Aqaba was never on anyone’s mind. But leaving Petra, sunburned and exhausted from two consecutive hikes, we decided that it would a good idea to have a beach day. The ragtag bunch – myself, a Dane living in Nablus, and a German living in Amman, had met on the bus to Petra, though the German and myself were introduced at a cultural center in the capital. With varying levels of Arabic, we set off for the resort town located on the shores of the Red Sea.
The first obstacle was transportation. Outside of tourist buses, local transport is bountiful but runs on odd hours. The three of us ended up riding in a old green Toyota family van that was likely older than all of our combined ages, where we were able to stretch out and discuss a plan. Shooting purely from the hip. Combining our middling Arabic with the driver’s basic English, enough commonality existed to converse about Aqaba and what options were available to cover the day. In the short distance to the town, the landscapes changed from desert and rock-hewn to condominiums and resorts. Quite the contrast; the ancient desert where time itself stood still, compared to the knights of economic development: Hilton and McDonalds. From windswept burnt red rock arches, penetrating the desert dunes as far as the eye could see, to the Golden Arches.
Aqaba is a resort town. Tourists and affluent Jordanians alike visit to relax, eat seafood, stare at docked cargo ships, and swim in the Red Sea. The salty sea smell hangs in the air and shops selling swimming attire invite you to take a dip. Although the Dane and myself had packed swim suits, the German had forgotten hers. We went off to look for location-appropriate gear; this was to be no scene from Baywatch. After the floral number was selected, hunger set in. Luckily near the port, numerous bakeries plying their trade turned out pitas, hommos, and baked goods like an assembly line. Literally, a conveyor belt connected to an oven churned enough pitas to feed a hotel, and for next to nothing. We collected a stack of these still-hot pieces as well as tubs of hommos and walked around the town. As resort towns are, a tourism booth stood in the center near the harbor. The three of us inquired about beach options – would the best beach access be free? Can we snorkel? Supposedly, a tank was buried in the depths of the Sea, just off the shore on the outskirts of town. The German made a deal with one of the tourism operators for a package involving snorkeling, private beach access, and transportation. So we beat on, wheels against the pavement, borne ceaselessly into the tide.
As expected with the deal, the snorkel gear was low-quality. The masks would immediately fog and fill with water, limiting the already slightly-murky quality of the sea. Mouthfuls of salt water only increased the excitement. Swimming on, we never found the tank, but ran into another obstacle. Splat. Vision obscured. What’s that? Is that…a jellyfish? Uh oh. The water was filled with jellyfish off the reef. About the size of a fist and red in color, they floated like lures around the surface of the water. Panicking, I swam as fast as possible towards the shore, slightly scraping my leg on the rough raised coral edges. Both the German and the Dane had seen the jellyfish and after the fact, informed me that they were harmless. Non-stinging. All that effort to escape the tentacles for naught.
After snorkeling, we noticed a pier had been built into the area. We took turns jumping, diving, slipping, and flipping into the warm salty sea. All thoughts of burned skin, home responsibilities and later transit slipped from memory. Bobbing up and down in the foam, time seemed to fade. As our program was coming to a close, we decided to look for accommodation. Couchsurfing was the selection and the German decided to handle the requests. In waiting, we elected to walk around town and take in the sunset from a park, beers in hand, listening to rap from a bluetooth speaker brought by the Dane. We discussed life goals, objectives in Jordan, favorite rappers, travel stories, and experiences. As the sun slipped lower and lower, illuminating the park and surrounding the hotels with a dark orange glow, we moved on.
As luck would have it, Real Madrid was playing Atlético de Madrid in the Champions League semi-final. The Middle East is crazy for football, so finding a venue was of no concern. We selected one with outdoor seating and abundant hookahs – mint as the flavor de jour. With a 2-1 defeat but passage through to the next round, half the crowd as Madrid fans were elated. I high-fived numerous locals celebrating – although we weren’t able to converse in a shared tongue, the language of football and joy is global.
After waiting and not hearing a response from the supposed host, we were about to make the decision to pass the night sleeping on the beach with our backpacks, but Abdullah arrived at the eleventh hour to take us to his apartment. A bed is far preferable to sand and not having to worry about bag theft made sleeping much easier. The day ended as we tucked in the guest room, swapping our experiences of the voyage. Tomorrow’s transportation was irrelevant.
Dispatches by Alec 