Back in the depths of the English winter whilst the itinerary was being formulated and the plans laid, G and I had decided to balance luxury extravagance with, I hesitate to say budget..., cost conscious choices. The next few days were one of the extravagant indulgences.
We arrived at the Marriott Dead Sea & Resort Spa at noon and G and I were unsure whether the extensive security checks our car underwent before being allowed on to the hotel's grounds reassured us that we were safe or highlighted that it would be a newsworthy target.
We were greeted in the hotel's foyer with a glass of fruit juice and offered mini-Easter eggs; a nice touch. Thankfully, we were able to check in earlier than the stipulated time of 3 pm. We were invited to leave our bags at reception and make use of the hotel's facilities whilst our room was being prepared.
G and I had always intended to get a couples massage whilst staying at the Marriott. In part to rid the tension of our London lifestyle and properly relax into our holiday and in part to maximise the "health benefits" of the Dead Sea experience (bathing in the Dead Sea and the benefits of the mud scooped from the shoreline supposedly works wonders for all kinds of skin ailments: cursed since childhood with patches of eczema I would be a perfect candidate to test these claims). We, therefore, headed to the Customer Relations desk and enquired about booking a massage. We were told that the spa was fully booked for the duration of our stay save for two 25 minute slots that evening; one at 5 pm and one at 7 pm. We pointed out that we had intended to relax together and were assured that we could make use of the general spa facilities together.
Booking made, we headed outside to the pool. As we stepped through the door from the relative calm of the foyer to the bright poolside area we were hit by a wall of noise. The thump of the bass of Lady Gaga's latest chart topping number resonated through our bones, the shriek of young children chasing one another pierced our eardrums and this was all topped off by the visual assault of the children's entertainers performing some painfully choreographed number on one side of the pool. Feeling middle aged before our time, we sighed and saw the prospect of a relaxing break fast vanishing.
Thankfully, as we explored the Marriott's grounds, we stumbled across the adult only infinity pool; a comparative oasis of calm. Shown to our sun loungers by one of the pool boys and gazing out over the Dead Sea we felt the tension in our shoulders melt away.
Some of the guide books mention the haze that hangs over the Dead Sea as being capable of filtering out the sun's harmful UV rays. Within half an hour of sun bathing I was exhibit A in the rebuttal against such a claim. That evening I cursed myself for forgetting to apply suntan lotion promptly enough in my haste to soak up the sun and the experience.
Before our spa session, we hurried into reception to collect our bags and make our way to our room.
We headed down to the spa together. Having checked in and confirmed the times of our appointments (mine was moved back half an hour), we walked down the stairs into the spa proper to be confronted with two signs: one pointed to the female section and the other to the male. So much for relaxing in the spa's quiet environs together. There was an indoor pool with mixed seating at least. While G went off for her massage, I made use of the steam room and sauna.
Half an hour later I met G by the pool. Arriving early I was able to watch her float in with a serene smile of contentment lighting her face. We went upstairs to the lounge area for a cup of detoxing green tea and healthy nibbles.
As the time for my appointment approached, G headed off to make use of the sauna. My masseuse walked in; she was built like an Eastern European shot putter. I was led to a candle lit room sweet with the smell of aromatherapy oils and the soft sound of pan pipes (seriously, whoever recorded that album has done a roaring trade selling to every spa).
As the massage finished, the masseuse fell back exhausted; it seems as though London and its inherent stresses manifests itself in a noticeable way. I left feeling as though a great weight had been lifted. Money well spent then.
Dinner was a rather disappointing meal at the hotel's buffet.
The next morning saw us venture down to the beach.
At 400m below sea level and with no natural outlet, the water flowing into the Dead Sea evaporates leaving a strong saline solution; if you imagine that seawater is 3% salt, the water at the Dead Sea is 30% salt.
All of the advice about bathing in its water mentions that you shouldn't shave for a couple of days beforehand. Of course, I had to disregard this and maintain my well turned out appearance. I would regret the habit of shaving everyday that had been drilled into me at boarding school years earlier.
As you step into the water you can see the streaks of salt in the still water. The further you walk out the harder it is to stay upright until your legs are forced from underneath you. The sensation of floating with no effort is disconcerting at first, enjoyable as you relax into it and then distinctly unpleasant as you splash water across your face and feel every nick from that morning's shave. Rubbing salt into the wound indeed!
The process of regaining your feet to exit the water is devoid of any elegance.
On the water's edge, the hotel had laid out buckets of mud and people were gleefully covering themselves from head to foot. All in the pursuit of baby smooth skin and the associated health benefits.
Keen not to miss out, G and I took part and had fun smearing each other in the heavy clay. The idea is to smear it on, bake in the sun and then wash it off in the Dead Sea. Supposedly, repeating the cycle three times results in the perfect finish. Just before our third "smear" a new bucket of mud was delivered and this stuff really did coat us.
Verdict: upon immersion in the water my eczema was painful, but over the course of our time in Jordan it was noticeably quiet. Now that could be a result of the water's healing qualities, but it could also be a result of the lack of stress while on holiday or the minimal amounts of dairy used in local cooking. Who knows?
Another day of lying by the pool followed, well someone has to, before we returned to the room to get ready for the evening.
We headed to the Beach Bar at half past six keen to secure a table, order a cocktail and watch as the sun set across the Dead Sea over Israel. Knowing that sunset would be at ten minutes past seven, if you are going to plan something you have to do it properly, we had arrived with plenty of time to spare. The experience, however, was anything but relaxing.
When we arrived it was apparent that the staff were busily moving furniture; however, when we made to sit at one of the tables the manager came running over to tell us that we needed to wait in the bar while the seating was rearranged. So we stood at the bar and watched as the staff played a giant game of Tetris as the sun began its descent for the evening.
At one point the manager came over to ask how we were and I mentioned that we had ventured down to the bar in order to see the sunset. His response mentioned the need to rearrange to find space for additional furniture to seat the overwhelming number of guests. Looking around at the empty bar, I merely nodded.
The highlight was watching the huge umbrellas being wheeled out, opened, closed, moved to a different spot and reopened. This all took place while the manager adamantly refused to let us sit. By now it seemed almost churlish to point out that, with the sun fast approaching the horizon and the lack of any cloud in the sky, the umbrellas may be redundant. It all had a touch of Benny Hill about it and we were looking for the hidden cameras.
By now a number of other couples had arrived and they too were milling about the bar area.
Finally, at five minutes past seven we were invited to take a seat and our cocktails arrived as the sun hit the horizon leaving us to finish them in the fast enveloping dark.
Travelling is all about accumulating anecdotes, we reassured ourselves as we headed for dinner at the Marriott's steak restaurant.
Now our meal at the steak restaurant was good; there is little you can do to ruin a meal of steak and chips and, by the same token, there is little that you can do to lift it out of the ordinary. The point to take away from this meal is not the meal itself, but rather the fact that G and I chose to eat there in the first place. London bursts at the seams with excellent steak restaurants (Gaucho and Hawksmoor just two that come to mind) yet the paucity of good restaurants on offer by the Dead Sea leads the Marriott's steak house to be one of the top rated places to eat.
From luxury to basic, we set off for Karak the next day.
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