Unexpected item in the baggage area!
Back to Amman airport, second time round, October 2024
The first time I visited Jordan I planned to make my way to the Al-Nawatef ECO camp in the Dana nature reserve. High in the Dana mountains, overlooking the breathtaking, rugged Wadi Dana valley and within 120km from Gaza to the West with the Syrian border a similar distance to the south east. My flight from Cairo had been delayed as Jordan closed its airspace due to, as I later found out, missiles being fired by Houthi rebels in Yemen with Israel as the intended target.
The area was tense but not anxious. King Hussein of Jordan was adept at steering his kingdom safely through the dangerous waters that are inevitable when you are slap bang in the centre of so many sworn enemies!
Amman’s Queen Alia international airport is world class!
Everything about it is high quality, from the warm welcome at customs to the friendly, incredibly helpful staff at the foreign exchange counter. Even the Jordanian parachute regiment lance-corporal who politely declined my offer of a cigarette, explaining that members of the armed forces did not smoke.
As a result of my previous smooth experience in the airport I had no concerns whatsoever as I again arrived from Cairo, this time en route to the ancient Nabatean city of Petra.
As mentioned in the previous chapter telling the story of my time in the mountains, the Jordanian military had made it very clear that I was absolutely prohibited from carrying out my plan to walk the route. As long as I was in a national park, I could walk to my heart’s content. Outside of the park though, was a different story. Very different.
The plan then was a 2 hour wait in one of the excellent eateries then the short flight to King Hussein International airport in Aqaba before figuring out how to get the hotel I’d booked less than a mile from the UNESCO world heritage site.
Thirty minutes later, freshly fueled on coffee and a traditional falafel breakfast, I made my way to the check in desk, passport and boarding card in hand.
Merhaba, kif halik? (hello how are you?) Feeling very pleased with myself that I’d remembered to use the feminine derivative I handed my documents to the tall, elegant yong lady at the desk. She returned the greeting with a smile and scanned my passport. I noticed a brief flash of concern on her face before she quickly composed herself and informed me that there was an issue with my luggage and would I mind taking a seat.
Her smile was back. My luggage has probably been left in Cairo or the rain cover has become detached again.
Nothing to see here.
Is there?
Oh there is!
Five minutes after settling back in the comfortable seating of the gate lounge another airport employee appeared, presumably management judging by the fancy blazer he was wearing. He chatted briefly to the check in attendant then spoke into his hand held radio. My Arabic wasn't good enough for me to keep up with what he was saying but I got the drift when two armed paratroopers and an enormous, blue jeans clad gentleman who could have easily been mistaken for a tourist, was it not for the 9mm luger tucked into his waistband.
Mr Blue Jeans was clearly in charge and after a quick group conflab the three armed men approached me. As the check in attendant spoke the best English she explained to me that there were some issues with my luggage and I had to accompany the men to the security office so we could sort it.
I’d learnt that a pleasant disposition and a relaxed, smiling face was the best way to diffuse most situations so even when, in response to my question, check in lady advised me that I would be responsible for the cost of rebooking my flight, should I be delayed long enough to miss my departure time, I stayed calm. I was fairly confident what the issue would be.
The security office was on the other side of the airport building, so, escorted by three armed guards in a classic V formation with blue jeans at the head of the V.
I couldn't help smiling as concerned parents clutched their children to them as we marched through the terminal. I imagined their hushed conversations as they debated whether I was a drug smuggler or the new face of western terrorism!
The seniority of blue jeans became apparent when custom officials insisted I absolutely could not, under any circumstances, cross back into the general terminal.
They were adamant!
Blue Jeans flashed his badge.
Turns out I absolutely could go back through the barrier.
The look of professional resentment on the face of the defeated customs officials combined with the fact that they didn’t recognise blue jeans alerted me to the fact that whoever he was, blue jeans was not based at the airport.
He had been sent to deal with me.
Oo! I was a potential international incident!
I actually chuckled at that. My biggest concern now was that I was going to have to book a new flight to Aqaba and that blue jeans was going to be so disappointed when he realised that I was a false alarm!
I don’t know which company won the contract to build the same, aluminium sheeting clad, windowless rooms in airports all over the world. Nor am I aware who supplies the same aluminium table and chairs, only ever two, quintessential in said rooms.
They do a good job though! This was only my second such attendance in such a room and I was already becoming familiar with the way the downturned edge of the seat meant that you had to raise your feet on the balls to sit comfortably.
I spent about thirty minutes waiting, alone in this aluminium clad, from the outside, insignificant looking, windowless room and I allowed my thoughts to play movie director.
In the first film I pulled off a daring escape from the airport complete with a Tom Cruise style slide from the roof down the curved exterior of the airport building.
That epic had 4, significant plot failures.
Namely;
I’d done nothing wrong. I never let my backpack out of my sight in airports. ((yes I CAN bring my trolley into the toilets) (I always tipped the lavatory attendant in airports though))
We were on the ground floor.
I wouldn't have made it through the aluminium sheathing clad door before being pinned to the floor.
I’m too tall to play Tom Cruise
In movie No.2 I played a nervous, contraband carrying, international man of mystery. Anxiously awaiting the commotion the discovery of what I was smuggling was discovered.
This was a less exciting film. A slow burner that basically involved me examining the notion that the seat was deliberately designed with the sloping front edge to force suspects like myself suspects to be on our toes. Unable to relax as they sit there stewing in dread.
As the camera circles, showing me from all angles, you hear me ask myself, “how long has it been?”, “why hasn't this security team given me water like the talking moustache at Şanliurfa airport did?”, “will they play white noise at me to try and break me?”.
In a more than disappointing plot twist I realise that it's just because I’m short.
Still taller than Tom Cruise though.
Fuck you TC!
(((I don’t mean it, I think Tom Cruise is awesome),(My lawyer told me to say),(I haven't got a lawyer)))
A Commotion!
Almost exactly 30 minutes after my internment, the aluminium sheeting clad door to the aluminium sheeting clad office burst open as blue jeans made his entrance, followed closely by soldiers 1 and 2 carrying my rucksack between them.
Blue jeans made his move, choosing to stand with his hands on the back of the chair on his side of the table. As per protocol I had positioned myself on the side of the table facing the door. No sneaking up behind me! Blue jeans leant forwards slightly, a classic power play in these situations.
Intimidating.
Challenging.
I didn't take the bait.
Instead I went into classic Scouse African mode.
Remain still.
Relax.
Smile.
Me - “Selam aleykum”. Formal greeting. Respectful.
Blue Jeans didn’t flinch.
Blue Jeans - “Wa alaikum salam”.
He was good.
So far we were even.
Blue Jeans - To be honest I have no idea what he said next. I’d soon figure out that he was asking about 4 suspicious items in my pack.
For now though I was grateful that I had already downloaded an eSim which meant that I had access to Google translate which was good because I was simply still not proficient enough in Arabic to understand 99% of what blue jeans was saying!
Me - “‘ana atahadath alearabiat qalilan faqat”. I only speak a little Arabic.
BJ - “Antazir min fadlik”. Please wait.
Ding ding! End of round one!
Alone in my cell I couldn't help thinking about my son and how much laughter he would get if he could see me now!
I could certainly appreciate the wonderful irony of the situation.
The situation was-
A pretty atypical middle aged, white, western male was being detained in an equally atypical aluminium sheeting clad windowless room, in an Arabic speaking country sandwiched right between multiple warring partners and all of the inevitable security concerns that creates, with suspicions about his back pack!
At this point a highly inappropriate thought entered my mind.
What would such a terrorist shout before detonating his back pack?
God is great? I don't follow a particular religion so I’m unclear as to who precisely I would be referring to.
We want freedom? Self-immolation isn’t my style.
God save the King? No chance! I’m an abolitionist!
Viva la résistance! Pretty iconic but not at all applicable in the circumstances.
No parasán! They shall not pass! Very cool and groovy but ultimately Franco had the last laugh.
Hemos pasado! We have passed!
Keep calm and smile.
Yeah. That works and isn't a one use only sort of thing.
Another commotion!
Blue jeans and the two paratroopers carrying my back pack are back and this time they've got company!
These aluminium sheeting clad, windowless rooms aren't that big.
At this point there’s blue jeans, two strapping Jordanian paratroopers carrying my substantial pack, me and my day pack and now another walking talking moustache!
It was like Şanliurfa all over again.
But worse.
It was only when this impressive mouser spoke that I realised that it was acting as camouflage for another blue jeans wearing, gun carrying security officer.
This guy spoke pretty good English. That must be why blue jeans went to fetch him and he must have been senior because he brought with him a clipboard carrier.
That’s six people in an aluminium sheeting clad, windowless room meant for three, four at a push.
And my pack.
An estate agent would have described the room as cozy.
Then moustache lit a cigarette and I knew he was a senior officer, smoking indoors is not permitted in Jordan.
It was 1-0 to blue jeans but moustache had inadvertently given me a chance.
Making noises that I hoped sounded approving and friendly and by pointing at moustache's cigarette I carefully indicated that I wanted to take something from my inside jacket pocket.
Moving slowly and deliberately I pulled out a packet of Malboro, made the universal gesture for well if it's alright for him it’s alright for me and waited for team blue jeans to make their move.
Stunned silence.
Gestures that seemed to imply, well he’s got a point!
Nods.
Smiles.
Laughter.
Inhale.Exhale.
Offer them round? No takers.
Still smiling.
1-1
With the ice well and truly broken we got down to the business of why we were in this situation.
It turns out that 4 items amongst my kit had been flagged by the people manning the airport scanner.
Two of them I expected. One I understood. One still makes me laugh out loud when I think about it now!
The two I expected were my Garmin satellite communicator and geo locator and my 50 x zoom monocular that does look a bit military.
Using Google translator to fill in the gaps in moustache’s English I was able to explain the reasons that I was carrying them.
The understandable item was my SteriPen. It does look vaguely scientific, which it is really. My hosts / jailers were suitably impressed by this bit of kit which can easily and effectively purify a litre of water in less than 2 minutes using only a built-in UV light.
It's also very lightweight and comes with a sturdy pouch. The pouch looks vaguely military.
The fourth and final item was my last minute winner!
The item that seemed to be causing the most consternation amongst my security detachment was a thin black box about 6 inches long. The box has a little clasp on the side that had so far eaten the combined best attempts of Jordanian customs and military.
It’s an absolute MoFo to open if you don't know the knack and I’d come close to launching it a couple of times myself!
This time though I was able to open it immediately and reveal its terrible secret……
It was my mouth organ or harmonica! My new chums’ response makes me believe that the harmonica is not a ‘musical’ instrument often found in Jordan!
On my 100th birthday I will still remember the look of total disbelief when I raised the shiny device to my lips and played the opening harmonica riff of Bruce Springsteen’s The River.
If you don't know it, search for it on YouTube. It’s a soulful, mournful, joyful love song filled with anguish. The opening harmonica solo is a beautiful piece of harping.
When Springsteen plays it.
I know they didn't recognise the memorable solo. The way I play it I don’t recognise it but I do recognise a decision being made though and before I’d got to the end of the first bar I could see that moustache had made his decision.
There would be no rubber gloves.
All that remained was for the three non musical items to be logged, photographed and for a google search to be performed just to prove that they were ferry available to non military personnel.
I was asked for serial numbers and as these are generally printed in molecule sized writing I was glad I had them written in my note book. (If you are travelling it’s also handy in case you need them for insurance purposes). It's a good idea to have a list of serial numbers, documents and make sure you memorise your bank / card details).
We’d already done handshakes all round, apart from blue jeans and I, who had by now bonded to the extent that we shared the traditional Jordanian 3 x shoulder bump method of greeting / farewell when I remembered the reason I was in the airport in the first place.
Trying to look and sound respectful, grateful and pathetic yet hard done by, I asked about my plane. I was aware that the departure had been delayed at least for a short time due to the ongoing security alerts in the area. All flights had been delayed but things were up and running again now.
Moustache barked an instruction to the, until now, entirely superfluous, clipboard who immediately produced a radio from the inner pocket of his immaculate suit jacket and spoke sternly to someone who sounded like their response was the Jordanian equivalent of WTF!
Nonetheless moustache confidently assured me “they will wait” and, kit repacked, I was escorted at pace back through the airport, past the same parents who now looked at me as if I must be famous.
So I waved.
Yeah Tom Cruise.
I can schmooze too ya know!
They didn't wave back.
The children all smiled though.
That made me happy.
As we approached our friends at the only passengers beyond this point we did get a look that would curdle milk.
Especially when blue jeans, by now emboldened from having the added clout of moustache, had kindly sent clipboard along to prevent precisely such an event.
One look, that's all it took and we were airside.
Free upgrade!
Result! It may only be an hour flight but I was very grateful to spend that hour eating fresh food off china plates and drinking percolated coffee!
I got some strange looks from the other passengers who were all seared as I boarded. Seat belts fastened.
Between serving the salmon sandwich and lemon cheesecake, the delightful cabin attendant informed me that the captain had actually just informed the passengers that they were ready to taxi to the runway when the call had come.
Amman airport is world class.
Royal Jordanian airlines is one of the best flight experiences I have ever had.
The security team does their job diligently.
I was, at all times treated professionally, fairly and respectfully.
Besides, the story of my imprisonment will make a great chapter in the book!
And the final result was a score draw.
