International Traders earned its money Tuesday morning at Queen Alia Airport in Amman.  After hitting the sack at 6 am (and skipping the second half of the deathly-boring NCAA Championship live on ESPN) I woke up at 8 am, got some breakfast and met Traders’ driver in the hotel lobby.

We arrived at the airport around 10:30 am for a noon flight, and got at the back of a line that snaked from the airport’s only security checkpoint almost out the front entrance.  The driver, a bald and determined man with a red keffiyeh draped over his shoulders, left me with the luggage cart and said, “I’m going to find a way around this.”

I stood in line, moving a few inches every minute or so, and waited for about five minutes.  Then he reappeared, grabbed the cart and pushed it towards an empty checkpoint.

“You are with the crew, right?” and I glanced up to notice that we were moving through the gate reserved for airport staff.  I got through the metal detectors okay, but my huge backpack full of computer equipment was flagged for a hand search.  The guy doing the searching was a thin, mustachioed guy who was in a very good mood and eager to try out different languages.

Him:  [Unintelligible]

Me:  [Nods and smiles]

Him:  Mucho, mucho.

Me:  Um…

Him:  Beaucoup.

Me. …

Him:  In Spanish they would say mucho.  Very big.

International Traders:  [Can be felt glowering next to me]

We went through my bag, and with each item (plug adapters, cords for my digital camera, etc.) he became more and more impressed and more and more determined to discuss how much crap I’m lugging around the world with me.

I actually didn’t mind, because he was affable, he obviously wasn’t going to hold me up, and I was still about 20 minutes ahead of the game because I’d skipped the line.  In any case, as the search went on I became progressively happier that I’d meticulously labeled everything, put it into Ziplock bags segregated by category, and bought a bag with enough pockets to keep things organized rationally.  This contrasts with “efforts” on previous trips to “organize” my equipment, which mostly consisted of throwing it into a backpack and then watching in horror as baffled security personnel spilled the aggregated pile of crap onto a table for all the world to see.  I’ve had cold sweats during luggage searches in four different countries, and now I’ve solved the problem.

After a brief discussion of how much my external CD drive had cost (Him:  “Because the one I have is bad.  Very bad.”)  I was re-packed and away.

Traders:  THAT is the part I hate.  The line, the passport, I can avoid all of that.  But not that.

At the ticket counter we once again skipped the line; my guide just approached the (empty) line for first-class passengers, chatted in Arabic, and came back with my ticket.  I didn’t even have to wait to have my passport stamped because I’d come in on a short-term transit visa.  Good times.

I was at the gate with plenty of time to spare, I was relaxed, and all I had to do was get through the last security checkpoint and hop on the plane.

And that’s when the fun started.

Not surprisingly, my big carry-on bag of electronics was flagged for another security check.  This time the man at the table, a friendly guy in a Jordanian Army uniform, singled out my RBGAN, a modem that connects to the internet by picking up a satellite in the Indian Ocean.

It is apparently a bad, bad, idea to mention the word “satellite” when discussing the equipment you’ll be bringing onto an airplane.  Especially when you can’t speak the language and they’re not fully fluent in yours.

Soldier:  It can interfere with the satellite?

Me:  Well, it has to be set up and pointed south.  I mean, even if it got turned on accidentally it wouldn’t be able to pick up the satellite.

Soldier:  It picks up a satellite?  That can be very dangerous.

This is where my technical expertise and my explanatory gifts as a journalist came into play:

Me:  Oh… no.  Yeah, but, I mean, no.  Um.

Soldier:  You can’t bring this on the plane.  Did they let you bring this on the plane?

Me:  They didn’t have a problem with it when I flew out from New York.  I don’t think it’s a problem.

There followed a series of phone calls, a few other guys were called over to consult, and in the meantime the rest of the passengers passed through security and moved down towards the boarding area.  Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed.  I offered to have the RBGAN checked with my other stowed luggage, and asked if it couldn’t just be given to a member of the crew for safe-keeping.

That’s eventually what was agreed to, and someone fetched a bag from the duty-free shop and put the RBGAN in it.  A security guard who said he’d be on the airplane took the bag and said he’d hand it back once we landed in Beirut.

The plane was a medium-sized prop job, and we took a bus out onto the runway to board it.  As I sat in my seat I wondered if I’d ever see my hardware again.  I also wondered why I hadn’t asked for a receipt, or for the guy’s full name, or asked if I could keep the RBGAN and just remove and hand over the battery.  Quick thinking.

I ended up being crushed against the window.  A basketball team boarded the plane shortly after I did and I found myself seated next to a guy who probably plays power forward.  Through no fault of his own his right elbow was practically in my lap for most of the flight.  It was probably more uncomfortable for him than for me.

Just when I’d almost given up hope Mohammad the security guy boarded the plane, made eye contact and gave me a thumbs up.  I relaxed as we took off, and then tensed up again as we flew into the clouds and starting bumping around.  It was dank and cool that morning in Amman, and I took the nasty weather with me to Beirut.