Crossing the border over the River Jordan, after clearing the Israeli checkpoint, I and six other travelers took a seven-seater public taxi to Amman. After loading our luggage in the boot and on the roof of the car, I found myself sitting in the back seat with a woman on my left and a man on the right. In the middle row, sat three men and next to the driver sat a middle-aged woman.
We set off to the Jordanian capital and our sweaty, unshaven taxi driver, who fancied himself as a low-flying pilot, began to give what amounted to an in-flight instructions about seat belts and making sure the doors are shut properly. He embellished his public service by reminding us to check that we had our IDs, passports and personal belongings, and some of us in fact rummaged in their jacket pockets, just to be sure.
I struck up a conversation with the young woman to my left who was intrigued by the fact I was a student in the UK studying something she hadn’t heard of before so, that was my opportunity to exaggerate and impress, which I did. We got on well and she explained that she was on her way to Kuwait to reunite with her husband of less than a year.
As we approached the capital, our driver-pilot gave us further information. He explained that security around the city was somewhat high and we may come across an army checkpoint but, we were not to worry as it was a routine thing, as long as we did what we were told without making an unnecessary scene. We all agreed not to make any type of scene and do what we were told. I considered the possibility of staging a scene just for the hell of it but then wisely decided to live for longer than that afternoon.
Sure enough, a checkpoint appeared on the horizon and our captain first boasted about his accurate predictions and then instructed us to have our IDs at the ready, hoping we may get away with just a cursory glance at our papers. When the car came to a halt, the grumpy soldiers decided a show of cards and passports wasn’t going to be enough to cleanse their miserable souls; they needed more assurance we intended the country no harm. The way to do that was to order the men out of the vehicle for personal frisking. So, any of us men who might have been armed had a few seconds to pass their hardware to the two women who, were not obliged to step out because, according to the soldiers chivalrous attitude, could not possibly be dangerous!
The five men and the taxi captain were frisked and our IDs checked. As we started to relax and make our way back inside the taxi, one of the soldiers hit on a brilliant idea: he ordered us to take our luggage out of the boot and off the roof rack, place them on the side of the road behind the car, then open them one at a time for inspection. Even the taxi driver was visibly surprised by this unexpected turn of events but kept his halitosis mouth shut. So, I started proceedings by opening my suitcase and then the apricot-coloured case of music albums which went wherever I did. I had some explaining to do to the soldiers who were not impressed with my possessions, especially the cover sleeve of the Rolling Stones’ Goat’s Head Soup.
After some remarks about my mis-spent youth by the soldiers and tittering by my fellow passengers, the search continued with the rest of the luggage. The man, who was sat on my other side on the back seat, nervously identified his suit case and opened it. It was searched and allowed to be closed. Next to it stood a red suitcase and the soldier ordered the nervous man to open it, he started to protest but then was reminded by the taxi driver and another passenger that he should get on with it and not create a scene so, he reluctantly opened the red suitcase. There staring at us was the most impressive collection of female underwear any of us had ever seen. One of the bad mood soldiers asked the nervous man to explain the contents of the suitcase but the poor man had lost the ability to speak. The soldier ignored him and randomly picked up a pair of frilly pink underpants and almost lost his discipline and sniffed them but, something deep inside him made him stop; I was disappointed! He then picked up a red bra and was visibly impressed with their loading capacity. A couple of more items and he was finally satisfied he had the cheap thrill he was not counting on that day. We were ordered to reload the car and move on.
Back in the vehicle, our driver complimented us on our ability to follow instructions, without making a scene, and sought approval from us for his accurate prediction of the checkpoint. For my part, I was grinning with amusement over the underwear situation and was dying to share it with the young woman sitting next to me. She finally asked me to explain the reason for my cheerful mood so I explained, in a hushed voice, that the chap sitting in front of us on the left must either be a complete pervert or on his way to meet his future wife, loaded with presents for her. Intrigued by my description of the nervous man, she naturally asked me to explain how I arrived at my conclusion. I explained that he had two suitcases, one of which was full to the brim with kinky female underwear of the most unbelievable bad taste. Not satisfied with this explanation, I pressed on by describing the various items such as the frilly pink knickers, the large-cup bras; on and on I went. Gradually, her giggles turned to a frozen smile and then a scowl. She asked: was all that in a red suitcase? I hesitated for a few seconds before answering ‘Yes’ and this was when she said something that was not necessary because I already worked it out for myself. She said: ‘That’s my suitcase and these are my things!’
I am sure my face was as red as the bra the soldier held aloft a few minutes earlier. I couldn’t wait to leave that taxi.
