donkey know the way

A number of people have expressed concern that I might have been blown up in Amman on my recent trip to Jordan to film a show on Sodom & Gomorrah for National Geographic, and I wanted to assure everyone that I and our whole film crew are fine (though nearly all the locals we worked with lost someone they knew when the three bombs went off at the American-owned hotels).

But, thanks be to god, we left Amman for the Dead Sea the morning before the bombings, which took place about a mile from our (German-owned) hotel.

The rest of the trip took place under extremely tight security measures (checkpoints on the roads, everywhere, hotel entrances blocked off, etc) and we never felt that our lives were in any danger -- except when we were on the road with Omar behind the wheel (see below).

Some random observations about Jordan and the Jordanians.

The country seems to be basically made of rocks.

All Jordanians have cell-phones. Even the Bedouin.

Everyone speaks at least a little bit of English -- it's a school requirement.

Though the country has a peace treaty with Israel, the Jordanians probably weren't consulted when the deal was made. I asked our Jordanian assistant cameraman if the land on the other side of a river was Israel. "Yes," he replied. "Currently."

The Dead Sea is truly weird. You bob up and down like a cork, and you can't swim. Every tiny cut on your body stings. When you get out and dry off in the sun, you look like you're covered in talcum powder.

We traveled in two vehicles -- a four-wheel drive outfitted with GPS and driven expertly by our handsome fixer Fouad, always in the lead; and our own overloaded van, driven less expertly by Omar, who frequented us with lectures on why the Shia are no good at all.

"Shia say, god make a mistake when he talk to Mohammed. Shia say, god's letter should come to Ali. Ali? How this possible? God cannot make the mistake. It's verrrrrrrry stupid, the Shia. It's going to hell, yes, of course."

Omar, a squat man in his 40's, was full of theological opinions, but seemed to have no actual training in operating a motor vehicle. The middle of the road was Omar's preferred position to attack the curves, which he did by driving as fast as possible before slamming on the brakes, holding the steering wheel in a deathgrip that involved most of his upper body.

On one winding "road" in the middle of the mountains, at dusk, with visibility failing fast, we came as close to perishing as at anytime on the trip. As Omar explained it, we had to get to Petra before it got dark, because when it was dark you couldn't see anything, because there was no lights; so it was verrrrrry dangerous, especially for the camel, which you cant see, on the road, and it's verrrrry upsetting when he appear, and you will hit him and go off the side of the mountain, boom, it's no good.

Indeed, Omar, indeed.

Then there was Petra, where a group of madmen called the Nabateans built a whole city on the side of a mountain for reasons that arent clear to me, and where Fouad, handsome fixer, for reasons that arent clear to me either, decided it might be FUN to ride to the top of the mountain on donkeys.

So we rented a half dozen donkeys from clamoring Bedouin urchins, and lurched forward. I expected my little urchin to lead the donkey, but he disappeared very early, and I was on my own. Eventually we came to a path that got steeper. Quite steep, in fact.

Other Bedouin urchins appeared.

We’re supposed to go there? Up that “path?”

Yes yes, no problem. Donkey know the way.

And you'll be with us, leading the way? Holding the reins? So we don't fall off the mountain?

A shrug for an answer. Then: lean forward when he make the climbing. No problem. Donkey know the way.

We forged ahead. The urchins disappeared.

As the donkeys clattered over rocks, boulders, and a few steps carved into the mountainside between sheer drops of, oh, 800 feet, little Bedouin boys would appear from nowhere at regular intervals and assure us that "donkey know the way."

But my own particular donkey seemed to know a different way from the other donkeys. His name was something like Oof-auf, which I think we might translate as "frisky." Oof-auf seemed to want to be in the lead, regardless of the donkeys in front of him, and his way of passing involved taking the occasional daring shortcut, falling to his knees every so often and careening wildly each time some ingenious new way of forging to the lead presented itself. I clung with determination to my "saddle" and told myself, "It's okay. Donkey know the way."

And it was true, because against all odds, we somehow arrived at the top of the mountain, where little Bedouin girls wearing headscarves, jeans, and Nikes smoked filterless cigarettes and talked into cellphones while urging us to buy their trinkets. We took pictures, and asked if they wanted a copy. Sure, said one pretty sixteen year old named Noel who spoke with a nearly flawless American accent she told us she learned from watching Friends. She asked for pen and paper, and scribbled something down.

I expected it would say something like "Noel, in the tent of Aboud, outskirts of Petra."

Instead, it was her e-mail address.

Just send it as a jpeg file, she advised. It's easier that way.

Mercifully, we left the donkeys at the top of the mountain, and walked down, a distance of some 200 miles. As we descended, the happy accident of our own survival allowed us to chuckle sympathetically at the petrified tourists clinging to their donkeys with grim smiles on their way up, while assuring them that donkey know the way.

Now, back in the safety of a city where the only donkeys are democrats, it has become my new mantra for survival anywhere on the planet.

Donkey know the way.

Howard Dean, take note.