Into The Jordan Rift

From sherut pulled away from my host that day long ago, we're going to perhaps the deepest area populated country, the Jordan Rift. Jordan Valley is to expand the Great Rift Platinum, which begins in East Africa and travels north through the Red Sea and Dead Sea and the historic Jordan River.

I was wondering when we began our descent into the valley, I had the impression of its vastness and depth, and really. It extended far, far away, so far that I felt like I was watching the scene of the car. I remember hearing that King Hussein of Jordan, an experienced pilot, had flown up and down the valley, all the while remaining below the sea level.

In some areas, no doubt, where the insurrection had made a little progress, so that the earth beneath, rich and green and lush. In other places it was bone white. All together, I found this the most beautiful scene I have ever laid eyes on, even beyond Aravah Wadi and Sikhs.

The driver continued as usual for drivers in the Middle East. It is his guiding principle seems to be that the trays are made to last, and the challenge is all the more if a blocking visibility curve is thrown into the equation for good measure. Although I was focused on the nature of his technique was making me nervous.

Sometimes, during the journey I was inspired to give him a gift for conciliation my cigarette lighter. This had a negative effect on its concentration. He did rummaging through the glove until he produced a packet of cigarettes Goldstar as a gift back.

We accelerated along a stretch of road marked by a sign proclaiming "sea level" and then dropped below that in the vast plain of the valley. The bottom of the world, I thought, at least the human world.

Soon we were at the reception center, corrugated metal structure with open sides of the roof. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of people pushing, or stood around, we are all more or less just a small space.

Local agent I heard part of it and it was less like a colonel, yelled at us on a sound system. His tone was bitter, but few people paid any attention, except for those he had chosen for his personal communication ..

I asked a young soldier or a policeman what to do next. He led me to the colonel who stopped roaring long enough to direct me to a kiosk on the side. It was labeled "foreign."

At the booth I got a pink, stamped paper. Then came a bus line, green and yellow old looking that pulled up every few minutes. Each in turn was filled with passengers, and had its roof full of luggage before being pulled.

"Line" is actually not quite the word, that he had joined. It was on the run, push, an unruly crowd .. A pungent smell, too, but it was understandable, sweating all naked. The temperature hovered near 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

I learned at a time that did not take place if someone else could push forward. People have tried. A man who spoke little English and asked me to push I did. At one point, I was pushed right into the feet of a woman. She took her revenge by screaming at me in Arabic, presumably to throw in all the curses she knew.

I tried to remain unfazed. Nobody ever tells you that it is sometimes better not to know another language, but linguistic ignorance is sometimes good and he was one of the apartments. My Arabic was actually limited to two words: "schuchran" (thank you) and "Salaam" (hello, goodbye, peace). I did not understand any of these words in the speech of women.

All I could do was give him a smile of apology. That, and reflect that I had known then what she said I would have almost certainly been away from it.

When I pushed my way to the bus finally an officer noticed that I had lost a receipt stamped pink. I had to go back and abroad, a table near the colonel shouted. But I was the next bus, clutching a permanent and rolled toward the back like Jordan.

We had one last stop in a position to Jordan, where he had to retire with a Jordanian police last check of all passengers. Once again, climbed aboard, and the bus rattled through the bed of short, wavy famous Allenby Bridge. In the tire noise, the bridge had been taken, perhaps, to Creek Bridge in the United States. But I never actually saw the structure, although I had to worry so long. His memory is still a rumor on his feet, and nothing else.

The next time we got off the bus was a moment to rest in the shade when the roof of corrugated metal. But more than that a Magen David, the Israeli flag hangs limply breathless, overheated atmosphere.

For the first time I crossed the Jordan  Rift Gold.