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The
Occasional
July 29, 2002
From
Jordan
I
am in the Hashamite Kingdom of Jordan, very much an Arab land. I
am in the capital city of Amman, a modern city for the most part,
constructed of white stone surrounded by desert and not far from
the River Jordan and the Dead Sea. Amman sits at a high enough elevation
that the impossibly hot temperatures of much of Jordan are moderated
(reports indicate that it is hovering around 126 degrees in Aqaba
where Lawrence of Arabia once surprised the Turks by attacking from
the Wadi Rum desert). Nonetheless it is probably at least 90 degrees
here with a dry wind coming from Jerusalem and West.
I’m
producing Zade’s debut piano recording and we’ve spent
the day, as I’ve spent many days, in the basement of a nondescript
building in the dark, working on the finest details of placing the
microphones before we begin days of recording here. I’ve just
taken a break from the basement and wandered out of the studio onto
a patio. There is a waist-high wall in front of me and I manage
to lie on the top of the wall with my face to the bright sun, my
eyes closed and my ears alert to the sounds of this foreign land.
The midday prayers, broadcast on speakers from the top of the mosque,
are just ending; the male voice sings melody which reminds me I
am a long way from home. As his voice drifts off on the wind, I
hear cars driving by, some honking. I hear the crunching footsteps
of someone walking across a vacant lot to my left. Then children’s
voices, laughter and the sound of what is probably the kicking of
a soccer ball. The sun on my face makes me sleepy, my mind distant
from me. Then there is a very familiar sound; an ice cream truck’s
tinkling music. At first it’s just a sound, then a discernible
note or two and finally it is near enough that I absent-mindedly
begin singing along. Then it strikes me. I am in the Middle East,
literally within feet of the mosque’s shadow, always conscious
of the chasm between our two cultures which was so painfully exposed
on 9/11 and I’m singing, rather loudly now, along with an ice
cream truck which is playing a cheerful rendition of “When
The Saints Go Marching In.” I had to laugh out loud and must
have appeared at least somewhat addled to anyone walking through
the vacant lot, crunching the rocky soil underfoot in Amman in the
Hashamite Kingdom of Jordan where until now everything seemed so
foreign.
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