Eels & Exoduses of Aqaba

The fringes of their deserts were strewn with broken faiths – TE Lawrence

Between the rival thighs of Arabia & Sinai simmers this boiling sea, shimmering red with coral and traces of history. In the conquest of the Port of Aqaba, TE Lawrence may have stood from this perch, gazing south over the Red Sea. The Turks never saw Lawrence & his merry band of bedouins coming. The Turkish guns were pointing out to sea where they expected British ships in 1916. Lawrence rose out of the desert at their backs and claimed his glory. 

Uff!, Absalom says, flicking his wrist as if shooing away a fly. You watch too many movies, Vic Neverman. Lawrence arrived with the Bedouin, yes, but he did not attack Aqaba. He could not, Absalom says. It is because, in his much excitement, Lawrence by accident shoots his camel. Absalom laughs at this. He says, the attack begins and Lawrence kills his own camel! Lawrence watches the battle from a seat in the dirt. Sharif is saying to Lawrence, Lawrence, why are you on your knees?, now is not the time for prayer! Ha!

My friend Absalom continues to laugh as he pours arak for our table. He drops a piece of ice into each glass and positions a pitcher of distilled water for further dilution, as necessary. 

Himmel, arsch und zwirn! Annalise winces at the taste of arak. Her reaction is more dramatic than I would expect from a mild-mannered Rhine mädchen. You’ve been teaching in Amman for how long?, I ask my dinner companion, and you’ve not yet acclimated to arak? She confesses to not liking anise flavored brandies. Turkish raki, Greek ouzo, French pastis, Levantine arak. Well, I say, no one likes the first sip of arak. That is the point. The first sip scares off the amateurs. Ahh, Annalise says, ja, okay. You are thinking arak is like the writings of Dante. Abandon all hope ye who enter here. First arak is Inferno, second arak is Limbo, third arak is Paradise. Yes!, I agree. And if you have a fourth arak you descend back into hell. 

Absalom is joyed at Annalise’s discomfort. He raises the bottle of booze and speaks of the healing properties of arak to our table of gathered wanders. It is healing if!, he says, adding the caveat, if!, the makers of the spirit abide by Lebanese standards. There is much cheap arak, which is poison. Would you like another, Vic Neverman?, he asks me. Sure. I ain’t scared. Absalom pours into my empty glass. I top it with distilled water and watch as the clear liquids combine to become cloudy. The Turkish Ottomans defeated at Aqaba would have described this cloudiness as aslan sütü, “lion’s milk.” Absalom describes it as an aperitif. Arak is best before eating, Absalom says to the table, it makes the stomach feel sexy. 

Wise old Yousef has a patronizing smirk for Absalom as the younger man turns the bottle towards his own glass. Yousef abstains, drinking only mint tea. Annalise is still on her first helping of arak; opting only for more distilled water. Dame Havisham accepts another pour. At her majesty’s pleasure, Dame says, invoking her beloved dead queen. 

To Jabir Ibn Hayyan!, Absalom toasts, the father of chemistry and the inventor of distillation. An Arab from the Islamic Golden Age, without him we would not have such strong drink, Absalom says. 

The German professor, Annalise, says, Jabir is known in Europe as Geber. It is from this name we have the word, “gibberish”. Annalise winks at me. Absalom sees this wink and, understanding there must be hidden meaning, turns to me and asks, what is this word, Vic Neverman?, “gibberish”. Shit, I quietly curse. Goddamn it, Annalise. Don’t insult the patron saint of Arab brandy. Diplomat I am, I inform Absalom gibberish means “difficult to understand.” He accepts this and nods. The tension is defused. Until Dame Havisham speaks, it means more than that doesn’t?, she laughs. It means “rubbish”, Absalom. Gibberish is the speech of babes, isn’t it?

Shit.

Absalom retains his handsome smile, but his eyes narrow. He appears slighted by the disrespect for his alchemist hero. Fortunately, Yousef is quick to change the conversation. Let us hear from the sea voyagers!, Yousef says. Victor, my brother, how was the diving today? What did you and Absalom find in the deep?

Absalom speaks first, saying, illustrious Vic Neverman is much gifted at floating! Too fat on good Jordanian cooking, Vic Neverman cannot sink! Absalom laughs alone at his jibe. The alcohol and the teasing of Jabir have made Absalom mean-spirited, but I am not offended. Yeah, I admit to the table, I definitely had my challenges with buoyancy. Only at first. Then Absalom took some rocks out of his head, handed them to me and I sank just fine. Yousef and Absalom both laugh heartily at my joke. I continue, saying, Yousef, my brother, the dive went swimmingly. The wreck was very well preserved. I was startled by the sheer number of eels. I wonder why eels are not more prevalent in the Book of Exodus. I mean, for all the mucking around in the Red Sea Moses did when the waters were parted, you’d think there would be more slithering references in the holy texts. 

What of Leviathan?, Annalise asks. Perhaps Leviathan represents the collective eel population? Perhaps!, I agree…

The muezzin begins the call to prayer, singing out from the many minarets of Aqaba. A hush falls over the table as Yousef politely excuses himself. Absalom remains behind. Both men were born in Jordan, but Absalom considers himself Palestinian. And secular. His grandfather was forced off their ancestral land. In my family, Absalom told me on a previous night of drinking, we are faithful first to the land. As he spoke, I kept my fat mouth shut. I ordered another round of Cannakale Beer as Absalom told the story of the house key his father inherited from his grandfather. A key for a house which no longer stands. One day his grandfather’s house key will pass down from his father to Absalom. And from Absalom to his son. Until they can return to Palestine. 

The food begins to arrive and Absalom insists on another drink of arak. Arak is best had with the meal, he says. It makes the tongue feel sexy. Cheers to that!, Dame Havisham says, holding out her glass. You want to see me rat-arsed, don’t you Absalom? Fine. At her majesty’s pleasure. You do wonder what Dash has gotten up to, don’t you?, Dame Havisham asks to no one in particular. A proper piss-up, likely, yeah? Hope he hasn’t gotten the ladies into any trouble. 

We should also have wine!, Absalom insists and waves over the waiter. 

I’m sure Dash is fine, I say to Dame Havisham. You’ve raised quite the gentleman. 

Oh Vic, Dame Havisham says, how lovely a thing to say. And quite the pork pie lie, isn’t it? A professional foreigner, Dash Havisham is. A latter-day colonialist, Dash Havisham. Union Jack knickers, the whole kit. His Majesty’s loyal gigglemug, our Dash. A territory-gobbling hobbyist, that’s Dash, isn’t it loves? Dash always running about, collecting various dirts of earth in his trainers, collecting various lost souls to pin-up like butterflies. That’s my Dash. Hardly a gentleman, but thank you for the kindness. 

You have a point, I say to Dame Havisham. Dash is a shit. And undeserving of Milly, but if he learned anything from his mum, it is to appreciate a fine woman. Dame laughs at the flattery. Annalise scrutinizes me from across the table.  

Dame Havisham says, I am not worried about Milly, am I? Mol is a bit off her trolley, but Milly I have confidence in. It’s poor Dash, though, isn’t it?, I am worried for. Do you think Milly of Manchester will break my dear Dash’s heart then, Vic?, Dame Havisham asks. We should all be so lucky, I say. As I sniff the contents of my wine glass, I receive another raised eyebrow from Annalise. 

Absalom has filled our glasses with a pleasant hue of red. What’s this, love?, Dame Havisham asks. This is wine from North Jordan, Absalom says, from the village of Umm Qais. This is the wine Jesus would have drank at the Last Supper. Absalom smiles at how impressed the crowd is. If it’s good enough for Christ it will certainly clear my standards, Dame Havisham says with a raised glass. The wine of Jesus, Annalise nods before joking, you would be thinking it has soured by now. 

What is your Lawrence of Arabia toast, Vic?, Dame Havisham asks. The future is unwritten!, I say, raising my Last Supper wine. The future is unwritten!, Annalise and Dame Havisham repeat. Glasses clink. 

Dinner is served. Sayadieh, a Lebanese recipe: bed of spicy rice and caramelized onions beneath a flaky white fish topped with roasted almonds. It is delicious food like this which renders me too fat to scuba. 

Yousef has returned from prayer. I have a question. What is it, Victor, my brother?, he asks. My friend, I say to him, on the roads of Jordan, everywhere, I see bumper stickers with the face of Saddam Hussein. Why is this?, I ask. Yousef looks down at the table, nodding. Thinking. Yousef is an incredible man. An incredible man with a very strong cologne. He’s served in the Jordanian military and teaches history to children. He loves America and believes us Americans are capable of reaching a mediocre level of decency. Victor, Yousef says, it is a very good question. When Saddam was in power, he was a protector of the Sunni faith. And he extended an invitation to all Jordanians, many who are Sunni, to come to Baghdad for a free education. Unless you are very rich, you cannot afford to go to university in Jordan. Many professional peoples in Jordan today owe their education to Iraq and to Saddam Hussein. Education is liberating. For this, Saddam Hussein has set free many from poverty. You understand, Victor?

Yes, I nod. I had no idea. I had wondered if there might be something to the mythology of Saddam being the second-coming of Saladin, the famed sultan warrior of the crusades. Saddam and Saladin were both born near Tikrit, after all. Saddam in 1938, Saladin 800 years earlier. I’ve read some Jordanians saw Saddam as the prophesied return of the great Sunni king, I say to Yousef. Yes maybe, Yousef says. Until Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. Many in Jordan were displeased with the invasion of Kuwait. And yet, I say to Yousef, I can imagine the appeal of this Bedouin warlord, in the form of Saddam, who dares defy the West. Yousef, who has studied in the United States, asks me, is a Jordanian with a Saddam Hussein sticker different than an American with a Confederate flag? 

Hmm. 

Yousef smiles at my humbled silence and taps his heart twice. Where there is passion, Victor, there is conflict. There are many conflicted hearts in our countries, no?

Vic Neverman!, Absalom returns with the bottle of arak. Oh, no more, I insist. No, Vic Neverman!, Absalom says, arak is best after the meal. Arak helps with the digesting. Oh?, I ask. Will it make my intestines feel sexy? Yes, Vic Neverman!, Absalom laughs. Your fat & greasy intestines will be feeling so sexy! A Red Sea full of happy eels in your belly! Drink!

Fine. A drink to paradise. 

We are the last table in the restaurant. The staff stands-by, near, smiling, eager to close. Y’allah! It is time to go. We put Dame Havisham into a cab, bound for the City Tower Hotel. Yousef and Absalom go their separate ways. Annalise and I take a leisurely walk along the beach, back to the hotel. On arrival, we find Dame Havisham at the front desk. She’s in a panic. 

Vic!, thank god!, Dame Havisham says. I’ven’t heard from Dash or the girls, have I?, she says. They’re not in their rooms, are they? Not responding to messages. All I can think about are Somali pirates stealing off with Dash. And all those eels. They don’t crawl their way on land then do they, Vic? Oh bloody hell. 

It is midnight. Well past the last call to prayer, though the streets of Aqaba are still busy. There are not as many bars open, but there are plenty of shisha cafes for Dash to find trouble and strong smoke. Dash and the ladies are adults and can fend for themselves, yet… I would hate for anything to befall them while I was distracted elsewhere. 

Annalise can already see my mind at work. She says to me, night cap another time then? Without waiting for a response, Annalise turns towards the elevators. 

Alright, I say to Dame Havisham. I will find them. Don’t worry. 

Oh, Vic, thank you!, Dame Havisham says. You’re a real Moses. A shepherd of lost damsels in the wilderness, yeah? But be a lamb and do bring Dash back too.