I was sitting in JFK in a bar way
down at the end of one terminal where I was about to catch an international
flight. Actually, I guess it was more like a single counter with a display case
but they also sold beer. Anyway…there were tables in the immediate vicinity. I
was seated at one alone and enjoying an overpriced pint, and some guy at the
table directly behind me was driving me nuts with all his whining.
“Oh my God,” he kept going on, “The
service was just terrible. And the driver was slow. And it was so hot in there.
Oh! I just didn’t know what to do. It was unbelievable.”
Instantly, I identified him as being
a Jewish gay guy. Now, I’m not a homophobe. And I’m certainly not an
anti-Semite. But I am trying to be as
honest as I can when I recount these stories and so…Let’s just say that it must
have had something to do with the fact that I was in New York and let’s just
say that New York is known for being full of both Jews and gay guys and the
odds of some overlap existing within its greater metropolitan area were
probably pretty substantial. Hence; I made this prejudiced association in my
mind based on nothing but a bad stereotype. But again. In all fairness; that
one stereotype was rather nationally and (perhaps even) internationally
recognized.
It was ‘prissiness’ for lack of a
better word. Prissiness was this guy’s most distinguishing trait. And I don’t
mean ‘most distinguishing’ as I sat there and interpreted him. I mean that,
without ever getting to know this guy any further (and believe me; that was the
plan…if he turned out to be on my flight or in my group, I’d avoid him like the
plague), I could safely say that, first and foremost, he was prissy. Any other
characteristic (no matter how noble or great) came second. And although I’m not
a gambling man (as they say), I would have bet the farm on that claim. And I
would have won.
“I’m telling you, I had to send it
back. But then the waiter didn’t even come around again for another 20 minutes
and so it just sat there getting cold. I mean…not that that really mattered
because I wasn’t going to eat it anyway. But you see what I’m saying. It’s like
he could tell that I was in a hurry and that’s why he didn’t come around any
sooner. It’s like he was doing it to spite me. And then when I finally did send
it back…it took another 20 minutes for my new order to arrive. And by that
time…well, you know the rest. I just told them to forget it. I told them to
cancel the whole order. I swear, they’re lucky I even paid for my drink.”
His voice was unusually raspy but
tight as you might imagine.
Then he mentioned something about
Dubai and any hopes I had of him not being on my flight went right out the
window. Sweet Jesus, I promise that this is the last group tour I’ll ever take.
I mean…what’s the point of leaving the country at all if you’re just going to
be surrounded by a bunch of other Americans the entire time? The price was
right, sure. But it just wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth having to listen to
this prissy asshole behind me now. And I hadn’t even boarded the fucking plane
yet! There’s more to life than money.
Emirati Air. They said it was one of
the best but unless they served up smelly green eggs and ham in the morning (as
once happened to me on Swiss Air), I probably wouldn’t have known much difference.
It’s not that I didn’t have anything to compare it to either. I grew up in an
airline family. Rather, I’m just not a very high-maintenance traveler. As long
as they get me there in one piece, I tend not to complain.
One strange, little quirk that I’d
never seen done on any other airline is; they wouldn’t serve coffee so long as
the fasten seatbelt sign was on. Like they thought that no one would be able to
hold it until the turbulence had passed. So that was a little patronizing. But
they were quick with the beers. And once I’d had enough of those and was
finally feeling tired, I found myself with the whole row. Just about everyone
aboard had a whole row to themselves, in fact. And that surprised me since this
was supposed to be Dubai’s on-season. February. The one time of year when the
outdoor air was livable, or so I’d heard. Maybe I’d just caught a randomly dead
flight though. It could happen.
Lying down is really what did it for
me. That’s when I noticed something about this plane that truly made it unique.
They’d shut all the overhead lights off so soon as we left JFK and the sun went
down. But rather than plain, black darkness running the length of the aisles up
above; there were bright, white stars shining down from the ceiling. And they weren’t
cheesy like those big, plastic, green ones that everybody had glowing in their
rooms when they were teenagers. These were, instead, more like fiber optic and
even varied in size from tiny to tinier. It also wasn’t difficult to make out a
faint sort of Milky Way running soft and velvety up there in that river of
midnight blue. And I found myself dozing with no seatbelt on and was glad that
no one came by to wake me up or I would have been pissed.
New York to Dubai nonstop. It had
been my longest flight to date but, thanks to movies on demand and the empty
row which allowed me some sleep, it had gone by pretty quickly and I awoke
feeling refreshed and ready for the day. Already, the cabin was lit with a
golden sunlight and I was happy to hear them coming by with a breakfast cart.
When we touched down, I got off with
the other, few dozen people who’d been on the plane, grabbed my black,
hard-shell spinner from off the carousel, and made my way through immigration.
It was the usual bit for the most part. Meaning; even on the other side of the
world, if one looked like just another dopey American then they’d nod you right
through. The whole process, in fact, was so much the norm that it would have
gone all but completely unrecorded in my memory bank if it hadn’t been for this
one guy…a dopey looking American, granted, but there was something else that set him apart from all the rest. Let’s just
call it; the giant professional size movie camera that he was riding an
escalator with and taping even right there in the airport! Seriously. No
exaggeration; the thing was so big that half of it actually had to rest on his
shoulder while the other half required the support of both his arms.
I was on that escalator too and we
were both headed down. And since he was just below me, and I usually tend to
look straight ahead, I had the perfect view of this asshole just being an asshole. And since this
escalator was very long, I also had plenty of time to think to myself over and
over again; what a fucking douche bag!
The guy was roundabout 40 but had
been salt-and-peppered with a lot of premature grey. He was tall, slim. His
skin was very pasty. And he wore a black, leather jacket that, on him in particular,
came off as dorky and contrived. Also, somewhere within the shadowy area where
that colossal camera met his face, I believe I could see a Van Dyke grown
around his mouth that was so short and perfectly groomed; it wouldn’t have
surprised me if he’d gone in the bathroom this morning and shaved while we were
still on the airplane. Because yes. This
fucking asshole also happened to be on my flight and all I could do now was
pray to Allah that he wasn’t in my tour group.
Just to make matters worse at
present; this really long escalator that we both happened to be on was the sort
that, for security purposes, a glass wall partitioned on either side. That is;
those of us disembarking were separated from those others who were headed
towards the international gates…by just that thin fucking sheet of glass.
Which, in itself, there’s nothing really wrong with. Until you throw Mr.
Cameraman into the mix.
So this guy; he’s actually taping the other people on the escalator
going up the other way and (I’m projecting now) making them uneasy. Because Arabs are always a little uneasy, I’m
projecting again. And Muslims especially. Especially while flying! Many of them
heading straight to the US! And here, before they even left their homeland, was
some American douche fucking recording their asses with his little, red LED light
emitting their way as if to punch a ‘confirm’ stamp on any doubts they may have
been having about his doing so!
And there they were staring back at
him in disbelief. And it’s one thing to be in JFK in the international terminal
because, believe me, if you’ve never been, it already feels as if you’ve entered a foreign country. What with the
different turbans and garb and even those ladies wearing the full on, black
Hijab covering all but their eyes. But we were actually in Arabia! And the turbans and garb and sandal-length man-dresses
and Hijabs well fucking outnumbered any asshole climbing up that escalator in a
wannabe white suit and Panama Jack hat. This was the real deal. And I guess that
Mr. Cameraman felt so too. He must have. At least, I hope he must have and that
that’s the reason he felt the need to put this all down on digital. Because
strangely, for some fucking asshole like this, pictures just weren’t enough!
And obviously, they weren’t even enough in the airport. And stranger still! As
my own mind got sucked up into this asshole’s own world of audacious indecency;
perhaps, a still-camera shot would have even been worse! Because he wouldn’t
have turned the flash off for anything. That much, I knew without question.
This fucking schmuck would have been snap-snap-snapping those still’s right
through that glass partition with the flashbulb going off with every single shot. Just because he was one of those assholes who’d never
realize until so far after that fact that the flash itself would have obscured,
through that glass, over 95% of the shots do to the reflective flashback!
God! Why was this happening? Was it
something I did? Because it must have
been. Like; I’d saved all year, every penny, to go on this trip. And it must
have been because I was super excited to catch a glimpse of the actual Arabs’
renowned hospitality and great nature. And I knew then that that’s what it was.
That’s what it was indeed. I was simply asking too much. I joined a group tour
with the expectations that the Americans on it could fucking behave themselves
one and a half weeks. Ten days, really. But it was gonna seem like twenty.
The
bus boarded after everyone had retrieved their luggage and I only remember some
old guy saying something about how he had watched ‘The Darjeeling Limited’
onboard and how he considered it to be a non-movie. And then I remember
stopping off at an inauthentic (make that; completely made-up), Arab encampment
where one normally had to pay a ticket fee but was completely included in our
price for the trip type of thing… And anyway, all of my buddy tourists and I
got to catch a glimpse of how the real
Arabs lived out in the desert; a lifestyle in which the real Emirati, in this day and age, didn’t live at all. Or I guess,
even if some of them did still live in these primitive dwellings we were now
being shown, it was only by their own choosing. And I knew this. Because,
unlike any of these other assholes on the bus who were only in this trip for
the glit and glam of Dubai’s present day; I
had done my homework. And because I’d
done my homework, I knew that the Emirati hadn’t always had it so easy. They were
desert nomads up until their oil was discovered, unearthed, and cashed out as
it continued to be even now. But the craziest
part to their story (in my very judgmental opinion) is that they considered
themselves to be blessed by God for having these riches then descend upon them.
Or rather, as I suppose it is in oil’s case, ascend to them from deep in the underworld. And it was this belief of
theirs that I found myself constantly contemplating up to and throughout this
whole trip. It was that, as I understood it, they believed themselves to be
somehow more blessed, let’s just say,
than the rest of us. And I thought that was pretty fucked up.
And the sheiks…well, they must have
had some pretty sound financial advisors and, I have to hand it to them, were
at least wise enough to try to invest
some of this money. It couldn’t all
be spent on palaces and world-class entertainment. Or could it? Because Las
Vegas spent all of its money on
palaces and world-class entertainment and somehow made that money back tenfold. And that ‘somehow’ was obviously the
gambling industry; that dirty, little bit of true freedom that Americans enjoy
but also feel the need to keep contained in the middle of our own equally dry
and inhospitable climate. And with gambling, as everyone knows, there comes
liquor and crime and prostitution and capitalism at its very grandest. And all
that’s very fine…until it runs into Islam. Because the Mojave desert is pretty
far from the Arabian…and not just geographically. And so these Arabs were about
to learn that they couldn’t have their cake and eat it too…for all the money in
the world.
And so, as sort of a pit stop on the
way to our hotel that morning, all of us tourists were dropped off at a tourist
trap that (I can’t even believe I’m about to admit this) was actually a tiny
bit more interesting than the usual rug factories or jewelry sweatshops that
seemed to be the norm on these group tours. Instead, we were led through the
gates of an interactive museum of sorts where the guests (us) could actually
step into Arab tent replicas like those they would have used in their
historically nomadic days. A few of which sported long tubes attached to them
stretching up in to the sky. They were about the circumference of a standard
air conditioning vent and, it turned out, that’s almost exactly what they were.
The tubes would catch the cooler air, whenever a breeze blew by up above, and
bring it down into the dwelling making it surprisingly comfortable. They let us
put our faces right up to the vent and the cold air and everything and promised
there was nothing electrical connected.
Also,
before pearls were ever able to be collected through the farming method; good
old fashioned pearl diving was quite
the big industry in the Persian Gulf and especially along the Emirate coast.
And so this museum also exhibited a huge, viewing room underwater where all the
fanny pack tourists just like myself could watch robots in the deep-sea diving
suits battling giant clams for their prized treasure. At least that was how it
appeared through the evermore cynical haze in which I began to see things as
the flash photography, blinding and incessant, bounced epileptically off the
glass.
After that, there was a quick trip
through a nearby street market (much too clean to ever be believable as real)
displaying gaudy, gold adornments and, according to today’s tour guide, the
best price on saffron in the whole, entire world.
Once
arrived at our hotel, some sort of situation arose causing the entire group to
have to wait in the lobby. Namely; not a goddam one of our rooms was ready.
Exactly how this could happen; I’ll never know. I do know, however, that without a bar; they may have had a small
riot on their hands. And I would have instigated that riot, surely. But all of
these other tourist folk; they were now on vacation just as much as I was, had
had just as long a flight as myself obviously, and were now also very ready for
that drink. Exactly what kind of
drink solely depended upon the individual.
It was unusual that there weren’t
any families in the group…but there weren’t. And so the only people who’d come
with someone other than themselves were easily distinguishable as our entire
assemblage formed a large circle and stood there facing each other without
really knowing why. We were waiting for our drinks while waiting for our rooms.
What else was there to do? The prissy guy who’d been annoying me in the airport
(now half a world away) was here with the old guy he’d been talking to back in
New York. And now, directly across the huge, tile foyer, I had a pretty good
look at them both. The prissy guy was short and really stalky with tight, curly
hair. He reminded me of one of the hobbits from Lord of the Rings or even one
of the dwarves meaning; he had features that didn’t seem to fit together very
well…especially a pair of pointy, oversized ears. But I was only looking at him
so judgmentally because he’d priorly pissed me off and because I was now
silently seeking some sort of unjust revenge upon him. From across the hall, I
couldn’t hear what he was saying despite the room’s being so marble and full of
echoes. I could hear little bits and
pieces of everyone else’s grunting and complaining though. But the prissy guy;
he was leaning way over and purposely whispering his own complaints to his
friend with a hand over his mouth so as to keep anyone from reading his lips!
And now, for the first time full-frontal, I was also able to see the man whom I
considered to be even worse than the prissy guy himself! Because it’s like…
Have you ever been on a train or a
bus, or maybe just in a store, or maybe even just walking behind someone in
public who’s being really obnoxious while talking on the phone. Really fucking
loud and obnoxious and cussing even and just going on and on about their
stupid, shitty problems and hardly ever pausing to take a breath? Well, I have.
All the time, it seems. And although this person’s pointless, obnoxious
conversation may raise more than one question to the surface of my consciousness…unfortunately
(because I’d rather not be thinking about them at all; but I’m weak); there is
one question that occurs most quickly and often. It becomes the predominant
question. And that question has to be; WHO THE FUCK ARE THEY TALKING TO! And just how fucked up does this other, mystery
person have to be (not only to be talking to the obnoxious person in the first
place) to sit there listening to the obnoxious person without interrupting or
even caring whether or not they get a word in edgewise!? Just how fucked up and
insecure do they have to be?! This shit really makes me wonder. But looking at
that prissy guy and his buddy in the tiled foyer in Dubai; I believe I finally
had my answer. The answer just wasn’t what I was expecting.
Because this guy; he didn’t appear
to be all that insecure. Or trashy. I always picture them, on the other end of
the phone, as really trashy like they’re in a really dirty house… But this
dude, albeit really old (somewhere in his 70’s) just looked like some guy. And
a nice guy at that. Just some old, nice guy in a Members Only jacket and a baseball
cap. He looked like my fucking grandpa. Only nicer! And I think it must have
had something to do with that associative family presumption that led me to
believe he must have been the prissy guy’s dad. He had to have been. Just a really
passive, submissive dad who continued to listen to the prissy guy’s complaints
(already and ongoing) about this trip…through his cupped hand! Wow.
The old guy and exactly what his
deal was (and why he wasn’t more trashy) would have definitely occupied more of
my time if it hadn’t been for the only other
pair that had come together. And that was, of course it just had to be, the
leather jacket movie camera guy and his girlfriend. And she was sorta hot! Way
too hot for him anyway. He still had the camera out and was still holding it in
the both hands that it required but now, thank God and unlike at the airport,
its lens was pointed towards the ground. It was obvious that it was bugging him
not to be filming just now as it probably was at any minute he wasn’t. But it was equally obvious that his
girlfriend was slightly irritated with him, had requested that he stop, and was internally questioning her reasons
for having come on this trip with him and all the other extreme, hypothetical
scenarios that girlfriends jump to when they don’t have enough sleep…which went
for all of us, though, I suppose. I know it at least went for everyone in our
group just then. We were all tired and cranky, could all use a shower, and it’s
not like we could even check our bags and go anywhere because, as we quickly
came to discover, our hotel, nice although it was, was also located, so far as
Dubai is concerned, in the middle of fucking nowhere (which in Persian Gulf terms
meant; nowhere close to the beach.
Once everyone had drunk the first of
their drinks and it slowly began to sink in that our rooms still wouldn’t be
ready until we at least had had one more round (and that perhaps this was part
of their ploy), most of us found our own way out to the back patio area which
overlooked the pool. And it was here, under some balconies and so in the shade,
a middle age woman and I sat at a table together. We’d both been muttering
complaints under our breath, was everyone still, as if we’d all suddenly become
various versions of the prissy guy in no time. But it was the way we each uttered them that drove some
of us towards each other and others apart. The witty appreciating another’s witty criticism or grievance. The sarcastic
sticking together as well. But this lady and I; we were neither witty nor
sarcastic. And unfortunately, I’m ashamed to say, we came together because I just don’t think there was anyone left.
“Another fuzzy navel,” she ordered
sitting directly across from me.
Not even a screwdriver. Jesus, how I
hated her already.
“Beer, please.” And I was sure she
hated me too.
This lady was not attractive. I just
want to get that out of the way right
away. Not that there’s anything wrong
with that. It’s just that I wasn’t trying to lay her. If I had been, it would
have made much more sense; me sitting directly across the table from a lady I
couldn’t stand. That’s different. But
the way things were; I’d almost rather have been by myself. In fact, I’m sure I’d rather have been. And yet, how
does one tactfully excuse themselves with etiquette, stand up, and simply move
over to the very next table only to be alone? I’m sorry ma’am? I think there’s
been some sort of mistake? I think that we were probably the last two left
standing in the lobby there for a reason…a reason that we both mistook for
having something in common.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
“So what is it you do for a living?”
I asked. I was honestly trying here.
“I work for the IRS.”
“No shit?” I must have made a face
she’d seen hundreds of times by now in her life.
“Don’t worry,” she must have
rehearsed this too, “I’m not an auditor.”
“Oh, I wasn’t worried. Because if
you really wanna know, I haven’t paid my taxes in years.”
Finally, we both had a good laugh
but it was only because she had no idea I wasn’t joking.
“And what brought you to Dubai?” it
was her turn now to ask a question and this was, of course, the most sensible
and unaffronted subject while still trying to remain semi-interested and sort
of personal.
“I
wanted to see how much money can buy,” I said with a straight face because it
was true, “You?”
“The culture,” she sounded put out and I knew exactly how she was
feeling.
The culture? What culture,
you stupid bitch?
Don’t get me wrong. There’s culture
absolutely everywhere. Especially
places where cultured people claim there to be none. Take ‘punk rock’ for
instance. It may be vulgar and, to some, violent and uncivilized. But there’s
just as much culture there as there is in any opera house or symphony stage.
But when it came to the Emirati; they’re culture was just so inaccessible
(especially to Westerners) that this fucking IRS lady didn’t have a chance in
hell. Unless I was just misunderstanding her…which wouldn’t have surprised me
at all. But then what could she mean; their culture?
Was she mistaking it for the shitty,
wannabe Reno-like atmosphere that this place was supposedly on its way to
becoming? Was that the culture she
wanted to enrich herself with? Because, if so, she really could have stayed a
lot closer to home and experienced relatively the same thing in Nevada…or even
Monte Carlo for that matter. Or, closer still; somewhere that had really nice
hotels and restaurants but not a lot of drinking or gambling going on. And this caused me to have to ask; what the
fuck I was doing here then?
Which caused me to have to answer
(just as I told her); I wanted to see how much money could buy. I was interested in the Emirati…just not in
their culture per se. They’re Muslim. They’re Arab. They were nomads. And now
they rode around in limousines with the tinted windows rolled up. Most of them,
nowadays, lived in mansions with every conceivable, modern amenity; most of
them with shit that most Americans didn’t even own. But, much as they wanted to
believe that they had investments; the truth is that almost all of these people
were pissing their money away faster than their oil wells were drying up.
And this was fine with me. I personally
couldn’t care if the Emirates went completely broke within the year. Because
they were arguably the richest country in the world at present and these
people, like no other on the face of the globe, just had this way of blowing
their dough in the grandest, most exuberant, and most ridiculous ways possible.
That’s what I wanted to see. I wanted
to see Lamborghinis…everywhere! I wanted to check out the 7 star hotel that was
the Burj al Arab. And I wanted to see, supposedly located very close to our hotel
actually, the over 160 floor building that, upon its completion (that is, less
than a couple months), was destined to be the tallest building in the world by
far. And more than anything; I wanted to see that indoor ski slope they’d
erected in the middle of a mall. Because if a manmade ski slope in the middle
of the Arabian desert didn’t spell ‘opulence’, I just don’t know what did.
And then there were those famous,
artificial islands the Emirati had had constructed just offshore in the shallow
waters of the Persian Gulf. First, they’d built an entire neighborhood out
there in the shape of a palm and, at the time of my trip, were still presently
working on the other in the shape of the whole world with every continent
represented. But what nobody really ever stopped to ask them (and perhaps they
never even stopped to ask themselves) was; what the fuck for? And the only
tangible reason for doing so turns out to be not so tangible at all. The answer
was simply to flaunt their money. To show that they could do what no other
country in the world had done just because they felt like it. But the
symbolism, to me, is just too perfect to ignore. It’s sand! Here they paid all
these construction workers from other countries (India mostly) to dump a bunch
of sand in the middle of the gulf to produce an island. Then many islands. And
then they built many streets and houses atop these islands. But I don’t care
how well they’re built. I don’t care if the fucking Army Corps of Engineers was
brought in on the job…which they most certainly were not. It’s still just a
bunch of sand out there in the water. And just like any barrier islands; they’re
going to shift and drift and without constant replenishment, they’re going to
disappear. Just like their money. And just like their oil.
Wanting to take it easy that first
night and save a bit of money, I decided not to take a cab and hit the clubs
I’d heard so much about downtown. All that could wait. There was plenty of
time. And besides, just before our rooms were finally ready; another commissioned
guide-girl of sorts recommended that we be right back down in the lobby in less
than one hour in order to attend a presentation on all the touristy bullshit
that we could (and that they hoped we would) sign up for. So, figuring they
might have something in my price range, and actually because I was still a bit
curious about just what sort of stuff there was to do in the Emirates (other
than the clubs) I took a quick shower and sat down again in a cozier room
downstairs with the rest of the suckers…who amounted to everyone in my group.
This room was so cozy and already
full, in fact, that I had to stand up during the presentation amongst several
others. And this was alright by me because, from this vantage, I was able to
identify and then vet a girl sitting in a nice, leather armchair about 4 bodies
down in the corner.
So as the presenter in the front of
the room, with a bunch of visual aids in the forms of poster boards and
enlarged, color photographs, went on about the various tours we could take
tomorrow and/or the next day; I was
watching this other girl in the armchair (her eyes mostly) in order to discover
which of these tours most piqued her
interest. And I would try to sound more sly and stalkery here but there were
really only two activities that sounded halfway interesting to most of us
anyway. And those were; the four-wheeling ride all over the sand dunes with a
dinner out in the middle of the desert at the end of it and a tour of an actual
desert oasis followed, on the same shuttle ride, with a tour of the largest,
outdoor camel market in the Middle East…that started early! Earlier than I was prepared
for anyway. I mean, was this supposed to be a vacation or not? (Were any of
these vacations? That’s a question that I still keep asking myself.) But like
the rest of the suckers, I signed up for a couple. Fuck it, why not. It would
fill my day that would undoubtedly be spent in a bar anyway where I’d
undoubtedly spend just as much money. So I felt good about it because this at
least would be some sort of educational experience with some good photo ops
(almost assuredly). And what’s more; she
would be there. The pretty mystery girl in the leather armchair. And what the
fuck was she doing here in Dubai by herself? And what the fuck were any of us
doing here really? And that’s what
became the query. The mystery for me to unravel.
At some point though, and I honestly
have no idea how, I must have agreed to meet up again with the IRS chick and
find something within the vicinity of the hotel that could fulfill our dinner
needs. Most of the others ate at the hotel restaurant or ordered room service.
At least that’s what I gathered after hearing people talk after the tour trap
meeting had broken up. So I guess, with this lady, I was thinking that there
was an opportunity to buddy up and take in some air. And so we inquired with
the concierge before heading anywhere. As it turned out, per our original
assumptions, there just wasn’t fucking much in the vicinity. But the guy did
recommend one place. A couple blocks down, in the ground floor of some
building, there apparently was what he referred to as a ‘sports bar’ that served
beers and burgers and such. And that actually sounded perfect. Sounded.
“So we can walk there then?” I asked
him just to confirm.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t recommend it,”
he was a dark, black man and his smile was luminescent.
“But didn’t you say…” I tried to
rephrase it in my head, “Well, how many kilometers would you say it is?”
“Sir,
it is only about one kilometer. The problem is; there are no sidewalks and very
much construction.”
“But can’t we just walk on the side
of the road?”
“Well, I would certainly not
recommend it. And please, if you would give me a time that you will be ready, I
will be more than happy to have a taxi here waiting for you.”
So I looked over at the IRS lady
and, for the first time all day, I could tell she was in agreement with me.
“We’ll take our chances,” I told
him, “But, thank you anyway.”
I just didn’t want to get arrested.
Because in the Middle East; the word ‘shouldn’t’ (as in; shouldn’t walk along the side of the road) could come with a much
stronger consequence than anywhere in the West. It’s just a tight-ass sort of
region of the world. But, then again, if this was indeed supposed to be an up
and coming tourist town; the Emirati were going to have to get used to dumbass
tourists…everywhere. And so if a cop decided to fuck with us, which I didn’t
actually think was going to happen anyway, I’d just act all awed and
disoriented.
“Man, that guy wasn’t fucking
joking,” I spoke over my shoulder as we made our way through what was now the
darkness of night. A couple dump trucks had almost hit us already but,
nevertheless, it still seemed asinine to take a cab two buildings down.
“Yeah, I’d say they still really
need to work on their infrastructure!” she yelled ahead to me over the sound of
construction vehicles that must have been leaving the area for the night.
And, while her statement could have
gone without saying, I did believe that she was also onto something…I just
couldn’t put my finger on what.
“There it is!” I said, “I think. Or
at least that’s the building anyway.
And indeed, in the short time that
it had taken us to speak a couple of sentences to each other, we’d made it to
the hotel in which this ‘sports bar’ was supposedly located. And around the
other side, after cutting through the lobby, we found it. Joe’s Pub. Or
something like that. Some really generic name with a really big, expensive
looking sign lit up in red and yellow letters. And the place was nice…I guess.
It was of some considerable size, had nice wood and green carpet absolutely
everywhere, and the 360-degree bar in the center of the room was located a few
steps down from everything else in its own little, sunken pit.
And despite the fact that there were
booths in just about every direction, it was at this central bar that the two
of us wound up sitting…I’m pretty sure just by default. Because for us to have
scored a booth, according to the hostess, would have taken over an hour so
packed was this place with…white people. Brits. Australians. And South Africans
mostly. There were probably a few Americans mixed in there too but everyone I talked to (mostly next to me at the
bar) had an accent. And of course, to them, I did as well. But one thing was
for sure. There were no Emirati here. And I was kind of disappointed that there
weren’t even any Indian construction guys. But as soon as we received a menu, I
learned why.
This
place was fucking expensive! I didn’t even know if I could swing a burger here! At least not a burger and as many
beers as I felt like drinking tonight. The place was so pricey that (if I may just put it into my own terms) I figured,
since there was no way I could afford to get shitface drunk tonight, I may as
well just eat a meal and have like 2 pints with it and still hopefully have
enough left over for the tip. Which was too bad too. Because the place was
really hopping and just so full of
red faced, red nosed, intoxicatingly loud talking white people. And who cares
if they were white? They were still foreigners to me so… It might have been
nice to party the night away with some of these guys and gals. They were
businessmen obviously. Salespeople and tour company representatives just like
the one who’d sold me two overpriced excursions not more than a couple of hours
ago. But maybe it was the weekend or something. They could still be fun.
It didn’t happen that way, though,
and it was probably for the best. I needed to be up early the next day in order
to catch a shuttle that was supposed to take a group of us to check out a real
desert oasis. And for that, I didn’t want to be too hungover. Especially since,
what with the nice, buffet breakfast that came included with the room; it would
be swell not to have to suffer my way downstairs and risk being too queasy to
eat. Plus…whatever wooden dinner conversation the IRS lady and I had forced
ourselves into; we both clearly didn’t enjoy each other’s company and probably
each had to hold our tongue more times than many just to keep from being
outright offensive…and offended, for
that matter. So I was glad, after slamming my couple of pints, when the tab did
finally come and we each tallied up the cost of our individual shit. And
wouldn’t ya know it…
“Ah, hell,” I looked in my wallet
forgetting, “You don’t think they take American, do ya?”
“No.
And definitely no partial-American,” she said fanning out a hand of freshly
minted dirham, “Do you need to borrow some?”
“Um…lemmie
see here. I bought out all they had at the currency exchange in Portland…but it
didn’t amount to very much. Uh…yeah,” I counted it again feeling rather
embarrassed, “I almost have enough to cover my tab in dirham but…maybe I just
give you my half of the tip in American? Would that be alright?”
“Well, it’s not gonna do me much
good here. Why don’t you just keep it and give it to me in dirham tomorrow or
something.”
“Yeah, I can do that. I’m pretty
sure they can change it at the hotel… I can give it to you tonight. It’s no big
deal.”
“No. I’m tired and I think I’ll be
going straight to bed when we get back.”
“Okay.”
“Just give it to me tomorrow.”
“Okay. Well…thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” but her voice
teetered on patronizing and demeaning.
Fuck, I just needed to get out of
here and go to bed. Or least to get back to my room to watch some TV. A nature
show might be nice.
When morning came, I was ready for
it. I’d had a couple more beers, it’s true. But of course, I’d obtained them
under the pretense of having to change currencies. And it just so happened that
our hotel had a tiny, little market area which just so happened to also be
where they exchanged American dollars for dirham. So…I grabbed a couple 22’s
while I was at it. No harm, no foul. And there indeed had been no harm since I was easily able to make it down to
breakfast with a healthy, touristy appetite.
“Good morning, Mr. Swanson.”
“Mr. Swanson, good morning,” a
couple attendants greeted me upon exiting the elevator.
Jesus. This place was good. I mean,
granted; there weren’t that many
guests staying here. And if I had to guess; I’d say that the present occupancy
was less than half. But still! What did they send them dossiers to study of
everyone’s name and face?
The food was pretty good too but all
in Western style. But the unexpected highlight of my breakfast came when I
opened the morning paper (local) up to a full page ad taken out by the Bank of
Arabia (or something along those lines) congratulating the sheik of Dubai and
his first born son. Apparently, the former had bestowed upon the latter a few
provinces and a new title or something. And of course in the ad, dead-center,
there was a little portrait photo of the sheik and only the sheik looking perfectly sound and just and magnanimous and
I guess everything a sheik should be with his red checkered keffiyeh draped
neatly over his head. As I’ve suggested, his son was nowhere (in the ad) to be
seen. But still…talk about nepotism.
After that, a small group of us
gathered near the main entrance where we could already tell that the sun was so
bright outside that the word ‘radiation’ instantly came to mind along with one
of those high-pitched sounds made by a flashbulb. And it was here that a
jet-black man in one of the hotel’s uniforms (which just happened to be an
African looking toga and cap) smiled at me and again surprised the shit out of
me when he called me by name.
“Mr. Swanson,” he stated in a thick
accent, “How are you today? Where are you from?”
“I’m great. Thank you. I’m from the
US.”
“Oh-h-h,” he chuckled kindly, “I
very much like this country.”
“Oh. Well, thank you. What about
you? Where are you from?”
“Oh, I am from Kenya.”
“You don’t say.”
“Ah, yes. I do.”
“No, I mean… I was supposed to go
there. To Nairobi.”
“Oh!” he became very animated now,
“Yes, dis is where I am from. Nairobi. That is my home. When is it you are
going to go there?”
“Well…I was supposed to go in just a few days here but… My travel agent sort of
pulled the plug because of all the riots going on. You’ve heard all about it,
I’m sure.”
“Yes. But let me assure you. You
still could have gone and nudding whatsoever would happen to you. It is the
news, you see.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean. They tend
to blow everything out of proportion.”
“Precisely.”
“I’m really bummed out about it too.
I mean…I was getting excited about all the safaris and seeing all the animals
and such.”
“Yes. Yes, dat is my favorite. So
will you be staying in Dubai longer then instead?”
“No. They’re sending me up to
Jordan. It’ll still be fun but…” I thought about telling him something but
changed my mind. I also changed the subject back, “So can I ask you a question
if you don’t mind? About the riots, I mean.”
“Yes. Please. Feel free.”
“Well…I was just wondering if you
were partial to either of those two politicians in the election. Because I know
that the one guy is Kikuyu. And the other guy is…Luo or something? And I know
that there are like 40 something more tribes in the country. But the news, at
least back home, really made it sound like the place was split nearly
fifty-fifty. I personally don’t care if you side with one or the other either
way. Like I said; I’m just curious, is all.”
That was my best attempt at sounding
well-informed and I knew that it had probably fallen short. I just hoped it
wouldn’t backfire completely. Which it didn’t. Not completely anyway. At least
I don’t think. But that’s a major problem when traveling abroad. The give and
take. The lasting impressions and emotions. And so few second chances to paste
over any accidents.
“Hahaha,” the doorman put a hand on
my shoulder and laughed happily, “Sometimes, you see, the news… Again, they try
to simplify everything.
And I liked the guy. So I left it at
that.
“Does it say, ‘Leslie’?”
“Yes. That’s my name,” and the lady
in the back of our tiny tour van appeared to be very pleased that she hadn’t
been ripped off.
“It is a very nice necklace,” said
the Pakistani guide passing it back to her. He was up in the shotgun seat.
She must have bought the necklace
yesterday or something. It was gold and so was the charm that had been written
in Arabic. And although Arabic wasn’t this guide’s first language; he could
both speak and read it along with English (of course), some French, and his
native Urdu tongue. The driver was Pakistani too but his English abilities were
limited.
Beneath a piercingly bright sun, we
were burning down an empty stretch of desert highway with sand dunes on both
sides. Quintessential Arabia if I do say so myself. Supposedly, we were on our
way to a real, actual oasis where water just springs up from a pit in the
middle of nowhere and I really wasn’t that excited about it. I was, however,
sitting next to the girl I’d seen in the leather armchair yesterday. The cute
one.
“Oh my God,” she said under her
breath and then looked at me critically as if trying to read my face.
“I’ll say something if it gets out
of hand,” I whispered.
Each of us had been referring to the
sensitive and rather personal questions that the three older couples in the van
had begun to ask the guide. It was a lot of shit about Islam and his beliefs
with some weirder stuff mixed in there as well. Like, at present, he was
starting to explain to them exactly how his mother’s funeral had gone down.
Apparently, in the Muslim world, only a woman’s sons are allowed to touch the
body. And so he went on explaining to them that they quietly washed her corpse
and buried it before sundown. It was a nice, heartfelt story and I don’t care
how much this little minitour cost; not a one of us sitting in that van
deserved to see that piece of him, so emotionally sincere. I swear, the guy was
getting choked up, up there. And how could you not?
“Well, that’s not how we do it,” one
of the old men started in.
“And what do you do?” the guide had
been uncomfortably turned around in his seat this entire time. He was honestly
asking too. He really didn’t know!
“Well,” the man went on, “It usually
gets put in a freezer first…and it may be in there a couple of days. And then it goes to a funeral parlor where a professional… Well, how
do I put this? They fill the body with a preservative because, of course, by
this time it’s already two or three days old. Sometimes more. And I believe
they stuff the chest cavity with sawdust. And then, of course, they add makeup
in order to make the cadaver appear more lifelike.”
This old man was oblivious too.
Oblivious to the horrified look that, as he was speaking, had passed over our
guide’s face and stayed there. He said something then to the driver in Urdu and
even the driver’s eyes became all
wide! And why shouldn’t they? The freakish, little proceedings surrounding our
own, Westernized burial rites must just seem so unnatural to them. Mostly
because they are!
“Can I ask about the oasis?” I knew
I needed to do something.
“Please,” the Pakistani guy finally
forced a smile again, “I would love to discuss it. What would you like to
know?”
“Oh, anything,” I quickly rattled my
brain for a second, “Like…are they permanent? Or do they just spring up from
time to time and disappear again.”
“Ah. An excellent question,” and
then he went on, happy to have a new topic to spout off about without having to
field too many follow-ups.
He was 30-something. Just a bit
older than I was at the time. But he was good looking and I wondered what his
love life was like. Was he married already? Did he have any children? And if
not, or maybe even if so, was he getting it on with any special lady here in
the Emirates while he was away from home? He could. He might even be able to go
out to the bars and get away with it by claiming he wasn’t Muslim.
His answer to my question,
thankfully, brought us to our first stop. It was an unexpected one for all of
us. As in; it hadn’t exactly been on the agenda. But, since I’d done my
research like a good boy, it didn’t surprise me all that much.
“Okay,” our guide picked up again,
“It is now officially just after noon and so we will stop for… Well, we will
see. We are coming up on a very nice park. It is not technically an oasis but
there are small creeks running through it and, most importantly, there is a
mosque where your humble driver and I will stop for a pray.”
A pray. That’s not a euphemism
exactly but just the wording, I found funny. Like praying was something so
casual and redundant. You just don’t hear that in the US. And I appreciated the
expression so much that I almost tried to contemplate it further before one of
the other ladies in our van, as she was stepping out, asked no one in
particular, “Did he just say he was going to pray?”
She was from The South, had the
accent to prove it, and I wished she was dead.
The park we stopped at was nice
though. There just isn’t much to tell. Our guides went off in the direction of
a small mosque while the rest of us roamed the pretty, immense grounds. From
out of nowhere, from out of the desolate dunes, there had suddenly appeared
some trees and creeks. There wasn’t too much greenery to speak of. No grasses
or anything. Just trees sticking close to the water where there had been set up
picnic tables and grills. And if there weren’t so many other locals, the women
especially, wearing their full-on black veils and Muslim gear, it might not
have been so hard to imagine that I was back in the middle of Arizona.
Little Muslim kids squealed as they
played in the water. The prepubescent girls didn’t even have to wear all that
black shit…so that was cute. And I walked around for a while pretending not to
take pictures or offend anyone. The girl I’d been sitting next to had gone her
own way…but it didn’t matter because no more than a half-hour later we were
both back and sitting right next to each other in the van like the only two
sane people trying to stick together in a madhouse. For solidarity?
“So where else have you traveled?” I
asked.
There were many conversations going
on in the van now but not between the group and the our guide, thank God. We
were giving him a good rest. And while the old people spoke of all they’d just
experienced in that park, this girl and I talked about things they couldn’t
possibly understand. Namely; being young, single travelers.
“All over, I guess,” she answered,
“You?”
“Oh,” I spoke casually and void of
any detail since there weren’t any drinks in me, “All over too. But do you
always go alone?”
“Yes.”
It didn’t take me long to learn she
had a boyfriend though. But no biggie. She was interesting regardless and it
was still better than listening to the old people or having to put my
headphones in. I learned that she worked as a nurse, was just a few years older
than myself, and that this wasn’t even her first time to the Middle East. The
fucking girl had been to Iran for crying out loud; a place where, by law, any
woman, Western or otherwise, has to
walk around with a scarf over her head. And while she’s not the first female
I’d met who’d made it a habit of traveling alone, I never did stop respecting
these chicks. And to think people often say that it’s dangerous for me to travel solo. Bullshit. Because I
can beat up just about anyone and don’t have a vagina that guys are constantly
trying to rape. But these chicks… I wondered if she was carrying Mace or a
knife or at least a whistle or something.
The oasis turned out to be just
okay. I guess I was expecting something more magical to happen there…like
something to do with flying carpets or genies? I was at least expecting a pond
with maybe some people swimming. But I guess that’s just in the cartoons. And
scarily, I guess that a lot of my impressions of life around the world did
actually come from cartoons. Tom and Jerry mostly. But some Looney Tunes, of
course. They just painted such a wonderfully romanticized (and racist; as
they’re considered to be nowadays) picture of countries and cultures that,
yeah…so what if watching Speedy Gonzalez when I was a kid always made me want
to travel deep down into Mexico. Or watching Bugs Bunny in a bullfight; to
Spain.
But
a real-life oasis, turns out, is just a bunch of palm trees growing really
closely together. They went on for several acres and, while the view, I
imagined, would probably have been more impressive from a helicopter so one
could see the desert all around; just being in the middle of one, I regret to
say, was actually a little dull…and it reminded me of Florida…and that’s never
good thing. In fact, not even the old people seemed very taken away with it…and
that was saying something.
The next stop was kind of cool
though. Except that yours truly, the guy who just a bit earlier was trying to
tone the old people down with all their personal questions, somehow managed to
piss off the tour guide himself. And I’m still not quite sure what the fuck he
was mad about. The guy just seemed a little irritable in general and I just
became a reason. But he was not
pleased with me for the rest of the trip. And there remained a tense, awkward
silence between us right up to the point where we said ‘goodbye’. It went a
little something like this;
It was supposed to have been the
world’s largest outdoor camel market. And it very well may have been. I
honestly had nothing to compare it too and only assumed that the word ‘outdoor’
meant it was bigger…and, in the this scorching part of the world, probably
falsely so. But everyone was excited nonetheless. We just wanted to see some
animals and take some pictures for a few minutes. Since, let’s face it, it’s
not like anyone of us was planning on
buying a creature to take home. And so our tour van pulls off the highway and
onto a hard, dusty road which we follow for perhaps half a mile. And then
there, out the middle of nothing but a reddish colored sand that expanded as
far as the eye could see, were about 20 or so pens containing almost a couple
hundred camels. There were only a few other cars parked about and there was no designated lot. So all in all, I
instantly got the sense that this wasn’t a very busy day in the camel trade.
But no big deal. There were even a couple kids running up to the van already
who, if their English was any good, would probably lead us around and try to
tell us information they considered interesting…for a few bucks, of course. I
always felt that that was expected. Never anything major. And I never minded
forking over just a few. It’s not like they were panhandling only. Rather,
these kids had made a little trade for themselves. And besides, the ones
running up just now were practically in rags. And while sometimes that can be
part of the hustle too; this time, just call it a hunch, I believed those rags were real.
“Al-oh!” one grabbed me by the arm
as I stepped out, “Please! This way! This way! I want show you!”
“Okay,” I smiled, “Calm down. You
can show me.”
“Yes! This way, this way! Come!”
I smiled back at the girl but I’m
not sure why. It was sort of an invite, I guess, as if to say, “Feel free to
catch up but also take your time.” And then the kid and I practically ran over to all those stinky camels in
their pens.
“Okay,” no matter what the country
or the age of the person I happen to be talking to, I always at least pretend that we’re speaking the same
language. Which usually sounded something like… “So what’s this one?”
“This one, Oman. Oman,” the kid
answered.
“This one’s from Oman? No shit. It’s
a…very nice looking camel there.”
“Yes.”
“And what about this one?”
We were walking along more leisurely
now.
“Oman. Oman.”
“This one’s from Oman too? You’re
fucking kidding me.”
“Qatar. Qatar.”
“Ah. Alright. Now we’re finally
gettin’ somewhere. You must see a lot of camels, huh?”
“Yes.”
Then, at one of the next little
corrals, the kid tugged me by the arm again and I looked down at him. He’d
stopped and was pulling something out of a knapsack that had been slung over
his boney shoulder. It was a turban of sorts and appeared to be made from the
very same rags he was wearing although not nearly as dirty. He handed it to me.
“What? You want me to wear this?”
And he mimicked with his hands that,
yes, I should indeed try it on.
“Oh, Jesus,” I mumbled, “Alright.
But I want you to know, I’m only doing this because I like you…and I don’t want
to seem rude. But goddam am I taking a shower when we get back.”
The kid smiled and even laughed once
I had the thing situated. Then he held out his hand ready to accept my
disposable camera which I surrendered.
“Just hurry up about it. I don’t
look good in hats.”
And the kid did, without any
hesitation or questions, click off a couple of shots.
“Alright. Thank you. Here ya go,”
and we traded items back for our originals.
The girl caught up with us then and
she seemed amused by the way this kid and I were getting along. “And what’s
this one?” she asked him.
“Uh…this Dubai. Dubai, this one.”
“Ah.
A local,” she confirmed.
“Yes.”
And that’s pretty much how it went.
The three of us just strolled around for a while. He’d tell us where the camels
were from in any certain pen. And the three of us would stand in front of it
for a minute and have a look at them. Every so often, I’d also keep an eye out
for our guide and/or our group. And I could see them. The group was scattered
all about the whole area. And as for our guide; he just stood outside the van
talking to some of the men who worked on these grounds. There was no sense of
having to rush and, since the temperature was just about perfect outside,
everyone seemed happy to walk around and stretch their legs.
Some of the other kids, I’d noticed,
tried to approach the various old people who’d been aboard our van. Most of
them, however, weren’t having it. I heard them telling the kids to ‘shoo’ as if
they were rodents. I thought that they should lighten up and just go with the
flow a little more but, then again, they’re
not the ones who pissed off the guide.
After a good half-hour I’d say, most
of us started slowly making our way back toward the van. No beckoning call had
ever come from that direction. It was simply time to move on. People were
starting to get hungry, no doubt, and, according to this tour’s agenda, they
were supposed to have us back at the hotel around lunchtime. That is; no meal
was actually scheduled into the course of this little daytrip and there wasn’t
so much as a single falafel stand around here. So…
“Did you have a nice look around?” our
guide addressed both the girl and I at the same time.
“Yes, totally,” we both smiled…and
that’s pretty much when our little kid snuck up from behind and tapped me on
the elbow. When I turned around, he put out his hand.
“Oh, alright. I actually forgot,”
and knowing there was a small bill in my hip pocket, I pulled it out and handed
it to him.
“Thank you!” he said and ran
off…which was actually really nice because, oftentimes, those fucking little
brats that, even if (theoretically) presented with a hundred dollar bill, will
try to ask for more. And that’s usually when I tell them to ‘beat it’. But
everything went smoothly this time. That’s why I really didn’t understand when…
“Why did you do that?” our guide
sounded vexed and surprised and even a bit angry.
“Why did I… What, you mean tip the
kid?”
“Why did you give him any money?”
his voice had gone low suddenly; low with indignation.
“Oh, it’s alright. It was only 5
dirham. I wasn’t spoiling him or anything. And he earned it.”
“No. This is not alright. You were
not supposed to pay for anything on this trip.”
“It’s okay, man. Honestly. I don’t
mind. He took a great picture of me and everything. And he didn’t even ask for
any money until just now. It’s fine with me, I promise.”
“It’s not fine,” and he actually scowled and grunted and I could tell he
was repressing something even more than that. “Everybody, let’s go!” he called the rest of the
straggling old folks.
I didn’t even know if he was pissed
off at me for giving the kid money or
at the kid for just having asked for it. Because I couldn’t have been the first
person he’d ever brought to this place that had ever tipped one of these kids.
I just found that too hard to believe. Maybe he was just having a bad day.
Maybe he didn’t like my really American looking face. Either way; the guy was still
huffy and puffy when he hopped back up into shotgun seat and closed his door.
He didn’t slam it. He didn’t want to freak out all the rest of the nice people.
But he would have had it been just me. And he would have harangued my ass…which
might have been for the best. At least that way there could have been some
further communication. Because as it was, left with this really uncomfortable
silence and energy in the van… Not to mention that I knew that somehow everyone else
knew that this uncomfortable tension was the irrefutable result of something that I’d done.
As a group, we stopped off at one
more place. It was just a vista and was sort of on our way back anyway but
supposedly one could see Oman from the top of a not very high hill that we
drove to the crest of. And of course, everyone went ‘ape shit’ for another
photo opportunity. Everyone but me, that is. I just sort of stuck close to the
van and smoked a couple cigarettes. The air was warm and dry and the empty
cul-de-sac at the top of this hill along with the empty, desert terrain were
very comforting. Still…that tour guide who didn’t even step out of the shuttle
this time was brooding and all I wanted to do then was set things right. But
how?
Money wasn’t the answer, I knew. I
could tell just by looking at the guy that the few extra American dollars I
could scrub up weren’t about to heal his moody wound. However, when the
question of how much to tip him did occur to everyone on our way back to the
hotel, I felt that it was my duty to…well, maybe just to tip a bit better than
everyone else…which wouldn’t be hard to do. I knew for a fact that for old
people like these; terrible gratuity extended well beyond their favorite
restaurants. One time in China, as a tour group, we all got together just to
sort of pick each other’s brains about how much to tip our guide, and I was
absolutely appalled to learn that some of the couples were about to drop no
more than twenty bucks…to a guide who took us everywhere, every day, for two
weeks! And I’m not talking ‘per person’ either. That was twenty bucks…for both
of them!
But in this instance, for the
Pakistani guy and for just a daytrip, twenty bucks sounded pretty good. It was
over 20 percent of the total cost of the tour but not so much over as to make
anyone uncomfortable. Plus, he was bound to split some with the driver and…
Long story short; when the shuttle did again pull up to the hotel’s main
entrance and everybody stepped out, our guide did the same to shake hands with
all of us individually and to wish us all a nice day. And since I’d been
sitting towards the back of the van, and since I’d purposely even hung back a little, I found myself at
the end of the line and indeed was one of the last to bid him farewell.
“Thanks for the great tour this
morning,” I didn’t smile but rather maintained a solemn and sincere look, “I
really had a lot of fun. Well, anyway. Here ya go. Thank the driver for me too.
And have a great rest of your day.”
Now, for everyone else who’d come
before me; this guy had graciously accepted his tip, smiled, even bowed his
head a little bit, and then it was onto the next person. And this was all I was
expecting him to do with me. It’s all I really wanted. But he did not do this with me. Instead, he kept
his hands at his sides even while I was trying to hand him the money. And he
says to me, “It’s okay, man.”
He said it in a pissed off, ‘agro’
way too that perfectly matched his attitude ever since we left the camel market.
And it’s not like I was trying to hand him an awkward wad of cash or anything
that even so much as could have been construed as embarrassing. Not that anyone
was watching anyway! But I just so happened to have what amounted to twenty
dollars American in the form of one, single bill in dirham. Fucker.
“Please?” I honestly didn’t know
what else to say but I did know that there was no way in hell (and this, I
realize, may seem a little perverse) that I wasn’t
going to let this asshole take a nice tip from me.
And he took it then. He grabbed the
bill and looked past me instantly without speaking another word. I should have
given that tip to the kid back at the market though. At least he would have
appreciated it.
So after that little international
incident; I decided to return to my room, watch some TV, perhaps take a nap,
but all in all just rest up for this evening. Because as soon as the sun would
start to get low…you guessed it; yet another guided tour already! And no one
could ever be sure just who I’d manage to piss off this time!
Just
before stripping my dusty clothes off, I had a cigarette out on my balcony and,
while staring off at the dozen or so hotels in view both far and near, some of
them under construction still but many of them completed; something occurred to
me. The completed hotels remained empty. And the ones that were under
construction still would probably remain empty upon their completion. I’d noticed it a little bit while walking around
with the IRS lady last night. And I’d seen a bit more of this phenomenon for myself
today. I’d also caught a bit of gossip between some of the staffers here at this hotel. And believe I may have even
read something about it in this morning’s paper. But this place, this whole
area of town anyway (save two or three hotels perhaps) was completely fucking
empty. There was no shopping. There were no people walking around. Obviously,
there weren’t even any sidewalks. But I mean; there was nowhere to shop. And nothing
to do. And yet all these hotels that eerily reminded me of an irradiated wasteland.
Now,
while I’m sure that the other area of town closer to the beach was a little
more lively, one deduction did become perfectly clear. The Emirati (be it; the
developers, the investors, or even the sheiks themselves, but somebody!) so
recognizably overshot their hopes here. ‘If you build it, they will come’;
wasn’t about to apply in this case and it never would. I just wondered if they knew that yet. I also wondered, if
and when they finally did figure it out and all the investors started revolting
over their returns; I wondered whether or not the sheiks would finally sell out
and just legalize drinking and gambling and whores and just get it over with.
Because that was the only way. This place could already be a regular adult
funland by now. And these completed hotels could easily already be full.
The Arabs, however, seemed to need
to take the ‘adult’ out of anything and everything in order to comply with
their religion. And this precaution went well beyond any personal credos. Or
maybe… Surely, the individual inhabitant of any town would have a lot to say
about so much change coming their way. But the Emirati had already invited that
change. And they’d made it quite clear to the world that this was their plan.
So even if the individual Emirati national didn’t
have any qualms about the legalization of gambling and such and the loosening
of certain morals; there was still all of Islam and its conservativeness and it
would, so long as it and its devotees
remained fundamentally the same, stand contradictory to the whimsical vision
that a few sheiks may have had around the time they first struck oil.
If this place was ever to become an
adult funland…which was their vision…which was their investment; then, so be
it. But there would need to be
(soon!) some adult shit to do around here. And if the Emirati decided that they
couldn’t go through with it (which they probably would) and that they did
indeed have a reputation to maintain within the Muslim world and all their
neighboring countries who sort of looked down their noses at this vision (which
they obviously considered to be very liberal) and basically anything resembling
Western culture in general; then they’d better get cracking on building some
amusement parks because, if not an adult
funland then why not a family fun zone.
These investors were going to have to try to make some of their money back somehow. Not that that would work either.
It would be funny to see them try though. To watch them scramble like ants.
However, any way they sliced it, this place was doomed to fail.
Because what fucking head of
household in his or her right fucking mind is ever going to say, “You know
what, honey? Why don’t we take the kids to Dubai this year for our vacation?”
Even if there were amusement parks! Why? Why pack up and take the kids to the
heart of Arabia when there are just so many other places already out
there? There was EuroDisney.
Japo-Disney. And hell, since we’re on the subject, what about good old America
Disney. Disneys, I should say. And I
know for a fact that there are plenty of other parks in Orlando (up to and
including Disneyworld) that specialize in letting the kids run around while the
adults do their thing…should they
want to…which I assume they would. Because who doesn’t just want to dump their
kids off once in a while.
But all theme parks aside even…!
There are just so many more interesting places to take the family. So many more
interesting countries with much more activities. And I don’t believe most
parents would opt to fly their kids to a region of the world where, in order
for a female to divorce her husband, she has to prove in front of a panel of
judges that he can’t get it up. No joke. Because no matter how intriguing some
of these Emirati customs may be; they live behind the scenes and are,
themselves, not really much of an attraction. And even if the family fun zone idea appealed only to
other Muslims in surrounding countries; by selling apples to your mom or dad or
brother or sister, you’re really not making any money. It’s circulating, sure.
But it’s not generating. It’s sort of a closed circuit, if you will. A
localized economy.
But
seriously. What did I give a fuck anyway.
The sun began to set ever so
slightly and it felt to me like LA. The sky became a pinkish hue and I knew
that the real fire show would start in no time. Because that’s just how it is
in the desert. The dry air kicks up the dust and all those little
particles…well, I’m not sure exactly. But they have something to do with it.
Probably the most spectacular sunset I’ve ever seen was in Laredo, Texas. And
it was also one of the dustiest sand holes I’ve ever driven through. And this
second tour of the day; it was based on timing. It was based on the sunset
exactly because those were the exact words the title used to describe it:
Sunset Dinner and Sand Dunes or something. The idea was; a bunch of SUV’s were
supposed to pick us up out in front of the hotel again (which they did) and
then we were supposed to romp around the dunes for a while ‘off-road style’.
After that, there would be, according to the pamphlet, a desert sunset photo
opportunity. And God knows nobody in our entire tour group would ever miss
that. And then we would once again be whisked away to yet another location
(still out in the dunes somewhere) where a dinner buffet would await us, under
tents, in the warm, dry air and beneath the stars. And even that sounded good to me.
And when I just said ‘our entire
tour group’; I meant it. This deal tonight was much larger than the morning excursion.
And pretty much everyone who’d been on the plane on our way out here had signed
up for this one. Down in the foyer, though, the young nurse traveler stuck
pretty close to me. And I was pleasantly surprised. But, then again, we were probably the only two people along
who were still in our twenties so… What can I say? The thought of elbowing each
other every time one of the seniors in our group made a socially unacceptable
mistake was irresistible. And maybe she’d even elbow this time when I made such a blunder. But I was being
too hard on myself. That Pakistani guy was crazy. Or had at least had a bad
morning or something. And she knew that, I could tell. Which made me like her.
Even more.
There must have been six Land
Cruisers in all. And she sat next to me in the back of one of them. The seats
were plush and beige and leather.
“I’ll see the US when I’m older,”
she offered, “The truth is, I’ve barely been outside my little town. I just
want to get the harder ones out of the way first. Does that make any sense?”
“Yeah. It does. Although that’s kind
of the opposite route I took. But not everyone has parents who work for the
airlines. I was always able to fly for free. Well, not now. But up until I was
twenty or so. And also, not everyone had parents who were as lenient as mine. I
swear, sometimes I look back and wonder what the hell they were thinking. I
used to just take off as a teenager. ‘Mom, I’m flying to Pennsylvania for the
weekend.’ And she’d be like, ‘Okay.’ That, and I’ve driven across the country a
lot too. Well, that and we moved around a lot. I guess I was just destined to
see America first. And it’s a pretty nice country. You’ll really have to check
it out sometime.”
“What spots do you recommend?”
“Well, San Francisco’s pretty hard to beat. It can be pretty romantic too if your boyfriend is ever nagging you to take him along with you.”
“Well, San Francisco’s pretty hard to beat. It can be pretty romantic too if your boyfriend is ever nagging you to take him along with you.”
And she looked at me sidelong then,
a bit perplexed at first, but then she smiled.
So I asked, “Do you find it
difficult to have those kinds of relationships, romantic ones that is, when you
travel so much? Twice a year you said?”
“Yes. And yes. But it’s my dream and
he can take it or leave it. And right now, he’s taking it. He’s a very
understanding guy. I guess that’s why I’m with him.”
I
wanted to ask her then about ultimatums. I wanted to ask what she would do if
the day ever came when she’d have to choose between her dream and this guy. Did
she love him? Was there anyone she’d
choose over the dream? And it’s not that brief acquaintances can’t ask and
answer questions such as this. Rather, oftentimes I find I’m almost more comfortable dumping my heart out to
a stranger; someone who may remember our conversation but not remember me. It
this case, however, it was probably more the old people present that caused me
to refrain.
It seemed our convoy was heading out
in the very same direction we’d gone this morning. It was so hard to tell,
though, once we’d left any remnants of city far behind and there were nothing
but dunes to mark the way.
“I like just going for rides,” I
said and meant it as we rolled along listening to Middle Eastern music playing
through the hi-fi system…the reflection of our driver’s keffiyeh and mirrored
sunglasses reflecting back at us in the rear-view.
About 10 miles out if I had to
guess, the first Cruisers up ahead made a left onto a sandy path and the rest
of us followed. Then, not more than 50 yards up a very slight dune, each of our
vehicles stopped at a couple of open tents; each one about the size of a small
convenient store. There was nothing much going on underneath them, however,
besides the selling of bottled waters which nobody in our group bought.
The idea was; each and every one of
us had to step out of the truck for a minute so that they could deflate the
tires (a necessary requisite to dune-only four-wheeling). But it seemed to take
each driver absolutely forever to accomplish the task. Together, they ran
around all the Land Cruisers spouting out stuff in Arabic or Urdu and generally
behaved as if they’d never done this before. The old people began to lose
confidence in them and tried to find places to sit. And the girl and I; well,
we remained standing with our eyes glued to a family some 50 feet away who
appeared to be wrapping up some last minute business and were about to leave
the premises. No one else appeared to notice them or care but to us they raised
an interesting question.
“You think they’re fake?” she nudged
me.
Well, that wasn’t the question they
raised. Not exactly.
“No.”
Each of the four, adult women were
covered head to toe in dark veils.
“Really?”
The men were wearing dark sunglasses
and the cleanest, whitest robes and headscarves of a material that we could
tell was expensive even from this distance.
“What do you mean ‘really’? Like…do
you think they were put here on these grounds for our personal enjoyment? Like
we should go take pictures with them and stuff?” I giggled through my nose so
that she’d know I was joking.
“Well,” she shrugged and thought it
over, “I don’t know. I’m sure I’ve seen stranger
things.”
“That,” I acknowledged, “Is true.”
But then when the family, some five
minutes later, all piled into a couple of bigger and even more luxurious Land
Cruisers of their own and tore away kicking up a bunch of dust; it was even
better because then we knew! We knew for sure that they weren’t fake. Those people had been real deal Emirati! And although
we’d probably seen some earlier in the park today; any Emirati sighting was a
good one. And just as I was about to suggest that we make a game of it
(something like Slug Bug) the guys who’d been deflating our tires were calling
us back and everything seemed good-to-go.
And the old people loaded themselves
back in. And we behind them.
Everyone was with us tonight. The
really intense movie camera guy. His sympathetic saint of a girlfriend or
whoever she was. The whiny guy and his geriatric companion. Even the IRS lady!
And everybody seemed to have a pretty good time romping up and down the dunes
at top speed…even me. It was a lot like being on a roller coaster but with no
track. And the ride did invoke that nauseas feeling after a while and word had
it that some guy in one of the Cruisers ahead of us actually puked as they were
descending and it splattered all over the ceiling! Which would have been
awesome to see! But then having to ride with the smell of it and everything…
At one point, way the fuck out in
the middle of the sand and tiny, distant mountains along the horizon, our
company was forced to stop due to an axle snapping on yet another truck that
wasn’t ours; clean, right down the middle. The craziest part was that they
actually kept extra axels stocked just in case. And yeah, it took a while to
repair. So as the sky grew dimmer and dimmer, our entire party was stuck
waiting around yet again but, this time, with absolutely nowhere but the sand
to sit. And a rear axle is no easy job. But these guys teamed up and acted like
real pros who knew what they were doing in this instance. It seemed so much
easier to them than deflating the stupid tires and I couldn’t figure out why.
Then it was back in the trucks once
more as we twisted and tore through a silt so refined it was almost trying to
turn back into a solid again. But the tires spun and shot that dirt up in every
direction. And all of the passengers ‘hurrahed’ many times. And I’ve got say…it
wasn’t a letdown. All the romping was exactly what we’d signed up for and I was
happy that they didn’t water it down or drive slower than they could have or
pull any punches so to speak. They’d busted a fucking axle for Christ’s sake.
And I couldn’t help but wonder if the girl sitting next to me thought that that
had been fake too.
But like any good thing, it had to
come to an end. Which it did. Right at sunset. With all 6 SUV’s lined up along
the crest of one particularly large dune. And of course everyone jumped out for
more photos. Always with the photos. I can’t really talk, though, because I
took some too. But with the sunset projecting a warm, orange light over
everything (especially the shiny, white SUV’s); it really was quite nice.
Our next stop was well across the
desert somewhere. And although the sun had indeed set, the clear sky remained
pale but full of a mauvey light for some time. When we stepped out of the
trucks, there were more camels awaiting us and these were there for the
riding…for a small extra fee, of course. So how
is that any different from that little kid charging me a small fee only hours
earlier? I wish that damned Pakistani guy was here so I could ask him.
So I smoked a cigarette while the
old people, the ones who were physically capable (which weren’t many) rode the
camels and their better halves took pictures of this. The girl ran off
somewhere and her absence, since she’d played such a nice decoy after all,
caused me to feel awkward and exposed again. And that’s about when the old guy, the whiny guy’s friend,
approached me to show off a new picture he’d just taken; a close-up of a camel
and its keffiyeh clad caretaker. Their faces pressed together and strangely too
similar not to seem racist.
“Nice shot,” I said and meant it.
“You like that?” he lifted the heavy
looking camera from around his neck with two hands for me to see, “I bought
this for myself last year as sort of an early Christmas present.”
The truth is; I was a bit jealous.
It’s not like I’d been dreaming of saving up to buy a nice, digital camera or
anything though. Rather, I liked just
buying a bunch of disposables and bringing packs of them with me. I always
thought they took better pictures…even better than regular 35 millimeters. But
after seeing that picture that he just took, I’ve got to say; maybe a little
more research was in order. Plus, quite some time had gone by since digitals
had first come out and, well…technology improves. But could it have at such a
rapid rate or was I just really losing track of time?
The other reason I liked using
disposables, though, was that they were small and virtually silent (aside from
that slight, plastic click) when taking a picture. And this meant (at least I
loved to believe this) that I could conceivably snap off a shot unbeknownst to
anyone in the immediate vicinity and ultimately render a more candid quality.
Like…once when I was walking with a girlfriend through the streets of Tel Aviv,
we were accosted by this Hassidic guy with the earlocks and everything. And
boy, was he wild-eyed and really animated. And boy, was I glad he happened to find us out on a main drag and not
down some alley after we’d taken a wrong turn or something because it was already nighttime and the sky seemed
to be extra dark and thick with madness on this particular evening. ‘If you are
not Jewish, then what are you doing here?’ he kept asking us agitatedly. ‘Just
seein’ the sights,’ I answered. We stopped and talked to him for at least 5
minutes and answered all his questions although I have no idea why. Maybe it
was because I was stalling. Maybe it was because I was trying to make eye
contact with him…which was next to impossible since his stare seemed to shoot
into so many different dimensions at once. But I wanted him to ‘watch the
birdie’ (so to speak) while, from out the right sleeve of my coat pocket (James
Bond style) I slid my camera and clicked one off immortalizing this guy in all
his craziness. Had he noticed the camera or heard the shot, I liked to imagine
that this psycho would have tried to swat it right out of my hand. That’s
probably not even true, though, despite how agro he was acting. And to top it
all off; the picture didn’t even come out. But maybe that was it. Maybe that
was part of his magic.
“How much? Ballpark. If you don’t
mind me asking.”
“Oh, I’d say just about half of what
I paid for this entire trip…if that puts it in any sort of perspective.”
“Yeah, that definitely does
actually. And I guess that’s why I probably haven’t bought one yet.”
And I talked to the old guy for a
while then and realized he wasn’t so bad at the end of the day. His name was
John but that’s about as personal as I got. Still…the dude was agreeable, not
too senile, and not over friendly which is a trait that’s sure to send me
running for the dunes. And when he began to walk towards the high, wooden arch
(attached to absolutely nothing, I might add) that everyone else was now headed
towards, I walked with him and didn’t even try to ditch him or anything. Ah,
who the fuck was I kidding. I had nothing else going on socially. A beer might
have been nice though. And what the hell ever happened to that girl?
“Hey,” she ran up from behind and
tagged me on the shoulder. And I was about to smile but, upon turning around,
noticed that she was upset, “Can you help me?”
“Yeah. What’s the matter?”
“I left my purse with my,” she
lowered her voice to a whisper, “With my passport in the truck and now… Now
they all drove off and I have no idea where they are.”
She was seriously about to cry.
The old guy…well, I’m not even sure
if he’d heard just due to general deafness. And if he did, then he was much
more interested in the food about to be served. And so he walked on without
ever looking back. But not I. And it’s not even that I thought she’d sleep with
me or anything for getting her passport back but more that I just didn’t want
to go over there (wherever the hell ‘there’ was) and start eating with the big
group and have to listen to them complain about the food. Picky eaters get to
me, as in; I want to kill them all. Plus…it would have been sort of dickish to
just be like, ‘Well, good luck with that. Peace.’
“Let’s just follow everyone and find
someone from the tour. One of the drivers or a guide or something.”
“But there wasn’t any guide. Not
this afternoon.”
“Well, there’s no one out here so…
Wherever those drivers did go, they all seemed to have gone off together. And
they might even stay wherever the hell that is until after dinner. They
probably went to get gas or something.”
“But I…! Oh, what am I gonna do?!”
She put both hands to her head then
and was clearly freaking out. And I just wanted to tell her, ‘Look. It’s not
like they’re gonna rummage through your purse and swipe your passport just for
the fun of it. There’s nothing in it for them.’
But then she told me that all her
money was in there too.
“Well, look,” I really did say, “It’s
not like they’re gonna rummage through your purse and steal your cash. These
guys make a good living as is and their company has a reputation to maintain.
So… But we can still try to find someone. Come on.”
And so we crossed under that weird,
wooden arch to find an area about the size of the infield at any given baseball
park and surrounded on three sides by three really high dunes…or maybe it was
all just one continuous dune that curved around in a crescent. Either way; I’m
talking really high. Forty feet at
least. High enough to make us feel cozy and secluded. High enough to limit any
form of visibility too less we’re talking ‘straight up’.
Try as we might, though, there
really was no one from the tour company, officially, on-site to state our case
to; only a couple of cook/bartenders and all they knew was that they were there
to serve us food. And when we questioned them, all they did was shrug and make
nondescript noises.
“Fuck!”
she was really losing it now, “I’ve gotta go back out there and just wait to
see if someone shows up. You can stay here and eat. Please. I’m sorry for
dragging you into this.”
“It’s no trouble. I’m not that
hungry anyway,” aside from little orange crusts around the edges, the sky was
almost completely dark and the stars beginning to shine, “Hope you don’t mind
if I smoke though.”
“No. That’s fine.”
And after a good, long stint of just
sitting there in the sand, one of the SUV’s did pull back up. And, boy if that
girl wasn’t running up to it and slapping its windows before the guy could even
turn the engine off. He must have felt accused when she told him what it was
that she was freaking out about. I would have. And although he didn’t have her
purse or passport in that particular truck, he did assure her that everything
would be fine. But even then she
pressed him. And I really can’t stand this. There’s nothing that turns me off
worse than when a girl just loses her cool. And thankfully, this guy wasn’t
about to budge any further for her. He explained that they were off refueling
indeed and that it wouldn’t do either of them any good if he went romping off
through the desert trying to find them. It was just all so unnecessary. They
may have even gone so far as to try to call that respective driver…I don’t
know. I don’t believe they reached him. But I also didn’t care anymore and
turned to head back towards the music and the party and a huge, beautiful
bonfire that seemed to light up the night.
She didn’t follow. Her time was
ruined. But not mine. So long as there was a bar. And yep, right up on my right
there stood a bit of a makeshift one with only two different kinds of beer to
offer that a guy would pull from a cooler full of ice back there. And, since
it’s not like the Emirati brew their own beer or anything, I just went with a
Heineken and really wanted to slam it and then another and then another but
they were really expensive. So seriously, was the only way for me to get drunk
on this trip to buy a bunch of six-packs at a liquor store (assuming I could
even find one) and then take those back to my hotel room and pound them?
Because I could do that at home!
No. Just stop. Just try to remember
that you’re halfway around that world and that
in itself is something special. So why not attempt to make some memories without being drunk? And so I moseyed on
over to a large, open tent where I could see people still eating and a warm,
cozy glow emanating from within.
“Hey-hey! He made it!” the elderly
friend of the prissy guy with the really nice camera greeted me.
“Oh, good,” and the prissy guy
started addressing me too! “I’m so glad you made it. We were getting worried.
Did she find her documents?”
“Uh…” they’d caught me off guard
with all their…friendliness? To say the least. “She uh…yeah. I mean, a guy
drove up and said it was safe so… I just don’t think she’s gonna relax until
that stuff’s back in her hands, ya know?”
And here they all (the old guy, the
prissy guy, the cameraman guy and his pseudo-girlfriend, and a bunch of other
people) nodded and seemed to agree.
“Here,” the prissy guy slid a huge
plate across the table to me, “We made this and saved it for you. There’s one
for her too. Although, there’s so much food left, it didn’t seem as necessary
as it did earlier but… Well, do you know if she’s hungry? Is she coming back
here? Do you think I should take this to her?”
“Um…I’ll bet ya she’ll be back in a
minute,” I had no idea what to say. Who the fuck were these people?
“Now we all had a little bet going,”
the camera guy’s girlfriend spoke cheerily as I handpicked food from my plate
the way the Arabs do. There must have been silverware though…somewhere. Then
again, maybe not. “So what we wanna know is, is that your sister? Because we noticed
you don’t have the same room and none of us has seen you kiss…”
“Ah, no,” I smiled all embarrassed.
“Oh, well then she is your girlfriend. Or just your friend?
Kinda like my friend I’m here with,”
she glanced at the movie camera guy.
“No, honestly. I just met her today.”
Some of them thought that was really
romantic like we were going to get married or something back in The States.
Shit, maybe they thought we’d get married here. It was weird. But no weirder
than the way they all talked to me as if we were intimate friends. And when the
hell had they all become such good
friends? What the hell did I miss here?
“Tell you guys what,” I stood up
slowly from my cushion and the low table so as not to knock anything over, “I’m
just gonna grab me one more of these,” I pointed to my beer, “And I’ll be right
back. Anyone else want anything?”
And they all declined.
“Alright,” and I playfully added, “Save
my spot,” to a background of abundant giggling and merriment.
Back at the bar though, right as I was
waiting for the guy to turn around and pull me another bottle from the cooler
on the ground, a couple of stern fingers jabbed me in the back of the shoulder.
And oh my God, it was the IRS lady and her lips and cheeks were convulsing as
if she were about to say something but the words just wouldn’t come out. Jesus.
This must be like a big confrontation for her. Something that she’d been
building herself up to all night!
“It would seem that you forgot to repay me for the tip last
night,” and her whole tone was shaky and accusatory.
“Oh yeah,” I admitted, “I totally
forgot about that. But…” and I pulled a single bill from my wallet that I knew
would add up to more than enough, “Here. This oughta cover it. But hey, I gotta
get back to my friends over there so…”
“Well, this is more than you owed. I
can bring you some change…”
“You know what?” I interrupted her,
“Don’t even worry about it. I want you to have that. Not as a gift but as
interest. And you have a nice rest of your trip.”
And with that, I turned right around
and headed back towards the warmly glowing tent where the ‘cool’ group (as I
now liked to think of them ((especially when compared to the few, bitter old
crones that the IRS lady was hanging with in a nearby tent that actually
appeared dim and cold))) had risen and were all making their way to a central,
makeshift dance floor that had been situated directly between us. And this is
when the music started. I couldn’t decide whether or not to be disappointed
that the sounds weren’t being generated from a live band…but they weren’t.
Instead, the bartender guy picked a boom box from up out of the sand where it
had been sitting next to the beer cooler, set it on the table-slash-bar, and
hit play on the CD segment. And the music was what anyone might have guessed.
Tribal sounding shit that was heavy on the flute along with a lot of other
hokey acoustic instruments. But the group didn’t seem to mind a bit. They got
out there instantly. The ladies hurrying to
get out there even! And although, there were actually two black girls in this
group; they each and every one of them danced like the whitest people I’d ever
seen in my life. Not that I, in retrospect, should be one to talk since I didn’t
dance at all. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. It’s just one of those
activities that I really have to be in the mood for…unlike some people.
Obviously, unlike every single person in this group. But the guy who impressed
me most (and it’s not because he had very good moves or anything…or any moves
at all for that matter) was that movie camera guy who’d actually left his
camera back in the tent which I thought would have been impossible because of
his surgically being attached to it. But this guy; there was just something
about his enthusiasm! His hips! It
was like watching someone do the limbo but with no pole. And he was dancing
with everyone. And it was like everyone wanted to dance with him! And although I still looked at him
as if he were some ignorant fucking jerk, I also began to look at myself then
as some sort of negative creep. And we both lived up to our labels
respectively. And although the crowd tried their best at times to bring me out
there with them, I chose to remain on the sideline for this one smoking
cigarettes and nursing my beer. I was not at all unhappy.
“Well then, sir. Might I recommend
an establishment that I believe is just what you’re in the mood for. And it’s
just a nice, short buggy ride down the way.”
Some British concierge actually said
that to me. And I mean, how is that not funny?
Before leaving my room while I was
getting dressed up in a suit ready to hit the clubs, the IRS lady actually
knocked on my door and said, “Oh. Well, I can see you’re going out.”
And that was it. She walked away and
I closed the door again but… It was like she’d made this whole pretense of
giving me my change. But once she saw Pierre Cardin in all its pinstripes; it’s
like she was completely intimidated
by the thing! Which only sent my own ego rushing. Because I was going out. Because this was Dubai
after all and I’d seen and heard so much of these clubs on YouTube that I just
couldn’t take it anymore. I’d be rubbing snobby shoulders with sheiks and
celebrities and businessmen and even computer software engineers who’d invented
things that every person on this Earth used in their everyday lives but whose
faces remained nameless. And then there I’d be with all these girls in stripper
dresses and stuff…but who were actually businesswomen too just trying to blow
some steam off their day. There I’d be and there’d they be. But no matter what happened tonight; I was always
going to be able to say one thing.
And that’s that I partied at least one night of my life away in Dubai. It’s
what I’d been waiting for.
And so I’d taken a cab to a stretch
of town along the beach. The Persian Gulf where, just on the other side, people
were killing each other for God knows what. Or, to be more precise, Americans
were killing more brown people as if they hadn’t had enough of that yet. While
I enjoyed the thought of making sort of a mockery of the war. But it wasn’t
just me. The whole thing was obscene. As if anyone, other than the poor saps in
Iraq, could ever take a war seriously where there was a world renowned party
spot for all ages and races just down the sea from where they were killing.
Absurdity. That’s what I thought while tightening my tie and heading downstairs
to catch the cab that I’d called for.
But when I was dropped off there, at
that section of beach strip, I found no crowds along the sidewalks red-faced
and just trying to get to the next place; the next bar or point of alcohol
along the way…wherever that happened to be. Rather, the streets were
quiet…other than the headlights breezing by in both directions. And even that
was relatively quiet considering the empty desert on one side for no sound to
ever bounce off of. And on the other side, I found hotels. And not exactly
bustling either. But there they were and there I was at the foot of them. Like
well-lit foothills or the face of some one-dimensional cliff. And so, having no
aim exactly but full of ambition, I walked into the lobby of one of the poshier
looking places and admired all the shiny marble and indoor palms while
searching for the bar or bars which I had no doubt existed.
Red wallpaper with gold trim though.
This was what I found. And technically, it was a bar although I don’t even
think they had any liquor. Just a couple of beers on tap and I don’t even
believe any of them were quality. But the worst part was; the place was small
and dead. Completely. At first, there’d been a man and woman (both in suits)
who appeared to be venting about an all-day business meeting…but it was as if even
they quickly realized that this place sucked and so there I was; sitting alone
in my salmon-colored faux-leather booth with huge oil paintings of fox hunts
lining the walls behind me, so literal that I could practically hear the sounds
of bugles blowing in the distance and the hooves of heavy horses (as pictured
with gigantic asses!) clopping on the powdery, English earth. The men; in top
hats, white pants, and red, formal looking coats with tails. Whips. Hounds. And
me suddenly realizing that I’d been craning my neck for some time and barely
working on my pitcher. But that’s how
bad this place was. That’s how boring. And so, after squaring up with the old,
white-haired bartender dressed up just like one of the guys in the painting, I
took an elevator upstairs where there was supposed to be another point of
alcohol. But once I arrived and made my
way through the doors, I found it to be more of a restaurant where the people
at the bar seemed to be there just waiting for a table. And they consisted of
mostly more business types anyway…and not the fun kind.
That’s when the concierge found me
and recommended some other place a quick, cab’s ride down the way. Well,
perfect. At least someone besides
myself had heard of Dubai’s supposed nightlife and party scene. And just to
know that was refreshing.
Riding with windows down through
those busy lanes beneath the never-ending line of street lights rising like
metal, prehistoric trees from somewhere between the sections of cement
barricade separating the flow of traffic, I decided that this could have really
been any highway near the beach aside from one, minor detail. It was the billboards.
And like anywhere else, they’d pop up about every quarter mile or so. But
instead of actually advertising anything, each of these giant signs, between
ornate frames of white resemblant of Corinthian columns, there was, smiling
down on each and every car that passed, an enormous photograph of the sheik or
sometimes one of his sons. Talk about egotistical although unmistakably Arabian.
After paying the cabbie and stepping
out into the hot, dry air; I found myself facing a humongous, sandstone compound;
too large to even be a palace. Every inch of it had been chiseled in decorative
textures and I could tell by all the people with their shopping bags inside
that this was some sort of mall. There were shops and kiosks but no corporate
franchises though…which was kind of nice. And there was something about the
high ceilings and terra cotta tiled floors that lent the place an outdoor feel.
Tourists inside were definitely plentiful and well catered to but there were
some more local families in attendance as well; their dress distinctly dividing
them from Westerners.
This ‘market’ sold a lot of carpets,
rugs, and mats of the finest quality, vivid colors (a lot of purples and
blues), and patterns of the most intricate detail. But there were also posters depicting
bird’s eye views of the city (especially this beach strip), postcards, scarves,
even sandals, and some other handmade crafts much more unique. Every so often,
I’d walk by a restaurant too. But I didn’t want any of that shit. It was sure
nice to see people out and about but…where were the fucking clubs! The British
guy said! And since I could think of absolutely no reason for he to have lied
to me, I consulted one of those boards, illuminated from within, with a red dot
indicating, ‘you are here’.
It appeared that on the other side
of the mall there was sort of an annex building represented as a black
silhouette on the board (as most of the more permanent businesses were). But
inside this particular one, there was also the little icon of a martini glass.
And that spelled club to me in any language. Or at least another bar or
something. Either way; it was worth checking out.
What I ultimately found, however,
wasn’t even worth the effort it took to walk over there…let alone leave my
fucking hotel room for. Upon exiting the double doors leading out of the mall,
I found myself beneath a covered, semicircular area dedicated to valet parking.
And there were no Lamborghinis. Neither were there any Ferraris or
Roll-Royce’s. Not a single damn car, in fact, and even the valet post itself
appeared to have been abandoned. But there it was anyway just to my left. An
open doorway with some stairs marking the entryway. And I could see some trippy
lights emanating from within but with no bassy, trance music like I’d been
expecting. Additionally, a pair of not-really-threatening bouncers stood on
either side. Defiantly almost. As if guarding against those few who were in
there already from trying to get back out.
Fuck it. Why not.
“Membership card, sir?”
“I’m not a member. What do I have to
like pay a cover or something?”
“If you’re not a member then you
can’t come in. Would you like an application?”
I had no idea what nationality they
were supposed to be either. I couldn’t even pick out a distinguishing accent or
race!
“Yeah, sure. So I just like fill it
out or something and then pay a
cover?”
What the fuck’s a guy gotta do in
this town?!
“No, sir. You can fill it out and
then return it in person or by mail. And then there’s the matter of the
application fee which isn’t the same as the membership fee…but that you can pay later. Once you’ve been
approved. You’ll need to make a copy of your passport. And then, of course,
there’s a waiting period of approximately 10 working days to 2 weeks. Would you
like one?”
Not that I had time to answer.
The dude’s counterpart had gone
inside and already returned with the necessary paperwork...and it was like a
booklet stapled together! Jesus. “Thanks guys,” and I took the packet with me
but deposited it in the first wastepaper basket I passed just inside the mall
again.
It took me about an hour after that
but I did manage to locate a bar that didn’t require membership. And it was
okay. There was a band playing for a while but not one patron seemed to be
there solely to have a good time. Call it intuition; but I did get the distinct
feeling that there was a lot of business networking going on all around me. And
at least one person in the crowd (most of them sitting at tables or standing
facing each other) would eyeball the musicians every few seconds as if they
were making too much noise. So I grabbed a couple pints but then decided it
just wasn’t my scene. Really, I should have just headed back to the ‘sports
bar’ close to the hotel but to do so just seemed so defeating. Because…wasn’t
travel about discovering all these new places? And it’s not like I wasn’t
leaving Dubai first thing in the morning the day after tomorrow …to fly to
Jordan…where I’d been before. So maybe this just wasn’t going to be my best
trip. Still. Might as well ride it out and make the best of it. And although
that was the right attitude, I still
couldn’t help feeling like it’s one I’d been reduced to.
The next morning, I decided to just
give up on finding a party anywhere in this pulseless façade of a city but
realized there were still at least a few things I wanted to do during the day.
And I did have most of the day to kill. Meaning; I hadn’t slept through it.
Meaning; I wasn’t hungover. Meaning; I hadn’t even gotten drunk last night but
just returned to my room, ordered some room service, and then called it a
night. So, while everyone else was having lunch at the Burj al Arab, I opted to
save money by going to a larger, more standard type mall to see (at least what
was then) the only man-made ski slope…all the more awesome considering it was
located about as far from real snow as one could think of.
And yeah, I saw it. And it was
pretty impressive looking even from outside. The slope appeared as a giant,
silver capsule tilted to a 45 degree angle and supported by a solid, single
stilt. But seeing it from inside was even cooler. Up on the mall’s second
level, somewhere around the food court, there were huge windows that plenty of
people stood there and looked through. And I mean…there’s the Hoover Dam, yeah.
But it’s just so…I don’t know. Utilitarian. Whereas this! This was a true feat
of modern engineering. Arabs could fucking ski for Christ’s sake! Arabs among
other people here. Because from that window, what I was actually viewing were
people of all ages and races. I don’t even think it was that pricey to rent an
inner tube and just belly down the snow. But it was more than I had…at least to survive another week
overseas. Still, I stood and watched for a while. And there was actually snow
coming down!
Late that night, I found myself in
the hotel lobby having some drinks with part of the friendly group from last
night and they were telling me all about how lavish their lunch was. Well,
whatever. Some of them were staying on here (although I can’t imagine how much
left there was for them to do). Even the local tour companies were probably
scrambling to come up with new shit just then. But there were four of us who
were going to Jordan in the morning. Just four. And I don’t even think I
actually found out who until the next
day around 4 a.m. when we each showed up back down there again with all our
shit packed. And wouldn’t ya know it.
There I was, rolling my big, black
hard-case behind me and out to a shuttle with none other than the movie camera
guy, the old guy, and his really prissy, uber-whiny companion.
“Looks like it’s gonna be a boys’
trip from here on out,” I smiled.
No real responses either. Just looks
of dismay.
On the plane, on the way there I was
about to flip out on this old lady sitting next to me. She was German or
Eastern European or something. I don’t know. I only heard her speak across the
aisle to her companion a few times and I’m not that good at identifying any of
those accents or languages. But she kept smacking her teeth with her lips. Over
and over. Each time ending in a sharp, wet sound. And this was just typical,
coach class flying. So her mouth was somewhere right around 6 inches from my
ear. And a couple of times, I just sat forward, turned, and glared at her. But
I don’t think she got it. And if she did, then I hate her even worse because
she certainly didn’t stop. The whole fucking way. Hours of this shit.
That’s what I remember. That and tracking our flight right
over Saudi on a big screen up front. Our plane; a little, white icon with the
red line of our course stretching out its ass. Then we landed in Amman and
received whole-page visas in each of our passports for twelve bucks.
Thankfully, the line wasn’t very long. Didn’t seem like there were a lot of
foreigners going out of their way to get there.
“And how much did you give him?!”
Thankfully, we didn’t have to wait
very long at arrivals for our guide to meet us either.
“What amounted to twelve bucks?”
We weren’t talking about the visa on
arrival either. Instead, the movie camera guy had accidentally over-tipped an
independent ‘skycap’ for basically lifting his suitcase into the back of the
van. And our guide just cracked up over this…which caused the rest of us to
laugh too. Everyone except the movie camera guy in his contrived, black jacket
and trimmed, grey beard.
“I didn’t know!” he kept trying to
defend himself, “The currency was different in Dubai. It was…actually worth
less.”
“Yes, my friend.” The guide turned
around then from his place up front in the shotgun seat. He was an enormous
man. Bald on top and his face; clean-shaven. But he had these crazy-huge jowls
and triple chins that hung down so low you couldn’t even see his neck. And he
was fat not muscular. Just let me get that out of the way right away. But his
smile was also huge and his personality; jovial just like a big Arab Santa
Claus. “I think, maybe you should pay closer attention next time, yes?”
“Yeah. I will,” the movie camera guy
whined, “I can’t believe he just took it though.”
“And why not?” the guide came right
back, “I’ll bet he was happy to get it. So this was a very nice thing you did.
Who knows? He may have had a family.”
Our destination today awaited far
from this capital so, once again, I quickly found there to be nothing but empty
desert outside our windows…which were tinted, thank God.
“Oh my God,” the prissy guy chimed
in, “Could we get some more air conditioning back here? It’s so hot, I think
I’m about to lose my freaking mind.”
“Sure, sure,” our guide said without
turning around again and making no move to do anything about it.
It wasn’t that hot though. I
honestly think that we were all just a bit tired and irritable. Which is why,
when the movie camera guy began telling us a story of the guy he sat next to on the plane… “And he was
like half Jordanian and half American or something. Or he was born here but
raised there. I don’t know. But he had dual citizenship or something like
that,” and just imagine that way-too-laid back, annoying stoner voice, “And he
was like soooooo…I don’t know what you’d call it. Knowledgeable. You know. About like what’s going on in the world
and stuff ? And I don’t know exactly what his job was but it had something to
do with like…in America, going around to all these different places and like
telling people how Jordanians aren’t bad or anything. And then here; doing the
same thing but with like…Americans.”
Which is why I added; “That sounds
great. Way better than my seat-buddy.
I could have used a nighttime sleeping aide.”
And it took him a minute to get it.
“Oh, ’cause you’re like saying that
it was really boring or something like that?”
He wasn’t even offended either.
Which kind of threw me off. But yeah, there wasn’t so much as a shred of
indignation in his voice. So he picked up, “Well, that’s okay. I mean, I guess
it’s not for everyone.”
And I felt bad about it then because
this guy didn’t mean any harm. He was just being nice. Just trying to share or
whatever. And it became apparent, only to myself though, that it was indeed I, as usual, who was being the dick. The
rest of the van, however, surprisingly, didn’t even seem to notice. No
thickness to the air or bad energy. Which is probably why he picked up with
another one right away.
“You know, this one time…about a
year and half ago. I took this trip to Cairo and it was led by the woman,
Marianne Williamson who wrote ‘A Return to Love’. I don’t know if any of you
guys are familiar with it. But it was like…so…amazing. Like everything she said
as we went around and visited all the pyramids and other places. It was
like…you know that feeling where you’re just completely tingling everywhere?
Well, it was like that. And I swear…I swear to you. That when it came time for
me to catch my flight home again and we all had to break up. I was just sitting
there in the airport but not really hearing anything because I was just so
deeply contemplating my life and just life in general. That I actually missed
my flight. It was like I was in a trance or something.”
Yep. Confirmation received. I hate
you and Marianne Williamson. Whoever
that fuck that is.
The old guy remained quiet
though…which is why I really liked him best right then. And I, having the
way-way back bench all to myself, used the opportunity to lie supine; knees up
with feet flat on the fabric. None of us had gotten much sleep last night, I
don’t think. And it clearly wasn’t because of any partying either. Even on my part. Nah. It was just a case of the
good old fashioned had-to-get-up-too-earlies mixed with a hint of international
travel anxiety. I just wondered what our guide thought about our sorry asses.
If anything.
Once we were well outside of town
and there was nothing but us and the highway and the reddish rocks and the
gravel (instantly noticeable as being a bit grittier than the dunes of Dubai),
our minivan stopped at…well, to call it a roadside diner might be touching on a
bit of the old hyperbole. And even at truckstops; there are usually one or two
other businesses in the immediate vicinity albeit still catering to the same
clientele. But not this joint. It was just a restaurant out in the middle of
nowhere. And from the very best that I could tell; it didn’t even have a name.
It didn’t have a sign. It didn’t
even have any other cars parked in front or
in back! And I wondered whether the people who worked here also lived on-site.
And I wondered if they were going to be really weird.
“Okay, my friends,” our guide
clapped his hands as if needing to do so to regain our group’s focus, “This is
where we will stop for lunch. They usually have something good on so… We’ll
see.” He spoke both excitedly and resolutely and I was able to read that
mealtimes were something this guy really looked forward to from one to the
next.
Inside, the place was pretty
spacious with lots of wide windows overlooking the landscape. The floors were
plank board and pretty sandy themselves. And the walls were raw wood too;
splintery looking but decorated here and there with large, handcrafted fabrics
of embroidered design. It was homey enough but there weren’t any menus or
specific dishes to choose from. Rather, we were each brought a plate full of
Middle Eastern goodies like pita and tabbouleh and some creamy sauces for
dipping. And I found out real fast that they didn’t serve beer…which was a
bummer. So I just asked for a bottled water.
“What about soda? They have Coke.
Sprite?” our guide appeared concerned.
“Oh. Thank you. I’m just not much of
a soda guy. No big deal though. Seriously. Water is great. I should probably be
drinking more of this anyway.”
“Okay.” He still looked concerned though.
Afterwards, the general consensus
between all of us tourists was that the place was overpriced…especially with
there being not a lot of choice or anything available à la carte, say. And
while the guide was away taking a piss or something, the prissy guy tried to
conspire against any further meals such as this (that is; place of the guide’s
own choosing). “Because he probably just eats for free, ya know,” and we all
nodded our heads caring a little but not nearly as much as he did, “I mean…I
sure didn’t see him pull his wallet
out, did any of you guys?” And we all shook our heads ‘no’.
The only thing I dislike about the
feeling of a full belly is that, as some sort of side-effect, it also causes me
to feel carsick. And so nauseous was how I spent the next couple of hours and
feeling the heat now that the prissy guy was referring to earlier. But there I
still lay on the way back bench seat. I offered to trade if anyone else wanted
to lie down but, thankfully, each of them said they were fine. At what must have
been a hundred miles later, we stopped again to gas up; this place being quite
the remote outpost as well. And there was a shop attached to the station with
more drinks and candy and shit like that. But I stayed in the van this time
while the other guys shopped around for 10 or 15 minutes or so. That’s how bad
I was feeling. And when the nausea wore off, another sensation instantly took
its place. I felt feverish.
Before arriving at our hotel (a
place that everyone was really excited about after the travel company told us
that it was actually an ancient, Roman village converted into single level
rooms), the tour guide told us about one stop that I couldn’t remember was
scheduled or not. Madaba was the name of the town and it was the first real
sign of civilization we’d seen since leaving the airport in Amman. According to
a highway sign as we entered the city limits; it was around 70,000; give or
take. But it didn’t look like it. There was basically one main drag with
minimal traffic, lots of dust, and more potholes than asphalt. There were also
lots of pedestrians, men and women…all of their faces covered with cloth. But
the one thing this town of such a self-proclaimed size was lacking was
architecture. I mean, sure. There were, of course, the crudely constructed
buildings on this main street which we now found ourselves cruising down. But
between them, right down every alleyway, I could clearly see more sunlight and
emptiness leading me to believe that much of Madaba’s citizens must have lived
in modest accommodations out in the desert. Just a guess. And I preferred to
believe this rather than there being some ratty apartment buildings just on the
other side of the hills somewhere. Seemed more authentic that way.
At the end of this street, just as
if the whole town had been built around it (which it almost certainly was),
there was a church the same sedimentary stone color as the hills and pretty
much every other building around. And it grew taller as we approached it
dead-on; a well-centered bell tower sprouting up to reach the perfectly
cloudless yet somehow faded feeling sky. Our van parking just off to the side
of its front courtyard on the street.
“Okay,” our guide explained, “In
here you will see one of my favorite things. It is one of the first known maps
of the Middle East. Perhaps the first even. And it is a mosaic. And I hope you
will all be very impressed.”
Now, I’d read about this particular
archaeological discovery before coming to this area of the world the first
time. And it sounded pretty cool. Supposedly, the finding of said mosaic was
one of those situations where the ancients had decided that the mosaic itself was
finally just too passé (so long had it been around before the ancients even).
And so they paved right over the floors and walls (and all the mosaics) of this
church with stucco and (thankfully) in doing so, perfectly preserving this
piece of historical artwork underneath. But an ancient mosaic is just that and
I don’t really feel the need to describe it aside that I was impressed by the
way those most ancient of ancients did somehow manage to incorporate colored
tiles that obviously weren’t from around these general parts. They must have
traveled far and wide.
Other than that though; it really
amounted to one of those ‘how long are we supposed to stand here and look at
this?’ type of things. And our group’s unconscious consensus concluded on somewhere
between 10 and 15 minutes…which was pushing it since I’m sure each of us was
probably more interested in showering by that time and just finding some dark
hole in which to relax. Almost
everyone in our group, I should say. Because the movie camera guy; he still
seemed really into it. And eventually, even our guide threw in to help us drag
him out of there.
But it wasn’t over. Movie camera guy
was determined to capture every last, video detail of this stop just as he had
back in Dubai. And I didn’t get it really. I don’t think any of us did. I don’t
even think he did just based on
something he’d said in the van on the way here today. Someone had asked him
what was up with all the video taking and it wasn’t even me. But it went
something like, “What’s up with all the video taking?”
And he was like (in the dreamy voice
that always made me just wasn’t to reach over and strangle him), “Ya know, it’s
just that I want to be able to remember all my travels. But the funny thing
is…I have so much editing to do from prior trips that I probably won’t even get
to these for like four more years. Honestly.”
So there ya go. The guy had more
hours on tape than even he knew what to do with. But hey; to each his own. At
least, that’s how the rest of the group felt. I, on the other hand, would have
freaked right out on his ass about here but was
able to recognize the fragility of the dynamic that made up the very fabric of
our fellowship. And when in a foreign land, I guess it’s better not to go
around making enemies…even if they were
of my countrymen.
The problem arose when movie camera
guy didn’t stop with the mosaic. We were all heading back to the van when, upon
simultaneously turning our heads in reverse, we noticed him to be still back
there near the church’s dark, open entrance setting up a tripod and then
proceeding to stand in front of his own camera (field reporter style) and
basically interviewing himself. And even this behavior would have been relatively
okay if the cops hadn’t taken notice and started walking up to him.
Our guide tiredly grunted then but
stepped up to save the day. And just in the nick of time, it appeared, since
the officers had already begun interrogating our own obsessed comrade. The rest
of us just sort of watched the scene from afar. No need to make anyone jumpy.
Apparently, they wanted to know if he had a permit for whatever documentary he
was making and wished to see it. Which led our guide to have to explain,
probably quite abashedly, that this stupid asshole had actually dragged this
gigantic camera halfway across the world with him so that he could better
commemorate his experiences even though he wouldn’t be able to ‘get to them’
for years to come. And they bought it. They took one look at him. Took one look
at us (and despite the van, I don’t think the rest of us gave off anything
close to ‘camera crew’ material). And they took one more look at our guide who,
by this time, appeared really perturbed. And then they just shrugged and got
the hell out of there. No harm, no foul. But then why did that asshole have to
go and push his luck. Why couldn’t he just pack it up? Because he didn’t. He
stayed right there in front of his damn camera and, for the next 10 minutes or
so, went about finishing whatever the hell it was that he’d started. Fucking
guy even tried to get our guide in there for an official recap of our day thus
far but was denied.
“We’ll be waiting for you back in
the van,” he told him walking away, “Please, try to hurry.”
“Are we in a rush?” the idiot
actually had to ask.
“No.”
“Recently,” our guide explained once
we were back on the road again, “We had something very magical happen in this
country. I don’t think it has ever happened in my lifetime but it did happen
just this last week.”
“Snow!” all of us overachieving
kiss-asses shouted out.
“Yes, very good. You are correct. It
was almost unprecedented. And you could see, right along the road here, the
parents and their children who had stopped their cars…stopped to play in the
snow. It was a fantastic phenomenon.”
“Where’d you learn to speak English
so well?” I asked from the back still.
“In America.”
“Was it very hard for you to obtain
a passport?”
“A little. How do you know this?”
“I was actually here just couple
years ago and the one guide I had then…I think her name was Salehm. And anyway,
she said she wanted to obtain one but was still waiting approval. And she was
college educated and everything.”
“Ah,” our guide turned his big,
brown body around with a smile on his face now, “And you liked our country so
much that you decided to come back!”
And he wasn’t being sarcastic.
“Yes,” I led him on, “You could say
there were still a few more things I wanted to see.”
“And Salehm…she was a, how should I
say, stalky girl. Very flowery personality.”
“She was.”
“Yes. I know her. I taught her much English and much of this
business myself!”
“She was very sweet.”
“And you two…hit it off?”
“Yeah,” I shrugged…probably
invisibly in the evening light, “I mean, she was friendly. I liked her.”
“And you two…became boyfriend and
girlfriend then?”
And here he laughed from his belly
at his own words; a joke perhaps. But still words that I’d never heard a Muslim
man speak before.
“Not exactly,” I smiled, “But I was here with my girlfriend also so…”
“Ah. I see, I see. But now you are
not.”
“Just me this time out.”
“Oh. Well, maybe I will tell her
then and you two will hit it off this
time!”
And again, he laughed. And I, for
some crazy reason, started to wonder if this guy was her father or something
and was even being close to serious.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait and
see on that,” I ended with, “But she was rather sweet.”
And to think this whole time, I
believed that the only reason no one in our group had interrupted was because
they were so intrigued by this revelational conversation. And maybe for the
prissy guy and the old guy; it was. But apparently not for our friend, Mr.
Movie Camera Man. Because just as soon as we’d stopped talking and the guide
had turned back around in his seat; he said, “I wish I could have seen those
families playing in the snow. I would have used so much tape on them. So
much. I would have had to actually buy more tape in a town somewhere.”
“Yes,” the guide’s voice was more
stern and frustrated now but not even close to being raised in anger or
anything, “But you see, I could not have let you do that.”
“Oh yeah?” I could just picture the
ignorant smile on the guy’s face just then even though all I could see was the
back of his head, “Why not?”
“Because this is not a zoo, sir. And
these people, my people, are not
animals collected in some cage.”
And at least, this time, the guy
knew when not to press his luck. There wasn’t much tension though. I think the
prissy and old guy were already sleeping in their seats. And basically, every
one of us including the driver just couldn’t wait for a nice dinner and a bed.
“I highly recommend the Turkish bath,”
our guide addressed us at the front desk in the tiny lobby, “I’m about to get
one myself.”
From what I gathered, it was like a
massage in a sauna.
“Okay,” we all nodded but really
just wanted to get to our rooms.
“What time do you all want to start
tomorrow? It does not matter to me but let’s say 7, 8, or 9.”
“Eight,” we all agreed which meant I
was definitely going to need some sleep.
“Alright. Well, if I don’t see you;
goodnight. There is a little restaurant on the grounds and I am sure you will
like the food.”
“Okay. Goodnight,” we all smiled. I
really liked the guy.
Then each of us stood there just
long enough to get our keys. The guy behind the desk put four sets down in
front of him and, spreading out a crude, line drawn map; decided it would be
funny to let us fight it out amongst ourselves. And this is where it comes in
handy not to think too much or fuck around. Because while the other guys were
really planning this shit out, I noticed immediately that there was but one
room apart from the others. And so I grabbed the corresponding key and was out
the door. Almost.
“Hey, Mick,” the old guy called from
behind.
“Yeah?”
“I smuggled a bottle of gin if you
want to, and this goes for everybody, have a quick drink before dinner.”
“That actually sounds really good,”
I halfway turned around just so that he could see the genuine look in my eye, “Like
an hour or something?”
“An hour it is,” the guy’s voice;
always jovial.
Outside, the sky was already black
as could be and the grounds weren’t lit very well…especially the room numbers.
I had a copy of the map, though, and the whole place couldn’t have amounted to
more than an acre. Basically, this hotel or motel or whatever this inn was
classified as in this part of the world was comprised of a sprawling number of
stucco dwellings that reminded me of the adobe style homes of a romanticized
version of Arizona or New Mexico. And from some of them; already, a warm,
yellow light glowed from within their windows. The pathways were wide and
completely paved with a slick (albeit, worn down over the centuries) stone while
waist-high walls of ancient masonry constructed from the same material kept
perfect pace with me. Sometimes the path sloped up and then down again. And
sometimes there were a few steps installed. But basically, when I found my own
little villa, the porch light was out as was the one next to it and it felt
quiet and remote over here. Perfect.
The lock on the door was old
fashioned, though, and it took me a while to jimmy the key. But this gave me
just enough time to realize that my quarters were on the outermost layer of the
village with nothing but desert behind the little wall. And way up on top of a
hill, I could see a minaret lit with green neon and hear the nighttime call to
prayer being broadcast through some cheap megaphone or phones.
Inside, I quickly found the light
and also the switch for the porch light outside which I flipped on to give the
place a more homey feel. And it was spacious enough. The floors were of a burn
orange tile; ceramic. And the bed was bigger than the one I slept in at home.
So all in all, I was pleased. Plus, just to think, some Roman family used to
fucking live in here! But most of the magic and wonderment wore off once I
looked in the huge, bathroom mirror to see how greasy and grimy I actually was.
My shower was long and scalding.
I found the old man’s room an hour
later. It was back closer to the lobby in a cluster of other villas, their
front doors almost touching, and everybody’s porch light brightly lit. It took
him a while to answer even though I wasn’t early. And I was really surprised to
find that the others hadn’t made it over yet.
“Well, come on in,” he said, “You look like a new man.”
“Thanks. I feel a lot better. Cool
hotel, huh?”
“Incredible,” he agreed and began
pouring the shots of gin without hesitation.
The bottle was a fifth of Beefeater
that he picked up either in Dubai or maybe even way back in New York. He hadn’t
opened it till now though. Which left me wondering either what the occasion was
or if he’d packed plenty of other bottles like this and had been drinking them
all along.
“You talk to the others?” I asked as
he handed me a glass with a double shot and no mixer.
“Yeah, they’re my next door
neighbors. I’m sure they’ll be along shortly.”
And so the old man and I talked and
sipped and talked for the next 20 minutes or so. I remember we got on the topic
of music and said something about smoking a joint and finally realizing what
was behind the phenomena known as the Grateful Dead. I couldn’t tell if he
meant ‘recently’ or not and was just about to ask him when there came a knock
from the movie camera guy. And crazy enough, so soon as he finished his first double and was feeling the effects, I
actually started to like the guy…or at least tolerate him and feel that little
bit of kindredness that I believe must exist inside everyone once their buzzed
enough. And just because this understanding occurs so easily in an impaired
state doesn’t mean it’s shallow. Rather, I sometimes wish nations could just
share a few drinks and hang out on a cushy chair, a sofa, and the foot of a
bed.
When the last knock came, the movie
camera guy had been talking about his college days. The drinking, especially
straight shots, had reminded him of them obviously. And he’d been going on
about some fictitious word he and his roommates had made up; the last one of
them to say said word so soon as a notion was presented where somebody was
required to do something, had to do it. Example: so soon as the knock at the
door came, he laughed to himself and said the word, the old man followed in
suit, and since I was probably the most faded, a little slow on the uptake,
thought the game was stupid, and ultimately didn’t care; had to get off my ass
and answer it in order to be a good sport. And if it’s one thing I ever try to be,
it’s that.
“Oh my God, look at you guys,” the
prissy guy appeared showered and refreshed too and I wondered if he’d had a
Turkish bath, “I walk in and all I see are these shiny, red noses!”
“The gin’ll do that to ya,” I threw
in rhetorically, “Isn’t that why they call it a gin blossom? Is that a thing or
am I just making that up?”
“No, I think I’ve heard that
before.”
“What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
“Wadi Musa.”
“What does that mean?”
“The desert.”
“More desert?!” we laughed.
“Yeah.”
And after the prissy guy finished
his glass, the four of us carried on outside this way in our cheery, buoyant
state and made it the short walk over to the little restaurant where we
pleasantly discovered that the price of dinner had already been paid for with
the room. The setup was buffet style and there were booths lined along an
uncrowded dining area; the overhead lights perfectly dimmed for dinner.
To the host and the rest of the
Muslim staff and the few other guests that were in the place, we must have
absolutely reeked of booze like a mechanic, at the end of the day, reeks of
gasoline. But they didn’t say anything. It’s not like it was illegal to drink
anyway. Well, I mean, it was for them. Punishable by law, for them. And
probably a not very lenient sentence. But for us, fuck it. We were Americans.
We could do whatever the fuck we wanted so long as it… No. Just pretty much
whatever the fuck we wanted.
Our silent driver drove us through
more wasteland in the morning. It felt like we were headed southeast and away
from everything but I could have been mistaken. Eventually we turned off onto a
dirt road though. And that was cause for a little commotion and excitement
although I’m not sure why. It wasn’t even very bumpy.
“Okay,” our guide turned around in
his front seat again, “In just a few more miles, we will come to what I like to
think of as the gateway to Wadi Musa. ‘Wadi’ is what we call a dry river bed.
We can tell that water has been there although it has not been for some time.
And ‘Musa’. Who can tell me what that means?”
“Moses,” the prissy guy answered
before I could even.
“Very good. So basically, this is
the Valley of Moses. And we Muslims believe in Moses. Some of us even believe
in Jesus. As a minor prophet, of course.”
And deep into the desert we drove
kicking up an undulating, snakelike trail of dust that never seemed to settle.
Until eventually coming to what looked like some really shitty, rundown auto
garage out in the middle of nowhere. It was also where any sort of visible road ended.
“Okay. Everybody out,” our guide
opened his door and we followed in suit, “This will only take a minute. I’m
going to go inside to talk to my friend and I will be right back.”
Again, thank God this was February
otherwise I couldn’t imagine having stood out there for more than a millisecond
without heatstroke setting in, not to mention melanoma. And we never did see
him go out through a backdoor although he must have. Because, next time we laid
eyes on our guide, he was pulling up alongside us again from behind the wheel
of a tiny, well-rusted Toyota pick-up. There was a pile of shit that had been
covered up in the passenger’s seat too.
“Alright,” he smiled like some sort
of Gypsy with something behind it, “Everybody in.”
And obviously, he meant ‘in the
back’.
“Oh my God,” I heard the prissy guy
mutter to himself then, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“Well?!” he leaned over on the bench
to speak to us through the passenger’s window which was rolled down and looked
as if it might permanently be stuck that way, “What you waiting for?! Plenty of
desert to see. Get in.”
And so we did. The movie camera guy
and I sitting atop each wheel-well while the prissy and old guy opted for the
lower ground as if trying to avoid the wind. And the truck took off. He wasn’t
exactly speeding either which was nice since it’s not like there were any
cushions back there or anything. Nope. Just sharp, rusty metal. So oxidized was
it, in fact, that I quickly began to ask just what sort of psycho would have
painted the pick-up white to begin with…or at least who would have bought such
a color.
Nobody wanted to say it out loud
either but I’m sure it was on everyone’s mind. Or not. Maybe I’m just paranoid
and projecting but… To me, at least, it certainly did seem like this guy was
driving us even further out to where the earth was nice and sandy for one
reason and one reason only; so that he could murder and then bury us out here.
Well, fuck that; I already had my mind made up. He could kill me, fine. But I
would never dig my own grave. It’s just so humiliating. His fat fucking ass
could do it himself…or maybe he’d make the prissy guy do it or something. Yeah.
He would certainly try to stall and
hang onto that one, last little minute of life. But not me. No, sir. Don’t
care. My last few moments in this world would not be dedicated to manual labor.
I kinda wished I could jerk off though. And I thought about it. But hmm. Better
be sure first.
“Did anyone read the itinerary?” the
movie camera guy asked and not just
to make conversation, “Is this Petra?”
“No,” I answered from the opposite
side of the metal bed, “I’ve actually been to Petra. And this isn’t it. And
anyway, I think that’s tomorrow.”
“I know. I just thought that maybe
we were going a back way or something. What’d he say today was?”
“Wadi Musa.”
“Oh, yeah. But what’s there to see
there?”
“I don’t know. This, I guess.”
The scenery did get better
though…after a while…a really long while. Long enough for each of our asses to
become completely numb and me to worry about having contracted lead poisoning
from all the flaky paint chips peeling up everywhere. But it was as if, from
out of the barren orange sand; huge, red rocks were emerging…so solid and
different from the dirt all around us that it forced one to wonder how these
two formations had ever come to coexist. And still the red rocks grew until they joined and expanded and we were
driving down various channels now that did seem much more like dry riverbeds or
wadis or tributaries. And so soon as we were beginning to enjoy ourselves again
and be able to marvel at the nature all around, the truck stopped.
“Okay, everybody out,” our guide’s
door creaked open and then squealed shut again after he’d exited the vehicle.
But for a moment, none of the rest
of us moved.
“What?” his tone was almost hurt,
“You do not think it’s beautiful?”
It was beautiful, though, actually.
And it didn’t take us long to discover exactly why he stopped there. Mostly
because it was as good a spot as any in this area. It was all beautiful and the sky was so blue and clear, it was almost
neon…juxtaposed against the red tones. The whole scene was super trippy. And
the air temperature couldn’t have been any more perfect. Slightly cool and
barely a breeze.
There was still a momentary lapse
before we moved…as if the imaginary wall between ourselves and this
non-American hadn’t yet faded. And this was partially due to something our
guide had said yesterday at the restaurant while the prissy guy had gotten up
to use the restroom. Apparently, those two hadn’t really hit it off. And by
that, I mean that our guide absolutely hated him. And I knew where he was
coming from because way back there at the gate in JFK, I’d really hated him
too. But then he started to come around and I was now able to see this sort of
well-meaning but just really needy and temperamental person just the same.
Which is actually a huge step up from the little worm I thought he was before.
But with our guide…well, not enough time had passed for the prissy guy to have rubbed
him the right way yet. And if I had to bet, probably not enough time ever
would. No big deal so long as our guide didn’t hate the rest of us just because
we happened to have booked the same package. And so long as he didn’t leave us
stranded anywhere…which is exactly, once the prissy guy was out of eyesight
and, presumably, earshot; he said. “I am telling you all this in seriousness. I
don’t have to do this. I’m retired. And I swear to you…if it was just him who
was there at the airport, I would have just left him there.”
The weird part was, I could not for
the life of me remember the prissy guy having said anything directly to the
guide (or driver for that matter) that would have pissed them off. Mostly, he
just complained about how terrible the flight had been and, okay…he was kind of
annoying. But I guess I’d just become used to it these past 3 or 4 days.
“Can we like…run around and stuff?”
the movie camera guy asked timidly.
“Yes. Please,” he practically
implored us, “Go! Run around! Make complete fools of yourselves if you want to.
Nobody will see.”
So slowly, we crept out of the truck
and took a few steps away from it. And then a few more. And then the movie
camera guy pointed his giant telescope at something and turned it on which prompted
the rest of us to do the same. Me; with my disposable kind. And the old man
with that sweet, digital Nikon that he’d bought himself for Xmas last year. And
the prissy guy…well, I don’t know what he was packing. A little, digital
handheld, I’m sure. And although our guide had sat back down on the driver’s
side, we began to trust that this was only because he was fat and tired and
had, no doubt, seen Wadi Musa and probably this exact spot about a million
times before anyway.
We scattered out over those red
dunes pretty far, in fact. Each of us in his own little, picture-taking world.
Thinking about stuff. Not thinking about anything. That’s what’s great about
being so far away.
“Okay, okay,” he was calling us back
and calmly waving his red baseball cap now, “More to see. Much more to see. Always more to see,” he smiled.
And so there was. Deeper into the
desert we drove. The scenery staying pretty much the same but opening up and
widening out a lot more until those rocky, granite formations that seemed so
much like mountain ranges before, actually became such. Eventually, at what had
to have been right about midday, our truck pulled up and parked right in front
of a cliff; the chestnut colored face of which stretching straight up for
hundreds of feet. There was also an open tent just off to our right defying the
very brightness by being a deep shade of olive green and further defying it by
providing a deep, black shade underneath. It was the only shade we’d seen, come
to think of it, since turning off the main highway; this land being perfectly
void of vegetation.
There were some tables set up
underneath the shelter and, wouldn’t ya know it. Even way the fuck out here
with seriously nothing else around for miles and miles; this tent was a tourist
trap. If we bought some of their shit, our guide probably received a small
commission from the owners…assuming they even owned the tent or the land. And there was just the most
obvious shit displayed on these tables. Sunglasses, for instance. I suppose, if
we forgot our own. And tubes of eyeliner (that I actually wanted to try but
didn’t) so that Westerners (and maybe even some Far Easterners) could get done
up like the Sheiks of old. The part of this weird little business that none of
us could understand, though, was that no one seemed to be around running it.
Just us and the guide. He said if we wanted anything, just to take it and we
could pay for it later. But since nothing was priced, none of us did.
We did use the tent, however, to
kind of chill out in the shade for a minute. Nobody was charging for that at
least…I think.
“Come over here,” our guide said
after a while, “I want everybody to see this.”
And so we followed him over one dune
about 50 yards away.
“Do you see that?” he was pointing
towards what appeared to be a whole little village of tents just far enough
away to make them seem like playthings.
“Yes,” we answered.
“Do you know what that is?”
“No,” we sounded like a classroom
full of school children.
“That…” he announced, “Is a Saudi
Prince. And he has come here with his friends and…I cannot remember this word.
His…all his people.”
“Entourage?” I tried to help out.
“Yes! Thank you. His entourage. And
he will be here for the next 3 or 4 months. Maybe longer.”
“What’s he doing here?” asked the
prissy guy.
“Mostly, he is hunting with his
falcon. That and drinking a lot and maybe some gambling even. And, of course,
selecting women from his harem…which is what one of those tents is.”
“Wait a minute,” the movie camera
guy really thought he was onto something, “Isn’t he Muslim?”
“Yes?”
“Well, aren’t you guys,” and
gratefully, he took a moment to reselect his words, “Isn’t he, then, forbidden
by the religion to drink?”
And I was glad when our guide belly
laughed so hard then, he actually had to bend over to catch his breath. “You
think that because he is Muslim?! Well, let me try to put this is such a way.
Are the three of you Christian?”
“I’m not,” I answered.
“Me either,” the movie camera guy
threw in, “I’m Buddhist.”
And,
“Don’t look at me,” the old man shrugged.
But, “I am,” the prissy guy spoke
up, “And I’m very devout in my beliefs.”
“Okay,” he seemed surprised at there
being only one Christian in the bunch but, “And so, as a Christian, do you
always follow the rules of that religion?”
“I try my very best to.”
“And do you believe that all Christians do their very best to?”
“I really can’t speak for all
Christians…”
“Well, I can tell you one thing.
They do not. And neither does Mr. Prince down there with his harem.
“Yeah but,” the movie camera guy was
at least pretty well-informed, “But don’t they, in Saudi I mean, don’t they prohibit
alcohol…in the entire country?!”
“Yeah. Sure,” our guide answered
right back, “But he is a prince so…”
And he left it at that.
And so did we.
Later that afternoon, we drove to a
site where the Romans had built sort of a sports park including a full-size
amphitheater and dirt track straight out of Ben-Hur where they really did, no
joke, used to do chariot racing. It was also here that our guide suggested
sitting down at another restaurant nearby and ‘enjoying’ yet another huge
meal…which our group had talked about talking to him about. So…moment of truth. Here goes nothing. And…? Well, I
wasn’t going to say anything because I can always eat. Plus, there might be the
slim chance they carried beer there. But the prissy guy. He spoke up. Which,
let me tell ya, really didn’t do too much for their already rocky relationship.
And of course, when each of them separately got up and went to the bathroom,
the one who remained sat there and talked shit to us about the other.
“I’m a diabetic. I have to eat every
so many hours,” was our guide’s excuse for these enormous lunches.
And, “He’s a diabetic?” was what the prissy guy said in his absence after we’d all just watched
him wolf down a heaping platter of assorted fried goods and cup sized dollops
of creamy sauces.
At dinner, back at the same hotel
for just one more night, I learned that the old guy’s nephew was a screenplay
writer who’d just recently been picked up by HB-fucking-O to write a series for
them.
“And he’s in his 40’s. So don’t you
ever give up on your dreams,” he was across the table, specifically addressing
me…and everyone agreed.
And this was weird because it’s not
like I ever told him I even had any.
Later that night, though, back in my
room and in bed, tucked in and warm (too warm) with the little TV on its stand
across the floor at low volume; I began to feel a bit feverish in the head and
with a burn coming from somewhere in the back of my mouth. My gum,
specifically. And when I stuck my finger in there to check things out. Sure
’nough, my goddam molar was loose as I swiveled it back and forth with the tip
of my index. So what the fuck?
I got up, not because I wanted to
further examine it in the mirror, but because the fever was making me weary.
And I changed the channel on the television to the only other one that came
in…and not all that clearly. But the sound was okay so I left it there. And I
paced for a spell; no telling how long, really. My fingers groping for anything
to fuck with other than my tooth which I was quickly becoming obsessed with.
And then found, on the wall next to the door, a dial which took me a bit but, I
eventually found controlled the temperature of the floor. This room came
complete with an adjustable, heatable floor. I only knew for sure because the
tile was practically burning my bare feet and I knew then that I must have
mistaken that for the actual radiator…but then I wasn’t sure where that was. As an experiment, I decided to
lie down again and test the tile-temp in about a half-hour’s time or so. And I
did. And it was cooler. But then the chill, desert air felt to cool in the room
so what the fuck. And not that I really wanted to go outside again if, indeed,
it was that cold; but suddenly, I felt the need for some fresh air. Nighttime
air. Star-time air. And so I crept out through my own door where I knew no one
else would be along the walk anyway and smoked a cigarette where the ‘burrr’
didn’t get to me at all. My tooth still did though. And I knew that the
cigarette smoke against that bloody, tender gum couldn’t be doing very much good. So what the fuck? I’d never
traveled with medicine and didn’t have any now. But I could have gone for some.
Some anti-inflammatories or something. Just some aspirin even. Just to take
down the fever and this…what I was presuming to be some sort of infection.
Next day and we were all checking
out. Which meant that we had our bags now and they were piled into the back of
the van. And I clearly remember some guy, in the open-air little gift shop on
that cool morning, asking me why I wouldn’t pay more for a packet of
painkillers.
“Aren’t you American?” he smiled
revealing a mixture of gold teeth, rotten teeth, and no teeth at all.
“Yes.”
“Well,” he retorted just way too
complacently, “Then all American’s are rich, yes?”
“No,” and I put on my honest face as
if it were a lie, “You named your price already. Take it or leave it. I’m sure
I can buy some just up the road from here.”
“Okay.
Okay.”
Sheesh.
Our
guide, at this fine, early hour, came out dressed in one of those beige vests
that journalists wear with all the pockets all over it. I’m not sure what he
had in all those pockets either because it’s not like they were full of film.
It’s not like he was taking any
pictures. So between that and his red ball cap, he definitely resembled
somebody who’d get shot on the news.
“Good
morning, everybody,” he greeted us as the van took off, “I hope you are excited
because today we are going somewhere that I never get tired of going to and I
have been there hundreds, possibly thousands of times. And you, Michael,” he
addressed me (still on my perch in the way-way back), “You say you have been
there before, yes?”
“Yeah.
It’s really cool,” I fecklessly attempted to convince my fellow Americans.
“And
Salehm, she is the one who took you there?”
“Yes,”
I groaned and played along.
“Then
I don’t understand how it is that you two did not get married.”
“Like I said, she was having trouble
getting a passport so…”
“And you did not want to stay in
Jordan?” he was really cracking up at this.
“I mean, I really like it here and
all but…”
“Well, maybe if we see her today, you’ll have a chance to help her get a passport yet.”
“Well, maybe if we see her today, you’ll have a chance to help her get a passport yet.”
“Oh yeah? How’s that?”
“Simple. Just marry her!”
“Oh, jeez.”
Petra is an interesting site (I’d go
so far as to say ‘unique’ for tourists) because they really make you work for
it. There’s no road that gets anywhere close to the thing…which I guess was sort
of the whole point of it. I mean, they still wanted to be able to get shit in
and out of there without being easily invaded so… So every tourist car, truck,
and bus still (thanks to the Nabataean design dating back possibly before even the
time of Christ) had to park in an area of higher ground and let their people
out where they, in turn, would have to walk the couple of miles down this
weird, narrow canyon (sometimes almost completely meeting overhead) till they
got to the good stuff. It’s pretty interesting stuff though, really. The
Nabataean, even way the hell back when, had a little groove cut out in one side
of the stone wall so that drinking water could reach the very bottom of their
well-hidden and well-protected capital. But I’d seen it before. The prissy guy
was too busy complaining about the heat and having to walk to pay attention to
what our guide was saying. And the movie camera guy, since he was taping
absolutely every second of this without fail, I’m pretty sure was missing goddam
absolutely everything. But the old guy…he seemed interested.
“Okay,” our guide in front spread in
arms out, “Everybody stop. I want to make sure you enjoy this moment.” It had
grown cooler down here between the red canyon walls and the irrigation canal I
mentioned that still actually worked! So there was the sound and smell of a
little water running too. “Now, very slowly proceed forward and I think you
will enjoy.”
The movie camera guy, proceeding as
instructed with that damn camera stuck to his face, stumbled over a rock and I
would have given almost anything to have seen him trip all the way and bust
that fucking lens wide open. But he didn’t. He regained his balance at the last
moment and the movie continued.
Most people are familiar with what
is probably the most impressive site in the whole of this national monument. Basically,
carved right into the face of a huge, red cliff; there’s a really intricate
façade of what would appear to be a palace. There’s columns and towers and
stairs leading up to an entrance. But it’s just a relief. The door leads back
about six feet into the solid rock but stops there. Not that it’s not impressive because it is. It’s
gigantic. And just to sit there and try to imagine how the hell human beings
could chisel away at that stone so precisely…and so high! They must have used a
lot of scaffolding or just had them hanging from ropes. Either way, it made for
a very cool place to hang out for a while. And, way down here at the bottom of
the canyon, this entire area (almost) remained out of any direct sunlight.
“Take your time,” our guide told us,
“Look around. And if you want to walk up and put a couple of dinar in the box
inside the temple there, the money all goes to the preservation of this sacred
place. Also, if you look there,” he pointed towards the top of the façade where
there appeared to be a small jar carved out of the same stone sitting atop the
centermost tower, “Can you see from here all the pockmarks in it?”
“Yes,” we answered.
“Michael, did Salehm tell you what
those are from?”
“Um. Yeah. She said they were from
raiders or bandits who must have discovered this place…sometime after the
invention of the rifle anyway. And that they’d shoot at it because they thought
it was full of treasure.”
“Very good, sir. My girl has taught
you well,” he just wasn’t about to let this go.
After taking a bunch of pictures
from every possible angle, our group proceeded just a bit further down the
canyon where it leveled back out and widened up so that, suddenly, we found
ourselves again in the bright light and heat of the day…which was fine. The warmth
felt good on the skin of my arms and I might have even been smiling. And the
park (if that’s what they even called these grounds) wasn’t too crowded either.
Plenty of room to move around and not have to listen to other people’s stupid
conversations.
Burros and the occasional camel
would pass us now and again sometimes carrying someone who’d grown too tired to
walk. And just up ahead, I could see our next destination; an outdoor
restaurant where a slight series of stairs led up, away from the road and towards
many levels of decking where they’d simply smoothed out the rock and set up
picnic tables of various length. A couple of these had been placed underneath
ramadas but we weren’t lucky enough to get there in time. But no big deal. So
I’d have a sunburned nose. Big whoop.
The food was pretty much the same as
it had been since we’d come to this country. But there was plenty of it at
least and that particular, more authentic (I like to think) type of hummus that
actually doesn’t smell like BO. So
that was nice. That and a lot of pepperoncini which I really enjoy biting into
to sort of clear my palate. It’s just that this time…and this has never
happened to me before and, odds are, I’m relatively sure it will never happen
again. But I bit into the one, particularly fat, particularly juicy
pepperoncini and a full-on stream of chartreuse juice shoots out of it in the
direction opposite that of my mouth. And who do you think would be sitting
right across from me? That’s right. The prissy guy. And this stream, with force
enough to dislodge a contact lens; it squirts him right in the eye causing him
to make a sour face instantly. And then his hand goes up to his eye. And then
he’s all faltering around in his seat and such. And then begins the, “Oh my
God. Oh my God, I can’t see. Oh my
God, it stings. John,” that was the old man’s name again, “John, help me to the
bathroom.”
“Holy shit, I’m so sorry man,” and I
really meant it.
But he didn’t say anything. The two
of them just stood up and went.
“It’s okay,” the movie camera guy
tried to reassure me, “He’ll be fine. God! If I only could have gotten that on
tape!”
“He would have to be the one,” mumbled our guide whom I’m sure, only
moments from now with their return, was expecting the worst.
But then, we all just had to crack
up at the situation and its unique brand of ridiculousness. Thankfully, though,
this fit of insane, red-faced laughter abated by the time they got back.
“I’m okay,” was the first thing the
prissy guy nasally announced, “I just rinsed it out. It’s fine.”
But it was bloodshot. I noticed that as soon as he sat back down across
from me.
“Dude, I’m really sorry man.”
“Oh, it’s okay. It’s okay. These
things happen.”
“Actually,” I just had to throw in,
“I’m not so sure that they do.”
And for a few seconds, everyone was
silent. But then we all just started laughing again. And Jesus Christ! I may
have actually felt like I was starting to like these guys.
After lunch, our guide recommend
some different trails around the area and some other pretty cool stuff to hike
to. And I was down. Surprisingly though, John, the old guy, was the only one in
our group who wanted to come with me. And it’s not like my feet stank or
anything. Rather, the hike was supposed to be a couple miles uphill and the
rest of them were like, “Nah, we’re gonna stay down here, maybe ride some
camels around…” That sort of thing. And I’m sure they did…and took lots of
video.
But the old guy and I had a nice
time. I had to slow it down a pace so that he could keep up. But I didn’t mind.
I liked talking to him. He wasn’t like some of the other, preachier old men I’d
run into in my day. Christians mostly who just loved to ask me why I wasn’t
married and have a hundred kids yet. He did ask about me a lot, however. But he
was just sort of making conversation as we made our way through the desert and
rocky outcroppings on this all but deserted trail.
“I’m impressed,” I told him, “When
I’m your age, I don’t think I’d ever be able to make it up this path.”
“That a compliment you’re giving?”
“Actually yeah.”
“Well, thank you.”
And what we found there after
basically climbing all the way back out of the canyon (only at a different point)
was another façade not unlike the majestic one we’d seen down below. It was
more special to me, though, because it was one that way less humans had ever
laid eyes on. I mean, shit, I’d even been
here before and had no idea that another one of these even existed. It was a
different kind of rock than had been down below. Yellower. And harder somehow.
And the details of the palace were a tiny bit more eroded because this place
was much more out in the open. In fact, when we both did an about-face, a warm
breeze ran over us and only about 40 yards away was the edge of one dramatic
precipice. And in that direction we could see what was probably Wadi Musa
again. We could see for miles. Maybe even a hundred. So far that when the blue
sky met with the red desert, it turned kind of pale amber around the horizon.
So far that I knew no picture could ever capture it and knew for certain that
it was the most beautiful thing I’d seen in a while.
“Not exactly Disneyland, is it?” he
said.
“That’s for sure. But you know how
kids are. I don’t think they’d get it anyway.”
I’m pretty sure our guide drove all
the way back up to Amman with us again. And I distinctly remember visiting a
museum sometime during the day where the prissy guy kept attracting dirty looks
from the locals although I was never perfectly sure why. I remember leaving the
general area and grabbing a quick espresso with only him in some tiny, dirty
shop at the bottom of a hill. And I remember that on our way back, he kept
looking over his shoulder and was sure that we were being followed by either a
guy or guys with malicious intent. But nothing bad ever happened. And after
that, our guide bid us farewell when we reached the hotel. The Radisson. Which
is funny. I’ll bet a lot of Americans don’t realize that such chains of hotels
even exist on the other side of the globe because they’re just so…well,
American. But they do. And Jordan is home to a few. There’s even a Days Inn
there. And I knew this even a couple of years before because…
The subject came up back in Petra as
we were walking down the canyon path. I’m not even sure how it got started.
“It’s one of the ones that was
bombed, isn’t it?” I said solemnly.
“Yes,” our guide replied, “Do you
know the others?”
“I think so. I’m pretty familiar
with it since it happened literally 2 days before my girlfriend and I got on a
plane to come out here.”
“And were you scared?”
“Yes.”
“You’d be a fool not to be.”
And even the rest of our group
stayed silent for this one.
“You didn’t say I’d be a fool not to
still come though.”
“And I never said, my friend, that I
took you for one. You overcame your fear then?”
“Yeah.”
“And you came here and made many
Muslim friends.”
“A few,” I answered.
“And Salehm was one of them,” he
smiled.
“Oh jeez. I would love to see her again though.”
“Well, maybe today we bump into her.
Ah?”
“I’d like that.”
But unfortunately, we never did.
The bombings must have been the
reason that security still seemed so tight in the capital though. We passed the
US embassy along a busy highway and it looked locked down like a fucking
fortress. It didn’t help that the day was gloomy and threatening rain; another
rarity for Jordan, so I hear. Precautions were also evident when we rolled up
along the street in front of this Radisson. There were crazy looking, metal
roadblocks spray-painted yellow with uncountable spikes each a foot long (I
suppose to prevent any car bomb attacks from happening and also allowing a
number of armed guards to search each vehicle before it passed). But they
eventually gave us the go-ahead, of course. Not before, however, thoroughly
searching through the movie camera guy’s movie camera bags.
At one point, I saw ‘it’ too. It was
after we’d checked in and everything. After we’d bid our guide farewell and
tipped him and thanked him and shook his hand. It was even after I’d had a
shower and maybe a drink (thank God) down in the bar. But I did a little
exploring. The kind of ‘on purpose’ exploring that one can do while still being
able to plea innocence if caught in some sort of restricted area. And I found
it. And I peeked in because the doors were open anyway. The ballroom. Not
nearly as big as I’d pictured it in my head. Small actually. Just enough for a
private wedding ceremony when only immediate family are on the guest list.
There were a couple of construction guys inside who were busy hanging wallpaper
and didn’t even notice I was there. That was it though. It was the room in
which, just two years earlier, 38 people had perished in a suicide bombing.
This hotel and two others. The attacks had been coordinated to go off at the
same time. The weird thing about this one, though, was that; for one, there did
actually happen to be a wedding going on at the time. And two; there were
actually two people strapped with
dynamite or what-the-fuck-ever they used who entered the premises. And they were husband and wife. True story.
I wish I were creative enough to make something like this up because it would
make for a really intense and compelling tale but I’m not. I pretty much just
write’em like I see’em and…a husband and wife team of suicide bombers really
did enter that ballroom and !@#$%^&*() another husband and wife’s fucking
wedding. If that’s not perverse and, to put it lightly, disrespectful. And
actually, the dynamite-strapped wife got out though. For some reason, her shit
wouldn’t detonate so, lovingly, her
husband told her to run. And she did. And then he threw himself on a table in
the middle of the room and. Boom. I’m sure it didn’t sound like that though.
I’m sure there was glass shattering and people screaming. And even over that,
probably none of it could be heard. But just ears ringing. Ringing for a long
time.
So this was the nice hotel in which
we stayed. And I have to admit, for something so tragic to have gone down in here,
they had recuperated themselves. The place seemed to be booked to capacity and
the rooms were nice…enough. I opened one of my dresser drawers underneath the
TV and it was crammed full of stuffed animals but decided not to read into that
any further. And the guys called me. They actually called me! When here I
thought that, after we received our keys and separately made our way to the elevators,
that was the last I’d ever see of them. But I wasn’t disappointed to hear their
voices.
“Mick,” the prissy guy spoke through
the receiver, “What are you doing? We’re all up in John’s room trying to decide
what to do tonight…if anything. Personally, I
want to do something considering it’s our last night. But it doesn’t have to be
anything major. Even just walking around or something. What do think? Does
something like that sound good to you?”
“Uh…yeah. Well…”
“Oh, just come up. We can all discuss
it face-to-face.”
“Okay.”
Upstairs, I found the three of them lounging
around on the bed and some chairs. The TV was on and turned to a special on the
life of Dennis Hopper who, as I discovered just this very moment, had died
yesterday. The prissy guy was sitting in a chair at a table and making some
marks in a notebook. The curtains behind him were open wide and outside the
afternoon day was grey, drizzly, and (even I’ve got to say) not very inviting.
Still.
“Whatcha working on?” I asked him.
“Well, ya know how the 4 of us were
supposed to go to Kenya?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve been doing some
investigating and, turns out, I’m pretty sure they overcharged all of us for
the hotel and airfare. Jordan’s not nearly as far and…well, I’m working out the
details right now,” he opened up a laptop and turned it on, “And I’ll let you
know what I find out. We all may get a partial refund.”
“Sweet. I’m always down with that.”
But really, at the time, I couldn’t figure out why he was bothering. It just
seemed like so much effort. And would the good people at the travel agency
really try to rip us off for any significant value? I doubted it. But I also
wound up being wrong.
After the prissy guy made a few
phone calls though, since he just wasn’t about to let this matter go till we
got home, he again turned his attention to going out and seeing something and
maybe grabbing a bite to eat. The others weren’t very into this idea however.
And the mood in the room was one of those were inertia had already set in, the
Dennis Hopper special seemed to be hypnotizing them, and it seemed an effort even
to speak. I knew that if we didn’t get out of here and do something very fast, the four of us would just
keep watching TV for hours until one of us suggested going down to the first
floor restaurant for dinner. And that did sound boring. But…I guess to John and
the movie camera guy, the party was already over. They were spent and they said
so.
“Well, we won’t be very long
anyway,” he spoke to them both as we were leaving, “We’ll probably be back in
time for dinner. But feel free to eat without us if you get hungry.”
“Will do,” they mumbled never
removing their eyes from the TV screen. They were really fried.
In the elevator, he asked me, “Have you heard of any good places to go
around here?”
“Uh…I actually went out a little
earlier to try and find an ATM. Which I did after quite a hike. But nah. I
didn’t see anything. Maybe we should just catch a cab or something. I don’t
think it’ll cost too much. This city
doesn’t seem that big.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.”
And so we found ourselves, not 15
minutes later, in what must have been dubbed ‘downtown Amman’, walking around,
enjoying the sights, and drawing queer looks from just about everyone; shopkeepers,
drivers, and random pedestrians alike. The evening remained kind of foggy and
wet. The air was thick and exhaust fumes from every car in this busy area
seemed to get trapped under the thick, cottony blanket that was the sky
overhead. But in a way, this just added to the mystique of the place. Wrinkly,
copper-colored faces with covered heads popping out from down alleyways. We saw
a guy roasting nuts in several garbage can lids and selling them in brown paper
bags to school age children with smiles on their faces. And a bit further on,
we found a storefront with a glass case containing sheep heads with their
eyeballs cleanly bored out somehow. And we asked the two young guys behind the
counter about them but they didn’t understand a word we were saying so finally,
through more of a physical gesture than anything else, I asked them if I could please
just take a picture and they were pretty well amused. At another point, we even
found what must have been ‘town square’ where there was situated a commercial
structure of some sort with windows up above looking down over the street. And
that’s when Tom (that’s his name) pointed excitedly and said, “Oh! It looks
like an ice cream parlor. You wanna go up there?”
“Sure,” I replied, “I’ve got nowhere
to be.”
And I didn’t. So we went and found a
table that he could people watch from on high where he ordered an elaborate
sundae and I sipped another espresso.
And it was during this little
interlude that I discovered just what it was he did for a living. The guy was a
fucking Broadway play critic back in New York. And although he wasn’t even
trying to talk it up any; it sounded like he was pretty well-known. I still
never learned whether or not he was gay…not that it really mattered, I guess.
Was just curious. Seemed he was just sort of a loner though. Kind of like me.
And God, how I remembered hating him in the airport on that first day. But I
learned then… Or rather. Some fundamental concept I’d already known was
reiterated to me yet again and hopefully became more solidified this time. And
that’s that; people tend to either really love or hate other people they don’t
know. It’s like first impressions but more
like a pre-first impressions if there can be such a thing. It’s about attitude.
And when I left for this trip, I think I may have had it on my brain to just
fucking really dislike any other American I came across rather than trying to
bond and have a good time with them and enjoy our experiences together. ’Cause
I’m a dick like that. But at the same time, I can also be partial to people
I’ve only just met who’ve never given me any reason to give them my attention or affection. People
are crazy though. We don’t make sense. And although I consider myself to be a
good communicator (in the posthumous sense); I am still, irrefutably, one of
the craziest ones among them, Mother Ida. Even you can’t deny it. But I am
human just the same.
We
found out that that ice cream parlor was actually the entrance to a mall. And
there we saw a Muslim man out shopping with 4 wives (the legal limit according
to Islam). And from what I hear, he must have been very rich to support them
all. It was also here that Tom began browsing around for a dress of some style
to bring home to his niece. He didn’t find the ‘right one’, though, until we
were back out on the streets where it was night now. It was among one of the
smaller shops down a very narrow avenue where there was an outdoor vegetable
market, poorly lit by bulbs that seemed to shine more laterally than downwards,
and the crowds were running shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t bargain like an
American either…which was nice. Rather, he discussed the prices of certain
garments and examined the material from which they were made. Always doing so
without an ounce of contempt or disdain in his voice or in his heart because he
was shopping ‘for real’ and not just trying to buy some souvenir he didn’t care
about for the sake of getting the best of somebody. And I adored him for this
when, eventually, he did purchase a red one with petticoat ruffles connected to
a type of bodice with shoulder straps, and lots of chiffon. The designer was
genuinely pleased with the deal and so was Tom…and so would his niece be.
I guess it’s a blessing that, after
that though, we both admitted to being fatigued. Because everything seemed to
be getting darker and the looks from locals that had once seemed inquisitive
more than anything else, began feeling angry. And why shouldn’t they. Jordan
bordered Iraq after all and over there, probably just as we were shopping
around and eating ice cream so happily, some of these people’s relatives were
dying at the hands of US soldiers. And while it’s sad that anyone has to die that
way (in war); let me please just put down that I don’t value an American life over an Iraqi’s. They’re not in Houston. They’re
not in LA. They’re not even in
Oklahoma. We are there. And their
department of homeland security must exist too though in a form much more
rudimentary and desperate. So back out on one of the main drags again, we
caught the first cab that would pick us up and told him the name of our hotel.
The taxi wasn’t allowed to drive us
up to the front door but… Well, it’s not like we couldn’t walk up a little,
paved hill a ways. Still…it seemed like something the prissy guy would have
complained about at any point before. But maybe Tom was just in a good mood and
having a good night. I knew I certainly was and I hadn’t even had a drink. And
when the cabbie was about to give us our change, I told him to keep such and
such an amount in Arabic.
And Tom gasped but more of like the
inhaling kind, “You know these words?!”
“Just the very basics,” and I was
serious, “You know. The numbers. The ‘how do ya do’s’. That sort of thing.”
“Well, you’ve got to use them!
That’s the only way.”
Apparently, Tom was also a Spanish
teacher in his spare time.
“Shukran jazilan,” I nodded farewell
to our driver and threw in, mostly for Tom’s sake, “Alhamdulillah.”
And the driver repeated the phrase
back to me. And damned if everyone didn’t leave on a high note. We’d missed
dinner with the guys, though, undoubtedly as we’d been out much later than
expected or ever gave them the impression of. And since Tom had already said
that he was tired, he confirmed it by telling me he was just going to go to
bed.
“Let’s all have breakfast together
before our flight though,” he smiled, “How does eight ‘o’ clock sound to you?”
“I never pass up a free breakfast,
man. I’ll be there for sure.”
Then we parted and I made my way
into the bar where some guy was playing live on a classic piano. And I had a
couple whiskeys but decided, and just soon enough, that they were too rich for
my blood…not that much was going on there anyway. No ladies. Just a bunch of
men sitting alone and keeping to
themselves who I imagined were either pilots or foreign dignitaries. Basically,
the reason this very hotel was plotted for a bombing in the first place. Those
whiskeys though. They put me right under.
My toothache never did quite go away
and I realized this, instantly, when my alarm clock went off. Well, fuck it. I
was about to catch a plane to Tampa to visit with my parents for a few days
and, if they didn’t have any good
prescription drugs, I could be sure some of my old friends did.
“Heh-hey! There he is!”
I met them downstairs at a sunny
table for breakfast and, typical of my morning slow-goingness, was the last to
have arrived.
“Look at you!” they went on, “You
got a hot date or something?”
I was wearing a suit…different than
the one I’d put on in Dubai actually. Was going through a big suit-phase. Can’t
explain it.
“Actually yeah,” I lied, “She’s
picking me up from the airport. Just wanted to look good. You know.”
Then, after loading up on scrambled
buffet eggs and sausage, we all sat back down again and talked about movies.
Tom, predictably, was into really artsy flicks…pretty much anything that’s ever
been nominated for an Oscar. And I think, more than anything, I just wanted to
see the look on his face when I told him that I was a big Will Farrell fan.
“Oh my God!” he laughed, “Are you
serious?! It’s like…the movie starts, and then he shows his butt, and then
everyone laughs, and then it’s over.”
Not that I ever expected us to have
the same tastes in much. But Tom was a cool guy just the same. We still keep in
touch via email mostly and, no exaggeration, he’s traveled more widely than
anyone I’ve ever met. Twice a year, he goes to some of the most remote
locations of the globe that I can even imagine. Uzbekistan and shit. Think
about that. That guy in what I at
least believe to be a country kind of hostile towards Americans. He always
makes it back though. He’s even gone hiking through the jungle and seen
silverback gorillas. And I look forward to receiving updates from his new trips
all the time. Because I like him. I like Tom. And although he sure could whine
and complain with the best of ’em, he’s still my very unlikely friend.
John and the movie camera guy,
though, I never heard from again. I never even heard about John again…not even in Tom’s emails. And I never asked about
him either. He was just a nice, old guy who kind of came and went, is all. And
I’ve obviously remembered him in so much detail for, let’s see, what is it
now…about 4 or 5 years. That’s also about how long the movie camera guy said it
would take him to begin the work of editing everything he’d shot on this trip
too. And I wonder if he’s doing that right now. And if he knows that I don’t
actually hate him.