Amman,Jordan, November2011

The city sprawls out in all directions; across the hills and valleys, clinging to the slopes like limpets.  The ancient Citadel crests the central peak, the ruins of the Nablean fortress scattered and crumbling.  All around is still and silent, a distant car horn drifts lazily past on the light breeze, which also brings with it an autumnal chill.  It makes me shiver and I retreat deeper into my jacket.  On an overturned column I perch; waiting. The sun is now fast disappearing and the sky is a clear; a polished blue, the promise of stars as yet unfulfilled.  But why am I waiting?  Why am I steeling myself against the brisk night air? I have a feeling, caught between nerves and excitement that in the next few moments I will be lost in the magic of the Middle East.  So far Amman has failed to enchant, the ramshackle street plan would have had even the most ambitious cartographer befuddled and had left me with the distinct impression that navigating using a compass and the sun would have been more likely to ensure success.   Despite the grand King Abdullah Mosque being a sight from the outside, the inside was bare and industrial. Then there were the questions about my occupation, directed to my male companion, on the drive from the airport, which had made me feel unsettled; an interloper into a culture I had always felt I understood.  Oh, and rain can make even the brightest of cities dull.    As the sun sets, lights flicker on with subtle green glows marking out the many mosques which speckle the skyline. Just before 4.30 the call started, a rounded hum projected skywards.  On the opposite hill there is a brief murmur of reply, but then silence.  Really was that it?  I feel dejected; confused that such a conservative society can fail to take its responsibilities seriously.  I turn to leave, closing the door on Amman and imagining sunset on the ancient city of Petra.  My footsteps are abruptly drowned out as the valley begins to reverberate with a low growl.  The response is instantaneous, a cacophony of sirens mimicking the first.  In the moments of paused breath, echoes bounce between the slopes, before the chords arc up again, rising and falling with each verse, each note perfectly in tune.  When the last mosque falls quiet, a feathery silence floats over the darkened metropolis.  Internally I’m still buzzing, the cold momentarily forgotten.