Humps, bumps & blowfish

Aqaba

Miles - 6, 792

We arrived in the dust blown desert settlement of Wadi Rum after dark, having been delayed by our Big Bus vs Penny clash earlier. We set up the van in 'sleeping mode' in the car park, stowing all the bags in the front seats below Edie's hammock bunk and folding down the top and bottom beds. Back in England, before we left, we had bought the 'Edie bunk' on the off chance that we may have to all squeeze in the van 'once in a while'. Now, this is our most regular sleeping arrangement. Even if we do happen to be at a proper campsite our 2 berth 'pop up' tent is more often used for baggage storage than sleeping in. It's amazing how quickly the concept of all five of us sleeping like sardines in a can has gone from 'slightly alarming' to 'run of the mill'. We just get on with it now.

Still in slight shock after the crunch, we treated ourselves to a meal out at the restaurant next door to our car park home. In fact, we had 2 meals and shared it out between 5, as the limited choice (barbecued chicken or lamb) was more than compensated for by the portion size which we'd spied others eating. The variety of food on offer to diners has narrowed significantly since southern Turkey. From Ankara, through Syria all the way to Aqaba on the southern Red Sea coast of Jordan, everyone eats kebabs. Skewers of 'chicken or meat' (that'll be lamb) are dusted in spices and barbecued, served with flatbread, humous, salad and olives in a million different truck stops, cafes, take-aways and restaurants in hundreds of towns and villages. No one ever deviates. No one ever wakes up in the morning and says "You know what'd be nice tonight? I'm in the mood for a curry." Why would they? There's a story that Kentucky Fried Chicken opened a branch in Syria. Its opening day was much fanfared in the press and business was brisk, yet within a month it was empty and forced to close. Locals, even Arab kids hungry for a taste of 'The West' couldn't understand why a portion of chicken and fries cost about 5 quid, when that would buy a whole chicken plus enough humous and flatbread for a family at any other restaurant. KFC bringing chicken to Arabs was presumably the result of several focus group meetings in a glass air conditioned Head Office at which no-one used the phrase 'coals to Newcastle'.

Our plan was to spend a couple of nights in Wadi Rum before driving the 50 kilometres further south to Aqaba where we would get Penny's dent repaired and arrange shipping to get her to India. We woke at about 7 and spilled out of the van to go and make use of the campsite next door's loos. A 'stealth wee' in someone else's toilet block is all part of the fun of camping for free. If you're feeling confident you can even have a 'stealth shower', at which point you're probably ready to turn pro., buy a VW and travel the world.

Our late arrival the night before rewarded us with a gob-smacking view to wake up to. We were in a desert! This was Lawrence of Arabia country! The very desert where the British officer galvanized the Arabs to fight the Turks from here all the way to Damascus. There were huge, red, mountainous rocks towering behind us, and ahead were miles of orange sand, more even bigger rock formations, and camels. And that's what we'd come for. While I was scouting the tiny desert village, like one of those 'one horse town' prospector settlements in old cowboy films, for some breakfast and to get the lowdown on the current rate for renting 5 camels, Jill met  a man. She does this. It's a gift. None of us mind. After all, it's how Daniel The Trucker came into our lives*.

Saleh was wearing classic Arabian robes, headscarf and sandals, plus, oddly, a leather bomber jacket. Well, this was November. The temperature would only reach 35°C today. He had offered Jill a deal on some camels, but also a 4x4 tour of the desert to see the ruins of a Beduin outpost known as Lawrence's House, some massive sand dunes to climb and a couple of cool rocks to clamber up. I negotiated his fee down to something below 3 figures and he was ours for the day. He first insisted we come over to his house to have tea with his wife and meet his kids.

"Go on, go on!" he urged, pointing it out across the sand. "I will meet you there with camels." When we walked into his back yard a young boy of about 7 and girl about 9 greeted us and went to call their mum. An old lady dressed in black robes, grandma I assume, smiled and waved from the corner as a man in front of her expertly butchered a goat, strung up by its hind quarters with some wire flex. Smiling, I took the girls over to say hello. This was Eid week, so goats were being eaten everywhere. The man smiled, stopped for a moment and went to shake my hand, but realising is was covered in blood stopped himself and laughed. Ella pointed at the pile of bloated internal organs slumped on the dusty floor and Edie noticed the depacitated goats head, staring vacantly at Bethan a few feet away. Bethan was strangely quiet.

Saleh's wife appeared clutching a young toddler and smiling broadly. "Welcome, welcome. Come in, come in." We sat in their living room on cushions arranged around the walls. The large room had no furniture at all, but a huge rug at its centre, cushions around every wall punctuated by camel seats to lean on and a central ceiling fan to alleviate the heat. The walls and ceiling were painted in vibrant symmetrical patterns forming borders around the ceiling and around pictures on the wall. A large flower had been painted around the ceiling fan. It was a very cheery room, and soon the children were showing our girls their toys while we drank sweet rosemary infused tea.

When Saleh arrived he joined us for tea and when I commented on the impressive butchery in the yard he invited us to join them for dinner. I was only making conversation, honest. Regular readers may guess what happened next. I was just about to politely decline when Jill said "We'd love to". The girls and I exchanged a glance. I knew what they were thinking. They'd met the menu face to face.

Putting such concerns behind us, we went to meet our camels. As anyone who's ridden a camel will know, the real drama is when the camel stands up or kneels down, so there was a chorus of "whooa"s "aaargh"s and general hilarity as we were each catapulted skywards by our desert steeds. We then began our steady plod to Lawrence Spring (you're noticing a theme with these desert landmarks) about an hour from town. Each camel was initially led by a boy from the village, but soon they handed us the reigns and precisely nothing changed. It was a gesture to make us feel in control, but the truth was those camels did that route all the time and any thoughts of galloping off into the horizon to raise an Arab army and defeat the Ottoman empire would have been futile, so T.E. Lawrence would have had no luck with these. It was blisteringly hot in the sun, but brilliant fun, especially for the girls, and we all discovered muscles we didn't know we had somewhere on our inner thighs.

We met Saleh in his old Toyota Landcruiser (this place runs on them - no other 4x4 at all, just bullet proof old Toyotas) at Lawrence Spring which doesn't actually have a spring any more, but does boast a tree, so there must be water underground somewhere. The next few hours were spent touring the Wadi Rum desert sitting in the back of his open 'pick up', stopping here and there to see and explore. We were so glad we'd paid to do more than just get the camels to Lawrence Spring. From the car, you could see how close to the village that was - you had barely scratched the surface of the vastness of this desert. We climbed and then ran down colossal sand dunes in huge flying leaps, climbed steep rock faces to stand on natural bridges formed between pillars of sandstone and saw carved drawings of camels at old trading posts dating back a thousand years. As we hurtled back towards the village, the wind whipping our headscarves, the sun finally dipping low enough to be pleasant and give the desert a terracotta glow, we all agreed it may have been the best £40 we'd spent.

"Where you sleeping tonight?" asked Saleh, back at his house.

"In the car park again. It's free."

He shook his head. "You don't want to sleep in desert?"

We explained that we'd looked into it but decided to spend our money on camels instead, but he was having none of it. He said he only had a few tourists staying at his camp that night, and if we wanted to join them we'd be very welcome.

"You must sleep in the desert. You can eat dinner out there, we'll have a barbecue, then sleep in a tent, some breakfast in the morning cooked on the fire..."

It did sound great. We agreed to pay him something, but it was about a third of the going rate.

"Please, I must insist," whispered Saleh, "don't talk about the money with the other guests. They are paying full price."

Our lips were sealed.

And so we found ourselves sharing barbecued chicken (never did find out what happened to that goat) under the stars with Saleh and his kids, Manuel, a Spanish geologist, John, an American language student and Javier, a Spanish voluntary worker who had spent 6 months on a UNICEF project. A few more guests arrived later, but we were all in bed (sorry, 'on mat') by 9 o'clock, exhausted. The highlight was when Ella got up at 4am to go to the loo. Well, that in itself wasn't the highlight. It woke me, which allowed me to leave the tent, grab a seat and gaze at the stars for half an hour. Before bed the bright moon had washed out the sky, rather disappointingly, but now it had disappeared beyond the horizon and the sky was black, and littered with stars. To see the night sky from a desert is something I've always wanted to do, and I wasn't disappointed. The complete lack of light pollution makes the view breathtaking. In the first 30 seconds of sitting out on the sand I saw 2 shooting stars. I cursed my lack of astronomical knowledge, only being able to identify The Plough (flipped almost upside down compared to  our normal view) and Orion. I saw Jupiter, of course, but also the dim red flicker I assumed was Mars, not seen yet this year, and a total of 5 shooting stars.

We returned to dented Penny after a campfire brekky of freshly made flatbreads and an egg dish we christened 'scramlette' - halfway between scrambled egg and omlette. Our clothes smelled of smoke and we had sand in every crevice, but we were happy. In Aqaba, the temperature hit 38°C and we camped 100 metres from the Red Sea and as we couldn't raise Osama on the phone (the C.I.A. have the same problem), we clung to the shade and relaxed for a day or two. Osama, you'll recall, is the benevolent businessman who stepped in to try and resolve the Big Bus vs Penny incident by assuring us he would get her repaired in Aqaba. I tried not to get stressed about the fact that he was not answering his mobile for 3 days, and as a distraction agreed (once the packed beach had emptied of Eid holiday makers) to take Ella and Beth snorkelling. We covered up, as is the custom (even the men wear shirts in the sea) and armed with the snorkels and masks bought way back in Croatia stepped cautiously into the Red Sea. Hardly anyone else was around, the sea was fantastically clear, but all that seemed to be underfoot were pebbles and the occasional piece of litter. We soon got beyond pebbles onto smoother sand and were up to our waists, plunging our masks under water to survey the seascape. Then Ella yelled "AT HOOVED!" through her snorkel. 

"What?" we all pulled our heads up.

"That moved! Down there!" she panted, pointing at my feet. 

I pushed my head under again. Even under the water I could hear Ella scream "Daddy you're standing on it!!"

I danced my crazy sandals up like a marine version of Bez from the Happy Mondays and tried to tread water in about 4 foot of sea (almost impossible) before panic gave way to logic and I simply swam on my belly facing the sea bed below. And sure enough, I'd disturbed a panther ray about 30cm from wing tip to wing tip. Its 2 tiny black pebble eyes were all that gave it away under the sand, until eventually, disgruntled at my flapping it rose majestically and swam underneath me. You can imagine the excitement gushing from us when we regrouped above the surface. We ventured further and had all but given up the ray as a lone visitor to these shores when we spotted several black spotted puffer fish, each the size of a man's fist, their tiny wispy fins propelling their bulbous bodies gently along. Soon, we were out of our depth, both literally and metaphorically. The coral reef was still quite a way out, according to a local boy we met out there, and the girls said the 2 things guaranteed to get an ill equipped nervous father out of the sea:

"A ray and a puffer fish! This close to the shore!" said Bethan. "Imagine what else is out there!"

Then Ella said "Can we get out? I think I've been stung."

We'd observed the 'spotter's boards' on the beach and knew the Red Sea was rich in life including sharks and jellyfish, so the thought of a gently floating school of jellies soon propelled us racing back to the shore. I won.

"That was amazing!" I shouted, finding my feet again.

"That was scary!" replied the girls.

"Yes it was." I agreed. "Let's go back and tell the others. I'm done in the sea. I'm not going any further without a wet suit and someone who knows what they're doing."

I never claimed to be Steve Irwin. But I learned from his ray-related folly.

A black spotted puffer fish, yesterday

Finally, on Sunday, we tracked down Osama at his hotel in Aqaba. He was the perfect gentleman, offering us tea and juice, explaining that he'd been in the desert for 3 days and promising to get Penny repaired as quickly as possible. He told the fascinating tale of how The Captain's Restaurant had been opened by his father in the 1980s with just 12 seats. Now, the seafood restaurant is arguably the best in Aqaba (yes they do more than just kebabs) and has spawned a newly built luxury hotel next door. Osama and his brother Rafiq had helped in the restaurant as boys and now run 2 hotels and 2 restaurants for the family firm. We learned how Osama had studied for 3 years in Rome, how he had endeavoured to change local people's minds about working in the service trade from one of shame to one of pride. He shared 10% of all profits on top of the wages he paid in an attempt to empower the staff.

"Are attitudes changing?" Jill asked.

"Yes, of course. But I can't do it alone. You can't clap with one hand", he said with a smile. He trained locals while he paid them (something they weren't used to) and was proud that his head chef was from Aqaba. Then he said that he would not be pursuing the bus driver for the money to repair Penny.

"I believe that punishment with words is more effective than financial punishment." he explained. "I know these drivers, and he will already feel bad enough about what happened. I don't want his money." He talked over tea about the charity project he was involved in working with children from Aqaba and neighbouring Eilat in Israel to show them that a peaceful future could be achieved. He took a football team of kids from both cities to enter a tournament in Italy and he glowed with pride that they had beaten several Italian teams. He was, in short, a gentle, polite, humanitarian. Undoubtedly he had a razor sharp business mind, but he never for a moment betrayed any ulterior motive than to do well for his family and help his fellow man.

His assistant, Ahmed, guided me to a workshop deep in the maze of Aqaba's ramshackle industrial quarter where a group of men looked at Penny's injury and assured me (through Ahmed as they spoke no English) that they could fix her by 6 o'clock tomorrow evening. I endeavoured to explain to the boss that I had the paint codes, duly obtained from Blue back in Bodicote, and handed him a Beatnik Beatles card with the codes written on the back. As he tucked the card in his breast pocket and said "OK, OK" shaking me by the hand, I just knew he'd never look at that card. He didn't even understand the Latin alphabet, so how could I expect him to read "Ford Diamond White - Yellower Shade" or "VW Jasmine Yellow". By now, I'd counted myself lucky to get her straightened out so quickly, as the shipping agent we'd found said they needed her by 8am on Tuesday. Osama put us up in a lovely suite with 5 beds and, true to their word, Penny was ready to collect by 5.30 on the Monday evening. In the dark I could see she was straight again, the colour match was almost irrelevant and would have to wait until sunlight dawned anyway. I thanked the men profusely, thanked Ahmed and finally paraded the whole family down to see Osama for a final goodbye. He had extended us probably the most generous gesture we had received. The accident had literally nothing to do with him, yet he stepped in and sorted it entirely at his own expense. To mix my world religions somewhat, good karma surely awaits.

And so, in the light of day, we packed Penny to be shipped, sorted our own clothes to backpack for 3 weeks in India and observed with a smile the 'almost the same' yellow panel where Penny's dent had been. The metal is impressively straight, the boot closes again and unless you were looking for it, you probably wouldn't notice the colour difference. But my favourite part is the drip. I doubt our mechanic Blue, or the original paint sprayer John, could have lived with a drip on the bodywork, but to us it's a battle scar. A reminder of this remarkable few days and the generous smiling people we've found ourselves sharing tea and tales with.

Now, Penny's in a sealed container, destination Mumbai. We're flying to Delhi and will spend the 3 weeks shipping time backpacking on India's railways down towards Mumbai to collect her just in time for Christmas. Travelling without Penny requires a whole new mindset, and we agonised about carrying our instruments, but all agreed that though it would be great to use the 3 weeks as good 'press opportunity' time, it's just too much to carry on foot. Instead, we'll try and rustle up some publicity like we did in Piacenza, Italy (where we didn't use our instruments) and leave the busking 'til Mumbai. A festive busk is on the horizon. (Would Indians know Fairytale Of New York wasn't a Beatles song? I've got the uke chords for it somewhere.)

Next time we speak, I'll be having curry for breakfast! Does life get any better?

* Curious new readers can read that episode here - http://beatnikbeatles.blogspot.com/2010/09/go-with-flo.html