This must be the fourth baptism I have actually visited, including my own child’s about a half a year ago. Still, the place and the event itself never cease to amaze me. Today was my buddy George’s turn. His daughter Sascha is three months old, and for the event he’s had his family fly in from Scotland as well as several friends. Sascha herself is dark-haired and is looking very much like her mother. She, along with the rest of us, will have to brave the elements, in this case a hot ninety degrees at the lowest point on earth.
It’s remarkable how little fanfare there is about the place. I guess this shouldn’t come as a surprise in a country where Islam dominates. You will not find a sign for it until you are but a few miles away, close to a fork in the main highway that will take some people to the baptism site, but probably most travelers to the south and the posh resort hotels of the Dead Sea. There are a few police cars strategically parked at intervals along the way, their radar guns at the ready, eager to make a dinar or two from speedsters for government and king. As it so happens, David, Sascha’s godfather, obliges them today and is given a ticket of fifty dinars (about eighty bucks) for the pleasure. As I later hear, they stop George too, but see the baby in the back and mistakenly believe he is on the way to see a doctor, despite George pointing out several times that he is on his way to a baptism. Their language barrier turns out to be George’s profit.
The highway to the Baptism Site might not look like much to the naked eye. There are trees that thrive in only this type of heat, here and there a camel tied to a stake in the ground, and tents pitched by nomads who have lived here for millennia. I often point out to people that no country or area’s appearance has ever been quite what I’d expected it to be, with the exception of this, the Dead Sea Area, or the Jordan Valley. Oddly enough, it seems like these apparitions have literally jumped from the pages of the Old Testament, as if to beckon for me to stay longer, to pitch my own tent here. I must have been here a dozen times now, and that feeling of familiarity still hasn’t changed. Not too far from the Baptism site is the holy site of Mount Nebo, where the vision of the Holy Land was revealed to Moses. From Mount Nebo, you can see the mountains of the West Bank looming a few miles ahead. Hard to believe that the serenity of this place has too frequently been scarred by rivers of blood.
I am the first of the party to arrive at the Baptism site. I am accompanied by Tahani, the Godmother of my child and somebody who’s probably witnessed more baptisms here than I ever will. A few minutes later, I recognize Father Kevin’s car. I climb out of the car to meet him while Tahani prefers the air-conditioned confines of the car and remains in the passenger seat. Father Kevin, here in Jordan since 1995 now, says this is baptism number 201 for him. I still have the film of him baptizing my son, and I was touched by the ceremony. We chat in the shade for a while until finally George and the rest of the convoy arrive. David is the last to arrive, the tickets for admission are purchased, and we follow the guide’s vehicle to the site.
Along the way, probably a half a dozen churches of different denominations are under construction, and I have no doubt they will be completed by this time next year. We park our vehicles in a large sandlot a few meters from the path that will lead us to the site and, my camera now whirring away, trek to the river.
The Jordan River itself is not that clear azure glimmering oasis you would expect from travel brochures. Far from it, In fact, from above it looks slightly more impressive than a river of fresh sewage, as opaque as a piece of wood. When we reach the site of the ceremony, we gaze across the river and watch the Israeli flag defiantly swaying in the wind. It can hardly be a hundred meters from where we are, but it is said that every inch around the premises on the other side is more closely guarded than Fort Knox.
The ceremony itself is over in about thirty minutes. Father Kevin, choosing to keep such ceremonies brief, more than anybody else is fully aware what the heat can do to adults, let alone a little infant. The funniest thing to watch is the inevitable group of tourists who get to observe this most unexpected treat. At first, they neatly tiptoe around the ceremony, probably waiting for the director to yell “Cut!” at any time. When this doesn’t happen, they pull out their own cameras and shoot away like possessed. Thankfully we miss an even bigger tourist group streaming in by a few minutes, right as Father Kevin removes his ceremonial garb.
The thirty-five minutes or so it takes to get back to Amman I use scanning the landscape. Tahani is at the wheel. Being that she hasn’t driven in a while, I ask her to bring us back to Amman, which she gratefully does. One last look at the site as we turn onto the Highway heading to the city, and the trip is virtually done, as if we’d been out here for a picnic or a visit to the Zoo. I will probably come back here one more time when my wife’s family comes for a visit and routinely guide them around the place as if it were my back yard. It’s a fine place to be acquainted with.
It’s remarkable how little fanfare there is about the place. I guess this shouldn’t come as a surprise in a country where Islam dominates. You will not find a sign for it until you are but a few miles away, close to a fork in the main highway that will take some people to the baptism site, but probably most travelers to the south and the posh resort hotels of the Dead Sea. There are a few police cars strategically parked at intervals along the way, their radar guns at the ready, eager to make a dinar or two from speedsters for government and king. As it so happens, David, Sascha’s godfather, obliges them today and is given a ticket of fifty dinars (about eighty bucks) for the pleasure. As I later hear, they stop George too, but see the baby in the back and mistakenly believe he is on the way to see a doctor, despite George pointing out several times that he is on his way to a baptism. Their language barrier turns out to be George’s profit.
The highway to the Baptism Site might not look like much to the naked eye. There are trees that thrive in only this type of heat, here and there a camel tied to a stake in the ground, and tents pitched by nomads who have lived here for millennia. I often point out to people that no country or area’s appearance has ever been quite what I’d expected it to be, with the exception of this, the Dead Sea Area, or the Jordan Valley. Oddly enough, it seems like these apparitions have literally jumped from the pages of the Old Testament, as if to beckon for me to stay longer, to pitch my own tent here. I must have been here a dozen times now, and that feeling of familiarity still hasn’t changed. Not too far from the Baptism site is the holy site of Mount Nebo, where the vision of the Holy Land was revealed to Moses. From Mount Nebo, you can see the mountains of the West Bank looming a few miles ahead. Hard to believe that the serenity of this place has too frequently been scarred by rivers of blood.
I am the first of the party to arrive at the Baptism site. I am accompanied by Tahani, the Godmother of my child and somebody who’s probably witnessed more baptisms here than I ever will. A few minutes later, I recognize Father Kevin’s car. I climb out of the car to meet him while Tahani prefers the air-conditioned confines of the car and remains in the passenger seat. Father Kevin, here in Jordan since 1995 now, says this is baptism number 201 for him. I still have the film of him baptizing my son, and I was touched by the ceremony. We chat in the shade for a while until finally George and the rest of the convoy arrive. David is the last to arrive, the tickets for admission are purchased, and we follow the guide’s vehicle to the site.
Along the way, probably a half a dozen churches of different denominations are under construction, and I have no doubt they will be completed by this time next year. We park our vehicles in a large sandlot a few meters from the path that will lead us to the site and, my camera now whirring away, trek to the river.
The Jordan River itself is not that clear azure glimmering oasis you would expect from travel brochures. Far from it, In fact, from above it looks slightly more impressive than a river of fresh sewage, as opaque as a piece of wood. When we reach the site of the ceremony, we gaze across the river and watch the Israeli flag defiantly swaying in the wind. It can hardly be a hundred meters from where we are, but it is said that every inch around the premises on the other side is more closely guarded than Fort Knox.
The ceremony itself is over in about thirty minutes. Father Kevin, choosing to keep such ceremonies brief, more than anybody else is fully aware what the heat can do to adults, let alone a little infant. The funniest thing to watch is the inevitable group of tourists who get to observe this most unexpected treat. At first, they neatly tiptoe around the ceremony, probably waiting for the director to yell “Cut!” at any time. When this doesn’t happen, they pull out their own cameras and shoot away like possessed. Thankfully we miss an even bigger tourist group streaming in by a few minutes, right as Father Kevin removes his ceremonial garb.
The thirty-five minutes or so it takes to get back to Amman I use scanning the landscape. Tahani is at the wheel. Being that she hasn’t driven in a while, I ask her to bring us back to Amman, which she gratefully does. One last look at the site as we turn onto the Highway heading to the city, and the trip is virtually done, as if we’d been out here for a picnic or a visit to the Zoo. I will probably come back here one more time when my wife’s family comes for a visit and routinely guide them around the place as if it were my back yard. It’s a fine place to be acquainted with.
