We arrived in Aqaba, Jordan with bewildered looks on our faces. An Texas-American had just paid double for an already expensive cab ride. He flung an crisp, impatient $20 at the Israeli cab driver who claimed not to have any change for his already expensive $10 taxi service to the border. Not that we should care; the ride was free for us... awkward, but free. There was a misunderstanding when we asked the couple if they had been in Israel for "Passover." The woman corrected us, "Easter," while her husband became noticeably agitated. We knew they were likely Christian pilgrims, but they seemed offended like we had somehow suggested they were Jewish. We were just trying to be respectful of the local faith, like pronouncing a town's name by the local pronounciation. At any rate, the ride was free, so that was awesome.
At immigration, an Austrian gal asked us if we would split a cab with her to save costs, so we partnered up and made our way toward the swarm of vultures circling the taxi's. A sign read 6 dinars to the bus station, but there were always the excess "baggage fees" to deal with. By the time we reached the bus station, I was warn out, so I camped on the bags while Mark scouted for food and an ATM. As he scouted, I got hounded by a guy who wanted to drive us in his private Toyota Hilux instead of the cheap bus. I thanked him for his offer, but kindly asked him to let me be. He declined and said he'd go ahead and pull his vehicle up by my bags so that we'd be ready to go when my husband returned. Persistent, I give him that much. While leaning on the hood of his Hilux truck, the man stared me down and smoked a ciggerette. Mark returned with pitas and as we ate our lunch on the curb, the driver focused his efforts on Mark who quickly negotiated a reasonable fare. "Alcohol's cheaper in town," the driver stated as we pulled away from the bus station. From the back seat I watched the driver pop the top of a tall can of beer. I elbowed Mark like, "Get me out of here; I'm not dying from a drunk driving incident in the mountains of Jordan." "It's just one beer," he calmly replied. Ugh. We were playing by "outside-America" travel rules (although these rules may still apply to small towns in America). My eyes and jaw relented as I pulled on my seatbelt, "Fine, but if he pops another, I'm outta here."
The scenery outside was breath-taking; tall, jagged purple mountains with veins of orange and cream and black filled the landscape. Industrial oil and gas plants dotted the valleys. The roads were smoothly paved, nice for driving at high speeds through the windy mountains; it actually felt a little like driving Independence Pass but with sand instead of green. The driver spent most of the 2 hour drive smoking ciggerettes (with the windows up) and talking on his cell phone. As we neared the town of Petra the views just kept getting better; the mountains opened up into a panorama of the sandy, mountain-filled valley. In Petra, our driver attempted to negotiate a deeply discounted room, but we had a misunderstanding and thought he was trying to collect a commission, so we ditched him for an internet cafe (where he later found Mark getting dance lessons, but that's another story). We ended up at the hotel he originally took us to. The hotel owner asked us if we wanted a cup of tea. I was so frazzled by the earlier events of the day that I asked her how much it was going to cost me. I felt humiliated when she said it was free.
I realized I was getting too wound up and needed to relax. I ventured down the street in search of something sweet and found just the right thing, a bakery with an employee who reminded me of my friend, Brett. With a big grin, he offered me a piece of baklava and when I reached out to accept it, he tricked me and dropped it into his hand, away from my reach. I laughed and lightened up.
The next morning, we purchased box lunches and walked to Petra. Claire and Olivier had prepared us for the steep price tag, $75 each (on the upside, a store-owner gave us FREE Jordan flag patches for our backpacks). The entry was gorgeous: an red-orange, sandstone slot canyon. Horse-drawn carriages whisked past over cobblestones while camels moseyed by. Suddenly, through the end of the canyon, a view of the Treasury appeared. We crained our necks upward to take it in, and decided to picnic off to the side so we could take in the full view. There were Roman-esque soldiers posing for photos while camels paraded back and forth with various passengers striking poses.
We continued on foot over sandy rock toward the Monastery. Past the tombs, up the hills, and around the corners, we came across an adorable little girl in a backward baseball cap, sitting on a park bench. She was supposed to be selling postcards, but instead she was coloring on them with a blue pen. Covered in goobers, yet irrisistably precious, we wanted to buy some of her postcards, but her babbling didn't explain how much to pay for them. Her brother eventually came over and closed the sale. He also gave us directions to the Monastery, which was equally as beautiful as the Treasury. We climbed into the entrance and were surprised to discover that the inside was significantly smaller than the outside. There was a single room, no staircases, no grand mazes, no Indiana Jones, no Holy Grail. Across from the Monastery, at the top of a mountain, there was a big banner that read "Best View in Petra." It was pretty great; well worth the tiring climb.
By this point, we were tired from walking, but not tired enough to hire a camel, donkey, or horse, so we sodiered on back to the entrance, then up the hill toward the hotel. It had seemed so easy coming down the hill, but 10 miles of cobblestone and sand later, we were exhausted... and apparently lost. In the back streets, void of tourists, we searched for clues to direct us back to the hotel. Eventually, we saw a family leaving their home and asked if they could help us. They told us it was down the street, maybe 1/3 a mile more and offered to give us a ride, then invited us over for tea. Once again, we were impressed by the kindness of strangers and decided that when we get back home, we want to be more like this, helpful, generous, and warm.
At immigration, an Austrian gal asked us if we would split a cab with her to save costs, so we partnered up and made our way toward the swarm of vultures circling the taxi's. A sign read 6 dinars to the bus station, but there were always the excess "baggage fees" to deal with. By the time we reached the bus station, I was warn out, so I camped on the bags while Mark scouted for food and an ATM. As he scouted, I got hounded by a guy who wanted to drive us in his private Toyota Hilux instead of the cheap bus. I thanked him for his offer, but kindly asked him to let me be. He declined and said he'd go ahead and pull his vehicle up by my bags so that we'd be ready to go when my husband returned. Persistent, I give him that much. While leaning on the hood of his Hilux truck, the man stared me down and smoked a ciggerette. Mark returned with pitas and as we ate our lunch on the curb, the driver focused his efforts on Mark who quickly negotiated a reasonable fare. "Alcohol's cheaper in town," the driver stated as we pulled away from the bus station. From the back seat I watched the driver pop the top of a tall can of beer. I elbowed Mark like, "Get me out of here; I'm not dying from a drunk driving incident in the mountains of Jordan." "It's just one beer," he calmly replied. Ugh. We were playing by "outside-America" travel rules (although these rules may still apply to small towns in America). My eyes and jaw relented as I pulled on my seatbelt, "Fine, but if he pops another, I'm outta here."
The scenery outside was breath-taking; tall, jagged purple mountains with veins of orange and cream and black filled the landscape. Industrial oil and gas plants dotted the valleys. The roads were smoothly paved, nice for driving at high speeds through the windy mountains; it actually felt a little like driving Independence Pass but with sand instead of green. The driver spent most of the 2 hour drive smoking ciggerettes (with the windows up) and talking on his cell phone. As we neared the town of Petra the views just kept getting better; the mountains opened up into a panorama of the sandy, mountain-filled valley. In Petra, our driver attempted to negotiate a deeply discounted room, but we had a misunderstanding and thought he was trying to collect a commission, so we ditched him for an internet cafe (where he later found Mark getting dance lessons, but that's another story). We ended up at the hotel he originally took us to. The hotel owner asked us if we wanted a cup of tea. I was so frazzled by the earlier events of the day that I asked her how much it was going to cost me. I felt humiliated when she said it was free.
I realized I was getting too wound up and needed to relax. I ventured down the street in search of something sweet and found just the right thing, a bakery with an employee who reminded me of my friend, Brett. With a big grin, he offered me a piece of baklava and when I reached out to accept it, he tricked me and dropped it into his hand, away from my reach. I laughed and lightened up.
The next morning, we purchased box lunches and walked to Petra. Claire and Olivier had prepared us for the steep price tag, $75 each (on the upside, a store-owner gave us FREE Jordan flag patches for our backpacks). The entry was gorgeous: an red-orange, sandstone slot canyon. Horse-drawn carriages whisked past over cobblestones while camels moseyed by. Suddenly, through the end of the canyon, a view of the Treasury appeared. We crained our necks upward to take it in, and decided to picnic off to the side so we could take in the full view. There were Roman-esque soldiers posing for photos while camels paraded back and forth with various passengers striking poses.
We continued on foot over sandy rock toward the Monastery. Past the tombs, up the hills, and around the corners, we came across an adorable little girl in a backward baseball cap, sitting on a park bench. She was supposed to be selling postcards, but instead she was coloring on them with a blue pen. Covered in goobers, yet irrisistably precious, we wanted to buy some of her postcards, but her babbling didn't explain how much to pay for them. Her brother eventually came over and closed the sale. He also gave us directions to the Monastery, which was equally as beautiful as the Treasury. We climbed into the entrance and were surprised to discover that the inside was significantly smaller than the outside. There was a single room, no staircases, no grand mazes, no Indiana Jones, no Holy Grail. Across from the Monastery, at the top of a mountain, there was a big banner that read "Best View in Petra." It was pretty great; well worth the tiring climb.
By this point, we were tired from walking, but not tired enough to hire a camel, donkey, or horse, so we sodiered on back to the entrance, then up the hill toward the hotel. It had seemed so easy coming down the hill, but 10 miles of cobblestone and sand later, we were exhausted... and apparently lost. In the back streets, void of tourists, we searched for clues to direct us back to the hotel. Eventually, we saw a family leaving their home and asked if they could help us. They told us it was down the street, maybe 1/3 a mile more and offered to give us a ride, then invited us over for tea. Once again, we were impressed by the kindness of strangers and decided that when we get back home, we want to be more like this, helpful, generous, and warm.
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