Jordan

I awoke on Wednesday, April 25th knowing something was amiss-the maid still arrived at her usual 8:30 am, the construction workers continued their incessant rapping on the floor below me, my roommates stuttered to life with their wet hair in towels and tacit grunts, but then I realized what was so significant. Jordan! and the Liberation of the Sinai! No class and the commencement of another rousing adventure. Wallahi! My travel partner, Colin, same one from Thailand and before, was scheduled to arrive back in Cairo around 11 from America, and our flight to Amman left at 5, so there was little room for the usual EgyptAir delays. In the morning, I swam and floated around the Nile Hilton pool with Frannie and then headed home, hearing from Colin on the way back assuring me he arrived on time. Alhamdul'lah! Then I packed, in a smaller suitcase this time, met Colin, and headed to the airport in a trusty yellow cab.
Oh, EgyptAir! How do I begin to describe the utter calamity of our check-in process? We had purchases e-tickets a month before, and had received confirmation of the reservation, and I had, luckily, printed out a copy of the e-mail. Heading for the metal detectors to allow us into the area to check-in, we encountered the guards who were there usual obdurate selves and refused to allow us in without a ticket. But we have an e-ticket! Nope, you need to have a paper ticket, so eventually we pulled our luggage back out and walked over to the EgyptAir office, where we waited a bit, asked for paper copies of our tickets, waited longer while the employees dithered around without finding evidence of us (of course, they weren't searching in the computer system, but leafing through stacks of hand-written binders where they apparently record all of the info), directed us to another office, but no one was there. We attempted to enter the gates a second time, but were again barred, or at least Colin was, so again we went back to the EgyptAir office, became slightly more adamant as the flight time approached, and finally received paper tickets when the workers descried our names in one of their books. Thankfully, we had arrived with plenty of time to the airport and even managed to hit the Starbucks (I know, a real genuine Starbucks, I was so enamored!) before boarding the short 1 hour flight to Amman.
Disembarking in Amman, we were abruptly presented with a similarly disorganized, or at least thronging, scene for visas, so we waded in, stood in line for a hour, and eventually received more stamps for our passports. We took a cab to our hotel, after obtaining cash from an ATM, and experienced my first of many shocks at the currency value in Jordan. The Jordanian Dinar is valued at 1 J.D.=.72 $, about equivalent to the Euro. Recently, investment has flowed into the city, evinced by the profusion of new buildings and gleaming palaces lining the hills of Amman. As we arrived at night, we could not fully take in the city in one glance, but our first impressions were roseate. Sprawled across arching hills, Amman was a classier version of Cairo-cleaner, with actual space between buildings, trendier fashions, more imported goods, gleaming cars, and fresh air. The cabs were modern and clean, with running meters, although the Jordanian dialect, Shami, differs so drastically from Egyptian, that much of what people said to me was incomprehensible. For instance, instead of saying, Iayza, 'I want', you say, bidi. Shoo instead of eh for 'what'...I could go on and on, but you understand the concept. The sounds were the same, but the meaning remained just beyond my congnizance. I knew I should have understood their speech, but I just could not quite, and it was so frustrating at times! Sometimes, I was able to hold conversations, which were highly amusing as I was constantly being corrected and overspoken in mellifluous Jordanian. Egyptian colloquial is fairly gutteral, or at least, not quite as auditorially pleasing as most other dialects.
Anyway, we were impressed with the little we saw of Amman, and checked into our hotel, which was simple but clean and functional, took a nap (Colin hadn't rested since leaving America over a day ago) and eventually roused ourselves to find some grub. Armed with my Lonely Planet, tucked discreetly into my burgeoning backpack, we took a cab from our area between the sixth and seventh circles (the city is divided into a series of concentric circles that determine your orientation; honestly, I never quite grasped the concept, but the theory was interesting) to Amoon Square, disengaged from the vehicle and began to circumnavigate the square, finding an unmanned Porsche, several restaurants, and a cell phone store where I purchased a SIM card (and managed to retain the phone as well this trip). Settling on a restaurant called NoodAsia, we relished our excellent sushi and Pad Thai and then, realizing it was almost midnight, went back to bed for an early morning.
Our plan from the start had been to rent a car and drive to our numerous destinations in Jordan, so we asked the front desk while we were checking out about car rental places, and they directed us to a little office connected to the hotel. I feel as if the office probably only had three or four vehicles for rent, but we discussed the terms, decided they seemed reasonable, forked over 245 JD. for the 7 days, and met our little Chevy Aveo. Before we hit the road, we hit a grocery store for water and munchies, and, as I was absentmindedly perusing the cereal section (lots of gluteny foods usually) I saw EnviroKidz! I'll admit, I squealed shrilly and clasped a box to my breast; I had not set eyes upon Amazon Flakes for over 8 months, not had I eaten cereal for that long as well. For the uninformed, EnviroKidz is one of the few brands that makes good-tasting gluten-free cereals, but they are only sold in organic stores in the states, and obviously not found in the paucity that is selection in Egypt. Thus, discern my elation when I found it in a average supermarket in Jordan! I bought a box and munched happily away while Colin attempted to navigate the maze of Jordanian one-way streets and roundabouts. We got a little turned around, I stopped once and asked for directions, but we were soon flying down the Desert Highway (well, for a moment we were confused, because the gas gauge was empty, and we thought it might be broken, but then we pulled into the nearest gas station and realized that it, truly, had been bereft of oil and sputtering on fumes) toward Wadi Rum, about a four hour drive.
I had not experienced such freedom since home: riding shotgun in a car, whizzing past Bedouins and their herds (well, actually, I didn't experience that at home either), climbing hills and coasting down the other side, feeling the wind tangle my air, inhaling cleanliness, and jamming to the local Arabic pop station (again, not something I normally do). The highway system in Jordan was quite decent, with well-maintained roads, signs in Arabic and usually English and at usually frequent intervals, but there were the idiosyncrasies that one encounters in the Middle East. For one, military pick-up trucks would drive by occasionally with .50 caliber machine guns mounted in the back, pictures of the royal family were prominently displayed throughout the land, traffic would infrequently halt for the Bedouin herders to harry their goats and sheep across the road, and cell phone reception that trumped anything back in the States, even in the lonely wilds of Wadi Rum.
I had pre-booked a private desert tour through a recommendation from my roommate with a man named Aodeh, although we were running a bit behind schedule, so I used my handy cell phone to communicate. Soon, we pulled off the main road towards Wadi Rum, watching as giant monoliths of red and tan stone rose menacingly on both sides of the road shrouded with a strange white mist that blurred straight lines and obscured distance. I felt as if I were heading into a dream, with my past swallowed up behind me and the future opening reluctantly in front of me. Arriving at the visitors' centre, I was unduly impressed with the recently built natural stone compound boasting nice restrooms, a theatre, internet cafe, courtyards, musuem, craft shops, and other offices. Perhaps the royal family is investing in tourism, because many of the other sites we visited were similarly equipped with modern facilities. Aodeh was waiting for us, greeted us cordially (I was warned about him, Akshaya said he was a very good tour guide and provided an excellent trip, but that he had a bit of an attitude...quirk, a bit surly at times, occasionally sarcastic), showed us a film about Wadi Rum, fed us dinner at his home and showed off his two-week old son, Abdullah, and then piled us into his old Land Cruiser for the desert.
When we first met, he mentioned the places we were to visit, commenting on how, in my e-mail, I had explicitly stated I ONLY wanted to see certain ones, so those were the only ones we would see. Thus, we made a brief stop at Lawrence's Spring, an unplanned stop at a red sand dune (cute pictures), and drove through the dunes for awhile while Colin dozed next to me and jerked awake over each particularly bad rut and I marveled at the scenery. Driving through Burdah canyon, we eventually stopped at Khazali canyon, more like a narrow rock fissure than a canyon with ancient Nabatean inscriptions etched into the wall. Wadi Rum is famed for its red sand, and I could not drink in enough of the sight of the red sand gradually mingling with the white and the stunning contrast between the two shades, but then, I do have a tendency to wax poetic and muse about life over 2000 years ago, and what sort of people once inhabited the area. As their images suggested, were the dunes once rolling grasslands teeming with elephant and giraffe and antelope? Did they make their abodes in the high cliffs, live in traveling tents like the Bedouin, or have the vestiges of their structures long been lost to the ravages of time and wind? Perhaps someone knows, but I could only ponder as I stared at their representations of people and life and wonder.
After that, we drove to our campsite, a quaint and very comfortable set-up of a long tent creating an enclosed arena sheltered from the wind by a high cliff wall, dropped off our stuff, and took a hike to a nearby cliff to find some oryx. I proceeded barefoot through the dunes, up the craggy slope, and to the summit (in retrospect, not a wise decision), couldn't find the oryx, but did discover a high retreat and expanive vista over the valley. As the wind picked up, we hurriedly, and with many owws, descended back to the plains and made it back to camp, where we met the other tour guide who uses the camp, Salaam, who served us tea and corrected our improper Egyptian Arabic. The other couple who shared the camp with us, two Italians, soon wandered in from their own ramblings, and we all sat around the fire, chatted, and watched the flames dance in the fading light. The strange mist I had remarked upon earlier was actually the remanants of a dust storm that had torn through the area the previous day, and it obliterated the sunset from our vision, the light simply slowly leaking out of the sky to the void of darkness.
Soon, dinner was ready, delicious chicken, potatoes, and veggies cooked in an underground oven, and, without much else to do (not alot of clubbing to be had in those parts), we began to ponder bed, made a brief detour for a walk, and then slipped into the tent for some sleep.
I loved Wadi Rum at night, the faint glow of the moonlight whitewashing the cliff walls, the pinpricks of one or two other campfires far off in the distance, the unaccountable vastness of the land around you, the rustle of the gentle wind through the dry grasses, and the warm air that caressed your skin instead of froze it.
Dawn lightened the tent walls all too soon, or so it seemed, and I eventually rolled out of my cocoon of matress and blanket to brush my teeth, change my shirt, and freshen up as much as possible in a Bedouin camp. Walking beyond the confines of the camp, I blinked rapidly in the morning sunlight...sunlight! During the night, the diaphanous dust had dissolved into bright sunshine and lone-reaching vistas of crystal blue skies and impossibly reaching cliffs. I exclaimed my excitement to Aodeh, and he laughed, but with a more amiable tone. There is just something about waking up in the middle of the desert with bright skies and a day full of fathomless possibility that brings a smile to your face; well, except perhaps Colin, who sometimes has a bit of trouble getting up, especially when faced with my resolute perkiness ;-) The lowing camels outside the camp soon attracted me, and I laughed as they hobbled along furiously, munching grasses and obstinately ignoring their handler. After a brief breakfast, Aodeh put us on the two camels (which were led by a boy on foot) and drove the car ahead to meet us in about 1.5 hours. I'm a camel-riding pro, but this was Colin's first time, and I enjoyed watching him adjust to the camel's unusual gait and abrupt stops to forage. We eventually dismounted, climbed a small rock bridge, and then drove to a point in an open plain and stared in the direction of Aodeh's finger. That is the big rock bridge. How much climbing experience do you two have?
Umm, we looked at each other and had to confess, not a whole lot. Actually, none at all. We've scrambled up some rock faces, conquered the White Desert twice and Thailand once, but, fil haqiqa, haven't ever actually climbed something.
Well, it's kind of dangerous and difficult, Aodeh remarked, and I feel he would rather we had passed on the climb, but Colin and I aren't ones to be daunted by obstacles. We'll give it a try.
And so began our climb. I wasn't sure how we were going to scale the sheer cliff face, but Aodeh drove the car to the side of the mountain, parked it, waited while we changed into shoes (very wise choice), used the bathroom (little secluded valley out of sight from the jeep) and began the hike. How do I describe it? We had no ropes or safety harnesses, nothing to prevent us from plummeting to our death against the jagged rocks hundreds of feet below. Quite frequently, we were required to scramble up almost 90 degree inclines with only a few natural footholds and a stubborn sense of perserverence to aid in our clambering up to the next level. We climbed, and we climbed, occasionally slid, but usually just climbed until I was weary and gasping, partly due to the high altitude. Colin and I made short work of the water bottle he carried, although Aodeh leapt like a mountain goat from rock to rock, indefatiguable, resting only when we did, and, while we gulped water, he puffed on a cigarette.
Eventually, we reached the final cliff face before the rock bridge, of course the most treacherous part of the 'trail' looming high above the plains below, and waited while a group of Italians completed their climb in front of us. Aodeh was an excellent guide, climbing ahead of us and telling us where exactly to put our feet, having me go before Colin, so, I guess if I fell, he could catch me? Or we'd both plunge to our deaths...but I have rarely, if ever, felt the rush of adrenaline that I had during those 10 minutes, hands scrabbling over the vertical rock face as I pulled my body (here, at this point, there was a single rope anchored, insha'allah securely, at a very crucial step) up onto a narrow ledge, teetered on the edge of vertigo, and continued upwards, waited for Colin to also make the perilous climb, and then we both crawled out tentatively onto the rock bridge and gasped at the sheer recklessness of the act. Are you guys scared of heights? Aodeh shouted up at us while he waited below with my camera. I'm not really, but I do have a healthy respect for them while perched on narrow rock spits extending over deep valleys of rock and sure death. We paused while he snapped our picture, and then unabashedly crawled back onto the security of solid ground. Coming down was actually worse then going up, and I froze for a bit while sliding slowly into nothingness until I grasped for purchase and Aodeh's hand and descended more safely. Eventually we made it off the mountain, sweaty and dusty but triumphant, drank some Bedouin tea and stared at our accomplishment, wondering how we ever made it up that.
At that point, Colin and I weren't really energized for much else, so we ate a leisurely lunch in the shade, admired the view and decided to head back for Wadi Rum Village and the road to Petra. Aodeh drove us back, and I cast my final longing glances at the beautiful sand and cliffs, and then we switched into our Aveo and left Wadi Rum.
Jordanian landscape is not the the endless desert flats that plague most of Egypt, but instead characterized by hills, rocks, greenery, and herds of livestock spread throughout with the occasional town springing up among swatches of forest and stream. At this point, Colin learned the value of downshifting, epecially when the brakes began to squeal and hint at the possibility of disfunctionality. As we crested each hill, I think we both muttered an unconscious prayer as the car coasted downwards and our speed accelerated alarmingly. Happily, or perhaps not so as the navigator (me, but, seriously, Colin should have long since learned that myself and maps don't get along well) directed us down a few wrong turns, we pulled into Petra with plenty of daylight to guide us to the Movenpick, where we untangled ourselves and our luggage from the car, headed into the lobby, I released an unconscious sigh of pleasure at the oppulence, checked in hastily, and headed up to our room on the top floor. It was a lovely room, very clean, with a big comfy bed, strangely large corner balcony with views of Petra, marble bathroom, and exciting movie selection. After checking out the pool (unheated) we then both showered (ahhh, glorious!), crashed, and explored the town of Wadi Musa a bit as dusk fell, found some nosh in a little local restaurant, briefly perused the shops (I saved my spending for the next day), took our car to the one ATM in town, and then spent a few hours on the very pleasant rooftop garden terrace smoking sheesha and devouring the renowned Movenpick ice cream creations.
Early to bed, well, somewhat early anyways, because trashy American movies are so much more appealing abroad than in the States; we rolled out of bed the next morning, had a good buffet breakfast, and then walked the 100 m from our hotel to the gates of Petra. Aside from being luxurious and well-run, the Movenpick has the distinction of being the closest hotel to Petra, and this was invaluable when we trudged home wearily about 10 hours later. Anyways, entrance into Petra is fairly expensive, about 30 JD pp, but worth every single piaster. I also decided to be totally touristy and ride horses from the entrance gates to the beginning of the Siq, about 900 m, just because I could, and the ride resulted in some pretty cute pictures.
We didn't hire a guide, and were armed only with a Petra map in German (not terribly useful) and the trusty Lonely Planet, so our knowledge of Petran history is probably somewhat lacking, but here goes. It was originally carved by the Nabatean peoples several thousand years ago, pre-Roman and pre-Christ. I know some of the more recent buildings dated back to B.C. 100, and others were in existence long before that. To enter into Petra, one first enters a narrow corridor shaded on both sides by looming cliffs that filter in sunlight from a small fissure high above. Called the Siq, it evokes the first sensations of a lost civilization, with faint carvings marking the walls, an aqueduct carved into the stone and wending its way along the path, and a faint chill in the air eerily numbing your skin in direct opposition to the heat of the sun. Then, suddenly, we saw our first glimpse of the Treasury.

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Perhaps the most impressive building in Petra, the Treasury is the first sign that the Nabateans were an advanced civilization with incredible skill and aesthetic beauty, for the Treasury towers high into the cliffs, and I say into because it is carved out of the rock of the cliff. All of Petra is carved directly from the rock and melds beautifully with the surrounding landscape, almost as if Earth herself thrust and molded herself into these fantastic creations. It almost takes your breath away, seeing the Treasury for the first time after a long walk through the Siq that seemed to lead back in time. There were a few random camels sitting in front of the Treasury, and Colin dared me to go hug its furry, and maybe flea-ridden head, and I obliged him willingly, perhaps to his astonishment, and tried to bond with more four-legged creatures throughout the day.
After dallying a bit, we continued down the main road in Petra, no longer ensconced in the coolness of the Siq but boiling in the hot sun (although I did throw off all gestures toward propriety and wear a tank top, gasp!), admired the endless tombs and structures along the road, and eventually came to a staircase. We attempted to consult our maps, but neither of them proved terribly elucidating, so we shrugged our shoulders and started up it, walking for a while before finally coming to a juncture and taking the straight path instead of the one curving to the left. Walking for awhile, we noticed the path slowly disintigrate into rabble and rock, but there were still signs of human passage, so we pushed on, emerging onto a high plateau, surveying the land, and noting the correct path winding away in the opposite direction from the other fork. Ooops. So, we scrambled down, got chastised by some random woman, found the correct path (which was, by the way, unmarked and quite confusing) climbed more stairs, and eventually discovered a beautiful view of the whole of Petra, from the end of the Siq to the city centre to the monestary and the desultory trails leading off into the hills. We rested for a while, and then climbed back down and aimed for the city centre, ignoring the many offers for taxis along the way. Now, not real taxis of course, vehicles aren't allowed in Petra, but there are lots of men and boys selling rides on donkeys and camels, particularly donkeys to take you up some of the high mountain trails. We refused all of the offers good-naturedly, and they usually were fairly polite and moved on to the next tourist, and entered the city centre with food, or at least I did, in mind.
Despite Petra being a national monument/park of sorts, Bedouins still live in the area and herd goats and sheep among the ruins and also do a roaring trade of useless trinkets set up on tables that line the roads and the inside of tombs...basically, they're everywhere, and, while not particularly annoying, at least disconcerting to see them selling items in the shadows of an ancient temple. But, it is their home and their way of life, so I can hardly fault them. Besides, the Crowne Plaza had a strangely nice restaurant constructed in the middle of the city centre, with real bathrooms (although I sweat so much I only used them once), so we took a bit of time and dined there. At this point, it was around 1 in the afternoon, and time to tackle the next big hill, the way to the monestary. My phone suddenly rang, and I guessed the caller before I answered, and was correct. My friend Nicola was also celebrating the Liberation of the Sinai in Jordan with a friend and was heading towards us at that moment. We agreed to meet at the top of the mountain and trudged upwards for about 40 minutes; at some point, my legs began to move of their accord, with a movement seemingly entirely disparate from the rest of my body, and I no longer needed the frequent rests but just strove onwards numbingly.
The Monestary was magnificent, another pinnacle of Nabatean achievement, about as large as the Treasury and just as intricate but with far less traffic. Of course, it wasn't built as a monestary, but the unhappy inevitability of conquest eventually converted it into one. Large signs advertising a look-out point dragged our feet onwards, so we hiked further, finally coming to the edge of a cliff overlooking a verily spectacular vista that penetrated international borders into Israel and Palestine over the mountain range heaving out from under our feet. Plopping down, we rested for a while, shouted (well, I did) when Nicola arrived, talked for awhile, bought some tea at a cafe near the Monestary and watched as some daredevil scaled it with audacious diffidence, and headed back down.
By then, the sun had taken its toll on Colin, and was beginning to drain me as well. The four of us split off again at the city centre, Colin and I heading towards the exit but detouring at an impressive temple atop several layers of arches. From there, I espied a rickety bridge, sprinted across, and explored the beautiful tombs lining the cliff walls and the mesmerizing swirls of red and white rock spinning chimerical scenes for the dead. Eventually, Colin joined me, and we scrambled down the hillside and directed our efforts towards the exit, passing the theatre and first set of stairs, innumerable tombs, Treasury, marching through the Siq and up the final hill, and finally, out the gates and to the mercifully close Movenpick. After another round of much-needed showers, we collapsed for a bit and then roused ourselves for the promise of a Movenpick buffet, which was, we learned included in the room price. After that, I set off on a shopping expedition while Colin trailed behind, loitering in the internet cafe, spent perhaps a little too much (the exchange rate got me, 80 JD is not 80 LE, unfortunately), but met up with habibi to bargain for some Jordanian head scarves and wander the town a bit. After sheesha and drinks on the roof again, we went to bed for more adventures the next day.

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We checked out of the Movenpick, drove out of Wadi Rum, and headed toward one of the Crusader castles in the area, Shobek castle. Taking the King's Highway up north, we followed the infrequent road signs, made a wrong turn, found our way again after asking for directions from a man riding a donkey (love the Middle East!) and eventually saw the castle atop a rearing plateau in the distant. It was fairly impressive, with mostly intact walls and corner towers and crumbling walls, halls, chambers, and tunnels inside. We 'decided' to hike up the hill to the castle, entered the gate and chatted with the gatekeeper and began our periapetetic touring, ducking under archways supported by tenuous stones, climbing the walls to survey the landscape rutted with more ruins and caves, peering into doorways leading to nowhere, and eventually turning into a doorway with a staircase leading into darkness. Flashlight? Happily, I'd brought mine, one of those accroutements that I've found convenient to carry with me everywhere. What the Middle East is doing to me....So, we continued down the stairs, soon flashing the light over the white, crumbling stone stairs that seemed to lead all the way to Hades. All daylight had long since faded from the tunnel and the echoes from the excavators on ground level resounded faintly through the seemingly palpable night. When I momentarily flicked off the light, I teetered slightly, as the stairs were narrow and uneven and seemed to plunge to infinite depths. The light, laazim owwii! Colin was actually the voice of reason, because I wanted to continue descending without any clear direction or goal, but, when we had walked for 10-15 minutes down, the stairs seemed to be more deteriorated and we began to slip. Ooookaaay, time to go back up, he stated more forcefully, and I had to acquiesce and begin the challenging climb back up.
When we returned to the car, I pulled out the Lonely Planet and read the brief synposis of Shobek, including the part about a fantastic tunnel leading down 375 steps to an underground spring and secret door. But they had forgotten to mention the utter isolation of the tunnel and the decrepit stairs...I feel like we had had enough of an adventure for one day, and there was still one more castle to go!
Although the road on the map was straight, it failed to illuminate the wending way through numerous canyons and gullies, but we eventually did pull into Karak and drove up the hill to the commanding castle, more intact than Shobek but surrounded, and, indeed sheltering inside some of its walls, a modern city. We found parking down a side street and wandered into the gates, passing some tour buses along the way, resisting the temptation to hop aboard as a hokey Midwestern couple, Ethel and Frank. Paying the 1 JD entrance fee, we headed first into a dark, cool passageway whose purpose I could only imagine-perhaps the storehouse? fiddled with the light settings on our cameras for awhile, and then clambered around the rest of the castle, not finding any dark dungeons to explore, but admiring the structure nonetheless.
Castled out, we headed back down the road through Karak and the relaxing portion of the vacation. Seriously, though, it had been amazing to experience all that we had done, but I was ready for some down time, preferably at a beach, but, since every single one of the Dead Sea resorts was booked (trust me, I called internationally to each one), we had to settle for the Janna Resort and Hot Springs near the Dead Sea. Inching down the final incline into the Janna Valley, we prayed this was the last hill we would encounter, as the ominous squeaks and creaks from the car's mechanisms increased in volume throughout the trip. Stopped at the entrance gate by the guard, we waited while a hotel employee came and met us to inform us that the hotel was full; we know that, but we have a reservation, I responded, perhaps a bit icily. Maybe we did not look like the typical resort guest, in our little Chevy Aveo garbed in rumpled traveling clothes and too young, but eventually the man contacted his office and realized I did, indeed, have a reservation, and let us pass. Entering the valley, I gasped as the first waterfall came into view and nudged Colin, who grumbled that he was trying to drive. But it was gorgeous, lacy streams of water cascading over the rocky ledge into verdant greenery and tropical blooms far below. And it was hot, which I discovered to my personal satisfaction later. I checked us in, had the bellboy retrieve the luggage from the car, and went up to our beautiful suite, yes, it was the only room available, on the fifth floor, flung open the shutter, and gazed upon yet another waterfall and stream, austere cliffs, and, in the V between mountains, a glimmer of the Dead Sea. Ahhh, beauty! The room wasn't terribly oppressive either, with 1.5 bathrooms, a sitting room, and bedroom with a giant plasma TV. We had an excellent buffet dinner in the hotel restaurant, shuttered away from the rest of the world, wandered through the fairly deserted grounds and wondered where the other guests were, deciding that they were too exclusive to mingle in the commona areas (not entirely true, but the clientele was an older crowd, and bedded down a bit earlier than we younger folk); we walked to the foot of the waterfall and felt the waves of steam and heat roil from the frothing water, affirming the website's claim that, indeed, the falls are thermal.
The next morning we actually slept in a bit, but not too late, as breakfast ended at 10:30. I also ventured into the 2nd floor spa and booked myself a mud and salt treatment for the afternoon before returning to the room to change into my suit and head up the road toward the waterfall with Colin. The Ma'an Hot Springs are available to the public, although it was mainly hotel guests present, so I felt quite comfortable wading into the man-made pool below the falls in my bikini and groaning in pleasure as the heat soothed my aches and burned the stress away. Eventually, I moved to sit right underneath the waterfall and let the water grind and pummel and abrase my skin most luxuriously, lost for many moments in the hypnotic roar of the water screening any other sound from my hearing. One can only handle so much intense treatment, and the two of us explored the small cave behind the falls, finding a natural sauna created by extremely hot water tricking out of one of the walls and flowing across the floor and over the ledge. It was the perfect way to wind down after an physically challenging vacation, and we lazed the day around the complex, returning to the hotel for my 4 pm spa appointment, where I lay in a room while mud was coated all over my body, and then wrapped in a plastic sheet and heated blanket to roast for about 20 minutes. Quite dizzy and disoriented from the heat, I swayed upward when the attendant came for me and stumbled rather drunkenly to be hosed off with a pressure spray. Then, I was led to another room where salt was scrubbed rather grittily over my skin (good for exfoliation) and then again rinsed off. I had been quite so...violated...in a while, although the violation was a guilty sort of pleasure, not painful and almost pleasant, but with an element of unknown amalgated into the procedure. I didn't even bother to put my clothes back on, but just rolled myself in a comfy robe and tottered to my room and collapsed on the bed for a bit.
That evening, after my body ceased tingling and became soft and pliant, we went for a walk, ate dinner, and pondered our return to the real world, looming all to imminent on the horizon. The next morning, we checked out, drove to the Panorama Complex overlooking the Dead Sea and brunched there, slowly as the staff couldn't serve us any food for an hour, and then visited a beach on the Dead Sea, paying 10 J.D. for use of its facilities. I was personally quite giddy to finally experience the buoyancy of the famed sea, and waded in rather eagerly after Colin, who had the requisite newspaper in hand. You see, no visit to the Dead Sea is complete without a photo op of yourself floating, or rather sitting, in the water with a newspaper open before you, reclining comfortably on the saltiness, although we discovered the newspaper also acted as a sail and pulled in the direction of the wind, but yani...We floated around after the camera was tucked safely away, giggling at the alien sensation of the water pulling our bodies buoyantly upwards and pushing us onto our backs or stomachs without concern for our own preference. I made the unfortunate mistake of diving underwater and coming up sputtering at the excess of salt clogging my every orifice, spending the next five minutes paying the price of my folly with streaming eyes, a running nose, and a salty mouth; Colin sagely refused my implorations to dive underwater as well, can't imagine why. The water was so salty it almost felt slimy, and if you brushed your hand against your skin it rubbed a slick of mineral and salt deposits, not flesh. Those showers afterwards sure felt nice! Loitering around the complex for a few hours, we eventually left the Dead Sea behind us and made the hour-long drive to Amman, returning the car without any mishap, strolling around the city for about an hour, and catching a cab to the aeroport for the flight home. Interestingly enough, the Amman airport was quite efficent with check-in and security, with a separate security line for women, where we enter an enclosed cubicle and are patted down, by women of course, in privacy away from leering eyes. I preferred this method, actually. We returned to Zamalek, perhaps for the last time from an international flight, and slid right back into ALI. But it was a wonderful trip, and I am very glad we chose to rent a car and travel on our own schedule and experience another Middle Eastern nation.

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Sandstorms and Football Fans

Well, this blog has has to be quick, because I should be in bed right now, taking some beauty sleep before, insha'allah, I fly out to Jordan tomorrow, but a few thoughts have been bouncing around this big, hollow head of mine in desirance of transcribation (don't you just love how I make up words?) I can't believe, in the last blog, that I failed to mention the giant sandstorm we had a week ago! I arrived at school around 9:30, with my chronic 5 minutes' tardiness making it more like 9:35, and the weather was blustery but clear; however, by the time I emerged under the influence of an hour of Al-Jezira news after class, the hallway air hung in a musty haze of dust and dirt. Stepping outside, the winde buffeted my skirt (one of my new ones from Thailand, very cute, btw ;-) and grabbed at my hair and clotted my eyes with sand from the screeching strom whipping through the city. I raced to the cafeteria for my morning Diet Coke and hurried back into the paltry shelter of the main hallway, listening to my friends complain of the sand and dryness of their eyes. Every time I inhaled, the slightly metallic and cardboardy taste of sand coated my throat and clogged my nostrils, aggrevating my breath and eyesight greiviously. During the two hour break between classes, rather than sit in the typical sunshine of the courtyard, Deya and I huddled in the hallway and moaned over the fugacity of Egyptian weather. Ok, so maybe we didn't use that word, but we complained none the less as our hair and skin and orifices begrudingly filled with sand; at some points, the sand whirled so tempestuously across the courtyard that it was difficult to see across the courtyard, almost impossible to see across Medan Tahrir upon which AUC is located, and absolutely without possibility to gaze across the Nile from the mainland to Zamalek. It pretty much sucked.
At times, I would glance out the window and watch the whorls of wind whip the detrius on the streets and blanket the air with a hardly pellucid veil of brown grit that attracted itself to every available surface. Within a few hours, sand coated the stairs and banisters of the AUC hallway, and when I got home, I was met with a drift, truly, a drift, of sand on the balcony, as well as a pleasant dusting in my room, and, unfortunately, on this computer that had been left impetuously open. As all whirling vortexes of sand do, this storm did eventually blow over by evening, and we could again venture outside without having to clutch at our skirts and cough with congestion, although I was sneezing up dirt for several days afterward (I know, I know, too much info).
Weather is much on my mind these days, as summer has finally decided expose its sultry furnace to our gentil river valley, with highs shooting up to about 90 during the day with intense sunlight beating upon my brow disdainfully. Yesterday, Monday, was International Day at AUC, an excuse to end classes at 11 and provide Frannie and I ample time to hit the Nile Hilton gym and repose in the glorious pool that I had regret not having used more. In the coming weeks, I foresee myself utilizing the cool waters and outdoor patio quite often after a sweaty day of classes and non-cooled hallways. You see, every classroom is equipped with air con, but there is always someone, usually European (sorry guys) who cannot bear the air con and flips off the switch while the rest of us, or at least me, suffer. Let the a/c wars commence! Although Frannie and I walk in the morning, when there is a modicum of coolness in the air, we stride along the road at a brisk pace and usually wind up a school with a light patina of sweat to dry off before classes begin.
Speaking of our morning walks, we usually walk past, or are passed by, a group of young Egyptian men jogging along the Zamalek corniche in the opposite direction. We suspect that they are the Egyptian soccer team, Ahly, whose headquarters are here in Zamalek and who are supported fervantly my any person who considers himself or herself an Egyptian. Tonight, for whatever reason, Zamalek played Barcelona in a exhibition match at the Cairo Stadium; permit me to let you in on a little secret: Ahly is not a very good soccer team. Yes, they did win the African World Cup last year, but they have yet to even qualify for the World Cup, although, given the conviction of there rather rabid fans, they are the greatest team on earth. There is something poignant, or at least endearing, about the pride Egyptians harbour toward their team, channeling much of their frustrated energies into support for it, but, like most other things Egyptian, the effort falls far short of the goal-democracy, women's rights, constitutional ammendments, football teams.
As you can perhaps imagine, all of Cairo shut down for the match around 2, although the match was not until 9:30, and the cab ride into Zamalek was interminable, to the point where we finally abandoned the cab and walked most of the way home. Of course, before the match begins, everyone must take a nap, and thus congest the streets unduly in early afternoon. Also, the Barcelona team is shacking up at the Marriott on Zamalek, causing closure of many streets near there, so not only was there excessive traffic but also diminished road capacity, creating greater consternation for those motorists just wanting to retire for a few hours before the match. Unfortunately, convalesence was not in my future, because the incessant pounding, drilling, and otherwise excessively aggrevating construction echoed unabated through the apartment all afternoon, finally ceasing around 5:30, when I had to get up and go to the spa for a pedicure and wax. All I can say is that I am developing a high tolerance for pain, although that's hardly comforting when I am prone on the bed and the wax woman is tearing off my hair with, I swear, barely concealed glee (not really, but it made me feel better to be angry at someone during the process). After a stop at the bakery for a bite of ice cream on the way home, I joined a bunch of my friends at the Italian Club in the Italian Embassy for some excellent wine, good company, and fruitless cheering, as Ahly, morosely, lost 4-0. Oh, well, better luck next time, Ahly.

Cairo Ramblings

I am such a fool; truly, I am! It took me until almost my departure to discover the most beautiful part of Cairo, Al-Azhar Park. This morning, after a glorious night of sleep (I think I got almost eight hours!), I rolled out of bed at 11:30 and wandered into Frannie's room, where I found here busily e-mailing away. She cast me a quizzical look, and inquired about my plans, and, they being nothing, invited me on a 'stroll' through Cairo, from Zamalek to Al-Azhar Park and then a swim at the Nile Hilton. Having never been to the hadiqa (that's garden in Arabic), I accepted, and we desended about an hour later to begin our walk. You see, the two of us have decided, now that the weather in Cairo is divine bordering on hot, that we should do more walking around the city-walking to school, walking to the gym, etc. in order to save money and burn calories. Our implementation of the plan has been fairly successful thus far, and today was a rousing victory.
Marching (at a pace swifter than the Nile's placid waters) through Zamalek during the Friday sermon, we found the streets fairly deserted and calm, a rarity indeed along the main thoroughfare 26th of July, really only encontering other human beings near the mosques, when the overflowing masses of male humanity spread themselves on green mats across the sidewalks and alleyways. Eventually, we crossed the 26th of July bridge onto the mainland, recalling our first trip over that span many months ago the night we had first signed our apartment lease (oh how innocent we were!)-the stifling heat, the base odors, the jostling crowds, the laybrinyth of Cairo streets. In the daylight, on a languid Friday afternoon, we laughed at our previous tremulousness and trepidation. Cairo is so compact and not so intimidating once you realize the general layout, so we strolled along the corniche, the walk that borders the river, commenting on the cool breeze of the river and wavering shade of the palm trees lining the walk. It was quite pleasant along the Nile, observing the sweethearts walking hand in hand and giggling, the families with young children skipping ahead and shouting hello, the tourists seated on benched and clutching their bags in perenniel fear of thievery, the roving bads of adolescent boys directing mild harassment at you, the juice sellers and bread sellers balancing impossible weights on their shoulders as they manouvered through traffic.
Too soon, we turned off the Corniche and towards Medan Tahrir and Talat Harb street, stoically abjuring the attempts by various individuals to entice us from our path and into a shop or who knows where. We received several new lines to add to our tome of Cairo harassment lines-go take a shower; you have a big bum; oh, the cold shoulder (well, this one at least was accurate, as we did indeed brush brusquely past an accosting man) , etc. interspersed with the rather mundane, mowza (meaning babe or hottie in Arabic), ya jameela (hey beautiful) or other putative and overused expressions that just no longer make an impression. So, we reached the end of Talaat Harb and pondered briefly our next course, left or right? I left the decision to Frannie, as I had little idea of the correct way, so we turned left and began down a path we had not yet traversed, past little neighborhood shops hawking everything from cell phones to clothes to vegetables to cheap liquour to shoes, always shoes! At some point, glancing around us at the unfamiliar government buildings, we had to admit we were lost, but we really weren't concerned; eventually we'd come to a known landmark, or, if no aid availed us, we'd hop in a taxi to the gardens. However, we soon encountered Ramses Station, the main station of Cairo, and struck off in a direction that seemed vaguely plausible, entering a neighborhood that became increasingly shabi the further we penetrated. Now, when I say shabi, I guess I mean poor, more lower class, more ramshackle, but I do not mean unsafe. We may well have been the first foreigners, certainly the first blondes, the set foot upon those streets, but we never felt unwelcome or the gaze of hostility fall upon us; no, most people greeted us with genuine hospitality, or at least candid curiousity at our presence in their humble quarter.
I had read that Cairo is really nothing more than a series of interlocking small villages forming a pleasing concinnity that comprises much of the city, but I had not explored enough to truly understand this concept. However, we entered an area where cars but seldom putter past; where horse and donkey carts are far more common; where flowering trees occasionally sprout from abandoned lots and crumbling buildings sprout laundry lines and flower pots, where women walk fully veiled through the streets with their burden balanced on their heads, where men sit in cafes and sip tea and shisha, where ancient mosques dating back hundreds of years still call the faithful to prayer, where streets have no name, no status on a map, but are nonetheless the scene of a human drama for millions of people scratching a living from dust and pollution of Cairo. This is where we walked, through villages and neighborhoods where serenity reigned and birds twittered happily in the air. At some point, we emerged from this place still untouched my time onto a main avenue, followed it for a bit, came to a central square, and got our bearings.
Actually, despite the detour, we were indeed on the right track, and only needed to continue along to reach the Khan, and, eventually, the gardens, so we pushed our way through the cacaphony of cars and street people along the road until we reached the beginnings of the Khan, saw white tourists again, and knew we had reached our destination. Instead of heading straight to the Khan, we hit up one of our favorite stores behind Al-Azhar Mosque, Al-Khatoun, disguised so completely beyond narrow alleyways and twisting paths that only the intiated can find it, bought a few things, and took a cab rather than endure the 20 minute uphill walk to the gardens. And what gardens they were! I had heard their acclaim promulgated from the lips of my friends for many long months, but I had basely considered it an exaggeration. Not so, from the minute we paid the minimal entrance fee and passed through the gates, we had stepped into a different world, this one paved with cool marble and stone flagstones, graced with murmuring streams and splashing fountains and blue-tiled waterways coursing in every direction, shaded with leafy tree arbours, perfumed by roses and other coloured blooms, commanded over by the scintillating reflections of a small lake, and endowed with acres of green lawn and rolling hills providing breathtaking views of the Citadel, city, and old Absayyid walls, which are being restored.
The garden itself is one of the success stories that provides a small inkling of hope for the world. Once an unseemly garbage dump presiding over Cairo, the garden was funded by coffers from the U.N., Al-Azhar mosque, and other sources, transforming the toxic and unusable land into a garden of Eden and oasis of greenery offering a welcome respite to the aggrevations of Cairo. Enthralled, enraptured, entranced, and consummately enamoured, Frances and I wandered through the paths and eventually ended up at the small lake, where we dined at one of the little cafes scattered throughout the park, reveling in the magnificent views and watching the citizens enjoy the beauty of the park. After completing our meal, we walked a bit more, laughing at the small train that offers rides to anyone who cannot summon the energy to wander unaided through the leafy haven, climbed to the top of a small hill, smelled the blossoms, watched the reconstruction of the old wall, observed a band setting up stage, and begrudgingly left to fulfill our responsibilities to the real world. Frances went to the gym; I, to home, where I gratefully showered the sweat and labour of the day, otlobed some food in, and cuddled up in my bed to read the night away. And here I am this morning, furiously writing before the day begins and Deya calls and homework beckons and life's cycle is again renewed on the waters of the Nile...
I know, that last bit was fairly hideous, but I'm in the middle of a trashy historical epic about Egypt, and the waters of the Nile are always shimmering with a haze cloaked in mystery and adumbrating about the next coming of the pharoah, you know, stuff like that.
However, I have been back in Cairo for a week and a half; our plane arrived late, of course, nothing in Egypt operates on time, so most of us slept in through school, although I was suffused with this fulminating energy that kept me up until about 10; actually, it may well have been a combination of jet lag and knowledge that the maid would come and disturb me anyways that kept me up, plus the incessant drilling and pounding that occasionally rings from the apartment above us that happened to resonate resoundingly that morning and prevent my from the natural cycles of my sleep. Thus, even when I finally bedded down at 10 am, the pounding disturbed me and the maid still knocked on my door around 12 to inquire if she should clean my room. In a sleepy haze and fumbling Arabic, I told her I'd just returned and the room was still clean, so she left and I feigned sleep for a few hours, resigned myself, and got out of bed. Returning to classes the next day was quite enjoyable; I got caught up on my friends' spring break stories (we're an odd bunch, ALI, our idea of a good time is flying to Beirut and clubbing and exploring the Hezbollah territory, weaseling our way into Syria, chilling on the beach in Dahab, or, if you're normal, maybe visiting Greece and watching a yacht slowly sink in the water as international TV crews film it). Oh, yeah, and I bought a new cell phone. I'm on my fourth, now, in case you're counting, and you shouldn't be, because it's rather embarassing. Relaxation was key that weekend; I visited a great steakhouse in Cairo that weekend, Charwood's, attempted, and finally succeeded, to pay the internet bill, as our service had been cut off, shared vacation pictures with some friends, and readjusted myself to Cairo life, the call the prayer (which is echoing through my room as I write this, Alllaaaaah akbaaar) and the chaos and noise.
During the last week, I managed to visit the Khan twice to pick up various orders I had made in the Tentmaker's market and perfumes that I needed;-) Mother's beautiful, truly sumptuous quilt that I had custom-ordered, selected the colors and dimensions, chose a pattern, and waited for two weeks while it was hand-stitched, was ready the day I got back, so I braved the Khan and picked up the quilt, only to return a few days later to the same area. Usually, when men confront you on the streets and tell you they've seen you before, it is a hoax to entice you to follow them or for them to scam you, but, unfortunately, in my case they do actually see me too often, as I recognize their same pitiful lines every time I enter the market. Anyway, hopefully the quilt is en route to Minnesota right now, as I sent it home with Colin to ship it from the States rather than entrust so precious a package to the Egyptian post.
Cab drivers, they never cease to amaze me. Riding with one one afternoon, I struck up a conversation with the man and, as he learned I was from America, unfolded his life story before my imagination; officer in the army, worker in America, now cab driver in Cairo. Then he handed me some photos of his son, now 11, in America, and the letter from a woman, the mother of his child and maybe his wife, who also resides in America. Written in beautiful English, the letter made me feel slightly guilty as she eloquently professed her love to him and entreated him to come back and visit and see his son grow up. It was bizarre, to read such an intimate part of a stranger's life at his beckoning, but it's Cairo, and I have long learned not concern myself with the logic of life here.
In four days (and counting!) I'm jetting off with Colin for six days to Jordan to celebrate Sinai Liberation Day and a few extra ones in Wadi Rum, Amman, Petra, several Crusader castles, the Dead Sea, and the Ma'in hot springs. I've never planned a trip so last minute before, and I still need to book our Amman room, but I'm nonetheless quite excited. Colin, however, should learn never to leave the hotel details to me, because I tend to prefer the Movenpick over the backpacker haven in town. Oh, well...

Thailand

Ahhh, Thailand, where to begin? Perhaps at the beginning, pre-departure while still in Cairo. I took my three midterms as scheduled before I left, with, as I’ve discovered in the last few days, with a fair amount of success, and exited the campus on Tuesday with the sensation of on onerous yoke being lifted from my shoulders. Two weeks of freedom and relaxation, no worries, just fun. There was, I suppose, one final impediment barring my way from true bliss-a trip to the spa, which normally is a cause for great celebration, but this one involved a lot of waxing (during the procedure I realized that I have a ridiculously have pain threshold, which, I guess, can’t be a bad thing, right?) and a soothing pedicure. Afterwards, straggling back through the streets of Zamalek, I met up with two of my travel buddies, David and Colin, who laughed at my discomfort, which was now a mere specter of the previous apogee, and the three of us piled into a cab to visit the Indian restaurant in town, Kandahar, commencing the vacation with a bottle of wine, good company, and spicily scrumptious food. And then, it was back home to pack, which, in retrospect, involved far more clothing than necessary. My two suitcase options were either a fairly compact blue one or a much larger green one that had originally transported me to this arid land that I call home. Knowing that I would need clothes, shoes, accessories, and other products for two whole weeks for a variety of situations-mountain trekking, beach lazing, going out at night for food/drinks, city sightseeing, etc-I packed too much, I’ll confess, but I still think it was worth it. When I was done, I had the infamous giant green suitcase, which fell just under the weight limit of 50 pounds, my large wheelie carry-on that’s now visited four continents, and my small camera backpack that holds the essentials. I was traveling with some food, so I expected to free up some room for souvenirs, but I didn’t expect to buy quite as many scarves ;-)
Anyway, when Colin and David, who live in my tower, stopped by to pick me up in the morning, they literally gaped at my luggage quantity, but, perhaps foolishly, didn’t make me remove anything. Honestly, how could I have removed one of my four pairs of shoes/sandals, three swimsuits, five pairs of pants, 12 tank tops, plus a bunch more? We squeezed into a cab and drove to campus to pick Lesley up while she finished an exam and transferred into a yellow cab for the ride to the airport. Of course, we managed to find the smallest variety of cab known to man and really packed ourselves cozily inside with luggage on our laps. Check-in and the waiting process was uneventful, although I do detest the old terminal at the Cairo airport-not only does it reek like the sewer, but the facilities are inadequate and the food is rather deplorable. I bought a Cosmo to amuse myself and strolled around the terminal while waiting for the Etihad gate to open. As Etihad Airlines, the national airline of the United Arab Emirates, had the cheapest flights to Bangkok, we chose them and were not entirely sure what to expect. However, upon boarding the plane, our decision seemed brilliant, as the plane was modern, clean, tastefully appointed, and, I feel, slightly more spacious than any American airline I’ve flown. The entire fleet is equipped with personal video monitors, adequately sized restrooms, and an international flight staff that is courteous and efficient. And the food! Even though the flight from Cairo to Abu Dhabi was under three hours, we were fed a full meal, and not your usual airline fare; no, we were presented with a real menu offering jasmine rice and rosemary chicken and smoked salmon and chocolate mousse and fresh fruit and free alcohol. Right after we boarded, the attendants came around and offered all of the passengers hot, lightly scented towels with which to refresh ourselves and small bottles of water. In other words, it far surpassed any airline I’ve ever flown in terms of service, facilities, and amenities, and, after lunch and a glass of wine, I conked out for the last hour in a blissful reverie.
We disembarked in Abu Dhabi and felt as if we’d entered the set to Star Trek, as the airport consists of pod-like terminals connected to a central command post full of tempting duty-free shops that we raided during our four hour layover. I sometimes forget how much I miss my Western comforts until I enter a world replete with them: electronics, candy, books, alcohol, cosmetics…not that I bought all of that stuff, but just being around it was slightly intoxicating. I, for one, stocked up on candy (a chocolate bunny for Easter and other stuff) and some make-up, bought some fruit, played some card games with my friends, read a bit, observed the antithical mélange of tank-top clad Europeans seated next to fully niqabbed women and men in spotless argent galabayas. Oh, the Arab world! We were to leave it for two whole weeks, and, frankly, we were looking forward to a reprieve from its repressive nature. Boarding the flight bound for Bangkok, we settled in, enjoyed the entertaining and vast movie collection available to guests, including a number of new releases, slumbered, read, watched, and wheedled the time away until touch down on Asian soil, a first for all of us.
Arriving in the first hours of dawn, we stumbled out of the plane, gathered our luggage, and went to argue with Thai Airways about an abrupt schedule change they had made to our itinerary that would have forced us to waste a night of our vacation in Bangkok rather than the beach. As we had no designs to spend two whole weeks in Bangkok, but were flying around the country a bit, we had all eventually managed to purchase a flexible airpass that allowed us to fly relatively cheaply from city to city. Settling down in the Thai Airways office, we learned that they could not remedy the schedule wrinkle as they had no other flights that would work to bring us from the Chiang Mai to Bangkok to the island of Ko Samui. Eventually, we decided to hope for a refund (still working on that) and booked one leg of the flight with another internal carrier, Bangkok Airways, which actually flies directly to the island without any ferry transfer involved. So, fairly weary of travel at that point, we checked into our flight, trudged to the gate, observed the first signs of a monarchial nation (Long Live the King plastered all over with images of him to complement the slogan), played a bit of Frisbee in the gate area with Colin’s hat, and finally boarded for the flight to Chiang Mai.
I had made the hotel reservations for Chiang Mai, and had booked an airport transfer through the hotel, and was praying that it all worked smoothly. We were relieved, walking out of the luggage area, to see someone holding a sign for Raura Schlcting; he greeted us with excellent English, led us out of the airport and into the sauna that is Thailand, and stowed our luggage (after commenting on the weightiness of my suitcase) for the short ride to the hotel in the heart of the city.
Perhaps here I should mention my first observations of Thailand. It is obviously located in southeast Asia, very near the equator, extremely hot and humid, Buddhist, and very cheap. It also experienced a military coup back in September, the ramifications from which are still being felt out, and has a bloody and active insurgency in the south between the Muslims and Buddhists. And then there’s the king, whose name evades me, but is adored by about everyone and has reigned for 60 years, the longest ruling period for a monarch in the world. Generally, Buddhism is a more accepting religion, at least in terms of behavior and dress, so I arrived and immediately stripped down to a tank top, and didn’t alter my dress style for the next twelve days, although I did occasionally change clothes (well, actually, I would often change them twice a day, but that’s beside the point, eh?). We arrived at the Chiang Mai Guest House, were fairly impressed by the outward façade, only a few years old, paid the bill and checked in and trudged up the stairs to our rooms on the fourth floor. Some poor porter lugged my suitcase up them…
We dove into the refreshing pool and basked in the tropical sunlight, tenable humidity, flowery redolence from the blossoming trees, and soft cooing of birds. Eventually, we got out, changed, and three of us wandered the town and drank in our first sip of Asia-the numerous wats, or temples, tucked behind walls along the streets; the mini spirit houses protecting many of the buildings; the ubiquity of 7-11s, the roaring tuk-tuks honking at you as the drive by, resembling nothing so much as motorcycle pulling a cart for passengers; the clean canals rippling with the reflection of verdant leafy palm trees and other flora; the markets set up in parking lots hawking all sorts of fascinating trinkets; the stands of street food wafting seductively appetizing aromas in our direction; the abundance of tailor and silk stores all profession swift and quality work; and, of course, Thai people. Having lived among Egyptians for the last 8 months, it was startling to be immersed in another entirely foreign culture of whose language we had no comprehension. In fact, we almost made it a point NOT to learn Thai and just relax and use gestures for communication. It worked quite well, although I slipped into Arabic far too often in conversations; it’s so easy for me, now, to use the Arabic phrase or word rather than the English one, and the blank stares I’d get from the many foreigners we met were a testament to my absurdity. But it’s fun ;-)
I had my first real Thai meal in a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant that consisted of pad Thai and a fresh fruit smoothie. I was reluctant and a bit suspicious of Thai food at first, as most of it comes in sauces and includes noodles and I had no desire to get sick. But Lesley, bless her, assured me that wheat is not native to the region and the vast majority of food is gluten-free, although, of course, she couldn’t guarantee that I wouldn’t get sick. I was frustrated with my limited Cairo diet of chicken and rice, and hankering for the simmering aromas drifting through the restaurant, so I dug into my pad Thai with relish, thus beginning my love affair with Thai food. Sauces and noodles again, veggies and spices and stir-fried goodness all contained in one plate of food. Wandering back to the hotel, we set out a bit later in the evening for the night market, the Thai version of Khan El-Khalili with a brilliant infusion of hand-made crafts, cheap clothing, manufactured junk, and food. We enjoyed another tasty three dollar meal and explored the market a bit, poking into some stores but reserving our real shopping extravaganza for another day without jetlag looming over us. We returned to our hotel, sweaty and sticky even in the cool hours of the night, collapsed in the luxury of our air-con rooms, showered, and went to bed.
The night was shorter than desired, unfortunately, because we had booked a tour early the next morning to traverse the wilds around Chiang Mai. After breakfast (and real, honest-to-goodness pork bacon!!!) we piled into our van and headed into the mountains encroaching the city with their evening shadows, pausing briefly at an orchid farm and continuing on to the Long Neck village nestled in the hills. Although a bit touristy and full mainly of shops, I was fascinated by the large metal rings the women wore around their necks, once as protection from tigers but now serving only as an adherence to tradition and culture. As we watched, the women’s fingers deftly worked the looms set up in their shops, weaving beautiful cloth scarves out of unruly lengths of yarn (I bought a few ;-) Then we drove further into the mountains, switching from the van to a sturdy pick-up and joining a gaggle of highly tanned Swedes. At one point, we counted 17 people piled into the one vehicle, all of the tourists cramped into the back along benches and jostling one another over each rut and bump in the path. Overheated, sweaty, and a bit crowded, we all gripped each other or the sides of the vehicle as it careened around turns and threw us into our neighbors’ shoulders and sputtered up sudden rises and crashed into the underbrush lining the road. Eventually, we stopped, thankfully, ate a peaceful lunch on a hillside overlooking a river valley, and began to trek to a waterfall supposedly not too far away. Right before the hike was about to commence, Lesley and I decided to find a bathroom, i.e. secluded patch of forest, and found one on slanted rise near camp. As we were finishing our business, we heard movement from the camp and noticed everyone trudging in our direction. AHHH! Why do we always become immured in the path of near mortification? We completed the task and scurried forward to meet the group, accepting our bags from the boys who had brought ours along and ignored the simpers and chuckles, soon passing right over the spot of our labors.
As we penetrated deeper into the forest, I was grateful for the bug spray I had used to coat my body but regretted my decision to wear sandals along the rocky, slippery, and precipitous path leading us down into river valleys, up over cliffs, through thorny swathes of brush and moments of intense sunlight, along jagged trails of sharp rocks and crumbling cliffs plummeting into breathtaking valleys 100s of feet below, past vines and lianas and creepers that appear solid until you grab onto them for support and learn they are no more stable than your quaking heart watching the group march ahead. After what seemed like an eternity, and an unfortunate bout with a thorny plant I grabbed onto as I slid down a cliff (I’ve still got some of the thorns in my hand), I arrived about 5 minutes late at the waterfall, saw everyone else stripping down to their suits and standing at the edge, and, without a moment’s pause, wriggled out of my shorts (the sandals were already falling off) and plunged in. Oh glorious heaven! I can still feel the icy embrace of that water as it caressed my steaming skin and pulled its soft fingers through my tangled hair and massaged my sore feet with frigid kisses. Well, perhaps I should confess that I had also not brought a swimsuit, so I was swimming in my underwear and thin white tank top, but I’d never see the Swedes again and the other three were good enough friends, or so I reasoned as I floated on a bed of cold ecstasy. Most everyone eventually ventured in, but found it too cold for very long and clambered out. I took my time, diving under the thundering cascade of white water and froth that pooled dizzily around me and paddling around until I emerged wet and happy and temperate again. The air was so humid and hot that the chilled sensation I usually get from climbing out of cold water was replaced by a warm, sticky one. I reluctantly pulled on my shorts again and began the hike again, taking a different, and much gentler route back, so much so that I could keep up with my companions. We paused briefly at another village, kind of boring but interesting to observe how they live, and then headed for the elephant camp. This was, perhaps, the single most entertaining moment of my trip, particularly in observing the others.
Apparently, one of the elephants was ill, so we had to put three people on the back of one elephant, instead of the usual two. However, when I say I went elephant riding I am not referring to an image of myself gripping the beast’s back with my bare legs and shouting commands at it; rather, I invoke a picture of myself seated on a bench-like structure strapped to the elephant’s back with a mahout, or driver, seated on its head and directing its movement. While we milled around attempting to decide the seating arrangements, I clambered into one of the seats and waited for one of my friends to join me; the guide, however, had other plans and placed one of the Swedes with me, Carolyn, who turned out to be an excellent seatmate. My three friends were directed to another elephant, although David was placed on the elephant’s head in the position usually reserved for the driver while the true mahout walked on the ground. This was, you see, a bad idea, because, after the elephants began their slow shuffle up the mountain, rambling through the brush off the trail and itinerantly roving into the forest and munching down trees (the drivers, I soon learned, were less of conductors and more like suggestors), shouts and shrieks of pain emitted from around the corner where I knew the others’ elephant was. As we began to descend down hill and they came into view, I cast them a quizzical glance and couldn’t help but laugh to see Colin and Lesley half falling out of their seat and gripping the sides with white knuckles and David issuing moans of emasculation at every lumbering step the elephant took. I think that the real mahouts have a trick to riding the elephant that David just didn’t have, and the poor boy suffered because of it. The rest of us, though, were having a jolly good time, rubbing our feet along the stubbly, grey, leathery back of the creature and snapping pictures of the stunning valley and meandering river that we forded atop the great beasts. Louder complaints echoed from behind me, and I saw my friends’ elephant stop at the water’s edge, suck vast quantities of water into its trunk and spray first one side, than the other, and then raise its trunk and drench David directly. A bit later, I heard a collective “eww,” from behind and saw them wiping their legs of elephant snot while I swayed placidly forward through the trees aboard my trusty steed. Before I dismounted from my elephant onto the platform, I had the guide snap a photo of me in David’s position and found it quite comfortable. When I rejoined my companions, however, I found that any talk of enjoyment, amusement, or general pleasure was combated with sore groans, grunts of pain, talk of killing the elephant, and quite heated rancor toward the entire race of creatures.
So, I was probably fairly irksome on the way to our next destination, but it was too good of an opportunity to pass up, mentioning elephants in every other sentence. Then we donned helmets and life vests and climbed into inflatable rafts for my first white-water rafting experience, the Americans vs. the Swedes. Paddling vigorously toward the first rapids, our guide, in his five words of English, explained how to navigate the rocks: “Forward, back, stop, go, no!” Hmmm, needless to say, we beached ourselves on rocks more than a few times but still had great fun surging down the rapids and swimming in the river to, in David’s words, “wash the elephant snot from my legs.” At the end, we all stripped off our gear, took a final swim, dried off slightly, and piled back in for the ride home.
That night, we wandered around a bit searching for a restaurant and found one tucked away a bit and fairly empty despite the good food, although we soon learned why when the lounge singer began his repetoire. Perhaps at this point in my tale, if you’re still with me, I should mention one of the more sordid sides of Thailand, its prostitution industry. Thailand is indeed graced with stunning natural beauty-soaring cliffs, lush jungles, gorgeous beaches-and also beautiful women. Although, by many accounts, the majority of the prostitution industry is financed by Asian men themselves, certainly a sizable portion of it is also funded by foreigners looking for a few weeks of sexual pleasure, and the bars catering to foreign men are far more salient than those seemingly innocuous ones serving Thais. Even though we didn’t find the Chiang Mai red light district, we still observed plenty of prostitutes, some waiting in front of bars with a beckoning hand toward foreigners, but more arm in arm with their clients. Every time a white, usually middle-aged, foreign man walked by with a young, attractive Thai woman in tow, I couldn’t help but peg her as a prostitute. The men with them didn’t appear depraved or inimical or sadistic; they were the average male you see everyday in America: your boss, your neighbor, your best friend’s dad, or even your own family member, but, still they were exploiting Asian women in a quest to whet the appetites of their own sexual desires. And I wonder what the prostitute thinks-does she ever get tired of showing men around the same sites month after month, performing the same degrading acts for her clients, does she ever have any enjoyment from her career, or is it just a spiraling cycle of degradation and depression time after time? I can’t even imagine that life, and visiting these countries where one of the most lucrative careers for some women is prostitution makes me more grateful to be from America and the land of ‘opportunity,’ because, as cynical as we may be about America and politics, it takes one look at much of the rest of the world to realize we do have it pretty good.
But, back to my infinite narrative-after dinner, we went to a bar to play a game of pool, and I learned how atrocious I truly am at that sport, but I did get to witness Colin break the only glass object in the bar, a flower pot encased in a protective vase of wicker. Pinging the ball of the table, he launched it into the vase and, CRACK, the water started spilling out. After a good chuckle and a large tip, we left bemused. The other two professed weariness, but Colin and I were still, apparently, wired from jetlag or something, so we proceeded to the sketchiest and most fun bar I’ve visited on the rooftop of a hotel. In the semi-darkness of the narrow hallways we followed the signs up to the top floor where we removed our shoes, as instructed, climbed up the ladder, and emerged into the Chiang Mai night and black light glow of the thumping Euro techno bar and found a table and plopped down on the ground cushions with our drinks. That was a late night, with some wandering around the deserted streets of Chiang Mai before bed, but I still suffered myself to get up the next morning and gobble down a wonderfully porky and scrambled eggy breakfast before the tour at about 10.

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Lesley and I had cautioned the boys that the tour was mainly one giant shopping trip, but the still wanted to come, so we shrugged our shoulders and welcomed their company. I won’t describe in great detail all of the shops we visited, but the main system of the tour was a brief walk through the workshop where the products were being made and then a longer visit to the gallery where items were, of course, available for purchase. Our first stop was a silversmith’s, where Lesley and I both purchased jewelry, and then onto a woodcarver’s, umbrella maker’s, Celadon pottery maker’s, stop for a delicious lunch buffet, and then onto the silk store. And here I will pause, because I fell head-over-heels absolutely, divinely in love with Thai silk, and this store was the pinnacle of my silk passion, as I saw it manufactured from the tiny silk worms in their cocoons to the sorting into thread to the weaving into luscious fabrics and colors you only see at sunset or on the backs of tropical fish. There was the store, and I almost drooled as I strolled through room after room of dresses, scarves, skirts, shirts, sheets, robes, stuffed animals, accessories, etc. eventually cajoling myself to cease the orgasmic delight coursing through my veins and settle on what to buy. But what to buy? I tried on a few dresses, wasn’t enamored with them, settled on a sleek blue skirt, and then moved into the scarf area and marveled at the truly brilliant array of adroitly woven colors and patterns all clamoring for my attention. After much deliberation, I narrowed my selection down to 6 total, I think, maybe it was seven, I don’t like to put numbers to these things. I snatched an adorable stuffed silk elephant on the way to the cashiers, wanting to linger longer, but somewhat glad that I knew the boys were waiting for us to finish. I winced enough when I handed my credit card over the counter to the cashier, I really couldn’t have afforded to spend longer there; I may have tried to have a custom-made suit sewn…
After a quick stop at a jade maker’s, we were all ready for a swim back in the pool and headed home, resting by the pool area and admiring our purchases, well, at least Lesley and I did ;-) Using a tip from the front desk, we walked for a bit across the river to a wonderful waterfront restaurant, munched on some more great Thai food and savored the quality mixed drinks (they just can’t do alcohol well in Egypt) before making our final run to the night market where I only did slightly more damage with some very cheap silk scarf buying (in all of the shopping I did afterward, I never found scarves quite as nice as the ones at the Thai Silk Village in Chiang Mai) for presents and supplements to my wardrobe, purchases some cheap wrap-around skirts, a robe, and a few other little trinkets. Then, we all headed home laden down with bags but lighter wallets and crashed in the hotel, piling into the boys room to watch a cheesy horror flick before hitting the sack.
Our flight the next morning departed for Bangkok in mid-afternoon, so we spent the morning roving around the streets of Chiang Mai and absorbing a bit of culture before the mindless days on the beach. Entering our first wat, I was struck by the gildedness of the Buddha prominently placed at the end of the far wall and how glittery and shiny the accoutrements around him were. Murals upon the wall displayed various vignettes from, I suspect, his life, and also, in some cases, memorials to the monk to whom each temple was dedicated. Before entering each temple we removed our shoes and proceeded softly to the central shrine, all of which differed but retained a similar structure as the one before. The day happened to be excruciating hot, without a cool breeze to relieve the sweat from our brow, but we pushed doughtily on, entering several wats and enjoying their cool courtyards full of food vendors and worshippers and admiring the towering facades of the temples, with ornate carvings framing the roofs and dragons guarding the doorways. Eventually we ended up at the oldest temple in Chiang Mai, and impressively crumbling mountain of a temple dating back to, I want to say, the 7th century, with giant stone layers piled concentrically on top of the other surmounted by a large temple now inaccessible but ringed with giant elephant statues and protected from evil by menacing stone dragons at the base. At this point, we were melted pools of sweat, and did not relish the walk all of the way back to the hotel, so we split into two groups and took tuk-tuks back to the hotel. Unfortunately, I had absent-mindedly stuffed my cell phone into my pocket, and as I leaned back in the seat to catch a bit of breeze, it traitorously wiggled out, unknown to me at the time. The first afternoon of our arrival, Lesley and I had purchases Thai SIM cards for our phones so we could communicate with each other and the world back home, but, fate did not let this happy circumstance last.
Soon after I arrived at the hotel, I realized the phone was missing, and frantically retraced my steps, but it was lost and some lucky Thai man now is using my beautiful Sony Erickson. Alas, but I can’t dwell on the past for long, so I returned to our wonderful hotel, which was spotless, well-appointed, and quite cheap, used the pool shower to cool off (I’m shameless, I know ;-), and boarded our cab for the airport. The moment we four entered it, our eyes were drawn by an unseen and inexorable force to the Dairy Queen breathing freshness our way. “After we check in,” we all agreed, and soon were enjoying icy treats and air-con by the gate while waiting for the Thai Air flight to take off. Arriving in Bangkok with several hours to spare due to a long layover and delayed flight, we curled up in the cafeteria, enjoyed some decent Thai cuisine, and pined for the beach. After another unexpected delay, we finally boarded the plane for the hour or so flight to the island disembarked on the tarmac and inhaled the cool sea breeze and island perfume of greenery and flowers, gathering our luggage from the bamboo-supported luggage belt and haggling for a taxi to take us to our resort. At this point, the clock was nudging 11, and all we longed for was a refreshing dip in the ocean and a soft bed, but, as I spoke with the front desk staff, no record of the reservation I had made months ago appeared in their system. I showed them the printout of my confirmation and communication with the resort, but they still could find no trace of me in their system, mentioning something about the woman I spoke with, Susan, as no longer working there due to a drinking problem. Grrrr…Thankfully, the gods, or Buddha, or someone smiled benevolently down upon us, as the resort did have two rooms available to honor my non-existent reservation, and we deposited our luggage in them, switched on the air-con, changed into our suits, and took a midnight swim in the pool under the full moon. Washing off the seemingly interminable wait in the Bangkok airport, the dirt from Chiang Mai, and the stress of ALI, we paddled around exhilerated and excited for a week of utter indolence and indulgence.
And it was, indeed, all of that and more. Moonlight walks beneath a creamy moon and drifting clouds with the surf tickling your ankles; lounging in chairs under a tree arbor sipping the latest tropical drink and watching the waves undulate; rising at 11 and stumbling out of the room to order eggs and bacon and fresh fruit juice; navigating your way through the slightly rocky ocean floor to a patch of clear sand and bliss; and long strolls along the beach in the afternoon to the hidden coves and secretive recesses of the beach. Quite simply, we accomplished absolutely nothing in the way of productivity, and we wouldn’t have wanted that any other way.
Our resort was very beautiful, with ocean front property, a gorgeous pool, and a truly amazing chef. One night, we tried dining at a resort down the beach from us but returned disappointed and whetted our appetites at our own restaurant. Not only was the menu extensive and delicious, but it had Thai food, Western food, healthy food, and a remarkable selection of tropical drinks that we relatively inexpensive and oh so good. By the end of our stay, we estimated that we sampled at least 70% of the menu, which is quite a feat considering it spanned about 10 pages of culinary temptation. Of course, we had our favorites and ordered those far too much; I adored the chicken satay in an amazing peanut sauce, as well as the Pad Thai. Fresh fruit was also in abundance and made a delicious snack late afternoon under the waning shade of our tree bower.
For the first few days we lounged around the resort in a state of utter enervation, venturing once outside of the resort to buy some bottled water. The third night, however, the four of us and a British chick we’d met, Nikki, took a cab (actually, a covered pickup truck with seats in the back) to the main town on the island, Chaweng, found our way to a beachfront restaurant where we all enjoyed an excellent meal and a few drinks. Having ordered a Sex on the Beach, I was nonetheless surprised to find my drink served in a glass shaped quite salaciously like a woman’s body ;-) It was the beginning of a good night; we finished dinner, went wading in the ocean and then wandered back out onto the streets, stopping occasionally when we saw a promising store (usually, when I saw the store) or pharmacy to stock up on more lotion and aloe vera. Chaweng was…busy and commercial and chaotic and stench-filled and fascinating all at once. Open sewers ran along the streets, covered only by a grate, so at least one of us was prone to moan every time we passed over one, which was far, unfortunately, far too frequent. Very Westernized, there were stores, tour companies, restaurants, bars, and markets lining the streets, as well as prostitutes. Yes, whereas in Chiang Mai we had avoided the red light district, we rather stumbled into in Ko Samui. On the prowl for a decent bar (not an Irish pub filled with a wretched Thai band attempting to screech out Metallica) we turned down an interesting side street and found ourselves delving deeper into the world of the night than any of us had planned. All forms of circumspection or subtleness had vanished, replaced by girls dancing on poles on the tops of bars, girls lined up outside of bars with their pimps nearby, girls beckoning to men clearly attached to another woman; girls negotiating with potential clients; and girls leaving with those clients into the darkness. Lights blazed and pulsated, music screamed from the various establishments, colors flashed and threatened to overwhelm as we walked dazed through this false and tawdry world of skin, sex, and money. Some bars made no pretenses about their purpose: consisting of nothing more than a few stools, some liquor, and a dilapidated bar, they catered mainly to the interests of their male clients in the sordid search for Thai whores.
Eventually, we emerged from the district, looked at each other-wow!-and proceeded down the street until we found an interesting, non-sketchy place to play some pool, although Lesley and I were half-convinced it was a gay bar, due to the interactions between several of the clientele. Either way, we returned home somewhat gratefully to the serenity and solitude of our beach and resort, not having fully appreciated its sweeping green mountains or smooth gray monoliths of stone or stretch of white sand or dancing palm trees. That night, as I was about to shower, rather late, it must be said, I saw two antennaes, then a roach crawl around the corner of the shower. Ewww! I hate roaches with a passion, any other bug I can handle, but these guys just creep me out! I whimpered to Lesley, but she had been happily sleeping for awhile and was, understandably, not keen on rescuing me from the giant menace skittering through our room. I grabbed the closest thing I could find, bug repellent, and emptied half the bottle on the sucker, watching him writhe and twitch in his death throes before flushing him down the toilet. Ahh, but you think that’s the end of my roach woes; well, while I was showering soon after, with my eyes closed while scrubbing my hair, I felt something twitch on my foot and figured it was just some soap suds. But then I felt it proceed up my foot and onto my leg and I opened my eyes, half blind, to see another roach crawling up my leg. Yuk, yuk, yuk, yuk! I brushed him off and sent him back where he came from, down the drain, and shuddered in disgust, finishing the shower valiantly and crawling into bed defeated.
Like I said, our resort was quite nice, with clean rooms, glorious air-con, TV and cable (for news channels we got BBC World, Fox News, and PBS) tasteful décor, but occasional water malfunctions, as twice we went to use the bathroom and found the water not running. It always returned within half an hour, full blast and hot, and I suppose I’ve become more complacent, having lived in Egypt for so long, but I accepted the issue dutifully, knowing I was in a developing nation. To us, weary of the dirt and endless cement blocks of Cairo, Thailand seemed fresh and vernal, clean and luxurious, but we were in an impoverished nation all the same, probably just as poor, if not poorer, than Cairo. We saw it more in Bangkok, for in Ko Samui it was tucked discreetly behind long alleyways off the beaten path to hide it from tourists, but it was there nonetheless.


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Lounging away another day in paradise, we did finally decided to do something vaguely touristy-visit the phallic rocks! What, you say, are the phallic rocks? Well, named the grandfather and grandmother rocks, they depict, in quite accurate detail, the representations of the respective phalluses of the sexes. Basically, in cruder terms, there is a giant penis rock that stands majestically on the shore of the island and makes a popular picnic destination for Thais and foreigners alike. Perhaps you should observe my pictures to fully appreciate the image, and the shots of Colin and David mounting the female part of the duo to stand next to the giant phallus. The scenery around that area was fairly lovely, with waves crashing against the granite rocks and palm trees framing towering cliffs and sweeping shorelines. It was a worthwhile trip, especially for four Americans on spring break from Egypt and one British girl touring the region. After that, I needed to run back home and grab some money and take a quick shower, so Colin and I were climbing into the back of a taxi for the short ride back to our resort when we observed one of the piteous forms of prostitution-child prostitution. Well, at least we were fairly certain that what we observed was this, as a very young Thai girl sat on a motorcycle while a Western man clearly not related stopped into a store to buy some things. The melancholy and lugubrious expression on her face, to me, revealed her profession more so than her companion, for never have I seen a child appear quite so depressed and weary and old. It was disconcerting, to find such practices even in the family-friendly and tourist-friendly streets of Lamai, but then I remembered earlier that day, as the five of us were in a cab on the way to the phallus, a prostitute driving by on a motorcycle and flashing both David and Colin, who happened to be seated near the open back. Actually, I didn’t see, none of the girls did, but apparently she made that clucking sound audible only to male ears, and the concurrent reactions from both of them were sufficient evidence, at least to me, and I observed the woman speed away on her bike when she saw they weren’t interested.
Thailand was an experience, and an amazing one at that, but nowhere is true paradise, nowhere are you free from the shackles of humanity and suffering, whether you are in America, or France, or Jamaica, or Egypt, or Kenya, or Thailand. But, honestly, I was a college student on spring break discovering a lot about life, and I wasn’t terribly concerned with many of the social issues of Thailand. I’ve dealt with plenty of those in Egypt to last awhile. It was enough to wander around town in a short skirt and tank top, to walk down the beach in a bikini, to hold someone’s hand in public and not fear that the wrath of the morality police will befall you.
At some point, I can’t remember exactly which day, we three girls decided to take the kayak out at sunset to a dock rather far from shore. Of course, the boys were their incorrigible selves and laughed as we struggled, but soon found our rhythm, and reached the dock in time to swim a bit bidoon milaabis and climb back into the kayak, capsize a few times, and eventually seat ourselves. Then, we started kayaking toward shore but noticed our forward progress was not nearly as substantial as our backwards movement. Alright, so we’re not the strongest threesome in the world, but we should have been able to achieve some movement. After a few minutes of fruitless paddling, we drifted a bit and contemplated the fading light and far shore. Finally, I jumped out, assiduously avoiding the sharp rocks and coral sprouting from the chest deep water, and the other two followed, arriving slightly abashed, defeated, and lacerated back to shore just as the light leaked out of the sky, much to our male companions’ hooting.
When my slight sunburn had subsided into a gorgeous deep tan, I decided the time was ripe to discover the pliant wonders of a Thai massage, and thus wandered down the road a bit, with Colin for support, to visit the local massage parlor. Now, if any of you know anything about the reputation of Thailand, a massage parlor can offer services beyond just the platonic rubbing of skin, if you catch my meaning, but the one we visited was entirely reputable, if a little strange. All of the massages were performed on mattresses on the floor with a bit of space between each one for the masseuse to squeeze into and perform her magic. Having requested an oil massage, I was almost immediately stripped of all of my clothes except my underwear and laid on the bed belly down while the masseuse began to work my back with vigorous strokes and ample oil. By the time she had completed her exquisite torture of my body I lay limpidly on the ground in inordinate delight over the tingling in my muscles and finally moved when the singing in my body reduced itself to a gentle hum. Oh, God, that was amazing! While I waited for Colin to finish his, I drank a slow cup of tea and watched the various expressions on clients’ faces as they, too, were plied and stretched and yanked and caressed. And for the price of 10 dollars for an hour massage, I decided I could get accustomed to this treatment.
Our time on Ko Samui was fairly marvelous. Days lying supine on the beach, night exploring the town, getting occasionally separated from part of the group and finding random Australian BBQ spots with good wine and drunk owners ;-), shopping, eating, sleeping late without an alarm, and gazing off into the ocean in deep contemplation of the world around me. Well, perhaps that last bit was a bit clichéd, but Ko Samui was a destination I won’t soon forget.
On the last day we were to spend on the island, David and Lesley decided they were not quite prepared to separate from Ko Samui and thus voted to skip Bangkok altogether and spend a few more days in paradise. Colin and I, although consummately content lazing on the beach, were both ready for a change of scenery and the chance to see Bangkok, so, at 5 am on Easter, we loaded our, well, my, copious luggage into the taxi and headed to the ferry to catch a boat to the mainland because Thai Air doesn’t fly directly to the island. Rather monotonous, the ferry ride took a few hours of interminable waiting and catnaps atop our substantive pile of bags; Colin never becomes frustrated, but the closest he ever came to outright annoyance was when he had to lug my giant, heavy suitcase up and down the narrow stairs on the boat. I promised him that I would bring a smaller suitcase to Jordan ;-) Disembarking from the boat, we went to find a cab but were unpleasantly greeted with a sign advertising airport fares at 1600 Baht. That’s a lot of money, at 34 Baht to the dollar, even in Thailand, but we had no other choice and also didn’t realize the airport was over an hour from the port, so begrudgingly paid the money and dozed during the drive through the small towns and jungle.
Touching down in Bangkok, we picked up our luggage and took a cab to our new home for two nights, the ViengTai Hotel in the Banglapalou district. Originally the four of us were going to share a two bedroom, two bath suite, but we had called ahead and switched the reservation to a normal room, which was quite nice with full on air-con. After a much-deserved nap and snack of the chocolate bunny I’d purchased in the Abu Dhabi airport (a very holy observance of Easter, I know), we wandered around the area in the evening, inhaling the slightly sickening but also fairly appetizing aromas of street food and longing for the slices of fresh watermelon and pineapple being hawked at every corner. I soon succumbed to the temptation of a fresh fruit juice smoothie, and Colin caved soon after, eventually we wandered down the Khao San, a rather chaotic thoroughfare offering food, flesh, clothes, knickknacks, alcohol, and a good time to anyone bold enough to walk it. Well, walk it we did, several times in an attempt to orient ourselves, amused and slightly disturbed by the many offers of ping pong shows from sketchy touts along the street. For the uninitiated, a ping pong show features women doing just about everything with their vaginas except give birth, and that’s a fairly mild description. Need I say we brushed past them all? Anyway, we eventually grabbed some food at a small restaurant and observed the vagrants of humanity pass down the street in search of love or lust, who could tell? We meant to turn in early but got involved in an indelibly appropriate movie, The Passion of the Christ, and watched it until the boulder rolled away to reveal an empty tomb before submitting to slumber.
The next morning we determined to hit any of the sights furthest from the hotel first and leave the nearer ones for the next day. Armed with my Rough Guide, a pocketful of Bahts, and a total ignorance of the language and layout of the city, we made our way downtown to the Jim Thompson House, an oasis of calm and greenery a few blocks from the giant malls and fume-choked traffic arcades. I’ll forgive you if you don’t know who Jim Thompson is; I only learned about him through my guidebook but harbored a deep appreciation for his life’s work, which was dedicated to the reinvigoration of the Thai silk industry. Born in, I think, 1906, he moved to Thailand in the forties with the U.S. military but remained behind when the troops left, becoming a classic story of the ex-pat falling in love with a foreign land and adopting it as his own. Collecting various antiques and native crafts for his home, he also reinstituted the dying art of silk making and introduced it to the Western world through his costume designs for the movie the King and I. His fairly sprawling estate was truly peaceful and impeccably decorated, but a few quirks in his personality evinced themselves during his tour. For one, he divorced before he left for Thailand and never married, which isn’t that bizarre in and of itself, but he also kept chamber pots for little boys and girls in his house, which struck Colin and I as rather peculiar. Built on stilts to protect from flooding and tigers (at least traditionally) the house was a lovely juncture of East meets West, and we all followed the Thai tradition of removing our shoes at the front door as traditionally Thais take there meals on the ground and thus keep the floor immaculate.
From the Jim Thompson House we proceeded onto the main drag to find one of the gigantic shopping malls that was recommended in my guidebook as having several decent craft stores. Scurrying inside from the sudden rainstorm, having crossed over the street by a series of interconnecting walkways above the highway, I was truly awestruck by the size and beauty of the mall. It was huge, for one, and had one entire floor dedicated to food, just food, of every type and flavor imaginable, from bakeries to ice cream to Thai to burgers, and many floors dedicated to clothing, most designer, one to electronics and technology, and another to the cinema, etc. I found my craft store, well, actually silk store, raided the silk stock for the last time, and then went to find the patiently waiting Colin, who proposed one of the best ideas I’d heard in a long time-a movie. First of all, it was pouring outside, but, more importantly, this would be one of our only chances to view a real, uncensored movie until the States, and we were both a little weary of new experiences and sensory overload. So, we settled in with popcorn and pop in hand to watch the film Sunshine, a ‘great’ horror sci-fi flick about the sun dying and humanity attempting to crash a nuke into the sun to restart it. Before the movie began, however, we had to stand up and recognize the national anthem and maintain a straight face as chubby-faced little children angelically belted out their song while images of the king in his munificence flashed periodically across the screen. You can’t escape culture even in a theatre, and we had a old-fashioned good time in the cinema.
By that time, the rain has subsided, and we ventured out onto the streets to catch a tuk-tuk to an intriguing temple listed in the guide book. I’m glad I never considered the safety of a tuk-tuk as it slides through traffic and brushes against buses and cars alike, puttering out choking black fumes that rival even Cairo’s pollution. However, the driver took us to an entirely different temple than the one we’d requested, and we were mightily confused for a bit, but eventually decided to head back to the hotel, take a rest, and wander around the area some more.
Our vacation was nearly at its closure by the next morning, and we gobbled down one final meal of bacon and eggs and juicy watermelon before setting out for the Grand Palace, an expansive cluster of temples and palaces that once housed the royal family and is still used in official ceremonies and for worship. On the way there, however, we were several times accosted by Thai people claiming the palace was closed and then suggesting another temple to visit. I haven’t been living in Cairo for the last 8 months to be deterred by sketchy natives on the street. Politely fending them off, we eventually reached the front gates, which were open, and marched in, only to be stopped by guards who found my dress offensive. I had thought I could cover my shoulders with a scarf-if it’s good enough for the Catholics it’s good enough for the Buddhists, right?-but no, I had to borrow a shirt to cover my shoulders and look ridiculous for my time there. Oh, well, beauty isn’t everything…Besides, I soon forgot about what I looked like when we entered the first gate and saw the glittering, mosaiced temples soaring over our heads and the grim dragons and giant soldiers standing in eternal vigilance over the numerous temples and chedis littering the area. Foremost, perhaps, was the giant dollop of a golden chedi spiraling far into the heavens like a golden meringue, but equally impressive were the almost garishly colored palace building scattered throughout the giant complex. One of the most holy items in all of Thailand, the Emerald Buddha (although he’s actually made of jade and a few feet tall) is found in one of the temples there, and I left him an offering of my own when a can of pop I had began to spurt onto the floor. I discreetly took it outside to a garbage can and disposed of it while Colin rolled his eyes, with good reason, at the trail of pop slicking the floor. I guess it means I’ll be reincarnated as something much lower on the caste scale, maybe a White Sox fan or something ;-)
Anyway, by the time we finished touring the area, we were weary, sweaty, hot, disgusting, and thirsty, and so tuk-tuked back to the hotel, gulped down liquid and Pad Thai, and then pressed onwards to the temple we attempted to reach yesterday, this time achieving it by foot, avoiding the aggrevating scam artists outside, and finding our way to the amulet market in the back. Very non-touristy, without a single foreigner in sight, the market caters to Thais through the sale of tiny figurines and amulets and larger statues of Buddha and other holy characters. Needless to say, I purchased a rather beautiful, in my opinion, amulet for myself and Buddha statue for my mother before dragging myself, alongside Colin, back to the hotel, where we collapsed in the luxury of the air-con lobby and stared numbly ahead as our bodies slowly cooled down. Before we left for the airport, we each got a final massage from the hotel massage parlor (an excellent way to begin any sort of travel, if you ask me) and took a cab to the airport, where we eventually found our other two friends and boarded the plan for the flight home.

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