egyptian child sorceress, it was time for a freshly squeezed juice at one of the many juice stalls around town. The conversation usually goes like this...
"Welcome to Jordan, sir! Where are you from?" says the man.
"Ah, cheers, AUS-TRA-LEE-AH," I say.
"I love Australia!" says the man. "What juice you want?"
"Ah, something cool and refreshing, thanks, mate," I say.
"Ah, then I will give you BLAH-BLAH-BLAH!" says the man, 'blah-blah-blah' being Arabic for some fruit or other that I have never heard of, nor can I decipher the name.
"Yeah, that's my favourite," I say, attempting to sound like I know what I'm talking about, so as not to lay myself open to more sorcery.
"Very good, very good! Welcome to Jordan!" says the man, and goes about making up my blah-blah-blah juice, which of course, turns out to be radically tasty and refreshing, and cheap - about 50 cents. 'Nothing like a good juice in Jordan!' as we say at Team Pumpy, and being a forgiving kind of guy, I'll probably forget about Dina in around five days, a week at the outside.

Al Rasheed Court Cafe, Amman, Jordan

2010-03-29T05:37:00.000-07:00

Above: Al Rasheed Cafe is right in the centre of the old town, near the Hussein Mosque. It's down a dark alleyway and up a couple of flights of stairs, so you don't see many Westerners there, apparently. Like everything I've encountered in Jordan, it's cool!

Above: Real Madrid 1, Atletico Madrid 1 - a tense moment. The Spanish and Italian leagues are 'bigger' here than the English Premier League, it seems.

Above: My friend Hatem. I'm staying at his house just opposite the King Abduallah mosque, near downtown Amman.

Above: Hatem's friend Hodafa, who just quit his job.

"My boss is an idiot, Felix," he said.
"I can relate," I said. "I've just spent a year in Malaysia."

Both Hodafa and Hatem's families are refugees who have left Palestine and who now live in Jordan. "We can never go back," said Hodafa, "but I still have some family in Nablis, in the West Bank. When you go to Palestine let me know, and you can meet my family. They will look after you, Felix."
"Thanks," I said, "most kind." The kindness and hospitality here in Jordan is monumental.

Above: Some Westerner. Apparently the box on his head with the electrical wires sticking out keeps him in touch with 'alien bases on the dark side of the moon'.
"As soon as there's a transmission, I pick it up," he said. "Alien-speak is bit like Arabic. It's kinda weird when you first hear it, but after a while you get the hang of it!"

Welcome to Jordan!

2010-03-27T03:07:00.000-07:00

Amman, Jordan

Above: Two boys check out the bike.

Above: A teashop.

Above: Amman, the centre of town.

I'd heard 'good things' about Jordan, but if truth be told, while flying in from Bangkok, I still wasn't sure if I'd be landing in some kind of heavy Islamic anti-Western atmospheric downer.

I cycled out of Malaysia just after Christmas of last year, and just before I left the Malay nutters had begun firebombing Christian churches. In the south of Thailand two weeks later I'd run into a shit storm in Pattani, some 100 km over the Malaysian border. Three power line workers had gotten blown away by the local jihadi, and on the same day a bomb had gone off in the market. Pattani was in total lock down when I arrived, and it was a mess. To boot, after a year in Malaysia, I'd simply had a gut-full of politicised Islam, and by the time I got to Bangkok a few weeks later I'd resolved to simply disengage from the issues.

Who needs the headfuck?

Now here I was flying into the Middle East. Sometimes I wonder about myself...

On the flight into Queen Alia Airport in Amman, the capital of Jordan, I'd read that over 50% of the population of some 8 million in Jordan are refugees. The vast majority of these are Palestinian, but the list includes Egyptians, Saudis, Syrians, Iranians and of course, Iraqis.

Hmm, Jordan is smack in the middle of an interesting part of the world.

90% of the passengers were transiting to Tel Aviv in Israel, so this left no more than 20 locals and one Australian cyclist at the baggage carousel. I so like an easy exit, and so far so good - no heavy vibes, no pushing and shoving and best of all, no frantic waving and shouting. This was not India.

I waited for my bags next to the rather attractive Royal Jordanian Air airhostess. I had wondered, in a weak moment, if they'd be wearing full burqa, but no, their outfits were fittingly attractive and their hair flowed freely. I breathed easy.

'Welcome to Jordan," she said, and smiled. I smiled back.

Rooster, my bike, came out promptly, and we hugged and kissed (in a manly way, on both sides of the handlebars), and the locals standing around the carousel smiled. Immigration and customs went smoothly, with more smiling, and a 'Welcome to Jordan!' at each step.

I was considering letting go of my negative expectations...

At 6 am I was putting the bike together adjacent to the exit door by the taxi stand. It was still dark and there was hardly a soul around by this point, and it was very chilly - about 5 degree Celcius. After 2 months of the Thailand heat and humidity I was almost struggling to breath.

'Welcome to Jordan!' said a voice, and I turned to see a one of the taxi drivers standing behind me and handing me a hot cup of tea. "No charge, no charge for you!" he said, smiling broadly. "Welcome to Jordan!"

A taxi driver handing out freebies? This was a world first for Team Pumpy.

"Thank you, God bless you!" I said, genuinely pleased and surprised. How could I not be? I sat on the bench, sipped the tea and wondered...

A few of my Palestinian friends in Kuala Lumpur had told me I would enjoy Jordan, and maybe they were right. I knew the food was going to be good, that was a given, but the ease and seemingly genuine warmth of the Jordaians was a massive plus. and boded well.

To boot, a lot of people spoke English.

20 minutes later, at first light, I was cycling out of the airport onto the main road into town. I wasn't carrying a map, nor a guidebook, so I was simply following the signs and hoping for the best. Apparently it was going to be 40 km into the city centre, and I'd read on the internet that the cheapest hotels were situated around Masjid Hussein (wherever that was), so Masjid Hussein it was going to be.

(Team Pumpy's motto on hotels is, 'The cheaper the better, and don't worry about the germs!' I must get that translated into Latin one day; I'm sure it will sound better, maybe even wise.)

The terrain was dry and hilly, the traffic thin and before me lay 'The Middle East', almost a complete unknown. After 20 years of cycling in Asia this was another first. Why am I doing this...?

The main issue, though, in a new country is working out which side of the road the locals drive on, and adjusting your cycling brain to suit, viz; 'if danger looms, swerve to the right!' (in Jordan's case, seeing as they drive on the right.)

The odd car went past, and about every five minutes somebody would wind down the window, wave and call out, 'Welcome to Jordan!'. This was shaping up as a local habit, a bit like 'Gediemitewhereyagoin?' in my country.

20 km down the highway I came to a fork in the road. Up ahead was a car parked by the kerb, with two chaps standing around smoking cigarettes. One of them, a man about 60, was dressed in the traditional Jordanian garb of long white robes, sandles and a red and white checked head scarf. He waved me down.
"Where you go?" he asked as I pulled in beside the car.
"Amman," I said, and looked up apprehensively. The bald truth is that I was still harboring 'jihadi' fears, and for an instant I thought he might be some kind of religious traffic policeman who was about to put a 'cycling fatwa' on me.

Of course, this is insane, but then I've never known any country, including my own, to be completely well thought out. Of course, the problem may be me, but then I had spent a year in Malaysia...

"Ah!" said the man, and smiled. "Welcome to Jordan!" After some enquiries about my exact destination, he advised me to take the 'East Amman' route off to the right.
"This take you direct to Masjid Hussein," he said, pointing the way. "Very good luck to you, welcome to Jordan!"
"Thanks, God bless!" I said, and took off. I had to admit, so far Jordan was looking 'excellent' for cyclists.

By the 30 km mark I was entering the suburbs, and decided to stop for a tea. I'd already worked out that large silver urns signify 'teashop', so when I spotted one up on a rise next to large carpet shop, I decided to stop. Two young men were standing behind the counter. "One tea, please," I said, and pointed.

From the looks on the faces I figured that I was,
1. Possibly the first tourist they had ever served, and
2. Definitely the first cyclist.

I walked outside to drink the tea on the pavement, cupping my hands around the glass to draw in the warmth, and one of the young men quickly followed with a chair. 'Please!', he motioned. He then pointed at my bicycle, and made a thumbs up sign. (All the world loves a cyclist!) I finished the tea, and made 'payment' motions.
"No money! No money! Good luck! Good luck!" chimed the young men.
"Well, thank you very much," I said.
"Welcome to Jordan!" they said.

"Well," I thought to myself, as I pedaled off, "this place is verging on the brilliant." Two hours in-country and I was seriously considering joining the program.

20 minutes later I was cycling through a dense build up of houses (see photo above), and stopped to ask a policeman where the Masjid Hussein might be. On my right was what looked like Roman ruins - a few columns, some archways and stairs leading up to what looked like a balcony area some 4 stories high, where a couple of statues stood. The sign said: Roman Public Fountain, 2nd Century AD. Statues of Nymphs.' (I am so totally into 'nymphs' it's obscene, and make of that what you will...)
.
I asked about the mosque.

The policeman smiled. "Right around the corner," he said, "only 50 metres."
"Thank you very much," I said, and nodded.
"Welcome to Jordan!" he said.

I'd arrived.

Cycling in the footsteps of Jesus to India!

2010-03-21T04:44:00.000-07:00

The story goes that after the crucifixion, to escape further persecution, Jesus traveled from Palestine to Indian Kashmir, where he lived, died and was buried. There is a tomb in Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, called the Rozbal, that local tradition says is the burial site of St. Issa, Issa being the Islamic name for Jesus.

I was curious to follow this route, on a bicycle, and to 'see what I see'. I do love a mystery.

However, I'm not interested in attempting to prove or disprove the authenticity of the legend (which would be about as difficult as proving there are Alien UFO Bases on the dark side of the moon - which would be another good bicycle trip to do, btw...), but the journey provides a good backbone to investigate Christianity in the East, the roots of which go back to the apostles themselves.

Along the way there are a number of interesting way stops, not the least of which is the so called tomb of Mary, the mother of Jesus, in Maree, a small town in northern Pakistan, near ancient Taxila. Again, local tradition says that Mary, or Miriam, as she is more correctly called, died here on the way through to Kashmir with her son.

There are many stories and characters that weave their way through this one tale, both in place and time, and I figured that riding the route on a bicycle would give me not only the time to investigate some of the more interesting aspects, but also give me a feel for the journey as it would have been for Jesus Himself back in the first century AD.

By way of route, in 2010 both Iraq and Afghanistan do provide some difficulties in 2010, along with Pakistan and Iran. Iraq is a definite 'no go' on a bicycle, eastern Afghanistan (Jalalbad, Kabul and Bumian) is a 'maybe', and Pakistan and Iran are open at present, but heating up, so we shall see.

Though I ride through the Valley of Speeding Buses...

Itinerary:
I fly into Amman, Jordan, on the 24th of March, and from there will cycle to Jerusalem on about the 27th, just in time for Easter. After a couple of weeks in Israel-Palestine, I will head east towards Kashmir. I expect the journey to take me about 6 months.