The In-Between Weeks Update

Two weeks ago, we had a ten-day holiday from school, the Muslim holidays of Eid Al Adha (the traditional time for making the hajj, or the pilgrimage to Mecca) and the United Arab Emirates National Day holidays combining to give us a nice long break. Some people traveled abroad, some people stayed in Dubai. For this break, I was one of the latter. But it was a truly wonderful time.

Much of my week was just geared towards relaxing and writing. The day after our last day of work was Thanksgiving, so some of my friends and I went to a dinner hosted by Vicki, the librarian at the school (and someone who, considering my love of books, I’ve come to know quite well over the past year-and-a-half). She had me over for Thanksgiving last year, and her cooking is famous around school (and she’s American, so the dinner was a proper Thanksgiving one: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, ham and pineapple (Real pig ham! Oh happy day!), corn, beans, three kinds of pie, and all sorts of other glorious home cooking. And, since her husband is a pilot with Emirates, they live in a villa (with a yard and everything), and since they’ve been here six years, the place felt more like a home than most places around here. A lovely evening, all around.

My roommate kicked off to Egypt for six days during the break, so I used that time to feel more at home. One thing I realized I miss terribly about having my own place is being able to listen to (and at times, crank) the stereo without bothering a roommate. It was rather relaxing (with nights lasting until quarter past late, and mornings starting whenever I felt like it), and, as it’s the last long stretch of time I have without working or traveling between now and June, I made the most of it.

One of the key activities I worked on was revising the novel (yes, still). Two of the best agents I applied to (okay, tell a lie, probably the best) at AgentFest in New York this past July are interested in my novel, but they felt some work needed to be done on increasing the tension in the earlier part of the book (the only part they’ve yet seen, which, admittedly, was a bit high on the exposition and a bit low on the tension for a thriller), but they both want to see more once I’ve revised it. So I’ve been revising it. Before Christmas break, I’m going to give the novel to a few trusted readers who are going to get back to me with their thoughts and suggestions, which, in January, I’ll take into account, make any final tweaks, and then send off to the agents in question. I’m hoping I’ll have roped in an agent (if neither of these two wants it, the manuscript itself should be strong enough to land another solid agent) by March or so, and hoping equally for a possible publisher come summer. For networking purposes, I’ve set up a Facebook Fan Page, and even without having an agent yet, I’m already at nearly a hundred fans. Given, many of those are students, but, considering the nature of our school, that also means that I have fans from several dozen countries. And not a word yet in print! Portending good things for the future? I hope so.

And speaking of the future, I have officially told management that I do not plan to come back to teach in Dubai for a third year. I’ve been leaning that way for a long while, the past few months pushing me over the decisive edge. So, come June, I will be back in the States to stay (at least, for a little while). What of my plans, though? Well, my eventual goal is to write full-time, and, sadly, jobs like teaching, which sap much of your evenings and weekends with planning, grading, etc., are hardly conducive to building my writing skills and putting out new novels with some semblance of regularity. Writing full-time, though a bit more free with the hours, truly is a full-time job. And it takes a long time, barring some sort of extremely rare overnight sensation (think Harry Potter or The Da Vinci Code), to get royalty income up to a decent rate. Thankfully, despite my travels and experiences I’ve had over here, I’ve been really good about saving, and when I come back, I’ll have enough to live on for several years, even if I don’t work at all. I do plan on working, though, probably part-time at a bookstore (which will provide me not only with some income, but also with health insurance, some insight into the retail end of the publishing industry, and help to keep me abreast of what’s going on in the industry). As far as where to live, I’m planning at the moment to move to Jacksonville, Florida. It’s still in Florida (no state income tax, weather I’m used to, etc.); it’s a relatively large city, close to the beach, a river, and a major airport (like Dubai); it not only has history and culture (oh how I miss it out here!), but it is just a short drive from St. Augustine and Savannah. Orlando, Disney, and Tampa, aren’t too far away, either. My best friend and his fiancée live out there, as well. But, perhaps most importantly, it’s close (but not too close) to my hometown of Tallahassee. Another event that transpired over this past break is that my sister, Becca, got engaged to her boyfriend, who incidentally, is a good friend of mine. Living half-a-world away, I’ve missed most of their courtship, and I don’t want to miss their marriage. So them’s the plans. And don’t worry about my ‘adventures’ dying down when I move back to the States. I’ve already got two major trips planned for researching my next two novels. And that’s not including the research trip I’ve got planned for this April (more on that later…). That’s one of the perks of writing international thrillers: traveling to exotic locales to research the sites.

That’s about all for this entry, except to say look for another travelogue coming up soon about the trip I’m taking over Christmas break: to Europe. For some reason, I keep going to Europe in December. Less crowds, I guess, but going from summers in Florida and Dubai to winters in the Netherlands? I’m not quite sure how many countries I’m going to be visiting, but at the moment, it’s looking like it’ll be six (in two weeks). Tomorrow, I fly into Amsterdam, and out of London on the 31st, and I’m probably going to be stopping through Stuttgart, Brussels, and Paris on my way to jolly old England. Should be a lot of fun. And who knows, maybe I’ll have my first white Christmas! Stay tuned!

That being said, I wish all of my readers and loved ones a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. My latest revision of From the Ashes is with a few trusted readers who are going to give me some feedback on the work, so my primary writing project the first few weeks of the new year will be travelogues: for Lebanon (way overdue, I know) and for this Europe trip. Watch this space, and may God bless you and yours during this festive season.

Long Overdue Update...

It's been a long, long time since my last update, and for that, I apologize. After I went to Lebanon (another entry coming on that trip within a few weeks), life just hasn't let up. Our assistant principal left, the government inspection team visited (which required a lot of preparation), one of my English department colleagues left, and... well, suffice to say there's been a lot of drama in the school and in the department that, without giving any details, has been particularly taxing on myself and many of my colleagues. It hasn't all been bad, though.

I got to go on two field trips within a week of each other, both to dramatic performances at the Madinat Jumeirah Theatre, a rather nice and somewhat 'Desert Elegance'-themed theatre. With my Grade 9 students, I saw The Woman in Black, a low-key psychological horror production based on the 1986 ghost novel of the same name. It was well done, but I was too busy laughing at the screams of my students to get scared myself (yes, I'm evil). The second production was The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (abridged), which I went to see the following week with my Grade 10's. I own the DVD of the original troupe performing the play at the Criterion Theatre in London (the play being the longest-running comedy in modern London history), and I watch it religiously. The production I saw (done by a different troupe) was decidedly less impressive. My primary complaints were that the original was delightfully deadpan and the actors were very endearing as characters. Not so in this version: the whole thing was very hammed up, a lot of the key lines (yes, I was quoting along in my head) were missing or changed, and the actors just didn't do it for me. Regardless, it was a fun little production (and I saw it for free!).

I also got to meet Bill Clinton. He was speaking at the American University in Dubai (the father of one of my students is the president of the university) and some of my colleagues and myself got to go see him speak. Afterwards, I joined the throng on the floor and shook his hand as he made the rounds. Kinda cool. So now I've met both Jimmy Carter (about ten years ago at his Sunday School class in Plains, Georgia) and Bill Clinton. I've just got to meet the Bushes (George Sr. & Jr.), and I'll have met all of the living former U.S. Presidents. Not a top priority, but whatever. I take life as it comes.

Some promising news on the publishing front: the two top agents I've submitted to thus far have taken an interest in my novel. They love the story and have commended me on many of the novel's aspects, but have some reservations in a few regards (the pacing at the beginning is a bit slow to take off, for one). Today begins our Eid holiday (a Muslim holiday which, this year, happens to be right before the UAE National Day holidays, so we get ten days off from work). I'm not travelling anywhere big (going to Europe over the Christmas holidays will take care of my travel bug), so I'm going to be working hard on the novel's revision, hoping to send a final version out to agents come mid-January. So stay posted on that matter. Believe me, when things really get poppin' there, I'll be quick to post about them here.

Out of time for now, but thanks for stopping by, and rest assured, info on my Lebanon trip is forthcoming. Cheers!

On the Right Side of Ramadan

See, I told you I'd be better about posting more frequently...

It's the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, when eating and drinking during daylight hours is forbidden (at least, outside the safety of your own apartment), as Muslims are fasting. Music, dancing, and other assorted revelry are also restricted. And at school, our day is about two hours shorter than it will be during the rest of the school year (which means that we have to rush through our lessons and day, being less productive than we will be after Ramadan). But we've just got one more week of that, and then it's Eid al-Fitr (which, for us, equates to a week off). I'm heading to Lebanon with a few of my colleagues for that one. Should be a good time, and I'll post details about my trip in a few weeks.

This past week, I made the decision not to do MUN again this year. Various factors entered into that decision, among them the fact that my professional responsibilities are greater than they were last year (I'm the head of Grade 8 English, for one). Instead of MUN, I'm starting a creative writing club, something I've christened the "Budding Authors Club". There's enough interest at the school in creative writing to get that going, and sadly, there are not creative writing courses offered in the official curriculum. So I'm filling the gap. Should be a lot of fun. More updates, I'm sure, to follow in that regard.

I'm working on tweaking From the Ashes a tiny bit more, mainly in the relatively slow first couple of chapters where the protagonists are introduced. Reworking the agent query letters and sending those out. And, of course, working on book number two, which is coming together rather nicely. In the researching and planning phase still, but I'm getting really stoked about it.

I'm heading to an Iftar dinner (the feast where Muslims traditionally break their fast at dusk) this weekend with some friends. Also going to the Dubai Mall (the largest mall in the world, with the tallest building in the world (the Burj Dubai) right nearby)), and working on my publishing pursuits. Productivity and fun. Good times.

Okay, so that's about all for this time, I think. Thanks for stopping by.

Jeremy

The Second Year Begins...

It’s me again. First, I need to apologize for the incredible delay in my posts. As a writer, I think the blog medium is something I’ve found difficult, especially in relating the more vivid accounts (e.g. my travels). I want to write a novella, when, really, none of you have time to read that in a blog entry. So on that note, I plan to post shorter blogs, more frequently. My travelogues and whatnot may not be quite as graphic and detailed, but I’ve got to save something for the inevitable book, right?

It having been nearly five months since my last post, I’ll bring you up to speed as quickly as possible:

Egypt was amazing. Went to the Giza Pyramids, the Sphinx, the Nile, the Cairo Museum, Khan al Khalily (a famous bazaar in Cairo), and the Al Hussein Mosque (the holiest mosque in all of Egypt, I believe, owing to its possession of a most important relic: the head of Hussein, the nephew of the Prophet Muhammad), among other fun-filled sites in and around Cairo. Didn’t have nearly enough time at the Pyramids or the Sphinx, but then, that’s what return trips are for.

My planned Iran trip fell through. By the time I got an Iranian sponsor for a visa, the seven-day waiting period would have all but eaten up my spring break. I don’t think it’s going to make the cut for this year’s travels, but I’m going to keep up with my Iranian students after I leave Dubai, using those contacts sometime in the next few years to visit the history-rich nation. At least two future novels will have Iran as a location, so I’ve gotta go there to do research… and take lots of pretty pictures.

The novel. After three years of planning, research, writing and rewriting, From the Ashes is finally complete. I went to New York this past July to attend a thriller writer’s conference, where I was afforded the opportunity not only to brush shoulders with some of the industry’s biggest authors (James Rollins has agreed to blurb my novel, and Jon Land and Kathryn Antrim were blown away by my novel’s premise), but also to pitch my novel, in person, to some of the best-recognized agents in the business. Nine agents wanted to read part or all of my manuscript, six of whom (including the four I perceived at the time to be the most enthusiastic about the project) are still reading it. In addition, I’m starting to send out query letters to other agents, trying to get as many balls in play as possible, hoping one will land in the hoop soon. I’ve started work on the sequel, of which I hope to have a finished first draft by the time I come back to the States in June. In addition, I’m working on networking and marketing myself for not only getting published, but also for selling copies when I’m on bookshelves (like on my Official Facebook Fan Page). And, of course, I’ll keep you updated on any updates in my writing and publishing endeavors. Stay tuned!

This past summer, I apparently couldn’t get the travel bug out of my system. I traveled to Dallas, the Bahamas, Manhattan, Orlando, Jacksonville, and Ontario. All in all, I was only in Tallahassee about half of my two months back Stateside. Right now, I’m back in Dubai, teaching again. It’s the second day of my second school year, and supposedly the second year is infinitely better than the first. Which is good, because last year was brutal. I’m curious to see what this year holds. I’m planning trips to another dozen or so more countries this year, as well as repeat trips to Jordan and Oman. The new faculty members (more than forty people, including a new school director, a new assistant principal, and a new English curriculum leader) is pretty cool. And I’m planning to see and experience a whole lot more of Dubai, the U.A.E., and the Gulf region in general this year.

Which brings me to my final point for this entry. In just a few months, I’ve got a pretty big decision to make: what to do after this school year. I can renew here for another year. I can look for a post at another international school. I can come back to the States. Or any number of options I haven’t thought of. I know what I’m leaning towards right now (rather heavily, in fact), but I’m open to prodding. Please keep this impending decision in your thoughts and prayers as I try to decide exactly what I need to do/where I need to be for this next season of my life.

That’s all for this entry. Stay tuned for another entry in the next few weeks or so, and, as always, thanks for stopping by… Planet Earth.

Cheers,
Jeremy

Recap of March, Preview of April

It’s been about a month since my last entry. Big things on the horizon then. Big things on my horizon now. We’ll go through both. First, the recap of events since last time.

The literature festival I was stoked about was awesome. I attended talks with bestselling novelists Peter James, Kate Mosse, Frank McCourt, Wilbur Smith, Giles Foden, Philippa Gregory, and Julia Glass, and I personally met all of those but Giles Foden. I attended a writing workshop with Kate Mosse’s husband: writer, editor and creative writing instructor Greg Mosse. I learned a lot about writing and publishing. I networked. I rubbed elbows and gleaned wisdom and insight. A few of the things I learned:

Writers are people too. I knew this, obviously, but actually meeting them in the flesh was a rather neat experience. When I read the dedication page or acknowledgments page or even a bit of trivia that the author mentioned in their talk that a character from their book also mentions, a human aspect of the whole writing thing comes in to it. I’ve met these people. I know them (superficially, of course, but it’s something). Why is that important to me? Because I’m a person, and seeing these personal things in their writing, published writing, bestselling writing, is somewhat refreshing and encouraging. My personal, human elements that make it into my story are natural and indeed integral to all good writing. These bestseller novelists are just normal people who write— like me. Kind of encouraging in a roundabout sort of way.

There isn’t one right way to write, research, or edit. There are several, and it depends on the author (not even, apparently, on the genre) as to which works best for them. It was rather interesting seeing different authors giving completely opposite answers to the same question about the researching, writing, or editing process. Which is good and bad. Bad in that there isn’t one ‘right’ way to do these things. Good in that there isn’t one ‘right’ way to do these things. It’s not formulaic, but then, it’s also a better fit for the individual author (i.e. me) and their style when you find what works.

I also learned some pieces about writing, researching, editing, and the quest for a publisher from the various authors as well: different ideas to try and see which works best for me.

In addition, both Greg Mosse and Julia Glass left the festival with a copy of the first two chapters of my novel, promising to read it and get back to me. Ms. Glass hasn’t yet responded, but she said it might take a while as she had a full novel-length draft from a personal friend of hers to go through first. Mr. Mosse responded in about a week’s time, and was not only impressed with the excerpt but felt that it would find a receptive audience in the thriller market. Huzzah!

And on the writing front (but separate from the festival), I’ve sent those first two chapters, a brief synopsis, and a letter of introduction to a friend of mine who is well-connected to a lot of people in the publishing industry. He’s volunteered to use his connections to get my novel in the hands of the right people. I’m also networking as much as I can, hoping that, with enough hands working on this, magic will happen. My goal is to already be in dialogue with a publisher/editor/agent by the time I arrive back in the States in three months, and have signed a publishing deal by the time I leave again for Dubai two months thereafter. Keep that in your thoughts and prayers if you would. I’ve been praying like Jabez for this, my biggest goal and dream, to come to fruition in spectacular fashion. Here’s hoping!

On the teaching front. Ups and downs, as can be expected with any teaching year, much less a first year teacher living a world away from everything and everyone I’ve ever known in a paradox-riddled city at a school where the curriculum is being written as it’s being taught. With four preps. If you’ve ever been a teacher, you know how incredibly most of those elements can be; all combined at once, it can be nightmarish sometime. But I’m making it. Getting all sorts of material for Dancing with Chimeras when I finally sit down to pen it in a year or so.

And on the life front, I got suckered into chaperoning the high school Spring Formal dance. In true Dubai style, it was held in a posh hotel ballroom, the tickets costing the kids the equivalent of $61 a pop. Appetizers outside in the lobby, a fancy buffet dinner, and a hopping dance party. And I, along with my fellow colleague-chaperones, felt like an old fogey. Now, I’m a cool old fogey, according to my students (well, they don’t call me old or fogey, but whatever), but it was still kinda weird. Most of my students were trying to get me to dance, and some of them actually managed to quite literally drag me to the dance floor – not once, but twice – before I beat my hasty retreat. But I made up for it the following night, when I went with five of my female colleagues (I know, it’s a hard life, eh?) to a very nice, dress-to-impress nightclub by the Dubai Marina. The place is called Boudoir, and if Disney’s Haunted Mansion had an adjacent nightclub/bar, this is what it would look like. The décor, the walls, the shape of the room itself were very gothic-looking, especially the centerpiece of the establishment: a giant onyx chandelier hanging over the dance floor, its lights dimmed to a spectral glow in true haunted house fashion. Great place, great night, and… and less students to make me feel old.

Which pretty much takes me to April… and the future. This Wednesday (April 1st), I’m going to Cairo, Egypt for another MUN conference with my two chaperones-in-crime, Martine and Sunali, and fourteen Grade 10 and 11 students. Yes, I’m boarding a plane, checking into a hotel, and traveling to another country with fourteen children – at least two of whom are full-fledged chuckleheads – on April Fool’s Day. I don’t know what we were thinking… Regardless, I’m quite excited about the chance to travel to Egypt and visit the pyramids for free (being a chaperone is such a great little gig). Of course, a lovely little travel journal will follow my journey, but perhaps not immediately afterwards. I’ll be getting back the wee hours of the morning on April 7th. Our Spring Break begins April 10th. I’ll hopefully be going to Iran with my friend-colleague Nathan for six days over the break (provided one of our many Iranian students’ parents will sponsor us Americans), so that’ll be another fun travel journal (and probably my last one before I come back to the States).

As for the more distant future, I’ll be coming back to the States around June 18, catching a few hours’ sleep at home before boarding another plane for the wedding of a friend of mine in Texas. I’ll probably spend a few days taking in the sights of Dallas before heading back to Tallahassee to see all of my friends and family who will have been waiting a year to see me. Goal number one for the summer is to get published, but in addition to that, I’ll be travelling a lot: to Texas for the aforementioned wedding, to Michigan and Canada for another wedding in August, to Jacksonville and St. Augustine with my friend Travis, to Disney World with my family, to New York to sign a book deal (IhopeIhopeIhope), and possibly to California to visit a friend of mine from over here who’s going home after this year. Of course, I’m also very much looking forward to catching up with my friends and family, exploring Tallahassee and eating lots of Chick-fil-a, Cracker Barrel, and Los Compadres. Good times.

Well, that’s all for this edition. Please keep the novel publishing situation in your thoughts and prayers, and as always, thanks for keeping up with my adventures over here.

Chasing Dreams

The past few weeks have been a roller coaster. The lowest, most despondent moments of my first year of teaching, exacerbated all the more by my lack of a real social and familial network over here (not to mention a real dearth of Christian fellowship), followed by back-to-back good news: first, another potential avenue to get my novel published when I get home in June, followed by the news that my best friend in Dubai, Martine, who had been home in California due to a family emergency since November (the day after we got back from Jordan), was coming back to Dubai. More ups and downs preceded and followed, but most of my ups since seem to be writing/publishing-related.

On the novel front, I’ve picked up the pen again, rewriting the novel (entitled From the Ashes, for those of you not in the know) into what should be a final draft (to be tweaked between its completion circa the first of May and its hopeful submission for publication in late June). This past week alone, I’ve written over nine-thousand words on it. As most of you who know me well are aware (especially those of you who’ve known me well in these past two years), there are few things in life that I want more than to be a published novelist, able to write for a living and travel the world researching ideas and locations for subsequent stories. And as God is wont to do, when I was the most distraught I’ve been in years, He goes and opens a window, a door, and possibly a whole slew of portholes in the possible attainment of my greatest dream. I have been blessed with at least two individuals who are well-connected in the publishing world who are interested in my work, at least one of which is eager to get my finished novel into the hands of the right people to get it published. Given, neither of them have read the latest version of the novel, but I don’t think it will disappoint. That’s the aforementioned door and window. Here come the portholes.

This weekend, the inaugural Emirates Airlines International Festival of Literature is coming to Dubai. Dubai Festival Center, actually, the mall that is located just a ten-minute walk from my school. Forty-some-odd authors from all over the world are coming to participate, giving presentations and hosting Q&A sessions, as well as availing themselves to fans for book signings, chats, etc. I’ve bought tickets for five sessions with five different bestselling authors (Peter James, Kate Mosse, Frank McCourt, Wilbur Smith, and Philippa Gregory), and I’ll be meeting Julia Glass, NY Times bestselling author and winner of the National Book Award, when she comes to our school on Sunday (the first day of the workweek out here, if you’ve missed that in previous entries). In short, I’ll be meeting six bestselling, well-connected authors in the next week. Hence, my portholes.

In addition, I’m going to be taking along the first twenty-four pages of my revised novel (the prologue and first chapter)… just in case the opportunity might arise for me to show it to one of the authors. Who knows? If they read it, they could offer suggestions (from someone who is familiar with the publishing and editing process), or, if they’re particularly wowed (which, considering the busyness of the festival, I don’t really think they’ll have the energy to be wowed by something some silly festival-goer wrote), perhaps they’ll give my contact information, with the author’s recommendation, to someone within the industry. Probably a pipe dream, but hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? Even if nothing much happens to get the ball rolling on me getting published this weekend (which is the most likely scenario), I’ll still glean some insights on the life of a full-time author and on the craft from professionals in the field. Should be an exciting and enriching weekend, no matter which way things happen.

Also on the writing front, I’ve begun preliminary work on a non-fiction book based on my experiences, observations, and thoughts about life on the ground here in Dubai. Plenty of books have been written on the city, but most of them have been from a business perspective. Dealing with the children from all over the world, from all sorts of religious, economic, racial, national, and cultural backgrounds, as well as watching the interplay between them and the society they call ‘home’ (at least as much as anyone calls Dubai ‘home’, but that’s a different chapter altogether) has provided a unique insight that I haven’t found to be attainable outside my profession. The book will be probably divided into two sections – one on life as a ‘normal person’ in Dubai (rather than as one of the rich and famous for whom the city is designed to be a playground, or as one of the businessmen responsible for designing and constructing said playground) and one on the insights gleaned as a teacher of the various children of the people making up this grand microcosm of the world. There’ll likely be some overlap there, but those are the basic divisions. I’ve also been told that I should write a book of travel writing, and in all likelihood, I will, but that’ll be separate from this project. I haven’t started actually penning the book itself at the moment, as my writing energies are primarily dedicated to the novel (and keeping you folks back home abreast of my adventures… though I’m sorry for the somewhat rambling nature of this entry… I just churned out another thousand words of From the Ashes, and it used up all my good writing), but I’m keeping notes and recording statistics, experiences, and anecdotes so that when I do begin writing it (probably not until after my stint here is complete), I’ll have a wealth of material already at my fingertips.

So there I am. Hoping, praying to get published in 2009, and pursuing every avenue God opens up to me. And since I’m on it (and I know many of you probably already are), I’d appreciate your prayers on this matter: for the right doors to be opened at the right time. Also, any support you can offer me in this endeavor (whatever that means to you… not donations or anything like that… unless they’re made in cookies!), would be greatly appreciated. And drop me a line if you can sometime (JeremyJBurns@gmail.com). I don’t have much Internet time out here (I only have access at school for the time being), so I might not be able to respond in a timely manner, but any little note from you folks back home would be neat. It gets lonely out here sometimes.

Here’s hoping for magic happening and dreams being fulfilled this weekend and beyond, and as always, thanks for tuning in!

“All our dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them.”
– Walt Disney

Inspiration in Roma

[Note: I wrote the following entry towards the end of December. In the interest of giving my entries some semblance of chronology, I refrained from posting this entry until I had written and posted the entries from Bangladesh and Jordan. It appears in its original, unadulterated form, so when reading it, please bear in mind that it was written over a month ago, and refer to the next entry where I will post for more up-to-date information on what’s going on in my life at the moment. And as always, thanks for reading!]

Rome. Where do I start? How do I regale what was the most amazing and perhaps important trip I’ve yet undertaken? I guess I’ll take a page from Maria von Trapp’s book (of The Sound of Music fame) and start at the beginning.

As mentioned in a previous entry, my school closed for an additional three days in early December, bringing a previously seven-day holiday to a much nicer twelve days. So I decided I should go somewhere. Most of my friends at the school had already made their travel plans, and I didn’t want to latch onto someone else’s already-made plans. I knew that wherever I would go, I would go alone. I didn’t trust myself on my own in Southeast Asia or other such third-world locales (where many of my colleagues were going, albeit in groups), especially considering the instability and anti-American terrorism that the region has been rife with in the preceding weeks. I had been on two long trips since coming to Dubai in August: one to Bangladesh with three other teacher-friends and one to Jordan with two teacher-friends and twenty-one screaming high-school students. Lots of touristy activities and ventures (or, in the case of the former, as touristy as Bangladesh could be). See various places, experience the country, sharing the whole adventure with friends. Which is how I always thought I loved to travel: making memories with someone to share them with. But this option was not open to me for this break. Or rather, it was, it could have been, but I chose to forgo it. Work, life had become quite stressful for me in the previous weeks, and I felt that I had some introspection to do, some soul-searching if you will, regarding where I am, where I’m going, who I am, who I want to be, how I plan to get there, and other million-dollar questions of that ilk. Travelling alone would be an excellent opportunity for me to probe those questions, do some writing, get back to what makes me feel most fulfilled and alive. Where would be a good place for that? Where had I always wanted to travel? What part of the world so fascinated me with its history, its people, its edifices, its culture? Answer: Europe. The specific destination for this little trip? Rome, Italy.

I don’t exaggerate when I say that I could live in Rome. In fact, my pipe dream involving lucrative book deals and relative financial freedom in the near future also has me living in Rome for a year or so. There are thousands of stories just waiting to be written in that city. Its history, the churches, palaces, catacombs, and ruins, the mystery and majesty, the dark corners and rich artistry, the whole of the city just oozes inspiration. But I’ll come back to that later.

The cheapest flight I could find on Expedia was on Aeroflot, a Russian airline I had never heard of before. It routed me through Moscow (with a ten-hour layover en route, and a six-hour layover on the way back to Dubai), but as this flight was significantly less expensive than all the rest of my options, I went for it. As I would have had to apply for a visa to leave the airport (which requires both time and a sponsor within Russia, neither of which I had available), I spent the whole of my sixteen hours in Moscow in the airport. That first night in the Moscow airport was decidedly arduous. Considering my degree in history, I should have heeded the lessons provided by the errors of Napoleon and Hitler, but I travelled to Russia in winter regardless. Trying to sleep on a row of uncomfortable airport waiting area chairs in a poorly-heated (if at all) terminal manned by unsmiling and non-English speaking workers was an experience, to be sure. I sat next to a friendly Russian guy in his mid-thirties named Ilya on the flight from Dubai to Moscow. He spoke fairly good English, stemming from his experience in a university exchange program in the States in the early nineties. Nice guy. The only one in Moscow, I think. I know my experience with Russia and Russians is limited at best, but good heavens! They just don’t smile. Even to each other. Maybe it’s because they were on the night-shift at the airport in winter. Maybe it’s because I didn’t speak any Russian (I had brought an Italian phrasebook, but I wasn’t planning on spending much time, and thus, talking, in Russia, so I was admittedly ill-prepared in that regard), but they didn’t even smile to one another, so that argument loses credibility pretty easily. I think it’s most likely because Russia is (and has historically been) commonly associated with four things: atrocious weather, tyrannical leadership, depressing literature, and vodka. And those nesting dolls. I guess that’s their little ray of sunshine. But, at least at the airport duty-free shop, they were rather overpriced. As, I suppose demand for levity and joy would outweigh supply in Russia, so that makes sense. But now I’m getting analytical with something intended to be facetious, so we’re going to skip back to the story now. Sorry if you were enjoying my analysis of the cause of Russian antipathy. I don’t really know what the cause is for certain. I just know they should smile more. If they can do it in Bangladesh, they can do it in Russia. C’mon guys! Stalin’s dead. Laugh a little. It won’t get you killed (probably…).

Leaving the coldness of Russia and Russians behind me, I flew to Rome, Italy. Now, I could easily delve into a step-by-step recap of my trip in Rome, but that would not only be unnecessarily time-consuming (both for me as writer and for you, my faithful readers), but it would also be somewhat contrary to the purposes of my trip. For, you see, this was not a sight-seeing trip. Oh, sure, there were plenty of sights seen (and many more I have yet to see), but, as I mentioned earlier, this trip was different. It wasn’t the ‘go, go, go, rush, rush, rush, take pictures of everything I can and move on to the next church, palace, monument or ruin’ attitude that drives the trips of most tourists (myself included, albeit I tend to loiter a bit more, taking more pictures from more angles and such, than most). The girl who checked me into the hostel the first morning was surprised at the length of my stay (nine days, eight nights), as most travelers (especially young ones staying at hostels) tend to spend a few nights in one city before moving on to the next. So much to see, so little time. Go, go, go. But what I most wanted to see, what I most desired to explore and seek out was not a monument, a basilica, or a decrepit edifice from ages past. To be sure, my encounters with those sorts of locales provided an ideal environment for my true goal, but they served simply as a means to an end. What I wanted to see, to explore, to discover, was myself. And that I did.

I won’t share all of my deepest revelations here. For one, they are revelations primarily for me, and thus far more private than should be broadcast on a public medium such as this blog. For another, some of what I discovered I am in still in the process of analyzing: what I learned, what that means, and how it should (and will) be manifested in my life. Indeed, how those revelations manifest in my life, both at present and in the months and years to come, should be more than sufficient evidence as to the nature and importance of said introspective discoveries. I will share some of what I discovered, though; but first, the process.

As I’ve mentioned, this was not intended to be a touristy trip. As such, for much of my trip, I just explored. I wandered the streets, coming to intersections and picking a direction at random (unless I saw a church or particularly impressive-looking building down one of the streets, but even in that, I was often torn, as all-too-often there were multiple churches, etc. down each avenue… that’s Rome, for you, though). I discovered both the Basilica of St. John Lateran and the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore by accident, just stumbling upon them while exploring. In the course of my exploration, I made every endeavor to avoid tourists. Especially while eating. Most every restaurant I ate at was several side alleys away from the main thoroughfares and tourist sites. I spoke, read, and listened to as much Italian as possible. It’s amazing what you can learn of a language just by reading the signs and adverts around town. (Given, my knowledge of Spanish and my love of etymology certainly helped in my learning). In fact, I felt quite international during the trip, as I spoke a combination of English, Italian, Spanish, German, and French, depending on who I was with at the time, while reading a good smattering of both Italian and Latin (again, utilizing my knowledge of those and related languages, and using etymology and conjecture to fill in the gaps). Also on the international aspect, I befriended people from Italy (duh!), Germany, Australia, Brazil, Argentina, Greece, Korea, Spain, America, the Netherlands, and Israel. I went to St. Peter’s Basilica with my friend from Israel, and went on a couple of dates with a girl from Germany. After having lived in the Middle East for so long, it was interesting (and somewhat refreshing) to see the other perspective of things (just as getting the Middle-Eastern perspective was interesting after having lived in the States for so long).

I enjoyed the Italian nightlife, including frequenting a few pubs and partying at a nightclub that seemed to be built into the arched basement of a medieval building. Truly an experience. But the real experience, the real meat of the trip, both in the time dedicated to it and in the long-lasting importance from the trip, was my writing.

I wrote some on a short story for which I had found inspiration shortly before leaving for the trip. I also wrote a little poetry (including one poem about Rome penned whilst sitting on the Spanish Steps at sunset… how’s that for romantic (no pun intended)?). But the bulk of my writing, inscribed in a notebook I carried around Rome with me everywhere I went, took the form of journal entries. Meditative, introspective, reflective. I analyzed, I probed, I second-guessed, I considered, I reconsidered, I wondered, I pondered, I asked, I answered, I dug, I dreamed. The entries covered a range of topics and emotions. I wrote them in numerous churches and basilicas around Rome. I wrote them while sitting in cafes and ristorantes frequented by locals. I wrote them at the Trevi Fountain, in St. Peter’s Square, on the Spanish Steps, in the shadow of the Colosseum. I reflected on my experiences, on my thoughts, my emotions, my goals, my dreams, my failures, my successes, my hopes, my fears, what I thought I wanted, what I now know I want, who I was before, who I was then, and who I want to become. I probed and pondered my thoughts and beliefs, on life, on love, on God, on humanity, on art, on faith, on ambition, on identifying dreams and making those dreams reality, on the brevity of life, on the importance of seizing every moment, on priorities, on relationships, on nigh everything of true import in this life and the next. I can’t tell you everything I learned, for all of my answers are not yet fully formed, and indeed, it may take years to find the words (if such words exist) to properly understand, and then describe, what I learned in Rome (and have been learning since). And again, some of what I decided may be too personal than would be apropos to publish here. A few things I did discover, or perhaps reaffirm, though:

First, I love writing. Writing, and the inspiration that leads to my writing (often taking the form of exploring new places, reading and researching, and traveling) is the single most fulfilling thing I know how to do. I’ve been told I have a gift for it. I don’t know about all that, but it’s what I love to do, and, increasingly, it’s what I know how to do. If I could write for a living, I might be the happiest man alive. And even now, though my profession is non-writing, whenever I write, I am brimming with satisfaction and a sense of fulfillment. More and more, I feel that writing is my calling. Whatever you take that to mean, it’s where my heart is, where my talents seem to lie, where my personality, interests, and goals all seem to fit. And I feel confident (as do many of my friends and family who unwaveringly support me and my pursuit of this dream) that I will be a published author someday. Perhaps sooner than I think. God’s got a way of surprising me like that, and, generally speaking, when I get an idea into my head, an idea that’s more than just a fleeting thought but is the type one structures ones life around, when I get a solid goal in my mind, I pursue it doggedly (I guess that’s my Taurus coming out). And almost without fail, it comes true. The fact that, against all odds and logic, I’m writing this in Dubai should bear testament to that.

Second: this isn’t so much a nice concise ‘discovery’ that I can pack into a little nugget for you (and me), as it is a feeling, a point of growth that happened on the trip. On the trip, in all of my striking out on my own, my exploring, my meeting people, my engaging in new, unfamiliar experiences, I found myself growing in confidence. There are more aspects to it than that (for, to be sure, I have been striking out on my own, exploring, meeting people, and experiencing new things ever since coming to Dubai), and I won’t get into the specifics of the new level of confidence I’m finding myself having, but it’s definitely a higher place of growth and understanding, both of myself and my place in the world around me.

Third (or third and fourth if you prefer, for at this point, the ideas become fairly enmeshed): the world is rather quite different than I had imagined from my relatively sheltered life in Tallahassee. Given, this is a fact that I have been becoming gradually more aware of since I came to Dubai, but this came out all the more in Rome; whether this is because of the numerous experiences I had and everything I encountered while on my trip, or if it is due primarily to my time of reflection, I cannot say; I simply know that I gained a greater acquaintance and understanding of the bigger world while in Italy. When I say that the world is different, I do not mean to say that it is necessarily better or worse; I simply mean that it is different. Certainly some aspects could be argued, from one moralistic worldview or another, to be better or worse than my initially conceived notions, but, as these notions were based on hypothesis and ideals, and as the world I’ve since encountered is based on fact and experience, to compare the two would be a fallacious enterprise.

Following on the heels of that discovery comes a nugget about my writing (this would be where the ‘fourth’ revelation would begin, if you wish to break them up as such). I began writing my first in July 2006, after drawing inspiration from my first trip to New York City. That year, from the summer of 2006 to the summer of 2007, I just wrote. My source material for my writing came from my own head. And, though perhaps not quite crap, it left much to be desired, both in content and in style. Stage 2 of my writing development began in September 2007: I started to read like crazy. In fact, since September 2007, I’ve read over 200 books, most of them novels. There’s an adage or two about having to read to be able to write, and they are decidedly true. When I picked up the pen again to start working on my novel (after a too-long hiatus from the work, but having read dozens of novels in the interim), I ended up scrapping most of my previous work. The overarching story remained, but most of the scenes I had penned thus far (and almost all of the writing) got the axe. And the work was all the better for it. I could recognize good writing and bad writing much better. I knew what worked and what didn’t, what should be told and what should be shown, all the little nuances of writing and pacing much better than before (but certainly, even now, I have much, much more to learn and grow in). (I apologize for the lengthiness of this ‘nugget’ I’ve claimed to have discovered, but I promise its end is forthcoming.) I thought I was done with stages, that I would continue along the path set forth by stage 2 of reading much and writing even more to grow as an author. But, in moving to Dubai, and in all of my new experiences, in all of the new locations I’ve explored, in all of the encounters with ‘real life’ I’ve had, in all the discoveries about how the world really is, I’ve found inspiration, both for new works and for how to make my current works better, more authentic, more relevant. Enter stage 3: engaging in life, experiencing and understanding how the world really works, instead of writing from an isolated, sheltered perspective which anyone who has actually lived outside a box (which would be most of my readers) could recognize as artificial. And I’ve been blessed with an ideal place for that. A place where travel is easy, where life comes at you fast, where can be found a microcosm of all the world’s joys and ills, of peoples and languages, of experiences both new and timeless: Dubai. Dubai may be a shallow, often artificial place, but there is much here that will provide both insight and inspiration, both as a writer and as a person. After all, this is the Middle East: underneath the shallow sand of the glitz and glamour, there’s bound to be some petroleum reserves of experience, wisdom, and encounters with the real world that I can draw on in my stories and in life. And to find it, I just have to dig.

Just like I did in Rome.

Jordan (November 19-24, 2008)

[FINALLY finished and posted!]

The Levant. The Holy Land. Though technically part of the Middle East, Jordan is drastically different from the Arabian Peninsula in environment, history, and culture. The landscape is gray and rocky, with trees, shrubbery, and grass making regular appearances; the hilly contours of the land provide for some amazing vistas; and the weather… well, it’s cooler and it rains more. The region is also rich in history and archaeology, including biblical sites such as the Dead Sea and the River Jordan, ruins from the heyday of the Roman Empire like the cities of Jerash and Umm Qais (as well as theatres, the remnants of temples, and other vestiges of the city’s ancient origins in Amman itself), castles from medieval times, like the Crusader fortress of Karak and the Saracen stronghold of Ajlun, and world wonders like the ‘lost city’ of Petra. And for a history lover such as myself, where the oldest monuments I had yet encountered were from the Age of Discovery, a country steeped in history and monuments from the ancient and medieval periods alike, this was an unprecedented event.

Martine, Sunali and I are the faculty advisors for our school’s Model United Nations team. For those of you unfamiliar with what Model United Nations is, it’s basically just what it sounds like: an organization that models itself on the real United Nations. We assign country delegations to the students, give them issues to research, have them draw up proposals and resolutions, and defend and debate those positions in ‘sessions’. The Amman MUN conference was our school's first conference this year (and incidentally, the first conference ever for Sunali and myself, as well as for fifteen of our twenty-one students; Martine had never taken students to a conference before, but she had some exposure with how conferences were run due to her school having hosted one when she was at university).

We stayed in the Radisson SAS Amman, the site of a car bomb explosion during a wedding in the hotel in 2006. Every time we entered the hotel we had to go through a metal detector and submit to a pat-down. This actually ended up being the norm in most buildings we entered, including at the host school of the conference and at a group dinner with all of the faculty advisors and children that took place in a tourist dinner venue housed in a trader compound built in the 19th century. And yet, as with the poverty and disease that were so blatantly prevalent in Bangladesh, the history of terrorist attacks and instability in the region didn’t stop the residents from smiling and being friendly. Thus far, with every country I’ve visited (excepting Oman (because I was only there for about two hours), and Russia (because… well, it’s Russia)) the people do seem to be quite friendly and welcoming towards visitors (ostensibly because they want their country to get a good reputation from foreigners, but also likely owing to a sense of civic pride in one’s culture and heritage…something we see far too little of in the artificial, shallow, transient world of Dubai).

The first day in Jordan was spent traveling, getting settled in, and exploring a little bit of Amman. More than any place I’ve been thus far in my international travels, Amman reminded me of home. I don’t know if it was the mild weather (like the cool, crisp Autumns in Tallahassee), the rolling hills, or the city planning itself (its road systems, buildings, and whole feel reminded me much more of Tallahassee (or even Jacksonville, the other Florida city I’ve been frequenting over the past few years) than did the spread-out, mall-, hotel-, and highway-philic city of Dubai, the dirty, decrepit and overpopulated city of Dhaka, or the historic bustling city of Rome (getting ahead of myself…)). It was probably a combination of the three. And the fact that the city had a soul. A soul I could relate to (as opposed to the soulless artifice of a city that is Dubai, or the impoverished city of Dhaka which undoubtedly has a soul, but our stay there was too brief, and its ‘soul’ too foreign to be quickly related to). Walking the streets (not like that!), especially some of the quieter, more residential streets in the cool of the afternoon, the gray skies overhead portending rain that wouldn’t come, shading us from the heat and glare of the sun… that was a fun experience. And we (in this instance, being Martine, Sunali, myself, and about half-a-dozen of our students) were all but alone on our little walking journey. Very few other pedestrians were in the area, and even fewer cars. Moreover, despite being in the largest city in Jordan, there was very little ambient noise – automotive or otherwise – intruding into our peaceful escapade. But enough about that.

In the interest of expeditiousness, I’m going to cut most of the MUN part of the trip from this entry (e.g. the sessions, the interactions with the kids, et al), and just focus on the four historical excursions that the three of us undertook. And I’ll be doing well just to keep those rich experiences from turning into a novel-length entry. Here goes.

Despite the wealth of historic monuments in Jordan, one is undoubtedly the most famous. Rediscovered by the Western world in the nineteenth century, popularized by travel journals and pictorials, and immortalized by Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, the ‘lost city’ of Petra is by far Jordan’s most famous archaeological site, making an appearance on most ‘new’ Seven Wonders of the Ancient World lists (as six of the ‘original’ seven have been lost to antiquity). I admit that, prior to going on this trip, I was unaware of the myriad ‘non-Petra’ castles and ruins that Jordan can claim.

Our trip to Petra was one of the three excursions offered by the conference for students and faculty advisors alike. The others, to Jerash and to the traditional baptism site of Jesus at the Jordan River, were interesting to be sure, but my desire to see those sites paled in comparison to that of seeing Petra. Martine, Sunali and I, along with five of our students (the other sixteen went on other excursions with other advisers from other schools) boarded a tour bus from our hotel and started on our three-hour journey south. And on my head, of course, I wore my Indiana Jones ‘lucky adventuring hat’. It just wouldn’t be right any other way.

From the main entrance, the first hour or so of the journey travels down the Siq, the high-walled canyon that meanders through the rocky region. The path was dotted with idols and miniature shrines, the details of which had long since been blasted away by the sands of time. The cobbled stones of the old Roman road, built when the Nabataeans (the ancient near-east civilization who inhabited these hills and built the edifices that we had come to see) finally relinquished control of their lands to the all-powerful Roman Empire. The well-preserved remains of the Roman dams, now long dry on both sides. The meticulously calculated trenches cut into the side of the Siq, taking advantage of the natural downward gradient of the channel (its ancient riverbed origins being the cause of the canyon’s existence in the first place) and mirroring the preciseness of the gradual slope that the Romans would later use in perhaps their greatest architectural and scientific achievement: the aqueducts. The Nabataeans were a nomadic people originally from Arabia, not unlike the Bedouins, who forsook their wandering ways and took up a permanent residence in the environs of Petra, using the natural surroundings (such as the single narrow entrance (and thus, easily defended) and the natural slope (for irrigation purposes) of the Siq to their advantage in the relatively inhospitable region. But Petra isn’t a world-renowned site, a marvel of antiquity, because of the resourcefulness of its settlers. It is famous because of its tombs, the myriad sepulchers and facades built into the very walls of the cliffs themselves. And the most famous of these tombs, the most elaborate and well-preserved of these facades, belongs to the site that Steven Spielberg and Harrison Ford helped to make world-famous as the mythical resting place of the Holy Grail: the monument known (seemingly fallaciously) as the Treasury.

I’ve seen dozens of pictures of the Treasury; I’ve seen it in movies; I’ve studied its history and design. I was obviously excited to see it, and I knew that it would be a monumental (no pun intended) experience for me, a lover of all things historical and all sites archaeological. And yet, nothing could have prepared me for the sight that greeted me as I rounded that last turn in the Siq before the façade of the Treasury, shining dust red in the daylight at the end of that sun-starved alley of twisted stone we had been traversing for the past hour. You must understand, too, that we had no idea exactly around which turn (for there were many in our long, winding journey) that imposing sight would greet our eyes. Even if we had known exactly how many steps lay between us and that fateful sight, though, I have little doubt that my reaction would have been much the same. My reaction? It quite literally took my breath away. I was quite excited when I caught my first glimpse of the easily recognizable monument, but when I finally stepped from the maw of the Siq and into the open canyon floor in front of the Treasury, my breath caught in my throat and I very nearly staggered in wonder. I don’t know if it was the sheer magnitude of it (it was even higher than I had anticipated), the fact that this towering monument dated back before the time of Christ (it is believed that the Treasury was built in the First Century B.C.), or the fact that I was finally beholding one of the great historic, archeological, and, at least in the popular mythos, mystery-filled sights in the world. I was living out a dream of mine, seeing one of the sights that I had always dreamed of beholding. Petra. The Grail Temple (actually, I checked inside, and it’s much more boring than in the movie (Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, if you haven’t been following along). Either Spielberg staged the whole thing on a set, or the drab stone walls and ceiling with the rectangular, unadorned doorways are what’s left of the temple after Ilsa tried to bring the Grail across the seal and the whole place came crashing down around their ears). Okay, so enough of my adventure-nerd humor. Back to the story.

The rest of Petra was also amazing, though that moment, that encounter with the mythical monument at the Treasury, was undoubtedly the pinnacle of our excursion. From the treasury, we followed the main path deeper into the city. After a bit, the path opened up from the relatively narrow canyon floor we had been walking on to a more open area. The hawkers, who had made their first appearance at the plaza in front of the Treasury, were out in spades, selling everything from souvenir magnets and books to handmade crafts and ‘authentic’ coins from ancient Rome to rides on camels, donkeys, or in horse-drawn carriages. The sandblasted facades of once-ornate tombs dotted the cliffsides. One large tomb, seemingly hundreds of meters from the canyon floor, showcased a trail of tourists and explorers traversing the narrow precipice that led to its entrance, like ants to an unguarded picnic basket. An ancient Roman theatre, still in good repair after countless generations of its builders’ absence, was the greatest monument in the scene of the city’s Latin conquerors, the theatre-goers of yore watched in turn by the tombs and temples that surrounded the pavilion, a theatre of even greater magnitude and whose shows continue millennia later, the endless parade of tourists from worlds the Romans knew nothing of, still watched by the eyeless sentinels of ages past. Centuries of wind and sandstorms had sculpted the hills into a variety of shapes; in some places they were the rough edges of a broken lump of clay, untouched by the potter and left to dry and crack in the sun; in others, they were smooth and twisted, like the work of a glassblower, pulled and wrapped in beautiful, amorphous forms like taffy. And everywhere, the vestiges of its ancient denizens, Nabataean and Roman alike, caught the eye and screamed the resilience of their stonecraft, still standing, if a little worse for the wear, fifteen centuries after both peoples had ceased to inhabit these haunting hills. As we sat on a wooden bench facing this scene of ancient wonder, munching on a noontime snack of a Twix bar and a bottle of water, but one word flashed through my mind: wow.

Due to time constraints, we were unable to explore most of the city (although what we did get to experience was more than worth the trip), but I definitely plan to return sometime soon, probably camping in the hills and experiencing Petra as it was meant to be experienced. And yet, in great irony, my staying in Petra would have the opposite effect as to that of the first Nabataeans who called this city home: it would be much quieter, less-crowded, and more primitive than that of my normal city-dwellings, while the permanent city that Petra was to the once-nomadic Nabataeans would have provided the reverse experience. And beyond the adventure, the wonder, the excitement of exploring those hills explored by millions of other feet, thousands of years apart, is my other motivation: Petra will definitely figure into one of my novels, probably prominently. I’ve known that Petra would inevitably find its way into one, but my trip there more than confirmed it. If you ever get the opportunity to go, go.

Martine, Sunali and I also got to go visit the old Roman theatre in Amman, a colossal structure set against a hillside. I climbed the treacherously narrow stairs, crumbled in parts by the feet of countless patrons and visitors, the decay and wear of time, to the very top. Although the theatre was in a valley, the view was amazing. For those who are curious, the city we now call Amman is the important site known as Rabbah of the Ammonites in the Old Testament and was called Philadelphia in Hellenistic times, which explains the wealth of ruins of ancient grandeur that can still be found throughout the city today. The few remaining pillars of the Temple of Apollo, near the ancient Citadel and set atop the tallest hill in the city, could be seen from nearly anywhere in the older part of the city, as could a smattering of old palaces and mosques from the Byzantine and Islamic eras, a visual timeline of the long history of the city.

At the northmost tip of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan sits the ruins of the Roman city of Umm Qais (known to the Romans as Gadara). The three of us traveled northward from Amman to this historic site. And what a sight it was! The city was situated at the top of a tremendous hill, from which you could see Syria to the north and, just west of the sparkling Jordan River, Israel was visible. It felt like the ‘see seven states’ motto of Lookout Mountain, Georgia. Only Georgia is somewhat lacking in the Roman ruins department. When the three of us were exploring the theatre and the tunnels beneath, we saw something none of us had seen since we had arrived in Dubai: rain. It wasn’t a downpour; more like a hard, persistent drizzle, but we relished it. The cool autumn air, the crisp smell of unadulterated nature, miles from the nearest urban area, the refreshing moisture from the heavens, a heavens we were already a good thousand feet closer to than was the highest adjacent valley, a moisture we hadn’t had the pleasure of dancing in for months. We laughed and craned our necks skyward, extending our arms in an expression of surrender to the blessing of the heavens, closing our eyes and drinking in the moment. When it was occupied, Umm Qais would have been quite a bustling place. A theatre, several temples, houses and outbuildings galore, and what may have once been a palace (the governor’s house, perhaps?). A long stretch of Roman road, glistening black with the recent rain, extended northward, lined by the ruins of tombs and baths. About a kilometer down the road, I encountered an active archaeological dig (though, strangely, using backhoes and other heavy equipment that didn’t seem quite appropriate for the meticulous, detailed, one-shot-only work of archaeological excavation, but then, what do I know?). A ranger station (or whatever they call them in Jordan) was also just off the road, perched at the edge of the cliff to maintain a proper vigil on the valleys below. When exploring the city, I noticed something that I had never encountered before: there were no guardrails, no blockades, no areas that were posted as being prohibited for visitors. So I just went nuts. I climbed, ran, hopped from structure to structure. The whole city was my playground; my two-thousand-year-old playground. I entered old houses, poked my head in cisterns, crawled through tunnels and passageways, climbed and jumped and wandered my way around the city. I had the most glorious time getting lost and then getting more lost, just wandering and exploring and discovering and satisfying my insatiable curiosity. I doubt that there was ever a Roman who lived in that city who had as much fun as I did just exploring. Good times.

The final historical site we visited dated not from antiquity but from the medieval era: Ajlun, the Saracen fortress built and manned by a nephew of Salah al-Din (known to the western world as Saladin, the great Saracen strategist during the crusades, revered in the Arab and Western worlds alike and generally regarded, alongside Richard the Lionheart, to be the greatest general of the era). When we arrived, the sun was beginning its long autumn descent into dusk, the waning light, breaking through the thick clouds at intervals, silhouetting the stronghold on the solitary hilltop, the modern town of Ajlun filling the valley at its foot like children gathered at the skirt of their mother, seeking protection and refuge from an enemy long-since vanquished. The view of the castle (my first medieval castle, mind you) was captivating. I think my first glimpse of it, its features shrouded by distance and poor lighting, its stalwart parapets jutting into the sky, the enigmatic sentinel standing alone atop its verdant lookout, filled me with even more wonder and awe than when I actually began exploring it, half-an-hour later. Which is not to belittle the experience of exploring a medieval castle, one that withstood every crusader attack launched upon it. On the contrary, exploring the fortress of Ajlun, its myriad halls, tunnels, chambers and passageways was yet another moment of magic and mystery that I will hold dear for the rest of my life. Peering out through the arrow slits in one of the outer walls, I found myself wondering: Who stood here eight-hundred years ago? What did they see in the valley below? Crusaders? Mongols? What went through their minds as they defended this fortress? It was the same rectangular hole in the stone, the same slit in the wall that provided an eye to the valley below, but though the window was the same, the situation of the man who looked through the window and the view itself had changed drastically. Some of the walls were ruined, some looked much as they would have in the twelfth century. Upon climbing to the top (again taking advantage of the lack of guard rails and other such safety measures/barriers-to-exploration that are a staple in American historical sites and tourist attractions), a magnificent view greeted my eyes. The valley that surrounded my vantage point was green with trees, gray with homes and offices. And it extended for miles. No red-and-white banners of the approaching Crusaders to be seen, no blood-curdling war cries of the feared Mongol hordes; just the idyllic sight of the verdant valley, the setting sun stretching shadows across the landscape, the whisper of the wind tickling my eardrums the only sound. Awed as I was by the view, I knew our time there grew short, as closing time was rapidly approaching, so, just as I had in Umm Qais (albeit with more of an element of danger, considering the sheer height of the edifice and its topographical position), I explored my heart out, clambering over wall and through tunnel, up precarious staircases, seemingly not intended for visitors, and down five-foot drops to levels below. At one point, while exploring an area of the roof, I encountered a shallow slope of pebbles and crumbling rock that ended at a thirty- or forty-foot sheer drop (which I actually got on video… yeah, I was running around doing this stuff with a camera in hand… crazy, eh?). ‘Intrepid world explorer’, indeed. All in all, a very interesting place that I want to go back to again and spend more time exploring.

So, in short, this trip, though we had to do teacher supervisor stuff much of the time, was my most enjoyable vacation to date. Great people, refreshing weather, beautiful vistas, and the ability to explore world wonders, ancient cities, and medieval castles mostly unhindered by barriers combined to make this trip one never to be forgotten, and in all likelihood, one to be repeated sometime in the near future.

Bangladesh

Restart. I’ve written a lot on my trip to Bangladesh already, but with my overambitious attempt to relate every minute detail (a task all but impossible for even the most seasoned of travel writers), with life going on (and, indeed, accelerating), and with copious other writing projects demanding my more immediate attention, I had just put this on the back burner (along with the entries on my other trips) until I ‘had more time’. Which, as we all know, doesn’t happen. You make time. But, in the interest of allowing time (made or otherwise) for other writing projects, I’ve now taken the liberty of condensing my initially conceived scope of a day-by-day breakdown of the trip into a nice summary. For a vividly detailed, intricately plotted recounting of this voyage (and others), I may end up writing a book regarding my experiences abroad, but this is a more immediate medium, demanding more immediate (and thus, less carefully thought-out and edited) writings. So, in the interest of expeditiousness (nearly three months after the fact…), I’m writing the abbreviated version of my adventures in Bangladesh. It won’t quite do it justice, but it’ll do for now.

(Note: I introduced my co-adventurers in my previous entries on Bangladesh, but for completeness’s sake, I’ll reintroduce them here: Asha and Rebecca, both from Canada, and Jorge (from Spain). All of them friends and colleagues of mine, and all with a good number of foreign countries under their belts (including several third-world nations), albeit none that had the impact on them as did Bangladesh.)

(One further clarification: the vehicle I refer to as a ‘rickshaw’ is not a rickshaw in the traditional, Chinese sense, pulled by a footman walking through the streets. This rickshaw is a covered seat that can uncomfortably (and rather precariously) fit two passengers, tacked onto the back portion of a bicycle. Hope that helps in envisioning the story. On with the show!)

So, Bangladesh. Amazing, strange, dirty, impoverished, mysterious, yet friendly country. About 160 million people (population estimates vary significantly, but without a strong infrastructure with proper census-taking capabilities, it’s to be expected that a good chunk of the population wouldn’t be accounted for, especially considering the high birth and death rates in the region) shoved into a country smaller than the state of Georgia. Once the wealthiest and most beautiful Dutch colony on the Indian subcontinent, now one of the poorest countries on earth. Yet, the people were always smiling. At least when they saw us western travelers. Whether this was because we were as much an oddity to them as their unique land was to us, I can’t say for certain, but it was an intriguing paradox. I could philosophize on poverty and wealth, on the mindsets and worldviews of the first-world nations (and their inhabitants) versus those of the third-world nations, but I won’t. At least not here. An interesting dichotomy, to be sure. We’ll leave it at that for now.

When people ask me what Bangladesh was like, the word I keep returning to is ‘authentic’. Dirt, grime, people everywhere, trash, wild animals, the hollowed-out shells of buildings left over from the region’s colonial past, swampland and dense forests, naked children, deformed old beggars, roadside villages populated by corrugated-tin hovels, shelters constructed of worn tarpaulins and black plastic sheets, emaciated cows and goats withering away on the verdant roadside, fishermen eking out a living in hand-hewn wooden boats, rice farmers wading into the disease-ridden waters of the paddy, toothless old grandmothers sitting in a doorway and staring blankly at the world. The Third World in all its glory. Much of what I saw probably hasn’t changed much since Kipling’s day, or earlier (save, of course, for the occasional faded Pepsi sign plastered on a wall somewhere). Truly an experience.

One more fun note: as you would expect of a third-world country, the water isn’t safe to drink. Bottled water is available, of course, and this was an interesting experience: drinking, washing your hands, brushing your teeth, and every other daily activity utilizing water that we have a tendency to take for granted all become far more tedious tasks than one would think. But that’s not the promised ‘fun’ part; this is: even the bottled water (or at least some brands that we ran across, purchased, and imbibed, albeit without reading the mineral analysis on the label that provided the following revelation) includes some interesting substances, such as lead, arsenic, and cyanide. No joke. Whee!

The car ride from Dhaka in the center of the country to Cox’s Bazar in the southeast (that those who read my previous entries on this trip have been waiting so patiently to hear about) took just shy of fifteen hours… to travel all of 350 kilometers. Bangladesh traffic, especially during the exodus from Dhaka that accompanied the Muslim holiday of Eid al-Fitr. Buses overflowing capacity, with boys hanging on the back and sides, dozens of men sitting atop. Trains with dozens more men sitting atop them as the vehicle hurtled across the countryside. What was inside, whether freight or more passengers, I don’t know. Rickshaws, men leading cows through the streets on a tether, bicyclists with baskets of full of dozens of live chickens lashed to the back, boys pushing carts full of potatoes through the streets: these were our traveling companions on the long road south. Half-hour-plus queues awaited us every forty-ish kilometers when we would have to stop to refill our car’s terribly small natural gas fuel tank. Bathrooms consisting of a filthy concrete room with a hole in the floor with more far more grime and bugs than one would find in an au-natural latrine in the middle of the wilderness. A waste-disposal policy consisting of throwing your trash (biodegradable or not) wherever suits your fancy (no, seriously, the guy who ran one gas station told me to just throw my tissues on the ground; I opted to carry them with me until I came to a proper trash can). Five people crammed into a tiny sedan, with our luggage, for fifteen hours. With nothing but an occasional apple or snack bar to eat, and a juice box or bottle of water to drink, for the whole day. And I was fevered and dehydrated to boot. If I can offer any advice on this situation, it’s this: don’t go to a third-world country when you’re already sick. It’s just asking for trouble. But more on that in a moment.

We finally got to Cox’s Bazar around midnight at the end of our second day, and found a hotel of sorts in which to stay. Looking out from our room (or from the balcony on which our floor’s rooms were accessed) we could see rice paddies, trash heaps, a small cluster of makeshift huts that the locals called ‘home’, and the decrepit remains of concrete buildings long since forsaken, iron rebar jutting from the edges in rows like dutiful sentries waiting for an enemy that would never come. It was kind of unreal. Our rooms were kinda crappy as hotel rooms go, but when compared to the accommodations of the locals around us, it was the bloody Ritz-Carlton. On the other side of the hotel (visible from the roof), the view was layered: directly below, the two-lane road leading past the hotel, frequented by pedestrians, bicycles and rickshaws, with the occasional car coming past to mix things up; beyond the road, a hedge of tall conifers (whose tops were just below the roof of the seven-story hotel); past the trees, the longest unbroken white-sand beach in the world (120 km), the beach of Cox’s Bazar, could be seen; and beyond that, the crashing waves of the Bay of Bengal and the majestic horizon. I returned to this view several times throughout the trip: during the brightness of the day, with the excited shouts of bicyclists and beachgoers providing audible testament to the busyness of the place; in the awe-inspiring orange and red of sunset, as the hot tropical sun dipped into the sea for its daily respite; in the cool solace of the night, with the occasional faint ringing of the bells of a rickshaw on the street below the only sound breaking up the soft rhythm of waves crashing against the seashore, the perfect sliver of the Eid moon reflecting off the waters of the Bay, the subtly shimmering sands of the beach, the dark treetops casting their silhouettes on the hauntingly beautiful spectacle behind them. This last, the nighttime view, was perhaps the most memorable, its quietude and peaceful sense of solitude washing over me after a long day.

On day three, our first day at Cox’s Bazar, we took it pretty easy. Got up late, kinda missing breakfast, and we ventured over to the pool of the hotel next-door to our hotel. We boogied down with a bunch of guys from Sri Lanka on vacation in Cox’s Bazar. Actually, they were doing most of the boogying, and we were doing the chilling, watching, and enjoying the spectacle. We did meet a few of them, but my fever, worsened by the long, arduous day in the car the day before and weakened by malnourishment and dehydration, made me less outgoing than I might have normally been. We ordered some beef and fried rice and ate our first real meal in more than thirty-six hours by the pool. It actually tasted pretty good, but that was probably due at least in part to my voracious appetite that had not been sated for the past few days.

That evening, the four of us set out to explore the nearby village of Cox’s Bazar, hiring a pair of rickshaws and their drivers from the group of a dozen or more who crowded around the gate to our hotel, clamoring for our business. We drove/rode (for Asha and Rebecca opted to drive for a good portion of the journey, Jorge and myself seated next to our respective deposed local drivers) down several open roads, the cool air of evening blowing in our faces as we cruised, finally arriving at the village proper. Its streets were crowded with rickshaws and foot traffic, increasingly so as we neared the market. Our drivers led us to a set of about ten shop faces, five on each side of a corridor that opened on one end onto the street. Each shop sold slightly different items at arbitrarily inflated prices (for haggling purposes), was tended by a Burmese (‘Myanmarian’?) woman or two, and was owned by the same businessman in Myanmar. Considering the lovely exchange rate of about 50 Bengali Taka to the UAE dirham (or about 180 to the U.S. dollar) and the incredibly low cost of living in Bangladesh (commiserate with the incredibly low wages available), we found some lovely souvenirs at this collection of shops. Our drivers had followed us in and helped us, with our negligible knowledge of the Bengali language (consisting solely of how to say ‘Thank you’) and relative greenness to the customs of commerce in such a place (myself far more so than my more well-traveled co-adventurers), not to get taken advantage of with shoddy product or overpriced merchandise (given, said merchandise at its ‘overpriced’ state was still a pretty good deal, all things considered).

As the sun set that evening, Eid was called (that is, the holiday was declared to have officially begun… although supposedly it was called the day before (or even two days before) in most of the rest of the Muslim world… that’s Bangladesh for you). There’s something magical about driving a rickshaw through the nighttime streets of a village in Bangladesh, trading shouts of ‘Eid Mubarak’ (a greeting like ‘Merry Christmas’… but for Eid) with my fellow rickshaw drivers, ringing my little bicycle bell all the while. I was having the time of my life. We finally got to the hotel, paid our cab drivers (about ten times the going rate, unbeknownst to us, but the guys were good sports and quite helpful, so we figured they deserved it… it’d do them more good than it would us anyway), and went inside. I was hot, sweaty, and increasingly dehydrated, but still riding high from the surreal excitement we had just experienced. Before I got to my room, I knew I wasn’t feeling well, and I attributed it to perhaps being dehydrated or something. Asha insisted I should drink some water, but I thought I should wait, as my stomach was churning. Eventually I relented and drank some water. A few seconds later I saw it again. And that was the beginning of a delightful twenty-four hours of some sort of illness. I won’t go into too many gory details about the episode. It might have been food poisoning, a twenty-four hour flu, or something else. Jorge and I ate from the same plate during lunch that day, but it could have been that my fever (coupled with the lack of nourishment and hydration the previous day) had weakened me and made me more susceptible to whatever I got. Very few times in my life have I experienced such a low following so close on the heels of such a high. I spent most of Day Four, trying to keep some fluids down, sleeping, groaning, and reading. Even when the ordeal was over, I was weakened by having even more liquid and nourishment expelled from my system (and I still had my fever from before!). Additionally, certain smells, particularly ones that reminded me of the beef and fried rice I had eaten the day before (which, for whatever reason, seemed to be fairly ubiquitous in Cox’s Bazar) made me nauseous. Chicken corn soup (basically Egg-Drop Soup with tiny bits of diced chicken and a few kernels of corn dropped in) was my staple for the rest of the trip. Solid food, especially Bengali food, being seasoned like the ill-fated dish I ate on Day Three, was all but unpalatable for me. On a bright note, though, at the end of Day Four, after night had fallen, I discovered the previously described view of the Bay from the roof of the hotel. Perhaps I was predisposed to enjoying the view due to the miserable night and day I had just completed, but that rooftop view, with its cool quietness, its sense of peace and solace washing over me, was, at least at the moment, one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. A rotten ordeal, bookended by moments of joy and peace. Thank God for small blessings.

So Day Four was mostly a wash; on to Day Five. The four of us rode in a ‘tuk-tuk’, a small vehicle with a go-cart-like engine (hence the origin of the vehicle’s name), that has a roof and walls, but no doors. With a tiny backseat and a small front seat for the driver, it can comfortably fit two or three midgets. We crammed all four of us (plus the driver) into the vehicle. Good times. Every time we got into a vehicle in Bangladesh, from the car on the way to Cox’s Bazar, to the rickshaws whose backseats would accommodate only about half of each of the two passenger’s buttocks, to the perpetual fear of being slung from the ‘tuk-tuk’ and onto the street, to the soon-to-be-described boat ride and domestic prop-plane flight, we always seemed to be taking our lives in our hands. But considering the crowds of locals who ride on top of buses and trains, I suppose that’s just a way of life in Bangladesh. This ‘tuk-tuk’ took (ooh, sorry… bad pun not intended) us to the port, an old wooden boardwalk that branched off for docking in places. The number of bedraggled locals, clothed in rags and old t-shirts, who clamored around us throughout the day was somewhat unnerving. Not so much out of a fear that they posed a danger to our persons or possessions, nor really out of any sort of xenophobia, but rather just out of a sense of their sheer numbers and their lack of the Western idea of ‘personal space.’ But then, when you cram 160 million people into a 144,000-square-kilometer space, I guess such considerations never even enter the popular mindset. Unfortunately, this was somewhat exacerbated by their stares (evoked because of the foreign-ness of us relatively rare western tourists to their land), creating a feeling of being on display for these ubiquitous crowds of locals.

Our guide led us to an old wooden boat, already almost filled to its capacity of about twenty passengers. An outboard motor had been affixed to the boat, so we cruised out into the Bay of Bengal, headed for our destination of the nearby island of Maniyashi. We got an interesting view of the coast as we cruised down it, the groups of fishermen fishing from their dark wooden boats, more impoverished villages, more boats and people than I could count, the people probably the builders or ancestors thereof of many of the boats, every one of them wooden and fairly rough-hewn, betraying their indubitably hand-carved origins. As we got sprayed by water from the Bay during our high-speed crossing, I came to the conclusion that the Bay of Bengal is not only the dirtiest body of water I’ve ever encountered (the Hudson River included), but the smelliest. And of course, said nasty smells didn’t do anything good for my wellbeing considering my new sensitivity to them after my fun on Day Four. But back to our story.

On the island, we encountered an even more ‘authentic’ village, with all its exotic and impoverished trappings. The main purpose of our visit to the island was to visit the old Hindu temple (still in use by worshippers when we went) and the Buddhist pagoda atop the hill. A couple of goats were loafing atop headstones and at the foot of mausoleums in the nearby cemetery, the Bay on one side, the staircase up the mountain from the village to the temple on the other. Children and hawkers were all over the path up the mountain. The temple was fairly interesting, although it lacked the architectural wonders that travel books have impressed upon me as being a ‘typical’ Hindu temple. Dirty, dirty place. And we had to take off our shoes when entering the place. Good way to get gangrene, etc. But we didn’t. Thank Vishnu. Or something.

The Pagoda was pretty cool, too. The path up the mountain from the temple was, for the most part, little more than a goat path, the ground on either side sharply sloping into the valley below. In fact, if one of the goats we saw lounging by the side of the path were to race down it while we were trying to make our way along its perilously narrow course, we would likely as not have tumbled down the mountainside. Upon arriving at the pagoda, which was impressive in its own right, it was the view that took my breath away. You could see for miles; villages, rice paddies, farms, ponds, fishing trawlers in the Bay, children playing in a field, a view of everything that I’d seen thus far in my journey, a sweeping panorama of life in Bangladesh. We stayed at the pagoda for about twenty minutes, enjoying the view, interacting with the locals (including about four children) who had followed us up, and snapping the arbitrary photographs of the pagoda and the surrounding scenery.

After backtracking to the dock and then across the bay to the mainland, the girls went to go do their thing, while Jorge and I sauntered down to the beach. It was truly a sight to behold. And I’m not talking about the record-holding beach itself (as we were unable to appreciate its 120 kilometer length from our vantage point, and the part we could see was not all that impressive). The part that impressed us was the multitude of Bengali and other assorted Indian subcontinental peoples who thronged the beach. There were easily tens of thousands of beachgoers, all local (or at least more local than us crazy western tourists) and all fully clothed. Long sleeves and full trousers for the most part. And they went swimming in the same costumes. I felt like we’d stepped out of the forest and into a beach scene in 19th century England or America. Only the attire was more traditionally Indian… and the people were a wee bit tanner. But the number of the people milling about, most of whom didn’t even seem to be doing anything beach-related (i.e. something related to the sand, the water, or the sun), was the amazing part for us. Vendors walking up and down the beach sold everything from seashells to flowers to popcorn. Groups of young men played soccer in the packed sand. A man used a tether to lead a donkey down the beach, while a boy rode a horse the opposite direction, chased by his hooting friends.

Jorge and I took turns swimming in the surf, ignoring the red flag flying to indicate an undertow warning. The undertow wasn’t too bad, and, luckily, this part of the Bay didn’t stink like the area we’d boated across that morning. After our brief splashing about in the Bay, we wandered about on the beach for a while, eventually returning to the trees, finding a shady spot, and cracking open our respective books to read while the sun set (these books, along with our cameras, were the reason we took turns swimming: whomever wasn’t swimming was keeping those goods dry and unstolen).

Shortly before sunset, a group of about eight or so young men, probably in their late teens or early twenties, came up to the two of us and wanted to take pictures with us. Caught up in the moment, we consented, and they took turns swapping the cameras and the role of photographer, while the rest of the bunch surrounded us and posed with us like old friends. So we’re probably on some Bengali’s slideshow of their holiday in Cox’s Bazar (“…and here are these two white guys we found on the beach…”). As Jorge observed immediately thereafter, “now I know what it’s like to be a rock star.” Personally, I would have preferred a few more females amongst my groupies, but whatever. Kind of illustrative of the previously mentioned entertainment that we foreigners provided the locals.

More shortly before sunset, a group of children and their adult leader came over to us and started singing. Due to their accents, it took me a few verses to realize that they were singing in English, and singing about Jesus to boot. As it turned out, these children were orphans who had been taken under the care of the adult leader, a local pastor. Kind of interesting, being in the middle of a Muslim country, surrounded by countries that are primarily Hindu, Buddhist, and atheist, and here are a bunch of kids singing Sunday School songs. I talked with the pastor a bit, and he gave me his card. Then the sun set. And the sunset was decidedly beautiful (and grew even more so once the sun had fallen below the horizon… but alas, my camera batteries were dead). After regrouping with the girls for dinner, Jorge and I retired to our room, while the girls went to the hotel next door for an Eid dance party. Supposedly all of about ten people showed up, despite the advertisements stapled to the telephone poles lining the street. Jorge and I were bushed, and we decided to crash early. We had an early morning flight to catch.

Day six. The day of airports and smelly flights. Our flight from Dhaka to Sharjah was scheduled for nine or ten that evening. We were in Cox’s Bazar that morning. How to get to Dhaka in time? We decided shortly after arriving in Cox’s Bazar (while the memory of the fateful fifteen hour car ride was still painfully fresh in our minds), that we would take advantage of the domestic flights available on select days from Cox’s Bazar to Dhaka to expedite the trip and get us back to the Dhaka airport with minimal headache (and a much greater likelihood of us catching our flight, instead of being stuck in traffic behind a eight-cow pileup). Royal Bengal Airlines. On their weekly schedule, consisting of about eight or ten different routes between various airports in the country, the airline has about twenty-five different flights. In a whole week. Fleet of one or two planes total, I’d surmise. We traveled by van to the airport. I thought the airport looked like something out of a movie. Some long-abandoned airstrip out in the middle of nowhere, architecture and infrastructure evoking cinematic memories of World War II-era landing fields in isolated areas, a sorry excuse for an airport constructed in the African bush country in the mid-twentieth century. Something like that. On the tarmac sat several old prop planes that looked as though they hadn’t seen service (or indeed, even been serviceable) since sometime in the 1970s, and the tarmac itself was riddled with deep cracks and shoddy patchwork. The airport was tiny, with all of two rooms, the silliest excuse for airport security I’ve yet to encounter, and seemingly no sense of direction or purpose among the workers staffing the terminal. Luckily, the plane that arrived to pick us up did look newer, although it was also a prop plane (my first commercial prop plane!). It was relatively small, but surprisingly nice inside, and due to the morning hour (the flight departed around nine or ten in the morning), or perhaps just due to the fact that most Bengalis can’t afford to fly, the plane was quite empty. We ended up stopping in Chittagong for a few minutes while we dropped off a passenger or two and acquired a few more, before finally arriving in the Dhaka airport.

Jorge toured Dhaka a bit with a van and driver he hired, while Asha, Rebecca and I, adventured-out for the time being and not too keen on the relatively exorbitant price quoted by the van driver, hung out in the airport for the duration of the day, having another day of our meals consisting of snacks procured from vendors until we managed to get past security when our flight started check-in procedures (about seven hours after arriving), when we ate at an actual restaurant further into the terminal.

After boarding the flight, we had a repeat experience of something that happened prior to our arrival in Dhaka from Sharjah five days earlier (that I neglected to mention while relating that episode (at least in this incarnation), but it’s more pertinent here). The cabin crew sprayed insecticide throughout the passenger area while walking up and down the aisle. Considering the personal hygiene of most of the other passengers, and the condition of much of their makeshift baggage (often consisting of cardboard boxes reinforced with packing tape and plastic bags), this practice is understandable, and, I’ve discovered since, a fairly common practice in international flights, particularly in ones with third-world countries at one end or the other of the journey. Kill the bugs who might transmit diseases or be invasive species in the ecosystem of the destination country. They should have used more potent spray, as both Rebecca and myself had cockroaches crawl across our arms during the flight. Good times.

At long last, we arrived in Sharjah. It was nearly midnight local time, and we had to be at work in just over seven hours. However, I had had my heart (or stomach, as it were) set on something for the past several days, ever since my… episode after the rickshaw drive on Day 3. A cheeseburger from the airport McDonalds. Not so much for any symbolic reasons, making the trip come full-circle to the restaurant and airport where it had begun, but rather because I missed food that didn’t remind me of that ill-fated beef and rice meal by the pool in Cox’s Bazar. And the burger was delicious.

And so much for condensing the trip. Geez. Over 4700 words. I’ll try to be more concise with my Jordan entry. I have novels to write…

See you at the next entry!