As a guy that has spent several years living in Arizona, the notion of urban sprawl and desert cities typically brings forth imagery of flat terrain. But the idea of arid, elevation-less cities—particularly the capital cities that I've seen of late—has been all but shattered in this region of the Middle East.

Without question, Amman is a city that I've absolutely no desire to return to. I typically despise capital cities for one reason or another—having traveled overland from Poland to Syria this past year without stopping in a single one—and Jordan's is no exception.

Don't get me wrong, Amman's roadway infrastructure is one of the best I've seen in a very long time—on par with some of the better parts of Europe that I've traveled through. But it's not pretty, well-planned roads that I enjoy—nor is it the big-name hotels and banks, or trendy restaurants and expensive beers being drunk by a bar full of early-twenties Americans in the city to study Arabic.

Amman simply feels soulless… or perhaps filled with the likes that I care not to interact with, surrounded by rolling hills of mostly unpainted concrete.

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I'm not sure how I'm feeling about Jordan; my introduction to the country hasn't been the best.

People seem more obsessive with wealth, leading to shady taxi drivers, expensive lifestyles and seemingly greedy people. Syria came off as suffering from none of those things (at least none that I encountered in a negative sense), with Lebanon somewhere in between the two extremes.

But there's little doubt that I've already discovered the best thing that Jordan has to offer, and it's certainly not featured in an Indiana Jones movie. I picked up a bottle of Proud yesterday, and instantly fell in love with the stuff.

I initially scoffed at the "0.0% Non-Alcoholic!" drinks as a lame Muslim replacement for beer, but I was curious if they bore any resemblance to the near-overpowering Malta malt and hops drink of Latin America (most notably, Venezuela—see previously: Venezuelan Street Food).

What I bought certainly wasn't expected. The drink is much fruiter than anticipated, with a refreshingly smooth aftertaste of artificial fruit flavoring and malt that's nothing like their Latin American cousin. It doesn't taste like beer, and it doesn't taste like a carbonated wine cooler—but more of a strange hybrid of the two.

Typically costing between US$0.70 and a dollar, the drinks go down fast and aren't particularly cheap, but they're deliciously addicting.

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After two relaxing nights chilling with the same family that I stayed with in Damascus before my jaunt over to Lebanon, it was time to move onto Jordan. I'd planned to spend three nights with the only CouchSurfing host in the city who wrote me back with an invitation (most in capital city of Amman didn't even bother replying to my inquiry) before moving onto Tel Aviv (in preparation to meet up with Tatiana and Aidric's incoming flight on the 10th).

When I'd arrived at the Al-Samariyeh terminal (Mezzeh West) from Lebanon, I had the foresight to find out the prices and departure times of the only bus company (Challenge, phone #6121940) moving people onward to Amman.

Challenge buses depart daily for Amman at 08:30, 14:30 and 16:30, and charge 500 Syrian pounds (US$10.50) for the allegedly three- to four-hour journey. Shared taxis also collect people from around the same bus terminal, supposedly charging the same rate (perhaps better or worse, depending on your bargaining, of course) for the capital-to-capital trip.

If traveling in a party of two or greater, I strongly suggest the taxi over the bus (as you'll need fewer people to corral into the car before leaving, as well as significantly lessening the travel time).

Yet Another Painful Middle Eastern Border Crossing

The (mostly empty) bus departed fairly promptly at 2:30, but by the time 3:30 rolled around we were still in Damascus. The surprise Challenge revealed on this side of the border is that they make a another pickup from some other southern bus station or satellite office in the Syrian capital city before moving on—completely packing every seat in the bus full (and then some) with some rather loud, smelly characters (accompanied by their miniature loud, smelly infants).

As mentioned previously (Lebanon Visa on Arrival for Americans, Damascus to Beirut by Bus), another 500 Syrian pounds is necessary to buy your way out of the country (in the form of a departure card purchase). Even though I was traveling on a transit visa, the fee still applied.

I watched as a pair of baffled teenage European boys (the only other non-Arabs on the bus) tried to fight off the perceived scam with the bus driver, who was doing his best to explain the protocol in broken English.

Silently watching the painful exchange, I finally stepped in after the driver had all but given up.

"But the guidebook says there's no departure tax for an overland exit," one remarked to me. "We just used the last of our Syrian money," said the other.

"Your Lonely Planet is about six years out of date," I responded, without even needing ask the specifics of their book. "Everyone pays 500 pounds to leave, even the Syrians. You can probably find someone that'll take your euros."

The driver's helper came around collecting passports as the crowded bus finally neared the border. It's common for these guys to go up and dump an exceptionally large stack of travel documents on the immigration clerks all at once, instead of having the entire bus disembark to do their own individually. He collected the Europeans' passports, but didn't even bother asking me for mine—I wouldn't have given it to him anyway.

I rarely relinquish control of my passport, preferring to go out of my way to ensure that the document stays in my keep. The driver could care less if my passport happened to 'magically' disappear, should he receive a pocket full of cash from someone interested in poaching it. Nothing could be done—never to be seen from again.

Risk mitigation is the phrase of the day here, folks.

It was 5:00, and we were only half way through our trip.

For one Middle Eastern reason or another it took these guys an hour and a half for all the passports to get processed and to move the vehicle a few hundred meters down the road to the Jordanian side of the crossing.

I jumped inside the new immigration hall, figured out the protocol from the friendly staffers (you'll need to exchange currency into Jordanian Dinars—get at least 10 of them ($14)—register your passport with one officer, pay and get a visa at the window from another, then return to the first guy for final processing and stamps).

It took me only a few minutes because of the whole visa thing (which the Europeans eventually had to jump though as well, but no other passenger), and was stamped into Jordan and ready to go by 6:30.

Unfortunately, it took another hour for everyone's passports to get processed by the Jordanian soldiers.

Nassib passport (and female) control

Some of the longest checkpoint processing I've seen to date has been at this crossing. Maybe it's a standard ploy to ensure the bus company ushers people into the overly elaborate Jordanian duty free shop nearby—which they most certainly did.

It was nearly 9:00 p.m. when the 2:30 bus reached Amman. But here's the real kicker, and the Challenge bus company's final surprise when you reach the Jordanian side of things: there's no bus terminal. The bus terminates operation and dumps everyone out on a seemingly anonymous street somewhere in Amman, next to their offices.

With no orientation to the city, and hungry taxi and minibus drivers crawling at passengers, it's important for future travelers on this transport to remember two things: 1) exchange more money than you'll need at the border for the visa, because there are zero ATMs in sight from the place where you'll be dumped; and 2) only a take a metered taxi that you hail yourself.

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This is a pretty quirky thing that I picked up on in both the homes I stayed in Aleppo and Damascus. Next to some power outlets in the home you'll find a slightly smaller set of holes (easily mistaken for an additional outlet from a distance), which are used to connect a phone line. An adapter is needed to convert the conventional telephone cable to one compatible with the Syrian wiring system.

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These were photos taken inside the bus that transported me from Beirut to the border with Syria (2000 Transport and Tourism). Mixed in with the ridiculous Hezbollah propaganda (containing their goofy-looking leader, Hassan Nasrallah) are photos of a young child, presumably the driver's son. Note the rather disturbing imagery of Israeli helmet headshots.

Hezbollah (literally "party of God") is a Shi'a Islamist political and paramilitary organization based in Lebanon. Hezbollah is now also a major provider of social services, which operate schools, hospitals, and agricultural services for thousands of Lebanese Shiites, and plays a significant force in Lebanese politics. It is regarded as a resistance movement throughout much of the Arab and Muslim world. Many governments, including Arab ones, have condemned actions by Hezbollah while others have praised the party. Six Western countries, including Israel and the United States, list it in whole or in part as terrorist.

Hezbollah receives its financial support from Syria and the donations of Lebanese and other Shi'a. It also receives financial and political assistance, as well as weapons and training, from the Islamic Republic of Iran. The US estimates that Iran has been giving Hezbollah about US$60-100 million per year in financial assistance.

In the 1980s Hezbollah waged an asymmetrical guerrilla war against Israel. At the beginning, it had used suicide attacks against the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) and against Israeli targets outside of Lebanon. Hezbollah is reputed to have been among the first Islamic resistance groups to use tactical suicide bombing, assassination, and capturing against foreign soldiers in the Middle East. But gradually, Hezbollah turned into a paramilitary organization and used missiles and other type of rocket launchers and detonations of explosive charges instead of capturings, murders, hijackings, and bombings.

From the inception of Hezbollah to the present, the elimination of the State of Israel has been one of Hezbollah's primary goals. Some translations of Hezbollah's 1985 Arabic-language manifesto state that "our struggle will end only when this entity [Israel] is obliterated". In an interview with the Washington Post, Nasrallah said "I am against any reconciliation with Israel. I do not even recognize the presence of a state that is called 'Israel'". In March 2009, in a speech marking the birthday of Muhammad, Nasrallah said, "As long as Hezbollah exists, it will never recognize Israel."

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My destination was Israel, but as there are currently no passable border crossing between Lebanon and the Jewish state, I was forced to make another pass though Damascus in order to reach Jordan (which would allow me to eventually make my way to Tel Aviv). A plane was out of the question—hundreds of dollars for a 45-minute flight.

After my previous experience at the northern border with Syria and Turkey (Overland Visa on Arrival for Americans in Syria), I really wasn't looking forward to the long, drawn-out bureaucratic game of will-he-get-a-visa-or-not? with the paper pushers in Damascus.

(Remember, even though the official government position is that no visas are issued on arrival for U.S. citizens, they still often do it for a fraction of the price. They fax Damascus, and you wait eons for a return fax containing your fortune.)

My host needed to get to work on time in the morning, and neither of us could figure out what time a bus departed for Syria—only that they did indeed leave from Beirut's Charles Helou bus terminal (which is actually rather peculiar space that's been created under a highway overpass—and certainly no place you'd want to be at night).

I awoke at 6:00 in the morning in the lofty suburb of Beit Meri, and by 8:00 a.m. I was pulling out of Beirut on the first (and only) bus of the morning. The second (and final) bus of the day departs at 3 p.m. Both cost 14,000 Lebanese pounds (US$9.30, also payable in Syrian pounds) and are run by 2000 Transport and Tourism (formerly Dream 2000, the same company that brought me to Beirut from Damascus).

The bus driver knows full well that as an American without a Syrian visa you're going to be sitting at the border for a while, and doesn't think twice about ditching you there and driving onto Damascus. The bus company also wasn't interested in bargaining down the full price of the fare for incomplete passage.

I was stamped out of Lebanon with effort by 9:30 a.m., and started the visa process with Syria only 10 minutes later.

Because of the silly song and dance that you have to go though as an American, I thought it'd speed things up and save a little money by requesting a transit visa, instead of just the regular two-week visa they traditionally issue on arrival. I also thought that things would be easier the second time around with these folks, as I'd already been issued a Syrian visa before, just three or so weeks prior when I came down from Turkey.

…I was wrong on all counts.

Waiting and Waiting and Waiting and Waiting

Syrian immigration hell… err, hall.

Things were a lot less frantic and a lot more straightforward than they were at the Bāb al Hawā' border crossing to the north. There was no resistance from or ass-kissing necessary with the mellow soldier I dealt with, only his warning that the process could take a while (again, excessively optimistic in the one- to two-hour processing time, like the ranking officer I had dealings with in the north).

The problem here is that these immigration guys phrase their processing time estimates in such a way that makes you want to wait around, because, you know, you want to get the hell out of international limbo and why prolong the waiting any longer than necessary by being absent.

This is where I sat for over five hours waiting for word of my visa request's approval or denial from Damascus. The immense enormity of my boredom here cannot be expressed properly in words.

This is also the problem with being a solo traveler in this respect. If you were with a buddy, you could comfortably setup shop with your bags and laptop or whatever at one of the most oddly placed Dunkin' Donuts in the world (just 50m away from the processing hall), while the other person periodically checked for updates. But since you're alone, and in a position where you want to both move along and not get fleeced for money, you generally stay within eyesight of the immigration official and keep your laptop (and/or other expensive goodies) concealed.

And so I sat.

And waited.

In a hard, uncomfortable plastic chair.

Directly in front of the immigration guy.

With nothing to look at.

And no one to speak with.

For five and half, long, mind numbing hours.

Doing nothing but twirling my thumbs, and dreaming a time when I might again get to use my legs for something other than pacing a hole in the floor.

The Syrian visa fairies in Damascus, though ungodly slow with their processing, decided that I was worthy of a transit visa, and granted me authorization sometime after 3:00. Unfortunately, what I didn't know was that the 3-day transit visa for Syria actually costs the same amount of money (US$16) as a regular 15-day visa. And even though I wasn't asked to provided the answers for some simple itinerary/hotel questions by the officer, the processing time actually took longer for the transit visa than the normal visa!

Simply put: Applying for a Syrian transit visa is stupid, even if you're just thinking about quickly transiting.

Minibuses Await After the Border

As echoed by my previous experience, the worst part about Syria is the border crossing. Because once you're actually in the country, it's nearly all smiles and good times for a traveler.

It took me about 10 minutes to walk across the remainder of the checkpoint, where a friendly Syrian fellow in his mid-twenties who strode past me on the way to the waiting minibuses actually decided to give up his seat to me with a smile and a hearty "Welcome!".

Minibuses depart when full and are moderately inexpensive (only 40–50 Syrian pounds, US$1, for the 30-minute ride to Damascus' Al-Samariyeh terminal). My minibus happened to be completely full of Syrian soldiers, with whom I had a pretty entertaining time interacting with.

The Mysterious Visa Authorizations from Damascus

There's a murmuring that the immigration office in Damascus doesn't process visa requests until after 15:00—or maybe it closes and/or doesn't accept visa requests after this time, leaving the Americans to process last. Who really knows…

But what I do know is that twice now I've crossed the border into Syria and needed authorization from Damascus, and approval was given both times between 3:00 and 3:30 (with those submissions starting at 9:40 from Lebanon and 10:40 from Turkey). Both were also Tuesdays.

Just a coincidence?

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A particularly special (and rather physically strenuous) day trip occurred today: a visit up to a mountainous nature preserve containing the famous cedar trees of Lebanon—some of the only remaining remnants in the country after several millennia of harvesting.

The Lebanon Cedar is an evergreen that can grow up to 130 feet tall, with a trunk up to 8 feet diameter. The tree is cone-shaped when young, becoming broadly tabular with age with generally level branches.

The trees were used by the ancient Phoenicians for building trade and military ships, as well as houses and temples. The Egyptians used its resin for mummification, and its sawdust was found in pharaohs' tombs. Kings far and near requested the wood for religious and civil constructs, the most famous of which are King Solomon's Temple in Jerusalem and David's and Solomon's Palaces. It was also used by Romans, Greeks, Persians, Assyrians and Babylonians.

The cedar tree is a prominent feature of the Lebanese flag. It has been used as a symbol by the Christians of Lebanon since the 18th and 19th centuries. The tree represents peace, immortality and tolerance. The red stripes symbolize self-sacrifice, and the white represents the snow-capped peaks of Lebanon's mountains.

And it was today, atop one of those icy snow-capped peaks that Riyad, my seasoned mountaineering host, and I trudged around in the often waist-deep snowfall to get some better off-trail views of the cedars—akin to climbing a Stairmaster in the freezer.

I was leant a pair of slightly too small but still wearable boots for the excursion (soaked to the bone with melted snow/ice within 30 minutes), and wished for a pair of snowshoes every time we crossed the lightly depressed tracks of more prepared individuals with my wildly sunken strides.

Feet wet and heart frantically pounding (from a lack of cardio endurance these days), I basked in the green and white beauty of the Lebanese forest. What an amazing experience.

Riyad told me that the only reason this reserve of cedars escaped the ravages of the civil war and general deforestation is because of all the landmines (now mostly cleared) that were dumped into the area during the war. The mines saved the forest, which eventually became a nature reserve a decade ago.

…Makes me wonder how long it'll be before a group extremer than Greenpeace starts mining parts of the rainforest in the name of preservation.

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Without a doubt, this part of Lebanon is firmly under Christian control. Churches, not mosques, are seen on the horizon, with crucifixes adorning the walls of homes.

I'm being fed some pretty wonderful meals here by my host's mother, but as it turns out, they're all vegetarian. We're in the midst of Lent, and the popular practice in these parts is to give up the consumption of meats and the such during this period of time.

Lent, in Christian tradition, is the period of the year leading up to Easter. The traditional purpose of Lent is the preparation of the believer—through prayer, penitence, almsgiving and self-denial—for the annual commemoration during Holy Week of the Death and Resurrection of Jesus, which recalls the events linked to the Passion of Christ and culminates in Easter, the celebration of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Conventionally it is described as being forty days long, though different denominations calculate the forty days differently. The forty days represent the time that, according to the Bible, Jesus spent in the wilderness before the beginning of his public ministry, where he endured temptation by Satan.

Fasting during Lent was more severe in ancient times than today. Socrates Scholasticus reports that in some places, all animal products were strictly forbidden, while others will permit fish, others permit fish and fowl, others prohibit fruit and eggs, and still others eat only bread. In some places, believers abstained from food for an entire day; others took only one meal each day, while others abstained from all food until 3 o'clock. In most places, however, the practice was to abstain from eating until the evening, when a small meal without meat or alcohol was eaten. Even now, the Romanian, Coptic, Ethiopian and Eritrean Orthodox Churches continue the practice of avoiding all animal products including fish, eggs, fowl and milk sourced from animals (e.g. goats and cows as opposed to the milk of soy beans and coconuts) for the entire fifty-five days of their Lent.

In current Western societies the practice is considerably relaxed, though in the Eastern Orthodox, Oriental Orthodox and Eastern Catholic Churches abstinence from the above-mentioned food products is still commonly practiced, meaning only vegetarian meals are consumed during this time in many Eastern countries.

Local Churches of Note

This rather amazing structure is built into the cliff face, accessible only by foot:

Saint John "al-sheer" church is elevated on a rocky cliff over 28 man-made crypts in the southeastern façade, whose carbon-dating suggests 1500–2400 years of age.

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Something that's really taken me by surprise are the origins of the typical housekeepers and nannies here in Lebanon. Apparently it's not at all uncommon to have a helper in your home on a one- or two-year working visa from Nepal or Sri Lanka (of all places).

Here in the family home of my 41-year-old host, a Nepali woman assists his sweet elderly mother in her daily life. Inside a pair of beautiful homes I was taken to meet and greet with my host's friends, each sported their own Sri Lankan or Nepali support.

Riyad tells me that having a housekeeper from these countries is something that Lebanese living in Saudi Arabia grew accustomed to, and as a result, now 'import' them to their home country (upon their return, or at the recommendation of family friends). Adding with a wry smile that Lebanese women tend to think of themselves princesses, and should be treated as such—shying away from household chores.

Programs send the women off to Lebanon for one, two (or more) years, where they send money back home to their families (which they're separated from for the duration of their contract).

As my host was preparing his upcoming climbing trip to Nepal next week, so too were the Nepal housekeepers that I'd met—finalizing packages that he offered to currier back to their families.

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A feast for the eyes and the mouth, my CouchSurfing host treated me to an assortment of tasty Arab treats this evening. These things really shouldn't be eaten en mass though, as the combined sweetness of the delights can test the tolerances of the most avid sweet tooth.

Traditional Shared Arab Water Glass

In the photos below, Riyad demonstrates the proper way to drink from our shared water pitcher.

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