Aqaba

It's early Saturday morning, and I'm standing on the balcony of our hotel room in Aqaba, emptying buckets fine red desert sand out of the pockets of my cargo pants. It pours out of every crevace, every fold in the fabric, tumbling onto the tiled floor in a cascade of burnt crimson. I feel the calm of the desert slip away with the tumbling grains of sand, I'm no longer basking forever blue sky in the magical Wadi Rum NAtional park, now hemmed in between barren ugly mountains and the Gulf of Aqaba, where Israels trashy Eilat winks cheekily from across the bay, the mountains of Egypt towering over the water a short distance further south. Somehow, the promise of 'seaside' aqaba had me looking forward my beloved ocean- and the deep blue nothingness in which to drown out the noise of city life. Instead, this narrow stretch of murkey water is packed with ocean liners full of fanny packed cruise passengers from europe and live export tankers from Australia whose inmates await the slaughter houses in the desert set just a few hundred meters back from the highway that stretches north through the desert to Amman.

A cool breeze wafts through the tree outside our room, and instead of the roar of the ocean I hear the chug chug of tour busses and taxis carreering through the streets.

There must be more to Aqaba than trash laden sea frontage where local kids kick soccerballs at tourists while their hijabed mothers and sisters immerse themselves, fully clothed in the shallow waters. There must be more than the whinging tones of
Engilsh families squabbling at their Table for 8 in the Ali Baba restaurant. There must be more than the opulent 5 star resorts that dominate the sea frontage, leaving the saggy bedded budget options cowering in their shaddows.

Whatever the day brings, I hope it brings more than this.