LISTENING TO JORDAN
FOR MOST PEOPLE, Jordan conjures images of the Dead Sea or the colossal sandstone ruins of Petra. But not for me. I have absolutely no images and no ability to seek them out. In my mind’s eye, my flight to Amman was carrying me to a blank slate. As we touched down, I wondered if sighted travelers, living in a Google Earth world, could ever experience the epic thrill of entering such an unknown.
A few hours later, from one of Amman’s many hilltops, my friend Matthew Teller described the city. I pictured it flowing like water down from its ancient citadel to snake between the hills where the city was founded and gather in the valley basin. But when you’re blind, as I am, such a vista reveals itself differently. Up here, Amman peeked at me from behind its sounds, unfolding an acoustic map dotted by life. I could hear pigeons in rooftop nooks, pigeon-raising being a popular Ammanian pastime. Farther to my left, a vegetable truck weaved through a neighborhood, broadcasting its sales pitch over a tinny PA system. Traffic was bad on the distant west side, dense flocks of cars honking like pissed-off geese. And just over there, the public market faintly buzzed. Earlier, I had walked amidst its crowded stalls, jostled by men’s voices calling prices, radios playing music, and customers bartering for hot peanuts. With so much coming at me at once, I struggled to focus. A specific sound must guide me and my curiosity.
