What I’ve Learned from Being Duped on 3 Continents

Adventures En Route to a Strange Desert

It’s interesting what you take note of when there isn’t much going on in town. Your senses heighten, thoughts deepen, and the mundane sometimes become extraordinary.

You notice more, which I suppose is the same as caring more. You take inventory on things like the difference between solitude and loneliness; a distinction you might not make unless given the time.

For 4 days Aqaba, Jordan has been that place for me.

This Jordanian port city that dates back to 4000 B.C., oddly enough reminds me of the John Steinbeck short story, The Pearl. In the first few lines he describes a little Mexican village where the story’s protagonist, Kino, has lived in his entire life:

“It is wonderful the way a little town keeps track of itself and of all its units. If every single man and woman, child and baby, acts and conducts itself in a known pattern and breaks no walls and differs with no one and experiments in no way and is not sick and does not endanger the ease and peace of mind or steady unbroken flow of the town, then that unit can disappear and never be heard of.”

I’m not sure I had the same peace of mind, but I certainly have been paying more attention. For example, I discovered only one of the elevators at the hotel I’m staying at works; a realization that took longer than it should have.

I now know which convenient stores sell coconut water, and more importantly, are air-conditioned.

I’d happily point you in the direction of the nearest mosque, archaeological site, or best spot to wade in the Red Sea.

I’d want you to know the restaurant Fish Fish down the street lists carrot juice on its menu but never actually has any.

I would tell you not to be alarmed by the countless military posts where young Jordanian soldiers stand guard.

I could even tell you where to rent a tuxedo.

And after yesterday, I might tell you not to bother with Wadi Rum; a desert land of camels, peaks, and caves.

Or some I’m told.

I was going stir crazy in my quarter mile of closed shops and endless prayer calls. I’m not the type to lie idly on a beach for hours, which would have suited me perfectly in a place where the temperature routinely flirts with 105 degrees.

Instead, I get antsy. I start to feel guilty even. My coding requires movement, creation — a path to be chartered.

So one morning after breakfast, I headed down to the lobby to speak with the man who handled tours in Aqaba. I knocked on the glass door as he turned slowly from his computer and waved me in. His office was well lit but lacked any ventilation. The entire room reeked of sweat and immobility.

“I was thinking of going to Wadi Rum today,” I beamed. “I’m going to hire a cab. What do you think would be a fair asking price?”

The gentlemen stared at me blankly. He looked to be in his late 50s and not the type to find much levity in the world. Suddenly, my motivation became to try and make him smile.

“What do you know about Wadi Rum?” he asked skeptically.

“It’s basically caves and mountains, right?”

He leaned in slowly and looked at me as if I’d just keyed his car.

“First of all, it is not just caves and mountains! It is much more. There are Bedouins, camels, and lots of other things you can see and do.”

In less than 5 minutes I’d already managed to offend him with my Wadi Rum cliff notes. Thankfully, he seemed more interested in enlightenment than bullying.

Our encounter was brief but memorable. In the end we both agreed seeing Wadi Rum would be a good idea and so I set out to find a cab.

Drivers in Aqaba are as easy to find as the sun. They might even be more ubiquitous since the sun eventually sets. Upon stepping foot on the scorching curb, a green Kia appeared almost out of nowhere. I approached the passenger side window and asked if he spoke English.

“A little,” he said.

“How much to take me to Wadi Rum?” I asked.

He seemed confused by the inquiry, which I didn’t take as a particularly strong start.

“Just a second,” he said. “Please, sit down.”

As he conferred with what I gathered to be his boss, another driver pulled up and tried to steer me away.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

I nearly forgot when the first driver shouted, “Okay! 40 dinar.” The concierge in my hotel had suggested I pay 55. This was a screaming deal.

“Okay,” I said. And hopped in.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Nick,” I said.

“My name is Mohammed,” he shouted back.

He tried earnestly to make conversation but realized he’d exhausted all he knew. There’d be no small talk, no waxing philosophy, or even explanations of landmarks. I was quietly relieved.

It was way too hot for any of that.

Instead, he hopped on the phone as I heard him say the words, “Wadi Rum,’ several times. Instead of leaving Aqaba we made our way to a neighborhood I’d coincidentally walked through the day before.

Something was up, I thought.

A few minutes later we picked up a heavyset man in his early thirties. He smiled and said hello before asking if I was Spanish. I’ve had stranger introductions and so didn’t think much of it. He then claimed his seat before confirming my business.

“Wadi Rum?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

We took another few turns where we met with a third man. A man dressed in a traditional Muslim garment who looked to be in his late 50s stood waiting on a curb with his phone in hand.

“You want to go to Wadi Rum?” he asked as well.

“Yes,” I said. “Is that a problem?” I finally asked.

I was growing more agitated with each second and rising degree. What seemed like a reasonable request had suddenly become an Abbot and Costello sketch.

“We switch drivers. He speaks English. 50 dinar. Okay?”

Now the price and the stakes had been raised but I wanted to rattle neither.

“Okay,” I gave in.

Mohammed left as the new driver and I drove off together. He offered to let me sit up front, but I’d grown as content as possible right where I was.

He wouldn’t have been on my short list for prospective roommates but was kind and earnest in trying to make conversation. His English turned out to be as limited as Mohammed’s, which made me wonder what all the fuss was about.

We sat without speaking for much of the ride as he blasted loud Arabic music. I assumed it was an attempt to pass the time, the awkwardness, or perhaps both.

It sounds strange to say but I already missed Mohammed.

The drive itself was not eventful, which was good considering I’d just had one that was. We arrived in Wadi Rum in about 35 minutes, which instantly made me suspicious. Back at the hotel I was told it would take at least an hour.

The driver pointed animatedly to various mountain peaks trying to convince me we were where I’d asked to be. If I wasn’t half-entertained I’d have likely been wholly offended.

There were a few camels and signs that could verify his claim but I’d bet a week’s pay I wasn’t where they shot the photos for the brochure.

The hell with it, I thought.

I’d been duped in China, Turkey, and though this was an honorable mention, now Jordan. I only have 4 continents to go, I thought.

He begged to take a photo of me with the mountains in the background, which I agreed to. I then asked him to wait as I took a long stroll into the desert. I walked and walked until it became eerily quite.

What am I doing here? I thought. My life is so weird.

I made my way back to the car where I found my new friend swatting a herd of flies. In the 15 minutes I was gone they’d manage to completely take over the car. When we started back for Aqaba we swerved perilously across a narrow highway as he screamed into his phone swatting flies.

This would be one hell of a way to die, I remember thinking.

When we got back to my hotel I handed him 50 dinar before he asked for another 5.

“For Mohammed,” he insisted.

“No,” I told him. “First it was 40, then 50, now 55?! No way,” I shouted. I slammed the door, taking strange pride in my little performance. I’d stuck up for myself, before realizing how rare an event it was.

After my little Wadi Rum debacle, I headed to the beach. I needed to cool down in every conceivable way. I stripped down to my boxers and walked into the Red Sea.

About half and hour later, as I sat staring off towards Israel, I was approached by three teenagers. They were blasting loud hand held speakers as they took a seat beside me.

“Can you beat box?” one asked.

Perhaps the only thing stranger than the inquiry was the fact that I actually could.

I offered a rendition of a Godfather tune I’d practiced for years in the shower. He liked it so much he recorded it on his phone before rapping in Arabic. A small group gathered as the two of us performed a little concert.

Eventually, I made my way back to the hotel. My earphones blasted a Drake song as I strolled past a mosque. I turned a corner and stopped by that convenient store with the coconut water. I handed over the half dinar before the clerk asked if I was French.

“No,” I said. “I’m not French.”

I cracked open my drink and took a long sip, as a slightly waning sun prepared to set.

And for a brief moment, all was good again.

If you enjoyed this article, sign up for my bi-monthly newsletter with my favorite book, film, and travel recommendations in addition to my latest articles on productivity and inspiration.

Plus, I’d love to share my free Creativity Day Planner — a simple two -page template on building good daily habits.