Youngs Around the World

Disclaimer: The following account should probably not be read by those who have a personal stake in our well-being, namely our parents. Momma, Daddy, Bear Mom, we know that your curiosity will get the best of you so please keep in mind that we know we’re supposed to be careful out here in the big, crazy world. Your loving words ring in our heads every day, especially on days like this. You have raised us to be strong, sharp, independent thinkers who feel safe in the world and bold enough to follow our dreams, wherever they may take us. So here we go…

Our goal that day was to cross the northern border, near the Sea of Galilee, from Israel to Jordan, and then try like hell to get all the way down to Petra on the same day. Problem: we didn’t have any good information on how to a) get to the border town and b) get bus transportation to Petra after crossing the border. The internet is pathetically deficient on this subject and the Jordanian JETT bus system doesn’t have a website. Most people cross at the southern border but that was decidedly inconvenient since we had spent the majority of our Israel stay in the north. We walked to the Tiberias Bus Station, with packs in tow, and boarded the earliest bus to Bet She’ean, which looked on the map like the closest town to the border. Our research on the border crossing was fruitless and no one that we asked seemed to have a clue about how to get across. We were winging it.

The bus dropped us at depressing spot in Bet She’ean. Nearly all of the services were closed and the few people that we asked for directions barely spoke a word of English but we eventually managed to get pointed in the general direction of the border town, which we were told was about 3 km away. There was supposedly one shuttle from Bet She’ean to the border but it only ran at 1:00 (about five hours later) so we started walking down the road. We came upon two women who were out for a walk and, in very broken English, they told us that we were headed in the right direction but the border was VERY far. With no taxis or buses in sight, we walked on in the increasing heat of the morning, our packs getting progressively heavier while our spirits waned. Aaron turned off into the parking lot of some kind of official looking complex in hopes of getting more specific information. He disappeared around the corner for five to ten minutes and then reappeared, motioning me to follow him. As I rounded the corner, a small car was pulling out of its parking space and the Red Sea parted before us. The man was offering us a ride to the border! Without hesitation, we threw our ball-and-chain packs into the trunk and showered that Good Samaritan with thanks and praise. Thank God for that man because it was a LONG ride! We never would have made it on foot, even without our packs. Aaron tried to give him some money but he refused it. Bless his heart!

Crossing the border from Israel to Jordan proved to be a long, frustrating and painstaking process. We stood in about six different, slow-moving lines between Israel and Jordan, each time enduring the same uncivilized pushing and shoving to which we have by now grown accustomed. At the border, however, the heathens would cut in front of us with a stack of passports in their hands (they were all seemingly traveling with three or more children) so it was more like five to seven offenders for each one. When we finally emerged from Israeli immigration, we followed the masses toward a small pavilion with a sign marked “Bus to Jordan” and shoved our way onto the bus. About ten minutes later, we waited in more lines to buy our Jordanian visas, then to clear immigration and customs. When we were finally official, we inquired about a bus to Petra or Amman and were told that we would have to take a taxi. We slowly walked over to the single taxi stand, bracing ourselves for the worst. There was a sign with posted fares: 25 dinars (about $35) to Amman; 70 dinars to Petra. The black-toothed taxi driver naturally tried to talk us into a ride to Petra by telling us that there were no buses running that day from Amman to Petra because of the end of Ramadan – a three day celebration. Still skeptical from our encounter with the Israeli cabbie con artist, we took the ride to the Amman Bus Station to see for ourselves. The ride was long and rough, through winding mountain roads, but the route was scenic so we quietly enjoyed the views. We arrived at our destination: a sad excuse for a bus station on the northern outskirts of Amman. There were a handful of buses and a few taxis in a big, dusty parking lot. Of the twenty or so stalls that lined the back of the complex, only three showed any signs of activity and they all sold refreshments but no tickets or information. Our driver dropped us off on the opposite side of the parking lot, which seemed a bit shady, but we paid him and humped our packs to the other side of the “station” to inquire about buses to Petra. As we reached the most populated area, a taxi pulled up beside us, with two European passengers inside who asked if we wanted to share a cab to Jerash. We said that we were looking for a bus to Petra and they told us that we were at the wrong bus station. It seems that our driver didn’t want to drive the extra 15 km to the southern bus station, the only one with buses to Petra. Their driver hailed another cab for us and explained to the driver where we wanted to go.

When we arrived at the southern bus station, the parking lot scenario was the same as the first: no ticket counter, no information counter, everything was closed. There were some buses and minibuses with people standing around them so we asked around about buses to Petra and were directed toward one particular minibus, which was jam packed with Arab men. There seemed to be an appointed coordinator who tried to usher us into the crowded minibus, which already looked to have standing room only. We strategically hesitated. I did not like the looks of the situation, especially with all of the men on the bus curiously eyeing me. The coordinator sensed our apprehension and showed us to another empty minibus. This bus would, of course, not leave until it was as full as the first, which might have taken hours, so it seemed an equally unfavorable option. Finally, after some exchanges in Arabic with several men, the coordinator walked us over to a couple of random Jordanian men, standing in front of a compact car, and told us that they would drive us to Petra (a distance of 220 km) for a total fare of 10 Jordanian Dinars (about $14). We were naturally skeptical of the whole situation so we clarified all of the details repeatedly. “So you’re going to drive us, in this car, to Petra for 10 dinars. To Petra. Ten dinars total. For both of us. Yes? Yes. OK!” They popped the trunk and we dropped our backpacks inside. The coordinator then yelled to a third Jordanian guy who was standing about fifty yards away and the guy walked over to us. He was apparently riding with us too. The coordinator said something in Arabic to one of the guys and inconspicuously handed him some money. The five of us got into the car and we pulled out of the parking lot. With three of us packed into the back of the dusty, compact Daewoo with the windows down, it was going to be a hot and sweaty ride. Then, of course, the first cigarette was ignited. Aaron and I exchanged our usual reciprocal looks of disgust but our reactions were premature because, before we knew it, all three Jordanians were puffing away…sometimes simultaneously, sometimes in succession but, at all times, a cancer stick was alight. None of them really spoke any English, and we speak even less Arabic, so the atmosphere was uncomfortably quiet at first. In the haze of secondhand smoke, I sat quietly assessing the situation, trying to determine if and when these three guys were planning to deliver us to the terrorists – we are surrounded by the Axis of Evil after all. After about 100 km, I started seeing signs for Petra, which helped to curb my naively prejudiced suspicions.

The drive from Amman to Petra is absolutely desolate – you drive for miles and miles with nothing but desert in sight. About a half-hour into the ride, the driver pulled off the road into a service station and we all went in to buy refreshments. Since Aaron and I hadn’t eaten all day, the “roadie” fare of potato chips, Snickers and Coke pacified us for the remainder of the journey. When we regrouped in the car, we noticed that two of the guys had bought cigars and, for the next half-hour, the hot box was dense with the equally treacherous but more aromatic cigar smoke. The guy sitting in the back seat with us had rolled a thin cushion up in his window to block out the afternoon sun so he could not open the window to smoke his cigar. This small obstacle didn’t hinder him in the slightest. He lit right up and proceeded to ash on the floor of the car. A short while later, they stopped again, this time to buy a cassette tape to which they jammed and sang along for the rest of the ride. Our driver was fast and furious and we made it to Petra in record time, despite the two pit stops. The three random Jordanian guys turned out to be cool and we had miraculously crossed the border to Jordan and made it all the way to Petra in one day and in one piece!

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