Sunday, 6.3.

My colleague Valentina, who followed my forum entries, immediately informed me about a charter flight going from Sharm ash Sheikh to Ljubljana on Monday (it was a joint flight of a Slovenian and a Croatian travelling agency). Seeing that it was Sunday and that two agencies shared the plane seats, it wasn't completely clear whether or not there were any seats left, but the unofficial information that I was given from the top of the head of somebody from the booking department was that the flight would probably not be full. Anyhow, the only way I could catch the plane was if I sat behind the wheel in Amman immediately and “flew” over to Aqaba to catch the boat for Egypt.


But while I was still on a bypass in Amman, I noticed there was something wrong with the trailer. I stopped and saw the tyre was flat. I check the time, take the wheel off, leave the trailer with the KTM on the bypass and go chase after a retreader. The trailer has an inner tube inside the tyre so I couldn’t possibly fix it myself. They install a 10-inch tube instead of an 8-inch, the guy points to the worn out inner side of the tyre and shakes his head. A 10-inch tube is nowhere to be found, boys. I'm in a hurry, put the stuff back in place, I'm in a hurry.


I was going to take the road along the Red Sea and through Wadi Arab to get to Aqaba, but since there are no settlements there, I decided to take the desert highway, where there's more traffic instead. After about a hundred kilometres the story repeats itself. I was in the middle of nowhere, I had a spare 8-inch tube, but I had no time to fix it. I continue going 30km/h and stop at a roadside restaurant. By that time I was dragging the trailer on its bear rim, for the last 20 kilometres I had been watching the tyre and the inner tube being torn to pieces all over the road. I leave the trailer and the bike at the restaurant and look at the time. The boat would leave in two hours, I had another 170 kilometres to Aqaba, and I still had to park the car, put the most necessary luggage away and get to the port.


Luckily, an angel drove past me in a Hyundai. Knowing what the Jordanian roads are like I wouldn't have dared to drive more than 140. Following him, I drove between 150 and 160 towards Aqaba. It was like in an amusement park. He knew exactly where there were sleeping policemen. I only knew the approximate location, which would make me waste time slowing down when not needed. He also knew where there were patrols of policemen that were wide awake.


The boat was delayed two hours and I caught it very elegantly. I fell asleep for three hours in Egypt before taking the bus to Sharm. I was constantly watching the time. It's 8, 7 in Slovenia. Wait a little longer. I nervously waited for the offices to open back home and confirm that there was an empty seat on the plane. My colleague Nastja waited for me with a smile on her face in Sharm. She's being pampered by the hot sun and more than 30°C (of course she compensates by dealing with all the problems with hotels, groups and individual caprices of some clients, but we'll talk about that some other time).


11.30: “Urša, what's the deal there?” “Our half of the plane is fully booked.”

11.40: “Renata, what have you got?” “Wait a bit longer, we're still checking.”

12.00: “I'm sorry, they took the last three seats on Friday.”

12.30: “Zoran, could you do anything?” “I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do, if they can't help you.”

Does that mean I'm not taking the plane from Sharm today?

The image in my head of me being hung by my testicles somewhere under the hot Spanish sun was getting all the more vivid.

But I HAVE to get home!!!

Nastja and I come puffing to the first taxi driver. I had to get back to the port, 180 km away and take the ferry to Aqaba, in the meantime they had booked a flight from Amman to Zagreb for me that same night.

“Habibi, how much?”
“Are you out of your mind? 150.”
“Hey, it's far away, I can't do it that cheap...”
“Don't give me that, I know how far it is. 150!”
“Okay, have it your way. 250.”
“I'm not giving you more than 170. Is it a deal?”
“Right, but I'm not going under 200.”
“Alright, hit the gas!”

And we drove and drove with a Peugeot 504, full gas, took the curves like in a rally, fourth gear, the engine is rattling, trucks are driving past us, but the man is trying. So we get to Nuweiba and the ferry is still tied up.


“No, you're too late, the boat is about to sail off. Tomorrow inshalah is the next one.”

“But, habibi, I HAVE to get across! I HAVE to!”

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