Aqaba diary

I was in Aqaba last week. I went back after three years, but I was not looking forward to the trip. I’m not inadvertently paranoid about flying; it was the early morning departure timing that got me irritated. What was the point in the crack of dawn flying takeoffs? 

I mean, six forty five in the morning meant reaching the airport at five forty five, which meant getting out of my warm bed at four thirty in the night. Insane, I tell you! Why did the airlines insist on this punishing schedule? 

That grievance aside, the flight was exceptional. Dozing next to a prime window seat, I went deeper into slumber when the pilot’s message filtered through the aircraft’s sound system. There was something rather reassuring about the tone and timbre of the flight-captain’s voice. It lulled me into instant sleep.

But subconsciously it began to register that he was talking about Wadi Rum. I continued to keep my eyes wide shut, so to speak. Suddenly, there was an abrupt scramble as one flight purser pushed against my shoulder to get to the window with his camera. I looked out and an unbelievable vision greeted my stunned gaze. And there it was, the ethereal rock formation in all its majestic glory. The plane went by it slowly, as if flying past an artistic exhibit, and then it turned to give us another view of its grand splendour. The captain was enjoying himself, and was entertaining us with a running commentary, while all of us nearly toppled the right side of the aircraft with our over crowded enthusiasm. 

The touch down at Aqaba was smooth and getting out of the airport was smoother. Flat and even tarmac lanes greeted my arrival this time around. Driving from one part of town to another was a pleasure, and one saw the city in a whole new light. 

The hotel I stayed in was on the edge of the Red Sea and remains one of the best-located properties in Aqaba. The sight of the immense body of water from there was simply amazing. The rooms were recently refurbished, and the showers and so on, upgraded, but the hospitality in the hotel had to be the slowest one has ever encountered. Whether it was the housekeeping, food orders, room service or baggage collection, I had to give myself at least two-hour’s start-up, for each instruction to be followed through to its leisurely conclusion. 

Evenings in Aqaba were warmer than Amman. Another thing worth mentioning was the positive attitude of the people there. Anything and everything was manageable and one rarely got a negative response. We had half a day to organise a formal dinner party, and from the string-lights to flower arrangements, to seating plan to background music, to starters to main-course selection, everything got done efficiently. 

But at the event, the pop singer was the last to troop in. Within moments he settled on stage and started belting out entertaining numbers. Somewhere along the way, he noticed me, and switched to Golden Oldies from the era of Frank Sinatra. 

A little later, he figured out my nationality. 

“I have a special song for you, Madam,” he announced on the microphone. 

“Okay,” I said. 

“You have to sing along,” he instructed. 

“Okay,” I agreed. 

“Saw the world, from Japan to Russia,” he began. 

“Umm,” I was undecided.

“Ho ho ho! Made in India,” he sang.

“Made in India,” I joined in.