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Published: March 26th 2007
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I’ve been spending quite a bit of time in the hotel lobby, with its fiercely lacquered armchairs and cheap plastic chandelier. Staking out a rickety seat in the corner, surfing a weak WiFi signal that must be beaming in from Hamzeh’s Plastic Shoe Emporium, I’m finally laying the groundwork for the months ahead. I’ve booked my flight to Beirut and reserved what is, at six US bucks, bound to be the cheapest bed in the city. I’ve written to
Couchsurfers in Syria, slyly alluding to the letter of invitation I might need to make it across the border. I’ve had more than a few dreams about the girls in Tel Aviv. I’ve researched flights to Nairobi and flights to New York from Johannesburg, scribbling notes on a piece of paper that promptly gets lost under all the piles I’ve stacked around my room.
I’m also answering the question of just how many hours a group of Jordanian guys can spend in front of the TV, a rough estimate of which might be “tons.” During my first Nescafe of the day, or while I fire off a few emails before bed, there’s the bubbling of
nargileh and a ruthless commitment
to molding the couch cushions into the shapes of their young Jordanian behinds. In the morning it’s Um Khartoum - the famous Egyptian singer - or the grave headlines on Al-Jazeera; in the evening, it’s Hollywood B-movies from the ‘80s and the improbably bad exports out of Cairo.
That the capital of the Islamic world could be responsible for such malicious crap is mitigated by the fact that the entertainment capital of the Western world can make the same dubious claim. But the tastes of the average Egyptian - which set the trends from Marrakech to Muscat, from Algiers to Aleppo - reflect an improbable fascination with cheap slapstick humor and rousing song numbers. One night I watch an ensemble cast - led by a remarkably self-possessed adolescent - stomp and sing through a homage to child labor. Though I’m no expert in the tongue, our young hero - cheerfully wiping at a windshield with his sopping rag - seems to sing something along the lines of:
Oh, life could be better for Li’l Ahmed,
But really, it’s not that bad!
I’d rather be squeezing a squeegee for you
Than ducking the bombs over Baghdad! I’m sure
it’s less uplifting than the producers intended, and I can’t help but wonder whether UNICEF might be interested to see what’s unfolding on the streets of Cairo. In the end, I decide to cut my losses before Hosni Mubarak pops on the screen, tap dancing across the Constitution to the tune of “Those Were the Days.”
So I’ve escaped the hotel lobby for an afternoon in Jerash, the ancient Roman city that’s one of Jordan’s top tourist sights. It’s the first time I’ve seen the sun in three days, after a weekend of gray skies and whipping winds. It’s also the first time I’ve seen the scenery in the north, the fertile hills and green valleys sprawled along the Jordan River. It’s a far cry from the arid south, and I’m starting to regret how little time I’ve spent exploring this part of the country. The grass is dazzling as we barrel through the valley, the clouds of smoke puffing from the back of the bus failing, in spite of their best intentions, to spoil this bucolic scene.
There’s a line of tour buses at the gate to the old city, a couple of young kids in worn
blue jeans selling postcards for a few dinars. I scoot past a geriatric group from Germany and make quick work of the place - the long, sun-splashed colonnade, the well-preserved theaters - realizing once more that if you’ve seen one Roman vomitorium, you’ve more or less seen them all. I retreat to higher ground to get a broad view of the ruins, letting the sunlight play over the broken temples and overgrown fields and feeling a sort of ravaged happiness as the birds chirp and twitter around me.
On my way out I get stopped by a girl selling tickets to some hokey show in the hippodrome. She has deep dimples and a polished British accent though she’s never left the Middle East, and that alone seems reason enough to make a bit of small-talk. She earnestly taps on her chest and waves a book of tickets in my face. “It’s a beautiful show,” she says. “Really, really beautiful.” I admit that while “beautiful” might mean different things to different people, it’s a bit tough to throw the word out when a bunch of greased-up gladiators in cod pieces are prancing just a few meters away. We talk about
her studies and I do a little dancing thing with my eyes and she decides to wave the five-dinar entrance fee, proving once more that even a little bit of flirtation in these parts can go an awfully long way.
The show is a brief, fleeting disappointment. The gladiators tumble and kick in the dirt, doing silly little twirls during a battle scene that might’ve been choreographed by Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance. Now and then they appeal to the crowd - the luckless loser looks up in defeat, fighting to hold back his laughter - and then the victor dishes out an imaginary gutting to the bloodthirsty delight of all. For the finale two chariots run a couple of leisurely laps around the arena, the horses prancing like they’re on parade, and we can’t help but feel, as we make our way out, that it’s hard to get your money’s worth when not a single Christian gets thrown to the lions.
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