Two fifty degrees

Today marks the two hundred and fiftieth week of my column Talespin. I am no mathematician but roughly speaking it has completed five years of existence since its launch in September of 2010. 

A lot has changed over the years but quite a bit has remained the same. Living in Amman, the city of my residence, I witnessed many geopolitical conflicts being played out in our neighbourhood. Syria imploded, Iraq disintegrated, and Tunisia, Libya and Egypt erupted in volatile instability. 

When I had recently moved to the place, the sound of a military helicopter would have me rushing out of the house instantly, to peer at the flying machine. It was a very rare sight in those days. But now, along with the inhabitants of the town, I have also got inured to its daily presence. The loud noise that it makes is a slight irritant but other than that, it does not bother me any more. 

An additional thing that has changed is the immense surge of refugees that have arrived in the country. The camps are overflowing and we are desperately trying to cope with sharing our water, electricity and other natural resources with them. Zaatari Refugee Camp that was founded in July 28, 2012, is now the ninth-biggest city here. Jordan hosts 629,000 Syrian refugees, out of which over 100,000 live in camps, including 20,000 in the newer Azraq Refugee Camp, while the rest struggle to survive in cities with UN cash and food assistance. 

Global warming has made the place hotter and this summer the temperatures soared higher than I have ever witnessed in the last four years. Earlier, in Amman, even during the hottest months, the evenings were cool and pleasant and one required a light jacket while stepping out. So I have forgotten how to take care of myself in the intense heat and suffered from dehydration and sunburns. 

However, I am pleased to report that even with all this chaos, the driving and smoking habits of Jordanians remains unchangeable. Almost everyone still drives with one foot on the accelerator, the other tapping to a song beat, and one hand holding a cellphone to the ear while the other dangles a half-smoked cigarette. With so much of death and destruction happening in the vicinity, it is almost as if we cock-a-snook at destiny. 

Personally, I am getting used to having my professional life discussed publicly. Even though I have been a writer for more than two decades I was never quizzed in so much of detail about my work. Nobody was interested, you see? 

Comic writing, which is my forte, was never taken seriously. But recently I was invited to a book club where all the members had, over a month, read my newly published book, which is a collection of one hundred of my columns. 

I was nervous but the moment I walked in, the beaming club members engulfed me in warm hugs. The praise that was heaped left me reeling with delight. 

“I could relate to all your stories. You were talking about me,” one lady gushed. 

“No, no! You were talking about me,” another reiterated. 

“You have no idea how happy you made me. I saved your columns,” said the third one. 

“To savour them at the end of the day,” continued the fourth. 

“Like a favourite sweet dish,” said the fifth. 

“I wish it could go on and on,” they chorused. 

“And on,” they repeated.