Adventures in Wadi Rum

It’s interesting what you notice when there isn’t much going on in the town you’re in. Aqaba, Jordan reminds me of the John Steinbeck short story, The Pearl when he describes the little Mexican village the book’s protagonist, Kino has lived in his entire life:

“It is wonderful the way a little town keeps track of itself and of all its units. If every single man and woman, child and baby, acts and conducts itself in a known pattern and breaks no walls and differs with no one and experiments in no way and is not sick and does not endanger the ease and peace of mind or steady unbroken flow of the town, then that unit can disappear and never be heard of.”

I discovered only one of the elevators at the hotel I’m staying at works; a realization that took longer than it should have to stumble upon.

I now know which convenient stores sell coconut water and are air-conditioned. 

I could tell you where to rent a tuxedo.

I’d happily point you in the direction of the nearest mosque, archaeological site, or best spot to wade in the Red Sea. 

I’d want you to know the restaurant Fish Fish just down the street lists carrot juice on its menu but never actually has any. 

I would tell you not to be alarmed by the countless military posts where young Jordanian soldiers stand guard.

My point is, you notice more. A lot more. Like the difference between solitude and loneliness; a distinction you might not make unless given the time to actually consider it.

And after yesterday, I might tell you not to bother with Wadi Rum; a desert land of camels, peaks, and caves.

I was going stir crazy in my quarter mile radius of closed shops and endless prayer calls. For better or worse, I’m not the type to lie idly on a beach for hours. I get antsy, guilty even. My coding requires movement, creation — a path to be chartered. 

So after breakfast I headed down to the lobby.I wanted to speak with the man who handled tours in Aqaba. I knocked on his door as he turned slowly from his computer and waved me in. His office was well lit but lacked any semblance of ventilation. 

The entire room reeked of sweat and immobility.

“I was thinking of going to Wadi Rum today,” I beamed. “I was going to hire a cab to take me there this afternoon. What do you think would be a fair asking price?” 

He stared at me blankly. My motivation suddenly became to try and make him smile.

“What do you know about Wadi Rum?” he asked skeptically. 

“Well, I know it’s basically caves and mountains.” 

He leaned in slowly looking me square in the eyes before making certain not to mince words.

“First of all, it is not just caves and mountains. It is much more. There are Bedouins, camels, and lots of other things you can see and do.” 

I debated for a moment if I’d offended him with my Wadi Rum cliff notes but he seemed more interested in enlightenment than bullying.

Our encounter was brief but memorable. In the end we both agreed seeing Wadi Rum would be a good idea and so I set out to find a cab.

Drivers in Aqaba are as easy to find as the sun. Instantly a green Kia appeared out of nowhere. I went up to the passenger side window and asked if he spoke English. 

“A little,” he said. 

“How much to take me to Wadi Rum?” I asked. 

He seemed puzzled by the inquiry, which I didn’t think was a particularly strong start. 

“Just a second,” he said. “Please, sit down,” he pleaded. 

As he conferred with what I gathered was his boss, another driver tried shamelessly to steer me away. The gentlemen was closing in on 70 and resembled some of my distant relatives on my father’s side. 

“Hello,” he said. “Where are you going?” 

Before the conversation went any further, my friend in the Kia said, “Okay! 40 dinar,” which seemed like a screaming deal. The concierge in my hotel had suggested I pay 55 dinars for the one-hour journey. 

“Okay,” I said. And got in.

“What’s your name?” he asked. 

“Nick,” I said. 

“My name is Mohammed,” he shouted back. 

He tried earnestly to make conversation but realized he’d exhausted all he knew. He hopped on the phone as I heard him say the words, “Wadi Rum,’ several times. Instead of leaving the city we headed to a neighborhood I’d coincidentally walked through the day before. 

Something was up. I thought.

A few minutes later we picked up a heavyset man in his early thirties. He smiled and said hello before asking me if I was Spanish. He then claimed his seat on the front passenger side. 

“Wadi Rum?” he confirmed. 

“Yes,” I said.

We took another quick turn where waiting for us was another man. He was dressed in a traditional Muslim garment and looked to be in his late 50s. 

“You want to go to Wadi Rum?” he asked as well. 

“Yes,” I said. “Is that a problem?” 

I was growing steadily more agitated by what seemed like a reasonable request. Perhaps it was the car’s stench or the heat that threatened my poise, but I was confounded by this bizarre cab ritual I’d suddenly become part of.

“We switch drivers. He speaks English. 50 dinar. Okay?” 

Now the price and the stakes had been raised but I wanted to rattle neither. 

“Okay,” I said.

Mohammed left as my new stout friend and I drove off together. He offered to let me sit up front, but I’d grown as content as possible right where I was. 

My new driver was a little rough around the edges but equally earnest in his attempt to make conversation. His English turned out to be equally limited, which made me wander what all the fuss was about. We sat without speaking for much of the ride as he blasted loud Arabic music. I assumed it was an attempt pass the time, the awkwardness, or perhaps both. 

It sounds strange to say but I already missed Mohammed.

The drive itself was uneventful. We arrived in Wadi Rum in about 35 minutes, which immediately made me suspicious. The driver pointed animatedly to the peaks on either side of us convincing me we were in fact where I’d asked to be. 

There were camels and signs that could verify his claim in a court of law I suppose. Still, I was underwhelmed and would bet the house I wasn’t where they shot the photos for the brochure.

The hell with it, I thought. 

I’d been duped in China, Turkey, and though this was an honorable mention, why not tally Jordan up as well?

He begged to take a photo of me with the mountains in the background as I finally obliged. I asked him to wait as I took a long stroll towards the highest peak in the vicinity. I walked and walked until it was eerily quite. I was grateful for the solitude.

What am I doing here? I thought. My life is so weird.

I walked back to the car to find my new friend swatting a herd of flies that had completely taken over the car. As we swerved dangerously across a narrow and desolate highway, I watched as he screamed into his phone and swatted flies. 

This would be one hell of a way to go, I remember thinking.

When we got back to my hotel I handed him 50 dinar before he attempted to shake me down for an extra 5.

“For Mohammed,” he said.

“No,” I told him. “First it was 40, then 50, now 55? No way,” I shouted. 

I took strange pride in my little performance. I’d stuck up for myself, which was a disturbingly rare event. 

I decided to make my to the beach. I stripped down to my boxers and headed into the Red Sea. 

As I sat staring off towards Israel, I was approached by three teenagers.

“Can you beat box?” one asked.

Perhaps the only thing stranger than the inquiry was the fact that I actually could. 

I offered a rendition of a Godfather tune I’d practiced for years in the shower. He liked it so much he recorded it on his phone before rapping in Arabic. A small group gathered as I beat-boxed while he performed. 

Another gentlemen made his way over. He seemed equally entertained as he was confounded by what all the commotion was about. 

He asked where I was staying and I told him nearby. I asked him the same question as he pointed to the towel where he’d just come from. Part of me envied that abandonment of heart before I took solace in my age and knowing I could take a hot shower.

Eventually, I made my way back after a long but eventful day. One of which I suppose I orchestrated in some perverse way. Now, my earphones were blasting with the sounds of Drake as I strolled past a mosque.

I turned the corner and stopped by that convenient store with coconut water. I handed over the half dinar before the clerk asked me if I was French. 

“No,” I said amused at how sunglasses and slicked back hair had made me Spanish a few short hours before, while the same Ray Bans and disheveled hair courtesy of the Red Sea knighted me French. 

I set out for home and cracked open my drink taking a deep and unapologetic sip. And all was good again.

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