By the Dead Sea
Our main destination in Jordan was the Dead Sea, a place where we could relax and forget about life in Baghdad: the violence, the kidnappings, the car bombs, the translators who have been targeted because they work for Americans. In Iraq, Luma is scared every time there is a knock at the door.
One night when we were hanging out in the swimming pool at our Dead Sea resort, Luma turned to me beaming and asked if I felt happy. "Happy? No, better than happy," I told her. "I feel safe." She nodded, and we leaned our heads back against the tiled pool wall and watched the sun drop behind the mountains in Israel.
On a holiday from Iraq, the author and her translator soaked up the sun at Jordan's Movenpick resort on the Dead Sea.
(Movenpick)
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Subject of Travel Feature Killed in Iraq
She had never flown before, and she was scared, Luma had confessed. Don't be silly, I told my Iraqi translator. You are one of the bravest people I know. Well, she told me, I prayed for three things just in case. The first was that God would protect my mother, the second that God would take care of my daughter and the third that we will go to the United States. Of course, I reassured her, while we waited for our flight to Jordan at Baghdad International Airport. The next trip will be to the United States.
On Nov. 24, Luma, who was featured in an Oct. 3 Travel story, was shot and killed at a U.S. Army base in Baghdad. The Army is investigating.
Luma, whose last name is being withheld to protect her family, was one of a kind. She lit up a room when she walked in. This compensated -- as it had to -- for her complete lack of English skills. Each day I gave her a word list to help her grasp the foreign language of The Washington Post Baghdad bureau: explosion, barricade, suicide, amputate, courage, sweat, blaze. She was a fast learner.
One of her first days in the office, she was driving to work and Omar, our office manager, spotted her pulling her BMW up on the sidewalk of a downtown Baghdad street. She drove as far as she could and when she reached a big drop-off, Omar watched as several men abandoned their own cars to help her back onto the roadway. When they both reached the office, Omar asked her what she had been doing. You told me I had to be in the office by 9 sharp, she told him. We quickly learned what the "Luma way" meant. She always got it.
Luma leaves behind a 6-year-old daughter, her mother and a brother.
Jackie Spinner is a staff writer for The Post's Business section, currently on assignment in Baghdad.
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There are really only three main resorts on the Jordan side of the Dead Sea: the high-end Jordan Valley Marriott Resort and Spa, the Movenpick Resort and Spa, and the Dead Sea Resort. I chose the Movenpick, part of a Swiss chain, for its moderate price and faux rustic charm. Besides, I figured, it couldn't hurt to stay neutral.
We bade goodbye each night to the setting sun from the outdoor pool, which was constructed partially above ground, with water spilling over a back bowl, creating the illusion that you could swim right into the Dead Sea, the famously salty body of water that, at 1,373 feet below sea level, marks the lowest point on Earth not covered with water.
You can't really swim in the Dead Sea because the high salt content makes it difficult to do much more than float. Most bathers walk in and out squatting like a duck. Once you get in, the salt manages to find any cut, abrasion or recently shaved body part, creating the most incredible burning sensation. I lasted long enough to get my picture taken and crawled out on my knees.
It's a 45-minute drive from Amman, a quick trip by taxi that costs about $35 one way. We opted against hiring a taxi or a driver because we wanted to make it a true road trip, just two chicks and the open highway. Luma had arranged to borrow a car from an uncle living in Jordan, but the uncle ultimately decided against this because Luma did not have an international driver's license. Not to worry, Luma told me. Her Iraqi friend, Jamal, an engineer living in Jordan for three months, would find us a vehicle. Jamal had a contact at the Avis rental car agency, where we headed to get our wheels, no questions asked. (I didn't have an international driver's license either.) I couldn't understand exactly what was being negotiated at the Avis counter -- the conversation was in Arabic -- but whatever it was it took two hours, and I ultimately signed the contract and handed over my D.C. driver's license and credit card. I had no idea how much it would cost.
Luma plunged the Nissan into the chaotic traffic and we were off, weaving and dodging and honking through the streets of Amman. I crouched in the passenger seat while Luma piloted our great adventure in a vehicle I was responsible for, in a vehicle only I was licensed to drive. As the road opened, revealing the wide brown vista of the Jordan Valley on each side, I opened my eyes and saw that we were now barreling down a hill, straddling the center lane. "Luma," I asked meekly, "is it difficult to get a driver's license in Iraq?"
"Oh yes," she said.
"The test is hard?"
"Test? There is no test. You pay a bribe. Twenty-five thousand dinars!" (About $17.)
