Jensens in Jordan: "Dr. Sawala! Where are you?"

Nov. 3 From Tom:
It's Sunday morning and I felt like I had a severe UTI, ( TMI for some, but roll with it). So I called Dr. Sawala, who took care of my sinus infection a few weeks ago. No answer, but I left a text message. 30 seconds later ( really??) he calls me back, personally, and says to come right in to his clinic. Since I went to the hospital ER the last time, I asked where his clinic was located. He said to go to the bus station and call him again, really?? ( Remember, there are no addresses here.) So I parked in the central bus station, a large open parking and maneuvering area, about one square block, and called, expecting to have him tell me directions. No, he suggested I hand the phone to someone else. I handed it to a young man, who talked a few minutes and then handed the phone to another man, who talked a few minutes in Arabic and then hailed a taxi. They talked for a minute and motioned for me to get in. I did, wondering where I was going to be taken. The taxi started off, talking with someone on his 'bluetooth'. We drove south a block, west a block, then north a block and then he pointed to the 2nd floor of a building. I paid him about $2.50 for his effort. Then I tried to find something that looked like a doctors office.

I saw cages of chickens, dead carcasses hung in the windows, sellers of everything you can imagine, but no office. So I again asked a young man where Dr. Sewala's office was. He took me down a nearby alley and pointed to a narrow stair. As I entered the little waiting room Dr. Sewala called me on his cell phone. I said I was just entering his office. He said he had walked over to the bus station to find me. ( Who's going to do that in the US?)

The office was very spartan, old and messy. His Muslim assistant couldn't speak English but was very welcoming to his office, also very messy. Dr Sawala entered muttering something about Africa. I asked what he meant. He said something about how it would take 200 years to become like the Africans. Again I was puzzled. He explained that Jordan was so disorganized that if they really tried, someday they would be as organized as Africa. Interesting perspective.

I asked to use the restroom. I was taken to a shabby, folding wooden door. It led to a closet with all types of refuse and piles of boxes, buckets and rags. To the side was a space with a porcelain hole in the floor. It was the toilet. I looked around and found no paper, no spray hose, no bidet and no way to really close the door or wash your hands. You're welcome!

He gave me the prescription and suggested I see a specialist in Amman. I asked for how to find the specialist or what the phone number might be. It was a 10 minute hunt for both him and his assistant trying to find a number. It was at the Jordan Hospital, which I could get on my GPS.

He asked where I lived. When I described it, he said that he also lived on the same driveway and that Mariam, the landlady, was his cousin. ( I guess when the town is 5,000 years old and nobody moves away, eventually everyone is your cousin. I hear this constantly, "oh, he's my cousin".

As I was leaving, he asked if I could find the bus station. I said I am sure I could since it really was only about 50 yards away. But Dr. Sawala made polite apologies to the 3-4 people in his waiting room and walked me back to the bus station. Now that's personal service.