While on the plane from Dubai, before
landing in Amman, I considered not catching my early morning flight to
Aqaba. I was feeling rather worn out from six
days of unabated movement, and the idea of another five-hour sleep did not
appeal. When I did land, it was raining, and the
temperature, according to the captain, was 13°C.
I was slow getting through airport
procedures, but after withdrawing cash and buying a SIM, my driver, arranged through my
accommodation, was still waiting. He
took me to Faraseeen Apartments, frequently welcoming me to Jordan along the
way. As we approached the place, I knew instantly that Aqaba had to be
reached. The building looked new and in
good condition; however, it stood secluded in a tiny settlement with not much
around it. On the other hand, a bell boy
took my suitcase from the car and all the way to reception, which was on the
fourth floor. He then helped me to my 2nd
floor room after check in. While the
driver (who was also the owner of the
establishment) was
Jordanian, the bell boy was Sudanese, and the receptionist appeared African
also. The room was fantastically neat,
the bed large and comfortable, and the air conditioner was set to HEAT
mode. All in all, this was a great room
at a great price … AND it included free shuttle from and back to the
airport. (I’d actually cancelled a booking at an
apartment in downtown Amman and booked here instead because of its proximity to
the airport and my early flight to Aqaba.)
(Sat, Jan
18) This morning I was up way too early again. At the airport in Amman, after my bags were
screened, I was asked to take out my computer and camera. These were then screened again with a
handheld device, and I was asked to turn the laptop on. Once the screen lit up, I was told to turn it off again. A brief flight took me to the Red Sea town of
Aqaba. Here my binoculars were scanned
with care. I’d been attracted to this place
because of its name1 and its proximity to Saudi Arabia, Israel and Egypt. (1 I associate the name Aqaba with such romantically exotic phenomena
as Aladdin and his lamp-genie.) They all come within
stone’s throw of each other at this tip of the Red Sea, here called the Gulf of
Aqaba. As my taxi hurried me into the
sleepy, provincial town, I pointed and asked, “Is that Aqaba.”
“No,” he said, “that’s Eilat in Israel.” I was enthralled. I plan to one day make it to Israel, though I believe I need to first visit all the Muslim
countries in the Middle East and Maghreb to which I am attracted – many of them don’t
grant access to those with Israeli stamps in their passports. Unlike Eilat, there were no obvious markers
denoting the start of Egypt, though I’m certain it lay not too far across
the water. I would see if I could make it to the Saudi
border….
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| In the foreground: Royal Jordanian Yachtclub, Aqaba, Jordan In the background: Eilat, Israel |
My flight landed in the early
morning. Check-in at the Airbnb was in
the early afternoon. The taxi dropped me
at a breakfast restaurant. I tried to spend as much time as
possible eating my hummus with meat and drinking my tea, but ultimately, I couldn’t stay there anymore and
started down the road with my heavy suitcase in tow.
Seeing a foreigner pushing his bag was too enticing for the taxis (and there were many), and every minute I was propositioned – did I want to have a ride? One driver got out of his car while I pretended to be busy on my phone. I said, “I don’t need a taxi.” He stepped back in shock. Had I been too forceful? He was only the 17th to honk and offer his vehicle.
Seeing a foreigner pushing his bag was too enticing for the taxis (and there were many), and every minute I was propositioned – did I want to have a ride? One driver got out of his car while I pretended to be busy on my phone. I said, “I don’t need a taxi.” He stepped back in shock. Had I been too forceful? He was only the 17th to honk and offer his vehicle.
Then I buckled and messaged my host to see
if there was any place I might store my suitcase.
I reread my message before sending it,
found it as curt as my reply to the taxi man on the pavement, and reworded
it. He got back to me immediately. He found a solution, and I dropped my bag at Lacosta
Hotel. (When
I was looking for accommodation in this
town, it had seemed to me that the same man owned all the Airbnb apartments in
the city. Now it seemed that he owned
this hotel, too. Rich man!) The cab
driver who took me to Lacosta smoked in his car while I was his passenger! Whatever, I was happy to be rid of my ball and chain. Off I went a-wandering.
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| (click) |
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| For my Taiwanese friends: This restaurant proudly stood in an entertainment area. It was early in the morning, so it hadn't opened yet. |
I stopped for thick Turkish coffee. It whiffed and tasted faintly of ginger; rather surprising. I walked around the city park for a spell. Aqaba, it seemed, had a noticeable cat
population, but I was
still seeing no dogs.
Then I headed to the bus station to inquire about
the Saudi border. A toothless man in a
red-and-white headdress, three young boys in tow, came over to tell me there
were no buses that go there. I don’t know if he was even associated with
the buses, but there seemed to be no office where I might verify his response, so I had to take it at face value. While planning this trip, I’d also imagined snorkeling in the waters of
the Red Sea, but the weather was not good, and I’d forgotten my trunks at home.
An obvious difference between this Arab country north of Saudi Arabia
and the two I’d
visited south of that kingdom is that smoking appeared to be permitted
everywhere, even indoors. Apart from my
puffing driver, when I went to
get a bus ticket to Wadi Musa (the town at the entrance to Petra), three men smoked in a
pokey little office into which I was
sent. On the other hand, I didn’t see any local women smoking. (Anas – more about him later – would tell me that women do smoke, only
they tend to do it at home.)
There were, however, signs in a few restaurants and supermarkets
forbidding it.
At long last it was time to check in. I did some laundry and then made for a supermarket to get dinner and
breakfast. Sadly, the Jordanian
supermarket does not sell pies, unlike its cousins in the kingdoms I’d just
left. After shopping, I called it a day.
(Sun, Jan 19) I was up early and ready for my ride north to Wadi Musa. Across from the bus stop, this bit of civic art caught my attention.
Our driver wore a Western suit and donned an Arab headdress. While travelling, the bus was thrice inspected by police or special forces or the military (I couldn’t tell which). I’m not sure why this might be, but with the tensions simmering across the Persian Gulf and the recent antagonistic actions by both the US and Iran, it was comforting to know that someone was looking out. We drove through the most spectacular, rugged, barren landscape. Unfortunately, I was seated on the wrong side of the bus for picture taking. Consequently, like in Norway 30 months ago, I got to enjoy the vista with no chance of sharing it with you, dear reader. The road was bumpy and speed humps appeared randomly en route – it must be a treacherous drive at night. Suddenly we were told that we’d have a 20-minute break. That was unscheduled, and annoyingly, it was aimed at getting us to spend money – we stopped at a roadside curio store. Stepping off the bus, it was like I’d been transported to the pole – it was bloody freezing and misty.
After 20 shivering minutes, we were on our way. Soon we were at our destination, and I went to find my hotel. After
checking in, it was still before noon, so I decided that I’d start
immediately on Petra. I’d paid online for admission on two
consecutive days. What a treat lay
ahead! At reception, there were no
English maps, so I took
one in French and then ignored it for the rest of the day. Heading into the gorge, rides were offered on
camels, on donkeys, and in carriages.
I had no idea just how far it was to walk,
but I like walking and turned them down. One man offered to guide me along a different
entrance route, which meant a hike up a mountain and passed (I would learn later) the
High Place of Sacrifice, before descending once more into the main part of the
ancient city. I decided not to take this option. (This brings me nicely to a prickly matter. Although I found Jordanians friendly and safe, this was low season and
therefore, those who worked in tourism - in the ancient city and beyond - were
feeling the pinch of slow winter trade.
The effect was that a great many men offered their services constantly,
while a great many women offered their wares.
A handful of children also spun ludicrous tales of why passers-by should
buy their postcards. Not only that, but
in the town, supermarkets, restaurants and taxis were asking far too much for
everything. I felt abused in Wadi Musa – only
financially, mind – and this diminished the pleasure somewhat. And speaking of money, the Jordanian dinar, like the currency of Oman, is divided into a thousand, though this one is more complicated. One dinar = 10 dirham = 100 qirsh or piastre = 1000 fils. It seemed to me that the smallest denomination is no longer used, yet some prices were still listed as, for example, 2,000, meaning 2 dinar.)
I continued on foot. It was 7°C and had clearly been raining – the ground was muddy in places. Around me, the array of languages was mesmerising. I had no way of identifying most, but I could tell there were a myriad, though there was slightly more Russian or other Slavic, followed by French and Italian. Here in the ancient city, there were so many cats, and also a few dogs. The canines seemed unwelcome. The locals were hostile to them, shooing them away with threatening gestures. I passed a display of trinkets for sale. Many of them were made of metal, and one caught my eye. I initially walked on. Then I decided to ask the price. I thought it was a little dear, so I walked off again. Soon I realised that I was consumed by the item and that I would pay attention to nothing if I did not buy it; I returned and took out my wallet.
I continued on foot. It was 7°C and had clearly been raining – the ground was muddy in places. Around me, the array of languages was mesmerising. I had no way of identifying most, but I could tell there were a myriad, though there was slightly more Russian or other Slavic, followed by French and Italian. Here in the ancient city, there were so many cats, and also a few dogs. The canines seemed unwelcome. The locals were hostile to them, shooing them away with threatening gestures. I passed a display of trinkets for sale. Many of them were made of metal, and one caught my eye. I initially walked on. Then I decided to ask the price. I thought it was a little dear, so I walked off again. Soon I realised that I was consumed by the item and that I would pay attention to nothing if I did not buy it; I returned and took out my wallet.
I walked through most of the city. It was breath-taking, and imagining people living here two millennia
ago was nostalgic.
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| (click) |
When I reached what I thought was the end, I made
the snap decision to follow the hiking trail up to the monastery. If I’d known
how far up it was going to be, I am
pretty certain I would
have opted to stay low. Up I went.
And went. And climbed. And
gasped. Along the way, there were more vendors selling curios. I admired their stamina – coming up these stairs every day to make
money. But there were SSOOO many of
them. Here on the
mountain, two women tricked me into saying I’d look at their things on the way down. I thought they’d not remember, but they did! The first one as I descended had introduced herself to me
earlier as “Noel Christmas. Remember me,
under the tree.” I apologised to her and kept going. The second one succeeded in stopping me, and
from her I bought
a scarf, which will make a great gift.
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| (click) |
Reaching
the valley, the main part of the settlement, it was undoubtedly time to call it
a day. I hurried back through the gorge to my hotel. I hadn’t noticed as I arrived
that I’d gone down a rather steep hill into the
gorge, and the ascent now was grueling.
Here and
in Aqaba, I noticed
a few idiosyncrasies about Jordanians.
Many of the locals told me that Jordan is a safe country, and I certainly did not feel any imminent peril,
except for extortion, as mentioned. This
curiosity arose: Locals asked me where I was from, and upon hearing my answer, more than a few responded, “Oh,
nice people.” It seems highly unlikely that so many
Jordanians have met South Africans. I suppose this is the Levant version of “How
are you?” “Fine thanks, and you?” that we hear all over the English-speaking
world. Jordanian service reminded me of
Africa. The focus seemed to be not the
customer, but the people in the office / shop who spend more time with each
other. “I’ll get to you when this fragment of conversation is over.” Another oddity was
the electric outlet – in this country, a tad larger than Tasmania, a smidge
smaller than Maine or KwaZulu-Natal, I would find three different kinds!
Luckily I’d
brought along an array of adaptors for my gadgets.
(Mon, Jan 20) Today I headed out early, up another hill (this is a steep hilly area). It was 4°C outside, and the humidity was at 70%, which implied getting
chilled to the bone. I read that on Tuesday, snow was
expected. No worries – I took out some of the items I’d bought for Antarctica. I was in search of a supermarket where I might find reasonably priced goods.
I walked around Wadi Musa before finding the
one I’d plotted on Google Maps. It is an interesting town. I noticed an abundance of barber shops. (In Muscat
there had been an abundance of ladies’ tailors.)
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| (click) |
After getting my groceries, I looked for the post office – I’d picked up a few odds and ends here and in
Aqaba, and I didn’t
want them to add weight to my baggage.
Couldn’t find the post office!
Never mind, I was
heading by bus to Amman next, where surely, I’d be able to mail stuff to Taiwan.
I dropped my purchases in my room, rested for
a bit and then returned to Petra to see the things I’d missed yesterday. Descending again into the gorge, a boy
stopped me and offered his postcards.
When I said
no, he replied, “For your wife; she love you more.” Another plethora of handsome Bedouin men
offered to take me for a ride. Again, I said no thanks. Occasionally some of these men carried
speakers with them. Most of those guys
played Arabic tunes, but I also
heard reggae and electronic dance vibes.
Having now seen the remainder of the city (I think), it was enough for the day. As I
slithered back up the gorge, a man prayed on a ledge: “Allah ‘akbar!” I found
this soothing.
(Tue, Jan
21) It was now time to head north.
JETT (Jordan Express Tourist Transport) offered one bus daily
to Amman, departing at 4pm. I had an activity booked in the capital at
precisely that time. I opted for the cheaper and much more
troublesome minibus, the first of which departed at 6am, the time for breakfast
at my hotel. Thereafter, minibuses left
every hour-ish, or when full. A taxi all
the way cost ten times as much. As I grow grey – (Who am I kidding? I’m completely grey!) – I find myself sometimes opting for
convenience / comfort at a higher rate (though the cheap-ass within screams) and sometimes for
affordability.
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| (click) |
I’d hoped that a bus would be waiting so I wouldn’t be exposed to the elements before
departure. Eureka! Snow did indeed start falling just as I slithered from the taxi into the
minivan. It was short-lived. I was charged for two seats due to my baggage
taking up one, but I’d
expected that and it was still one-fifth the cost of a taxi. We waited from 06:50 until 08:15 for
passengers to filter onto the bus. No
problem! Time was on my side. Another African parallel came when, as we
started moving, the aisle was completely occupied by bags. We ascended a snow-bedecked mountain. While heading north, I checked my upcoming flights and hotel
bookings. It was then that I
discovered I’d
booked the flight from Amman to Istanbul to depart the next morning, and not on Thursday morning, as I had planned to do. I tried to delay my flight by a day, but there were no seats. Then I booked an extra night at my hotel outside Istanbul.
Now I had to quickly absorb the disappointment
about missing most of Amman.
As we
entered the capital from the south, I saw a sign pointing to the Iraqi and Saudi borders. I spotted a young kid at a set of traffic
lights walking from car to car to sell toilet paper. This reminded me specifically of South
Africa, where intersection industry is a thriving business. I noticed that cars and buses on the streets were filthy, just as they
had been in Buenos Aires in 2017. The
shops, roads and as-you-wish driving reminded me once again of Africa; memories
of Lusaka and Kampala came flooding back.
From the south bus station, a taxi carried me to my accommodation on
Rainbow Street. Here I’d booked for two nights, though I’d only end up needing the space for a few
hours. The instructions were to pick up
the keys from a supermarket, and it turned out the owner of the store was also
my host. He checked me in and I explained my mistake with my flight. I then asked where the post office was.
I hurriedly put on a load of washing. While the machine was doing its thing, I grabbed the souvenirs, returned to the
supermarket and asked for a box. Not
only did I get
one, but it was packed, stacked with newspaper and sealed on my behalf. How serendipitous that the host owned a
supermarket! I scurried uphill to the end of Rainbow
Street and then from 1st to 2nd Circle. This is where I’d been directed to the post office.
The man at the counter said the office had shut a few minutes ago, could
I come back tomorrow. I said I was
leaving that same night. Would you
believe, he decided to extend working hours just for me to send the box
off! How kind is that?!
Now I hurried back to the accommodation to hang
the laundry. This morning I’d been unconcerned about time; now time was
of the essence. There were about 60
minutes before my afternoon appointment, so I fiddled digitally with my photos for a bit. Then I decided to head out exploring.
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| (click) |
It was bitingly cold, and there was on-and-off
rain. I headed towards our meeting point, taking in the sights along the
way. My activity this afternoon was a
walking tour booked, like much of my accommodation, through Airbnb. The website has a section called
Experiences. These can take many forms. Most if not all are offered by private
individuals. There are cooking classes,
lectures, dance lessons, walking tours, language courses, and just about any
hobby / pastime one could imagine.
Sellers describe their activity and give details about location,
duration, cost and so on. Then the buyer
has a choice of dates when the activity will be available. Payment is handled through Airbnb, just like
with the accommodation. I’d chosen the Alternative Downtown Tour and
fortunately, I’d
booked for today.
Because
of the light rain, I came
very close to cancelling the tour. My
wanderlust finally won the day. At the
scheduled time, Anas arrived and introduced himself to me. I was to be his only guest today.
He was a young man, studying tourism at a university in the
capital. He explained the tour, and we
set off. I was happy when he led me into a building and out of the rain. He greeted the tailors and other shopkeepers
as we passed. He explained to me that
the greeting is much more than just “hello”.
“As-salamu alaykum” means “I come in peace.” The response
“wa alaykumu s-salam” means “we grant you peace,” which includes a guarantee of
peace. When I said that I’d been greeted and welcome to Jordan by everyone I met, Anas told me that Jordanians are proud
of their reputation for hospitality, and regard it as their personal duty to
maintain and promote that national identity.
Anas led me to the top floor of this building. He explained that Amman is known as the city on seven hills. From the 14th floor rooftop, he pointed out those hills that were visible. Together, the seven hills surrounded the citadel, itself somewhat elevated above the city. He pointed out the east side and the west side. The west is where the rich live. The west is the trendy neighbourhood. The east is poor. The east is ignored. In the east, there’s an informal Palestinian refugee camp, dating back to 1967, which receives neither recognition nor funding from the UN. Here, poorly built houses collapse and no one cares.
Next, Anas introduced me to the only duke in Jordan. This is an actual title bestowed by the king in recognition of this 89-year-old’s contributions. (I wasn’t quite sure what these contributions were.) Jordan doesn’t have a ducal system, so this title was borrowed from the English system, hence “ONLY.” I met this duke in his museum of currencies, where I offered him NT$100 to add to his collection. That started a ball rolling. The duke then usurped Anas’ role of tour guide and led us to his upcycling studio and then to his designers’ studio. Along the way we acquired a fourth companion, an Armenian man. The duke then threw us into his car and drove us to the east side, which was incidentally where Anas intended to take me next. We drove to the gate of the House of Poetry, which once was the residence of a single famous poet. This was a restricted area, but in the company of the duke, we were granted access without restraint. From here, there was a magnificent view, both of the Roman Theatre and of parts of Amman.
Anas led me to the top floor of this building. He explained that Amman is known as the city on seven hills. From the 14th floor rooftop, he pointed out those hills that were visible. Together, the seven hills surrounded the citadel, itself somewhat elevated above the city. He pointed out the east side and the west side. The west is where the rich live. The west is the trendy neighbourhood. The east is poor. The east is ignored. In the east, there’s an informal Palestinian refugee camp, dating back to 1967, which receives neither recognition nor funding from the UN. Here, poorly built houses collapse and no one cares.
Anas
then took me for a walk around the west side, pointing out locally famous and
important places along the way. For
example, he told me that many of the roads, though they have official names,
are more commonly referred to by the name of the best restaurant on that
street. En route, we stopped for kanafeh
which, in truth, is one of the reasons I chose his tour. Yum! We went into a shop owned by a friend of
his. He told me the story of how this
guy had started with nothing and built himself and his community by bringing
colour into it. We then walked through
an area where street art had sprung up as a result of this friend’s
efforts.
In this tiny pocket of the city, there was also a “soup kitchen.” Here volunteers cooked whatever dishes they liked. A diner could come in and cover the cost of his meal – 1 Jordanian dinar. He could then pay an extra 1 dinar so that a penniless person could then come in and eat for free. He said that there were now a few of this style of social activist eatery in the city. As we walked on, he showed a doorway through which, he said, young forward thinkers got together to share ideas and create tangible improvements to their society. These few alleys, he confided, was the only place in the city where LGBT individuals could come and not be judged. The street art was either portraits of socially important characters in recent Jordanian history, or somehow a commentary on topical issues. On the outside of various levels of a parking garage were the words of a poem penned by a visiting Moroccan poet, describing the loss of blood in Syria and Yemen, and spelling out the ramifications of these conflicts.
In this tiny pocket of the city, there was also a “soup kitchen.” Here volunteers cooked whatever dishes they liked. A diner could come in and cover the cost of his meal – 1 Jordanian dinar. He could then pay an extra 1 dinar so that a penniless person could then come in and eat for free. He said that there were now a few of this style of social activist eatery in the city. As we walked on, he showed a doorway through which, he said, young forward thinkers got together to share ideas and create tangible improvements to their society. These few alleys, he confided, was the only place in the city where LGBT individuals could come and not be judged. The street art was either portraits of socially important characters in recent Jordanian history, or somehow a commentary on topical issues. On the outside of various levels of a parking garage were the words of a poem penned by a visiting Moroccan poet, describing the loss of blood in Syria and Yemen, and spelling out the ramifications of these conflicts.
 |
| (click) |
Next, Anas introduced me to the only duke in Jordan. This is an actual title bestowed by the king in recognition of this 89-year-old’s contributions. (I wasn’t quite sure what these contributions were.) Jordan doesn’t have a ducal system, so this title was borrowed from the English system, hence “ONLY.” I met this duke in his museum of currencies, where I offered him NT$100 to add to his collection. That started a ball rolling. The duke then usurped Anas’ role of tour guide and led us to his upcycling studio and then to his designers’ studio. Along the way we acquired a fourth companion, an Armenian man. The duke then threw us into his car and drove us to the east side, which was incidentally where Anas intended to take me next. We drove to the gate of the House of Poetry, which once was the residence of a single famous poet. This was a restricted area, but in the company of the duke, we were granted access without restraint. From here, there was a magnificent view, both of the Roman Theatre and of parts of Amman.
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| The Armenian and the Duke |
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| Anas |
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| The Roman Theatre |
Next we
went to the duke’s house, where we were invited in. As our unexpected host led the way, Anas
explained in hushed tones that the duke’s was the only rich family that
steadfastly refused to move from the east side to the west when poorer folk
arrived in Amman. He also whispered that
the duke was one of the richest men in Jordan, and he owned many of the
downtown shops we would pass on the tour.
Both Anas and the duke bemoaned the sluggish state of sales in the
stores, blaming a faltering economy. (Others during my visit to this
country had chanted the same lament.)
After enjoying his veritable collection of art, Anas and I took leave of the duke. Leaving his garden, which was filled with columns, statues and even one of the altars from the citadel, Anas pointed out the extra security bars that had been installed atop the duke's high perimeter wall as refugees and the poor streamed into the city. To repay the insult, the wall was filled with offensive graffiti. To neutralise the animosity, the duke promised never to close his gate, and allowed the public to wander in and enjoy his collection of garden art. To repay the trust, nothing has ever been stolen or damaged.
After enjoying his veritable collection of art, Anas and I took leave of the duke. Leaving his garden, which was filled with columns, statues and even one of the altars from the citadel, Anas pointed out the extra security bars that had been installed atop the duke's high perimeter wall as refugees and the poor streamed into the city. To repay the insult, the wall was filled with offensive graffiti. To neutralise the animosity, the duke promised never to close his gate, and allowed the public to wander in and enjoy his collection of garden art. To repay the trust, nothing has ever been stolen or damaged.
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| (click) |
I was
led through the informal refugee camp, where the squalid conditions were
palpable. We ended the tour at a market
that made me feel like I
was in Taiwan: it was crowded, neon lights shone all over, and people burned
stuff in metal cauldrons that stood low on the ground.
All
through the tour, Anas told me historical events and how they shaped Amman
socially and religiously. He pointed out
that 72 nationalities call the city home.
He spoke of the Arab Spring as it took place in Jordan, of social activism
and constitutional change. With respect
to the protests he said both the government on the one hand and the people on
the other quickly worked to make changes and alter expectations in order to
find a rapid solution. Up until 2011,
people had been told what to think. Then
they began to mistrust the government and the mosque. The Muslim brotherhood lost its grip. He also told me that life in the Arab world
was not always so constricted, that there used to be dancing. The strict code
was a relatively new development, only a few decades old.
Anas was
jovial passionate and engaging. Apart
from his studies in tourism, he also took pleasure in training pigeons. As our tour concluded, he confided that he
was going home to his girlfriend, with whom he lived. He explained that he’d moved from the east
side where he’d grown up, to the west side because in the east, not only was it
frowned upon for an unmarried couple to live together, it was simply impossible
to secure a lease without a marriage certificate.
As I’m sure you can tell from my report, I thoroughly enjoyed this exchange. I also offered Anas parallels between what he was telling me and what I’ve experienced in South Africa and
Taiwan. After parting, I went back to my accommodation to take a
shower. The hot water boiler was
electrical and attached to the shower head in the cubicle, which by the way was
tiny. During my bathe, the power cut
out. I was lathered up! It was 2°C outside. The water was at least as cold. There was nothing I could do.
I had a frigid rinse in pitch darkness. Another discomfort was that, due to my poorly
booked flight, I would
get no sleep tonight. I had to head to the airport at midnight,
where my flight would depart at 03:05.
Fortunately, I’d
convinced the driver who’d brought me here from the south bus station to come
and pick me up again.
Having
now spent just over two weeks in Muslim countries, a completely unexpected
consequence materialised – I found myself missing
pork.
