I
haven’t written in almost two months so there are several experiences that have
built up that I need to write about. The first is my trip to Haifa, Israel to
visit my parents who were on a Mediterranean cruise which happened to stop
there.
When
I found out that my mom and dad would be stopping in Haifa, a mere 78 miles
from Amman (comparable to the distance between Madison and Milwaukee,
Wisconsin,) I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see them. But in this area of the world, a 78 mile
jaunt is not really a jaunt. As I discovered, it’s more of a expedition.
Since
I learned of the existence of Israel and its strict “security measures” against
its perceived “security threats,” I have always been nervous about going to
Israel. I have heard horror stories from friends who were detained at the
border for hours or one who was even deported. A friend who wears hijab (the Muslim “headscarf” as we call
it in the US) was attempting to enter the West Bank one summer where she would
teach English at a social services center.
She was born in Syria, but her parents moved to the United States when
she was one year old. The border guards at the Israel-Jordan border looked at
her (American) passport, looked at her, and asked her to step into a corridor
without explanation. She sat on a bench
in an empty corridor for three hours until they took her into a room for
questioning. The border guards emptied all of her suitcases and took her phone
and computer from her. They asked her to give them the name of all the
“terrorists” that she knows. She
couldn’t help but chuckling and assuring them that she knows none. Not being satisfied with that answer, they
forced her to give them the name and phone number of all of her aunts and
uncles, and opened her picture album on her computer, and meticulously went
through all the pictures. At one point, they stopped on a picture of her older
brother (who has dark skin and a beard) and asked “Who is this terrorist?” She assured them that it wasn’t a terrorist,
but instead her brother who lives in Buffalo, New York and is married with two
little kids. She’s not sure what
convinced them that she didn’t have ties with terrorist organizations, but
after 12 hours of detainment in corridors and locked rooms, she was let free to
continue to her journey to the social service agency where she would teach
classes to Palestinian kids for the summer.
Another
Fulbrighter who was at the time living in Egypt, booked a trip to Israel to
visit friends. Upon arrival at Ben
Gurion airport, airport security whisked her aside and locked her in a room. She waited there for a few hours until she
was questioned about the purpose of her trip.
She was then informed that she would be deported to the United States.
What was this 23 year old American’s crime?
Cultural exchange.
After
graduating college, this young woman wanted to learn more about the Middle
East, and researched study abroad opportunity in the area. In the end she found
a program where she would spend the summer with a family in the West Bank and
did exactly this. Beginning her
experience unaware as to what all the chaos was about in this part of the
world, she quickly learned that life in the West Bank was less than perfect and
understood why people here are fighting tooth and nail to gain basic freedoms
and rights. Somehow the Israeli security
forces learned this about this young woman, and considered her a security
threat to the country. She was forced to
buy a ticket back to the states and was banned from ever entering Israel
again. After arriving in the US, she had
to buy another plane ticket back to Egypt to collect her belongings from the
apartment where she was living and return back to the US. Read this Fulbrighter’s account here: http://alajnabiya.wordpress.com/2012/09/26/you-cant-get-there-from-here/
After
being involved in events and groups in college which questioned the Israeli
government’s policies towards (or against) Palestinians, I was nervous that my
name would for some reason be on some security list. And after hearing these stories from my
Fulbright peers, I was nervous of crossing the border myself.
Many
people ask why I care about a foreign government’s policies and why I even
chose to involve myself in this conflict at all. Some claim that Israel is its
own country and should be able to do what it likes at and within its borders.
If this were completely true, I would care to a lesser extent than I do
now. But the truth is that Israel
receives about three billion American tax dollars each year in the form of
military and (some) economic assistance. This is according to a report by the
Congressional Research Service titled “U.S Foreign
Aid to Israel”, published March 12,
2012. My greatest gripe with the
situation at hand is that I am (and many of you who are reading this are)
subsidizing the mistreatment of Americans at the borders and Palestinians
within the borders. THREE BILLION of our
American dollars are going to this country in which the people, according to a
poll by The Telegraph, “favour discrimination against Arabs.”
I
believe people from across the American political spectrum could agree that
three billion dollars could be put to better use helping or supporting American
programs or if you don’t believe in your tax dollars supporting social welfare
programs, perhaps then you would agree that these three billion dollars would
be better off never leaving your pocket.
While I won’t go into great detail on this political conundrum, I urge
you to educate yourself using the resources above or whatever other resources
you can access. In the mean time, back to my experience crossing the border.
In
preparation for traveling to Israel, I went to the American Embassy in Jordan
to gain a second passport. In special cases, the
American government allows its citizens a second passport. One of these special cases, though not
explicitly stated, is travel to Israel.
However, the American Embassy website states that you may apply for a
second passport may be issued “due to restrictive policies.” In this case, if you have an Israeli stamp on
your passport, you may not enter any other Arab country except for Egypt and
Jordan (because of a peace treaty signed between these nations). In hopes that Lebanon will be safely
accessible by next June, that security in Syria will, insha’allah, improve by
the time by passport expires in a few years and that my good friend will invite
me to Sudan, I decided to shell out the $110 for a second passport. This was the first step of my journey to
Haifa, and the stars seemed to aligned in my favor, as if it had taken the two
weeks I was told it would take to process, I would not have been able to get it
in time to visit my parents when then passed through Haifa. Thankfully, I only
took 8 days and I was one step closer to making it to Haifa.
The
next step was to secure some sort of transportation from Amman to Haifa. I asked my colleagues as to how they had
previously traveled to Israel and I was given a variety of answers. Taxi to the
border, bus to destination inside Israel. Bus to border, taxi to bus station, sheirut (microbus/ shared taxi) to
destination inside Israel. Other people
gave me a response which included several other combinations of busses, taxis,
friend’s cars, vans, microbuses, etc. I concluded that this was not helpful.
I
searched high and low, but did not find any direct transportation from Amman to
Nazareth. However on an internet forum,
there was a bus service mentioned between Amman and Nazareth. I found the phone number for the office in
Amman, and gave the guy a call. Though he claimed to speak English, his answer
to every question I asked was “Okay, no problem.” The Lonely Planet forum also recommended to
buy your ticket a day early, so I showed up Thursday evening and purchased my
“bus ticket” for 40 JD ($56) to be sure I would get a seat.
In
the meantime, I booked a hostel in Haifa.
I also called that hostel and found a bus that would take me to Haifa after the
first bus dropped me off in Nazareth. In
this part of the world, there are no such things as exact addresses for bus
stations or any location for that matter, so I just had to rely on my
navigation skills to find the bus station to Haifa once I arrived in Nazareth.
On
Friday morning, I arrived to the bus company, called Trust International
located in 7th circle, at 7:30 AM to be completely sure I wouldn’t
miss the bus at 8:30. I brought a book
so I didn’t mind waiting. (Also if you know me, you know that I am an
over-the-top organizer and I will arrive incredibly early to any type of
transportation.) I assumed that we would
begin loading at 8, but at 8 AM, there was still no bus, and I was left to sit
next to an old man who decided that the best way to spend his Friday morning
(the Middle East’s equivalent of Sunday morning) was chain smoking in a bus
office on the outskirts of town.
Finally
at 8:30 on the dot, a clean cut middle aged man pulled up in a yellow
taxi. The guy working at the front desk
motioned for me to get into the cab, and I asked “I’m the only person?” They
told me yes, and though I was rather confused at this whole situation, I threw
my backpack in the backseat of the cab and started to get in. The driver
motioned to me and said in English “You can go ahead and sit in the
front.” I looked at him with disbelief
and asked “Really?” (In Jordan, it is
customary for women to sit in the back.
If there is a man in the group, he will sit in the front. Or, if there
is a group of 4 women, then it is okay for a woman to sit in the front. But if
it is just one woman, the woman sits in the back) I was a little weirded out by
this request, but I figured this company wouldn’t hire this driver if he
creeped out customers on the regular. I was still confused, because I thought I
bought a bus ticket and now I was being personally driven to the border by a
man named Ayman. Either way I decided I would sort everything out on the way, hopped
in the front and we got going on our journey.
It
was about a two hour drive from Amman to the Sheikh Hussein Border crossing in
the north of Jordan. I had never been that far north and to be honest the drive
was quite beautiful. Once we got out of
Amman and started to weave through the mountains, the scenery went from gray to green. My ears wouldn’t stop popping as we traversed up and
down mountain switchbacks. And of course
we’d stop occasionally to pick up a few men hailing a taxi on the side of the road. They’d get in
the back, we’d ride for 10 or 15 minutes and they would get out, but not before
handing the driver a few coins, as the meter was not running.
I
had a nice chat with Mr. Ayman Al-Zain before he dropped me off at an
indiscriminate road on the side of the “highway” (more of a two lane country
road.) He handed another waiting taxi
driver a few JDs to take me through the upcoming checkpoints to the actual
Jordanian border and then handed me 1.5 JD and told me to use it for the bus
that would take me from inside the Jordanian border to the Israeli border. Then he gave me the phone number for the
elusive Abu Hatim, the man who was supposed to be picking me up on the other
side. I asked specifically what he would look like or what car he had, but
Ayman told me, as if we were starring in the latest installment of Dune, “ I
don’t know. This is as far as I come.
I’ve never been to the other side.” So without a full understanding of where
exactly I was supposed to go from there, I took the 1.5 JDs in hand and Abu
Hatim’s Israeli number in my cell, and hopped in the cab with the next driver
who was telling me to get in.
I
handed this new cab driver my passport after he requested it, and we wove
through the concrete barriers in front of us. Once we reached the first
checkpoint, he instructed me to pull up my sunglasses and he handed the soldier
outside the car my passport. The soldier asked me a few questions, which I am
convinced were not actually necessary and instead were a few failed attempts at
flirtation. Either way we passed though this
checkpoint and another one with no problem.
Then this taxi left me at
another checkpoint where I was instructed to put all of my luggage ( a backpack
and a purse) on the conveyer belt to be checked by security. I showed my passport and passed with no
problem. Upon exiting this small
building, I found myself in a small compound of several more official-ish
looking buildings. I found my way to the
customs desk where I was asked another series of questions, all in Arabic. Here I presented them with my original
passport (since it contained my visa), paid my 8 JD exit tax and asked them to
stamp a separate piece of paper (not my passport) so that there would be no
evidence of leaving Jordan though this border crossing. (Even though I wouldn’t
technically have an Israeli stamp in my original passport, it would be quite
suspicious if I were to leave and come back through one of the three border
crossings with Israel.) I found the bus office where I was to spend my 1.5 JD
on the bus that would take me to the Israeli side. I had no idea if this ride
was to be 10 seconds or 10 minutes, but I bought my ticket and waited patiently
until the bus filled up with enough people for us to get going.
The
bus was filled with me and about 10 other people, all Arabs, some with
Jordanian passports and some with Israeli passports. The ride was maybe ½ a
mile from the Jordanian customs booth, over the Jordan river, to the Israeli
customs building. Though the distance was short, it took about 20 minutes for
us to complete it, as we sat in one place for some time while Israeli security
checked around and under the bus with mirrors attached to poles.
When
we were finally let out, I headed to yet another building where I pulled out my
brand spankin’ new second passport. The woman flipped through it, called over a
colleague and the colleague asked “Do you have another passport?” I answered
honestly and they asked to see it. I handed over my original passport and they
asked why I had two. Again I answered honestly that “ I want to travel to
Lebanon” and the allowed me to pass through to another luggage x-ray check and
then to the final passport check.
I was advised by fellow travelers to choose
the youngest male available in the case that flirtation would or could help my
chances of passing through. Luckily
there was a very cute young man with curly black hair and a keepah clipped to
it behind one of the desks. (To be honest, I would step in this guy’s line any
day, if you know what I mean.)
I
handed him my second passport and he proceeded to ask me a series of questions.
“What
is the purpose of your visit to Israel?”
“I’m
meeting my parents. They’re stopping in Haifa on their Mediterranean cruise.”
“Are
you traveling alone?
“Yes.”
“What
is your mother’s name?”
“Renee
Ramirez”
“What
is your father’s name?”
“Ralph
Ramirez”
“What
is your paternal grandfather’s name?
“Arcadio
Ramirez,” I told him in a proper Spanish accent, as I don’t feel right saying those
two words like a gringa.
He
finally looked up from his computer, and asked “What?”
“Art,
Art Ramirez” I responded to him in pure Anglo. “And my grandma is Margarita.
Sounds like the drink, but it’s not.”
Finally!
He cracked a smile. He let out a faint
chuckle before he continued his questioning.
“Where
will you be staying?” I took out the print out of the confirmation from the
hostel where I’d be staying and handed it to him. He took it, along with my
second passport to somewhere out of sight while I waited for a few minutes at
the window. When he came back, he sat down again and asked “I stamp your passport?” I told him to go ahead, gathered my documents
and exited the building.
I
weaved through some fenced in areas like I was heading to the front of Splash
Mountain, and ended up exiting onto a dead end street surrounded my lush green
trees and vegetation. There were perhaps three cars lined up, so I went to them
hoping to find Abu Hatim. Not sure if I
should speak English or Arabic or if the guys in these cars spoke either of
those, I made awkward eye contact with each of the men, hoping that one of them
would signal in some way that they were waiting for a person to take to
Nazareth. When none of them gave me any
type of signal, I tried to call Abu Hatem from my phone. Of course, there was a long message in Arabic
telling me something, but my slow self could not understand a word.
I
resorted to plan B, which I created then in that moment, which was to ask the
old men smoking hookah and sitting at the roadside café for help. Again, unsure if I should speak English or
Arabic, I chose Arabic on the basis that they were old men sitting around
smoking hookah in the middle of the day.
“Excuse
me, do you know is Abu Hatim is here? He’s my taxi driver and he’s not here,” I
said in my basic Arabic.
“Abu
Hatim’s not here.” One of the men took a break from flavored tobacco to answer
me.
“I’m
sorry, but could you call this number?” I handed them my phone with Abu Hatim’s
number on it. One of the men gladly obliged but after trying the number told
me, “He’s not answering.”
I
resorted to plan C, which was to call the “bus” company back in Amman and yell
at them in English. Luckily my call went
through for enough time for me to scream at them that Abu Hatim is not at the
border even when I called him and told him the time that I would be there
before I reached Israel. (This was true.
I called him when I still had perfect reception a mile ago on the Jordan side)
Then my credit ran out because it was an international call and I resorted to
Plan D, which was to sit and pout next to the old man smoking argileh. There
was no public transportation option and even if I wanted to try to hire one of
the cars that was sitting at the border, I didn’t know if they were for hire
nor did I have any local money.
After
about 10 minutes of sitting there and unsuccessfully thinking of a Plan E , one
of the man yelled to me “That’s Abu Hatim!” I looked up as a unmarked white
vehicle pulled up on the side of the road. I didn’t get out of my seat until a
few other men yelled at me to go towards the car. I was still skeptical that this in fact was
the legitimate next leg of my transportation to Haifa. I approached this so-called Abu Hatim and
started grilling him with several questions of my own. Turns out he didn’t speak a lick of English
so in Arabic, I asked him “ Who are you? Are you Abu Hatim? What company are
you from? Did I speak with you earlier? Is this your phone number?” Finally he
mentioned the name of the company from which I bought this SO CALLED “bus ticket”
and I figured that was good enough for me. I hopped in the back of this
unmarked white vehicle and we were on our way to Nazareth, or so I hoped.
The
entire way, I took in the new sites as I desperately searched for signs that we
were successfully approaching Nazareth.
As the road signs indicated the number of kilometers to Nazareth
decreasing as we went along, I felt better and better about this Abu Hatim
character. It was about another 45
minutes in the car until we reached the outskirts of the city. I told him I
needed to get on a bus to Haifa and I also needed to go to a bank where I could
take out money. Of course, I’m convinced
just to make my journey a little more difficult, it started pouring rain right before Abu Hatim stopped at
a corner and said, ”There’s a bank, and the bus stop is 50 meters on the
right.” The honking cars behind me pressured me to grab my backpack and purse
as soon as I could and jump out of the car before I could ask any clarifying
questions.
I
found myself at an entirely Arabic ATM with no knowledge of Arabic financial
vocabulary. I can surely introduce myself, ask directions or yell at children
in Arabic, but put me in front of an Arabic ATM and I’m useless. I turned to
the young man next to me and asked in Arabic while pointing at the machine “Is
there English here?” He answered me in
English, pointing to the card slot “You card here.” For a moment, I thought he might be preparing
to rob me of all of my savings stored away at Waukesha State Bank, but
realizing that I needed Israeli shekels for the bus to Haifa and that I was
clueless of any other option at the moment, I put my card in where he told me
to, and then an “English” option appeared.
Alhamdulillah, Anne Frank was right. People ARE really good at heart!
After
taking out an arbitrary amount of shekels (the conversion rate was
something I checked before leaving, but did not write down,) I headed right to
the bus station. But after walking
something more like 200 meters, I realized I was not finding what I was looking
for. I heard that Nazareth was the largest Arab center in Israel, so I was happy
to find myself amongst people with whom I could communicate. I found the
nearest woman and asked if she knew where I could pick up the bus to Haifa. She pointed me in the direction opposite that
I had been going, so I turned around and walked for a few blocks.
I
finally found the bus stop with the number of the bus I was looking for. Though I can’t read a word in Hebrew, I was
glad that numbers in Hebrew look the same as numbers in English. (As opposed to
Arabic numbers, which are written differently from those we are used to.) I was
also grateful that the Lonely Planet’s Middle East book included an Israel
section in which all of the names of the cities were written in English, Arabic
and Hebrew. So the best I could do was make sure that the “squiggles” written
next to the bus number matched the “squiggles” next to the word “Haifa” in my
travel book.
I
waited for about 30 minutes (in pouring rain, may I add) until the actual bus
showed up. But again, I completely confused as to whether I should speak English
or Arabic to the bus driver to confirm that this was in fact the bus I wanted.
I poked my head in the opened bus door asked in Arabic if this was the bus to
Haifa. The driver answered me in English
that is was. I hopped on and handed him a 50 shekel bill because I wasn’t too
sure how much this ride would cost, nor did I understand how to make change in
shekels anyway. Once we got to Haifa, I
told him where I needed to go, so when we arrived at the stop closest to my
destination, he called me to the front and let me off.
Something
that I began to realize in this moment and which reoccurred for the rest of the
trip was that I couldn’t tell who was Arab and who was Jewish. For some reason, I suppose because the
“conflict” is so polarized by the media and in conversations, I thought I would
be able to tell just by looking at a person their ethnic background in a
country so defined by its ethnic discrimination. But to me, most people looked the same. Every
now and again, I would see a blonde woman with light skin, but everyone was
mostly dark skinned with dark hair. I then thought I could make distinctions on
social status or job, but I was even thrown off in Haifa when the waiters at a
restaurant seemed to be equally Jewish and Arab. But I’m sure, just like here in Jordan where
all people on the street look the same to me, but Jordanians can tell their
ethnic background, the citizens of Israel know how to “tell each other apart.”
After
just about 7.5 hours, I reached the hostel in Haifa where I’d be staying for
the next two nights while my parents were in town. I was shown to my dorm room, and immediately
collapsed into a deep sleep for a few hours after the 80 mile, four taxi, two
bus overland voyage from Amman, Jordan to Haifa, Israel.
When
I woke up, I consulted my guide book to find a restaurant for dinner. I walked
to an excellent place which was owned by Arabs but which served a variety of
Arab, Mediterranean and international cuisines. It was here where I sat with a
book for three hours and indulged myself on three different types of dark
beers. I had been deprived of good beer for too long (Amstel and Heineken are
the only commonly found options in Jordan), so I ignored any ugly glances which
may have been thrown my way for being the girl drinking alone in the corner,
and enjoyed my evening all the same.
The
next day I met up with my parents! Though we had some initial difficulty
figuring out how and where we’d meet as neither of us would have working cell
phones, we finally met at my hostel at about 8:30 AM. It was so surreal to see them in a foreign
place after not seeing them for three months, and in Israel of all places. I felt like I was in a movie, as I was
waiting outside my hostel, spotted them walking on a parallel to the street that
I was on, and ran to them yelling, “Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad!” We were all so happy to see each other, but
funny enough, once I was able to wrap my arms around them in a group bear-hug,
I instantly became sad at the idea that I would have to leave them at the end
of the day.
Either
way, we were glad to see each other and made our way back to our hostel to
catch up and get of the rain. After
catching up at the hostel, we headed to the crusader city of Akko, about a 40
minute sheirut ride from Haifa. We spent a few hours there, weaving through
the streets and centuries-old buildings and stopping for lunch at a quaint café
on the southern end of the peninsula-city (which we stumbled upon by chance
when it started raining diagonally on us and after we had been wandering about
20 minutes looking for another restaurant, our stomachs grumbling). After lunch
and after winding through the market, we took the sheirut back to Haifa. Though it was cloudy, cold and raining most
of the day, it was wonderful to spend that time as a family.
In
Haifa, the weather had finally cleared up and we used the last few hours of
like to check out the Bahai Gardens.
Though they were closed because of bad weather, we walked to the bottom
level where we could at least take a look at the perfectly trimmed shrubs and
beautifully manicured lawn. As it began
to get dark, we found a nice bar/ restaurant on that same Ben Gurion St. where
we ordered fattoush ( a Middle Eastern salad characterized by the crunchy fried
pita topping) and tried both Israeli and Palestinian beer. (Goldstar and
Taybeh)
It
was such a treat of course to spend time with my parents, but also nice to
spend time in an outdoor setting drinking good beer. Though I really have nothing to complain
about in terms of life in Jordan, there are few, if any outdoor cafes where
good beer is available.
My parents had to get back to their ship so they could be
sure to arrive in time for departure, so they walked me back to my hostel to
bid me farewell. For some reason, it
seemed that this goodbye was even more difficult than saying goodbye in Chicago
in August. Perhaps it was because I knew it would be even longer than three
months until I saw them again, and perhaps it was because we had such little
time to spend together that day. Either
way, tears were shed all around.
After saying goodbye and wiping my cheeks, it was time to
sit down and figure out how exactly I would be getting back to Amman the next
day. Unfortunately the bus company that
I used from Amman to Nazareth did not provide a service the other
direction. Another problem that
presented itself was that I do not read or speak any Hebrew: somewhat of a
limitation when it comes to researching bus services in Israel. Additionally,
there was little if any information online about the route I was looking
for. I googled “Nazareth to Amman” and
found some blogs which mentioned a service that ran once a day from Nazareth to
Amman, leaving at 8:30 AM. Using this as
a lead, I found the company name, number and approximate location in
Nazareth. I called the company for more
information, but only to find that they were not open. It freaked me out slightly that I had no
guarantee of getting home the next day, but I just had to keep reminding myself
that if worst came to worst, I would just find another hostel and post up for
another night until I could find a way back.
After reading several independent travel blogs which
mentioned the same information about this bus but still feeling unsure of where
exactly the location was, I decided to call some hostels in Nazareth and
pretend that I was looking into staying at their hotel, but was wondering about
transportation from Nazareth to Amman.
They people working the front desks all concurred that I needed to take
a bus at 8:30 AM, but I still couldn’t figure out where the office was. I
decided to again rely on the kindness of strangers and hope that someone could
tell me the next day. With nothing to do
in Haifa, I striked up a conversation with some middle aged German women who were
sharing my hostel room, and then went to bed.
Per instructions of the woman working at my hostel, I was
up at 5:30 AM the next morning to catch a 6 AM bus to Nazareth. (If I had taken the 7 AM bus, I would have
risked missing htat one 8:30 AM bus, so I decided to be safe and go early.)
Walking out into a pre-dawn Haifa not knowing exactly where I was going was
slightly frightening, but I felt better when I saw some people waiting at the
bus stop where I was to wait for the bus to Nazareth. The bus was about 15 minutes late, so I’m
glad in the end I took the earlier one.
About 45 minutes into the hour and 15 minute or so ride, I approached
the driver and asked him in Arabic if he knew where the office was for the bus
company with service to Amman. He first
raised his eyebrows at me, I think because I was speaking Arabic, and then told
me “ I’ll tell you.” That was it. I sat back down, putting my full faith in this
middle aged Palestinian man.
About 30 minutes later, as I was gazing out the window,
trying to taking in all of my surroundings when the bus pulled to an abrupt
stop and the driver yelled to me “ Here’s the office! Turn right on the first
street there. It’s about 50 meters down the road on the left.” Again, trusting this man, I gathered my
belongings and hopped off the bus, not have a clue where I was, apart from in
the city of Nazareth in the country of… I couldn’t even tell you for sure what
country I was in. But sure enough, the
bus office I was looking for was right there.
I arrived at about 7:30, but it wasn’t open yet so I took a seat under
the awning, and opened a book, most likely confusing passer-bys as to weather I
was homeless or just a cheap student. The office opened finally at 8, and we
loaded at 8:15. By 8:30 I was happy to
be on a means of transportation that I at least knew would take me at some
point in the day, back to Amman. (Though
the ticket warned that anyone held for more than 30 minutes at the border would
be left behind. I hoped that the Israelis would grant me mercy on the way
back.)
Though it was rather frustrating to travel over border
crossings on a tour bus with about 50 others, it went rather seamlessly, that
is by Middle Eastern standards. I waited
in several lines, talked to several officials in several languages (and with a
Mexican holy land tour group in Spanish), ran my backpack through several
scanners, paid several fees and taxes and finally found myself back on the bus
to Amman. This is the type of scenario
where everything your parents and teachers tell you about being a “leader not a
follower” needs to be thrown out the window.
This is where the art of traveling comes into play. And many times being a traveller means being
a follower. In scenarios like this, you
want to fit in as much as the next person.
So I made sure to watch other people as the bus driver made
announcements. I couldn’t particularly understand what he was saying, so I
relied on people’s collateral conversations to understand what to do. I
followed people who looked like they knew what they were doing and hid my
passport and spoke as little as possible to avoid being recognized as a
foreigner. Because as we all know,
Americans are filthy rich, so once English is heard, money is expected to flow.
In any situation when we left the bus and were expected to come out on the
other side of security or customs or whatever, I always took note of the bus’ license
plate number and chose one group of passengers’ faces and features to memorize.
That way on the other side I could use either of the two to identify my group
or bus in the sea of tour busses and tourists.
Again I had no problems getting back into Jordan, except
for one duty free salesman who insisted we meet up once I arrived in Amman. On
the bus back to Amman, we did take an unannounced stop in Irbid, a city in the
north of Jordan, which did add abut 2 hours to our trip, but there was nothing
I could do but enjoy it. And enjoy it I did. Though it was raining and cloudy, it was the first time that I saw
the beautiful green rolling hills of Northern Jordan and realized that Jordan
is much more than just desert and dust.
Of course there is more that I learned from this trip but khalas for now. This is enough to read for one day.
