Dead Sea walking...

So before I knew it I was being picked up at 5:20am by my new lady of leisure friend's other half to catch our early morning flight-with verses of Michael Jackson (RIP)'s 'Carry me to the River Jordan' circling in my head. How I have so much energy and can be so chatty even at 5:20am, I don't know. What I did know was that there were promises of a pork breakfast and a glass of champagne at terminal 3 which is perhaps what put a little spring into my 'hop, skip and a jump'- even at 5:20am.

After 10 minutes of non-stop chat, critiquing the interiors of the new RS6 and admiring the red seat belts that matched the stitching on the dash and the red calipers (is that The Giant talking?), I had a little quiet time until the signs of swine were in sight. The Giant would have, and I quote the great woman with a perm and a gum nut baby earring- "creamed his jeans" at the car as there was a trim of carbon fibre on the dash (he is carbon fibre junkie), and also because I was silent for once... He loves it though-never a dull moment.


We had to meet my friend's HR manager at the airport at 6am because he had to cancel her visa. I didn't quite realise what this meant, but there is literally a desk at the airport that says "Visa Cancellation", where you sign a few papers and they stamp your passport with a big red 'CANCELLED' before you hop on your flight out of the country.

And so off we went, liquids in snap-lock bags, mini travel scrabble and the drive to make this pork breakfast dream a reality. Although the customs man wasn't very impressed we were going to Jordan, I'm sure he worked for Egypt tourism, we were both looking forward to floating in the Dead Sea and indulging in nature's finest mud scrubs that people pay hundreds for in Spas around the world.

When we arrived in Amman airport, we were greeted by a tall, dark and handsome man in a synthetic suit, who must have done a 3 year degree in 'cheesy pick-up lines' at the University of Amman, along with his other friends we would soon meet on our travels. One of my favourite lines include: "Where you come from? (after already asking me 3 times in his intro chit-chat) Must be the heavens because you an angel". And my other favorite "Ah! this I have never seen before!" to which my friend quickly responded-"What? a tall person and a short person?" "Yes, but I like the one in the middle" and before we gave him a chance to ask if he could be "the one in the middle"- we carried on full speed ahead. The airport was about 45 minutes from our hotel on the Dead Sea so we had a whole 45 minutes of structured cheesy conversation from the aforementioned synthetic suit type who had a chin beard in the shape of a goat's undercarriage.

And so we arrived at the hotel, greeted by a fresh guava juice on the other end of the metal detector. Something I'd never seen before in the lobby of a five star hotel. Dressed in our cossies and armed with our cameras and a 'Take 5' magazine, we made our way down to the pool. The view was incredible. I'll let the photos do the talking. I imagined how excited my mum would be sitting on a beach chair looking out over Jerusalem, although I'm sure being on the "other" side of the Dead Sea wouldn't be enough- I'm sure she'd try her best to run on water to the other side. I bought her a cross that says Jerusalem, and she is happy.

So here we were taking in the Jordanian rays, all was calm, all was bright, then I realised I left my board shorts behind. Before being picked up at 5:20am, I quickly tried to spray some fake tan on my legs- as I've always said 'brown fat is better than white fat'. But, no board shorts? This I had not planned for. How could I flash the Dead Sea and the Holy Land my plump behind? After the reality check of having to walk from the beach chair to the Dead Sea, I was told to suck it up. And that I did, in more ways than one. While I plucked up the courage, we watched a young blonde girl and her boyfriend/photographer pose at each stage of the mud covering process. Entertaining. She then posed in a sequence of Austin Powers "you're a tiger, you're a tiger" kind of way- claws out. I didn't have my camera ready, but made sure it was for the "you're a frog, you're a frog" poses she did on her lily pad.

Sans board short, sarong or towel, we quickly made our way to where everyone was covering themselves in mud and drying off before floating in the Dead Sea. It was then that I realised "brill-i-ant" (in a British accent). I dug deep in the mud pot and pulled out a gooey clump of black mud and wiped it first on my bottomly region- perfect- the best cellulite cover-up known to man. I was proudly prancing along the beach waiting for it to dry- the sugar/IKEA high kicked in. When the mud had hardened, it was time to float, so we went into the last phase of nature's finest spa treatment. We were careful not to do any hair removal the day before and were told by friends- what ever you do don't open your eyes. We ticked those boxes and took the plunge. It was a bizarre feeling- never had treading water been so effortless- I could be an Olympic Water Polo player in the Dead Sea- no problem. I was so excited trying out all the different positions-where you'd normally drown in any other ocean/sea (for the Turkish people)/vessel of water. I pointed my feet down and they would naturally kick themselves up, we squatted making our legs into chairs- and you didn't even have to fight to keep your balance. Then just after my friend had a touch and go moment and said- "don't lean forward", in true Terence of Arabia style, I leaned forward, and nearly made the Guinness book of records for first person to nearly drown in the Dead Sea. Eyes open, mouth wide open and within a split second the Dead Sea and I were one. I took a gulp of the Dead Sea. Only moments before, I had been telling my friend about my deportment lessons and how I had lessons to refine my 'lady' skills, however, there was nothing graceful about my Dead Sea exit. It turned into a splashing catastrophe as I slipped on the rocks with some repeated shouts of 'time out' and the matching gestures. There was no mud on my behind anymore. I told one of the life guards what had happened. He had a very relaxed Fijian kind of vibe about him teamed with ESL language skills which didn't suit my state of panic. He asked me how much I drank saying 'little' or 'big' and I repeated the 'gulping' gesture that had put me in this predicament. He gave a bit of a belly laugh and kept pointing at me then motioning to his bottom then up to his mouth. Now, I am a qualified ESL teacher myself, and I am certainly one for a bit of toilet humour, and if that was what he was getting at, I just wasn't in the mood. He then came back with a jug of full-cream milk- I put all my lactose intolerances behind me and gulped that baby down. I was still not satisfied with the lifeguard's remedy, so I went to reception, explained my story repeating my 'gulp' gesture, just to make sure my insides weren't pickling as we spoke. They assured me that I wasn't "poisoned" as I had asked them to confirm, and as it came from front of house, I was happy with that and it was enough for me to decide it was now time for sun downers.