Philadelphia Is in Jordan
365
cut like a green ribbon through the wilderness, its banks lined
with willow, acacia, poplar, and tamarisk trees. I had no visa,
but with the aid of Major Tel's credentials and my Al Misri
accreditation, I got by. Several hours later my taxi brought
me down a macadam road to Amman, the capital of Jordan.
Known as Philadelphia in ancient days, it had now reverted
to an adaptation of its Biblical name, Rabbath-Ammon.
With its squat, squarish stone homes resembling miniature fortresses nestling on the bottom and crawling up the
sides of the desert valley, its jumble of crooked dusty streets,
its flat rooftops, minarets, veiled women, skirted men, and
odorous bazaars, Amman was typical of most Arab cities.
But about it was the air of a frontier post, a boom town. The
taxi let me off at the city square congested with English and
American vehicles. I was making my way to a hotel when my
jaw dropped. . . .
"Hey, Jim!"
It was Jim Fitzsimmons, the Associated Press photographer
from the Pantiles. He turned around swiftly, and grinned
when he saw me.
"Carlson! When did you get here?"
As we walked together down King Faisal street, the main
thoroughfare, Jim told me his story. "Right after you disappeared, we figured you had made the Arab side because your
stuff was gone. Hell, if you did it, we could, too! Most of the
boys decided to leave, so we got the Red Cross to take us
over to the Arabs. We were supposed to report to the commander in Jerusalem but never did. I got a ride here with Dan
de Luce. Bob Hecox and I are the only ones left in Amman.
The rest skipped."
"Where to?"
"Cyprus. They chartered a private plane and scrammed
without telling Amman officials. They are sore as hell now.
They want Bob and me to get out quick."
"But why? They should be friendly to Americans here.
Jordan is practically a British colony."