Monday, September 8
The car's GPS unit takes us to the heavily guarded rear of the Jordanian Internal Ministry (where we are required to get our entry permits for the camps) rather than to the main entrance.
- Harrowing journey for refugees
- Fleeing the bombs
- Acid poured on handcuff wounds
- Shelter offers relative comfort
- Winter journey to safety
- 'Please, photos and write . . . anything'
- Existence in exile severe
- Purpose-built, orderly and secure
- 2000 asylum seekers interviewed daily
- Night-time crawl under fire to escape
- 85,000 souls spread across camp
- Young scholar pleads for help
Fortunately, discussions with polite sub machine-gun totting gendarmes have become second nature after only two days in Amman. They look sharp in their boots and berets, are friendly, approachable and mostly have good English. It was when talking to two gendarmes outside the Ministry that I noticed that the guns were not loaded.
Magazines were kept on their belts, at the ready, but the fact that the guns were not loaded was reassuring.
Later that morning while driving on a busy street we were flagged down by two gendarmes who were searching vehicles. Tim was concentrating on the GPS while driving and kept on going. No one followed.
''What did they want?'' he asked.
I laughed, ''just to search the vehicle, don't worry about it.''
Tuesday, September 9
There is a heavy army and police presence on road to the Azraq refugee camp. Police four-wheel-drives are armed with heavy roof-mounted machine guns. We see an American-made fighter jet streaking across the desert sky.
A very grumpy plain-clothes policeman accompanies us for the visit to the camp. He is unfriendly and glares at everyone.
At the checkpoint, I notice that a man on top of an armoured personnel carrier has a heavy machine gun aimed at car - I understand that this is to protect the camp from terrorism and smile politely.
On the return from the camp, on a desert highway, we are passed at high speed by a convoy of six black GMC four-wheel-drives with heavily tinted windows and police lights flashing in the grill.
Wednesday, September 10
Arriving at Zaatari we are stopped at a police checkpoint. A plainclothes policeman opens our door and climbs into the back of the car before flashing his badge and directing us, through gestures, to the camp police station.
He tells me in poor English that he is a policeman. In an effort to break the tension I quip that I thought he was a hitcher. He does not laugh. It feels more tense.
At the police station we are directed to sit in an office with several uniformed staff. Tim and I joke that we may be in trouble. But soon the plain-clothes policeman reappears and takes us to meet the police superintendent, who just wants to wish us well and remind us to keep safe.
Our interpreter, Nadin, is approached by a man in black clothes on a push bike as Tim and I take photos in the busy Zaatari market.
''We need to go. Now,'' she says.
''We have been told to stop taking photos.''
This is the only time I felt unsafe on the entire trip.
Thursday, September 11
We got lost today and ended up in the desert hills to South West of Zaatari (not all that far from Syria) thanks to our GPS unit. Taking matters into our own hands we headed cross-country to the main road across a secondary road which soon became a dirt track and through a camel herd - and I wonder why everyone we meet is so amazed that we are driving ourselves.
Noticed that Tim has suddenly become an honorary Kiwi and has started responding that he is a New Zealander when asked - I think having noticed how much warmer people are to me than him after answering that question.
Got through the police guard at the camp without any issues today. After a brief conversation we decided not to report to the UN base for a lift but to take the trusty rental car into the camp to assist us to get around unhindered.
A well-dressed young couple with a baby stop us in the market.
''My cousin was martyred yesterday,'' says the man. We expressed sympathy and the couple quickly move on.
- by Steve Addison
