Jordan

Jordan

We turn away from the airport onto a quiet, winding road. Tiny towns are scattered across the desolate landscape, each one filled with partially constructed buildings that seem to have been abandoned as hastily as they have been built. The structures look new and untouched, as if the owners might return any moment to re-inhabit them. Bedouin camps dot the landscape between the ghost towns. The makeshift structures are made of tin, cardboard, scraps of cloth, and bits of goat hair; in sharp contrast to their concrete counterparts these portable homes are bustling with life. Children play, goats graze on…

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