Bedouin Mind Tricks

The last thing that M. did for me besides insisting that I owed him at least 200 JD for the pleasure of his advances was to deposit me at the small hotel owned by his friend, um…let’s call him Mohammad (M2), close to the resort where the rest of the Distant Heat festival was taking place. I was skeptical, but when I arrived, it was indeed minutes from the main resort, the rooms had air conditioning, their own showers, there was an outdoor pool that was clean and peaceful, and it was within my budget.

After another all-nighter, I collapsed in my little air-conditioned hut and planned to laze the next day away poolside in silence and solitude.

The day started out pleasantly. M2 greeted me on the way to the pool and asked if I wanted coffee. I happily accepted the needed fuel and breakfast, which M. had told me, was included.

I was a little disappointed when M2 brought out a tray for two, but at least it wasn’t one beach towel for two—I tend to count my blessings with the little things now. I was hoping the coffee would cure my headache, but I was overly optimistic.

“Do you have any aspirin?” I asked M2.

“You have a headache?” he seemed incredibly interested in this possibility.

“Yeah, I was up pretty late last night,” I replied ignoring the alarm bell that just went off in my head and was competing with my headache.

He leaves and a few minutes later returns with some aspirin. I thank him and before I can even swallow the pill, he’s sitting behind my lounge chair and grabs my head and begins a massage technique that he tells me he learned from the Russians.

I wanted to shout, “Hey look! I’m cured – good job!” and then under my breath add a “quit fucking touching me" to the accolades. But, before I have a chance, he asks, “Can you feel this?”

He has a lock of my hair that he’s holding up from the top of my head. “Yes,” I say tentatively.

“Okay.”

Snap!

He pulls hard on the lock of hair and I immediately turn around and put my hands to the top of my head. “What are you doing?” I demanded.

“You have to pull the bad energy up from the scalp through your hair. It works, the Russians taught me.”

“Do I have a huge bald spot on the top of my head????”

“No, no….” he assures me.

I rub my head and look at him dubiously. “Don’t do that again.” Still a bit dazed from the hair pulling, I barely notice that he has moved from his head massaging perch and is now standing over me with a bottle of sun tan oil and an eager look on his face.

“Lay on your stomach,” he says, “and I will rub this on your back.”

Fuck…

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I’m good,” I say trying to be politely dismissive.

“But, I want to massage you.”

“No, that’s not necessary, really…”

“But, really, I want to do this for you,” he insists.

“Ah, well, maybe later, I’m going for a swim so best not to waste!” I say cheerfully, knowing that later will never come.

Finally he relents and jumps in the pool.

I don’t follow. A few minutes later he’s back at my lounge chair.

“I think you are lazy,” he states plainly. “You are not swimming.”

Mamma mia! I might actually drown myself in the pool if he doesn’t leave me alone.

“I’m getting in, I just want a little more sun,” I say in response, but hating the fact that I’m even explaining myself to him.

He annoyingly stayed by my side for the rest of the day, but it gave me ample time to question him about the area and find out that some of the best snorkeling in the world is located across the street.

He insisted on coming snorkeling with me and as he knew where the best coral was, I relented. Little did I know he would come to think of this later as a date.

“Can I make for you a dinner on the beach?” he asks as he’s putting away the snorkeling gear.

“Uh, well, isn’t dinner served here at the hotel?” I ask.

“Oh, yes, but I can grill for you some fish, it will be very nice.”

“Ah, thank you, but I think I’ll just eat here--with everyone else.”

“As you like,” he says, and then a few minutes later, “What do you like to drink? Vodka?”

“Um, yeah, sure…I drink vodka sometimes.”

A huge grin appears on his face. “Okay…tonight we drink vodka.”

Whatever, dude.

I gladly retreat to my hut, alone at last, until my stomach leads me to the communal dining area towards the front of the hotel.

Thankfully, M2 does not dine with me, but just as I’m finishing my meal, he’s by my side.

“So,” he says with that same big grin, “what do you like with your vodka?”

“Um, soda, I guess?”

“Ah, you like orange soda, like orange Fanta?”

“Sure, sure, orange Fanta’s great.”

I sigh inwardly as he motions for me to follow him towards the pool area. I suppose if I can’t hang out by myself, at least I’ll have some vodka to dull the pain.

I plop myself down on a lounge chair by the pool. M2 stops in his tracks carrying the tray with vodka, ice, orange Fanta, and glasses. “No, the view from the terrace is very nice. Come, come...” he beckons.

“Oh, I’m sure it is, but let’s just have a drink down here,” I suggest. Where there are plenty of lights and people.

“No, you must see the view.”

I follow the direction he has cocked his head, it’s just up a short staircase and within site of all. “Okay,” I relent.

Up on the terrace there are two lounge chairs set up facing the sea. I don’t lounge; instead I sit upright, really wanting that drink now.

He pours me a drink and I realize that I have nothing to talk to him about, so decide to get some fact-checking for my article out of the way. I ask him more questions about the area: distances, names of towns, future plans for this part of Aqaba, history, etc. Soon, he’s pouring us another drink, plus a shot.

“Look, here,” he says as he’s pouring vodka into a small shot glass. He covers the top of the shot glass with the palm of his hand, picks it up with his other, gives it a good knock on the table, and then shoots it. “This is how the Russians do it,” he explains proudly.

What? Am I supposed to clap? Let’s see, the last time the words “shooting” and “Russians” were in the same sentence, I was aiming an AK47.

“Oh,” I say. “So the Russians taught you that? Do you get a lot of Russian tourists here?”

“People from all over, yes,” he says and shrugs. “Here, for you” he slams another shot on the table and then hands it to me. I proceed to sip it. He looks disappointed and pours himself another.

I finish my drink and shot and he quickly pours me another of each.

I chuckle to myself. Hey, I know this game! It’s: “Let’s get the small American girl drunk!” Oh, M2…if only you knew that I have a Norwegian-like ability to drink...

Having run out of questions and growing tired of drinking, I tell M2 that I’m heading to bed.

“But, wait,” he says, “I still must give you a massage.”

“Ah, no, thanks – I’m just going to bed, I'm really tired.”

“Okay, well we can do it either in your room or my room, as you like.”

“Uh, no, that’s okay, I don’t need a massage.”

“But, you told me ‘later’ – you said I could massage you later,” he protests.

Ah, fuck. Using my words against me – dammit!

“Well, I don’t want a massage,” I reply flatly.

“But, I want to do this nice thing for you. What? You don’t trust me?”

The alcohol is kicking in and he’s starting to get agitated by my refusal.

“You said ‘later’ so I waited. I want to do this nice thing for you. But, now, you don’t trust me? Look, we went snorkeling together and I could have done something then—“

“WHAT could you have possibly done while we were snorkeling?” I ask cutting him off, shocked by this ludicrous example of his trustworthiness.

“This is the way it works,” he tells me like I'm a six year old, “if a man and a woman are having drinks, surely they will have sex.”

“WHAT!???”

“Yes, yes,” he reiterates. “For a guarantee—if we drink together, either I will end up in your bed or you in mine.”

It takes me a moment to recover when I realize he’s dead serious. “Well, I can guarantee you that that is NOT the way it works.”

“Yes, it is. I see it in your movies, this is what happens.”

“Wait, you’re basing your ideas of how men and women behave toward each other on Hollywood movies?” I ask incredulously.

“For a certainty, this is the way it works,” he insists.

Speaking of Hollywood, his insistence is starting to remind me of Rainman. “Look, I can make ten phone calls right now to male friends of mine who will tell you otherwise.”

“I do all these nice things for you!” he continues ignoring anything I’ve said, “…dinner, drinks, breakfast, snorkeling...and now I just want to massage you,” he mutters annoyed by my refusal and working himself up into a tizzy. “Fine, fine—the snorkeling and the drinks I’ll pay for, but you can pay for your breakfast and dinner.”

I stare at him dumbfounded, shocked at how quickly he has become belligerent and rude. And what’s this about paying for breakfast and dinner? First of all, I was told they were included and, second of all, I had intended to pay for everything, especially if it meant I wouldn’t be harassed about being given a massage.

“Look, I only let my boyfriend massage me,” I say tersely, thinking that maybe this will put things in perspective for him and make it clear that he should drop it.

“Fine!” he sneers. “Go find your boyfriend then!”

Ah, shit. Now he’s done it. He crossed the line.

I could almost feel all the emotion draining from my face. Even the shock I initially had at his belief that drinking would inevitably lure me to his bed had left me. I went quiet and still and stared coldly off at the horizon taking deep even breaths. I must have been giving what Pat used to refer to as “devil eyes” as M2 began to back peddle quickly.

“Well, I want you to have a good time. You’re my guest…” he trailed off.

“Thank you,” I said coldly and left the terrace without another look in his direction. Forget this Bedouin, nomadic, hospitality, bullshit—I’m tribal, too, asshole. Mabuhay Waray-Waray.