I was married in Amman. It’s this whole other story that is no doubt entertaining for others but makes me wonder, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’ Let’s just say I wasn’t. But let us also say that ‘third time lucky’ is an evil lie!
One sheikh asked me why I didn’t just get married in Australia. I had to see him first, then a civil servant in a room full of people vying for his attention, before seeing the same sheik again. My soon-to-be Jordanian bride (we’d met at uni in Australia a few years before) smiled at another woman who snarled back angrily. We were getting married; she was getting divorced. All jammed together in the same room with no concept of lining up or honouring appointments.
Another sheik told me to read widely and not trust what the radicals said about Islam. He wished me well and was generous in spirit. The third sheikh who did the ceremony was jovial and pleased with the marriage contract. It was between me and the eldest brother and had nothing to do with the bride. (In theory at least – I opted for the marriage where the wife could divorce the husband. Which reminds me of that joke: Why are divorces so expensive? Because they are worth it!)
Thus began an Arabian journey that was both exotic and chaotic in equal measure. On arriving in the Queen Alia International Airport in Amman, I realised the world was suddenly upside down. Still in the secure area of the airport, men in overalls were grabbing my bags and putting them through the scanner before demanding payment for helping me. I quickly learnt not to let anyone touch my bags.
On the way to my in-law’s fateful car (which reappears in a soon-to-follow part 2), the harassment continued.
The biggest mistake I made in Jordan (well, the non-marital big mistake), was to visit Petra before visiting the pyramids at Giza. Petra is the most amazing thing I have ever seen. Nevertheless, the Egypt Air pilot landed to a round of applause from the passengers, and because we didn’t bother booking, we were off to randomly find a hotel in Cairo. (Tip for new players: don’t do that.)
Well, sort of. Before we even cleared customs, we met an official-looking young man in a suit who took us to an office (inside the secure area of the airport) where we were given the option of a limousine to a variety of hotels. The limousine was a crappy old car and the hotel felt and smelt like it had a camel skin for a bedspread, complete with fleas. After a horrid night’s sleep (across the Nile on the Egyptian Mafia side of the river where the traffic and the noise never stop, not the Western side where it is relatively normal), we decided we would go elsewhere.
Image provided by author
The lift wasn’t working so we began walking down the stairs. The floor below seemed to be office spaces. The floor below that was empty. The two floors below that were pitch black and full of rubble and the last of these had people or other large creatures walking around in the dark.
We hurried back up the stairs and found a random service elevator to cram into. The young man at the reception said he would get his friend to help us find a better hotel.
Instead of waiting, we went to some other hotels in the area and asked about the price. Every one of them was USD $100 per night. In downtown Cairo. As we went back to our hotel, saying Khalas! (Stop it!) and ‘Imshi!’ (Go away!) as every step became a negotiation, we met our guide. He was a well-spoken young man and when we were with him, nobody came near us. He took us to a hotel, the same one we’d just been to, and they said USD$40 per night. We were stunned.
To cut a long story short, we thanked our guide, retrieved our gear and went to the new hotel. USD$100 per night. So, we went and found our guide again, USD$40 per night. It was much better than the infested camel bed, so we stayed there.
Our guide took us to the pyramids, and we rode camels and horses from the stables (illegally it turns out) with our horse and camel handlers bribing a soldier at a far-off gate. On arrival, I had to convince a police officer that our guide was a mate from uni. The police officer was sceptical but after a payment he went away. The pyramids were amazing but the earlier experience of Petra diminished my sense of awe.
An enormous man in a dark brown dish-dash with a shepherd’s crook who organised our camel and horse handlers had said the fee included access to the tombs. Of course, there was no access to anything. He said I could pay what I wanted.
On return, he was calm while my guides turned into those Gremlins when wet. I explained that I wasn’t happy with the rate because it didn’t include the tombs as he had stated. He accepted that and accepted my modified payment. His response was rather helpful because all this happened deep in the back of his shop. I thought to myself, I will really have a fight on my hands with this enormous man.
On the way out, with my horse and camel handlers bouncing around like they’d just eaten 5,000 jellybeans each, and a crowd of hundreds of people including women in hijabs with babies all asking for money, I escaped the zombie throng, and our guide took us back to his perfumery.
On the last night, our guide took us to a local wedding where we were treated like royalty. I was a smoker back then and the attentive bloke who looked after the argileh (some say shisha) changed the coals with his bare hands. I was in awe.
I donated generously to the newlyweds as we sat in the middle of a square amongst buildings that looked like they’d been bombed, and the dirt floor was covered with rubbish with the ever-present smell of a tip. But the people were generous, and I enjoyed myself despite the absence of alcohol (they were all Muslim).
Our guide then took us deeper into the war-torn area where all the stone walk-up apartments looked ever more bullet-riddled, and the dirt roads were worse than my hometown when Pothole Pam, the previous mayor, had been in charge. We arrived at his place and I’m thinkin’, after that man-mountain, I reckon I can take this little bloke, but what or who else is going to appear?
We met his mother. A stout, joyous woman in a hijab. We exchanged pleasantries: As-salaam alaykum. Alhamdulillah. I soon learnt that Keefek (for females, Keefak for males) was Jordanian like G’day is for Aussies and Keef Halek (for females, for males it is Keef Helak) didn’t make much sense in Egypt. But I only ever mastered the language well enough to catch taxis around Jordan and Bahrain but never in Egypt or Syria.
Long story short, we were confronted with an enormous door covered in intricate copper plate and inside a beautiful house full of antique furniture. Our guide’s young hijabi wife and their baby son, Mahmood, greeted us inside and we were treated to a feast of chicken and rice that we ate with our hands with newspaper for a tablecloth. We didn’t drink the water.
On Christmas day, we hired a real limousine, a black Mercedes through our mafia guide, and we headed to Alexandria. What a wonderful experience, except I never get used to paying for a ‘public’ toilet. At least in Europe they have doors blocking the entrance rather than a man in a keffiyeh who ambushes you as you leave.
At the castle near where the original Great Lighthouse once existed (I was also fortunate to visit the modern library that was built over the ruins of the Great Library), I was taken on a ‘tour’ by the police officer. He waited patiently while I took out enough cash to his liking for his ‘tour’.
On the way back in the most incredible traffic I have ever seen, our black Mercedes smashed into another car as both cars circled the roundabout, two lanes that had become about 20 lanes. The drivers, realising that stopping was certain death, waved each other off and we returned to our guide at his perfumery. Merry Christmas, gentlemen.
Another young man asked us to sign his testimonial book, so we said, well what will you do for us? He had nothing to offer. I signed our guide’s book because he was generous and kind, and just doing his best to survive. Years later one of my colleagues went to the same perfumery and used our guide because he had read my testimonial. It really is the smallest of worlds.
After that, I was so sick of negotiating every step that I decided to go to the Westernised side of the Nile. I wanted to go to the old British Officers Mess that had been in a Bond movie. It was great, but the bed sucked, and I had to wash my glass myself before accepting a drink. But it was sane.
The pyramids? The smyramids! If you want to see the pyramids, go there first. Whatever you do, do not go to Petra first. Petra is the greatest of all wonders and it will overshadow most other human creations. The pyramids are still awe-inspiring, but one must visit these wonders in their appropriate order if one is to remain in a state of awe.
I was married on Boxing Day. Not that anybody would have known it was Christmas except for the shopping centre Christmas trees and that my ruddiness reminded one of my in-laws of Santa Claus. At least the call to prayer in Amman is coordinated and broadcast by one person making it a rather magical way to wake up as the green lights and the low hum lifts from what was once the ancient city of Philadelphia.
Unlike Cairo, where it is every imam for themselves and whoever shouts the loudest wins. I quickly learnt there are varieties of culture shock and Jordan was now a predictable and calm home base. Downtown Cairo is the craziest of places I have ever visited and my recommendation for anyone with blonde or red hair is to dye it brown before arriving. Trust me on this advice.
Thus ended my first Arabian Christmas. Part 2 of my Arabian Christmases went somewhat downhill after that.
Our online editor, Alexandra Marshall, has an excellent piece in the Christmas bumper edition of The Spectator Australia entitled Travels with my Brother. Alexandra’s article reminded me of the rhythm in Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. It also made me think back to two Christmases I spent in the Middle East. I mentioned one New Year’s Eve I spent in a Russian Mafia nightclub in Aqaba, and Alexandra thought it sounded like the start of an interesting article. So here is the result: Part 1 of A Very Arabian Christmas that does for Speccie Christmas articles what Die Hard did for Christmas movies. Part 2 is all downhill from here. But read Alexandra’s article first, it’s brilliant!
Byline: Dr Michael de Percy @FlaneurPolitiq is a political scientist and political commentator. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts, a Chartered Fellow of the Chartered Institute of Logistics and Transport (CILTA), and a Member of the Royal Society of NSW. He is Managing Editor of the Journal of Telecommunications and the Digital Economy, Chairman of the ACT and Southern NSW Chapter of CILTA, and a member of the Australian Nuclear Association. Michael is a graduate of the Royal Military College, Duntroon and was appointed to the College of Experts at the Australian Research Council in 2022. All opinions in this article are the author’s own and are not intended to reflect the views of any other person or organisation.
