Late last year, I was tweeting with Tom Fletcher, Britain’s ambassador to Lebanon – that’s the great thing about Twitter, it’s such a leveller: anyone can tweet with anyone. He mentioned in passing that his great-grandfather took part in the first-ever aeroplane flight along the River Nile, exactly one hundred years ago. That sounded like a great story to me: I asked Tom if he knew any more, or if anyone had ever told the tale.
With Tom’s help – and the help of Tom’s father, Mark Fletcher – I pieced together some more details about what happened, and managed to work it up into a script for the BBC’s From Our Own Correspondent programme.
Click here for the radio version which aired in January (my bit begins at 17’51”) – and click here for the transcript, which was republished by the BBC News magazine the next day along with some previously unseen family photos supplied by the Fletcher family and the Royal Aero Club Collection (which is linked at the bottom of the BBC article).
What particularly appealed to me was the angle. Coverage of a 100-year-old flight would normally instinctively focus on the headline names – the pilots, the financial backers, the bigger picture of early aviation, even the aircraft itself – so the chance to tell the story from the unsung mechanic’s point of view felt refreshingly different. The fact that so little is known about Gus Smith’s life, let alone about the day-by-day crises on this particular journey, only added to the appeal. I was delighted when the BBC took it.
Last month, the British Embassy in Cairo commemorated the centenary of the pioneering flight with a ceremony and exhibition launch at the Children’s Museum in Heliopolis – built on the site of one of the first airfields in Africa – also reported in local media.
This week saw the launch of what is being touted as the first new hotel in Downtown Amman since 1927 – the Art Hotel.
Can that claim be true? I guess it depends how you define a hotel (as opposed, perhaps, to a hostel). The Art Hotel is calling itself three stars – which would certainly make it the best hotel in downtown. Its size (40 rooms) and list of amenities (fully non-smoking, all rooms ensuite, flatscreen satellite TV, free minibar, free wifi etc) hint at quality.
Lots of cheap hotels in the downtown area seem to simply change hands, or change names: perhaps they mean this is the first new conversion of an existing building to serve as a hotel? I don’t know – but I do trust the people managing it, represented by Guido Romero of the excellent By The Lemon Tree B&B/residence. I’ll ask Guido when I next see him.
The hotel website is a bit spotty just now – their Facebook page is stronger, with interesting photos of the interiors and conversion works – and I have a few more questions (do the minibars contain alcohol? what are the room prices?), but for now, it looks like an interesting proposition.
Certainly, the idea of encouraging more visitors to stay in Downtown Amman – instead of corralling tourists within more-or-less anonymous hotels in blander uptown West Amman – is very welcome. Art Hotel is on King Faisal Street in the oldest part of modern Amman, beside Al Quds restaurant (for mansaf) and Habiba patisserie (for kunafeh), and across the street from Hashem restaurant (for hummus) – not that I’m defining the city by its food, or anything :) – I’m fascinated to feel the atmosphere of the place.
I’ll make a visit when I’m next in town. Meantime, if you’re there or thereabouts, do pop in and let us know what it’s like by leaving a comment below.
I’ve had it confirmed to me from several independent sources today (March 31 2014) that Jordan’s government has decided to double the cost of a tourist visa to enter Jordan with immediate effect – from 20JD to the new price of 40JD (which equates to £35 or US$60).
The new, higher rate applies from tomorrow, April 1st 2014. (And no, it’s not an April Fool! I double-checked!)
That means that this price doubling was announced with less than 24 hours’ notice.
I understand that Jordan’s tourism authorities argued against the price rise, especially with such short notice, but without success. The rise was ordered by the Minister of Finance.
I’ll spare you the analysis. But, with tourism confidence way down, to charge 40JD to enter the country and 50JD to enter the number one attraction, Petra, I’d love to know more about the Jordanian government’s long-term strategy for tourism growth.
Géraldine Chatelard, a friend from Jordan, sent me a write-up of her recent visit to southern Iraq. She has kindly allowed me to reproduce parts of it here, with her own photos. Names have been removed or altered and I have skipped over some parts that could identify people who might not wish to be identified.
Géraldine is a social anthropologist and historian of the contemporary Middle East, who has worked with academic institutions and international organisations on issues to do with Iraqi culture and refugees for many years. She was invited to Iraq, and was able to travel with the protection and support of local people and the Iraqi government. Do not take her account as implying independent travel in southern Iraq is easy or safe for everyone. It is neither.
I sought Géraldine’s permission to publish her account here for interest’s sake – professional concerns aside, this is definitely a travel story worth telling – and in the hope that one day, perhaps, southern Iraq might again be open to visitors, for mutual benefit. It’s a fascinating account, not intended for publication, a bit rough around the edges, but I think utterly absorbing.
Thesiger aside, for further reading on the Iraqi marshes, click here for a recently published account by writer Tor Eigeland of his 1967 visit. Enjoy. Matthew Teller.
A Short Visit to Southern Iraq, 2014
By Géraldine Chatelard
© Géraldine Chatelard. Copyright Protected. Ask Permission Before Copying Text Or Images.
[Ahmed] is driving me down from Najaf, where I just spent ten days, to Basrah. It is drizzling after a few days of heavy rain. He shuns the old road leading directly to the south and takes east to reach the new Baghdad-Basrah highway at Diwaniyah. The sky is grey and the landscape muddy, hopelessly flat, and dotted with unfinished concrete buildings. As we pass near the Euphrates, an area of rice cultivation colours the land with patches of bright green. Upon reaching the highway I discover that we still have another 400 km to go across the Mesopotamian plain. Except for the occasional checkpoints, there is little to keep my attention up. I quickly doze and wake up before Nasiriyah, just in time to spot a construction protruding at a distance on the left of the highway: the Ur ziggurat. It conjures up a vision of the ancient landscape of marshes with cities built on hills in view of each other.
I look for more of the ancient mounds, but highway bridges at regular distance seem to be the only elevated features in the landscape. Ahmed tells me later that the road was built by Yugoslavia and its quality largely better than any other roadwork undertaken since.
It takes us about 6 hours to reach destination. The approach to Basrah is marked by the Rumailah oil fields spitting gas flare in the grey sky. The periphery of Basrah is all work in progress with new buildings springing up in the middle of wastelands, particularly near the so-called Third River built defiantly by Saddam just after his withdrawal from Kuwait at a times when southern Iraq had been declared a no-fly zone and the country placed under international embargo.
We pass the new stadium, in a beehive shape, recently constructed as part of a grand sports city to host the 2013 Gulf Cup of Nations which in fact took place in Bahrain as the Basrah facilities were not completed.
[My contact] picks me up near the office where Ahmed needs to collect some papers, and takes me to the hotel known as the Sheraton although it has not been under the management of said company for decades. It is located on the western bank of the Shatt el Arab and heavily protected by guards and cement blocks. The UN rent the second floor as offices and accommodation. The place is full of Italians attending an investor conference. I meet some UN people who have come from Baghdad for a meeting. They are forbidden to go out by the UN security which deems all of Basrah outside the hotel as “red zone”.
The closest the hotel gets to international standards is that by accepting payment with major international credit cards. There is also an ATM machine. There is however no espresso coffee available, and Ahmed is clearly disappointed to learn that the bar was closed down a while ago and the place is totally dry, like most of Basrah incidentally.
Later in the afternoon, [my contact] takes me to a bridge overlooking the confluence of the Tigris and Euphrates.
On the way we pass several canals filled with waste, a march organised by the Sadrist Movement in honour of Fatima Zahra, and the 1930s building hosting the administration of the port. I later learn that it was designed by the same architect who designed the Baghdad train station which I like so very much. Unfortunately it is too dark to take pictures. [My contact] says that the managing authorities of the port appreciate the building’s heritage value and want to maintain it.
As previously arranged, we then go to visit a friend X, who interned last year at my office. X has postgraduate degrees in Assyriology and international law. Quiet but passionate, X so badly wanted to go to southern Iraq that X applied for a job as an analyst with an international private security company in Basrah. Here X is now in a small compound inside the Basrah Operation Command, that is the large military base located at the very beginning of the Shatt el Arab. Our entry into the base had to be prepared in advance by sending copies of our passports and car number plate. Once let though the checkpoint, we reach an area surrounded by a wire fence and closed by a locked metal gate. X stands inside waiting for us and it is impossible not to think that we are on a prison visit.
X is part of a 15-member team that provides daily security reports to international oil companies operating in southern Iraq. Their sources are the media and information fed by the Iraqi army command. The team cannot go past the perimeter of the military base, which includes the historical Shatt el Arab Hotel built by the British in the 1930s, and reoccupied recently by the army of Her Majesty. X works in shifts of 2 months, 7 days a week, and is then allowed one month off, out of Iraq. They live in prefabs in a small garden. The place must be terribly hot in the summer. Their work space looks like a hangar, and X recalls that the roof is so thin that heavy rain, and even recently a cat, pour in. I ask what is the rationale for keeping their operations in Iraq whereas they could locate their staff anywhere else. Officially, this is all about the credibility of the company that claims to produce analysis from the field. This is also the reason for forbidding the staff to go out: like the UN, they have a zero risk policy.
X and colleagues spend their days following news reports of security incidents, which is what informs their perception of Iraq. Busy manufacturing an image of Iraq as insecure, they seem even more remote from the country than UN international staff in the Baghdad Green Zone, where at least some maintain contacts with Iraqi partners who have other concerns than security issues. They are incredulous and envious of our programme to visit the Marshlands yet also agree that there is no objective security threat to us out there.
In the morning, more people arrive and our group keeps growing. Around noon, [my contact] takes us on a short visit of Old Basra, the remains of a remarkable ensemble of Ottoman shanashil houses with a canal passing through them.
Their past splendour is in disarray: domestic sewage and solid waste fills the canal, the shanashil are crumbling, electricity poles and wires scar the view, and new concrete buildings are starting to spring up. The rest of the city is not in better shape. It looks poorly managed, especially when it comes to waste. There is a constant smell of sewage and it must be putrid in the summer. However, building work is ongoing everywhere.
We visit the House of Culture, a restored courtyard house, which also temporarily hosts the office of the Antiquity Department. Quality of the restoration appears better than what I have seen in Najaf at the newly opened Khan Shilan heritage museum. Original material has been used, the idea of adaptive reuse is there, but there remains some issues like an aluminium and plexiglass roof covering the courtyard.
The Department of Antiquities and Heritage has just launched a project to restore 37 houses in old Basrah. A second phase should cover all the 400 buildings registered and which are government-owned but not necessarily uninhabited. We visit the first house under rehabilitation, which used to host the DoA. It is a beautiful two-storey U shaped building opening into a large back garden surrounded by high walls. Quality of the work is uneven with cement used to lay the bricks and painted wood for window frames and doors on the ground floor. They are well aware of the shortcomings. If well restored, Old Basrah has a great potential to make it to the World Heritage Site list: nowhere in the Gulf area is such a remarkable urban ensemble from the late Ottoman period still standing.
We continue our city tour with the island (or peninsula) where the former palace of Saddam Hussein stands to be transformed into a civilisation museum, with the collaboration of the British Museum. A first phase of structural work has just been completed. The building is massive and it is striking to think that it was built in 1992, just after international sanctions were imposed. Saddam had his name engraved more than 1000 times on the building.
We have lunch on a floating Lebanese restaurant, Al Karam, that takes us on a 2 hour cruise downstream on the Shatt el Arab. Abadan lies in the distance on the east bank past a large strip of land that used to be covered in thick palm groves and was one of the main killing fields during the Iran-Iraq war.
On the west bank, palm trees are still surrounding lavish villas and canals. Save for the many rusted boats wrecks, one can easily imagine Basrah’s heyday.
We drive in convoy to the East Hammar Marshes which lie within the Basrah Governorate, and reach the embankment at a facility recently built by the Ministry of Water Resources (Center for Restoration of Iraqi Marshlands or CRIM) at Marsa al Zawareq. The facility consists of a large building in concrete imitating a grand mudhif, gazebos shading concrete tables and benches, and a pier. The purpose and function of this visually and environmentally invasive ensemble is unclear but testifies to a widespread trend in the region: to physically inscribe government-driven development initiatives in the landscape in the form of large buildings. We see a similar facility near Chebayish. They stand in sharp contrast with modest local housing made of a mix of cement blocks, mud and reed.
The East Hammar is the only saline marsh with a distinct ecosystem. Reeds are short, human population scarce; however we come across some water buffalo and motorboats loaded with reeds. Oil derricks can be seen in the distance.
Towards the end of the boat trip, we pass an area where a large three-storey concrete building stands just on the bank, apparently the HQ of a local company. I ask about the land ownership regime and do not get a clear answer: government owned lands claimed by local tribes or given out to investors, private ownership… It seems realistic to anticipate that large tracts of land will be developed in the near future and the area built up. This impression is largely confirmed elsewhere during these three days. So much for those who romanticize the revitalization of the marshes as a return to a pristine environment and traditional lifestyle. Land and water are now up for grabs by investors, and the natural parks that are being planned in 4 marsh areas may well represent the only chance to maintain a small part of natural habitat.
We disembark for a short while near a small settlement of concrete houses where men are baking carp and flat bread on an open fire fuelled with dried buffalo dung.
The technique resembles closely that of the ‘arbud bread baked by the bedouin in southern Jordan and the Sinai, and also the Tuareg in the Sahara, except that here the flat bread rests on a layer of reeds rather than sand.
Women among us are invited into the house and spend a little time sitting with the lady of the house and a teenage daughter full of vitality although she looks malnourished. The house is built of cement blocks and covered with a tin roof full of holes. The floor is of mud covered with plastic mats. A kitchen, a storage room and a bedroom/living room are organised around a small open courtyard. Furnishing is basic but includes a proper bed. The family raises chickens and ducks. Later along the banks near settlements we also see geese. I am told that only Maadan keep buffaloes, whereas several of the small settlements we pass are not inhabited by Maadan and therefore only cows are bred.
A local coordinator, who has been working in the Marshes for many years, tells me about the disruption in the social fabric local inhabitants have experienced due to displacement, and the difficulties facing those who have returned into what is today a different natural and social environment. We also talk about changing patterns of authority and the fact that local people are disenfranchised and neglected by governmental authorities with extremely poor levels of services ranging from scarce health and education facilities to lack of waste management.
A colleague remarks that he has not seen evidence of unsustainable fishing (using electricity and poison) which was widespread in recent years. It is apparently the result of a programme implemented by the Ministry of Agriculture that has allowed households to dig ponds near their settlements so as to farm the fish they sell. This initiative begs a number of questions: what is the process through which the agreement was reached between a government institution and local communities; is there something to learn from it as regards community engagement; what is the environmental impact of domestic-level fish farming but also at larger commercial scale; are there regulations and are they respected as regards fish type and density, nutrients, disposal of pond water, invasive species in the marshes, etc.
We have lunch at the office and eventually drive back to Basrah.
We depart for Ur in the Governorate of Nasiriyah along the same highway I took coming down from Najaf. Our convoy is composed of 5 cars, mostly large overspeeding SUVs. [My contact], who is driving a Nissan saloon, reaches 180 km/h but still cannot keep up with them. We take a detour through Suq Ash Shuyukh. The surroundings of the city look as neglected as all the other Iraqi cities we have seen or will see with the exception of Amarah.
The surroundings of Ur are also unsightly, with a mock Mesopotamian entry porch to the site that prevents a clear view of the ziggurat, and ubiquitous electricity poles and wires along the access road.
At Ur, our whole group is invited up to the summit of the ziggurat. The views from the top are great over the site and beyond, however there are also traces of erosion and instability after the heavy rains of these past few days. Ascending the ziggurat is akin to a national ritual, and it does not seem to have occurred to anyone that it carries conservation implications.
As expected, the site appears in very poor state of conservation, with no visible ongoing initiative. The recent rains have infiltrated the ziggurat and all standing buildings. The arch of the Edublalmakh temple seems about to collapse. The site is dotted with unsightly electricity poles, rusted barriers and information panels, and picnic shades.
After checking into the hotel in Nasiriyah and having lunch, we head to Eridu, some 30km to the west on a bad half paved half track road. The landscape is breathtaking although the sky is grey and low: thanks to the recent rains the plain is green with short grass. Sparse pools of water allow us to mentally reconstruct the ancient Mesopotamian landscape of marshes surrounding the elevated cities. The tell is covered with scattered small shells, Ubaid pottery sherds, inscribed clay tablets, and fragments of cut semi-precious stones. It is also surrounded by several instances of unexploded mines or hand grenades. I am really taken by the site and wish I could spend the night there in silence.
Driving east from Nasiriyah towards Chebayish along the pilgrimage route that takes visitors to Karbala during the celebration of Arba’in (that marks the 40th day of mourning after the martyrdom of Imam Hussain), the road is lined with toilet blocks built by local residents for pilgrims, to whom they also provide free food and lodging.
I like the two pictured, with ‘men’ and ‘women’ written on them. Birds are for the women. I also wonder were human waste goes, together with the solid waste that litters the road sides along irrigation channels.
A local ornithologist takes us to a small mazar (shrine) in an area where the Central Marshes begin. The amount of litter in the vicinity of the shrine is staggering. Absence of waste management and sanitation appear as the most visible issues plaguing the country’s urban and rural areas.
Along the road, unfinished housing units were built for population displaced under the previous regime in the context of the drainage of the marshes, and expected to return. Along the road we see several landfills with abandoned building material which were supposed to become more housing complexes. Who conceived these projects, and what happened to them?
Chibayesh lies on the northern bank of the Euphrates and provides the main access to the Central Marshes through canals linked to the river.
We are first taken for a short courtesy visit into one of the large mudhif (reed guest-house), well equipped with lights and fans. Although I have seem many pictures of similar structures, I am struck by the size and height of this one, and the quality of the light that filters through the reed lattices.
After several speeches and glasses of strong sweet tea, we walk to the riverbank to board motorboats (mashhouf) that take us along a short canal lined with informal houses built half of cement bricks, half of reeds.
We quickly reach a large waterway among the reeds, with an occasional water buffalo’s head peering out of the water.
We pass boats with or without motor loaded with reeds, and a large silver dome in a distance to the east.
As the dome gets bigger, it no longer appears above the reed cover but behind an undulating curtain in a series of repeated identical images. It is the shrine built to commemorate the martyrs from the Marshes who fell during the repression of the 1991 intifadah. Pilgrimage and procession routes together with shrines to holy men and martyrs are today creating a new religious geography of southern Iraq and a new sense of community through shared practices and the extension of hospitality to pilgrims who are hosted and fed for free throughout the two weeks of Arba’in. This would make for a fascinating ethnography.
As the waterway widens, we arrive in view of several small ishan, or protruding archaeological mounds topped with makeshift habitations and animal, mostly buffalo pens. Several families live there atop layers of dried animal dung and reeds. They all returned from displacement although it is unclear if this is the place where they were forced out from.
We go back to Chibayesh via a vast expanse of water then narrow waterways leading into town. We reach a canal where young boys swim and along which reed mats are stored to be sent out for sale: with fish, they represent the main export of the marshes. Several large mudhif are built along the river bank and I am assured that the know-how about reed architecture is still passed on.
Along the bank of the river and main canals are comfortable modern houses. However, the periphery of the town in the direction of the marshes is flooded and covered with informal housing. Electricity poles have been recently installed. I am not sure they are serving the houses nearby.
We are treated to a lavish lunch of masguf (grilled fish) in the the same mudhif we were received initially in and which one of the locals calls a “Sumerian mudhif”. The local cleric, an affable man in his forties, is seated in front of me. I strike a conversation, meaning eventually to ask him if he has studied at the Najaf hawza, but I start with asking if he is from the Marshes. He answers “I am a Sumerian”… I wonder how these good people would react if I argued that the myth of Sumerian ancestry was part of the nationalistic discourse constructed and infused into Iraqi minds by Saddam and his regime. As the Marshes are being revived, manipulating the people’s psyche is proving more longlasting than environmental engineering.
Leaving Chibayesh to go east towards Maysan, we make a short visit to a mud house built to host guests. It is a good attempt to revive traditional techniques. I am told that they have ordered a brick-making machine from abroad that will be used for demonstration purposes so as to encourage locals to choose mud rather than concrete bricks. Unfortunately, a small percentage of cement was used to lay the bricks, a common mistake made even by the best intentioned initiatives.
When reaching the Basrah-Baghdad highway the landscape changes and is dotted with the smoking chimneys of brick factories. It looks hellish, and makes me think of Isengard’s valley in The Lord of the Rings. We reach Amarah before dark and are struck upon entering the city by how clean the roads are. Garbage collecting bins are in use; the city seems to have a proper waster management system. The Governor is none other than Ali Dwai, portrayed in the NYT.
We check in at the Garden of Eden hotel situated on the western bank of the Tigris near a brand new amusement park. The park is in full swing, at least from my hotel window.
A less than one hour drive takes us to a village that gives access to Umm al Na’ej lake, what remains of the once vastest expanse of marshes extending all the way to Basrah some 150km to the south. We are received in the mudhif of a section of the Al Bu Mohamed tribe. Tribes members, though they are not Maadan, were also displaced by the drainage, and built concrete houses upon their return. Somewhat further outside the village, a few households live in reed huts and breed buffaloes. Are they Maadan? How are social relations, hierarchy, patronage and access to resources organised between the different groups? Where did people return to and with which implications?
For lunch we are offered delicious wild qattan fished in the lake. Until then I had refrained from eating fish whenever it was on the menu as I cannot bear the idea of fish farmed in unhealthy conditions. We are also presented with two types of rice bread, a thick one and another very flat one. None are very pleasant to eat as they are dense and chewy.
Past the last army post, we board fiberglass motorboats. The lake is as vast as the eye can see, with a line in the horizon which I take to be the dam built by Iran in the Howeizah Marshes. It is in fact a thick reed barrier, beyond which lies the border and where we are not allowed to penetrate. This marsh is supposed to have more birds than the others we have seen, but either because we are not lucky or out of season, we do not see many except black-and-white pied kingfishers which are everywhere perched on the reeds and tamarisks and do not fly away at our approach. The ornithologist explains that they are not threatened, as fishermen need them to spot concentrations of fish. Many round or oval shaped floating islands are spread across the lake.
I talk to my local contacts about undertaking a study of human use of, and dependency upon natural resources, comparing the situation before drainage and displacement and today. I am told that there is good quantitative socioeconomic data available, and local youth would be willing to get involved. A colleague expresses interest in a comparative approach, which could further extends to a comparison between two communities, one in Huwaizah, the other in the Central Marshes.
It occurs to me that this place on the Umm el Na’aj Lake could soon become the next stage of my slow but steady move east from France to Palestine, then Jordan, and Iraq, getting ever closer to Iran, where my interest for the region started in the early 1980s.
Friends and followers: I’m trying something new. This is a pitch for money.
I first heard about Beacon when Iona Craig, a freelance journalist for the Times in Yemen, tweeted that she had joined it. Then I saw that Gaar Adams, a UAE-based freelancer, was on it too. Gaar put me in touch with Dan Fletcher, one of Beacon’s founders, who encouraged me to join. I hesitated (I always do). I read more about Beacon.
Now I’m increasingly convinced Beacon is heading in the right direction. I’m joining to see how it works.
Three things are clear.
1 – There’s a massive amount of travel ‘content’ out there, but most of it is either dull as ditchwater or thinly-disguised advertorial (or both). Writing in 2011, travel writer Michael Jacobs (who died last month) found it hardly surprising that the genre has come to be seen as ‘banal, patronising and lightweight’. Too right.
2 – Media organisations – if they have any space for travel at all – have begun to see travel merely as a way to leverage advertising revenue, forcing an ever-greater emphasis on advertorial and practical advice. At one global news operation based in London, I hear, travel is the only part of the newspaper that makes any money – which is ironic, considering how bad that particular travel section is. I’m not the only one to bemoan this. Here is how one seasoned newspaper travel journalist, Michael Kerr of the Telegraph, is responding (brilliantly).
3 – Opportunities for making a living as a travel writer – or, frankly, any kind of writer – are shrinking dramatically. Of the dwindling amount of money sloshing around journalism, proportionally less and less is making its way into writers’ pockets. It’s a pretty simple equation: if readers don’t pay (and assuming no fairy godmother materialises), writers don’t get paid. And if writers don’t get paid, they can’t afford to write. Or, at least, they can’t afford to write anything good.
I think people would pay, if paying were easy. At the moment, paywalls are expensive. They are impersonal: if you want to read Max Rodenbeck, you have to have pockets deep enough to subscribe to the whole of the Economist. They’re also unresponsive: you can’t subscribe just to the FT’s travel section. (Both these offer a few free articles if you sign up by registering. Big deal.)
This smart discussion on paywalls at Jeremy Head’s Travelblather site prompted much thought, and only confirmed what I already suspected. I’d urge you to read it. Paywalls matter, because without them travel writing will become PR. But they’re not serving publishers or writers or readers at the moment.
Micropayments are the future. Until we get there, direct funding is a viable alternative, even if it can only operate on a fairly small scale.
Contributoria is an interesting example, but it’s pretty complicated, requiring membership, points equivalents, and a pitching system: the whole thing is focused around reading a pitch and then deciding whether or not to pay for that individual story to get written. It’s clever, but it’s ultimately just a series of one-offs for both writer and reader. Neither is invested in the creative process for the long term. It feels unsustainable.
To me, Beacon sounds different. There, the idea is you subscribe to a person. You’re backing a writer – in this case, me – for a year, on a rolling subscription of, at most, £3 a month (less if you subscribe for a year). For that, you get first read of my new stuff, plus access to dozens of other writers across the whole Beacon site, everything from politics to start-ups to sport. Minus Beacon’s cut, I get some money each month, a supportive and engaged readership and – at least as important in all this – an incentive to write things that might otherwise never get written and a platform on which to shape some new ideas. The reader feels connected. The writer feels committed. There’s a real, ongoing, tangible exchange of (not much) cash for (quite a lot of) output.
I think that’s worth a try. I hope you do, too.
Click: Restoring a Sense of Place
EasyJet is pulling out of the Jordanian capital Amman. The route, which launched in March 2011 with flights from London Gatwick, will be withdrawn in May 2014, with the last flight departing Amman on Sunday 4th May. It was the only route easyJet maintained to Jordan.
UPDATE: Venture, a Jordanian business magazine, covers the story here, quoting me.
On the other hand, easyJet is continuing its policy of going big into Israel. It already flies to Tel Aviv from Manchester and Luton (as well as Geneva and Basel). As news of the Gatwick-Amman cancellation slipped out, easyJet announced that from April 2014 it will be adding a new route to Tel Aviv… from Gatwick.
Then it announced another new route to Tel Aviv from Berlin, lauching February 2014. Then another, from Milan (starting March 2014), to add to Rome-Tel Aviv (launched September 2013). There are rumours of Paris launching in summer 2014.
Why? Well, easyJet has published figures on its website – from a survey of easyJet passengers to TLV done in July 2013 – talking about how “Tel Aviv’s appeal as a popular leisure destination has been growing”. That’s undoubtedly true. Good for Tel Aviv – it’s a great city, they have great beaches, great food. And (more to the point) great PR, the kind of shiny, happy PR that turns heads away from bad stuff. Holidaymakers’ heads. Travel writers’ heads.
Tel Aviv also has a rock-solid base of two-way VFR. Airlines like VFR.
For Jordan, this is an unmitigated disaster. I’ve been hearing that easyJet may have pulled out because of a hike in taxes imposed by the Jordanian government on air travel. Everyone departing Amman’s Queen Alia airport now pays JOD40 (£35/US$56) in ‘embarkation tax’, plus another JOD6 (£5/US$8) in ‘terminal usage fee’ – with both charges hidden in the total cost of an airfare. Maybe easyJet felt that these were pushing its fares too high for its own comfort. Maybe the sweeteners, financial breaks and enticements that many airlines seek from governments, public authorities and airports to serve their destination weren’t forthcoming from Amman – but were from Tel Aviv. I’m not an aviation analyst. I don’t know.
One thing’s for sure. After 3 years of flying London-Amman, easyJet couldn’t make the numbers work in their favour. They have no sentimentality. They pulled out. And the chitchat that says they’re considering launching into Aqaba instead sounds to me like the callowest, straw-clutchingest kind of wishful thinking.
I’ve heard rumours that the palace was furious that Jordan lost easyJet. Who knows what the truth of that is. But you could hardly blame HM if he blew his top.
With Jordan’s tourism industry – like its whole economy – in desperate stagnation, the last thing the country needed was this kind of withdrawal of international business confidence.
And travellers are now forced back to a 1990-style duopoly, controlled by the dead hands and high fares of the legacy carriers. Low-cost connections to European markets are essential. Arguably more essential for Jordan, at this stage, than a short-term gain in tax receipts at the expense of throttling medium- & long-term economic growth.
Easy came. Easy went.
Before I started I knew it might be bad. People were saying the buses weren’t running. When the bus drivers can’t make it, it’s bad.
Petra is high. But every road out of Petra is up. To the north and to the east, you have to climb to the crest of the mountain ridge before you can drop down onto the great plateau that slopes east out of Jordan to the Euphrates. To the west is only a sawtooth wall, poetic and impenetrable, its back warmed by the Wadi Araba sands, a thousand metres below.
I had an appointment on the beach, south, in Jordan’s corner of Arabia. At the door of this hotel, on my right, down the hill and behind Petra’s invisible valley, Aaron’s Mountain hid behind swirls. On my left, the uppermost end of town disappeared into the same clouds. I was safe enough here, beneath a grey-grim umbrella. But I had to go.
The verges turned white at the last petrol station. Within five minutes I was down to walking pace, inching over resistant snow with hazards flashing. Drivers were churning past me up the hill, flashing. Drivers were whomping towards me down the hill, flashing.
I could see a snow bank on my left. I could see white nothingness on my right. How cold was it really, in such a blizzard? Instantly I cracked the window, everything in the car yelled at me to close it again and focus.
Then I was blind. What was road? What was verge? Was that the snow bank, or was it the cliff edge? I sat for a while and thought about possible futures. Then I inched a nine-point turn, the gale nosing at my wheels like a labrador, and went back to huddle with humans in the foot-stamping town down the hill.
I took no photos that day.
The following day on the same road, after the blizzard had eased and the gritters had got through, I took some pictures on the climb out of Petra, around Taybeh village:
Then I stopped somewhere past Rajif village at the highest point of the ridge, where I knew, without seeing, that the land yawned away to the south and west, completely exposed to the weather.
As I sat in the silence, the gale rocked the car to and fro on its springs.
When I stepped outside, my first thought was for my own mortality. Out here, as the wind literally howled in my ears and every sliver of exposed skin shrieked, my life felt fragile. I wondered, if lost, how I might not die. The corners of my eyes cracked with horizontal wind-blown tears. I dare not venture more than a few metres from the car. I dare not let the car cool down too much. I dare not let myself get really cold, in case, when I sat back inside and turned the key, there were only illuminated orange symbols of apology.
Then I saw beauty.
If you doubt the power of the winter wind in Jordan, see what it did to ice here.
I wanted to spend more time looking. I didn’t want to spend more time looking.
I left a thank you.
And within ten minutes, I was down the steep slopes of Ras An Naqab and rolling along a desert road under powder-blue skies, warmed by the huggable sun, my head full of the ice on the heights above.