Monday, November 14, 2011
The fallacy of using history to describe a fix state....
ignores that history is always being made, whether we realize or not. I wasn't marinating on this idea Friday morning; my more reasonable notions consisted of coffee and breakfast. The remnants of Thursday's pizza would fulfill the latter, but I was out of luck for the former. I would like to believe I'm not physically addicted to caffeine, but the migraine indicated otherwise. Once the three of us were up and ready to go, Karl and I began exploring our surroundings.
A little research online revealed that the The Hasimite Kingdom of Jordan is at the crossroads of history. At one point ruled by ancient Egypt, the Greeks, Rome, the pan-Arabic Caliphate, a battle ground of the Crusades, the Ottoman Empire, and eventually the British, which ruled Jordan until 1946. Finally independent, she is at the center of the world's most intractable conflict. Directly across the Red Sea from Aqaba is the Israeli city of Eilat. A little further down the coast across the Red sea lies Egypt. Direct south of Aqaba is Saudi Arabia. If the simmering pot that is the Middle East boils over, this area may get splashed. Jordan has good relations with its neighbors, though that is never set in stone. As Britain's Lord Palmerton stated over a century ago, “Nations have no permanent friends or allies, [sic] they only have permanent interests.”
Geopolitical disasters would need to wait, however. Friday is the Muslim Sabbath, which meant my dad's jobsite was closed down. By extension, it is also the only day off of week. Nevertheless, we headed over to the office to feed the stray cats and make certain the site was otherwise OK. some months prior, my father found a very cute, but very sick, kitten. We of the Smarsch family have a strong affinity for cats, and my dad took it to vet to treat the systemic infections. Tiger became the office mascot. Karl and I had seen pictures of the feline, and I was happy to meet this playful little fur ball.
Once we arrived, my dad turned on the generators and he caught up on his email while we took turns playing with the kitty. Tiger is only a few months old, but was already longer than my adult cat back home. Karl and I reckon he's part Abyssinian, which as known for their long, lean bodies and golden eyes. They are also very affectionate and playful, and Tiger was no exception. He was either sleeping in my arms, or trying to catch flies while sitting on my head. After he launched himself at a fly, he scratched the top of my head, i.e. my bald spot. I gather he realized he caused discomfort because he reacted to my flinching by looking at me then rubbing where his claws landed. Needless to say, Karl and I said the cat will be coming back to the USA when my father returns, and this was not up for debate.
Tiger was not the only kitten on site. A smaller gray and black tabby, which I named Bandit (the black lines looked like a mask around his eyes), poked his head out from under the temporary building which contained my dad's office. Evidently Tiger and Bandit don't get along, so each had to be fed separately. No problem, we gave each a plate of food and dish of water, and after taking a few pics of us with Tiger, we were on our way.
We toured the construction in my father's company car. When people asked what my father did there, I always replied that he was building a cement plant. That was his assignment prior to Jordan, and thought it was the same. This was not the case. He was building a plant - for fertilizer. Evidently Jordan has huge phosphorus deposits, which is mined and processed in Jordan, then shipped using Jordan's only seaport: Aqaba. Phosphates are one of Jordan's main exports, and vital to agriculture. While I marinated on the economic implications, Karl and my father discussed the practicalities of building something so huge. Karl is an iron worker, and had the safety personnel been on site, he would have climbed all over the steel framework like a jungle gym. After the tour (and nearly getting our car stuck in the sand), we headed down the road to Tala Bay, the resort section of Aqaba on the Red Sea.
The agenda for the rest of the day was simple. Lunch, then swimming. We went to a resort, and in deference to geopolitical surrounds, had the car checked for bombs. I thought briefly about resorts in Jamaica or the Dominican Republic, which come with the best of everything, such as top of the line razor wire and armed security. Quite the price to pay for palm trees and rum drinks. The comparison isn't perfect; the vast majority of Jordanians, while probably not the biggest fans of Westerners, aren't looking to rob or cause harm. There are a few unusually motivated individuals who would love the exposure generated by killing a few tourists, or perhaps even killing a few people who worked at a nearby facility whose purpose I still can't quite explain.
Concern over shrapnel, sight lines, and cover aside, the resort where we ate was beautiful, and the food was good. I ordered a steak sandwich and a diet Pepsi, and the caffeine withdrawal started to abate. We chatted for a bit, looked at the water, then drove over to the the largest foreign presence in Aqaba and beyond: Movenpick.
Movenpick (note: I have no umlaut - the two dots above a vowel in German script. It is not pronounced mo-ven-PIK. It is close to MOOO-ven-pik. The sound is difficult to describe in typed English) is a Swiss resort chain with a hotel in the middle of Aqaba and another on Tala Bay. We had arranged through our father's secretary to get discounted tickets to use the facilities. Karl would go swimming, and I would eat ice cream. Easier said than done, since I was approached by the friend (cousin? brother? classmate?) of Samah, instead of my father. This royally screwed up our available time, though eventually the mistake was fixed.
Once we got the ticket, and I went through the humiliation of finding out that Jordanian swim trunks size 5 FUCKING X were too small, we settled into our respective activities. Dad went to his apartment, Karl went swimming, and I took out my cell and I-Pod to surf the Internet, answer a few emails, and post a few sarcastic comments on Facebook. I also had another soda, and a scoop of ice cream. While I lounged and Karl swam, I had a chance to check out the setting and grounds. The Red Sea was beautiful, with boats sailing the bay. Egypt was a distant shore obscured by sand, and resort itself was stunning. We even had stray cats roaming the grounds. They were shy, though they looked healthy. This was becoming a theme. How many stray animals did this town have?
Karl and I talked for a bit, and we discussed getting massages at the spa. I was all in, Karl less so. I hate waiting, so I went by myself, and got an hour massage for 80 JD. I was impressed with the presentation of the spa. They even gave me a menu. I wasn't looking for seaweed wraps or a mud bath. I merely wanted to have my spine in working order once more. While the list of services wowed me, I was less impressed with the massage itself. I'm large, and it can be hard to work my muscles.
She did the best she could, and I tipped her 20 JD. I paid with my credit card, and met with Karl. He was annoyed I went without him, and he said he would get one in a few minutes. We hung out for a while, then Karl went back to the pool. He tried to get a massage later, but two guys were occupying the spa's table in the lobby like they were trying to work up the courage to ask out the attendants. Eventually, we had the front desk call the table to move these slugs along. That didn't work, so Karl just went up and interrupted. He was told the spa was booked.
He used the hot tub instead, though I knew he was aggravated. We waited for our dad to make plans for dinner. We decided to kill two birds with one stone by staying at Movenpick for dinner and watch some belly dancing. Once decided, we sauntered to the rooftop bar overlooking the pool and ocean.
I confess I felt slightly guilty and ashamed. Here we were, 3 Americans spending our time and money at a resort owned by a Swiss company, with a staff of Eastern Europeans, Africans, Asians, and only a few Arabs. Is the resentment felt by some in the Middle East justified? Should we have gone to a local place owned by Jordanians? Could I find such a place if I tried? Actually, after the pizza, I would have voted nay. I saw myself as a colonizer of a sort; a man of little privilege or status back home, but cock of the walk around here. I felt that way until we entered the bar. If there was ill will, it wasn't reflected in the mostly Arab customers, who were partying like it was 1999, in Times Square, at 11:59:59. I had to laugh at myself. I've been living in New York for too long. Even without a television, subscribing to conservative blogs, listening to Glenn Beck, voting Republican, and researching expat websites non-stop since 2001, I still fell victim to liberal guilt.
A little research online revealed that the The Hasimite Kingdom of Jordan is at the crossroads of history. At one point ruled by ancient Egypt, the Greeks, Rome, the pan-Arabic Caliphate, a battle ground of the Crusades, the Ottoman Empire, and eventually the British, which ruled Jordan until 1946. Finally independent, she is at the center of the world's most intractable conflict. Directly across the Red Sea from Aqaba is the Israeli city of Eilat. A little further down the coast across the Red sea lies Egypt. Direct south of Aqaba is Saudi Arabia. If the simmering pot that is the Middle East boils over, this area may get splashed. Jordan has good relations with its neighbors, though that is never set in stone. As Britain's Lord Palmerton stated over a century ago, “Nations have no permanent friends or allies, [sic] they only have permanent interests.”
Geopolitical disasters would need to wait, however. Friday is the Muslim Sabbath, which meant my dad's jobsite was closed down. By extension, it is also the only day off of week. Nevertheless, we headed over to the office to feed the stray cats and make certain the site was otherwise OK. some months prior, my father found a very cute, but very sick, kitten. We of the Smarsch family have a strong affinity for cats, and my dad took it to vet to treat the systemic infections. Tiger became the office mascot. Karl and I had seen pictures of the feline, and I was happy to meet this playful little fur ball.
Once we arrived, my dad turned on the generators and he caught up on his email while we took turns playing with the kitty. Tiger is only a few months old, but was already longer than my adult cat back home. Karl and I reckon he's part Abyssinian, which as known for their long, lean bodies and golden eyes. They are also very affectionate and playful, and Tiger was no exception. He was either sleeping in my arms, or trying to catch flies while sitting on my head. After he launched himself at a fly, he scratched the top of my head, i.e. my bald spot. I gather he realized he caused discomfort because he reacted to my flinching by looking at me then rubbing where his claws landed. Needless to say, Karl and I said the cat will be coming back to the USA when my father returns, and this was not up for debate.
Tiger was not the only kitten on site. A smaller gray and black tabby, which I named Bandit (the black lines looked like a mask around his eyes), poked his head out from under the temporary building which contained my dad's office. Evidently Tiger and Bandit don't get along, so each had to be fed separately. No problem, we gave each a plate of food and dish of water, and after taking a few pics of us with Tiger, we were on our way.
We toured the construction in my father's company car. When people asked what my father did there, I always replied that he was building a cement plant. That was his assignment prior to Jordan, and thought it was the same. This was not the case. He was building a plant - for fertilizer. Evidently Jordan has huge phosphorus deposits, which is mined and processed in Jordan, then shipped using Jordan's only seaport: Aqaba. Phosphates are one of Jordan's main exports, and vital to agriculture. While I marinated on the economic implications, Karl and my father discussed the practicalities of building something so huge. Karl is an iron worker, and had the safety personnel been on site, he would have climbed all over the steel framework like a jungle gym. After the tour (and nearly getting our car stuck in the sand), we headed down the road to Tala Bay, the resort section of Aqaba on the Red Sea.
The agenda for the rest of the day was simple. Lunch, then swimming. We went to a resort, and in deference to geopolitical surrounds, had the car checked for bombs. I thought briefly about resorts in Jamaica or the Dominican Republic, which come with the best of everything, such as top of the line razor wire and armed security. Quite the price to pay for palm trees and rum drinks. The comparison isn't perfect; the vast majority of Jordanians, while probably not the biggest fans of Westerners, aren't looking to rob or cause harm. There are a few unusually motivated individuals who would love the exposure generated by killing a few tourists, or perhaps even killing a few people who worked at a nearby facility whose purpose I still can't quite explain.
Concern over shrapnel, sight lines, and cover aside, the resort where we ate was beautiful, and the food was good. I ordered a steak sandwich and a diet Pepsi, and the caffeine withdrawal started to abate. We chatted for a bit, looked at the water, then drove over to the the largest foreign presence in Aqaba and beyond: Movenpick.
Movenpick (note: I have no umlaut - the two dots above a vowel in German script. It is not pronounced mo-ven-PIK. It is close to MOOO-ven-pik. The sound is difficult to describe in typed English) is a Swiss resort chain with a hotel in the middle of Aqaba and another on Tala Bay. We had arranged through our father's secretary to get discounted tickets to use the facilities. Karl would go swimming, and I would eat ice cream. Easier said than done, since I was approached by the friend (cousin? brother? classmate?) of Samah, instead of my father. This royally screwed up our available time, though eventually the mistake was fixed.
Once we got the ticket, and I went through the humiliation of finding out that Jordanian swim trunks size 5 FUCKING X were too small, we settled into our respective activities. Dad went to his apartment, Karl went swimming, and I took out my cell and I-Pod to surf the Internet, answer a few emails, and post a few sarcastic comments on Facebook. I also had another soda, and a scoop of ice cream. While I lounged and Karl swam, I had a chance to check out the setting and grounds. The Red Sea was beautiful, with boats sailing the bay. Egypt was a distant shore obscured by sand, and resort itself was stunning. We even had stray cats roaming the grounds. They were shy, though they looked healthy. This was becoming a theme. How many stray animals did this town have?
Karl and I talked for a bit, and we discussed getting massages at the spa. I was all in, Karl less so. I hate waiting, so I went by myself, and got an hour massage for 80 JD. I was impressed with the presentation of the spa. They even gave me a menu. I wasn't looking for seaweed wraps or a mud bath. I merely wanted to have my spine in working order once more. While the list of services wowed me, I was less impressed with the massage itself. I'm large, and it can be hard to work my muscles.
She did the best she could, and I tipped her 20 JD. I paid with my credit card, and met with Karl. He was annoyed I went without him, and he said he would get one in a few minutes. We hung out for a while, then Karl went back to the pool. He tried to get a massage later, but two guys were occupying the spa's table in the lobby like they were trying to work up the courage to ask out the attendants. Eventually, we had the front desk call the table to move these slugs along. That didn't work, so Karl just went up and interrupted. He was told the spa was booked.
He used the hot tub instead, though I knew he was aggravated. We waited for our dad to make plans for dinner. We decided to kill two birds with one stone by staying at Movenpick for dinner and watch some belly dancing. Once decided, we sauntered to the rooftop bar overlooking the pool and ocean.
I confess I felt slightly guilty and ashamed. Here we were, 3 Americans spending our time and money at a resort owned by a Swiss company, with a staff of Eastern Europeans, Africans, Asians, and only a few Arabs. Is the resentment felt by some in the Middle East justified? Should we have gone to a local place owned by Jordanians? Could I find such a place if I tried? Actually, after the pizza, I would have voted nay. I saw myself as a colonizer of a sort; a man of little privilege or status back home, but cock of the walk around here. I felt that way until we entered the bar. If there was ill will, it wasn't reflected in the mostly Arab customers, who were partying like it was 1999, in Times Square, at 11:59:59. I had to laugh at myself. I've been living in New York for too long. Even without a television, subscribing to conservative blogs, listening to Glenn Beck, voting Republican, and researching expat websites non-stop since 2001, I still fell victim to liberal guilt.
The food was standard restaurant fare, with chicken sandwiches, burgers, and the like. The only nod to our Muslim surroundings was the absence of pork. Sausage was made with turkey; bacon was a beef product. Otherwise it was no different than the Poconos. The belly dancer was also a little out of place. For one, she wasn't Arabic. I didn't get the chance to talk to her, but my best guess was Russian. She was ok, and attractive, but her belly dancing skills were merely passable. Ironically, I traveled 6000 miles to watch a belly dancer with less skill and paler skin than the ladies at Pennsic. Understand I wasn't complaining. The other customers didn't seem to mind either, as they were whooping it up like they were at a burlesque show. The customer is always right.
I wanted to end our night in a special way, so I ordered a sheesha, i.e. a hookah with flavored tobacco. Karl rolled his eyes, but I would not be dissuaded. I chose the lemon mint flavor, which was kind of like smoking a cough drop. My dad also partook, and it was a good smoke. This was first time I smoked anything since I quit cigars last August. I didn't over indulge; the old cigar smoking me would have sucked the thing dry.
Some misgivings about our presence and a little confusion aside, we had a very nice day relaxing and recharging our batteries. We went back to the apartment, talked a bit, then we went to our rooms. I still wasn't ready to sleep, but I didn't want to keep Karl or my dad awake either. I took out my Kindle, and due to the wonders of world-wide 3G service, bought a book, and read myself to sleep.
Saturday was much the same. We went straight to Movenpick, had lunch, then dad went to work while Karl and I stayed at the resort. We didn't eat out for dinner this time, however. In the interest of saving money, we went to a grocery store (our fellow New Yorkers would call it a bodega), and bought what we felt would be enough food to last us for a while. I bought bread, milk, juice, cereal, cold cuts (again, no pig), chocolate, etc. Karl did much the same, and grabbed a few toiletries as well. We needed to save our energy, as two more participants in our little adventure were joining us the next day: Alex and Samah.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Camel crossings and other hazards...
I hate flying. I'm too large for the seats (height and shoulder width being the main problems, not my gut...); I can't sleep in a sitting position, and jet lag uniformly kicks my ass. When I was a kid and visited Germany every summer, it would take a month to adjust to the change in time, and another month when I got home. After a few years of this, I just stopped trying and slept until noon everyday until it was time to go home. Needless to say, I drove meine Oma nuts. Nevertheless, Karl and I ponied up airfare and flew to the Hashimite Kingdom of Jordan to visit our father. He's been working here since February of this year, and he invited us out for visit.
The flight was out of JFK, and normally Karl and I would take Metro-North to Grand Central from our respective homes, and then take a bus to the airport. It's long and annoying, and not that much cheaper than simply driving. Driving involves parking, so I checked out a few off site parking sites, and found one for $100 for the seven days I would be away. I drove there, gave them my beloved Camry, and off to JFK we went.
After gettting irradiated, groped, questioned and eating McRibs, we made it to our gate. I had wondered if we would leave at all. Depending on which source you used, New York was getting either a severe rainstorm moving west to east, or a Nor'Easter. The rain would begin midnight on Wed. morning, and continue until Thursday. Our airports are not known for reliability under the best conditions, what would happen with 45 mph winds and 2 inches of rain? Not much, as it turned out. There were rain and high winds, but nothing close to the amounts or strength predicted. The flight was delayed by about an hour, but I hoped we could make up the time en route. 11:35pm we embarked. The flight itself was uneventful, though long. 11.5 hours in the air (and on the tarmac) is not my idea of a good time. Still, Royal Jordanian did a good job. The food was not toxic, and the in flight entertainment was actually good. We had touch screens for every seat, and I was able to watch 3 movies and stream music for the duration. This was good, since I couldn't sleep, no matter how hard I tried. On the other hand, Karl was stretched out and knocked out. Good for him, even if I couldn't follow suit. At least I got to see the most recent Pirates of the Caribbean movie. The display unit even had a USB port to charge your gadgets, which meant I could charge my cell en route.
Bleary, nauseated, and more than a little cranky (I blame Pirates 4), we landed in Amman. Though I would have loved to say we met with our dad, went to his place, then crashed, we still had a nearly 4 hour drive from Amman to Aqaba. Prior to that we had to honor the recirpocity between the USA and Jordan by paying the entry visa. Since we charge Jordainians to enter America, Jordan charges us. It was 20 JD, which is about $26. I had to take note of the exchange rate. Until the recent financial crisis, traveling abroad was cheap for Americans. Now, with the ritual debasement of the dollar, the situation is reversed. I would spout conspiracy theories about keeping Americans at home and isolated, but that's another blog post.
We finally escaped the airport and met our driver. It was late in the afternoon, so we only had a little daylight to observe our surroundings. It's cliche to speak of alien landscapes or an otherworldly place, but wow did it fit. The desert glowed in the fading twilight, with Venus sinking in the eastern sky. I would have loved to observe more, but sleep finally took me.
45 minutes later, the sky was dark and I could see no more stars through the desert haze. No matter, I wanted to observe Jordan on the street level. Unfortunately, there was nothing to see.
I'm serious; the road was almost entirely empty. There were a few buildings, and small stores selling fruits, or snacks, etc. Beyond that, the road was without features, save two: speed bumps and camel crossing signs.
It was strange to cruise at 60 mph for 20 minutes; slow down to 15; hit the bump, then start cruising again. All the while the road is otherwise devoid of cars. Once or twice (I may have been asleep), the speed bump was joined with a police check point. At first I was nervous, but no one paid any attention to me or Karl; it was all about the driver. After questioning him, checking his identification, then writing down the license plate, we were on our way. My passport was at the ready, but was told by the driver to put it away.
Speed bumps didn't scare me; they were just annoying. The thought of hitting a camel in out little car was another matter. I'd seen a Mythbuster episode on moose strikes in Alaska, and wondered if it would be worse, the same or somehow better. I'll blame fatigue, but I was paranoid at the though of a lumbering beast ambling across the road only to meet it's end at our front bumper. I was also a mite worried that we would meet a similar fate. I've survived car wrecks before, but always within reach of hospitals, police, an ambulance, and friends or family to rescue my stupid ass. Here we were on our own.
On the other hand, I was excited to see a camel in it's own environment, happily walking across the sands looking for water, or eating scrub brushes, or looking at us wondering what strange beast had invaded the landscape. I knew at this point it was official: the lack of sleep had made me loopy. Keep in mind we had only driven around 90 minutes.
As the lights of Aqaba finally came in to view, we started a long stretch of road with a steep incline. Our driver told us this was the most dangerous road in all of Jordan, and the trucks using their air brakes and downshifting attested to his statement. Since it was dark and hazy, I couldn't tell how much danger we were in, but if anyone has driven in Nevada from Las Vegas to Laughlin, it is much the same thing. Essentially, we were going from a (relatively) high elevation to sea level in the space of a few miles. The road was steep; 7 degrees according to the helpfully bilingual sign, and the trucks weaved in an out of lanes like they were drunk. The driver attempted to calm us, but I was not to be mollified. Finally the road leveled, and after going through yet another customs checkpoint, we arrived in Aqaba.
Karl and I slipped the driver 20 each, his in dollars, mine in dinars. I can't say if we over tipped, but driver looked ready to openly weep. Anyway, after some confusion, and traffic caused by someone trying steer a riding camel through parked cars, we met up with our dad. We paid for pizza, and finally drove out dad's apartment.
A quick note about pizza, or more accurately, the pizza we were eating. To say it was sub-par is being kind. I realize any place dedicated to tourism will slowly but inevitably devolve to the lowest common denominator; it's built into the system. Moreover, pizza is simple, easy to make, and close to universal. So why does every slice I've had outside the USA suck? It's not like the directions aren't available online. Restaurant owners: please surf the Internet and learn to make acceptable pizza before I fucking snap, kill you, and end up on the next episode of "Locked Up Abroad." Anyway, hungry as we were, the pizza was soon devoured.
Safely at our dad's apartment, we continued to eat the remaining pizza and watch some television. The three bedroom apartment was nice and quite large, if a little out of the way. This was intentional, of course. Aqaba isn't big, but it is busy, with pedestrians popping out of nowhere, camels for hire, and reckless drivers careening through round-abouts at high speed. It's really a border town much more than a beach town, which is a few miles from the central business district. Expat managers want a little more peace and quiet, so they stay in a wealthier section. This doesn't mean it was exclusive or exclusionary (there were no gates or private security), just a hike for those in the center of the city. Unless you has a specific reason to be there, you wouldn't bother.
Right before we went to sleep, I wanted to hookup my phone to my dad's computer to charge it. This was for photos and back-up wifi if my Ipod was dead. I wasn't planning on making calls, as I believed I was out of reach of any service. This, as it turned out, was very wrong. It could also have been very exspensive. I found out the hard way that roaming international calls can be hazardous to my bank account. A weekend in Montreal added $200 to my phone bill for surfing the Internet and answering a few texts. Of course, since I'm conditioned like a Pavlovian puppy, I saw a new text message and immediatly read it and answered. Oops. I also found out that I had lost my USB cable for the phone, so I couldn't charge it. Under normal circumstances, I would have cursed, but I was too tired. Another text came though explaining why I had service and how much it would cost. A call was 2.50 per minute, but texts were 0.10 to answer and 0.50 to send. My personal financial crisis averted, remaining pizza stored for future consumption (and complaining), I stumbled to my room for a few hours of sleep.
Next: Why the fuck did I have cell service? OR: If World War 3 starts, this might be ground zero.
The flight was out of JFK, and normally Karl and I would take Metro-North to Grand Central from our respective homes, and then take a bus to the airport. It's long and annoying, and not that much cheaper than simply driving. Driving involves parking, so I checked out a few off site parking sites, and found one for $100 for the seven days I would be away. I drove there, gave them my beloved Camry, and off to JFK we went.
After gettting irradiated, groped, questioned and eating McRibs, we made it to our gate. I had wondered if we would leave at all. Depending on which source you used, New York was getting either a severe rainstorm moving west to east, or a Nor'Easter. The rain would begin midnight on Wed. morning, and continue until Thursday. Our airports are not known for reliability under the best conditions, what would happen with 45 mph winds and 2 inches of rain? Not much, as it turned out. There were rain and high winds, but nothing close to the amounts or strength predicted. The flight was delayed by about an hour, but I hoped we could make up the time en route. 11:35pm we embarked. The flight itself was uneventful, though long. 11.5 hours in the air (and on the tarmac) is not my idea of a good time. Still, Royal Jordanian did a good job. The food was not toxic, and the in flight entertainment was actually good. We had touch screens for every seat, and I was able to watch 3 movies and stream music for the duration. This was good, since I couldn't sleep, no matter how hard I tried. On the other hand, Karl was stretched out and knocked out. Good for him, even if I couldn't follow suit. At least I got to see the most recent Pirates of the Caribbean movie. The display unit even had a USB port to charge your gadgets, which meant I could charge my cell en route.
Bleary, nauseated, and more than a little cranky (I blame Pirates 4), we landed in Amman. Though I would have loved to say we met with our dad, went to his place, then crashed, we still had a nearly 4 hour drive from Amman to Aqaba. Prior to that we had to honor the recirpocity between the USA and Jordan by paying the entry visa. Since we charge Jordainians to enter America, Jordan charges us. It was 20 JD, which is about $26. I had to take note of the exchange rate. Until the recent financial crisis, traveling abroad was cheap for Americans. Now, with the ritual debasement of the dollar, the situation is reversed. I would spout conspiracy theories about keeping Americans at home and isolated, but that's another blog post.
We finally escaped the airport and met our driver. It was late in the afternoon, so we only had a little daylight to observe our surroundings. It's cliche to speak of alien landscapes or an otherworldly place, but wow did it fit. The desert glowed in the fading twilight, with Venus sinking in the eastern sky. I would have loved to observe more, but sleep finally took me.
45 minutes later, the sky was dark and I could see no more stars through the desert haze. No matter, I wanted to observe Jordan on the street level. Unfortunately, there was nothing to see.
I'm serious; the road was almost entirely empty. There were a few buildings, and small stores selling fruits, or snacks, etc. Beyond that, the road was without features, save two: speed bumps and camel crossing signs.
It was strange to cruise at 60 mph for 20 minutes; slow down to 15; hit the bump, then start cruising again. All the while the road is otherwise devoid of cars. Once or twice (I may have been asleep), the speed bump was joined with a police check point. At first I was nervous, but no one paid any attention to me or Karl; it was all about the driver. After questioning him, checking his identification, then writing down the license plate, we were on our way. My passport was at the ready, but was told by the driver to put it away.
Speed bumps didn't scare me; they were just annoying. The thought of hitting a camel in out little car was another matter. I'd seen a Mythbuster episode on moose strikes in Alaska, and wondered if it would be worse, the same or somehow better. I'll blame fatigue, but I was paranoid at the though of a lumbering beast ambling across the road only to meet it's end at our front bumper. I was also a mite worried that we would meet a similar fate. I've survived car wrecks before, but always within reach of hospitals, police, an ambulance, and friends or family to rescue my stupid ass. Here we were on our own.
On the other hand, I was excited to see a camel in it's own environment, happily walking across the sands looking for water, or eating scrub brushes, or looking at us wondering what strange beast had invaded the landscape. I knew at this point it was official: the lack of sleep had made me loopy. Keep in mind we had only driven around 90 minutes.
As the lights of Aqaba finally came in to view, we started a long stretch of road with a steep incline. Our driver told us this was the most dangerous road in all of Jordan, and the trucks using their air brakes and downshifting attested to his statement. Since it was dark and hazy, I couldn't tell how much danger we were in, but if anyone has driven in Nevada from Las Vegas to Laughlin, it is much the same thing. Essentially, we were going from a (relatively) high elevation to sea level in the space of a few miles. The road was steep; 7 degrees according to the helpfully bilingual sign, and the trucks weaved in an out of lanes like they were drunk. The driver attempted to calm us, but I was not to be mollified. Finally the road leveled, and after going through yet another customs checkpoint, we arrived in Aqaba.
Karl and I slipped the driver 20 each, his in dollars, mine in dinars. I can't say if we over tipped, but driver looked ready to openly weep. Anyway, after some confusion, and traffic caused by someone trying steer a riding camel through parked cars, we met up with our dad. We paid for pizza, and finally drove out dad's apartment.
A quick note about pizza, or more accurately, the pizza we were eating. To say it was sub-par is being kind. I realize any place dedicated to tourism will slowly but inevitably devolve to the lowest common denominator; it's built into the system. Moreover, pizza is simple, easy to make, and close to universal. So why does every slice I've had outside the USA suck? It's not like the directions aren't available online. Restaurant owners: please surf the Internet and learn to make acceptable pizza before I fucking snap, kill you, and end up on the next episode of "Locked Up Abroad." Anyway, hungry as we were, the pizza was soon devoured.
Safely at our dad's apartment, we continued to eat the remaining pizza and watch some television. The three bedroom apartment was nice and quite large, if a little out of the way. This was intentional, of course. Aqaba isn't big, but it is busy, with pedestrians popping out of nowhere, camels for hire, and reckless drivers careening through round-abouts at high speed. It's really a border town much more than a beach town, which is a few miles from the central business district. Expat managers want a little more peace and quiet, so they stay in a wealthier section. This doesn't mean it was exclusive or exclusionary (there were no gates or private security), just a hike for those in the center of the city. Unless you has a specific reason to be there, you wouldn't bother.
Right before we went to sleep, I wanted to hookup my phone to my dad's computer to charge it. This was for photos and back-up wifi if my Ipod was dead. I wasn't planning on making calls, as I believed I was out of reach of any service. This, as it turned out, was very wrong. It could also have been very exspensive. I found out the hard way that roaming international calls can be hazardous to my bank account. A weekend in Montreal added $200 to my phone bill for surfing the Internet and answering a few texts. Of course, since I'm conditioned like a Pavlovian puppy, I saw a new text message and immediatly read it and answered. Oops. I also found out that I had lost my USB cable for the phone, so I couldn't charge it. Under normal circumstances, I would have cursed, but I was too tired. Another text came though explaining why I had service and how much it would cost. A call was 2.50 per minute, but texts were 0.10 to answer and 0.50 to send. My personal financial crisis averted, remaining pizza stored for future consumption (and complaining), I stumbled to my room for a few hours of sleep.
Next: Why the fuck did I have cell service? OR: If World War 3 starts, this might be ground zero.
