Queen Alia International Ariport Amman, Jordan – As we taxi
in the pilot tells that we will be required to show our boarding pass and
passports in order to disembark the aircraft at the gate. I consider just staying
in my seat and riding back to Paris but after 20 hours of air travel, the
possibility of immigration issues and potential beheading as an infidel don’t
seem so bad. Fortunately, I notice a man holding a sign with my name written on
it and I’m warmly greeted, whisked to the head of the visa line, had my luggage
delivered to me and escorted passed customs. I am pretty sure that I’m getting
the VIP treatment because I’ve been mistaken for Brad Pitt (AGAIN) but I’m not
going to say anything until I’m safely in my hotel.
The road to Amman – I meet my official host, a business
partner who also happens to be a Major General recently retired from the
Jordanian Army, and his driver carries my bags to a waiting car. I figure these
guys must be huge Brad Pitt fans. My butt cheeks remain clinched for the entire
30-minute drive to the hotel because the entire journey was a potential
high-speed multi-car crash. Driving in Jordan is not for wimps!
The Hotel – After clearing a checkpoint where armed guards
inspected our vehicle we are greeted my very friendly doormen who open the car
door and insist on carrying my luggage … all of the way to the airport-like
security screening station inside the hotel door where I must, yet again, surrender
my belt, shoes and ego before having my bags x-rayed and walk through another
metal detector. It was even more surreal this time because the security agent
was a very friendly woman wearing a burka with a sidearm strapped to her hip. I
know that I’m tired and jetlagged but this struck me as odd.
Day Three
The highway to Hell – After a shower and a few hours sleep I
find myself back in the General’s car racing toward the remote desert air base
where my business will be conducted. Jordanian traffic is more terrifying in
the daytime because you can actually see how close you come to dying every time
a horn honks … and there is always a horn honking. I noticed that at every
junction we always took the road that pointed toward Iraq and I began to wonder
if I was ever coming back; what if these guys hated Brad Pitt, I might end up in
a You Tube video! After passing Bedouins, camels and enormous UN refugee camps
we finally arrived at the heavily fortified gates of the air base and, to my
great relief, we are warmly welcomed.
The remote air base – We arrive at the office of the Base
Commander where my host is greeted with hugs, kisses and I am met with warm
handshakes and heavily accented welcomes. The Base Commander is a Brigadier
General who speaks English much better than I speak Arabic, which is to say he
speaks English, and as soon as we are seated in his comfortable office a man
appears with a very ornate serving tray offering me coffee and tea. I had been
briefed that Jordanians are great hosts and are offended if you refuse their
offer of tea or coffee, so I happily accept the first of what seemed like
hundreds of cups of pure caffeine that I would be served over the next few
days. The Base Commander drives me onto the flight line to show me the jets I
have come to inspect in his official SUV with flags streaming from his enormous
hood ornament (insert your own dirty joke here); it was like something from a
movie, the part just before a SEAL team blows up the place up … but that didn’t
happen.
Life on the base – The business part of the visit goes very
well and, as the general’s guest I am treated with great respect and courtesy
everywhere I go. The base is very close to Iraq and Syria so it is quite
austere and fortified but strangely formal in places. I was treated to formal
meals tree times a day and stayed in an air-conditioned room with no Internet,
TV, phone or cell service but, strangely, I had a great time!
Next week: heading home, getting my butt kicked by a five-year-old
and even more jetlag.
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