Iraq!

Today, I went to Iraq.

I took a city bus in Amman, and then changed to a minibus in a small village outside. It wasn't too far.

Okay, are you still breathing? Can we go on?

Not, of course, the country Iraq: a little village called ‘Iraq Al-Amir.

Today I had no problems getting to the bus station: I told the driver “Al-Muhajareen” and away we went.

There was a city bus with the location Wadi As-Seer flashing across its side and I quickly got aboard, fumbling with my change. (City buses are larger, cleaner, and faster, but more expensive and they don’t give exact change.)

With just a short wait, we were on our way with only three passengers, one of whom, I could swear, had a twin back in the United States.

The bus picked up and dispersed its passengers along its path and I was soon the only one left as we approached the small town of Wadi As-Seer.

“You want to go to Iraq Al-Amir?” He asked.

I told him yes. He said okay; we arrived at a small bus stop: an old garage to one side, and five or so minibuses waiting.

“That one, there, will take you. You will wait, maybe, twenty minutes, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you!”

He said goodbye and waved and I entered the waiting minibus.

There were nine or so passengers waiting, huddling a bit in the cold. Several young boys ran in and out of the doors as their mothers chatted in the back. I was struck with the difference in appearance between here and Amman: the hijam was the older and more conservative kind that falls in a circle around the elbows.

We eventually took off and tried the bare brakes to their limits going down the narrow, steep, and winding mountain road. I was surprised at the number of people that got on and off the bus as we passed a few houses or little stores on the side of the road. We came to Iraq Al Amir and I got off just past the village and headed to Qasr al-Abd: Castle of the Slave.

Legend goes that a slave of the family, or a commoner in the village, named Tobiad, built the castle out of love for the daughter of his owner/the town’s rich man, who returned before it was finished. (One guidebook says the man was then killed…) In reality, it was probably built by Hyrcanus of Jerusalem, the head of the Tobiad family who also governed Ammon. The name engraved on the nearby caves in Aramaic script is Tuvya, lending credence that it was a Tobiad family member. Josephus mentioned the Qasr (Antiquities of the Jews, XII, 230) and it was noted for the large carvings, and it is known for being built of some of the largest building blocks of the age/region. Also, the area has been identified with Ramoth Mizpeh; so the tribe of Gad probably was here - not to mention the Ammonites! (Joshua 13:26).

Now it is situated among a few houses and olive trees at the bottom of a beautiful valley. Families were working in nearby fields and one or two groups were eating their lunch out of doors, beneath the olive trees.

I clambered around the ruins, ambling from the back to the front, where the proper gate was opened by the custodian. Technically, the site is free, but I had read it would be appreciated to tip him a JD or so, which I did. Exploring the inside, I was soon joined by two local boys who hopped through the window like little monkeys as they played hide and seek. They didn’t see me as I sneaked down some stairs and hid in a cave area. They came my way and I surprised them by stepping out. I thought about yelling “boo,” but thought that was taking it too far.

Exiting the ruins, I was approached by a local girl giving me two or three of the wild growing weed-flowers, which I was reluctant to take: little girls with flowers generally want money (which she did). She had to be satisfied with her picture, however, before I started my hike back up the mountain to Iraq Al-Amir: the caves of the prince, after which the village was named.

At the foot of the path leading to the caves, I saw a taxi waiting for three German tourists just coming down. I felt vastly superior for having navigated the public transportation system for less than half a JD, while they had paid at least 10JD for the taxi there and back and for him to wait.

I enjoyed climbing up around the caves, although they were not the most impressive caves I’ve ever seen. They were caves, after all: slightly damp and cool, smelling of goat. But the views were spectacular!

Also, I found the BatCave .

In the cave just before it, I had found a bunch of feathers from local birds, so it was without trepidation that I approached this cave, despite the squeaking sounds proceeding from within.

It’s either birds or bats, I thought. I carefully reasoned: It’s probably birds. One, I saw bird feathers in the cave before. Two, it’s daylight. Bats are nocturnal. It’s probably birds.

Unfortunately, wild animals do not follow logic.

I cautiously explored towards the back. The squeaking increased. I continued. Just then, a ray of light pierced the darkness of the high cleft and I could see a nest of bats above my head, one of them ominously spreading its wings.

I ran as fast as I could, ready at any moment to duck and cover, expecating the black horde of demons to swoop over my head and give me rabies.

Fortunately, wild animals are often too lazy to go after swiftly moving American girl meat.

I decided I had enough of cave exploring and started the hike back to Wadi As-Seer.

Now, instead of being the tourist, I was the tourist attraction. I do not think that this rural village gets many single American women hiking the 10km up a mountain in the cold wind.

Children leaned out of windows at the occasional house I passed and yelled hello. Young men stood on the side of the road, yelling “Hello! Hello! What is your name? Hello!” in a contest to see which one of them could get me to respond. They were all disappointed. A group of little boys ran after me yelling, “Sureena, sureena!” I obliged them, taking a picture and showing them. “Helu, helu!” they teased each other about being beautiful, and ran off as fast as they came.

About an hour and half into my hike in the rather frigid mountain wind, I began to think the German tourists might have been wise to get a taxi. There were no minibuses in sight as I kept climbing. But then, I wouldn’t have had to shoo brightly colored roosters out of my path, or paused on the mountainside to take pictures across the valley. I wouldn’t have crossed paths with the boy carrying his (still living) chicken dinner nor with the girl leaning off her balcony shouting the familiar refrain of, “Hello! What is your name?”

Finally, at long last, a minibus came my way and I arrived back to Wadi As-Seer, where I had lunch. I paused on some nearby steps to try to find my fratta, the ever-important change. Two very nice gentlemen stopped to make sure I was all right and offer any help. (I guess an American tourist hunched over the streets of Wadi As-Seer isn’t a common sight.) They pointed me in the direction of a bus back to Amman. Catching it, I made my way home – this time, using my map to get dropped off close to my neighborhood and then actually not getting lost as I walked home.

The best part of this weekend was the people. I was blessed to be on the receiving end of help from many people – from taxi and bus drivers, to policemen, to the friendly children, to random people on the street. Yes, many of them were just doing their jobs, but it is always encouraging to see good come out of slightly less than perfect circumstances.

It was also interesting to see the contrast between Amman proper and the small towns not 30 miles from it. Amman is very Westernized for the most part: it has every sort of food chain (Fuddruckers! Popeyes! McDonalds!), skyscraper, and mall that any American could want. Outside Amman, it was much more conservative and rural. Within the city, it is easy to forget the presence of the mountains and get locked into the never-ending grey and white of the limestone. Outside of Amman, you look around and could imagine yourself to be in northern Iraq (the country), Wyoming, or England with the countryside’s rounded hills, bare cliffs, and grey haze. It is beautiful and an awesome tribute to God’s creative power. On the other hand, it really can’t compare a lick to the undulating hills of home.