Salt, Part II: City of Salt

Upon arriving in Salt, I set out to explore. Having copied a map from a travel guide, I felt fairly confident in my ability to find the main street (which was where the bus had dropped me off) and from there the tourist office, museum, and several main sites. My confidence, however, did not take into account several factors, two of which are my previously mentioned superpowers. Another factor is that the streets here are wildly confusing and the map I had drawn was (understandably) simplified. Finally, small doorways and stairs have a strange attraction for me. Also, I am a bit adventurous and always optimistic that *this* will be the time I do not get lost.

So I set off on my merry way. I was on the main road and soon found the tourist office (which was closed). Continuing on, I saw an intriguing staircase wending its path between the narrow Ottoman buildings. Remain strong, I told myself.

I passed on…and shortly came to another gently beckoning stairway. Stopping to locate myself through a few main landmarks, I figured I could safely take it up and then come down the other side and be back at the start of the main street. I took the stairs, enjoying the gentle sunshine and the beautiful plastered buildings.

I was ready to come back the way I had come – until I saw the gently sloping green hill before me, guarded by a crumbling stone wall and nestled below a mysterious cave. Of course I had to climb the stone wall. Unfortunately, the green hill wasn’t as green as it promised and turned out to be an informal trash dump. I picked my way along, going up the hill. Above me, another stone wall prevented my path to another road. I found a place with some stones jutting out, and began to climb. I heard a voice above me.

“Hello!” A little girl came skipping along the road above me. She held out her hand, and I gave her the bag of figs. I scampered over the wall onto the road.

“What is your name?” She asked as we started down the road. We had a brief conversation in mingled English and Arabic, establishing that I was a student studying Arabic and that I wasn’t sick (I was sniffling a bit, though). Finally, our grasp of each others’ languages ran its course, and I began walking again.

I walked. I wandered. I climbed up and down streets, seeing cats clambering all over the cars and drawing the stares of everyone standing around waiting for Friday prayers. (I also apparently have another superpower that I hadn’t discovered in the United States: I can find myself in the vicinity of a main mosque for Friday prayers with my eyes closed. Happens every time.) I took my fill of pictures, and had finally walked so far as to be out of the town itself.

By this time, it was after lunch, so I climbed down some steps into an olive tree garden (orchard? Plantation?) to eat my lunch of figs and water. Finished, I continued walking up a ginormous hill and back through another interesting part of town. I am sure that within two hours the word had gone through the entire town that there was a crazy American girl wandering around the streets alone. Lock up your women and valuables, people. She has a camera. I was actually pretty proud of myself: I did find my way among the tortuous streets back to the main one within an hour or so of hard walking.

This time, however, I decided I had seen enough of the city off the beaten path, and began to explore the main area, such as Hammamm Street.

It was pretty: the street was narrow, with blue awnings over the shops, shuttered with heavy wooden doors. Most of the stores were only open for a few hours just after noon prayers and closing in the early afternoon. I walked around for about an hour, trying to find the main entrance to a church whose back I could see from an open plaza, but whose front was nearly unmarked and was a different color of stone.

I continued to wander about Hammam Street and the vegetable market for some time, debating whether or not I wanted to set out for Jebel al-Qa’ala, which was, I though, a ruined mosque and fortress.

At first, I decided to stay on the main road and walk to the other end of town, up another mountain, which I did. Coming back, I finally decided that I had an hour and a half in which to find Jebel al-Qa’ala and that I would at least attempt it.

By this time, I had realized that the Jordan Ministry of tourism actually had some attractive yellow signs pointing the way to various landmarks. Following those, I found the al-Khader church, where I stopped to pray for awhile.

Climbing more narrow winding stairs, I had paused to take a picture.

“Hello,” came another voice. I had been saying hello to children (and ignoring all the shebaab) all day.

“Marhaba,” I replied.

“Oh, you speak Arabic?” one of the girls asked.

“A little,” I smiled.

Within a moment, I was surrounded by five or six children, running about, laughing and smiling. They wanted their pictures taken and I was happy to oblige. Their mama stood not far off, looking on with a slightly bemused expression. I waved and smiled and gave my friendliest, “Marhaba,” and she smiled back. Ech of the kids got their picture taken, and they insisted on several with me as well. They took me to the next stop on my way, pointing out good places to take pictures.

Finally, my small store of Arabic had run out and I knew I needed to go to make sure of my way and a bus back to Amman. We said good bye – and a few steps later I had run into another group, all girls this time, who also wanted to know, “What is your name?”

We established our names and occupations, and I took off my sunglasses for them. I had to go, and hurried down the steps back to Hammam Street. Reaching the bottom, one of the girls came running back in sight, yelling my name. I turned.

“Bye!” She yelled.

Much to the surprise of the local shebaab milling around the plaza, I turned and waved.

“Maa salaama!”