Jordan

The Syrian/Jordanian border is a complex network of misleading signposts and incorrectly labeled buildings. The cubicle labeled ‘DEPARTURE TAX TICKET PURCHASE STATION’ sells nothing of the sort and would be better signed as ‘NEWSPAPER READING COMPLETELY UNHELPFUL TWAT OF A GUARD STATION’.  Arabs and Westerners alike stagger around in equal puzzlement.

Going from building to building, the stares Christina receives from loitering native gentlemen, aged right the way from 12 to 90, are so potent with culturally-confused lust, it’s odd that she doesn’t conceive due collective intent. Perhaps, being in the same general neck of the woods, the Virgin Birth occurred by the same method. When we find the correct building, one officer has to deal with the scores of migrants on his own, whilst about seven of his colleagues sit lined-up facing their computer monitors, all playing online snooker. Perhaps it forms some high-concept training program. Then again, being Syrian and thus deprived of Facebook to malinger, simulated snooker is possibly the next best/worst thing.

Once through to the Jordanian side, the tone shifts dramatically, both sexually and politically. The immigration staff smile and joke with us. The pudgy beaming face of King Abdullah II is a welcome reprieve from the malignant stare of that Syrian Assad geezer. 

King Abdullah II

The prices though are truly terrifying. One hour on the internet is two quid (the British Pound matches the Jordanian Dinar) and even though we only need it for five minutes, it’s a case of pay up the full whack or fuck-clean-off.

Amman

17 years ago, when I was 13 and on holiday at my families place in Turkey, I was taken under the caring wing of my uncle’s nephew, Kerem. Being a big Metallica fan such as I was at the time, my remarkable memory has meant that I never forgot Kerem. Now living with his wife and infant son in Amman, the capital city of Jordan, my aunt had told me that he had invited us to stay with them whilst in the extortionately-priced city. Meeting him at the rendezvous, he picked us up and I chatted away to him as we drove around the city. After about an hour, he confessed to not having a fucking clue who I was. It goes a long way to explaining the extent of Turkish hospitality and that night the family took us to a Lebanese restaurant, the food being some of the finest I have ever eaten. 

Kerem and I, Kerem clearly uncomfortable with this oddly dressed sweaty stranger he has to look after

Amman from the Citadel

The Dead Sea

The next morning the family drive us an hour or so south to the up-market Mövenpick resort on the Dead Sea. I ask Kerem if he really wants to go there and he informs me that it’s fine as they go there most weekends.

“Oh, is it that good?” I ask.

“No, not at all, but there absolutely nothing else to do in Amman…,” he replies.

Entry to the resort is a flat £40 per person, even if you just want to sit by a pool full of screaming shit-machines and Muslim women swimming in the full-on Saracen ninja suit. Christina and I go for the £50 option which includes entry to the spa, where a smiling Arab bedecked in traditional Bedouin attire, stands in 50 degrees Celsius sun, constantly opening the door for the white-robed rich bastards sauntering to and fro, from the various bathing pools to the Dead Sea and back again, without as much as a nod in the man’s direction.

We head straight down to the Dead Sea and get in. 

Christina in the Dead Sea

I’m not allowed to enjoy the odd buoyancy for more than a few seconds, before the water gets inside my trunks through the clenched crack of my arse. I was warned that at 33.7% salinity, getting the water into any shaving cuts is abject agony, though the guide book mentioned nothing about the effect it would have on a Chalfonty ring-piece. After two whole months of intestinal maladies, my walnut has the constitution of a flea-ridden sore on a stray cat’s neck. The pain is staggering; I lay flat out in the thick, oily water, gently bobbing about with a face contorted in bemused torment.

At the edge of the water there’s a huge clay pot, filled with the daily harvest of Dead Sea Mud, usually sold by the bucket load at expensive prices in pricey shops, due to its apparent medicinal qualities. Being free, we cake ourselves in it, from head to toe. 

Whilst doing so, a loud, young British couple enter the water. To my amazement, the attractive young lady bellows,

“IT’S REALLY STINGING MY ARSEHOLE FOR SOME REASON!!!”

She seems utterly oblivious to the idea that other tourists and non-Arabs are in the sea at that moment. She then points at my mud-covered personage.

“HA! LOOK! IT’S SHREK! HA HA HA!” she cries.

I bellow back that I’m not Shrek, merely on my way to an audition for a remake of ‘Shaft’. She’s obviously not a fan of Blaxploitation movies (or mild, lighthearted racism) as she just stares then goes,

“OH, ARE YOU ENGLISH?”

They get out of the water and we chat. When she asks me if the mud stings, I cannot help myself.

“No, not at all. In fact it really soothes a stinging arsehole…”

She stares at me baffled and I carry on lathering myself, waiting for the penny to drop.

“OH MY GOD, DID YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID BEFORE?!!”

Yes dear, I think the Israelis on the other side of the salt water also did. They wander off back to the resort, her legs looking like they are wilting beneath her in mortification.

We spend the rest of the day in and around the spa resort. I find it virtually impossible to relax and enjoy myself. Inside the spa, it’s mainly snotty westerners, waddling around in fluffy white robes with their snouts in the air. Complimentary magazines are scattered around the lounges, every page an advertisement for some expensive item, invariably featuring a young well-dressed male executive relaxing in some exclusive departure lounge showing off his TAG Heuer watch/Armani suit/Fendi sunglasses.

At the outside pool, a lackey races to lay a towel on an available sun lounger before the guest reaches it, like it matters, or I’d be arsed-off if I had to do it myself. Spoilt teens click their fingers at the native employees, demanding they fetch cooling drinks. I watch each one be brought over, hoping an array of bodily fluids has made its way into the intended liquid. Young couples pose and pout, glaring at others of similar age and perceived status. Christina tells me to calm down and enjoy myself but I can’t. 

Me not enjoying myself

None of these people have ever listened to ‘I See a Darkness’ by Bonnie Prince Billy and reveled in the 38 minutes of utter misery. None of these people have ever tried to enjoy a pint in The Farmers Arms on Stockport Road whilst a pair of grown up siblings violently bicker and joke in equal measure about which one of them should have been placed in care. None of these people have ever accidentally taken so many drugs that they've convinced themselves they have Downs Syndrome. Christina says I am entitled to be miserable but to stop ruining it for her. There are 'conceptual showers', such as ‘Tropical Rain’ and ‘Amazonian Mist’ but I cannot find one with a ‘Stockport Drizzle’ setting and the discomfort continues unabated.

Christina enjoying herself

Later on, we head back down to the Dead Sea for another dip.

Sun setting over Israel and the Dead Sea

There are a couple of lifeguards on stand-by, which strikes me as odd as it must be virtually impossible to drown. I’m proved a fool not long after pondering this when said lifeguard has to wade in to pluck some motionless skinny lad out of the mixture. Once at the shore, he suddenly comes to life again, untangling himself from his savior’s arms and running off laughing. Perhaps, like the other guests, he simply wasn’t satisfied to see an employee enjoying but a moment’s rest. 

Kerem and his family leave early but we decide to stay on so we can redeem our £10 voucher in one of the themed restaurants, the coupon being quite pointless as all the establishments on site mark up the menus to render the ‘discount’ worthless. Leaving, we walk past an elderly Australian couple angrily berating a waiter in manner a Victorian schoolmaster would a Dyslexic pupil, for simply not pouring their wine in the manner they feel is suited to their superior status.

The following day, the family takes us around parts of Amman. They are right, there’s nothing to do. I spot another couple, also travelling. They are sat on a wall, buried deep in their Lonely Planets, confused looks on their faces as they struggle to find something interesting to do.

Misspelt Tupac lyrics - One wonders how Gad Gadgs

A detached nob attacking a duck from behind - There really is fuck all to do in Amman

Petra

Saying ‘Thank You’ and ‘Goodbye’ to Kerem, Aslihan and young Sarp, we make our way south to one of the New Seven Wonders of the world™: Petra. Checking into the hotel and getting ready to make the half hour walk to the site, we discover we have lost several memory cards containing the best of Georgia and the entirety of Syria. We try locating them but even the most exhaustive avenues prove to be dead-ends and we are resolutely miserable. 

Due to us getting to the Petra site later than most, the bulk of the tourists are ahead of us and we are assigned a guide for free. I had long ago realized that Petra would have the crowds of Alton Towers on a Bank Holiday Monday, so I’m pleasantly surprised how quiet it feels. The trip down the Siq, a huge gap through the sandstone that leads you right to Petra’s most famous site: The Treasury.

The Siq

Treasury

It is truly impressive, but only completely enjoyable if you succeed in to pushing the £30 entrance fee out of your mind.  The highlight of The Treasury is an enormous camel suddenly dropping from its feet to its side, kicking its legs up in the air and doing a fucking enormous fart. I laugh uncontrollably. 

Fucking Hipster Douchebag at Petra of all places

The rest of the tour is wandering around largely boring relics, trying hard to be interested. The sun is brutally hot and the 185 steps up to the monastery would be hellish, so we bollocks that off. The Lonely Planet recommends giving the whole site three full days, but I’d argue three full hours would be pushing it. We spend most of the time playing with a lizard.