Rising at 0615, Isabelle and Oliver walked me through breakfast. Still groggy, I sat in my place at the table as they asked what I would like to drink. Indicating Coffee, Oliver proceeded to put several spoonfuls of instant into what I had assumed was my cereal bowl. Filling it with hot water and then milk, I tried not to look confused while watching the other two begin their morning ration.
Crazy nation...
Breakfast in this part of France appears to be a small bowl of hot beverage, into which you dip pieces of bread that have been covered with spread.. kind of like a giant morning tea with biscuits. I performed monkey-see, monkey-do. After noting my confusion, conversation shifted onto breakfast here versus their time in Ireland..
After doing my best to help them clean-up, Oliver appeared carrying a sleepy-eyed Clementine. Grumpy from being disturbed and shy again, she simply stared at me up until it was time to go.
Toddler-sized goodbye kisses and hands shaken, Oliver and Clementine took off in one direction while Isabelle and I drove off to the station. Talking about travel and children, the car ride and then the train ride was partitioned by her distaste at the lack of manners amongst the locals.
Arriving at our parting of ways, Isabelle pointed out where and how I needed to catch my next train while I walked her to the bus-stop. Kisses and goodbyes done, we promised to email soon and I promised to send her the photos I'd taken.
This had been a most pleasant leg of my trip, it is always the people that stay in your memories and I have definitely become a great fan of France. More the north than other areas, I think I might travel here again soon.
Boarding my train to Paris, I stared out the window and updated my journal for a couple of hours before arriving at the terminus. I had asked Isabelle for directions to a famous ice-creamery that had been featured in a series of spy novels that I enjoy. While at first confused, she found the island on the map that it was supposedly located on, suggesting I ask for directions once I get to the area.
Wandering through the train-station, my new goal clearly set in my mind, I tried to calibrate my internal compass to the local north. Taking two wrong exits, I found the train-line that was needed and set off. Exiting in the inner suburbs, Paris looks like any other big city. Mentally locking in a local cafe as a landmark, I asked a local for directions and set out for Notre-Dame.
Wandering through Paris with a main-pack on your back and a day-pack on your front is challenging and tiring, no matter where you are. Paris is no exception. With all of the lockers and baggage storage decommissioned for “security reasons”, it was something that simply had to be suffered. Gazing at the palaces and waterways helped, but I could not enter any of them with my luggage in tow.
Asking for directions from a friendly Police/Security Officer, I made my way onto the island that is home to Notre-Dame. In awe of the size and majesty of the building, I had some photos taken for me by another tourist. The last time I was here, I had not had the impact of the place like this time. Walking past the queues to get in, I was a little sad that my pack prevented me from joining them.
Following the directions of a passing priest, I crossed a bridge onto an adjacent island. His instructions had not been entirely specific, which had confused me. Arriving on the new Island, a local guiding some tourists pointed out the little restaurant that I was looking for. She elaborated that there were “two houses, same owner”, with the second restaurant nearby. Now understanding the earlier vague instructions, my little mission was at an end. I sat near a window looking on Notre-Dame after dumping my pack rather unceremoniously on the floor. Not entirely fitting the description from the novel, I assumed that it was the other store that had been the birth-place of a famous, fictional, international crime-ring.
Fictional or not, the strawberry sobet in Maisson de Berthilon is like a work of art. In homage to the 12 executives of international assassination, my order literally had me wide-eyed and almost gasping with every little spoonful. If this delicacy was served in any country other than France, it would probably be classed as a narcotic.
My desert very slowly devoured (hey, this stuff is REALLY rich and incredibly sweet... you can only have a tiny taste at a time), I savoured the rest and the cold water before the inevitable trek back to the train-station. Additionally, paying 9 Euros for two scoops of ice-cream (about $18-20), I wanted to enjoy as much of the exclusive ice-creamery as possible before the gentle prodding of the staff to “settle my cheque”.
Back on the street, I started to think about lunch. Being this central, everything was quite expensive. I wandered through the side-streets of the little island, browsing the posted menus for inspiration. Settling my pack on a wall overlooking the river, I had a little rest while swiping some free WiFi to update the maps on my phone. Chatting to some other aussies nearby, I got some suggestions for eateries and took off back towards Notre-Dame.
Chicken and cheese Crepes under the shadows of Notre-Dame are a great suggestion for Paris, even when badly over-cast.
Taking my time on the way back to the correct Metro station, I stopped for photos and admired the statues that were part of the city. There were artists and stalls on many of the corners, I wish I'd had the extra euro and the means to transport some of the canvas oil-paintings that I saw.
My exercise done for the day, I settled into a cafe-restaurant-bar (they always seem to be at least two of the three, regardless of where you are in France) and used the excuse of a very powerful Citron-Presse to make use of their WiFi for as long as I was welcome. The little rest adjacent to the Metro station where I had stepped into this metropolis was a great way to spend a few hours in Paris. Music in the back-ground, the bustle of the other patrons, the delicate glare of the serving staff. Updating my blog, skyping to Jenny and attempting to call home filled the time. I got a fair idea of where to meet Emma and Josh, gathering my resolve for the journey ahead.
After the WiFi had cut-out, once it had become obvious that I would not be buying much more here, I made motions to leave. Settling my bill under the distasteful gaze of the waiters, I left this little thorny haven and braved the even more toxic attitude of the small crepe-stall out front for a nutella and banana crepe. Descending once again to the metro, funds were acquired for the train to Charles De-Gaulle airport after a first failed attempt for a ticket. Boarding the correct train at this point was not particularly clearly marked out or a simple effort in itself. Guarding my gear the whole way to the airport, I stared out the window. An odd busker wandered into our carriage shortly after leaving the station at Chattelle, playing something that sounded jarringly French on an odd little violin. Having been stripped of its main body, a trumpet horn had been fixed into the backbone just under the bridge. Striking a stark contrast to the industrial and residential scenery flying past the window, I took a short video of the little display and tipped the strange little man.
Arriving hours early, I navigated my way through the small city that is this hub of the sky. Still being several hours too early for check-in, I retreated to a nearby British pub. In this odd little refuge, amongst a crowd of French dialogue, an auburn-haired angel served me a Blonde beer with a smile and a sweet little French accent. The most pretty girl since I had left Australia made my day with little more effort than a smile, and I was sad that more of Paris could not be like this. I like France, but as Isabelle, Oliver and Justine had said “Paris is not France. They are Parisians, not French..”
The karma earned by the early check-in was short lived after the beer. As it ends out, boarding in CDG airport is almost immediate. Advertised at 1550, I presented myself at the gate 5-10 minutes after boarding began. Despite being a very large and painfully full plane, 5 minutes is all that was considered necessary and they had been about to call security to find me. The strange words on either side of “Valencia”, called over the PA, had been considered the French pronunciation of my name.
Apologies expressed and bustled past the door and onto the sky-bridge, I ran as best I could to the air-craft. With a disinterested look the steward let me past and I joined the long queue for seating... I can see that they were in such a rush and panic to get me here...
The snails pace to my seat in the emergency isle (benefit of early check-in :) ) was followed by a painful delay before the plane disengaged from the terminal and eventually made it into the air. The pilot was kind enough to dip the wings in attempt to afford us a better view of the Eiffel Tower through the increasing clouds.
Once small note is that Air Europa is NOT Air France and shares few, if any, similarities.
An utterly forgettable meal later, we bounced to a landing in Valencia. The sub-average touch-down was followed by some extremely panicked reverse-engine braking that seemed to go on for at least a minute.. Looking worriedly out the window, I started to wonder if he would just hit the power and try again.. Finally slowing to a speed that announced we had indeed landed, applause from the entire plane had me thinking I might be more choosy with Air Carriers in the future. When the pilot's option NOT to not have a firery death is received with thanks and praise, rather being assumed, it makes one concerned.
Battling through the very pushy crowds of Spanish travellers, I eventually got my gear and made it out to the metro station. Stopping for the address of a hostel that had a pretty good reputation, I was off into the city.
Emerging from the station, under the shadow of the bull-fighting ring, Valencia was actually quite pretty at night. I really should have savoured this moment, it was one of the few peaceful moments until I was on the next train...
Humping it down a major road and several of its minor siblings, my iPhone eventually figured out where it was and I was able to get a better idea of the area. I was looking for a back-packers called “Home” which had an excellent reputation and had come highly recommended.
After about 30 minutes of wandering around, I found the area and then the building. It it located quite centrally and there seemed a pretty good vibe about the place. Unfortunately, a lot of other people felt the same way and it was full.. in fact, a lot of people seem to think that Valencia as a whole is pretty cool, as everywhere was full... The manager at Home was absolutely excellent, phoning around and trying to find a place for myself and a polish student who was in a similar situation...
No luck...
So, for the next 3 hours, Konrad (Polish student) and I wandered around from place to place looking for somewhere to sleep for less than 20 Euro. There were a number of hotels with vacancies, but no hostels or pensions.
Eventually we found a little pension where the lady said she might have two beds at 1230 (midnight) but wouldn't know till then. Kind enough to let us leave our bags, we continued on in the hunt for shelter... We eventually found a dingy place while looking for another hostel that had been recommended by some fellow travellers. Offering the right price for a third story twin-room, we rejoiced briefly before heading back to get our packs. Easier said than done...
By the time we found the little pension again, it was 1245 and there were rooms free for us... Talk about a famine or a flood... Having had to pay at the other place to secure the rooms, we apologised, purchased some water, collected our bags and set off..
Having thought ahead, I'd logged the location of the hostel on my phone.. so getting back and collapsing (after short showers) was a fairly simple task...
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
030908 - France, Lille to Rouen
030809 – Lille to Rouen, France
I woke earlier than I expected and snuck past Justine's room to make use of the toilet and bathroom. Justine was still asleep and the kitchen showed signs of Adelaide's early departure, the living room was in a suitable state of suitable disarray.
After packing my bags and confirming that my iPhone had upgraded properly and transferred enough music, Justine's room made the normal groans of resurrection. Peaking through the door, I saw one eye open enough to provoke several seconds of jumping on the bed. Paniced squeals brought Justine into the world of the living, and so the day had begun.
We wandered down the impossibly dense flight of stairs, my pack and gear feeling lighter for the 4kg I'd sent home. A short trip to the Metro via a route I was unfamiliar with, we arrived shortly at the train station. At my request, we found a nearby bakery that would also serve coffee. The black coffee and pastries performed their duties admirably, though I wish I could have dome more to say thankyou to Justine than simply buying her a cheap breakfast and a cheaper souveneir from Jordan.
We tried to find some more Quoisse at the surrounding bakeries, but had to settle on a packet of small, flat, unflavoured ones that are meant to be consumed with coffee. Accepting defeat but still scoring some crossaunts for the train, I got some silly photos at the front of the train station and we killed time walking past the nearby shopping district.
As the time for my morning departure drew closer, we made our way to the platform. Goodbye hugs and cheek-kisses later, accomanied by more invitations to visit Australia (countered with invitations to come back her and to bring Jenny), Justine made her way back up the platform, towards home and then work. I boared my train and swapped seats until finding a good vantage point from which to watch the countryside. Departing at 1044 and arriving at 1315, I wrote my journal and watched more of the beautiful scenery from two days before.
Rouen
Having had a lot of difficulty pronouncing this name, the girls had gotten a lot of amusement from my attempts and then eventual success at making the required sounds. I finally found the trick by making the head movement and sounds of a car driving past, a lot of laughter and telling me that I was finally saying it perfectly made me wonder if they only said it in order to maintain continual ammusement.
Rouen is an ancient city with a magnificent Cathedral, world-changing history and no storage for luggage, despite what Isabelle had been told. I struggled with station staff that spoke no english before giving up and sitting down at a restaurant for some coffee. The Quoisse biscuits had kept me company on the train, but I'd left my other pastries under the seat.
Wandering down into the city, I did my best to avoid the men sitting in door ways asking for cigarettes and fumbled my way to the Tourism Office. A little conversation with the excellent staff there yielded a map and some suggestions for today. 10 minutes later, I was eating a delicious tomatoe and cheese baguette in the square in front of the great cathedral and making some plans.
I sourced a ticket for the little tourist train that drove through the streets and doubled back to the tourism office for an “Audio Tour” device in exchange for 5 euro and my student-card as deposit. On the little train, we drove through the streets as I dialed in the locations to hear the history.
We saw some ancient buildings with what was described as “important architecture”. I saw the tower and square that witnessed the fate of Joan of Arc, wishing that I had more time to wander past the little monument and through the flower markets. After an hour of carriage, we dissembarked and I went hunting for water and a seat.
I woke earlier than I expected and snuck past Justine's room to make use of the toilet and bathroom. Justine was still asleep and the kitchen showed signs of Adelaide's early departure, the living room was in a suitable state of suitable disarray.
After packing my bags and confirming that my iPhone had upgraded properly and transferred enough music, Justine's room made the normal groans of resurrection. Peaking through the door, I saw one eye open enough to provoke several seconds of jumping on the bed. Paniced squeals brought Justine into the world of the living, and so the day had begun.
We wandered down the impossibly dense flight of stairs, my pack and gear feeling lighter for the 4kg I'd sent home. A short trip to the Metro via a route I was unfamiliar with, we arrived shortly at the train station. At my request, we found a nearby bakery that would also serve coffee. The black coffee and pastries performed their duties admirably, though I wish I could have dome more to say thankyou to Justine than simply buying her a cheap breakfast and a cheaper souveneir from Jordan.
We tried to find some more Quoisse at the surrounding bakeries, but had to settle on a packet of small, flat, unflavoured ones that are meant to be consumed with coffee. Accepting defeat but still scoring some crossaunts for the train, I got some silly photos at the front of the train station and we killed time walking past the nearby shopping district.
As the time for my morning departure drew closer, we made our way to the platform. Goodbye hugs and cheek-kisses later, accomanied by more invitations to visit Australia (countered with invitations to come back her and to bring Jenny), Justine made her way back up the platform, towards home and then work. I boared my train and swapped seats until finding a good vantage point from which to watch the countryside. Departing at 1044 and arriving at 1315, I wrote my journal and watched more of the beautiful scenery from two days before.
Rouen
Having had a lot of difficulty pronouncing this name, the girls had gotten a lot of amusement from my attempts and then eventual success at making the required sounds. I finally found the trick by making the head movement and sounds of a car driving past, a lot of laughter and telling me that I was finally saying it perfectly made me wonder if they only said it in order to maintain continual ammusement.
Rouen is an ancient city with a magnificent Cathedral, world-changing history and no storage for luggage, despite what Isabelle had been told. I struggled with station staff that spoke no english before giving up and sitting down at a restaurant for some coffee. The Quoisse biscuits had kept me company on the train, but I'd left my other pastries under the seat.
Wandering down into the city, I did my best to avoid the men sitting in door ways asking for cigarettes and fumbled my way to the Tourism Office. A little conversation with the excellent staff there yielded a map and some suggestions for today. 10 minutes later, I was eating a delicious tomatoe and cheese baguette in the square in front of the great cathedral and making some plans.
I sourced a ticket for the little tourist train that drove through the streets and doubled back to the tourism office for an “Audio Tour” device in exchange for 5 euro and my student-card as deposit. On the little train, we drove through the streets as I dialed in the locations to hear the history.
We saw some ancient buildings with what was described as “important architecture”. I saw the tower and square that witnessed the fate of Joan of Arc, wishing that I had more time to wander past the little monument and through the flower markets. After an hour of carriage, we dissembarked and I went hunting for water and a seat.
020908 - Lille, France
020908 – Lille, France
Having slept in till about 10AM, I woke to Justine and Adelaide bumping around the kitchen and living area. We had been planning to go to the war memorial at Fromelles and then possibly to Begium via Justine's parents house. There was also talk of going to her grand-parents farm for a little bit in the afternoon.
Breakfast was in the form of crepe's and juice, both girls laughing at my laboured learning how to eat them “properly”.
Both the dinner last night and the breakfast this morning highlighted the use of addatives as God had originally intended. In Australia, we use salt and sugar by the bucket in order to introduce a desirable flavour to a meal, usually measured out with a small bucket.
The night before, I had been informed that the dish comprised of Bone Marrow was best eaten with salt. After a small taste of the blande dish, I followed the directions of girls wiser than I am. My mind... it was blown.. With a gentle little bump of the salt shaker, I discovered a wide, rich, deep flavour. In almost a most inexplicable way, this meal conversed with me, allowing me to distinguish “that would not be enough”, “this amount of salt is just right” and “no more, that would be too much”.
Today, Adelaide said that I should put straight sugar on the crepe. Specific sugar that is known in this part of France. Once again, a little daring allowed the meal to speak to me. “this is the right amount, you have put on a little too much”. With a light, little french accent, my taste-buds were instructed. This is how food is meant to be adorned.
After an incredibly small and light breakfast, I found that nothing more was needed. In fact, I don't think I could have actually eaten any more. Thus, we made our preparations to leave for the day.
Being suitably smug with my digestion, the magical belt allowed us to get to the car mostly unworried before opening up the sky.
It took about an hour to find our way through the French motorways to the tiny town of Fromelles. The maps and GPS in my new iPhone were indespensible for the journey, though it was only 27 kilometres, Justine was unfamiliar with this part of the country-side. We spent the trip commenting on the scenery, Justine correcting my pitiful level of french and teaching me some new words. Finding ourselves in a town with a beautiful big church and the correct name by the road, we followed the signs to the Australian Memorial.
A quiet, grey sky welcomed us to a field with flags from two nations, the two friends flying with pride amongst scattered, broken monoliths. Scarred pieces of enemy bunkers. In the middle of a small inlet of french grass, a dozen shattered plates of concrete served as a foundation, a sharp, pained hillock for a great bronze statue of two Australian soldiers. One carrying another, “don't forget me, cobber”.
Walking about the visible accolade that this country honours her friends, we met some other Australians by a flooded bunker entrance. We all said quiet hellos between photographs to remember this place before the short drive to the wall of names.
Entering across the loving manicured grass, between trees that stand as ageless guards, a monument rose before a long curved wall. In the middle, between the marble crosses submerged in the ground, Justine tooks some photos and we found the name Davies, R.F. Great Uncle Dick had been a Private in the 53rd. It was here, in this sanctuary amongst the beautiful french fields and with the stretching horizon, back into history, that a list of names ask us not to be forgotten.
Now grateful for the rain and a little solitude, I wrote in the visitors book with a walk the long way back to the car. I thanked Justine again and we drove quietly back to Lille before a lunch that was a delicious memory of yesterday.
The afternoon was delightfully busy, I'd already seperated the things that needed to be posted back to Australia. When we got back to her home, I met Adelaide's boyfriend, but was not formaly introduced. Lunch consisted of what was left from yesterday, which was even more delicious and very filling when combined with the yoghurt we had bought.
Once lunch was completed, I made battle with the Internet to try and call Jenny. This was met with a mixture of success and frustration, having to call mobiles and land-lines. Having to settle with a compromise, the conversation was cut-off mid-sentence and Justine pointed out that we would be late for the post-office if we didn't leave soon. About 10 minutes later, Jenny called my mobile so that we could say goodbyes. I am desperately hoping that the free WiFi internet in Spain is as good as I've been told, so that I can finally talk to her properly. Jenny's company has been especially missed in a place as wonderful as Lille. I would like nothing more than to be able to do this leg travelling with her.
After stuffing gifts and suveniers into some plastic bags alongside a pair of jeans and a jumper, we headed back to the car. The belt, once again satiated, gave us some relief before accompanying our trip to Justine's hometown with some light drizzle.
Waking up 20 minutes later from a snooze for the drive, Justine welcomed me into her family home.
WOW
I suppose it is of classical french design, big windows and a strange arrangement of interior doors. The house is over 100 years old, with a garden out the back to rival many parks, including a summer house, great trees and a pond. I was formally introduced to her brothers, one of whom I remember to be Alex, and her dog Maya. Tour and introductions completed, one brother remained on the couch, the other retreat upstairs while we struck out for the post-office. Walking through this charming little town, Justine pointed out some of the major features and the recent changes. The 30 minute stop in the post-office was successful, Justine translating and negotiating the terms while I compressed the two shopping bags worth of possessions into the moderately sized box (I would disagree that it was “Extra Large”, everything in France is somewhat.. Petit... compared to home).
Homeward bound, we snacked briefly in her kitchen on a delicious flat pastry called a “Grosse” or a “Quoisse” (I still struggle with the pronounciation) and instant coffee, while her brother made banana ice-cream for the family dinner tonight. We said our goodbyes and headed for Belgium.
The original plan had been to leave much earlier in the day and drive an our and a half into Belgium, to a city that I will have to find the name when I get a map. Considering the late hour, we skirted the border in a two just to the north of her home.
“Here, we are in France..”
“Now Belgium... now France again”
“This is Belgium.. can you tell the diffence?”
The level of activity was different in each half of the village, as school and shop times are not synchronised between the neighbouring nations. We were unable to find an open bar or Cafe, so simply drove around for about an hour before turning south.
The final plan for the day was to drive to her Grand-parents house and walk her hoarse to the near-by pony club. When passing again through her home town, my mystical weather-belt decided it had had enough for the day and allowed the skies to open.
“too much rain for the walk, we will go home”
This was a bit of a shame, it would have been nice to see a French farm and to be amongst some animals rather than the family dog, but it was getting late and I was still recovering from Africa and Asia-Minor.
At home, the three of us wandered into town to buy my tickets to visit Isabelle and her family. Adelaide grumbled that we took the long way, through the malls, but conceded that it was much better than walking along the streets. At the train station, we went past an automatic machine, then lined up to purchase in cash. Halfway through the line, I pointed out that if I paid cash to one of the girls, they could use their card to buy the ticket. Discussion and laughter later, Adelaide and Justine made battle with the Machine and I handed over the suitable notes.
After the walk back, I called Isabelle after several failed attempts and we made arrangements to meet in the evening. She had work all day, but assured me there would be a lot to do in Rouen and that the train station had promised to hold my backpack for the day. Logistics and planning out of the way, we made preparations for the night and I said farewell to Adelaide with kisses and demands that she bring her family to Australia. She had an exam in the morning, so would not be joining us for dinner and would have left before either of us woke up.
Wandering into town, we met Jennifer and Vanessa. Jennifer was a striking brunnette that is on Justine's horse-ball team, her father is Irish so she spoke english as well as Justine. Vanessa was taller with short red-blonde hair and assortment of peircings, she studied Physical Therapy with Jennifer at university. Not playing horse-ball, Vanessa still watched the game regularly and the three seemed to be firm friends. Vanessa spoke next to no english, complaining that she had an aweful teacher in high-school. I took the opportunity to try and follow the french conversation for the length of the dinner, Justine and Jennifer translating at intervals.
Having been fed on pasta and pizza, as well as trying a little of Jennifer's Tatare, we wandered around the centre of Lille. Having meandered in the correct general direction, we said a late goodnight at the Justine's door. Kisses and multiple invitations to Australia later, we made our seperate ways. It was quite late and I still had to sort some email before bed. We crept through the house, Adelaide's rooms were dark and quiet and we knew she had her oral exam sometime tomorrow.
Tomorrow would be a big day for everyone involved.
Having slept in till about 10AM, I woke to Justine and Adelaide bumping around the kitchen and living area. We had been planning to go to the war memorial at Fromelles and then possibly to Begium via Justine's parents house. There was also talk of going to her grand-parents farm for a little bit in the afternoon.
Breakfast was in the form of crepe's and juice, both girls laughing at my laboured learning how to eat them “properly”.
Both the dinner last night and the breakfast this morning highlighted the use of addatives as God had originally intended. In Australia, we use salt and sugar by the bucket in order to introduce a desirable flavour to a meal, usually measured out with a small bucket.
The night before, I had been informed that the dish comprised of Bone Marrow was best eaten with salt. After a small taste of the blande dish, I followed the directions of girls wiser than I am. My mind... it was blown.. With a gentle little bump of the salt shaker, I discovered a wide, rich, deep flavour. In almost a most inexplicable way, this meal conversed with me, allowing me to distinguish “that would not be enough”, “this amount of salt is just right” and “no more, that would be too much”.
Today, Adelaide said that I should put straight sugar on the crepe. Specific sugar that is known in this part of France. Once again, a little daring allowed the meal to speak to me. “this is the right amount, you have put on a little too much”. With a light, little french accent, my taste-buds were instructed. This is how food is meant to be adorned.
After an incredibly small and light breakfast, I found that nothing more was needed. In fact, I don't think I could have actually eaten any more. Thus, we made our preparations to leave for the day.
Being suitably smug with my digestion, the magical belt allowed us to get to the car mostly unworried before opening up the sky.
It took about an hour to find our way through the French motorways to the tiny town of Fromelles. The maps and GPS in my new iPhone were indespensible for the journey, though it was only 27 kilometres, Justine was unfamiliar with this part of the country-side. We spent the trip commenting on the scenery, Justine correcting my pitiful level of french and teaching me some new words. Finding ourselves in a town with a beautiful big church and the correct name by the road, we followed the signs to the Australian Memorial.
A quiet, grey sky welcomed us to a field with flags from two nations, the two friends flying with pride amongst scattered, broken monoliths. Scarred pieces of enemy bunkers. In the middle of a small inlet of french grass, a dozen shattered plates of concrete served as a foundation, a sharp, pained hillock for a great bronze statue of two Australian soldiers. One carrying another, “don't forget me, cobber”.
Walking about the visible accolade that this country honours her friends, we met some other Australians by a flooded bunker entrance. We all said quiet hellos between photographs to remember this place before the short drive to the wall of names.
Entering across the loving manicured grass, between trees that stand as ageless guards, a monument rose before a long curved wall. In the middle, between the marble crosses submerged in the ground, Justine tooks some photos and we found the name Davies, R.F. Great Uncle Dick had been a Private in the 53rd. It was here, in this sanctuary amongst the beautiful french fields and with the stretching horizon, back into history, that a list of names ask us not to be forgotten.
Now grateful for the rain and a little solitude, I wrote in the visitors book with a walk the long way back to the car. I thanked Justine again and we drove quietly back to Lille before a lunch that was a delicious memory of yesterday.
The afternoon was delightfully busy, I'd already seperated the things that needed to be posted back to Australia. When we got back to her home, I met Adelaide's boyfriend, but was not formaly introduced. Lunch consisted of what was left from yesterday, which was even more delicious and very filling when combined with the yoghurt we had bought.
Once lunch was completed, I made battle with the Internet to try and call Jenny. This was met with a mixture of success and frustration, having to call mobiles and land-lines. Having to settle with a compromise, the conversation was cut-off mid-sentence and Justine pointed out that we would be late for the post-office if we didn't leave soon. About 10 minutes later, Jenny called my mobile so that we could say goodbyes. I am desperately hoping that the free WiFi internet in Spain is as good as I've been told, so that I can finally talk to her properly. Jenny's company has been especially missed in a place as wonderful as Lille. I would like nothing more than to be able to do this leg travelling with her.
After stuffing gifts and suveniers into some plastic bags alongside a pair of jeans and a jumper, we headed back to the car. The belt, once again satiated, gave us some relief before accompanying our trip to Justine's hometown with some light drizzle.
Waking up 20 minutes later from a snooze for the drive, Justine welcomed me into her family home.
WOW
I suppose it is of classical french design, big windows and a strange arrangement of interior doors. The house is over 100 years old, with a garden out the back to rival many parks, including a summer house, great trees and a pond. I was formally introduced to her brothers, one of whom I remember to be Alex, and her dog Maya. Tour and introductions completed, one brother remained on the couch, the other retreat upstairs while we struck out for the post-office. Walking through this charming little town, Justine pointed out some of the major features and the recent changes. The 30 minute stop in the post-office was successful, Justine translating and negotiating the terms while I compressed the two shopping bags worth of possessions into the moderately sized box (I would disagree that it was “Extra Large”, everything in France is somewhat.. Petit... compared to home).
Homeward bound, we snacked briefly in her kitchen on a delicious flat pastry called a “Grosse” or a “Quoisse” (I still struggle with the pronounciation) and instant coffee, while her brother made banana ice-cream for the family dinner tonight. We said our goodbyes and headed for Belgium.
The original plan had been to leave much earlier in the day and drive an our and a half into Belgium, to a city that I will have to find the name when I get a map. Considering the late hour, we skirted the border in a two just to the north of her home.
“Here, we are in France..”
“Now Belgium... now France again”
“This is Belgium.. can you tell the diffence?”
The level of activity was different in each half of the village, as school and shop times are not synchronised between the neighbouring nations. We were unable to find an open bar or Cafe, so simply drove around for about an hour before turning south.
The final plan for the day was to drive to her Grand-parents house and walk her hoarse to the near-by pony club. When passing again through her home town, my mystical weather-belt decided it had had enough for the day and allowed the skies to open.
“too much rain for the walk, we will go home”
This was a bit of a shame, it would have been nice to see a French farm and to be amongst some animals rather than the family dog, but it was getting late and I was still recovering from Africa and Asia-Minor.
At home, the three of us wandered into town to buy my tickets to visit Isabelle and her family. Adelaide grumbled that we took the long way, through the malls, but conceded that it was much better than walking along the streets. At the train station, we went past an automatic machine, then lined up to purchase in cash. Halfway through the line, I pointed out that if I paid cash to one of the girls, they could use their card to buy the ticket. Discussion and laughter later, Adelaide and Justine made battle with the Machine and I handed over the suitable notes.
After the walk back, I called Isabelle after several failed attempts and we made arrangements to meet in the evening. She had work all day, but assured me there would be a lot to do in Rouen and that the train station had promised to hold my backpack for the day. Logistics and planning out of the way, we made preparations for the night and I said farewell to Adelaide with kisses and demands that she bring her family to Australia. She had an exam in the morning, so would not be joining us for dinner and would have left before either of us woke up.
Wandering into town, we met Jennifer and Vanessa. Jennifer was a striking brunnette that is on Justine's horse-ball team, her father is Irish so she spoke english as well as Justine. Vanessa was taller with short red-blonde hair and assortment of peircings, she studied Physical Therapy with Jennifer at university. Not playing horse-ball, Vanessa still watched the game regularly and the three seemed to be firm friends. Vanessa spoke next to no english, complaining that she had an aweful teacher in high-school. I took the opportunity to try and follow the french conversation for the length of the dinner, Justine and Jennifer translating at intervals.
Having been fed on pasta and pizza, as well as trying a little of Jennifer's Tatare, we wandered around the centre of Lille. Having meandered in the correct general direction, we said a late goodnight at the Justine's door. Kisses and multiple invitations to Australia later, we made our seperate ways. It was quite late and I still had to sort some email before bed. We crept through the house, Adelaide's rooms were dark and quiet and we knew she had her oral exam sometime tomorrow.
Tomorrow would be a big day for everyone involved.
010908 - Jordan to France
010908 – Amman to Lille
Following the argument about room charges, we piled into the taxi-van for the trip to the airport. In stark contrast to my arrival in the Middle East, this driver not only took his time but appeared to revel in it. I'd been a little worried about my check-in time, and he was doing little to ease my anxiety. 35 minutes, 5 Dinar and a delivery to the wrong terminal later, I followed the directions of a police officer and ran to the adjacent building. Check-in was directed by startlingly pleasant security personel.
From here, the suprises continued to escalate.
My check-in was through business class, as it was drawing particularly close to departure time.
Progresssion to the gate required no less than 3 security checks (6-7 if you include the ticket checks and passport control), I had to relieve myself of anything metal twice and the amount of x-rays that my gear would have been exposed to has me thinking I may need to invest in lead underwear.
Once in the lounge it was an eye-glazing wait, they'd already ripped my ticket so I couldn't go out to the gift shops and buy the last few little pieces of Jordan. iPod out and Sneaky Sound System teamed up with Ministry of Sound to relieve my boredom. French, Arabic and English announcements punctuated the imminent departure and eventually my plane was called.
“Passport”
“Bonjour”
“Seat on the Left”
“Cheeky Bugger! He put me in an Emergency Isle!”
~GRIN~ I could almost kiss those check-in security officers
The next 5 hours alternated between very pretty french hostesses handing out drinks and turkey sandwiches, the lights dimming and brightening, my marvelling at the amount of leg-room but how narrow the seats were (I have NOT put on that much weight...) and attempts at avoiding another viewing of Kung Fu Panda.
Despite the narrow seats, Air France is a living Saint. Considering the last few flights I've had..
The leg room was enough to stretch out and do the variety of exercises prescribed for long flights,
The other passengers were not smelly,
The other passengers seemed to acknowledge your personal space, they were even respectful when trying to pass you,
The staff ACTUALLY SMILED and with the few words it took to ask for your beverage of preference, they struck you as charming,
Having stepped in from a street of a Middle Eastern Kingdom, it was immediately revitalising and refreshing. If I'd boarded this plane in Cairo, there is a genuine chance that I might have tried to handcuff myself to the seat.
The only possible gripes I could have about the flight was that the chairs were a little narrow in the waist and that my gentle submersions into sleep were carefully divided up with immediate clear wakefullness, filled with a panic that can only be described as “THE TRIBE IS BEING ATTACKED BY SABRE-TOOTH TIGERS”. Who knows, maybe I was snoring and the guy next to me held my nose.
As an international ambassador, Air France is a marvel. Even the crying babies seemed somehow muffled, absorbed into the ambient sounds and the deep hum of the engines.
My arrival in Paris continued the lucky-streak of travel. I managed to get in front of the pack after the first passport check, bolted past the race-leader on the travellator and I think I was the only one from my flight on the train to immigration.
The trek through the airport is incredible, it really felt like I had traversed a small city in getting central terminal. The layout in the airport is fairly well signed, but not intuitive in its layout. Lifts in particular were hard to spot. The staff were mostly pleasant and the immigration officer even smiled.
Having performed quite well in the race to passport control, I took my time getting my luggage. It is the little things like stopping to freshen up in a FIRST WORLD TOILET that makes a travellers day. It had toilet paper, it had towel or hot air hand drier, it had soap and automatic taps, IT HAD A TOILET SEAT!
I think I could almost have cried..
Having checked in through bussiness class, my pack was already on the carousel by the time I got there. Kissing a Jordanian Security Guard once again crossed my mind.
It was about 10 minutes later that the penny-dropped.
Things are expensive here.
REALLY expensive..
Having been used to paying about $1.50AU for a lunch to big to finish, I was a little shocked at some of the prices.
It cost be $16 for a coffee and 3 crossaunts.
That in mind, IT WAS REAL COFFEE. Overly milky, not particularly strong, they'd gotten my order wrong, but at least it wasn't burnt. I was almost kissing the cup with every sip.
About half way through my second small (Petit!) cup, a lady who I'd helped upstairs with her ticket sat down next to me. She was from Peru and was meeting her daughter who was studying in France. We had some light conversation while waiting for our respective departures, I waited on for the extra 20 minutes after she had taken her train.
Now it's just down to the long wait for my train to Lille, the attendant had been very specific in her instructions for my train and once again she was very pleasant.
God, I love being back in civilisation!
Paris - Lille
Having finished my breakfast of Crossaunt and Coffee, I ventured down to the platform. Playing a little Monkey-See Monkey-do, I stuck one end of my ticket into a small machine at the enterance to the platform and wandered down. There was a little confusion when trying to board the train that was at the platform, the guard simply looking at my ticket and repeating “wait”.
I went a little cross-eyed when no further explanation was offered until the young chinese guy, who had I'd just given a light to, elaborated in pretty good english that I was on the next train.
A few minutes later I'd perched myself for the 5 minute wait, savouring a little solitude with the noise and bustle of the station clunking away in the background.
*do dah dah-dah* something in French... “Lille” at the end
*clunk clunk* ~whine~ here's my train
The Chinese guy pointed out which carriage I was allocated and the correct end to get in. The gaggle of 20 or so people wandered up the stairs and down the isle, I found my seat with the other half already occupied by a lady pretending to sleep. The seating had ample leg room, the train was quiet and in all very comfortable. These are the kinds of trains that you could traverse half of the world in and still be in a respectable condition at the other end.
As it ended out, the Chinese guy from the platform was seated on the opposite side of the isle. When I started to repack my day-pack, he noticed my chinese notes and struck up a conversation. Ling is a Transport and Logistics student in Lille, on his way back to university after the summer holidays at home in Xiang Hi. For the rest of the trip I got to practice my incredibly poor Mandarin while he corrected my pronounciation. Ling explained some of the finer points I would need to know for my trip into Lille and how he had found his time studying there. In all it was a very pleasant trip. I took a few breaks in my Mandarin practice to watch the stunning country-side fly past the window.
Cruising into Lille, I got an SMS from Justine to meet her at “Q” on the platform. This ended out to be immediately opposite where I exited the train. Hellos, hugs and kisses on the cheeks later, we were on our way.
Justine had changed very little since I had seen her last. Still very short and possibly more athletic than when she was in Australia, she set up an impressive pace on the way to the stairs and across the square outside. She started to take a bee-line towards some nearby buildings before performing a double-take of my backpack and heading to a nearby escalator. Passing me a small ticket on the way, she appologised saying that she would usually walk home but would take the subway on account of my backpack.
The subway enterance was clean and efficient, with no noticable choke-points despite being reasonably crowded, the trains being smaller than in Perth and reminding me of the style used in Germany. Two or so stops later, we exited a station very similar to the one we entered and wandered the handful of blocks to her building.
The weather was absolutely spectacular, a beautiful clear blue sky and a mild temperature with a gentle breeze and no excess humidity.
While entering her apartment block and taking the break-neck speed up the narrow and sharp stair-well, Justine began to explain that it was a very old building, that the rent was very cheap and displayed her pride at how close it was to the city centre. Her domicile was on the top of the 3 floors, she seemed very accustomed to the climb.
Entering the house, I dumped my bag in the enterance-way and got the short tour.
The home was built just over 100 years ago and had been renovated many times. This floor was composed of a short corridor with doorways on the left and right, just after the coat-rack and shoes. Leading to a generously sized living room/Justine's cousins room (divided by a curtain) and the short hall-way to the kitchen, respectively. At the end of the entery-way was the door to Justine's room, on the side of which was another small living room that housed Justine's sofa, computer table, closet and, for the next few days, me.
Several things that struck me as odd about this flat was that the short hallway to the kitchen was arranged to contain the toilet in what I would have otherwise mistaken as a small cupboard. Off to the side of the frugal kitchen was the bathroom, opposite the bathroom door was the kitchen-table under a large window that might have once looked down on an Atrium. Now it only saw brick-walls, a slightly grey sky above and supposedly a skylight far below.
With the immediate formalities satisfied, I went to have a shower while Justine ducked out to the street to get some things for a late breakfast. On her return and my successful sanitisation, we sat in the kitchen as Justine prepared drinks and light refreshments in the form of delicious pastries. We started to discuss what we would do for the rest of the day while transferring to the main living area. A clunk at the door, quick hellos and kisses later, I met Justine's cousin. It took three attempts, a confused look and then a request for a “short-version” before Adelaide's name was explained as being the same as the city. I gave an appologetic look and repeated the name in the most profound Ocker-twang while asking her to forgive me for not being able to pronounce it properly. Both girls assured me that it was fine, once they'd stopped laughing.
Adelaide was quite a bit taller than Justine, having brown hair and darker eyes but still having a noticable family resemblance. She was studying Law and had just finished an exam. We joked and laughed for a while before everyone made excuses and we departed, allowing Adelaide to study for her next exam.
Making our way into the city centre, Justine showed me the convoluted lay-out and the main features of this small city including the cafe where Adelaide's bother, Frederick, works. We wandered away from the blue sky, through a nearby shopping mall, allowing me to buy a cheap canvas belt to replace my broken one from home. Happy with the purchase, we exited as I finished tightening my overly loose pants to a more suitable and publicly appropriate style of attire.
Just as I finished the last wiggle of adjustment in my now comfortable trousers, we almost turned back to ask for a refund. My new belt seemed to come with the terrible price of inclement weather. Dodging the rain and cold for the next 2 days, I have found my new “Rain-belt” to be most comfortable and convinient, but it also appears to come with profound powers of summoning cold winds and rain that varies from light drizzle to almost driving. As I have been coming to the end of my course of tablet to treat the lingering “nasty-butt”, the theory has occurred to me that it may be a cosmic link of meterological phenomina to my gastronomical conditions.
With Great Power comes Great Responsibility.
I must be cautious of a diet too heavy in chilli, beans or raw onion. A strong Tacco could run the risk of wiping France off of the map.
With me struggling to contain my new-found powers, we made a series of brief stops on the way home to source some wine and ingredients for lunch. With Adelaide studying in the living room, Justine treated me to five different cheeses, french-bread, delicious little tomatoes with carrot and a home made dip. We sipped cheap red-wine while waiting for the vegitable pie (Pait?) to cook. It was a stunning and most amazing lunch, I ate suprisingly little but felt much better by the end of it. Filled and miraculously revitalised, Justine admitted that it was a ~little~ more ellaborate than usual. This varied assortment of flavours were usual reserved for dinner or when entertaining guests, I was suitably over-whelmed.
Having been fed and watered, we departed to see the rest of the city. Entering the “old city” I was astounded at the shops, the people traversing their day-to-day lives in simple but elegant cloathing, the broad palate of smells and flavours. I was appologising for much of the afternoon for the light rain, adjusting and re-adjusting the magical belt to try and find the correct setting. Justine was suitably amused. We had coffee in a street-side cafe and bought some yohgurt and blank discs for sending my photos home.
We walked through part of the city to find the main park, that has a small but free zoo to one side and an ancient citidel in the centre. There was nothing too ellaborate about this park or the one we saw shortly later, but both of them displayed a purpose that had never been forgotten. It was uncrowded, open, free green-space, gifted to the people of this country. Small groups of families with children walked through, joggers bounding nearby between the fortified walls, an occasional soldier walking past with a fixed gaite. There need not be a reason to use this place, it was a part of your life and an essential piece of your day. At home, I find the need to drive past the ocean, or the river, or King's park. That is often a trip that requires effort or a diversion. Here, these parks are what you rely on, the essential route to get home or have a distraction from your day.
Returning after an amazing afternoon of seeing french life in a beautiful city, I started my photos copying before an afternoon nap.
That evening, Justine, Adelaide and I met with one of their friends from a particularly active sport that Justine plays called “Horse-Ball”. My understanding is that it is a mix between soccer/football/basket ball where two teams throw a ball about the size of a volley-ball, trying to get it through the hoop at the other end of a field. All of this is done on horse-back, requiring dramatic dives down the side of your saddle to pick up the ball, which has loose straps looped about it.
Dinner was a great deal of fun, it was at a restaurant that was also a small brewery. I was lucky enough to have a Blonde beer and a sampling plate of local cuisine comprised of a cheese fondu, a dish made of bone-marrow, small pieces of meat in a cold ale jelly and a type of small sandwhich. Costing a little more than I was comfortable with, I insisted we all share a desert. After a long heated discussion in French, the girls decided on a small chocolate cake with custard and ice-cream that was powerfully rich, increadibly delicious and offered a suitable diversion for me to pay a sizeable portion of the bill. Justine mounted an impressive resistance to my payment, but was noticably relieved at the prospect. I'd not had an overly expensive meal, but I still wish I could have afforded to pay for everyone.
Wandering the streets shortly after our gastronomical delights, the rain had stopped in response to the meal. Adelaide said goodbyes and kisses before retreating home to study before going to bed. Justine and her friend (who's name I still struggled to catch) decided to make use of the remaining funds and go for a drink somewhere.
Being a Monday night, most of the bars and restaurants are closed in France. Finding quite a trendy place about 10 minutes from the restaurant, we settled down. Having spent some time in the city centre, I can see what Melbourne is attempting to emmulate. The integration of daily life with history and modern trends would be completely intoxicating if you were fully immersed. The clothing and interaction of the citizens is something that is fun, seemless and sophisticated that demonstrates a type of classiness that I've not found in Australia. I know that many people love Melbourne or Sydney for these features, but I have never really noticed it in either place. While not wanting to speak poorly of any part of my home country, here I can “see what they are trying to do”. If I were to be unkind and unfair, in Melbourne the streets of small shops that many people love and enjoy simply struck me as buildings that needed a good clean, decent wiring and proper construction for the ceiling and walls, even the expensive designer shops either had an interior or exterior that others would describe as “rustic” but I would more likely compare to my Dad's shed on the farm. In Lille, there was a quality of not trying too hard, having a careful and almost delicate simplicity. Ancient buildings that didn't look like soot, old facades that spoke of wealth and decident times and now housed businesses that embraced their surroundings, belonging in them rather than simply utilising old husks as shelter.
Like I said, I am being unkind. I have never understood Melbourne's appeal, apart from the people there. Here I can see what they mean.
Having failed at the first bar, of only one staff member and it being very full, we went across the road and had Mojito's at a small pub. Justine and her friend (I really need to find out her name..) talked about how these places belong in daily life, it being common to meet there with friends on the way home for a soft-drink or just to sit and talk. It really struck me that what we use cafe's for in Perth is what they use pubs and bars for here. I have yet to figure out in which facet of life a cafe fits in here..
About an hour of laughter and mixing up our drinks for every last drop, we had goodbyes and kisses. I let having insisted that Justine's friend (who's name I had remembered, but now I had forgotten) come to perth some time.
Returning home and quick hellos to Adelaide, Justine and I retreated to joke around for the rest of the evening. I pulled up photos of my trip to date and showed off photo's of Jenny. Justine seemed impressed by the one of my army uniform. I was amazed at some of the experiences that Justine had never spoken about before. Her photos are a lot more active than she lets on, showing her horse and the game Horse-Ball in all it's glory. Mountain tops with her family scaling them, skiing, horse riding through Iceland, her family learning how to para-sail off of mountian tops. Morocco, Tanzaneir, Scotland.. She has spent some time in Iceland and is continually invited back to help with one of the horse groups. Justine is currently planning on taking a year off to go to Canada and possibly Iceland.
At a suitable hour, I made up my bed, said goodnight and set the last of my photos to burn to disc. It had been a long, far day and I was certainly richer for every minute of it.
Following the argument about room charges, we piled into the taxi-van for the trip to the airport. In stark contrast to my arrival in the Middle East, this driver not only took his time but appeared to revel in it. I'd been a little worried about my check-in time, and he was doing little to ease my anxiety. 35 minutes, 5 Dinar and a delivery to the wrong terminal later, I followed the directions of a police officer and ran to the adjacent building. Check-in was directed by startlingly pleasant security personel.
From here, the suprises continued to escalate.
My check-in was through business class, as it was drawing particularly close to departure time.
Progresssion to the gate required no less than 3 security checks (6-7 if you include the ticket checks and passport control), I had to relieve myself of anything metal twice and the amount of x-rays that my gear would have been exposed to has me thinking I may need to invest in lead underwear.
Once in the lounge it was an eye-glazing wait, they'd already ripped my ticket so I couldn't go out to the gift shops and buy the last few little pieces of Jordan. iPod out and Sneaky Sound System teamed up with Ministry of Sound to relieve my boredom. French, Arabic and English announcements punctuated the imminent departure and eventually my plane was called.
“Passport”
“Bonjour”
“Seat on the Left”
“Cheeky Bugger! He put me in an Emergency Isle!”
~GRIN~ I could almost kiss those check-in security officers
The next 5 hours alternated between very pretty french hostesses handing out drinks and turkey sandwiches, the lights dimming and brightening, my marvelling at the amount of leg-room but how narrow the seats were (I have NOT put on that much weight...) and attempts at avoiding another viewing of Kung Fu Panda.
Despite the narrow seats, Air France is a living Saint. Considering the last few flights I've had..
The leg room was enough to stretch out and do the variety of exercises prescribed for long flights,
The other passengers were not smelly,
The other passengers seemed to acknowledge your personal space, they were even respectful when trying to pass you,
The staff ACTUALLY SMILED and with the few words it took to ask for your beverage of preference, they struck you as charming,
Having stepped in from a street of a Middle Eastern Kingdom, it was immediately revitalising and refreshing. If I'd boarded this plane in Cairo, there is a genuine chance that I might have tried to handcuff myself to the seat.
The only possible gripes I could have about the flight was that the chairs were a little narrow in the waist and that my gentle submersions into sleep were carefully divided up with immediate clear wakefullness, filled with a panic that can only be described as “THE TRIBE IS BEING ATTACKED BY SABRE-TOOTH TIGERS”. Who knows, maybe I was snoring and the guy next to me held my nose.
As an international ambassador, Air France is a marvel. Even the crying babies seemed somehow muffled, absorbed into the ambient sounds and the deep hum of the engines.
My arrival in Paris continued the lucky-streak of travel. I managed to get in front of the pack after the first passport check, bolted past the race-leader on the travellator and I think I was the only one from my flight on the train to immigration.
The trek through the airport is incredible, it really felt like I had traversed a small city in getting central terminal. The layout in the airport is fairly well signed, but not intuitive in its layout. Lifts in particular were hard to spot. The staff were mostly pleasant and the immigration officer even smiled.
Having performed quite well in the race to passport control, I took my time getting my luggage. It is the little things like stopping to freshen up in a FIRST WORLD TOILET that makes a travellers day. It had toilet paper, it had towel or hot air hand drier, it had soap and automatic taps, IT HAD A TOILET SEAT!
I think I could almost have cried..
Having checked in through bussiness class, my pack was already on the carousel by the time I got there. Kissing a Jordanian Security Guard once again crossed my mind.
It was about 10 minutes later that the penny-dropped.
Things are expensive here.
REALLY expensive..
Having been used to paying about $1.50AU for a lunch to big to finish, I was a little shocked at some of the prices.
It cost be $16 for a coffee and 3 crossaunts.
That in mind, IT WAS REAL COFFEE. Overly milky, not particularly strong, they'd gotten my order wrong, but at least it wasn't burnt. I was almost kissing the cup with every sip.
About half way through my second small (Petit!) cup, a lady who I'd helped upstairs with her ticket sat down next to me. She was from Peru and was meeting her daughter who was studying in France. We had some light conversation while waiting for our respective departures, I waited on for the extra 20 minutes after she had taken her train.
Now it's just down to the long wait for my train to Lille, the attendant had been very specific in her instructions for my train and once again she was very pleasant.
God, I love being back in civilisation!
Paris - Lille
Having finished my breakfast of Crossaunt and Coffee, I ventured down to the platform. Playing a little Monkey-See Monkey-do, I stuck one end of my ticket into a small machine at the enterance to the platform and wandered down. There was a little confusion when trying to board the train that was at the platform, the guard simply looking at my ticket and repeating “wait”.
I went a little cross-eyed when no further explanation was offered until the young chinese guy, who had I'd just given a light to, elaborated in pretty good english that I was on the next train.
A few minutes later I'd perched myself for the 5 minute wait, savouring a little solitude with the noise and bustle of the station clunking away in the background.
*do dah dah-dah* something in French... “Lille” at the end
*clunk clunk* ~whine~ here's my train
The Chinese guy pointed out which carriage I was allocated and the correct end to get in. The gaggle of 20 or so people wandered up the stairs and down the isle, I found my seat with the other half already occupied by a lady pretending to sleep. The seating had ample leg room, the train was quiet and in all very comfortable. These are the kinds of trains that you could traverse half of the world in and still be in a respectable condition at the other end.
As it ended out, the Chinese guy from the platform was seated on the opposite side of the isle. When I started to repack my day-pack, he noticed my chinese notes and struck up a conversation. Ling is a Transport and Logistics student in Lille, on his way back to university after the summer holidays at home in Xiang Hi. For the rest of the trip I got to practice my incredibly poor Mandarin while he corrected my pronounciation. Ling explained some of the finer points I would need to know for my trip into Lille and how he had found his time studying there. In all it was a very pleasant trip. I took a few breaks in my Mandarin practice to watch the stunning country-side fly past the window.
Cruising into Lille, I got an SMS from Justine to meet her at “Q” on the platform. This ended out to be immediately opposite where I exited the train. Hellos, hugs and kisses on the cheeks later, we were on our way.
Justine had changed very little since I had seen her last. Still very short and possibly more athletic than when she was in Australia, she set up an impressive pace on the way to the stairs and across the square outside. She started to take a bee-line towards some nearby buildings before performing a double-take of my backpack and heading to a nearby escalator. Passing me a small ticket on the way, she appologised saying that she would usually walk home but would take the subway on account of my backpack.
The subway enterance was clean and efficient, with no noticable choke-points despite being reasonably crowded, the trains being smaller than in Perth and reminding me of the style used in Germany. Two or so stops later, we exited a station very similar to the one we entered and wandered the handful of blocks to her building.
The weather was absolutely spectacular, a beautiful clear blue sky and a mild temperature with a gentle breeze and no excess humidity.
While entering her apartment block and taking the break-neck speed up the narrow and sharp stair-well, Justine began to explain that it was a very old building, that the rent was very cheap and displayed her pride at how close it was to the city centre. Her domicile was on the top of the 3 floors, she seemed very accustomed to the climb.
Entering the house, I dumped my bag in the enterance-way and got the short tour.
The home was built just over 100 years ago and had been renovated many times. This floor was composed of a short corridor with doorways on the left and right, just after the coat-rack and shoes. Leading to a generously sized living room/Justine's cousins room (divided by a curtain) and the short hall-way to the kitchen, respectively. At the end of the entery-way was the door to Justine's room, on the side of which was another small living room that housed Justine's sofa, computer table, closet and, for the next few days, me.
Several things that struck me as odd about this flat was that the short hallway to the kitchen was arranged to contain the toilet in what I would have otherwise mistaken as a small cupboard. Off to the side of the frugal kitchen was the bathroom, opposite the bathroom door was the kitchen-table under a large window that might have once looked down on an Atrium. Now it only saw brick-walls, a slightly grey sky above and supposedly a skylight far below.
With the immediate formalities satisfied, I went to have a shower while Justine ducked out to the street to get some things for a late breakfast. On her return and my successful sanitisation, we sat in the kitchen as Justine prepared drinks and light refreshments in the form of delicious pastries. We started to discuss what we would do for the rest of the day while transferring to the main living area. A clunk at the door, quick hellos and kisses later, I met Justine's cousin. It took three attempts, a confused look and then a request for a “short-version” before Adelaide's name was explained as being the same as the city. I gave an appologetic look and repeated the name in the most profound Ocker-twang while asking her to forgive me for not being able to pronounce it properly. Both girls assured me that it was fine, once they'd stopped laughing.
Adelaide was quite a bit taller than Justine, having brown hair and darker eyes but still having a noticable family resemblance. She was studying Law and had just finished an exam. We joked and laughed for a while before everyone made excuses and we departed, allowing Adelaide to study for her next exam.
Making our way into the city centre, Justine showed me the convoluted lay-out and the main features of this small city including the cafe where Adelaide's bother, Frederick, works. We wandered away from the blue sky, through a nearby shopping mall, allowing me to buy a cheap canvas belt to replace my broken one from home. Happy with the purchase, we exited as I finished tightening my overly loose pants to a more suitable and publicly appropriate style of attire.
Just as I finished the last wiggle of adjustment in my now comfortable trousers, we almost turned back to ask for a refund. My new belt seemed to come with the terrible price of inclement weather. Dodging the rain and cold for the next 2 days, I have found my new “Rain-belt” to be most comfortable and convinient, but it also appears to come with profound powers of summoning cold winds and rain that varies from light drizzle to almost driving. As I have been coming to the end of my course of tablet to treat the lingering “nasty-butt”, the theory has occurred to me that it may be a cosmic link of meterological phenomina to my gastronomical conditions.
With Great Power comes Great Responsibility.
I must be cautious of a diet too heavy in chilli, beans or raw onion. A strong Tacco could run the risk of wiping France off of the map.
With me struggling to contain my new-found powers, we made a series of brief stops on the way home to source some wine and ingredients for lunch. With Adelaide studying in the living room, Justine treated me to five different cheeses, french-bread, delicious little tomatoes with carrot and a home made dip. We sipped cheap red-wine while waiting for the vegitable pie (Pait?) to cook. It was a stunning and most amazing lunch, I ate suprisingly little but felt much better by the end of it. Filled and miraculously revitalised, Justine admitted that it was a ~little~ more ellaborate than usual. This varied assortment of flavours were usual reserved for dinner or when entertaining guests, I was suitably over-whelmed.
Having been fed and watered, we departed to see the rest of the city. Entering the “old city” I was astounded at the shops, the people traversing their day-to-day lives in simple but elegant cloathing, the broad palate of smells and flavours. I was appologising for much of the afternoon for the light rain, adjusting and re-adjusting the magical belt to try and find the correct setting. Justine was suitably amused. We had coffee in a street-side cafe and bought some yohgurt and blank discs for sending my photos home.
We walked through part of the city to find the main park, that has a small but free zoo to one side and an ancient citidel in the centre. There was nothing too ellaborate about this park or the one we saw shortly later, but both of them displayed a purpose that had never been forgotten. It was uncrowded, open, free green-space, gifted to the people of this country. Small groups of families with children walked through, joggers bounding nearby between the fortified walls, an occasional soldier walking past with a fixed gaite. There need not be a reason to use this place, it was a part of your life and an essential piece of your day. At home, I find the need to drive past the ocean, or the river, or King's park. That is often a trip that requires effort or a diversion. Here, these parks are what you rely on, the essential route to get home or have a distraction from your day.
Returning after an amazing afternoon of seeing french life in a beautiful city, I started my photos copying before an afternoon nap.
That evening, Justine, Adelaide and I met with one of their friends from a particularly active sport that Justine plays called “Horse-Ball”. My understanding is that it is a mix between soccer/football/basket ball where two teams throw a ball about the size of a volley-ball, trying to get it through the hoop at the other end of a field. All of this is done on horse-back, requiring dramatic dives down the side of your saddle to pick up the ball, which has loose straps looped about it.
Dinner was a great deal of fun, it was at a restaurant that was also a small brewery. I was lucky enough to have a Blonde beer and a sampling plate of local cuisine comprised of a cheese fondu, a dish made of bone-marrow, small pieces of meat in a cold ale jelly and a type of small sandwhich. Costing a little more than I was comfortable with, I insisted we all share a desert. After a long heated discussion in French, the girls decided on a small chocolate cake with custard and ice-cream that was powerfully rich, increadibly delicious and offered a suitable diversion for me to pay a sizeable portion of the bill. Justine mounted an impressive resistance to my payment, but was noticably relieved at the prospect. I'd not had an overly expensive meal, but I still wish I could have afforded to pay for everyone.
Wandering the streets shortly after our gastronomical delights, the rain had stopped in response to the meal. Adelaide said goodbyes and kisses before retreating home to study before going to bed. Justine and her friend (who's name I still struggled to catch) decided to make use of the remaining funds and go for a drink somewhere.
Being a Monday night, most of the bars and restaurants are closed in France. Finding quite a trendy place about 10 minutes from the restaurant, we settled down. Having spent some time in the city centre, I can see what Melbourne is attempting to emmulate. The integration of daily life with history and modern trends would be completely intoxicating if you were fully immersed. The clothing and interaction of the citizens is something that is fun, seemless and sophisticated that demonstrates a type of classiness that I've not found in Australia. I know that many people love Melbourne or Sydney for these features, but I have never really noticed it in either place. While not wanting to speak poorly of any part of my home country, here I can “see what they are trying to do”. If I were to be unkind and unfair, in Melbourne the streets of small shops that many people love and enjoy simply struck me as buildings that needed a good clean, decent wiring and proper construction for the ceiling and walls, even the expensive designer shops either had an interior or exterior that others would describe as “rustic” but I would more likely compare to my Dad's shed on the farm. In Lille, there was a quality of not trying too hard, having a careful and almost delicate simplicity. Ancient buildings that didn't look like soot, old facades that spoke of wealth and decident times and now housed businesses that embraced their surroundings, belonging in them rather than simply utilising old husks as shelter.
Like I said, I am being unkind. I have never understood Melbourne's appeal, apart from the people there. Here I can see what they mean.
Having failed at the first bar, of only one staff member and it being very full, we went across the road and had Mojito's at a small pub. Justine and her friend (I really need to find out her name..) talked about how these places belong in daily life, it being common to meet there with friends on the way home for a soft-drink or just to sit and talk. It really struck me that what we use cafe's for in Perth is what they use pubs and bars for here. I have yet to figure out in which facet of life a cafe fits in here..
About an hour of laughter and mixing up our drinks for every last drop, we had goodbyes and kisses. I let having insisted that Justine's friend (who's name I had remembered, but now I had forgotten) come to perth some time.
Returning home and quick hellos to Adelaide, Justine and I retreated to joke around for the rest of the evening. I pulled up photos of my trip to date and showed off photo's of Jenny. Justine seemed impressed by the one of my army uniform. I was amazed at some of the experiences that Justine had never spoken about before. Her photos are a lot more active than she lets on, showing her horse and the game Horse-Ball in all it's glory. Mountain tops with her family scaling them, skiing, horse riding through Iceland, her family learning how to para-sail off of mountian tops. Morocco, Tanzaneir, Scotland.. She has spent some time in Iceland and is continually invited back to help with one of the horse groups. Justine is currently planning on taking a year off to go to Canada and possibly Iceland.
At a suitable hour, I made up my bed, said goodnight and set the last of my photos to burn to disc. It had been a long, far day and I was certainly richer for every minute of it.
290808-310808 - Jordan 2
290808 – Jordan, Petra to Madaba
The morning felt like a hangover.
I think everyone had been suffering a bit of dehydration after the last two days exploring the dry city, most of us having a return of gastro problems. The simple breakfast was monotonous, but served its purpose, and soon all of us were on the bus.
A drive of several hours through countryside that I simply can't remember was highlighted by two features.
The first was a stop at Karak, a crusader's castle that was in various stages of restoration and ruin. It was on the tip of a triangular shaped hill, featuring a moat and heavy fortifications. The entire hill had been fortified at one time and there was some interesting history about the place, having a number of disreputable owners.
Tales of attacks during wedding parties (with the bombardments directed away from the honeymoon suite) and sieges, we walked through the expansive corridors. While in the UK, I had seen a fair number of keeps an castles. This had the most impressive interior by far, with great barracks, kitchens and hallways big enough to drive trucks down. Suitably poetic photos later, a number of us waited in the town near the visitors centre. Buying a coke, I did my best ignoring the local vendors before FINALLY finding the same type of silver bracelet I'd seen in the desert. Bargaining it down to half of the price I'd heard from both sellers, my small prize was secured.
The second highlight was us stopping by the side of the road. About 50m further down was a Mercedes with the bonnet up, adjacent to us was a sign.
“Sea Level. ZERO METRES”
Behind us was the tall hill that we had just descended, stretching into the distance was a great valley reaching all the way to the horizon.
The rest of the day picked up from there, we descended to the level of the Dead Sea, took photo's of the “Pillar of Rock” that had once been a biblical woman ignoring her husband, did our part to save the dead sea by throwing a rock into it and feasted on a most impressive buffet lunch. Satisfying our cravings for meat and fish, we caused a respectable amount of damage to the ladened tables, I for one avoiding the breads and eggs as much as possible. I think I've seen enough bread and boiled eggs to last a life-time. I felt like I'd had my first real meal in over two weeks.
Moving onto the “swimming resort” we rented lockers and towels before the mad-dash across the hot sand to the Living Water of the Dead Sea. The Dead Sea, I believe, was primarily fed by the river Jordan. In recent times, Israel dammed the river in order to better define the boarders and assist in improving the mineral mining across the plains surrounding the Dead Sea. Currently situated at 400m below sea-level, the dead sea is shrinking at 1 metre per year due to the dam. In order to combat this, the Jordanian government is building the “Red-Dead canal” or the “Dred canal” to fed the inland sea from the Red Sea. Without this effort, the Dead Sea will be all but gone by 2050.
Swimming in the dead-sea is a mind-boggling experience. If you float on your back, it is almost like a giant fluffy bean-bag. On your front, it is a real challenge to get your legs below your waist, leaving you to “crawl” almost on top of the water. The saltiness is so extreme that a single drop in your mouth will make you screw up your face and look for fresh water. Every cut or chafe really needs to be covered up or sealed before entering. Even then, you can get some “interesting burning sensations” in places that could only be described as “strange and unusual”. Under no circumstances should you put your head below the surface.
Retreating from the boyant water, we showered nearby and jumped in the pool next to the change-rooms. In complete contrast, we could barely keep our heads above the water! Over the next hour we returned to both waters a few times and had a “Dead Sea mud-bath”.
Back on the Air Conditioned bus, we escaped the 40 degree heat and 90% humidity and made our way up, out of the low-lying plane. Sarah-british was silent for almost this entire trip, motion sickness having saddly turned her into what we call on the Leeuwin, a Mushroom. She was really suffering for this stage.
A mid-afternoon stop was held at the Jesuit monastery that is believed to be the site of Moses' grave. The walk up and around the hill included some mosaics and part of the ancient buildings, the main sections were closed for renovations. Photos and stretching done, we pressed on to Madaba, arriving there in the late afternoon.
A big day of travel done, the bus went past Faisels failed marriage proposal. Hissing and booing at the unresponsive building, we stopped a few minutes later at the hotel.
Hotel Mariam is nice enough, located about 5-10 minutes walk from the town centre. Featuring cold swimming pool (that could use a little heating) and not-so-big rooms (that could use more than a little cooling), we settled in until the dinner meeting. Snoozing, showers and utilising the free WiFi from a nearby transmitter, I whiled away most of the afternoon.
Dinner time arriving, Faisel took us for an orientation walk of the town. Nerves growing thin, I wasn't the only one wanting to bite the head off of one of the two “louder” members of our group. Finally Faisel declared that we would have tea and coffee at his home, once we'd been through the tourist district. My heart sinking that dinner was a long and boring wait away, I know I wasn't able to appreciate Faisel's hospitality at all. Doing my best to stay awake and occasionally glance at the bulk of family photos that were passed around, I realise most of the group were getting a real kick out of the experience. I just wanted to have some bland dinner, a lot of cold refreshing drinks to wash down my tablets, and an early night. It's just as well I didn't bring my back-pack or I might have used its contents to set fire to the place.
Goodbyes MERCIFULLY done, the group went back up into the main town and found a “Mystic Pizza” (safe enough). A glare that possibly scorched her eyebrows later, one of the girls swapped me away from the louder member of the group who had been slowly plucking my every last remaining nerve. Sarah's mercy was followed with pizzas and at least one cold refreshing lemon drink. I hurried through my portion of the meal and then the bill and bolted for the exit before the red-rage took hold. Following one of the other Australians (who also confessed a desire to break every piece of furniture in the place), we made our way back to the hotel while trying to stay in close enough proximity to the girls so they wouldn't be hassled.
A hurried descent into sleep, I hoped that tomorrow would be easier to manage.
300808 – Jordan, Baptism site to Amman
Getting up around 9ish, I gorged on pancakes for breakfast and finalised the plans with Nick and Sarah-british. We would be going to the site of the Baptism of Christ in a private car, returning to the hotel and then on into Amman. In only a little better mood than before I went to bed, I did my best not to glare while a hung-over Nick and a frazzled Sarah got ready to leave. Mercifully away from much of the group, I looked forward to a chilled trip to the world-changing site. Deciding that complaining about how bad they thought Emam and Linda were, I tried staring out the window. 10 minutes later, a deep breath and counting to 10, I calmly asked that they stop whining about shoddy service, getting ripped off, complaining about EVERYTHING and deal with the cards they'd been dealt instead of whining all the time. Please, change the topic.
Growling done, we arrived at the Jordan river in a much better frame of mind (well, hey.. at least I was, and they were talking about much more fun things). If they hadn't let it go, at least they were quiet about it, which was enough for me. Sarah had growled at the driver briefly, which had resulted in a slightly less break-neck pace.
The site of the Baptism of Christ is pretty much a big nothing. Buying a ticket and hopping on the back of a small truck, we were driven through the Jordanian military area towards the river-site. Only recently re-discovered, there were ongoing excavations and construction. The river itself no longer runs by the site, the digging yielding a muddy green trench that certainly doesn't look particularly pious or holy. There are ruins of churches and mosaics, a short walk taking you away from the real site to the actual Jordan river. Passing a pretty little baptism font full of clear water, you can walk down next to the green-brown stream that separates Jordan from Israel by less than 5 metres. Taking photos and stopping by the new church at the top of the hill to light candles and by small vials of water, we headed back. The gift shop is quiet impressive, with some beautiful, reasonably priced gifts. I bought some “official” holy water while Sarah got a little cross. Exiting the shop, we began the return journey.
The summary of this visit was that there were no impressive monuments, no great monasteries or churches. Nothing but the significance of the site. For me, this simplicity was absolutely priceless, highlighting the true nature of much of the region. Each and every place only holding as many memories and as much importance as you choose to give it. I found this site whole-heartedly worth while, witnessing the site where Jesus was recognised as the Son of God is nothing to sneeze at.
After a much more peaceful ride home, the afternoon was sure to be trying. We traded Nick for Debbie and set off for Amman.
The afternoon going to Amman was somewhat challenging. Keeping up with Debbie was difficult for both Sarah and I. I spent most of the trip there and back with my head stuck out of the window. In Amman we saw the Citadel and the Amphitheatre, other than that we just drove past the Mosque and the shopping district. One thing that amazed us all was the sheer density of living. Looking up into the residential areas, it was building upon building upon building, bearing all the way down upon you. No matter which vantage point you used, it was astounding how packed in the houses were. Like an impenetrable forest of apartment blocks.
We returned to the hotel mid-afternoon and exhausted. Sarah-british and I wandered into the town for snacks in the form of extremely rich and sweet Turkish pastries, two small pieces of Balkava and some of a similar sweet that was suggested but not formally introduced.
The rest of the day revolved around snoozing, relaxing by the pool and then dinner in the town. this was the “Farewell Dinner” at a restaurant that Faisel suggested. There was an “excellent local singer” who appeared at 830 (shortly after we were seated) and we ordered drinks and dishes for a good few hours. I don't think that this was the kind of place that any of us were looking forward to, but we were beyond the stage of arguing with something that did not require us to organise ourselves. Tonight was a celebration in part, Debbie had announced that she had passed her exams as a sign-language interpreter.
Dinner done, Faisel was tipped and took us to a nearby ice-cream shop. Refreshments of the frozen dairy type was absolutely most welcome.
The return to the hotel and decent into sleep was only delayed by sticking my head into the “drinkers room” to say hello, tending to teeth and other such requirements. I'd begun to dose myself again due to the return of “Nasty-Butt”. It may have been the lingering effects of the original course of tablets, but I just didn't have the energy to suffer through it considering the upcoming flights and trains.
310809 – Jordan, Mabada to Airport
Today was wholly and entirely unremarkable apart from two features, preceded by one point.
Point one, sleeping in exceptionally late, saying multiple goodbyes and venturing into town for lunch at a street-side sandwich shop that Debbie had found. Relaxing by the pool and utilising the free internet for most of the morning.
Feature one, Dinner with John, Troy, Sarah and Scottish at the same restaurant as yesterday after drinks in the cafe downstairs. We ordered the more extravagant meals (steak and the such), which was a little more passable than the local items on the menu. It was a very pleasant meal for everyone involved, with fireworks in the distant city and photos all-round.
Feature two, an attempted scam at the hotel.
On return to the hotel to collect my bag, there was a ~little~ trouble... The receptionist had decided that I was an illegal tenant. The owner was called just as we were waiting for the airport transfer to arrive. The owner decided that calling the Tourism Police and blocking my exit at the airport would be a good idea unless I paid for an extra night.
Needless to say, none of us were impressed. Scottish immediately fired up and it was here that I could see why he is entrusted with tens of millions of pounds back home...
Keeping it brief and civil, Troy and Sarah, Fraser and myself sat in the reception while the owner ranted. His opinion was that because my backpack had been left in the room that I shared with Fraser, it had prevented the hotel from having another guest (Fraser had paid for the room for an extra two days as he was staying on) and that I must pay extra. He threatened to have me stopped at the airport, the tourism police where on their way.. blah blah blah..
We all smelt a bit of a scam...
Troy and Sarah were most eloquent in expressing their displeasure while Fraser argued, ducked and weaved like a debating champion. Probing and testing his every interpretation of “the rules”, the three of them argued in perfect synchrony. It could almost have been choreographed. I made a point of remaining quiet, as I felt I'd already caused problems for these friends that were staying on for at least one more night.
With the owner appearing a little more frustrated and bogging down amongst the logic, and the time for the airport transfer to arrive drawing close, I piped up by pointing out that I hadn't used any of their facilities, I hadn't changed anything thing in the room and that I hadn't tangibly cost the hotel anything.. The cheap shot of bad-cop, good-cop seemed to work as he appeared to grudgingly settle on this and “phoned to tell the tourism police not to come”.
Saying thankyou and that I was very sorry for being so thoughtless as to not tell the reception that I would be leaving my bag in the room, the owner continued to rant that “this always happened with intrepid” and various examples of rooms being tied up for almost entire extra days... Sarah and Fraser started to bare their teeth again by pointing out to take this up with Intrepid.. I apologised again and that appeared to be the end of it.
While something of the frustration in his face told me that he was genuine about having had significant problems with Intrepid Tour guests in the past, I got the unmistakable impression that the owner had though he would recoup those losses through us.. “Retrospectively teach those westerners a lesson”... oops...
Had he presented us with an acceptable compromise, I would have happily paid the difference. As it was, my bag had been in an already occupied room and it was out of the question to pay for an entire extra room at a premium rate for that privilege. It had definitely started out as a scam.
That said, had this little drama gone on for another 10 minutes, I would have paid the $50USD (or whatever the equivalent was) to avoid missing my flight. I think the owner realised that it would not be an easy win for him. Our little presentations would have also communicated that if he pressed us much harder, he might have gotten his little bonus but that we would have made sure that Intrepid never used them again.. In this attempted fleece, the sheep had sharp teeth and claws..
All four of us were wildly impressed with each others displays of diplomacy, logic and argument in the face of this fiasco. There was still some waiting for the airport taxi after the owner glared his way off out the door. Debbie and John appeared before long, John had smelt blood on the wind and wisely hidden in Debbies room lest the owner try a similar act on him. Debbie had paid for a whole extra day beyond what she was staying (a golden bullet we hadn't used in the argument yet).
We shortly said our goodbyes, with promises to stay in touch. Debbie, John and I boarded the cheap mini-van and departed. This driver was different the the excellent one we had used earlier that day, “he is sick” or some such story. This driver took an agonisingly long time to drive to the airport, I did my best to be amused by Debbies dialogue with John.
Arriving at the airport with only a little time to spare, I rushed to the correct terminal after a guard pointed out that I was in the wrong building. Amazingly, I beat Debbie and John, who had given the driver the correct directions. Rushing through several security checks and jumping the line into the business class check-in, I did the mad run to the gate. Mournfully by-passing the gift-shops containing the last two or three little souvenirs that I wanted for myself, I got frisked for a third time and sat at the gate, my ticket processed.
I sat for nearly an hour...
So much for the rush.. those last little bits of Jordan that I wanted to display at home on the other side of the security glass, mocking me for nearly the whole wait..
Oh well, iPod will console me with sweet sweet music...
The morning felt like a hangover.
I think everyone had been suffering a bit of dehydration after the last two days exploring the dry city, most of us having a return of gastro problems. The simple breakfast was monotonous, but served its purpose, and soon all of us were on the bus.
A drive of several hours through countryside that I simply can't remember was highlighted by two features.
The first was a stop at Karak, a crusader's castle that was in various stages of restoration and ruin. It was on the tip of a triangular shaped hill, featuring a moat and heavy fortifications. The entire hill had been fortified at one time and there was some interesting history about the place, having a number of disreputable owners.
Tales of attacks during wedding parties (with the bombardments directed away from the honeymoon suite) and sieges, we walked through the expansive corridors. While in the UK, I had seen a fair number of keeps an castles. This had the most impressive interior by far, with great barracks, kitchens and hallways big enough to drive trucks down. Suitably poetic photos later, a number of us waited in the town near the visitors centre. Buying a coke, I did my best ignoring the local vendors before FINALLY finding the same type of silver bracelet I'd seen in the desert. Bargaining it down to half of the price I'd heard from both sellers, my small prize was secured.
The second highlight was us stopping by the side of the road. About 50m further down was a Mercedes with the bonnet up, adjacent to us was a sign.
“Sea Level. ZERO METRES”
Behind us was the tall hill that we had just descended, stretching into the distance was a great valley reaching all the way to the horizon.
The rest of the day picked up from there, we descended to the level of the Dead Sea, took photo's of the “Pillar of Rock” that had once been a biblical woman ignoring her husband, did our part to save the dead sea by throwing a rock into it and feasted on a most impressive buffet lunch. Satisfying our cravings for meat and fish, we caused a respectable amount of damage to the ladened tables, I for one avoiding the breads and eggs as much as possible. I think I've seen enough bread and boiled eggs to last a life-time. I felt like I'd had my first real meal in over two weeks.
Moving onto the “swimming resort” we rented lockers and towels before the mad-dash across the hot sand to the Living Water of the Dead Sea. The Dead Sea, I believe, was primarily fed by the river Jordan. In recent times, Israel dammed the river in order to better define the boarders and assist in improving the mineral mining across the plains surrounding the Dead Sea. Currently situated at 400m below sea-level, the dead sea is shrinking at 1 metre per year due to the dam. In order to combat this, the Jordanian government is building the “Red-Dead canal” or the “Dred canal” to fed the inland sea from the Red Sea. Without this effort, the Dead Sea will be all but gone by 2050.
Swimming in the dead-sea is a mind-boggling experience. If you float on your back, it is almost like a giant fluffy bean-bag. On your front, it is a real challenge to get your legs below your waist, leaving you to “crawl” almost on top of the water. The saltiness is so extreme that a single drop in your mouth will make you screw up your face and look for fresh water. Every cut or chafe really needs to be covered up or sealed before entering. Even then, you can get some “interesting burning sensations” in places that could only be described as “strange and unusual”. Under no circumstances should you put your head below the surface.
Retreating from the boyant water, we showered nearby and jumped in the pool next to the change-rooms. In complete contrast, we could barely keep our heads above the water! Over the next hour we returned to both waters a few times and had a “Dead Sea mud-bath”.
Back on the Air Conditioned bus, we escaped the 40 degree heat and 90% humidity and made our way up, out of the low-lying plane. Sarah-british was silent for almost this entire trip, motion sickness having saddly turned her into what we call on the Leeuwin, a Mushroom. She was really suffering for this stage.
A mid-afternoon stop was held at the Jesuit monastery that is believed to be the site of Moses' grave. The walk up and around the hill included some mosaics and part of the ancient buildings, the main sections were closed for renovations. Photos and stretching done, we pressed on to Madaba, arriving there in the late afternoon.
A big day of travel done, the bus went past Faisels failed marriage proposal. Hissing and booing at the unresponsive building, we stopped a few minutes later at the hotel.
Hotel Mariam is nice enough, located about 5-10 minutes walk from the town centre. Featuring cold swimming pool (that could use a little heating) and not-so-big rooms (that could use more than a little cooling), we settled in until the dinner meeting. Snoozing, showers and utilising the free WiFi from a nearby transmitter, I whiled away most of the afternoon.
Dinner time arriving, Faisel took us for an orientation walk of the town. Nerves growing thin, I wasn't the only one wanting to bite the head off of one of the two “louder” members of our group. Finally Faisel declared that we would have tea and coffee at his home, once we'd been through the tourist district. My heart sinking that dinner was a long and boring wait away, I know I wasn't able to appreciate Faisel's hospitality at all. Doing my best to stay awake and occasionally glance at the bulk of family photos that were passed around, I realise most of the group were getting a real kick out of the experience. I just wanted to have some bland dinner, a lot of cold refreshing drinks to wash down my tablets, and an early night. It's just as well I didn't bring my back-pack or I might have used its contents to set fire to the place.
Goodbyes MERCIFULLY done, the group went back up into the main town and found a “Mystic Pizza” (safe enough). A glare that possibly scorched her eyebrows later, one of the girls swapped me away from the louder member of the group who had been slowly plucking my every last remaining nerve. Sarah's mercy was followed with pizzas and at least one cold refreshing lemon drink. I hurried through my portion of the meal and then the bill and bolted for the exit before the red-rage took hold. Following one of the other Australians (who also confessed a desire to break every piece of furniture in the place), we made our way back to the hotel while trying to stay in close enough proximity to the girls so they wouldn't be hassled.
A hurried descent into sleep, I hoped that tomorrow would be easier to manage.
300808 – Jordan, Baptism site to Amman
Getting up around 9ish, I gorged on pancakes for breakfast and finalised the plans with Nick and Sarah-british. We would be going to the site of the Baptism of Christ in a private car, returning to the hotel and then on into Amman. In only a little better mood than before I went to bed, I did my best not to glare while a hung-over Nick and a frazzled Sarah got ready to leave. Mercifully away from much of the group, I looked forward to a chilled trip to the world-changing site. Deciding that complaining about how bad they thought Emam and Linda were, I tried staring out the window. 10 minutes later, a deep breath and counting to 10, I calmly asked that they stop whining about shoddy service, getting ripped off, complaining about EVERYTHING and deal with the cards they'd been dealt instead of whining all the time. Please, change the topic.
Growling done, we arrived at the Jordan river in a much better frame of mind (well, hey.. at least I was, and they were talking about much more fun things). If they hadn't let it go, at least they were quiet about it, which was enough for me. Sarah had growled at the driver briefly, which had resulted in a slightly less break-neck pace.
The site of the Baptism of Christ is pretty much a big nothing. Buying a ticket and hopping on the back of a small truck, we were driven through the Jordanian military area towards the river-site. Only recently re-discovered, there were ongoing excavations and construction. The river itself no longer runs by the site, the digging yielding a muddy green trench that certainly doesn't look particularly pious or holy. There are ruins of churches and mosaics, a short walk taking you away from the real site to the actual Jordan river. Passing a pretty little baptism font full of clear water, you can walk down next to the green-brown stream that separates Jordan from Israel by less than 5 metres. Taking photos and stopping by the new church at the top of the hill to light candles and by small vials of water, we headed back. The gift shop is quiet impressive, with some beautiful, reasonably priced gifts. I bought some “official” holy water while Sarah got a little cross. Exiting the shop, we began the return journey.
The summary of this visit was that there were no impressive monuments, no great monasteries or churches. Nothing but the significance of the site. For me, this simplicity was absolutely priceless, highlighting the true nature of much of the region. Each and every place only holding as many memories and as much importance as you choose to give it. I found this site whole-heartedly worth while, witnessing the site where Jesus was recognised as the Son of God is nothing to sneeze at.
After a much more peaceful ride home, the afternoon was sure to be trying. We traded Nick for Debbie and set off for Amman.
The afternoon going to Amman was somewhat challenging. Keeping up with Debbie was difficult for both Sarah and I. I spent most of the trip there and back with my head stuck out of the window. In Amman we saw the Citadel and the Amphitheatre, other than that we just drove past the Mosque and the shopping district. One thing that amazed us all was the sheer density of living. Looking up into the residential areas, it was building upon building upon building, bearing all the way down upon you. No matter which vantage point you used, it was astounding how packed in the houses were. Like an impenetrable forest of apartment blocks.
We returned to the hotel mid-afternoon and exhausted. Sarah-british and I wandered into the town for snacks in the form of extremely rich and sweet Turkish pastries, two small pieces of Balkava and some of a similar sweet that was suggested but not formally introduced.
The rest of the day revolved around snoozing, relaxing by the pool and then dinner in the town. this was the “Farewell Dinner” at a restaurant that Faisel suggested. There was an “excellent local singer” who appeared at 830 (shortly after we were seated) and we ordered drinks and dishes for a good few hours. I don't think that this was the kind of place that any of us were looking forward to, but we were beyond the stage of arguing with something that did not require us to organise ourselves. Tonight was a celebration in part, Debbie had announced that she had passed her exams as a sign-language interpreter.
Dinner done, Faisel was tipped and took us to a nearby ice-cream shop. Refreshments of the frozen dairy type was absolutely most welcome.
The return to the hotel and decent into sleep was only delayed by sticking my head into the “drinkers room” to say hello, tending to teeth and other such requirements. I'd begun to dose myself again due to the return of “Nasty-Butt”. It may have been the lingering effects of the original course of tablets, but I just didn't have the energy to suffer through it considering the upcoming flights and trains.
310809 – Jordan, Mabada to Airport
Today was wholly and entirely unremarkable apart from two features, preceded by one point.
Point one, sleeping in exceptionally late, saying multiple goodbyes and venturing into town for lunch at a street-side sandwich shop that Debbie had found. Relaxing by the pool and utilising the free internet for most of the morning.
Feature one, Dinner with John, Troy, Sarah and Scottish at the same restaurant as yesterday after drinks in the cafe downstairs. We ordered the more extravagant meals (steak and the such), which was a little more passable than the local items on the menu. It was a very pleasant meal for everyone involved, with fireworks in the distant city and photos all-round.
Feature two, an attempted scam at the hotel.
On return to the hotel to collect my bag, there was a ~little~ trouble... The receptionist had decided that I was an illegal tenant. The owner was called just as we were waiting for the airport transfer to arrive. The owner decided that calling the Tourism Police and blocking my exit at the airport would be a good idea unless I paid for an extra night.
Needless to say, none of us were impressed. Scottish immediately fired up and it was here that I could see why he is entrusted with tens of millions of pounds back home...
Keeping it brief and civil, Troy and Sarah, Fraser and myself sat in the reception while the owner ranted. His opinion was that because my backpack had been left in the room that I shared with Fraser, it had prevented the hotel from having another guest (Fraser had paid for the room for an extra two days as he was staying on) and that I must pay extra. He threatened to have me stopped at the airport, the tourism police where on their way.. blah blah blah..
We all smelt a bit of a scam...
Troy and Sarah were most eloquent in expressing their displeasure while Fraser argued, ducked and weaved like a debating champion. Probing and testing his every interpretation of “the rules”, the three of them argued in perfect synchrony. It could almost have been choreographed. I made a point of remaining quiet, as I felt I'd already caused problems for these friends that were staying on for at least one more night.
With the owner appearing a little more frustrated and bogging down amongst the logic, and the time for the airport transfer to arrive drawing close, I piped up by pointing out that I hadn't used any of their facilities, I hadn't changed anything thing in the room and that I hadn't tangibly cost the hotel anything.. The cheap shot of bad-cop, good-cop seemed to work as he appeared to grudgingly settle on this and “phoned to tell the tourism police not to come”.
Saying thankyou and that I was very sorry for being so thoughtless as to not tell the reception that I would be leaving my bag in the room, the owner continued to rant that “this always happened with intrepid” and various examples of rooms being tied up for almost entire extra days... Sarah and Fraser started to bare their teeth again by pointing out to take this up with Intrepid.. I apologised again and that appeared to be the end of it.
While something of the frustration in his face told me that he was genuine about having had significant problems with Intrepid Tour guests in the past, I got the unmistakable impression that the owner had though he would recoup those losses through us.. “Retrospectively teach those westerners a lesson”... oops...
Had he presented us with an acceptable compromise, I would have happily paid the difference. As it was, my bag had been in an already occupied room and it was out of the question to pay for an entire extra room at a premium rate for that privilege. It had definitely started out as a scam.
That said, had this little drama gone on for another 10 minutes, I would have paid the $50USD (or whatever the equivalent was) to avoid missing my flight. I think the owner realised that it would not be an easy win for him. Our little presentations would have also communicated that if he pressed us much harder, he might have gotten his little bonus but that we would have made sure that Intrepid never used them again.. In this attempted fleece, the sheep had sharp teeth and claws..
All four of us were wildly impressed with each others displays of diplomacy, logic and argument in the face of this fiasco. There was still some waiting for the airport taxi after the owner glared his way off out the door. Debbie and John appeared before long, John had smelt blood on the wind and wisely hidden in Debbies room lest the owner try a similar act on him. Debbie had paid for a whole extra day beyond what she was staying (a golden bullet we hadn't used in the argument yet).
We shortly said our goodbyes, with promises to stay in touch. Debbie, John and I boarded the cheap mini-van and departed. This driver was different the the excellent one we had used earlier that day, “he is sick” or some such story. This driver took an agonisingly long time to drive to the airport, I did my best to be amused by Debbies dialogue with John.
Arriving at the airport with only a little time to spare, I rushed to the correct terminal after a guard pointed out that I was in the wrong building. Amazingly, I beat Debbie and John, who had given the driver the correct directions. Rushing through several security checks and jumping the line into the business class check-in, I did the mad run to the gate. Mournfully by-passing the gift-shops containing the last two or three little souvenirs that I wanted for myself, I got frisked for a third time and sat at the gate, my ticket processed.
I sat for nearly an hour...
So much for the rush.. those last little bits of Jordan that I wanted to display at home on the other side of the security glass, mocking me for nearly the whole wait..
Oh well, iPod will console me with sweet sweet music...
260808-280808 Jordan
260808 – Jordan, Aqaba to Wadi Rum
Rising the next morning and avoiding breakfast, we had another group meeting before getting on the bus. Sarah-british had been to the hospital across the road with Linda, an elderly doctor there had agreed that it was fire-coral and provided suitable prescriptions.
Lingering next to the hotel, I sent and received some last emails through the free WiFi before buy some extra water and boarding the bus for a quick drive through Aqaba. So far it is the nicest and most modern city I have seen in the Middle East, everyone agreed that it was worth staying there to recover.
Driving into the desert, Faisel told us about the history and make-up of Jordan. He ellaborated on local groups and customs, particular those relating to dating and marriage. Having been recently knocked back on a marriage proposal because he wasn't wealthy enough, I was a little worried that this might be a trend for the rest of the trip..
One thing that is particularly striking about Jordan is the national loyalty to their King. His photo is EVERYWHERE, it is required to be in every place of business and there is a genuine love for him by all of his citizens. Faisel told us the stories outlining his progression to the throne (which wasn't entirely welcomed by the new monarch), including how he used to sneak out of the palace to be amongst his people as a commoner. Tourist, foreigner, businessman, one time that he had been acting as a taxi-driver, he started asking a Bedouin if he thought the king was a bad man by making accusations. The Bedouins are PROFOUNDLY loyal, on hearing his beloved king being slandered, he attacked. Pulling out hair and punching, the angry Bedouin was hauled from the car by the Royal Personal Guard who were never far behind.
It is really something, when a Monarch is almost killed out of loyalty because he bad-mouthed himself :p
Passing through the dessert, and a suitable number of check-points, we arrived at the gates to Wadi Rum and the Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Historically important due to its ties with Lawrence of Arabia, we stopped for photos and a toilet break. Having already transferred our gear, we mounted 4WDs and took off for the overnight stay in the dessert.
The vehicle I took with 3 others was driven by Sheik Zaaied. He was the leader of his broader family, having been educated throughout Jordan for many years, operating a tour company through Wadi Rum, and being friends with the King. We stopped for “Strong-Water” (frozen bottles) and snacks before leaving the sealed roads and entering the sand.
We stopped for Bedouin tea in a tent next to Lawrence Spring. Bedouin tea is a mix of Wild Sage, Mint, Cinnamon and other herbs that is served very sweet. It is absolutely breath-taking, but something I would never be able to get back into Australia. Almost haunting in flavour and extremely refreshing, it will be one of my favourite memories of Jordan and the Middle East as a whole.
While at this little Bedouin camp, there were some pieces of silver Jewellery for sale. The price was a little high and I was concerned about the quality, but I regret not buying a silver bracelet that caught my eye for Jenny. I spent most of the rest of the trip before finding one like it.
Moving on, we drove past Lawrence's House, an outpost that had been badly damaged in the last major earthquake. We didn't go inside, but the view of the surrounding region was astounding.
Next was a canyon-cave that had ancient carvings throughout it. We walked the 20-30 metres into the mountain, photographing inscriptions and etchings of camels, men, women giving birth. A short drive later we were at a great sand-dune, where the others climbed to the top while Debbie and I recorded their break-neck speed decent from the base.
Having finished the tour, we finished at the Sheik's camp at one of the marked “Sunset” locations and “Ocean of Ten Thousand Stars”. After more Bedouin tea and a short climb, we watched a sunset that was spectacular indeed. After the deep red and orange of the sky left us yearning for more, we wandered back in the gently progressing dark towards dinner.
Bedouin “Sand Cooking” reminds me of a mixture of a technique I saw in an SAS survival book and “Cooking with Wool” that my mum occasional performs. A multi-level circular platform is buried in the sand under a large round disc in the ground. On each level of the device is a different food type, for ours it was Chicken on top and Onions underneath. Below the whole device is a mound of hot coals. Over the course of 2-4 hours, the heat from the coals cooks the food, before the Bedouin chef finally shovels and then sweeps the sand from the top of the round cover and raises this little time-capsule of delicious cuisine from its brief grave. The meat is exceptionally tender, the onions below benefiting from the exudate from it's upstairs neighbour.
Dinner done and cleared away, Sheik Zaeid collected the bones and placed them at a strategic position outside of the camp. Over the next hour, we shone lights and whistled as the foxes came down heralded with glowing eyes. The Sheik would occasionally say “Fox” loudly, which was responded to with a “yes?” by Scottish and a several pairs of glowing beacons out in the dark.
The rest of the night was filled with drinks from what appeared to be an alcohol-free bottle of Egyptian Rum accompanied by Bedouin singing from our Friend the Sheik and classical opera by Sarah. Late into the night, the gas lights were put out and we slept on matresses under the Ocean of Ten Thousand Stars. The little droplets of light slowly joined their friends into riverlets, then streams, ponds, rivers and finally the grand ocean as our light grew accustomed to the dark. Beneath the spectacular majesty of the universe, we drifted to sleep under a rolling ocean of gentle light that could only be described by poets.
Punctuating this astounding display were the regular prods of “Steve, you're snoring”
270809 – Jordan, Wadi Rum to Petra
Rising the next morning to complaints of my own nocturnal musical performance, we had a breakfast of tea, flat-bread with oil, herbs and jam. We broke away from the camp and 4 of us rode in the open roll-cage of a ute, back to civilisation and the air-conditioned bus.
Travelling through the morning light, the dessert was a beautiful series of light and dark as we traversed the shadows beneath the mountains that had been painted by nature with iron oxides and sulphides. Passing camels and goats, along with an assortment of camps, we made our way back into town, our vehicle running out of petrol (or possible vital essence, considering its condition) only 50 metres from the bus.
Goodbye to the Sheik and back on the road, we started the long journey to Petra. We stopped on the way to photograph the wild valley that remains as un-touched nature in the heart of Jordan. Filled with Jackals, bears, wolves and wild-dogs, we viewed the valley from a nearby mountain top. Faisel said he didn't have the certifications required to take us in there and that it can easily take a year to gain permission from the government with an official guide.
After several hours of driving, we arrived in Petra. Photo's from a suitable look-out preceded the decent into the town down street that would rival Assisi for gradient. Stopping in the city proper, still halfway up the hill, we stocked up on water and dozens of falafels for lunch at the discounted prices. Making the final decent, the prices had doubled before we even got to our hotel.
The Silk Road Hotel is astoundingly well appointed. The rooms are large and comfortable with hot AND cold water along with barely functional air-conditioning. We rested for several hours with showers and naps, Sarah-British once again displaying her war-wounds, before regrouping to visit Petra.
After congregating and being instructed, Faisel guided us to the entrance to the archaeological site. Sourcing our tickets and maps, we progressed to the gate and made our way into antiquity.
The initial walk is surrounded by carved tombs, into the hillside and even within free-standing boulders. There are honestly too many to count and many of them are particularly small. After passing over the small bridge spanning the main path of Petra's ancient water source, we entered the 1.2km long canyon that leads down into the main sights. Either side of the canyon features the remains of a small hand-carved aqueduct, about 10-16cm in diameter. These two small channels reached the entire way into the city and provided water to it's residents in a time at the birth of history. The Canyon itself is 3-6 metres is width, with multiple tiers almost out of sight. These ledges and this narrow canyon offered a security to the citizens, successfully repelling every attempted attack. At places along the canyon there are various features carved into the rock, including two camel trains reminding us of the history of the region, niches for idols, at least one significant alter and a nearby small cave for animal and human sacrifices.
As we approached the end of this long hallway, Faisel instructed us to walk along the right hand wall. Telling us to stop abruptly, he had us face forward and then take a step to the left. This little dance routine summoned the great Treasury building into sight, bursting from the walls of the canyon in a way reminiscent of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
Passing from the final confines of the canyon, we approached the Treasury in awe of its splendour. This ancient tomb facade is ABSOLUTELY breath-taking, by far the most impressing monument of our extensive travels. It is a sight that the mind can comprehend, yet utterly awe-inspiring. Over 40 metres high and carved directly into the rock, it had previously been buried beneath 6 metres of silt. The bottom level barely visible through the wire grill beneath our feet. Of all of the wonders of the world, on first viewing it is certainly the most magnificent, though the recent century of erosion has degraded it badly.
Photos aside, we progressed on through the necropolis, stopping at a variety of tombs, into acropolis and city. Avoiding merchants and multitudes of Bedouins who were either trying to sell anything that wasn't nailed down, hearding “taxi's” (Camels, donkeys and horses), or beating the day-lights out of each other, we scaled a hill to an ancient Christian Church that was being restored. Petra had once been the capital of this entire region of Asia Minor. An earthquake that is well known throughout antiquity destroyed almost all of the city and damaged the water management system in a way that was never repaired. A vital room in a side chapel within this church had been saved beneath the devastation, filled with scrolls it offers scholars a reliable window into a past that has been otherwise lost and forgotten.
From this vantage point over what remained of the great city, Faisel ended the day. From 3pm was free time, with some people returning to the hotel, exploring sights of the city. A small group of us decided to brave the 800 stairs to make the ascent to the Monastery.
This climb was particularly hard, rivalling Mount Siani in intensity. The stairs were VERY VERY badly worn from centuries of rain, foot-falls and neglect. This climb should not be attempted without good footware and DEFINITELY not after dark. At the end of the climb is a Facade carved into the rock that almost rivals the Treasury. The Monastery is another tomb that also served as a chapel and pilgrimage location. Coming over the hill would be impressive, if you had not had to pass by the Treasure earlier. Continuing to climb past the Monastery is a panorama that offers the viewer sights of Jordan and Israel. John made this final ascent, but the entire rest of the group could not find the energy. Even promises that it was worth the climb for the view alone could not make us turn back to make the additional 200-300 metre scale.
As the sun was setting behind us, and being refreshed from the drinks acquired from the small cafe opposite the Monastery, we spent another hour returning to the valley. Fraser and I were overtaken by the group as we negotiated for a horse and cart to return us to the entrance. Deciding that 30 Dinar was daylight robbery, we offered 10D (about $16AUS) which was refused by the group of drivers. One gentleman over to one side motioned us towards him, amidst yells and screams of protest by his tight-fisted competitors. We mounted the cart and were spirited away, heralded by howls of rage.
Shortly overtaking our group, we were saluted on all sides by dirty looks as we flew past the pedestrian tourists the whole way to the entrance. Fox and I literally had to restrain ourselves from laughing out-loud at some of the filthy glares that we got! Having gotten back to the hotel feeling almost refreshed, we each took our time with showers before meeting our weary companions for the dinner party.
The group dinner was a buffet at a nearby restaurant. Beer was expensive but of high alcohol content, the food consisted of staples we were sadly accustomed to. The Jordanian food was taking its toll.
A cake and singing was gifted by the restaurant staff for Linda's birthday, though she refused to tell us her age (I've got reliable authority that she is a little older than me). Dinner and desert done, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade was played, with everyone cheering the whole way through. None of us remember it being so slap-stick, it seemed so serious when we first watched it years ago.
The evening complete, we meandered back to the hotel with full tummies and growing sweat. The heat and humidity is astounding throughout the Middle East. Back in reception, I fled to the toilet, fearing a return of the “Nasty-Butt”. On reappearing, I was informed that my room-mate had left seeking more alcohol... never a good sign.
Retreating to the room and reinforcing myself with a long shower, I prepared for bed. Several aspirin and some massage to ease the ache in my legs was all that delayed the decent into bliss.
280808 – Petra
Rising late in the morning, I was only just in time to catch breakfast. Fraser Scottish had been carried home by the bar staff at the restaurant where everyone had been the night before. Stumbling into the room at about 3AM, he had slept in the bath and was in an appropriate state on his bed by dawn. I couldn't see him going anywhere for most of the day.
Breakfast had the option of squishy cornflakes with warm milk and the usual break-stuffs. I took off to the ancient city with the two american guys sometime before lunch.
Deciding to be a little more adventurous, we diverted from the main path when we got to the bridge at the entrance to the canyon. Walking to the right, we entered the long series of canyons and tunnels that made up part of the ancient water system. The next two hours consisted of clambering around and down steep faces and boulders, me being careful of my knee and the other two careful of their flip-flops. It seems that their sneakers had disintergrated during the Monastery ascent yesterday.
Finally reaching the junction at the end of the first canyon, we heeded Faisels advice from the briefing and turned left.
“Turning right will get you lost” even though the map made it look like a fairly simple path.
From here on, the next kilometre or so was much easier going than the first. We came across openings that had idol niches carved in and could see ledges far above that might once have provided a vantage point for defenders.
Finally we made it out into the sunlight at the end, into the vicinity of a ruined dam. Tumbled from an ancient earthquake, the destruction of this and it's sibling waterways had ended the city. We braved the hot sands and made our way back to the main thoroughfare, planning for drinks and to maybe see the museum.
A long hot walk later, the three of us met up with Sarah-british and our guide, Linda, on the approach to the museum. We all agreed to find drinks and backtracked to the series of eateries. Cold beverages and toilet stops later, Sarah and John scaled the stairs and walkways on the opposite side of the valley while the rest of us made plans. On their return, Sarah and
I conceded defeat and went back to the hotel, while the others started the climb to the “High-place of sacrifice”.
Once out of the main entrance, leaving Petra to it secluded antiquity, we ran across Scottish. Looking sheepish, he advised us on lunch and made his way to see some more of Petra. Going our separate ways, I went to see how much I could get ripped off for lunch..
By the time we all met up for the evening meeting, most of us had eaten, showered, slept, or performed multiples of the above. Sarah, the young americans and myself were late to the meeting, having found “Mystic Pizza” nearby. While munching away on the “interesting” interpretation of “Pizza”, Sarah-british and Scottish left with the two guides to watch Petra-by-Night. Described as “Silently walking down to the ancient city in candle-light, listening to music played by the Bedouins”, Fraser later said that it was full of loud, obnoxious tourists who were obsessed with camera-flashes. He said that once the crowd had left, obviously missing the point, he wandered out alone. Embracing the serenity as the candles flickered out one by one.
The rest of us spent the night drinking heaps of water and watching the kid's movie “The Goonies”. A couple of mad dashes to the toilet heralded the return of “Nasty-Butt”, which seemed to be pretty common in the group at large, so I'd been planning to go to bed early. A frantic banging on my door and one of the American guys bellowing “GOONIES!!!” changed the plan, Evie joining us in the boys room for the movie.
Fraser returned from Petra in a sober state and described his experiences. Having tested the water at the meeting to see if I would tolerate a drunk room-mate two days in a row, I'd calmly informed him that a repeat would result in me “Putting you in a sleeper hold and then gaffa-taping you to the flag-pole outside. Naked”. So, in all, it was a most pleasant night for everyone.
Rising the next morning and avoiding breakfast, we had another group meeting before getting on the bus. Sarah-british had been to the hospital across the road with Linda, an elderly doctor there had agreed that it was fire-coral and provided suitable prescriptions.
Lingering next to the hotel, I sent and received some last emails through the free WiFi before buy some extra water and boarding the bus for a quick drive through Aqaba. So far it is the nicest and most modern city I have seen in the Middle East, everyone agreed that it was worth staying there to recover.
Driving into the desert, Faisel told us about the history and make-up of Jordan. He ellaborated on local groups and customs, particular those relating to dating and marriage. Having been recently knocked back on a marriage proposal because he wasn't wealthy enough, I was a little worried that this might be a trend for the rest of the trip..
One thing that is particularly striking about Jordan is the national loyalty to their King. His photo is EVERYWHERE, it is required to be in every place of business and there is a genuine love for him by all of his citizens. Faisel told us the stories outlining his progression to the throne (which wasn't entirely welcomed by the new monarch), including how he used to sneak out of the palace to be amongst his people as a commoner. Tourist, foreigner, businessman, one time that he had been acting as a taxi-driver, he started asking a Bedouin if he thought the king was a bad man by making accusations. The Bedouins are PROFOUNDLY loyal, on hearing his beloved king being slandered, he attacked. Pulling out hair and punching, the angry Bedouin was hauled from the car by the Royal Personal Guard who were never far behind.
It is really something, when a Monarch is almost killed out of loyalty because he bad-mouthed himself :p
Passing through the dessert, and a suitable number of check-points, we arrived at the gates to Wadi Rum and the Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Historically important due to its ties with Lawrence of Arabia, we stopped for photos and a toilet break. Having already transferred our gear, we mounted 4WDs and took off for the overnight stay in the dessert.
The vehicle I took with 3 others was driven by Sheik Zaaied. He was the leader of his broader family, having been educated throughout Jordan for many years, operating a tour company through Wadi Rum, and being friends with the King. We stopped for “Strong-Water” (frozen bottles) and snacks before leaving the sealed roads and entering the sand.
We stopped for Bedouin tea in a tent next to Lawrence Spring. Bedouin tea is a mix of Wild Sage, Mint, Cinnamon and other herbs that is served very sweet. It is absolutely breath-taking, but something I would never be able to get back into Australia. Almost haunting in flavour and extremely refreshing, it will be one of my favourite memories of Jordan and the Middle East as a whole.
While at this little Bedouin camp, there were some pieces of silver Jewellery for sale. The price was a little high and I was concerned about the quality, but I regret not buying a silver bracelet that caught my eye for Jenny. I spent most of the rest of the trip before finding one like it.
Moving on, we drove past Lawrence's House, an outpost that had been badly damaged in the last major earthquake. We didn't go inside, but the view of the surrounding region was astounding.
Next was a canyon-cave that had ancient carvings throughout it. We walked the 20-30 metres into the mountain, photographing inscriptions and etchings of camels, men, women giving birth. A short drive later we were at a great sand-dune, where the others climbed to the top while Debbie and I recorded their break-neck speed decent from the base.
Having finished the tour, we finished at the Sheik's camp at one of the marked “Sunset” locations and “Ocean of Ten Thousand Stars”. After more Bedouin tea and a short climb, we watched a sunset that was spectacular indeed. After the deep red and orange of the sky left us yearning for more, we wandered back in the gently progressing dark towards dinner.
Bedouin “Sand Cooking” reminds me of a mixture of a technique I saw in an SAS survival book and “Cooking with Wool” that my mum occasional performs. A multi-level circular platform is buried in the sand under a large round disc in the ground. On each level of the device is a different food type, for ours it was Chicken on top and Onions underneath. Below the whole device is a mound of hot coals. Over the course of 2-4 hours, the heat from the coals cooks the food, before the Bedouin chef finally shovels and then sweeps the sand from the top of the round cover and raises this little time-capsule of delicious cuisine from its brief grave. The meat is exceptionally tender, the onions below benefiting from the exudate from it's upstairs neighbour.
Dinner done and cleared away, Sheik Zaeid collected the bones and placed them at a strategic position outside of the camp. Over the next hour, we shone lights and whistled as the foxes came down heralded with glowing eyes. The Sheik would occasionally say “Fox” loudly, which was responded to with a “yes?” by Scottish and a several pairs of glowing beacons out in the dark.
The rest of the night was filled with drinks from what appeared to be an alcohol-free bottle of Egyptian Rum accompanied by Bedouin singing from our Friend the Sheik and classical opera by Sarah. Late into the night, the gas lights were put out and we slept on matresses under the Ocean of Ten Thousand Stars. The little droplets of light slowly joined their friends into riverlets, then streams, ponds, rivers and finally the grand ocean as our light grew accustomed to the dark. Beneath the spectacular majesty of the universe, we drifted to sleep under a rolling ocean of gentle light that could only be described by poets.
Punctuating this astounding display were the regular prods of “Steve, you're snoring”
270809 – Jordan, Wadi Rum to Petra
Rising the next morning to complaints of my own nocturnal musical performance, we had a breakfast of tea, flat-bread with oil, herbs and jam. We broke away from the camp and 4 of us rode in the open roll-cage of a ute, back to civilisation and the air-conditioned bus.
Travelling through the morning light, the dessert was a beautiful series of light and dark as we traversed the shadows beneath the mountains that had been painted by nature with iron oxides and sulphides. Passing camels and goats, along with an assortment of camps, we made our way back into town, our vehicle running out of petrol (or possible vital essence, considering its condition) only 50 metres from the bus.
Goodbye to the Sheik and back on the road, we started the long journey to Petra. We stopped on the way to photograph the wild valley that remains as un-touched nature in the heart of Jordan. Filled with Jackals, bears, wolves and wild-dogs, we viewed the valley from a nearby mountain top. Faisel said he didn't have the certifications required to take us in there and that it can easily take a year to gain permission from the government with an official guide.
After several hours of driving, we arrived in Petra. Photo's from a suitable look-out preceded the decent into the town down street that would rival Assisi for gradient. Stopping in the city proper, still halfway up the hill, we stocked up on water and dozens of falafels for lunch at the discounted prices. Making the final decent, the prices had doubled before we even got to our hotel.
The Silk Road Hotel is astoundingly well appointed. The rooms are large and comfortable with hot AND cold water along with barely functional air-conditioning. We rested for several hours with showers and naps, Sarah-British once again displaying her war-wounds, before regrouping to visit Petra.
After congregating and being instructed, Faisel guided us to the entrance to the archaeological site. Sourcing our tickets and maps, we progressed to the gate and made our way into antiquity.
The initial walk is surrounded by carved tombs, into the hillside and even within free-standing boulders. There are honestly too many to count and many of them are particularly small. After passing over the small bridge spanning the main path of Petra's ancient water source, we entered the 1.2km long canyon that leads down into the main sights. Either side of the canyon features the remains of a small hand-carved aqueduct, about 10-16cm in diameter. These two small channels reached the entire way into the city and provided water to it's residents in a time at the birth of history. The Canyon itself is 3-6 metres is width, with multiple tiers almost out of sight. These ledges and this narrow canyon offered a security to the citizens, successfully repelling every attempted attack. At places along the canyon there are various features carved into the rock, including two camel trains reminding us of the history of the region, niches for idols, at least one significant alter and a nearby small cave for animal and human sacrifices.
As we approached the end of this long hallway, Faisel instructed us to walk along the right hand wall. Telling us to stop abruptly, he had us face forward and then take a step to the left. This little dance routine summoned the great Treasury building into sight, bursting from the walls of the canyon in a way reminiscent of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
Passing from the final confines of the canyon, we approached the Treasury in awe of its splendour. This ancient tomb facade is ABSOLUTELY breath-taking, by far the most impressing monument of our extensive travels. It is a sight that the mind can comprehend, yet utterly awe-inspiring. Over 40 metres high and carved directly into the rock, it had previously been buried beneath 6 metres of silt. The bottom level barely visible through the wire grill beneath our feet. Of all of the wonders of the world, on first viewing it is certainly the most magnificent, though the recent century of erosion has degraded it badly.
Photos aside, we progressed on through the necropolis, stopping at a variety of tombs, into acropolis and city. Avoiding merchants and multitudes of Bedouins who were either trying to sell anything that wasn't nailed down, hearding “taxi's” (Camels, donkeys and horses), or beating the day-lights out of each other, we scaled a hill to an ancient Christian Church that was being restored. Petra had once been the capital of this entire region of Asia Minor. An earthquake that is well known throughout antiquity destroyed almost all of the city and damaged the water management system in a way that was never repaired. A vital room in a side chapel within this church had been saved beneath the devastation, filled with scrolls it offers scholars a reliable window into a past that has been otherwise lost and forgotten.
From this vantage point over what remained of the great city, Faisel ended the day. From 3pm was free time, with some people returning to the hotel, exploring sights of the city. A small group of us decided to brave the 800 stairs to make the ascent to the Monastery.
This climb was particularly hard, rivalling Mount Siani in intensity. The stairs were VERY VERY badly worn from centuries of rain, foot-falls and neglect. This climb should not be attempted without good footware and DEFINITELY not after dark. At the end of the climb is a Facade carved into the rock that almost rivals the Treasury. The Monastery is another tomb that also served as a chapel and pilgrimage location. Coming over the hill would be impressive, if you had not had to pass by the Treasure earlier. Continuing to climb past the Monastery is a panorama that offers the viewer sights of Jordan and Israel. John made this final ascent, but the entire rest of the group could not find the energy. Even promises that it was worth the climb for the view alone could not make us turn back to make the additional 200-300 metre scale.
As the sun was setting behind us, and being refreshed from the drinks acquired from the small cafe opposite the Monastery, we spent another hour returning to the valley. Fraser and I were overtaken by the group as we negotiated for a horse and cart to return us to the entrance. Deciding that 30 Dinar was daylight robbery, we offered 10D (about $16AUS) which was refused by the group of drivers. One gentleman over to one side motioned us towards him, amidst yells and screams of protest by his tight-fisted competitors. We mounted the cart and were spirited away, heralded by howls of rage.
Shortly overtaking our group, we were saluted on all sides by dirty looks as we flew past the pedestrian tourists the whole way to the entrance. Fox and I literally had to restrain ourselves from laughing out-loud at some of the filthy glares that we got! Having gotten back to the hotel feeling almost refreshed, we each took our time with showers before meeting our weary companions for the dinner party.
The group dinner was a buffet at a nearby restaurant. Beer was expensive but of high alcohol content, the food consisted of staples we were sadly accustomed to. The Jordanian food was taking its toll.
A cake and singing was gifted by the restaurant staff for Linda's birthday, though she refused to tell us her age (I've got reliable authority that she is a little older than me). Dinner and desert done, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade was played, with everyone cheering the whole way through. None of us remember it being so slap-stick, it seemed so serious when we first watched it years ago.
The evening complete, we meandered back to the hotel with full tummies and growing sweat. The heat and humidity is astounding throughout the Middle East. Back in reception, I fled to the toilet, fearing a return of the “Nasty-Butt”. On reappearing, I was informed that my room-mate had left seeking more alcohol... never a good sign.
Retreating to the room and reinforcing myself with a long shower, I prepared for bed. Several aspirin and some massage to ease the ache in my legs was all that delayed the decent into bliss.
280808 – Petra
Rising late in the morning, I was only just in time to catch breakfast. Fraser Scottish had been carried home by the bar staff at the restaurant where everyone had been the night before. Stumbling into the room at about 3AM, he had slept in the bath and was in an appropriate state on his bed by dawn. I couldn't see him going anywhere for most of the day.
Breakfast had the option of squishy cornflakes with warm milk and the usual break-stuffs. I took off to the ancient city with the two american guys sometime before lunch.
Deciding to be a little more adventurous, we diverted from the main path when we got to the bridge at the entrance to the canyon. Walking to the right, we entered the long series of canyons and tunnels that made up part of the ancient water system. The next two hours consisted of clambering around and down steep faces and boulders, me being careful of my knee and the other two careful of their flip-flops. It seems that their sneakers had disintergrated during the Monastery ascent yesterday.
Finally reaching the junction at the end of the first canyon, we heeded Faisels advice from the briefing and turned left.
“Turning right will get you lost” even though the map made it look like a fairly simple path.
From here on, the next kilometre or so was much easier going than the first. We came across openings that had idol niches carved in and could see ledges far above that might once have provided a vantage point for defenders.
Finally we made it out into the sunlight at the end, into the vicinity of a ruined dam. Tumbled from an ancient earthquake, the destruction of this and it's sibling waterways had ended the city. We braved the hot sands and made our way back to the main thoroughfare, planning for drinks and to maybe see the museum.
A long hot walk later, the three of us met up with Sarah-british and our guide, Linda, on the approach to the museum. We all agreed to find drinks and backtracked to the series of eateries. Cold beverages and toilet stops later, Sarah and John scaled the stairs and walkways on the opposite side of the valley while the rest of us made plans. On their return, Sarah and
I conceded defeat and went back to the hotel, while the others started the climb to the “High-place of sacrifice”.
Once out of the main entrance, leaving Petra to it secluded antiquity, we ran across Scottish. Looking sheepish, he advised us on lunch and made his way to see some more of Petra. Going our separate ways, I went to see how much I could get ripped off for lunch..
By the time we all met up for the evening meeting, most of us had eaten, showered, slept, or performed multiples of the above. Sarah, the young americans and myself were late to the meeting, having found “Mystic Pizza” nearby. While munching away on the “interesting” interpretation of “Pizza”, Sarah-british and Scottish left with the two guides to watch Petra-by-Night. Described as “Silently walking down to the ancient city in candle-light, listening to music played by the Bedouins”, Fraser later said that it was full of loud, obnoxious tourists who were obsessed with camera-flashes. He said that once the crowd had left, obviously missing the point, he wandered out alone. Embracing the serenity as the candles flickered out one by one.
The rest of us spent the night drinking heaps of water and watching the kid's movie “The Goonies”. A couple of mad dashes to the toilet heralded the return of “Nasty-Butt”, which seemed to be pretty common in the group at large, so I'd been planning to go to bed early. A frantic banging on my door and one of the American guys bellowing “GOONIES!!!” changed the plan, Evie joining us in the boys room for the movie.
Fraser returned from Petra in a sober state and described his experiences. Having tested the water at the meeting to see if I would tolerate a drunk room-mate two days in a row, I'd calmly informed him that a repeat would result in me “Putting you in a sleeper hold and then gaffa-taping you to the flag-pole outside. Naked”. So, in all, it was a most pleasant night for everyone.
250808 - Siani to Jordan
The morning was ending with a sleep-in followed by a panicked packing. We settled our bills, which I was certain mine was under-charged, and then paid cash for a breakfast of pancakes with banana. Fraser had had a particularly big night last night, having to resort to Hair of the Dog to become active. One of warm beer in, he felt better. Two cans in, he felt great. I left to get my things before the inevitable. Packs were humped to the van and a final toilet stop is all that delayed the departure.
Having practised the art of Hurry-up and Wait, we got to the Ferry terminal in a rush and then did nothing for about 2 hours.
The boat was late, so were our tickets.
I felt bad for Emam, this portion of the trip is Tipping-time. Many of us were running low on funds and so I'm sure that our contributions were not as large as she deserved. One of the couples in the group had taken care to point out that they had no intention to offer a large tip, everyone else deciding to tip individually or in small groups so as to make sure that Emam could see the gratitude of those she had guided, leaving those who felt no need to show appreciation to do as such.
John, Aaron and I each put in as much as we could afford and Emam looked temporarily overwhelmed at our thanks and took little notice of the small fold of bills that we passed her. She was glad to feel appreciated, this had certainly not been the easiest group for her.
Goodbyes and promises to email were made after the protracted passage through security, customs, security and immigration control. We slouched out to the boat and waved goodbye as our packs were man-handled into a pile against the rear railing.
Once we had found seats, gone looking for nibbles, and returned to our seats, the boat got under-way. It became rapidly apparent that the air-conditioning hadn't been “off because the engine was off”, it just wasn't working. As the DVD started playing, a crew-member walked to the front of the cabin and opened the two windows onto the bow. He returned to his station amidst cheering and applause by the passengers.
The journey up the coast to Aqaba took about 1-1.5 hours. The DVD was shockingly bad (“Rush Hour 2”) and the disc must have been in even worse condition than the dialogue, every 5-25 minutes into the film it lost its track and restarted. Taking the opportunity to stare into space, I whiled away the time until we arrived at our destination.
JORDAN
Aqaba was a welcome change to Egypt. Once we had found our guide and gotten our bags (a nail-biting activity of crew-members passing them over the water rather than using the walk-way), we boarded the bus.
Our guide was Faisel, a Jordanian from Madaba (the terminus of our tour). He had been a communiations specialist in the Jordanian Army for 6 years, 2 months, 1 day and 1 hour (or there-abouts... he had been very specific) before getting out and becoming a tour guide. Speaking with an accent that appeared to be normal for the region, the bus took off to the hotel.
The trip from here on in appeared to make a change for the better. The bus was much bigger (piloted by Captain “Drizzle”) and had excellent air-conditioning. The hotel we arrived at was very nicely appointed, definitely a step above what we had been used to. Indeed it had air-conditioning AND hot water.. just no cold water to go with the hot. Still, getting our rooms, I settled down for a nap.
Dinner time was to be directly after the orientation walk. Being guided through the main tourist district of Aqaba, Faisel directed us to money exchanges and banks as necessary. The majority of the group went to sea-food restaurant, Scottish left before too long. Having noticed the after-effects of the night before, despite the temporary remedies that morning, for most of the day, he decided it wiser to retreat to the hotel.
The fish at the restaurant has to be some of the best that I have ever eaten. It was almost still swimming when it hit the plate and came with a strong lemon sauce that it had recently been married to in a beautiful ceremony by the chef. There were drinks all round and we all left, feeling satisfied and hunting for desert.
Wandering through the streets, Sarah-british found a pharmacy and asked for suitable treatments for her fire-coral injury which was getting worse. Continuing on down to the end of the street, we saw the corner leading to the beach. Heading back, we found some icecream in a store that seemed dedicated to deserts. Laddened with water and icecream, we licked our way back to the hotel.
With new confidence, having succeeded in the hunting expedition, I went looking for internet access. There was a small, dodgy, store that offered “ADSL” just behind the hotel. Entering into the hot, smoke-filled room, I wasn't entirely filled with hope that I would be able to get my iPhone fully functional, or that I'd be able to get my various tasks completed.
I wasn't too far off...
About 3 hours later, I wandered back to the hotel. 3 computers had blown up on me, at least one of them releasing its precious blue-smoke from an over-heated powersupply. I had succeeded in sending an email (after re-typing it 3 times) and checked my banking. I'd given up on my phone for the day, after 3 partial attempts. It was on the way home that I found some free access just adjacent to the hotel. Standing out on the street at 1AM, I completed the emails and banking from my phone.
Victorious, I hurried off to bed.
Having practised the art of Hurry-up and Wait, we got to the Ferry terminal in a rush and then did nothing for about 2 hours.
The boat was late, so were our tickets.
I felt bad for Emam, this portion of the trip is Tipping-time. Many of us were running low on funds and so I'm sure that our contributions were not as large as she deserved. One of the couples in the group had taken care to point out that they had no intention to offer a large tip, everyone else deciding to tip individually or in small groups so as to make sure that Emam could see the gratitude of those she had guided, leaving those who felt no need to show appreciation to do as such.
John, Aaron and I each put in as much as we could afford and Emam looked temporarily overwhelmed at our thanks and took little notice of the small fold of bills that we passed her. She was glad to feel appreciated, this had certainly not been the easiest group for her.
Goodbyes and promises to email were made after the protracted passage through security, customs, security and immigration control. We slouched out to the boat and waved goodbye as our packs were man-handled into a pile against the rear railing.
Once we had found seats, gone looking for nibbles, and returned to our seats, the boat got under-way. It became rapidly apparent that the air-conditioning hadn't been “off because the engine was off”, it just wasn't working. As the DVD started playing, a crew-member walked to the front of the cabin and opened the two windows onto the bow. He returned to his station amidst cheering and applause by the passengers.
The journey up the coast to Aqaba took about 1-1.5 hours. The DVD was shockingly bad (“Rush Hour 2”) and the disc must have been in even worse condition than the dialogue, every 5-25 minutes into the film it lost its track and restarted. Taking the opportunity to stare into space, I whiled away the time until we arrived at our destination.
JORDAN
Aqaba was a welcome change to Egypt. Once we had found our guide and gotten our bags (a nail-biting activity of crew-members passing them over the water rather than using the walk-way), we boarded the bus.
Our guide was Faisel, a Jordanian from Madaba (the terminus of our tour). He had been a communiations specialist in the Jordanian Army for 6 years, 2 months, 1 day and 1 hour (or there-abouts... he had been very specific) before getting out and becoming a tour guide. Speaking with an accent that appeared to be normal for the region, the bus took off to the hotel.
The trip from here on in appeared to make a change for the better. The bus was much bigger (piloted by Captain “Drizzle”) and had excellent air-conditioning. The hotel we arrived at was very nicely appointed, definitely a step above what we had been used to. Indeed it had air-conditioning AND hot water.. just no cold water to go with the hot. Still, getting our rooms, I settled down for a nap.
Dinner time was to be directly after the orientation walk. Being guided through the main tourist district of Aqaba, Faisel directed us to money exchanges and banks as necessary. The majority of the group went to sea-food restaurant, Scottish left before too long. Having noticed the after-effects of the night before, despite the temporary remedies that morning, for most of the day, he decided it wiser to retreat to the hotel.
The fish at the restaurant has to be some of the best that I have ever eaten. It was almost still swimming when it hit the plate and came with a strong lemon sauce that it had recently been married to in a beautiful ceremony by the chef. There were drinks all round and we all left, feeling satisfied and hunting for desert.
Wandering through the streets, Sarah-british found a pharmacy and asked for suitable treatments for her fire-coral injury which was getting worse. Continuing on down to the end of the street, we saw the corner leading to the beach. Heading back, we found some icecream in a store that seemed dedicated to deserts. Laddened with water and icecream, we licked our way back to the hotel.
With new confidence, having succeeded in the hunting expedition, I went looking for internet access. There was a small, dodgy, store that offered “ADSL” just behind the hotel. Entering into the hot, smoke-filled room, I wasn't entirely filled with hope that I would be able to get my iPhone fully functional, or that I'd be able to get my various tasks completed.
I wasn't too far off...
About 3 hours later, I wandered back to the hotel. 3 computers had blown up on me, at least one of them releasing its precious blue-smoke from an over-heated powersupply. I had succeeded in sending an email (after re-typing it 3 times) and checked my banking. I'd given up on my phone for the day, after 3 partial attempts. It was on the way home that I found some free access just adjacent to the hotel. Standing out on the street at 1AM, I completed the emails and banking from my phone.
Victorious, I hurried off to bed.
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