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I thought I was going to die several times this week.  (In a GOOD way, of
course.)

SCRAPE #1: Masada, Israel
Like the gung-ho tourist junkie I've become, I signed up for a bus tour of
The Entire Universe In Eight Hours.  The bus--which was really a
van--picked me and some fellow suckers up outside the Damascus Gate in Old
Jerusalem at 3:00--which was really a bummer.  Our driver said his name was
Tutu. With a straight face.  Turns out is was the only straight thing about
him.  His driving cannot be called erratic, as that would imply an
intermittent normalcy.  His driving was lunatic.  Up and down through the
pitch-black pre-dawn galumphing West Bank desertscape.  At around 4 am, we
had to pull over because another van was apparently having trouble.  Tutu
(hee hee!) got out and had a heated discussion with the driver of the other
van, whose name was probably Muhammad because everyone is named Muhammad
here.  The discussion was typically Arab: lots of shouting, gesturing,
end-of-the-world protestations, with absolutely no result.  They stood
discussing the broken-down van, just a mile past a checkpoint staffed with
rifle-toting toddlers, in the middle of the West Bank.  And apparently
arriving at no solution, each got back into his own van and--this is the
pertinent part--DROVE AWAY.  A discussion about a broken-down van ended up
with said van driving away.  The Middle East!  Something's in the water.

Anyway, Tutu dropped us off at the bottom of a mountain that reached all
the way to Jupiter and told us to climb it.  This is where the brush with
death really happened.  Because of the "breakdown," we were racing the
rising sun to the top of the peak.  In pursuit of the perfect Kodak moment,
in 20 minutes I dashed up about 1500 rock steps, or about a kilometer and a
half as the crow flies, if crows fly directly up.  In 90 degree heat, with
asthma.  I nearly keeled over and tumbled into the sea.  I am one stubborn
bastard.  But I made it, dripping with the overflow of my quickly ebbing
life force.  And the sunrise, which came over the Dead Sea far below my
feet, was supreme.  On the other side of the sea was Jordan, and I was
standing in the ruins of an ancient mountaintop city that once housed
Herod.  Mountains, desert, peach-orange sunrise...  My flirtation with a
coronary ended with a gracious reward.

Afterward, we took a dip in the Dead Sea.  As you might have heard, there's
no life in it anymore, save some clueless protozoa that didn't get the
memo.  That's because there's about 8 times the regular salinity in it,
which means that when you get into the water, you automatically float.  Try
to tread water, and your legs bob helplessly back to the surface.  It's a
bit like flying, except you're doused in slightly soapy-feeling warm water
and screaming, "Weird!!!"  We took the obligatory
pretending-to-read-a-book-as-I-float-in-the-Dead-Sea photos, made the
gastronomic error of tasting the brine, and then fled to the showers before
the snaps on our pants dissolved.  It was then I noticed yet another
paradox of the Israeli landscape--the Dead Sea has lifeguards.  Lifeguards,
for the only sea in the world where it's physically impossible to drown! 
(Someone told me later they were actually there in case anyone gets any
water in their eyes.  Thoughtful, but another irony, considering how many
Lebanese civilians they bombed in the early '80s. But I digress.)

Then we took a dip in the cool, clear waters of a waterfall at an oasis in
Ein Gedi and took a spin through Jericho.  Then we blew through the desert
where Jesus was tempted by the Devil.  Saw a monastery carved in a cliff. 
Walked down the Mount of Olives.  Just another day in the Middle East. 
Sigh...pass the felafel.

SCRAPE #2
 I took a bus from Jerusalem to Eilat, which is Israel's smidgen of the
Red Sea coast.  In the space of a few miles, four countries converge on the
stunning reefs of the Red Sea: Egypt, Israel, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia. 
Needless to say, such an arresting political and zoological stage is the
ideal place for ice cream stands and cheesy theme hotels.  That's Eilat.  

I took a taxi to the border of Jordan, and at the checkpoint, met two Army
guys (anti-terrorist types) based in Egypt, who were bringing their
families into Jordan for a vacation.  They seemed very nice--slapped me on
the back, laughed at all my jokes, called me by my first name at the start
of every sentence.  We shared a cab to Aqaba, then to Petra.  When they
signed my address book and we parted at the end of the taxi ride, they
wrote down the reference numbers to a dozen different Bible verses.

You've already seen Petra (the name means "rock." The place was featured in
the last reel of "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" as the home of the
Holy Grail.  That wasn't a set; it's really a magnificent temple, carved
directly into a mountain, accessible only by walking down a 1.5-km long
chasm.  In fact, Petra was an entire city, carved into the bubbly brown
rocks of the Jordanian desert some 2000 years ago.  It covers over 50
square kilometers, winding over ravines, valleys, and mountains.  It was
originally a center of trade at around the time of Christ, and then the
Romans took it over until trade routes changed.  After that, it just kind
of vanished.  Nobody knew where it was; it was like Atlantis.  Then, one
day in the 1820s, a Swedish explorer was approached by a Bedouin from the
area, who said, "Can you keep a secret?"  The explorer said he could, and
didn't.  And that is why we can visit Petra today.  And why it's so
incredibly preserved.  I'd been told that if you can only do ONE thing in
the Middle East (I mean besides be swindled by Arabs), then it should be
Petra.

I got into Wadi Mousa, the adjoining town, at 3 in the afternoon, and it
was far too sweltering hot to do much.  So I met some locals.  Every one
asked the same questions:
"Are you staying tonight?"
"Yes."
"Which hotel?"
"Um. Twaissi Hotel."
And they'd nod the conversation into silence.  Two or three times this
happened.

At dinner it slowly became clear why.

The hotel was at the top of a huge hill and looked down on the town and the
hills around Petra itself.  There was a tent in the yard, and some
mattresses, so we were eating our dinners and listening contentedly to the
Muslim call to prayers as the sun slipped away.  Bit by bit, though, we
heard increasing commotion in the town.  Goats braying, people milling, and
then a few shouts. It was during the watermelon that we heard the gunshots.

"Those were gunshots!" said Rob, who's in the British Army.
"Really?" said Colin, from Leicester, who, if you happened to notice, had
his second and third toes of each foot fused together. 

The next few minutes brought a crescendo of activity to the valley below
us.  More shouting.  More gunshots, farther away this time.  Flashing
lights behind houses.  People running through the light of street lamps.

By the time word came that we might have to evacuate the hotel, Rob and I
were on the roof trying to get a better view.  We were trying to figure out
where the mob was when I happened to turn and see the police truck in the
hotel driveway.  Just then, two Jordanian riflemen appeared on the roof and
breezed past us, to the edge.  

"Are we safe?" we asked one of them, who could apparently shoot better than
speak English. While he attempted to communicate, the other sharpshooter
took the chance to sneak up a ladder to the highest point of the roof.   

Over time, as more riflemen appeared in the darkened yard around the
Twaissi Hotel, protecting us, details and rumors were plucked from the
grapevine.  Apparently, we were smack in the middle of a big family feud.
Like the Capulets and the Montagues, the whole town was erupting over a
death that happened a few months before.  Tonight, it turned out, was the
end of the cease-fire, and half the town was out for blood.  A shop had
already been looted; we could smell it burning.  We were being guarded, or
so the conventional wisdom said, because the Twaissi had the most guests of
all the town that night.  

"We're lucky to be here!" Rob said.

I confess it was very exciting.  The 9:30 call to prayer came, but the
situation didn't change much.  A jeep arrived in the driveway with a
machine gun mounted to the back.  A dozen policemen milled about the lobby,
drinking Cokes and watching England lose the World Cup with us.  The staff
attempted to busy the guests with itinerary-building for the next day, then
slipped into the back room where they could be seen talking furtively into
a cordless phone, popping antacids, and mainlining coffee.

Eventually, back on the roof, we could see an armored car trundle away with
a criminal inside.

"See?" said the sniper. "They catch."

"Will this be in the newspaper tomorrow?" Rob asked him.

The sniper tsk-tsked and put a finger to his mouth. "No!  No," he said. "If
someone write, we catch."

+++++++++

It wasn't until the next afternoon, after my blissful romp in Petra, that I
found out the whole story.  I was eating in a deserted restaurant and asked
the manager if there would be more trouble tonight.

"You were here last night?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes.  It was very scary."

"I am sorry.  You are unlucky," he said. "What hotel?"

I nodded toward the Twaissi.

"Oooohhhhhhh," he said. 

And out came the rest of the picture: The man the town wanted to kill was
none other than Mr. Twaissi himself, and his brothers, who allegedly killed
a guy who got drunk and messed with a certain girl.  That burning smell was
the tourist shop Mr. Twaissi also owned.  Those police were there to keep
it from happening to us.  And that man who was arrested?  You guessed it. 
Twaissi.  

"So do you think it will be okay?" I said.

"Tonight? Yes," he said. "No one touch the tourist."  I can understand
that.  Given the housecleaning Luxor got after the tourist killings,
incidents like this could kill a town like Wadi Mousa and the Petra
trekkers.

All the same, the machine gun Jeep was back that night.  I suppose I should
feel better that this time, they covered the gun with a tarp.

++++++++

So what else?  Petra, as I said, was one of the most incredible places I
have ever been in my life!  You could feel the ghosts.  It was beyond
description.  So big!   So real, yet so incredibly whimsical.  You have to
go.

But be prepared to pay.  Getting a visa costs Americans around $50.  King
Hussein, whose arrogant visage is proudly displayed from carpet shots to
pissoirs, gets the proceeds.  And going to Petra costs 20 dinars--about 30
bucks--while Jordanians have to pay only 1 dinar.  And, as usual, the Arab
shopkeeps try their darndest to prove you as big a sap as they think you
must be, quoting prices 10 times what they should be.  And even to leave
the country costs you a "tax" of 4 dinars.  It really soured me on the
Middle East for good.  I mean, I know they hate Americans, but manifesting
that disdain with greed hardly balances the scales.

Let me state, for the record, that I was in Jordan when America bombed Iraq
this time.  Let us not forget that Jordan was Iraq's buddy in the Gulf War,
and that Iraq is next door.  

After Petra, I went through Amman (very clean, very liveable) to the border
of Israel in the West Bank.  It took two hours to be processed, including
15 minutes when they vanished with my passport, came out and asked me to
duplicate my signature on a piece of paper, and vanished again for another
while.  Yes, I've lost hair since that passport photo was taken. Do I have
to submit to an official government reminder?

Now I am back in Tel Aviv, preparing to go to Haifa (another SCUD-smashed
town) tomorrow.  Looks like my Middle Eastern travails are finished, for
now.  It's off to Rhodes, then to Turkey.  Soon, Eastern Europe, then back
in London by the middle of the month.

A few people asked what I want for my birthday.  Well, nothing that I can't
use.  The Lonely Planet (NOT Let's Go!!) guides to South Africa or India
would be great, or the L.P. that includes Botswana and/or Malawi.  Or
cards.  Letters. Another REALLY cool thing would be to get a tape of music
or your voice or whatever.  I have a Walkman and it would really really
make me smile.

Quick glossary:

SERVICE: (sir-vees)  A kind of cab.  I took one to Jerusalem today.  They
wait in a predetermined spot until they fill up--usually six people--and
then go.  Usually very cheap, and in a Mercedes or a like automobile or
van.  Big in the Arab world, including Morocco.  Double as health spas
(sauna only).

BEDOUIN: (bed-win) Desert people.  Used to be nomads, now they sell
trinkets to tourists.  Once rode camels across the desert.  Now ride Bert
and Sandy Henderson from Columbus, OH in camels in circles in the parking
lot at the Pyramids.  Terrible brown teeth.  Common refrain: "You speak
English? Meester, give me money." 

Factoid: The reason you see so many Israeli soldiers walking around town
with their rifles, even when they're just going to visit mom or see a
movie, is because if a soldier loses his or her gun, it's seven years in
the slammer. No questions asked.  I've heard stories of guys who left them
in cabs, and when the cabbie helpfully called the base to turn the gun in,
the kid gets nabbed anyway.

More to be added as I think of them.  Or ask.

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY!!!!!!!!  Think of me as I bob along the Mediterranean
sipping jacked-down Greek coffee and dreaming of wall-to-wall carpeting.

Sand gets in your eyes,
Jason

Right now I'm in: Tel Aviv, Israel

Countries: 10    Continents: 3   Days: 63