Fleeing a war zone 3: from the Jordan to Amman

We stopped on the road to Amman

Across the desert we’d gone

Our passports in order

We went over the border,

And arrived 5 hours till dawn.

Synopsis: I’m a Family Practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa.  In 2010 I danced back from the brink of burnout, and, honoring a 1-year non-compete clause, traveled and worked in out-of-the-way places in Alaska, Nebraska, Iowa, and New Zealand.  After 3 Community Health years, I took temporary gigs in Iowa, Pennsylvania, Nebraska, Canada, and Alaska.  Since the pandemic, I worked telemedicine, a COVID-19 clinic, a VA clinic, and spots Texas, Iowa, and Pennsylvania.  Taking vacation from circuit-riding rural clinics in Iowa, Nebraska, and South Dakota, I went on vacation to Israel, and found myself in war zone.  Israel closed its airspace.  Grey Bull Rescues orchestrated our evacuation.

I’m Jewish.  I will not be writing about religion or politics.  See my post https://walkaboutdoc.wordpress.com/2010/09/13/why-i-dont-write-about-religion-politics-or-sex/

Before we left Jerusalem, Grey Bull advised us to transfer everything visibly Jewish, including skull caps, fringed t-shirts (tsitsit), and jewelry, to our luggage. One of our party has Hebrew tattoos and decided to wear long sleeves. A wedding ring went into a backpack.

After hours clearing passport control, we zipped through customs. Nobody set off a metal detector, and x-ray didn’t show anything suspicious. 

Despite plenty of bottled water, not everyone drank enough.   

Eventually, I had to seek the restroom: concrete block buildings with holes in the floor.

After Customs we waited in aging Jordanian busses with NO SMOKING signs in Arabic and English, reeking of cigarette smoke.  Once I found three men in Jordanian uniforms standing outside the door and one was smoking.  In Hebrew I said “There’s a baby in the bus” but I couldn’t remember the word for smoke, so I pantomimed rocking a baby in my arms, point to the cigarette, gesturing that smoke was going in through the open door.  Horror gripped his face and he quickly moved away.  

Just a little after sunset we started the trip to Amman.  

Despite the darkness I marveled at the road-side geology. 

And despite the darkness I saw a vibrant roadside night life, with brightly-lit stores large and small, and restaurants from tiny to opulent.  Younger teenagers hanging out under street lamps.  All, I think, joyous in the relief from the summer heat.

The huge city of Amman boasts big city traffic, lots of high-rise buildings, and a major medical community featuring signs consistently in English and mostly also in Arabic.

We got out of the bus at the Rotana hotel, where the state-of-the-art metal detectors and luggage CT stood in marked contrast to security at the border.

The Grey Bull representative advised us that the restaurant would be open till midnight but that check-in would be overwhelmed for a while.

The elevator challenged me only because I underestimated it.  To my embarrassment I had to ask a staffer (well-dressed, polite in the extreme, obviously intelligent, with fluent English) for help.  Yes, restaurant on 3^rd floor, but I should have pushed the restaurant button, not the floor 3 button. 

The place exceeded Las Vegas for fabulous food presented in industrial quantities with artistic grace.  Marble floors, marble tables, open seating broken up to quell noise overload.  Tasteful lighting.

From experience I knew large quantities of high-quality food tempt me to overeat at times when I shouldn’t, and despite my hunger I didn’t. 

In 16 hours I went from hugging the ground and listening to the thump of missiles dying in a fight between good and evil to dining at the most luxurious buffet of my life.

Winston Churchill observed that there is nothing quite so exhilarating as being shot at to no effect. 

Contrast is the essence of meaning.  

Terrible traffic and courteous drivers, narrow lanes with gorgeous vistas, impossible situations with competent bureaucrats. Caution: contains 1100 words.

I started orientation

On the verge of final frustration

    Without enough slumber

    I awaited my number

And at last I got registration

Synopsis:  I’m a family practitioner from Sioux City, Iowa.  On sabbatical to avoid burnout, while my non-compete clause ticks away I’m having adventures, visiting family and friends, and working in out-of-the-way places.  Just back from a six-week assignment in Barrow, Alaska, the northernmost point in the United States, right now I’m in Leigh, New Zealand, hoping to start work next week. 

I slept poorly last night because of anticipation of my weekly Care Initiatives Hospice meeting, my orientation to the new clinic, my interview with the Medical Council of New Zealand, my appointment with Immigration, and the need to move at the end of the day.

We have no net access in the beautiful town where we’re staying; running out of megabytes and the noise of passing trucks marred my Skype session and jangled my nerves as I sat outside the only wireless hot-spot available, a half-hour away from our apartment.

At orientation, in Wellsford, I filled out more paperwork, came up short on the professional liability issue, the work visa, and the medical registration number.

I have been struggling with those three issues since I arrived.  Before I can have a license, the Medical Council of New Zealand wants to see me, with my original medical school diploma and my passport in the same place at the same time.  Most days dawn with the expectation that Today Will Be The Day and end with hope for tomorrow.  Four days ago frustration replaced anticipation. 

My license hung up a week ago on the fact that the hard copy Certificate of Good Standing from one of my State Medical Boards hadn’t arrived. (When I made my overseas call to investigate, the person who sent it out muttered he always had problems with overseas mail.) 

The process involves a three-way Catch-22: to have a job, one needs a license and a visa; to have a visa, one needs a job, which also requires a license; to have a license, one needs a job.  Because 40% of the doctors in New Zealand come from other countries, physicians rate enough flexibility to render the task possible.

The manager of the twelve doctor operation, Sara, glows with professionalism; calls flew back and forth, and by 11:15 I had my invitation to meet with the Medical Council in Auckland.  I could visit Immigration first as long as I had the invitation in hand.  We headed out at 11:30.

The drive took an hour and a half, through spectacular vistas. 

Auckland , New Zealand’s biggest city and four times larger than the capitol, Wellington, boasts 1.4 million people.  As with any other city that size, the traffic problem drives many to insanity.  The hyper vigilance engendered by accommodating to driving on the left didn’t help me, though the courtesy of the other drivers did.

Our GPS guided us to the proper spot but couldn’t find us a parking place.

Twenty traffic-crawling minutes later, Bethany guided me into a parking spot in a facility designed for very small cars being driven by really good parkers.

Downtown Auckland appears to be vigorous, energetic, young, and Asian, with a few Maori and Pakeha thrown in.  Sushi, tandoori, curry, and kebab restaurants crowd against banks, electronics shops, and fashion stores. 

Immigration rules from the fourth floor of a high-rise office building.  I heard languages from Korea, China, Japan, India, Germany, America, and Australia.  Dress ranged from business suit to blue jeans, footwear from flip-flops to oxfords to hiking boots.

After a fifteen minute wait in line I approached the counter with my green plastic folder full of paperwork.  Three people handled the stack, assured me that all was not in order, I would need to leave my passport, and they would send me my visa in a couple of days.

I called my agency in a panic from the counter.  “This is anything but a walk in the park with a couple of rubber stamps that you promised,” I said.  “I can’t leave my passport, I need it when I meet with the Medical Council.  They tell me you need to call Carl.”

I was told to sit down and calm down and wait.

We waited.  In the early afternoon, I knew from long experience, sleep deprivation hits after the morning hormonal surge has left.  Worst case scenarios ran through my mind, and I started to figure.

There is much to be said both for never giving up and for knowing when to quit throwing good money after bad; such is the basis of game theory.

“If I’m not working in a week,” I told Bethany, “we’re going home.”

“You sure you want to give them that long?” She asked.

“I’m figuring time investment as a percentage of time spent working,” I said.

We waited another hour.  I called my agency.  “Nothing is happening.  I’m getting upset,” I said.  Just before I said I’m giving this up as a bad bit of work and I’m going home and the heck with you, a grizzled office veteran called me.

Smiling, courteous, and professional, I relaxed in his presence.  He explained the hang-up and the work-around, and called me back to desk 6.

Two more people handled my packet, and ten minutes later, with the hologram-decorated visa pasted into my passport, we left.

Polite drivers let me edge into the crush of Auckland’s rush hour.

I faced reminders of home: lanes as narrow as the Pennsylvania Turnpike and Jersey barriers.

We arrived ninety minutes early in suburbia marked by young trees.

I power napped and brought out my computer while Bethany slept beside me.  At 5:15 I met with a Justice of the Peace who looked over my papers, handed me a 250 page tome “Medical Practice in New Zealand,” and assured me that five working days was optimistic for a license number.

Waiting for traffic to abate, we ate in a food court and I bought work shirts.  We drove out of the city, back out into the verdant countryside as darkness closed around us and a drizzle fell.

By the time we got back to Leigh the clouds had opened and rain fell in sheets.  Traveling light brings the advantage of quick packing, and before nine we had unloaded and unpacked into an incredibly gorgeous beach house with a view.

Eighteen hours later I had my license number.

This post was written on Thursday, not posted till now because of internet access problems.