Amman, the City of Stairs

With everything that’s gone down in the Middle East since the Arab Spring, you’d be forgiven for thinking that things in Jordan might be a little unsettled. Geographically sandwiched between Syria, Iraq, Egypt, Israel and Palestine, Jordan has long been unfairly associated with its less peaceful neighbours.

Talking to Saddam, our guide in Jerash, we weren’t surprised to hear that tourism in Jordan has dropped more than 60% since 2011. Saddam himself left London because he got sick of explaining to people why his parents named him Saddam*. Imagine having to explain to your new employer why your parents named you James!

*Unfortunately for our guide, Saddam means “One who frequently causes collisions”.

The tourist hotspots may be quiet but the people are eager to welcome us and show off their knowledge of this beautiful country. The reputation of Petra (one of the New Seven Wonders) aside, nothing could have prepared us for just how picturesque the countryside really is.

We kick off our visit to Jordan with our favourite past-time: learning to navigate foreign roads. It’s midday and the lunchtime rush hour is upon us as we beep and honk our way through the winding city.  Andre is having a ball, playing Tetris on the roads. Nobody wants to commit to a lane and we joke that if we return our car unscathed, they are going to think that we haven’t been game to drive it.

The directions to our Airbnb leave us with little faith in Google Maps or my navigational skills. Jamal, our host, tells us to (simply) make our way to the Khirfan Street Mini Mart, park in the space directly opposite and walk 23 (steep) steps up the alleyway. We don’t know it yet but once we have been out and about on foot for 5 hours, those 23 steps are going to feel like a warmup.

Our Airbnb is a kitsch blend of mahogany, tile, sandstone, teak and marble. In fact, everything in Amman is beige – or a colour closely resembling beige. It’s not until we drive out to the Jordan Valley that we see just how green and fertile the land up north really is. Now we know where they get their tomatoes from!

We quickly freshen up and make our way on foot to the Amman Citadel. (Did I mention how steep and winding this city is!? You won’t see anyone going for a run here – there’s no need when you live on the side of a hill.) Upon entering the Roman Theatre, we are greeted by ‘Steve’, who talks of wrestling crocodiles, Russell Crowe, gladiators and kangaroos. You can’t blame a guy for trying.

When I tell our guide ‘Steve’ that our names are Sarah and Andre, his face lights up with excitement.

“Oooh … Sarah is Arabic name, yes, she is the wife of Abraham, mother of Isaac. Sarah is most beautiful woman in the world. The most beautiful man, you know, Joseph … But Andre … we have this name written into stone over here.  Andre comes from the Greek which is mean Andreas…”

I feel like I’ve stepped into a scene from My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Like most guides, ‘Steve’ is out to flatter us, but what he has neglected to tell us is that Andre’s namesake is far from flattering. Andreas Palaeologus, the claimant to the Byzantine throne, died in 1502, but not before squandering his pension on loose living. He is well-remembered as the playboy who died in poverty. 

Once we shake off Steve, we traipse a further 8743 steps uphill to admire the Temple of Hercules. Unfortunately, all that is left of Hercules is three fingers and an elbow (probably destroyed by an earthquake) but we are easily impressed. The statue to which the hand once belonged is estimated to have been over 12 m tall. A Herculean temple for a Herculean God.

By this point, we’re feeling beyond chilly. It is winter here after all and the sun begins to set around 5.30 pm. We’re underdressed, underfed, and more than a little jet-lagged so we wander back down through Downtown and, with a bit of help from the waiter, order the national dish – and pride and joy of all Jordanians – lamb mansaf.

Imagine slow-cooked lamb on the bone, floating in a sea of fermented goat’s yoghurt sauce, served on a bed of rice and topped with toasted almonds. (The goat’s yoghurt comes dried and salted and can keep for ages. It’s the perfect desert food!)  It’s like nothing I have tasted before. It’s salty, sour and smells a little like off milk but the taste is surprisingly delicious! We take turns using the flat bread as a shovel to scoop up the tasty morsels of meat, just like we would if we were crowded around a communal plate of mansaf, celebrating Easter or Christmas.

It’s been a long day and our feet are tired so we retire to the Airbnb to surf the 131 Arabic channels. There are some racy ads but nothing that we can surmise meaning from so we call it a day.

ilá al-liqā – until next time!

My love for her is unreasonable; she has neither the history of Damascus nor the culture of Baghdad, she has not the mosques of Cairo nor the skyscrapers of Riyadh.
What she does have is a million steps, squiggling endlessly from mountain to mountain.
Amman, the city of stairs. How I love her.

~ Roba Al-Assi