After Trekking The Jordan Trail, Nothing Was The Same
My friend Jordan was up to his calf in water before we saw the man. The rush and spit of the river meant that we could not hear what he was saying, but from the wide frantic waving of his arms the meaning was clear. As we climbed out of the cut the engorged river had made into the soft winter soil, his voice became clear.
“No, No!” he called, striding over the slippery mud towards us. “Over!”
He pointed behind him where there must be a bridge. “Here, no,“ he broke off, making a sweeping gesture with his arms and a whooshing sound. His face, cracked and brown like the dried mud on the riverbank, was furrowed in what was clearly exasperation. What were these two foreigners doing trying to ford a stream in December in rural Jordan?
As we followed him back towards the indicated bridge, his face cleared. “Drink Tea?” he asked, gesturing to his tent. It was the second time we had been asked in so many hours, so we declined in favor of…
Categories: The Expeditioner