The Rum & Whiskey... Conclusion

Photo by Mistofer Christopher Circa 2012

The Rum and Whiskey…Conclusion

Mistofer Christopher

“By the way,” I asked.  “Do you have snakes in the desert here?”

“Oh yes.”  He replied.  Seeing my eyebrows slowly raise to caution heading to alarm he quickly said in thick hummus English:  “We check camp before you come.”

“كيف؟“ (pronounced Keef) (means how) I asked.

“We look around.”  He retorted.

“Okay…okay.” The second okay came out with unconscious nervousness. “And if you see one, what do you do?” 

“We take it away.” He responded with the clipped version of a valley girl’s drawn out ob-vii-ous-lllllllllllllllllllyyyyyy.

“Just away?” I insisted with a pitched plea of faith… Bedouin brother give me more than that.

“Yes. Away.” He answered simply while gesturing with the back of his hand pushing air out indicating somewhere.

“Okay.”  I accepted his explanation with resignation.

Yaah…I was done at that point.  Give me civilization, a hotel, real whiskey, a shower with soap and a phone for room service.  But I forgot that I still had a 3 hour camel ride back into town that I had booked as part of the plan.  What I didn’t know was that Camilla Camel had a bad case of gas, so bad and loud memory escapes me if it was northern gas or southern.  She would stop to eat any patch of grass that was off the trail, and she didn’t understand English and the concept of a rider.  She was the swaying ship of the desert.  I could have chosen the Range Rover option.  A pick up and a take out of the desert.  But no.  I wanted to feel like Abraham, the father of all those having faith in 1914 BCE when he left Ur and trekked to the Promised Land with Sarah, Lot, and the family.  I was Abraham. There was no Sarah.

I remembered Jane’s words at the hostel named Rocky Mountain Hotel situated in Wadi Musa, a five stones throw from Petra, one of the new, chosen Seven Wonders of the World.  I stood in the lobby, turned on my gps, and typed the words S-u-n-s-e-t- C-a-m-p.  No response.  I typed the words W-a-d-i- R-u-m.  The screen flickered:  29.5347° N, 35.4079° E.

I looked at Jane, the host, manager, concierge, owner, situation handler behind the front desk, and stammered: “Is there an address?  How…h-how will I know when I reach Wadi Rum?”

Jane, an oceanic nomad herself, white skin slightly weathered and bronzed by Rum sun and Sand winds, looked directly at me with clear eyes, poised confidence, and reflective awe.  Before Jane stood a New Yorker without the attitude, slight ignorance, but great exuberance, wide eyed, wide smiled, typical and antitypical American, first time visiting the desert boy, and she said:

“You’ll know when you’re in the Rum.  There is nowhere like the Rum.”