Not even as a failure had my misadventure been complete.
My walk had yielded several photos of the mountain I had wanted to climb with which I was pleased. And, the sunset had been—as is the custom of sunsets—faultless.
But… to every silver lining, there is a cloud, and that cloud was now on my mind. My car was in urgent need of liberation from the clutches of the desert.
I took to pondering over solutions to my predicament. I first went over all secular options I could think of. But having exhausted these, for the briefest of time, my mind turned to religion.
Contrary to the fundamental doctrine of my upbringing, and for the first time in my life, I found myself coveting my neighbour’s ox.
Contrary to the fundamental doctrine of my upbringing, and for the first time in my life, I found myself coveting my neighbour’s ox.
I did not wish to lure his wife from him nor to dispossess him of his house, donkey or any anything else he might hold title to. And, I did not envy him his servants, whether male, female or gender-fluid. But his ox now, that might have been useful.
Some might at this stage point out that I had arrived at holy scripture and livestock solutions rather too quickly, bypassing more conventional means of car-rescue. To understand my train of thought, it is useful to know a little about my many and varied failings as a human being.
I find those solutions best that allow my role in the making of the underlying problem to remain obscure. Such solutions can by careful choice of words, be moulded into triumphs of human ingenuity, rather than conclusive evidence of an unsound mind.
On reflection, however, there seemed to be no way out of this proverbial and literal hole that excluded seeking help from others. My self-preservation instincts pulled rank on my pride.
I sought in vain for mitigating factors in which I could embalm the lacerated remains of my dignity. But, as hard as I thought, I could think of nothing to justify my folly.
Back on the main road, I stopped an ageing pickup containing eight(!) non-judgemental locals who were well-accustomed to the feeble-minded eccentricities of tourists.
By their inherent goodwill, brought forward by twenty Jordanian Dinars, my car was restored to the paved surface to which it belonged, and I with it.
And then the starts came out.
I realize that this largely is a black rectangle with white dots—but they were stars, and there were many of them
— ‘You like my car, sir?’, asked Abdullah, visibly proud of his ageing Land Cruiser. Abdullah was my driver and guide for my day’s outing in Wadi Rum.
— ‘It is an, an…, ah yes, an INTERESTING vehicle’, I replied; using the word ‘interesting’ as one does when at a loss for a something to say, but strongly feels that a compliment is expected.
— ‘Yes, it is good—very very good!’, said Abdullah, much pleased, ‘I bought it from my brother, who bought it from my other brother, who bought it from his friend—in Saudia’
It did not require a great stretch of the mind to accept that this vehicle had been pre-owned. One might even suspect Abdullah’s brother’s brother’s friend of not having been the first owner.
The dashboard had several openings that looked as if they were not part of the original design. From these protruded a mess of wires. The odd spark could be seen but didn’t bother Abdullah.
Neither speedometer, odometer, nor oil or fuel gauges exhibited any signs of life. And all non-essentials such as the passenger assist grips, the rear-view mirror and the sun visors had longe since taken their leave.
Still, much of the steering wheel was intact, and several of the gears were in working order.
Still, much of the steering wheel was intact, and several of the gears were in working order. And even the most critical observer could count four rotating, albeit threadbare, wheels.
Yet, this was not a spartan vehicle. The interior was decorated, and lavishly so. There was not a vacant spot that had not been devoted to beautification.
There was, of course, plush dice suspended from where the rear-view mirror had once been. There was a vase with artificial flowers—and there was a small mint-green alarm clock in the shape of a mosque with two golden-domed minarets.
Among the many eye-pieces, a tiny green container was glued to the dashboard. From it emanated an unimaginably powerful scent that hit me so hard, it instinctively had me reach for the handle to roll down the window. Unsurprisingly, it was no longer there.
In any event, that turned out not to be a problem there wasn’t any window to roll down. It was permanently jammed in the lower position.
In Wadi Rum, though, I wouldn’t have wished for another car for the world!
The author, a seamless part of the landscape due to his timely and contextually aware attire
I was standing on the rock formation known as the ‘Little Bridge’ in Wadi Rum, posed for a classic tourist photo.
I am not in the habit of appearing in my photographs. However, on this occasion, I needed some scale to convey the dimension of the scene.
Now, I am no conventional ‘matchbox’ and the ‘Little Bridge’ would have looked less ‘little’ with anyone else standing on it, but needs must when it couldn’t be otherwise.
I felt uncomfortable.
Many would hasten to point out that they, too, would feel uncomfortable if they were dressed like me.
But that wasn’t it.
I was, then as I am now, oblivious to fashion. The conflicting visual aesthetic of my hat, shirt and trousers were in my mind offset by the unity they displayed in their complete unsuitability for my person.
Nor was it the height of the drop.
A fall, if it wouldn’t be too far down, which in this case it wasn’t, held the promise of a good anecdote.
A fall, if it wouldn’t be too far down, which in this case it wasn’t, held the promise of a good anecdote. And if it would be too far…, well, then at least it would be a memorable passage.
The ‘Little Bridge’ was not the only rock bridge in Wadi Rum, nor was it the most majestic one. But, it was the one closest to the visitor centre, and therefore included as the first stop on nearly all tours of Wadi Rum.
Its absence was likely to be noted, should it no longer be there.
The very presence of a natural stone arch is testament to rock that whithers and erodes quickly. This stone arch was not so sturdy as to be unbreakable—one day it would.
I spoke a silent prayer under my breath that that day would be some time in the distant future. And, that if it was ordained to be on this day, to make it in the afternoon.
My fear, in summary, was the prospect of entering into Jordanian tourism history as the man who broke the Little Bridge—the man who took from the world, permanently and irreparably, one of the most visited attractions in Wadi Rum.
By divine intervention, defiance of physics or sheer luck, I do not know; but, to my knowledge, the bridge is still there.
Eit knippe litt ukomfortable stoldesign som etter alt å døme vil kome til å korte ned tida ein brukar på unaudsynt småprat under forretningsmøte. Eg kjøper desse! Sjå fleire her.
The New Year was kicked off with a bonfire, Champagne and entry-level fireworks in accordance with the latest Norwegian law on pyrotechnics. (From right to left: Natasja, Kjetil and Asgjerd).
Preceded by the Quran and Communism, Muammar al-Qaddafi in 1975 proceeded to write the Green Book. The Green Book in a very simple way summarizes – and solves – the bulk of global problems over less than 100 pages of text. The work consists of three sections:
Part I: The Solution of the Problem of Democracy
Part II: The Solution of the Economic Problem
Part III: The Social Basis of the third Universal Theory
It is particularily in this third section of the Green Book that the entertaining bits are to be found. In this chapter Qaddafi tackles such topics as…
Women
Minorities
The Blacks
Horsemanship
…all of which are treated as equal and given proportional space in the text. The only section where Qaddafi resorts to 3rd party sources is in the chapter about women where he quotes a gynecologist which states such dramatic facts as that:
“It is an undisputed fact that both man and woman are human beings.”
“According to a gynaecologist, woman menstruates or suffers feebleness every month, while man, being a male, does not menstruate and he is not subject to the monthly period which is a bleeding.”
På hotellet Le Meridien er dei travelt opptekne med å montere opp juledekorasjonen sin. Den består av eit isslott, ein Tysk-Austeriksk alpelandsby og ein skog av plasttre med falsk snø.
Det kan vere verd å stanse og tenkje seg om i religionsdebatten heime i Noreg når ein ser dette. Midt i eit strengt muslimsk land køyrer dei på med Jesuskrubber, julefeiring og alt som høyrer høgtida til. I Noreg undrar vi om vi ikkje burde avvikle kristendomsundervisning i skulen for å unngå å krenkje folk som tilhøyrer andre religionar.
Eg er i ferd med å reise frå Trondheim til Dubai med KLM og har booka billett via Widerøe sine internettsider. Dei har skrive ut ein elektronisk billett til meg.
Då eg freista å sjekke inn på nettet fekk eg beskjed om at min billett – eller ein i reisefølgjet mitt – ikkje kunne sjekkast inn på nett og at eg skulle vente til eg kom på flyplassen. Dette medførte at eg ikkje fekk høve til å oppgradere til naudutgongssete – det er ikkje berre SAS som har klart å kome fram til at det går an å skvise nokre ekstra kroner utav tryggingsinstallasjonane sine, KLM er ikkje det spor betre.
Men det var ikkje det som var dagens hovudpoeng:
Eg skal attende til Noreg om ei lita veke. Eg hadde frå før av ein tur/retur billett som ville sikre meg retur til Brussel den 19. Desember – men eg trengde å få booka inn siste distansen heim til Oslo også. Eg gjekk difor inn på Brussel Airlines sine heimesider for å bestille ein billett.
Umiddelbart etter å ha fullført bookingløypa såg eg at eg ved eit misstak hadde kome i skade for å oppgje namnet mitt feil: “Ruanr” i staden for “Runar”. Eg tok umiddelbart kontakt med kundeservice hjå Brussel Airlines, ei avdeling eg på det sterkaste misstenkjer for å vere lokalisert ein ikkje så alt for sentral stad i India.
Etter å ha trykt 10-12 gonger på nummertastar med det føremål å filtre samtala mi fram til rett ekspeditør og fekk til slutt ei dame på tråden.
Ho kunne fortelje meg – tre gonger – at det ikkje var mogleg å endre namn på ein billett – av di KLM var medlem av IATA – og meldemmer av IATA byter ikkje namn på billettar. Det er i mot regelverket å byte namn på billettar. I alle fall for IATA medlemmer. Det er slik det er. Ikkje mogleg, sa dama.
Eg krangla ikkje. Kansllellerte billetten og bestillte ein ny. Men logikken i dette resonnementet kan umogleg vere god.
IATA virkar til å ha tungt for å akseptere at noko kan skifte namn på ein billett etter at den er kjøpt. Men IATA virkar ikkje til å ha noko problem i det heile med at folk, som har vore så syndige å klemme inn ein liten skrivefeil når dei oppgav namnet sitt på bookingsida på nettet, ikkje får lov til å gå ombord på flya.
Ei erfaring rikare – eller – ei erfaring til i alle fall!
