The luck of the Irish is all a myth! One Irish woman’s account of a Jordanian car crash and police station.

“Oh come on Lyndsay, where’s your sense of adventure?  The King’s Highway will be SO much more interesting than the straight desert road!” exclaimed my travelling companion Jen in a tone which indicated that, contrary to the fearless, intrepid, twenty-something backpacker which I had always held myself out to be, on this occasion at least, I was being over-cautious and boring.

“But if we get the bus along the straight desert road, we can get to Petra quicker.  Driving the Highway will take much longer…” I tried to reason, in a last ditch attempt to avoid the  unwelcome prospect of navigating the hire car along perilous hairpin bends over the Jordanian mountains. “And I suck at driving abroad!” I added quickly, remembering my vow never to do so again after scraping the entire length of the last ill-fated car I had hired in Greece.  Jen, however, would not concede. “Fine”, I sighed, giving in. “but can we at least get a satnav?” “Oh Lyndsay” exclaimed Jen, “there will be signs!”

Lyndsay conquering the King’s Highway in Jordan

So with fearless, intrepid, twenty-something, backpacker reputations intact, we set off from Amman to Petra, via the King’s Highway.  And Jordan was indeed, spectacular, when viewed from this ancient trade route which remains virtually unchanged since biblical times.  My fear virtually subsided when we stopped at Mount Nebo and stood in the very place where Moses looked over the Promised Land for the first time. I finally felt chilled as I happily posed for photographs at the side of the road, the Kings Highway snaking down the mountain behind me.

“Next – the crusader castle!” enthused Jen as we drove on.  Just as I thought I’d conquered my paranoia, the thought of tackling the King’s Highway in the dark sent a fresh wave of anguish through my veins. “But the sun will be setting soon, shouldn’t we be heading straight for Petra now!?” I reminded her.  Jen rolled her eyes and cast me another exasperated look. “Oh Lynds…” but before she could finish, “CRASH!” we lurched forward as someone rear-ended us.

It would seem that a car crash in Jordan is a fascinating affair, especially when it involves two foreign girls.  Suddenly, copious amounts of townspeople materialised out of every shop lining the town’s narrow main street to peer in at us through our windows.

Word spread fast and then what seemed to be every police officer in the jurisdiction arrived at the scene to assess the pretty minimal damage to the bumper.  With the sun sinking lower and lower, the ominous prospect of driving to Petra in the dark seemed increasingly real.  After about two hours of watching the police officers not do a great deal beyond standing around at various positions on the road chatting to each other, everyone else in the town and calling God knows who, we were informed that we needed to attend the local police station in order to obtain the police report needed for the insurance.

My time in a Jordanian police station was an interesting experience, to say the least.  After the afternoon’s excitement, it seemed that the police men needed a break, so off we went into the main room where we observed the policemen hug, kiss and slap each other on the backs in an expressive greeting ceremony fit for long lost brothers.  Once the protracted reunion was concluded, we were treated like honorary guests and I got the impression that two unexpected foreign “damsels in distress” were indeed a welcome development in the police forces’ daily routine in this small Jordanian town.

Then all of a sudden, it all kicked off.  From down the hall, we heard a heated exchange in Arabic as a scuffle broke out between the rear-ender, his mate and the police.  At one point, the fight got particularly aggressive and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the rear-ender had produced a knife from under his dishdash.  Thankfully though, the rear-ender and his mate were dramatically frog-marched to the door and unceremoniously thrown out on their ears.

When things calmed down a bit and the police resumed laughing, chatting and smoking, I thought I would seize the moment. “Do you think it would be possible to have our police report now?”, I tentatively suggested to the nearest police officer.

But rather than concern himself with the rather uninteresting and tedious prospect of producing a police report, he much preferred to ignore me and observe my passport with a furrowed brow and a stern look on his face.  No response.  At this point, the last glimmers of hope which I had of leaving the police station anytime before sunset dissolved into the humid Jordanian air.

“You are Irish?” he asked eventually, peering up at me. Puzzled, I replied “Yes, Northern Irish…” He nodded and continued to study my passport.  Then, to my utter disbelief, for a split second his eyes lit up and his face broke out into a cheeky grin.  With a wink, he quietly exclaimed “Seamus!” before immediately re-affixing his stern look and casting his eyes back downwards to continue assessing my passport.

Now, I’ve been on the end of every Non-Irish person’s leprechaun joke, potato comment and alcohol insight going.  I thought I’d heard it all. But this is possibly my favourite to date.

Bio: Lyndsay Scott

With a passion for writing and adventure, Lyndsay considers herself to be a free spirit who has travelled over 35 countries across 5 continents during her 8 years of travelling the world.  Lyndsay is starting a hostel called Podstel which is world’s FIRST ever CrowdSourced hostel, with a focus on inspiring and empowering its guests to follow their dreams and unlock their potential. Connect to Lyndsay and Podstel on:

• Facebook: www.facebook.com/lscott88; www.facebook.com/podstel

• Podstel’s website: www.podstellife.com
• Twitter: www.twitter.com/Podstel.