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Published: March 31st 2007
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When we’d planned our day-trip to Salt, a historic town about a half-hour’s drive from Amman, Akram talked about pulling some strings to arrange a meeting with the mayor. It was a nifty ploy to pique my interest, reluctant as I was to spend one of my last few days in a city named for a kitchen condiment. But how often do you get to have a sit-down with a mayor in the Middle East? I wasn’t entirely sure what angle I’d take in his office. The glowing features writer for
Travel + Leisure? The hard-hitting newshound from
The Sunday Times? “Mr. Mayor, we’ve been following you for months. We know what you’re up to.” Plopping a portfolio of 8x10s on his desk. “We’ve got all the evidence we need. And we’re gonna take you down.”
At the Salt city hall we’re greeted by a young, blushing guy with patchy facial hair and rumpled corduroys. The mayor has a full schedule for the afternoon, and Za’ed offers to show us around instead. It’s a fleeting disappointment, as he quickly proves to be a first-rate guide. He buys us some falafel and takes us around the compact downtown, with
its busy souqs and stately old buildings built from an ocher stone that, later, a city official will optimistically describe as “golden.” He shows us a newly built square where the old men play an obscure game with small stones, showing off the sorts of wiles that only old men can muster. Each spring, Za’ed explains, there’s a tournament broadcast by Al-Jazeera Sport. The winner gets dinner for two at a local restaurant, along with a handsome new
dish-dash and
kuffiyah It’s a pretty town, not least because much of the architecture - late-19th-century relics of the Ottoman Empire - is about as far from the concrete boxes of Amman as the Taj Mahal. Za’ed points out the ambitious restoration projects around the city, the hope being that within a few years, Salt will be able to make its pitch to the UNESCO World Heritage committee.
We stop at a busy spice shop cluttered with plump, aromatic sacks and plump, hustling women. On the advice of a friend in the States - a chef who read of my adventures with budget saffron in Morocco - I’ve decided to stock up, feeling at least a small pang of
remorse for all the kindly spice-sellers I’ve rejected in recent months. Za’ed negotiates with reservoirs of patience but, it must be said, the untrained eye of a kid who’d get lost in his own kitchen. The wily shopkeeper is trying to push some sort of spice cocktail on us, handing me a sack that looks more like Pa Podunk’s Trail Mix than some of the world’s finest saffron. I shake my head fussily. “Just the pure stuff,” I say. Somehow I’ve gotten the idea in my head that we’re talking about 60 kilos of China White. He shovels a few scoops of saffron into a gallon bag and weighs it on a rusty old scale. There are grumblings from the women around the shop, though whether it’s admiration for my keen eye or disapproval at my extravagance they’re huffing about, I can’t really say.
We meet with a local official who’s in charge of the town’s restoration and redevelopment. Montaser goes over some of the plans for downtown, fielding my questions with an eloquent, bureaucratic polish. Akram’s explained to him that I’m a writer from the States - mercifully glossing over my credentials, it should be noted -
and there seems to be an implicit assumption that this is a fact-finding mission for, at the very least, some mid-level American newspaper. I nod and ask pointed questions and jot a few notes in my pad. It’s turned out to be a lousy day, I reflect, to leave my fedora at home. On the way out I kill a few minutes flirting with a pretty office assistant, and I suspect that if Salt wanted to make an earnest pitch to UNESCO, they’d find a way to work her skin-tight jeans and perky young breasts into the presentation.
We’re back in Amman by late-afternoon, where I catch up on some work and begin to say my goodbyes around the hotel. Ahmed - a good-looking, stylish kid who shows off some great wit now and then - clasps my hand and kisses me four times on the cheek, in the Arab way. Sa’ed takes down my email address and notes, almost in passing, that he might be getting engaged in a few weeks. I offer a hearty “
Makroob!” and the hopes that,
inshallah, I’ll be in Amman for the wedding. I have a last Nescafe in the lobby, while some improbable high-speed chase is playing out on the TV screen.
Ayman and Akram and the guys have planned a farewell barbeque. It’s pushing midnight when we finally begin to set up the grill, after Ismael’s managed to retrieve us from the far corners of town, and we make it through a minor meat fiasco at the Carrefour. They take me to a windy hill overlooking the city, the lights pulsing and twinkling across the horizon. “This is a sacred place for us,” says Akram gravely, as we lay a blanket under the few flickering stars. He points to different landmarks around Amman, and then to the long line of streetlamps on the road to Jerusalem. The wind is scattering scraps of paper and the dim, glowing embers from the fire, while Ayman feeds pieces of cardboard into the flame and Ismael and Amar go to warm up in the car.
It’s the sort of night, I reflect, puffing into my hands, that I’ll begin to appreciate more once it’s over. I’m woefully underdressed for the weather, crouching beside the grill to soak up its warmth. Still, the guys put on a first-rate performance. The meat comes out well-charred, in spite of my fears over the tepid fire, and Ayman leads the guys in a few rousing Jordanian songs. In the car there are sad goodbyes and inshallahs, hopes for a happy journey and speedy return. It’s close to four when I finally drift off to sleep, practically able to count on one hand the hours until I’m in Beirut.
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