The road number two runs through the village of Jisr az-Zarqa: on
one side, a coastal enclave, and on the other, the golden mosque, encased in a green-hilled- low-valley. The beach entrance is marked by a series of four-legged gazebos and pyramidal roof tidy and symmetrycally arranged. All are empty. No tourists. Mirroring the sea, a canyon on which two aligned crows pose. No honking. No fluttering. No movement.
On the towns beaches half-naked Arab little boys run and dip their feet in the sea . Our friends, dressed in weekend polos, take pictures of each other. The sky is overcast, but it will not rain. The calm sea sacrifices wave crests that shatter against the rocks.
Squared-wooden-made-planks and flattened-roof fishermen huts, white or gray and surrounded
by a swarm of wooden electric poles spread around the fishermen shop. In the foreground, three children lying on the sand seem to be survivors of an explosion.
Two children run in our direction while we riddle on them with our cameras. They are not happy
nor sad. They are not frightened nor seem friendly. They run aimlessly. Perhaps the mother is far away.
Leaving the fish shop, to the left, there is a horse in black and white, tied to a tree with bare
branches,also in black and white, on a confluence of two dirt roads, black and white and, on
the background, a van and another parked car, the white van and the black car. to weave a a
fishing net to a girl wrapped in a pink towel.
Night falls. North of the village, runs a wave of sand dunes crashing against the sea.
A bitter fragrance embroils the top of each dune, crowned with lilies, violets and geraniums.
Right in front of the harbor stands a fish shop built with cobblestones and thatched roof. Inside, a desk with open kitchen. Utensils and knickknacks hang on the wall: an orange life preserver, narguilas, empty bottles, salt shakers, a package of kitchen paper and freshly washed stacked-up dishes. Sitting on the blue-mosaic floor, two children, one with an apron and another with a hood, skin fish.
Squared-wooden-made-planks and flattened-roof fishermen huts, white or gray and surrounded
by a swarm of wooden electric poles spread around the fishermen shop. In the foreground, three children lying on the sand seem to be survivors of an explosion.
Two children run in our direction while we riddle on them with our cameras. They are not happy
nor sad. They are not frightened nor seem friendly. They run aimlessly. Perhaps the mother is far away.
Leaving the fish shop, to the left, there is a horse in black and white, tied to a tree with bare
branches,also in black and white, on a confluence of two dirt roads, black and white and, on
the background, a van and another parked car, the white van and the black car. to weave a a
fishing net to a girl wrapped in a pink towel.
Night falls. North of the village, runs a wave of sand dunes crashing against the sea.
A bitter fragrance embroils the top of each dune, crowned with lilies, violets and geraniums.
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