cigar Archives - Page 6 of 20

Asia Iraq Iraqi Kurdistan/Albania trip 2022

A Tea House and a House of a Different Sort in Erbil

My third full day in Erbil bears no mention. I got a covid test at 7:30 am then returned to my hotel room and worked until 6:30pm. This was not planned but could not be avoided. I was especially thankful for the fact that that I had been upgraded to a big room and that I could smoke cigars in it. I killed a handful of the Romeo y Julietas I had bought at duty free. But that is not interesting. What is interesting is my fourth and final day in Erbil.

I had already seen most of the sights of Erbil, but I had a few more wanders and things planned for my final day.

I started with an early morning walk to the Jalil Khayat Mosque. One thing I had not done was seen inside any of the mosques in Erbil, and there are lots. Not getting a lot of tourists (or maybe because they don’t want tourists poking around) they don’t keep the mosques open outside of prayer time – and then at prayer time I was not allowed in. But I had seen pictures of the inside of the large and beautiful Jalil Khayat Mosque and had read that if you got there early you might be allowed in. So I walked there, which was pleasant. I arrived and the high gate around the mosque was locked. I saw a few men walking around inside of the gate and quite far from me, but was unable to persuade any of them, with my smiles and friendly waves, to let me inside. At least the outside was nice.

I wandered back to the citadel and the square and then into the bazaar to look for the Mam Khalil tea house, which everyone said was a ‘must visit’. Mam Khalil has died in recent years, but the tea house that he opened in the bazaar in 1963 lives on. It took some looking around the labyrinth of stalls and circular aisles, but it was worth the hunt (Even if en route a nice-looking man in a suit tried to use google translate to politely (?) ask me if I was interested in sex. I wasn’t. I was interested in tea.)

Mam Khalil’s teahouse is a charming den of curved roof nooks and tucked-away seats, with nearly every inch of the walls displaying framed pictures of family and friends, and visitors of all levels of notoriety. I had a couple cups of tea and smoked a bit while taking some sly pictures. (Pictures are clearly allowed but I still felt odd about it, as it was full of locals going about their day.)

Fueled by tea, I walked to the market, separate from the bazaar but nearby. This is where people are buying their food. Long rows of colorful fruits and vegetables, nuts, fish, and a display of meats, complete with severed animal heads on display. (My favourite, just because I love the gruesome nature of it.)

It was great for a wander. I was invited to sit with one man, who spoke no English, at his little stall selling bales of cigarette tobacco. He rolled me a cigarette and I felt obliged to accept (I don’t smoke cigarettes and never have. I am strictly cigars and, when in certain countries, shisha), but I didn’t want to be rude.

I finally found the money changers’ part of the market. It is something to see. A large aisle of men with piled of currency – foreign and Iraqi Dinars – trading. The neat thing is that there is zero security and the money is just sitting out in high piles. Sometimes a man will just wander off from his money table and leave it there unguarded. No one seems concerned. Plus a lot of the older notes still have the faces of fallen or ousted dictators. The thing is, they aren’t crazy about photos, which is why I don’t have any to share. It’s just as well. More fun to see it in person. I could post the gps co-ordinates to find it, but I’m not going to do that either. The search is half the fun of it.

I walked to Minara Park, which was not much to see, as it wasn’t quite spring, so it was fairly brown, but there is the Mudhafaria Minaret, built in the 1100s. Not all of it remains, but it is still tall and impressive.

Other parts of the park have some statues and hedge animals, but it just wasn’t the season for it and had a depressing feel. I bet it would be lovely in spring. Another reason to visit the park in better weather though is that there is this cool cable car lift that takes you from Minara Park to another park, passing over part of the city, but it was not running at this time of the year.

I went on a long aimless walk, which I enjoyed, but then it was late afternoon and I was ready for a rest. I took a taxi to La Casa Del Habano in the ‘Christian area’ of Erbil. La Casa Del Habano is the main Cuban cigar chain of stores and lounges selling cigars as authorized by the Cuban government. I was quite excited that there was one in Erbil…except there isn’t. I knew if from as soon as the taxi pulled up out front. It had the sign and the logo, but it was a little off. Poorly made. A slightly wrong shade of burgundy. Inside it was blatant. Selling alcohol and cheap goods. And the cigars were all counterfeit. Bad ones. (How I know this is 25 years of smoking and years working in cigar stores, writing for cigar publications etc.) It was not just the cigars that were knock offs; the whole store was. But I was there, so I took a shot and bought a cigar anyway. Sometimes a fake Cuban is still a decent cigar and sometimes it is banana leaves and floor sweepings. This was somewhere in between.

I sat on a sofa in the store, disappointedly puffing on a fake Partagas No. 2 when I started chatting to a local guy named Ali. We got to talking about various things. He told me about his family: his relationship with Islam, his wife, kids, and mistress. Somehow, he ended up telling me that in this neighbourhood there is a red-light district of sorts. I don’t know how this came up, but I was interested. He told me that in the Christian area there are brothels operating out of massage parlours, which sounded quite familiar. He said he doesn’t frequent the places for illicit purposes (uh huh), but that you can go there for shisha and tea as well. He invited me to join him. I know that sounds like a bad idea, but he seemed harmless and affable and there was no way I was going miss out on visiting an Iraqi brothel.

It was just on the next block, though he pointed out several others. The downstairs looked like a semi-legit massage place, but upstairs there was a bar (not sure if there was alcohol), a decorative swimming pool, and tables. At the tables were men smoking shisha and drinking tea. And there were women sitting and smoking shisha and then wandering around to meet the visitors. When a man met a woman he liked they disappeared for a time into one of the massage rooms, where the price was negotiated. It was all very similar to how these places work at home in Vancouver, including the price. (I won’t explain how I know that.) I talked with some of the women, most of whom spoke some English. On the day that I was there, most of them were from Lebanon, and I met one woman from Thailand. All pleasant and friendly and, thankfully, all of age.

I stayed there for about an hour, smoking shisha, watching the goings on and chatting with Ali and the women who worked there. It was a pleasant environment actually. I don’t know why I was surprised that there are ‘massage parlours’ in Iraqi Kurdistan, but I was and happy to see that, on the surface anyway, it seemed to be a place of legitimate business. (I know that you can never know what is going on behind the scenes, but that is true of workers in a variety of industries, especially for women and women from countries that are developing or in some form of strife.)

I want to be very clear that I am not recommending that people go hang out at a brothel in Erbil as part of their travel itinerary any more than I am recommending that one should visit a counterfeit La Casa Del Habano (I’m not). This is simply an account of what I did on a given day. I am also not making any declarations about whether these women have agency or are exploited or anything else. I have thoughts about it, but I’ll save that for a future blog: “Wandering North’s Feminist Think Pieces.”

I said goodbye to Ali and caught a taxi back to the centre where I had a cup of tea and yet more shisha at Matchko Tea House. I sat streetside and watched the nighttime goings on. A family sat next to me and insisted on sharing their cashews.

It was a great visit. There is certainly more to see in Iraqi Kurdistan, but four days and five nights was a long time for me and it was time to move on. To wander North, as it were, to Albania.

Asia Iraq Iraqi Kurdistan/Albania trip 2022

Citadel to Shisha: Exploring Erbil in Iraqi Kurdistan

I woke up early my second day in Erbil, in the Kurdistan region of Iraq. I had arrived the evening prior and, while I went out, I hadn’t seen much or seen anything in the light of day. But first, breakfast. I was pleased to see that the hotel buffet breakfast had returned during these pandemic times. Even better, it was a middle eastern buffet breakfast. There were tons of fruits, nuts, yogurt, local salty cheeses, lentil soup, foul, fluffy pita breads amongst other delights. Best of all, was the view from the breakfast room on the top floor of the Erbil View Hotel.

Sufficiently fuelled, I walked back to the Citadel in the centre of Erbil, where I had been the night before. In the daylight, my assessment was still that it is not a beautiful city; not even really a charming one, but there is a lot to like, not least of which is that it all seems entirely authentic. There is very little that seems geared towards tourists. I liked this about it.

The Citadel is a high mound in the middle of the city with various structures and buildings on it. Apparently it has been occupied as far back at 5,000 BCE. It is an impressive sight from the ground and walking up to the top gives you postcard perfect views of the square, but there isn’t much to see of the Citadel structures themselves. They are (and have been for several years) undergoing a UNESCO restoration and so for now, much of the site is off limits.

*View of the citadel behind a shisha café*

That said, there are still some interesting buildings to see and there is a Kurdish textile museum, which is one of the few museums in Erbil. It is small and interesting and the entrance fee is negligible. Plus, there is an unflattering and candid photo of Steven Segal pinned to the wall from when he visited.

I snapped a selfie against one of the hanging carpets and decided to don my sunglasses as my eyes were still a bit haggard looking from the long flight the day before, resulting in my own ridiculous photo.

*I take my Kurdish Textiles very seriously*

I walked around the square, which was full of local people sitting and strolling; vendors selling nuts and fruit, cigarettes and phone cards.

I walked to the Qaysari Bazaar, which is just at the foot of the citadel. Qaysari Is the Kurdish word for market, so it might be redundant to call it the Qaysari Bazaar (like saying chai tea), but I’m sticking with it because that what it was called on my map. The Qaysari Bazaar is a covered bazaar, just like a smaller version of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. It was established in the 13th century and was a delight to wander in. It has the usual, colourful stall selling fruits, sweets, tea, and clothing, but with some unusual twists. It also has a renowned tea shop, but I wouldn’t stumble onto that until day four.

Around the perimeter of the bazaar were money changers with blocks of foreign currency sitting in or on top of clear, plastic boxes. A lot of the Iraqi Dinars still had Saddam Hussein’s face on them, which was not surprising, but I still did a double take.

I stopped at a cute little coffee shop on the edge of the bazaar and ordered a Turkish coffee, which came served to me on a purple velvet cushion, covered with two gilded, metal domes, like Russian nesting dolls. It was so elaborate. It seemed like something made for tourists, for Instagram, but the other people in the shop were unenthusiastic local men smoking cigarettes and seemingly blasé about their pretty coffee service. I was delighted.

I walked around a lot more that day. A bit aimlessly, but then as I started to see all there was to see in the centre, I decided to walk to Dream City for a coffee and to visit a cigar shop.

Dream City is a new development a bit out of the city centre. It was a long walk, but it is walkable. I stopped for more Turkish coffee and a couple of baklava at Ashtar Sweets.

Dream City is gated and very much geared towards drivers. In most parts there were not even sidewalks. The homes were huge and garish (and, I found out later, very expensive, like $10M expensive); but they all really looked like nouveau riche “McMansions”.

If you want international food, or a sports bar, or a steakhouse, the area around Dream City is for you. They even have a “Central Perk” cafe that is themed after the TV show friends. Honestly, I hated the area and both the cigar shop and the book-themed café I went there to see had recently closed, but I was happy for the walk and it was interesting to see the newer, richer areas.

On the plus side, as I excited the Dream City gates and turned to walk back down a different street, I realized I was near another cigar shop: H&H Cigars. I was thrilled. It was a proper cigar shop and, despite it not having any Cubans, it had a great selection. I bought a My Father cigar and settled into one of the comfy leather wing backed chairs and smoked and read my book (Wuthering Heights – my second go at it and I still couldn’t get into it) until dark. It was heaven after all my walking.

I opted to take a taxi back, which was a bit of a hassle. There are beige taxis everywhere and they may or may not use meters. This one did, but the driver ‘got lost’ several times on his way back to the Citadel, which is literally the most famous and visible and easiest to find sites in the city. The fare was still very cheap but I was annoyed at being taken advantage of – not that I could express my irritation easily when I knew only about four words in Kurdish and he knew about the same in English.

I ate my dinner from the same street-side falafel cart as the previous night. The proprietor seemed to remember me, smiled, and refused to take any payment for my meal.

I stopped for some shisha at a hole-in-the-wall type of place where I attracted a bit of attention from the all male clientele, as they looked up from their backgammon, cards, dominos, and mahjong, but I contentedly puffed away, watching the smoke drift off into the night sky before walking back to my hotel.

I should say that each of the five nights I was in Erbil I stayed out reasonably late and was always by myself. It felt completely safe. Most of the streets were busy with people and even the ones that weren’t did not seem menacing. The whole city seemed completely safe. (Of course, as I am writing this it is about a month after the fact and missiles have landed in the city from Iran, so it is impossible to know what to expect I guess, but my experience was a great one and without worry.)

The next day I had a trip organized to Lalish and Akre.

Africa Mauritania Senegal Trip 2021 Senegal

A Final Day in Dakar

My final day in Dakar, Senegal was a good one. There is something nice about when you have done the things on your list for a city and then can just freely explore with no expectations and see where it takes you. That was my day. (Truthfully, I did spent about half of the next day in Dakar before flying out, but I didn’t do anything noteworthy.)

I went out before breakfast to get a covid test. It was cheap and relatively efficient, but I got to the clinic very early before there was a big queue.

Nose freshly swabbed, I had breakfast at the hotel and hit the market. I browsed around and haggled over some west African wax print fabric with the ‘speed bird’ print on it, which was destined to be cushion covers in my office back home. A lot of fabric prints have meanings in different countries in West Africa. The ‘speed bird’ print means various things in different countries, including ‘money comes and money goes’ or something like ‘when the hunter learns to shoot straight, the bird learns to fly without stopping’. That was fun. So many interesting patterns to browse through.

I also bought a painting. I haven’t been buying much in my travels recently. (My home décor is minimalist, and my office is already bursting with odds and ends from my travels.) But in Dakar they had these paintings that are done on the underside of glass and I thought they were quite unique, so I bought a portrait of a regal-looking, older African woman in orange clothes.

I decided I hadn’t had enough markets apparently, so I left the arts and crafts market and went headlong into the more local market, past the shops and stalls selling clothing, fabric, and household items, past the colorful buses, until the market became more of a labyrinth of tarps and tents, with outdoor cooking, and, well, really just a lot more poverty. I didn’t take pictures of that part of the market, because, while very interesting, I really stuck out and didn’t want to seem like a gawker.

Around the edge of that part of the market was the Dakar Grand Mosque, which is quite attractive and has a 67 m tall minaret. I might have been more taken with it, but it is very much in the style of the mosque I had just visited in Casablanca days earlier, but smaller, so appreciated was diminished a little.

From there I walked to the Musée des Civilisations Noires, which is a very modern museum (opened in 2018) designed to celebrate Africa’s contributions to the world. It is pretty great. There are some detailed displays on the origin of man and African technical and scientific achievements, but the best part was on the upper floors where there was an excellent mix of (primarily west) African traditional masks and works of art with modern art. It was so good. All they are lacking is a café.

After that I walked rather aimlessly, stopping for a bite to eat and a cigar at a rather posh Lebanese restaurant, and then discovered that there was a decently stocked Cuban cigar store just around the corner from my hotel. I was not out of cigars, but still picked up a few. (I can’t visit a cigar store and not get something.)

On my way back to the hotel for what I felt was a well-deserved nap, I say that there was a concert happening that night at the Institut Français. I bought a ticket. It was the Medicine Man Orchestra. The concert took place at a great outdoor stage – a proper stage and seating, but outside, under the stars with bats and birds overhead. The Medicine Man Orchestra was a little difficult to describe. On their website they say: “Medicine Man Orchestra (MMO) is a time adventure, swinging between ages, dimensions, cognitive or cartographic geographies. It is a show that takes you to the limits of multiple realities. Advanced audio-visual technologies provide the gift to carry you away as in West Africa, beside venerable griots, as in the fancy european clubs of avant-garde electronic music.” That is kind of apt, actually. There was electronic music, mixed with more traditional music, particularly percussion. There was dance. There were video projections of computer-created landscapes and designs. It was cool. And well attended.

I had a cigar and a juice at the café there and then headed back to my hotel. It was late – for me anyway. I had plans to go to bed. I was leaving the next day. On my way back though, I walked past a doorway that had excellent jazz pouring out. Live jazz. I paid cover charge of about $2 and went in. An unremarkable room, but with a jazz quartet playing, people, eating, drinking, and smoking. Everyone was a bit dressed up and having a good time. I stayed for a while and had a small cigar and a couple of virgin mojitos.

What else could you want for your last day? It was wonderful, and wrapping it up with a couple of spontaneous concerts was perfect. It was a great end to a great trip that took me to Mauritania and Senegal (two new to me countries) with short stays in Paris and Casablanca. I flew out, already day dreaming about where I would go next.

Africa Mauritania Senegal Trip 2021 Senegal

A Day on the Île de Gorée

On my second day in Dakar, I took a day trip to the Île de Gorée, or Goree Island, a tiny island off of the coast of Dakar, just a short ferry ride. (I am going to stick with the English spelling just so I don’t have to keep adding the accents.). Goree Island is small – just over 45 acres – and with a population of less than 2,000 people. It is notable for two things: it’s postcard perfect beauty and its history as a slave trading post. Like the ‘castles’ of Ghana’s Cape Coast, it is another beautiful setting with a grim history. Both are reasons to visit, even if they are uncomfortable bedfellows.

I walked from my hotel to the ferry terminal past some grand buildings from the colonial era.

It is an easy trip to Goree. You might get pressured to take a guide and while that will certainly give you more historical context, it really isn’t necessary. The ferry terminal in Dakar is easy to find and you can buy a ticket there. The ferries leave every 1 -2 hours and the ride back is free.

The harbour of Goree Island

Goree Island was colonized in or about the mid 1400s by the Portuguese, then passed to the Dutch, the Portuguese again, the British, and then the French. It became a trading post for different items, but most notoriously was used as a place to detain enslaved peoples before loading them on to ships and … exporting them. Today there is a ‘slave house’, which contains the cells used to imprison people before leading them out through a door of no return to an uncertain future.

This is similar to the sights I saw in Ghana in 2019. And like the trip to the Cape Coast, I found myself struck by how a place with so much horror in its past can be so beautiful. It seems that places with this history should be forever bleak or barren, but it is the opposite. Lush and green, with all of the buildings painted in bright colors. Flowers spilling over the walls, the sea lapping up on the shore, the sky perfectly blue.

It was a delight to wander around, visiting small art galleries and browsing the crafts for sale at the local market.

It is a real tourist spot. Restaurants full and people splashing in the water. Local women walking around selling pretty fans and jewelry.

As beautiful as it is, there isn’t too much to do there, but enough to keep one occupied for the day. A fort, a few small museums.

As the afternoon wound up I caught a ferry back to the mainland.

Back in Dakar, I walked around a little more before settling back into the restaurant at the Institut Français for a cigar and dinner. (The vegetarian offerings there are dismal, but it is such a pleasant environment, having a cigar with my meal in the garden patio, that I could overlook the ‘vegetarian burger’, which was lettuce, tomato, and onions in a bun.)

An evening wander again proved that the streets of Dakar at night are lively, but I was content to spend a little time on the patio of my room before bed.

Africa Mauritania Senegal Trip 2021 Morocco

Casablanca Layover

I love a long layover. Enough time to get out of the airport and see something, walk around, and return to the airport exhausted but satisfied. Casablanca is one of those places, like Amsterdam, Istanbul, or Seoul that is a common long layover place, and where it is easy to do a lot in a short time. I had 18 hours in Casablanca on my flight from Nouakchott, Mauritania to Dakar, Senegal and I was delighted.

The last time I had a Casablanca layover I had only 7 hours; this time I could more and at a less frantic pace. Admittedly, I was a bit nervous about covid and whether it would slow down the airport process, but it didn’t really; they just glanced at my vaccination papers and ignored my negative test results. I hopped on the train and a short ride later I was in central Casablanca at the Casa Port Station. It was about 7am at that point and, because the airport in Casablanca does not have luggage storage, I booked a hotel room at a modestly priced hotel across the street from the train station and used it to stash my bag for the day and have a shower.

It felt great to be in Casablanca. It was a little bit cool, which felt great after the heat of Mauritania. And it felt great to be in a city that felt, well, more like a bustling North African/European city than Nouakchott.

The city was just waking up. I walked past the fruit vendors and sellers of fresh pomegranate juice and found my way to a Parisian style café for an americano and croissant; chairs facing street side and everyone smoking.

I walked over to the fish market and chatted with the men arranging their creatures for sale. I nearly tripped over some giant swordfish, their bellies slit open and their eyes wide and black.

I spent a couple of hours walking around the city and then went into the medina area; the labyrinth of narrow streets that are the oldest part of the city.

I had been to these places before, but I was more leisurely this time and it was delightful. Snacking of fresh fruit, drinking tiny coffees, stopping for some shisha and a conversation.

I came out of the medina near the sea and went to the Hassan II Mosque. Built in 1993, it is one of the largest mosques in the world and sits gleaming white right on the edge of the sea, with waves crashing alongside

It certainly looks like a new mosque, so it doesn’t have the charm or patina of a historic building, but it is quite impressive. Visiting it requires taking a tour, which I found very slow, but it did impart some interesting tidbits – like that the roof is retractable or that it is so big that you could fit the Notre Dame inside.

After that, I walked along the corniche and talked with a man who worked at my hotel and was heading home, and then I just wandered a bit more, poking around in shops and looking at some street art before having diner and heading back to the airport.

Honestly, by that point I was exhausted. After all, I had landed at about 6am and had been on the go ever since and had only slept maybe two hours the previous night. My next flight was also a short one to Dakar, so I didn’t get much sleep the next night either and the whole thing left me arriving in Senegal exhausted. But it was so worth it. Who needs sleep when you can you can spend the day in a new city?

Africa Mauritania Mauritania Senegal Trip 2021

Return to Nouakchott

From Nouadhibou to Nouakchott

It was the morning after my adventure on the Iron Ore Train. I awoke in my hotel in Nouadhibou with no great urgency. I needed to travel to Nouakchott that day and I didn’t know what time the bus left for the ~8 hour journey, but I just couldn’t be bothered to rush. By the time I showered and got downstairs I confirmed the bus had left. Secretly, I was happy. I didn’t feel like crowding into a hot minibus. I wanted comfort, likely as a direct reaction to the rigours of the train and pre train experience (after all, before the ride on the iron ore train I spent one night sleeping rough and two nights sleeping outside without running water or bathing). Desirous of speed and comfort, I inquired as to whether it would be possible to hire a car and driver and by the time I finished my breakfast, there was a car waiting.

The drive was great. My driver took the time to point out the sights. There weren’t many, but we saw the sea and the border crossing to the quasi country of the Western Sahara and a few small towns. Mostly though it was just sand and camels and I had seen a lot of that the day before, so when sleep got the better of me, I let it.

About half way into the journey, the driver asked if we could make a stop at his friend’s house in a small town by the roadside. Of course.

We exited the highway into a small town of newish but modest houses, sandy streets, and herds of free roaming goats. We entered a house and were greeted by four guys about to have lunch. We sat on the mats on the floor in an otherwise empty room and out came the tea. Tiny sugary tea cups were passed around and cigarettes were smoked as we chatted. Two of them spoke English, which was a treat for me as I could take a break from struggling with my very basic French.

A large platter of rice covered with pieces of meat and a smaller platter of rice with potatoes and carrots appeared. The driver had called ahead and told them I was a vegetarian. They also gave me water and a yogurt drink to take with me. Another example of startling hospitality to add to those I have experienced over the years in unlikely places.

After lunch we returned to the road and, about 7 hours after we left, we were in Nouakchott.

My remaining days in Nouakchott

I stayed somewhere different this time: the Maison de Jaloua. It is a lovely bed and breakfast in a white two level house on a sandy residential street just off a main road.

My room was a huge private room with my own bathroom and, gloriously, a big bathtub. This was a real bonus as I was still finding iron ore residue from the train on my body.

The hotel had a pretty garden seating area for meals and, as it turned out, housed one of the better restaurants in the city.

I had it for four nights.

Usually I write about my travel experiences on a day by day basis, but I don’t think this is necessary for my remaining three days in Nouakchott. They were pleasant, but primarily relaxing, days. I had seen ‘the sights’ of Nouakchott on my first visit. This round I just explored nothing in particular by foot and at a leisurely pace.

Each day I went for a long walk in a different direction, seeing what I could find. I had coffee and cigars at local cafés, lingered in air conditioned markets, revisited the main outdoor market, and sought out local artists.

On the art front, that took a bit of digging. There is a gallery/café Gallerie Zeinart, which looks amazing, but it was closed the days I was there. I did find a smaller place, Art Gallé, which was opened and is run by Amy Sow, a local painter and sculptor. It’s small but very cool, with an exhibition space and a café. I chatted for a long time with a young photographer and met Ms Sow. A pleasant respite from the heat and aimless walking.

I had a covid PCR test, which was required not for my next destination, but to leave the country. The process was simple. At a health centre you arrive before it opens and write your name on a piece of paper found under a rock on the sidewalk outside the gate. When they open they administer the tests in the order of names. It was fast, I got my results in 24 hours, and it was free. This is astonishing as in Canada, where I live, these tests start at $200.

That’s basically what I did in those last days. I was really taken with how peaceful Nouakchott is for a capital city. I can’t say that it is overly interesting or beautiful, but it is calm and pleasant; it feels very safe and the people are great. No hassles. no problems.

I loved my time in Mauritania. I can’t say that I would recommend it for a casual traveller or a first time trip to West Africa, but for off the beaten path travels, untouched desert vistas, hospitality, and once in a lifetime train travel, it ranks highly.

I left Mauritania with a flight to Dakar, via a day in Casablanca.

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Riding on Mauritania’s Iron Ore Train

Planning

Mauritania is worth visiting if you like desert sands and far flung, seldom visited countries that lack ‘must see’ sights, but the reason I decided to go was because of one train. As long as I can remember I have wanted to ride, hobo style, on top of a train, illicitly and with a bit of danger. Not so much that I would lose an important limb, but enough to get the heart going. To see the sky change from atop of moving train in the countryside. To sit by the tracks waiting for the next ride. I had wanted to do it for so long that I figured I might never do it, when I read about Mauritania’s Iron Ore Train.

The Iron Ore Train (or the Train du Désert) is, on many days, the longest train in the world, at about 3km long. Every day it leaves a mining town in the Sahara, filled with iron ore, and heads to the sea, where it deposits its cargo and heads back, empty, to make the journey again. And because there are no roads that cover this route so directly, locals will ride on top of the ore to the coast, or in the empty cars into the desert. There are no tickets, as it is not officially allowed. I had found my next adventure.

But I thought, I can’t do this alone. It would be better with a buddy, for reasons of security and convenience. So for about three years I tried to find someone to do it with. And then I realized no one was in, so I had to do it solo.

And that is what led to me sitting by the tracks outside of Choum, Mauritania, alone and waiting for a train.

Waiting

I took a truck to Choum from Âtar. It is only about two hours and there is a minibus that goes in the afternoon, but I was paranoid about finding the right place to wait, so I arranged a driver. We made the two-hour drive, got to Choum, where I stocked up on water, and they drove me to the tracks and told me this is where I would wait. They left and I was alone.

Let’s be clear: there is nothing there. No trees, no station, just a flat expanse of rocky ground next to the train tracks and a barely legible danger sign. (Just as well that I couldn’t read it.) There was a small mud brick shed of sorts, with holes in the walls that provided some shelter, but it was dark and smelled like shit, so I sat outside of it, taking advantage of the bit of shade it provided.

The train is meant to come at about 6pm, but there is no fixed schedule and it may come earlier or later. I was not going to risk missing it, so I arrived at 11:30am, prepared to wait. And wait I did.

I sat there for hours, alone, reading, and smoking cigars. So many flies buzzed around me that I started to wonder if I was dying. It was very hot and I was thankful I had bought so much water.

A pack of children showed at one point, from where I know not other than it was towards the border with the Western Sahara. They just appeared over the horizon as dots and ran towards me. Upon reaching me, they stared and poked at me, sang and danced, asking me for photos and then laughing at their images on my camera. We couldn’t communicate verbally, but I understood well enough when they made up teasing songs about me or mimicked my smoking with little sticks. At first it was fun, but then it felt like a nightmare. Surrounded by children. I’m not sure children are reasonable at the best of times, but when you can’t even speak to them, how do you explain that you appreciate their exuberance and curiosity but that you would rather be left alone with your thoughts? I was happy when they tired of me and left.

After six hours, a van of about 14 people arrived and got off, also waiting for the train. This filled me with optimism. Surely the train was coming soon, and there was comfort in knowing I was not waiting alone.

They seemed like nice people. They invited me to sit on their blankets with them as they scavenged bits of wood and lit fires to boil water. They produced bags of mint, tea, and sugar and boiled it up in metal tea pots and passed around the tiny cups. A couple of the guys spoke some French, so I was able to answer some basic questions (resulting in some disapproval or pity at being unmarried, childless, and atheistic) and I explained that I was going to ride on top of the train. They were going to be riding in the passenger car at the end of the train.

The train didn’t come, and so we all laid down on the rocky soil and went to sleep. The train could have come at any time, so I did not sleep soundly – or maybe that was because I was lying on the ground without a blanket in the cold night air. I had not expected this. Somehow though it wasn’t so bad. The time seemed to pass quickly. I had my books, my thoughts, my new cohorts, and entertainment like comparing various rocks to one another, deciding which was the most lovely. (In case you are wondering: I had no cell service. There was obviously no wifi and I didn’t want to risk running down the battery on my phone with music or podcasts.)

The next morning came and still no train. I started to feel a bit down like I was in some Godot situation. Just then, one of the guys yelled and pointed. Off in the distance, the train was coming into view.

I felt a surge of adrenaline. Finally! Three years of planning and 22 hours of waiting and it was here. I picked up my pack and blanket and stood in amazement as this incredibly long train roared by. It took a while to stop, being that it is so long. I saw a couple of people riding on top of the ore around the middle of the train.

Finally the train came to a stop and I realized that I was about 300 feet or so from the ore cars. It stopped so that the passenger car (the last car) was right in front of us. In front of it were about 3 or 4 flat-bed wagons with cars on them, and in front of that were countless wagons with iron ore.

I had no idea how long the train would be there, so I bolted towards the cars with the ore. I didn’t have time to be choosy, so I just made it to the last one and climbed the ladder up into the car. (Honestly, that was slightly less easy than I imagined, with the heavy backpack, all the water, and the fact that the ladder was high off the ground and missing a rung. But I did it.)

Riding the Rails

A few minutes later, with a shudder and series of clangs that ran down the length of the train, we were in motion. And just like that, I felt elated. I was actually doing it. And it felt great.

The iron ore – fine black dust that you instantly start breathing in – was piled into two round humps in each car and was very comfortable. I spread out my blanket and settled in. I sat on top of the humps for great forward views. I laid in between the humps, head and feet elevated, for reading and naps. I sat in the middle with my back against the car and looked out the sides. I expected it to be uncomfortable, but that was not an issue.

I took selfies. I mean, how could you not? (My camera was utterly ruined by the iron ore which got inside of it despite my best efforts to protect it with bags and duct tape and I had to throw it out soon after.)

Sitting there, having a cigar and watching the gloriously empty scenery go by was awesome. Sand. Occasionally some dry grasses or rocks. A camel. A few buildings strung together as a small village or encampment. Some discarded train parts. It looked like a beautiful post-apocalyptic scene.

It was hot so I stayed covered up. When it got really windy, I wore goggles to cover my eyes or pulled a bandana over my mouth to protect myself from the dust, but that didn’t last long because you can’t smoke with a mask on. (Shortly after getting on top, I used a garbage bag and duct tape to wrap up my backpack to protect it and just kept my essential items accessible.)

A few times we made stops – not that I got off. There was nowhere to go and the thought of being left behind was concerning. At one point we stopped in a small village, and I watched 5 or 6 angry and restrained camels get piled on top of the flat bed car with the vehicles. The sound of angry camels in distress is a sound I will never forget.

Every time we stopped, men would climb up the side of my wagon and peer in at me. Sometimes we could communicate a little and sometimes not. What I gathered though was that they were curious about the crazy woman riding alone on the ore. Some of them told me it was not safe (I told them if that was the case then they better get off). And some of them just asked me where I was from or if I was ok. Towards the end, one guy just popped up to make sure I had enough to eat. I never felt like I was in any danger, but I was always much happier when the train started to roll again and I was again alone and free. There might be some benefit to sharing a car with others, but I just felt much more comfortable being alone. No need to be vigilant that way.

*A better view of the length of the train*

The night came. A pretty decent sunset over the Sahara. Then it was dark. Dark. No light anywhere except for the incredible stars. Like a planetarium display. Lying there and looking up was peaceful and magical – which is good because there was nothing else to do or look at. I did have a head lamp, but I was out of books.

The peace and magic didn’t last the whole time though. The dark part seemed to last for a long time. It got fairly cold, and I was thankful for my extra clothes and blanket. I slept a little bit, but after a while of the darkness, I was keen to get to the end. These last few hours seemed to take forever. I could see on my phone using maps.me how far we were from Nouadhibou (the city on the coast where the train deposits its ore) and I was delighted when I realized we were nearing the station.

Except there isn’t a station. The train just stops on the side of the tracks maybe 9 km from the city. (The train does make a final stop, just past the city where it unloads its ore.) There was nothing there. Not even lights. But there was a group of cars waiting to pick up the passengers, so I knew I had to get one of those cars to drive me to the city. The train rolled to a stop and I threw my backpack over the side and pulled myself over the edge of the wagon, groping around for the ladder. I landed (fell) on the ground and started running the about 300 feet or so in the blackness to the cars, waving my headlamp over my head and yelling “Taxi!” I was tired. At this point I had waited 22 hours and ridden on top of the train for 16 hours. It was after midnight, and I was exhausted. I was not going to be left behind.

There weren’t any empty taxis there just waiting for rides, but I did convince one guy (through my crazy insistence and, likely, my pathetic appearance) to drive me to my hotel, even though he was just there to pick up his friend.

Epilogue

I got to my hotel around 1am, many many hours later than I expected. I was staying at the Hotel Free Zone. Kind of a splurge. It was new and well-appointed and without charm, but it was spotlessly clean and had laundry facilities.

I was not spotlessly clean. I was black from face to feet. Comically so. I had been wearing two pairs of trousers and three shirts and still I was black underneath. It was glorious though. I felt so happy to be in my room. I washed my face and walked to a little store that was open and bought yogurt, water, bananas, and chips, returned to my room, ate and had the greatest shower of my life. (Dear Hotel Free Zone, I am so sorry about all of your lovely white towels.)

*A final, blurry selfie before the sun went down.*

Being on the train was one of the greatest experiences of my life, but the feeling of it being over, being dirty and exhausted and suddenly comfortable, was pretty fantastic too.

I am so glad I did it and glad I did it alone. I am only maybe a little sad that it is over because I don’t know what I can do now that can compare.

Anyway, the next day I returned to Nouakchott, but that is for another post.

Denmark Europe

Copenhagen Long Weekend: Sunday

My second day in Copenhagen had an early start. Once I had realized, some time ago, that I could take the train from Copenhagen to Malmö, Sweden in less than an hour, there was not way that I wasn’t going to go.

I had an excellent coffee and a revelatory sandwich (seriously, how are the sandwiches here so good?) and proceeded directly to the central train station. The trains for Malmö leave about every 20 minutes. A ticket and and a few minutes later and I was on board, flying across the Øresund bridge to Sweden.

Because Malmö is in Sweden, I’ll save the description of my time there for another post, here.

I wasn’t in Malmö for more than about 4 hours, so it was early afternoon when I returned to Copenhagen and I took the metro to Nørrebro.

About four days before I went to Copenhagen, a certain international magazine had declared Nørrebro the ‘coolest neighbour hood in the world’, so I figured I ought to check it out.

Nørrebro’s coolness seems to stem from its multicultural population and sense of community. These are both good things, and I can certainly see why the multicultural aspect is of note in Copenhagen, which does feel a little…homogeneous. Coming from Vancouver though, where it is the norm to have people from literally everywhere and and multiculturalism a part of the national identity, Nørrebro didn’t seem so novel in that regard. But it was cool.

It has many of the hallmarks of an up and coming neighbourhood. Street art, excellent cafes, skateboard parks, vintage shops, stores by local and young makers of things and art.

The thing Nørrebro is most famous for though is Superkilen park. The park has some normal things, like green space, sports fields, and walking and biking paths. But it really manifests Nørrebro’s multicultural nature with stuff from all around the world. I couldn’t possibly name all of the things, but amongst the things there are swings from Iraq, a fountain from Morocco, a slide from Japan, a boxing ring from Thailand, soil from Palestine, basketball hoops from Somalia, etc. It’s pretty neat and impressive how much effort went into it. The space was used by families and individuals for playing, socializing, and exercise. It is also home to the Human Library, where you can select a human who will sit with you and tell you a bit of their life story, as a way to make connections. A really nice use of public space.

From Nørrebro I went back to the hostel for a bit of a rest and a chat with the other girls. I then went for an unusual cocktail at a lovely and cozy bar called Ruby’s (a cocktail whose ingredients included whiskey, cherry brandy, whey, and kelp). I then figured I would walk to the Little Mermaid statue. I didn’t care about seeing it really, but I also figured I couldn’t leave and not see it.

It was so dark and I walked past a palace, shrieking when one of the tall, furry hatted and armed guards silently stepped out in from of me from the shadows. He remained suitably stoic. I walked along the sea wall until I saw her, Hans Christian Andersen’s Little Mermaid on a rock, barely visible in the moonlight. It was as underwhelming as I had thought it would be, but I liked the walk.

I finished the evening, quite unintentionally at a fancy French restaurant (I found myself in a very expensive neighbourhood and desperate for a bathroom so I went to the first place that I found) where I had an excellent meal and a Montecristo No.2 while chatting with a visiting chef.

That ended my evening and my weekend in Copenhagen. I had an early flight back home the next day.

I loved Copenhagen and, while I am not often inclined to return to places, there is more there that I would like to do, so I can imagine a return visit at some point in the future but I am very satisfied with what I experienced in my short time.

Denmark Europe

Copenhagen Long Weekend: A pleasantly surprising start

Arrival

Copenhagen is far from Vancouver. About 11 and a half hours if you get a direct flight. However, in the spring of 2020 I had planned to take a four-day weekend trip to see the Danish capital. Of course, that trip was cancelled due to covid. Flash forward to October 2021 and a four-day weekend coupled with a complete lack of covid restrictions in Denmark made the trip seem like a very good idea. I booked it within a week of leaving, but the planning was easy, as I had done it all the previous year.

I flew to London, enjoyed a brief layover and flew to Copenhagen, arriving at about 6pm. Because Denmark had dropped its covid restrictions, as long as you are vaccinated, you don’t even need a test to go there. And once I left the airport, I got to ditch my mask for the weekend. It was like it was 2019 all over again.

That said, Canada has not dropped its covid restrictions, so the first thing I did was get a PCR test at the airport, since I would need it for my return to Canada. Unlike in every other country I have been to since the pandemic started, covid tests in Denmark are free.

I took the train to the central station and walked the few blocks to my hostel. I was staying at the Steel House hostel, in a dorm. I don’t often stay in dorms. As much as I love the hostel vibes and amenities, I do prefer having my own bedroom. But Copenhagen is really expensive and if you are going to splurge on a weekend trip to Europe, you have to cut corners somewhere. The Steel House hostel is quite fancy and has a ton of amenities. The dorms are space age situations with gleaming white bunks and chrome touches. Not pods, but they had that feel. Fortunately, my dorm mates were a very friendly group of girls from Germany and Taiwan and I enjoyed their company when we swapped stories at the end of the day.

As soon as I found my bunk, I ditched my backpack and hit the streets. It was dark, but not late, and there were people out everywhere. I didn’t have a plan, but ended up meandering over to Nyhaven, because that’s the place that you see in all the travel pictures. Nyhaven was … fine. At night anyway, it was nice in an “I’m really in Copenhagen” way, but wasn’t my scene. I did love walking through the city though. Lovely streets, glittering canals, appealing cafés with warm lights, and glimpses of things I would see properly the next day. There is nothing like that first walk in a new city, when you are finding your way and just discovering where you are.

I walked and walked before settling at a restaurant, outside, by one of the canals. All of the outdoor eateries were packed, even though it was October. After dinner I slept soundly, excited to wake up and start the day.

Exploring Copenhagen

Saturday morning I got up ridiculously early. I only had two full days in Copenhagen, I wasn’t going to spend them sleeping in.

The day was clear and crisp. Perfect for walking. And did I walk. First I walked a similar route to that which I taken the night before, enjoying seeing everything in the light of day. The dumb thing about getting up so early was that nothing was open for coffee. I ended up getting a coffee from a convenience store (I know…) and sitting outside in a square near the statue of Hans Christian Anderson. I little while later I had a proper coffee at a café and had a pastry. They aren’t messing around when it comes to coffee and bread products there. Every single thing I had to eat was excellent.

I walked over to Christiansborg Palace (a palace, the house of Parliament, Prime Minister’s office and Supreme Court) on a little island and watched them exercising the horses and wandered over to the gardens in front of the Queen’s library. I had forgotten, until I saw the palace, that Denmark still has a monarchy. Speaking of islands, Copenhagen has 1,419* of them. A fact I find stunning. Like, if someone told you the tiny country of Copenhagen had “a lot of islands” you would probably think that number to be around 50, maybe 70; but 1,419 seems impossible. I think I only set foot on four of them. (*only about 443 have been named and only 78 are populated.)

I walked over to a large waterway where people were walking the sea wall, sitting with coffee, rowing on the water, having a morning cigarette. This was also my first glimpse of the modern architecture in the city and have to say, it is a bit disappointing. Not bad, but not great. I preferred the historic buildings.

crossing over to the islet of Slotsholmen

At this point I decided to go to a museum. On the way there, I visit the Danish Pipe Shop for a browse and to pick up some cigars (and get tips of where to smoke from the proprietor). Just around the corner was a small square, where there was a very unusual statue. Terrifying pigs in overcoats, men with screaming faces and a giant hand giving the middle finger. By Jens Galschiøt, it is a temporary installation celebrating the 700^th anniversary of Dante’s death and some commentary on modern city life. I couldn’t find much about the sculpture in English, but the artist is pretty interesting and I like anything that disrupts the flow of city life, which this sculpture definitely does.

I went to the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, a fine arts (mostly sculpture) museum. It is a good size and has a pretty little tropical courtyard. I found it very pleasant and particularly liked the Egyptian mummies and – most of all – the nasotheque. The museum has a small and unusual collection of noses that have fallen off ancient sculptures. (Nasotheque, like bibliotheque or discotheque – not my invention. It’s what the museum called it.) I can’t explain the ears included.

I walked back to Nyhaven to see all of the colorful buildings in the daylight. Along the way I passed by Tivoli Gardens (actually for like the 4^th time; it’s right in the centre of town). I was sad that the park was closed that weekend to set up for Halloween and each time I saw the rides and decorations peeking out from above the barriers, I was a bit wistful, but I can always come back some day to ride the rides. If you don’t know, Tivoli is the second oldest theme park in the world and is said to be the inspiration for Disneyland. And looking at what I could see, the similarities are apparent, right down to a Matterhorn type rollercoaster.

The entrance to Tivoli Gardens, halloween style

Nyhaven is lovely a strip of colorful buildings along a canal just off of the sea port. Tall ships docked and canal-side eateries full to the brim. Set against a blue sky it is perfect. I still didn’t have much desire to hang out or eat there (it is a bit crowded) but it is pleasant to see.

I walked over the round tower and, feeling peckish, stopped for a hot dog. Copenhagen is lousy with hot dog carts or pølsevogn, as they call them. (Actually, it was the only street food I saw in Copenhagen other than warm nuts.) They seem to be sort of a fancier version than in North America and have different toppings and better quality ingredients. I had read that Copenhagen was the ‘hot dog capital of the world’ so I had to have one. After several failed attempts, I found one sausage wagon that had a vegetarian option. At the foot of the round tower. Mine came with mustard, remoulade, onions, and pickles. It was good and one of the least expensive meals in had in the pricy city.

I then walked over to Rosenborg Castle (or Rosenborg Slot, in Danish), a Renaissance castle from 1606, now a museum and tourist attraction. The castle is pretty and pleasant, and has a treasury with weapons, wine, and impressive jewels. It is set in a lovely park and guarded by ever-marching, armed soldiers.

Freetown Christiania

I decided to walk from Rosenbourg Castle, lap of monarchial luxury, to the other extreme: Freetown Christiania. (Note that this required walking back past Nyhaven. I really did not plan an orderly walking route.) To get to Freetown Christiania, I walked across two bridges, past crowds of people at beer gardens and out on small boats with bottles of wine and picnics, or on bicycles.

I haven’t even mentioned the bicycles. Copenhagen is a bicycle city, with dedicated lanes everywhere and masses of bikes parked – many not even locked up, because Copenhagen is just that safe. Unlike in some biking cities, where the cyclists seem aggressive, here, everyone just seemed so calm and happy, as they peddled along. And it is totally flat, so the cycling is nearly effortless.

Anyway: Freetown Christiania. It is a self-declared micro state and commune set on an island in Copenhagen. It was founded by squatters in the early 1970s and is home to about 1000 residents. It has its own flag and laws (sort of – its legal status is constantly in flux). It is a real hippie place with no cars, colorful art works, and a big meditation and yoga scene. Danish law is not really enforced there and cannabis is sold and consumed openly (it is illegal in Denmark; something that seems so weird coming from Canada).

It is worth visiting, though I have to say it wasn’t my cup of tea. It’s interesting (the day I was there, there were many police standing at the entrance but not entering) and there are some cute, colorful buildings and whimsical art, but it didn’t keep me entertained for long. There are a lot of cannabis sellers there, but, again, this is legal in Canada, so it didn’t have that exciting appeal of the illicit.

After a bit of a look around, I returned to the mainland. (Note that there are rules in Freetown Christiania, which includes no running [it makes people think there is a police raid] and no photos of people [which makes taking pictures of anything a challenge]).

Smørrebrød, cigars, and my assessment of Copenhagen so far

At this point, I decided to go for a quick bite: some amazing smørrebrød. The famous, Danish open faced sandwich. I don’t know how such a simple dish can be so delicious, but…wow. So happy to find vegetarian options. It would never have occurred to me to put pickled onions and hazelnuts on a sandwich. My horizons have been expanded.

While sitting there eating, I took some time to assess my experience so far. A day in and I was surprisingly smitten with Copenhagen. Honestly, I expected it to be a bit dull, which was part of the reason I picked it for my weekend city break. But I didn’t find it dull. I loved it. I loved the food and the coffee. I loved the pretty, but understated historical architecture. I loved the canals and the squares and the bike paths. I loved that people were out eating and drinking on patios in the chilly night air, cozied up under blankets. I loved that there were more museums and art galleries than I could visit in a month, let alone a weekend. I loved the way everyone was dressed. They seemed both dressier and more casual than in Vancouver. Like, people in Copenhagen are dressed for comfort, but in a way that doesn’t look like they are headed to the gym or bed. Smart sneakers, over-sized cozy knitwear, big wool coats, loose jeans, turtlenecks…I don’t know, they looked effortlessly cool. And everyone looked very attractive, in a really natural, healthy sort of way. Copenhagen didn’t remind me of any place I had been before. It just seemed specific to itself. This all came as a pleasant surprise to me.

I popped back to the hostel for about an hour and chatted with my dorm mates, who had also migrated back for a bit of a rest. We had all done similar things during the day and it was fun to compare notes and swap recommendations.

I ended my long day at the Musen & Elefanten (mouse & elephant) bar, recommended to me by the guy at the Danish Pipe Shop. It was a tiny, slightly sub-terranean watering hole. Super cozy. The best thing about it was that they allowed cigar smoking indoors (possibly the only place in the city that does). I sat at the bar and enjoyed a Partagas Serie D No.2 and a Hoyo Epicure No.2 along with a cocktail or two made by the extremely affable bartender, with whom I chatted. It was a very nice end to the day.

I returned to my hostel and got cozy in my bunk, later than all my dorm mates and fell asleep immediately, unsurprisingly after ~25 km of walking. I still had one more day ahead of me and much more to see.

Asia Jordan

Wadi Rum

I left Wadi Musa early the morning after my amazing day in Petra, bound for Wadi Rum. I opted to take a taxi for the two hour drive. The same taxi driver that had taken me shoe shopping the day before. We had a good rapport. We left Wadi Musa, passing patches of pomegranate trees, stopped for water, and hit the highway.

The drive wasn’t too remarkable. Lightly colored rocky desert punctuated by the odd town or flock of windmills. (Do we still call them windmills when they are those tall, white modern ones? I still imagine windmills as something out of a fairy tale book or a postcard of historic Netherlands.) Anyway, we arrived in Wadi Rum and I was deposited at the ‘visitors centre’ to await pickup. Nothing was open and there was no wifi, but sure enough, soon a pickup truck approached, and I hopped in the back…and we went about 1 minute away to a house. I had no idea what was happening. It was, as it turned out, the house of one of the brothers who operated the camp at which I was staying.

I was ushered into a room without furniture, and sat on the heavily carpeted floor and leaned against cushions. I was immediately offered sweet mint tea (refusing it was futile) and sat and talked with the host (whose name I have now forgotten) while his two young children played with iPhones – not as phones, but as, cars, I guess; zooming them around on the floor and crashing them into each other, before their father sent them out of the room. We chatted for a while and then three more guys, all in traditional Bedouin garb, joined us: the host’s brother, a guy named Omar, and a guy who said nothing, but sat there being quietly handsome. We drank tea and smoked. I still wasn’t sure why I was there.

After about 45 minutes, I realized that we were waiting for two other people who were to arrive and go to the camp and the three of us would travel there together. The people arrived – a mother/daughter duo – from Germany who had been staying at the same guest house as me in Petra. As well, two Spanish girls who were leaving the camp appeared and we all sat on the floor and ate out from communal plates: hummus, labneh, bread, cucumbers, potatoes, chicken, and tuna, though the vegetarians amongst us abstained from the latter two. It felt so normal to be sitting and sharing a meal in that way, I almost forgot about Covid.

The German mother/daughter duo and I sat in the back of a pickup truck, outfitted with two bench seats and a fabric awning, and set out into the desert.

It was immediately overwhelming in the best possible way. Aside from the odd circle of Bedouin tents, there is nothing there. Just vast expanses of sand in shades of red and ochre and beige, and dramatic rock formations and mountains. It really does look like Mars, or what we imagine Mars to be. And it is huge.

We arrived at the camp: Arabian Nights. It looks pretty much like the others: boxy, black striped Bedouin tents, a main, large tent for meals and hanging out, and a fire pit.

I splurged on one of the deluxe tents, which meant I had my own bathroom. The water same from some metal boxes outside and had to be brought in from the town. No AC. Ironically, I did not sleep a night in my lovely tent. It was so hot that it would have been unbearable. Instead, I slept both nights outside, on a mat under the stars, which I highly recommend. It was still too hot for a blanket, but the breeze was wonderful, and the stars were spectacular.

That first day in Wadi Rum, we (the German mother/daughter duo, and I) just hung out in the main tent, reading, napping, and (me) smoking cigars. There were a lot of guys working at the camp, all local Bedouins, and they were great company as well. At night we all say around the fire talking.

Both nights, dinner was cooked in the traditional Bedouin style of digging a pit in the sand and lowering a tiered, metal … thing … into the pit on top of a fire, after loading the thing up with chicken and vegetables. The pit is then covered with a board, blanket, and a mound of sand and is left to cook. When the oxygen runs out, the fire dies, but the heat remains to cook everything. There was also a big pot of rice and the usual dips and breads. We were well fed.

On the second day, the German mother/daughter duo and I took an all-day trip into the desert. Omar was our driver for the day, and we took the aforementioned truck into the unknown.

The day was a series of drives through the sand to various points of interest and places for hikes. It was all terrific. Even just driving and looking and the awesome scenery was great. But then we would stop at a narrow cave, for example, and venture in to look at ancient carvings and paintings of people, horned beasts, and whatnot.

We climbed up a sand dune and sand boarded or tobogganed down. It was amazing, though hiking up a sand dune is challenging; it feels like you slide back farther with every step forward, but out of breath at the top, it doesn’t seem to matter.

We visited what remained of T. E. Lawrence (of Arabia)’s house where he allegedly slept, a rare spring of water, a large rock resembling a mushroom, and a couple of amazing natural rock bridges.

Whenever possible, Omar parked the truck and told us to hike over a small mountain or through a canyon and he would pick us up on the other side. The scenery was outstanding. Much of it didn’t even seem real, like a scene out of a movie.

All of this was great fun, albeit rather exhausting, made more so by the heat. Thankfully, we stopped in a narrow cave for a couple hours and laid on thin mats on the sane while Omar cooked us a hot lunch over a fire and another man who showed up out of nowhere played songs on the oud.

We also had opportunities at various points to stop at open air tents operating as tea houses – literally in the middle of nowhere – to have a glass of tea, a chat with whoever was there, and, if we were lucky, hear a bit more of the oud being played.

We finished the day by hiking up a small mountain to watch the sunset over the desert, where, on that mountain I ran into the Czech doctor who I had previously met in Petra. I ran into him again later that night when I discovered he was staying at the same camp and joined us or dinner and fireside chats.

It was really nice on this trip to Jordan that, even though the tourist numbers are abysmal, there were still people traveling and all of them seemed eager to talk and hang out. Just like old times.

I slept under the stars, looking up at the milky way, until I dozed off. Wadi Rum really exceeded my expectations. There were iterations of this trip, in the planning stages, where I had thought about skipping it. I am so glad I didn’t.

The next morning after breakfast, I left the camp and caught a taxi to Aqaba before bussing back to Amman.

Tag: cigar