Action-Man, 26 June, Jordan border

I am writing in the dark in the backseat of a taxi. Our driver has the same name as the handsome King Abdullah of Jordan. There are no lights in this backseat and few lamps on the roadside. As I write in the dark, I remember that dying Russian sailor aboard the Mersk submarine a few years ago. He jotted a final love letter to his wife from a dark, damp cell. The submarine sank and the sailor died, but we have his note.

Drew is struggling to communicate even simple phrases to the driver. Our road to Amman from the Israel-Jordan border is smooth. That to me is a sign of a pretty good national infrastructure, at least. West Africa had such bad roads that now I am sensitive to those things. Beyond the road, the land looks like West Africa. I see cinder-block buildings, unfinished and sparse. Some have concrete porches and closed garage doors. Behind those doors is the merchants' stuff. I see trash and rubble and lots of people. African cities, too, teem with people at nighttime. But it is the smells most of all that remind me of Africa--burnt things that shouldn't be burning, the fruit and oil of tropical trees, the drone of evening insects in the weeds.

Now we approach a military checkpoint. Drew has been courageous and diligent tonight. I admire him for it. Amman is 60 km away.

Sam