damage to the car in the dim light. I poured a scotch
and sat outside. My hands still trembled lighting up the cigarette,
which I hated and put out after a couple of puffs. Going to bed,
sleep evaded me for ages, the tobacco taste in my mouth. Thoughts
of knife-toting thieves and what I’d have done to him if I were a
braver man raced around in my mind.
*
The road from
Amman to the Dead Sea drops down from the city, twisting through
villages and farmhouses clinging in ones and twos to the steep
hillsides as the road descends to the lowest point on earth.
Driving, I found it hard to focus on the twisting road and the
scenery at the same time. We saw the sparkling expanse of water
slide into view below us, the misty blue shores of Palestine and
Israel framing the far side of the immobile expanse of water. The
road straightened out into the plains around the sea and we slowed
as we reached an army warthog, a temporary checkpoint, the soldiers
examining my passport and Aisha’s ID card. She chatted them up in
Arabic, laughing with them, her eyes flashing and
teasing.
We drove
along the coast of the Dead Sea.
‘ What was all
the checkpoint stuff about?’
‘ Security.
That’s Palestine over there across the water. And
Israel.’
‘ I thought
you were at peace with the Israelis.’
She looked
askance at me, an eyebrow raised. ‘Jordan is. Apparently there’s a
government event on at the Conference Centre. It’s up the road
here. That’s why security is tighter than usual.’
We passed a
tall, square metal tower overlooking the flat expanse of lifeless
water. I gestured toward it and asked, ‘Lifeguard?’
‘ Gun
position. They’re not usually manned these days, but when they are
they turn the guns away to face inland. So does the other side.
Peace, you see?’
She flicked
through my passport before handing it to me. ‘Cute picture. They’re
usually very bad. You’d want to look after a face like that rather
than being a hero and chasing robbers.’
My account of
the knifeman in the depths of the city’s stairways the night before
had broken the ice between us. Aisha had been astonished I had been
brave or mad enough to have given chase and had nagged me not to
try and take the law into my own hands like that again.
‘ You don’t
get it, Paul. The Eastern City is dangerous and it starts at the
bottom of the hill outside your house. Leave things be at night,
please.’
The whole
episode seemed as if it had taken place in a dream, particularly as
we drove along the coast in the sunshine, the Dead Sea shimmering
beside us.
I reached out
my hand to grab at Aisha’s ID card. ‘Let’s see yours
then.’
‘ No.’
‘ Come on,
give it over. You’ve seen mine, show me yours.’
She laughed
and pulled away from me, the light making her eyes sparkle. ‘Here,
then. You’re not to laugh.’
She handed
over her civil ID card and of course I did laugh, because the
picture was truly awful. ‘You look podgy.’
‘ I am never talking to you again, ya Brit.’
We reached
the dusty moonscape around the potash complex, laughing and teasing
each other, the angry silence of the night before a distant
irrelevance. We tracked Clive Saunders, Mr Potash, down to his
office.
He was
perhaps in his late fifties, silver-haired and florid, his
open-necked shirt exposing a little tuft of curly white hairs. He
came around the desk to meet us, his hand out and grinning a
welcome. He cleared a pile of magazines from one of the pair of
chairs in front of his desk and waved to us to sit.
‘ Good to see
you both. Here, take a seat. Not often we get visitors from the
press!’
An Egyptian
tea-boy brought chai
suleimani, black, sweet tea
served in little gold-rimmed custard glasses, and we settled down.
I took my voice recorder out.
‘ Okay if I
use this?’
‘ Go
ahead.’
I switched on
the recorder and Saunders sat forward, his hands clasped in front
of him as he considered my questions. We talked
and sat outside. My hands still trembled lighting up the cigarette,
which I hated and put out after a couple of puffs. Going to bed,
sleep evaded me for ages, the tobacco taste in my mouth. Thoughts
of knife-toting thieves and what I’d have done to him if I were a
braver man raced around in my mind.
*
The road from
Amman to the Dead Sea drops down from the city, twisting through
villages and farmhouses clinging in ones and twos to the steep
hillsides as the road descends to the lowest point on earth.
Driving, I found it hard to focus on the twisting road and the
scenery at the same time. We saw the sparkling expanse of water
slide into view below us, the misty blue shores of Palestine and
Israel framing the far side of the immobile expanse of water. The
road straightened out into the plains around the sea and we slowed
as we reached an army warthog, a temporary checkpoint, the soldiers
examining my passport and Aisha’s ID card. She chatted them up in
Arabic, laughing with them, her eyes flashing and
teasing.
We drove
along the coast of the Dead Sea.
‘ What was all
the checkpoint stuff about?’
‘ Security.
That’s Palestine over there across the water. And
Israel.’
‘ I thought
you were at peace with the Israelis.’
She looked
askance at me, an eyebrow raised. ‘Jordan is. Apparently there’s a
government event on at the Conference Centre. It’s up the road
here. That’s why security is tighter than usual.’
We passed a
tall, square metal tower overlooking the flat expanse of lifeless
water. I gestured toward it and asked, ‘Lifeguard?’
‘ Gun
position. They’re not usually manned these days, but when they are
they turn the guns away to face inland. So does the other side.
Peace, you see?’
She flicked
through my passport before handing it to me. ‘Cute picture. They’re
usually very bad. You’d want to look after a face like that rather
than being a hero and chasing robbers.’
My account of
the knifeman in the depths of the city’s stairways the night before
had broken the ice between us. Aisha had been astonished I had been
brave or mad enough to have given chase and had nagged me not to
try and take the law into my own hands like that again.
‘ You don’t
get it, Paul. The Eastern City is dangerous and it starts at the
bottom of the hill outside your house. Leave things be at night,
please.’
The whole
episode seemed as if it had taken place in a dream, particularly as
we drove along the coast in the sunshine, the Dead Sea shimmering
beside us.
I reached out
my hand to grab at Aisha’s ID card. ‘Let’s see yours
then.’
‘ No.’
‘ Come on,
give it over. You’ve seen mine, show me yours.’
She laughed
and pulled away from me, the light making her eyes sparkle. ‘Here,
then. You’re not to laugh.’
She handed
over her civil ID card and of course I did laugh, because the
picture was truly awful. ‘You look podgy.’
‘ I am never talking to you again, ya Brit.’
We reached
the dusty moonscape around the potash complex, laughing and teasing
each other, the angry silence of the night before a distant
irrelevance. We tracked Clive Saunders, Mr Potash, down to his
office.
He was
perhaps in his late fifties, silver-haired and florid, his
open-necked shirt exposing a little tuft of curly white hairs. He
came around the desk to meet us, his hand out and grinning a
welcome. He cleared a pile of magazines from one of the pair of
chairs in front of his desk and waved to us to sit.
‘ Good to see
you both. Here, take a seat. Not often we get visitors from the
press!’
An Egyptian
tea-boy brought chai
suleimani, black, sweet tea
served in little gold-rimmed custard glasses, and we settled down.
I took my voice recorder out.
‘ Okay if I
use this?’
‘ Go
ahead.’
I switched on
the recorder and Saunders sat forward, his hands clasped in front
of him as he considered my questions. We talked
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