This morning we were treated to a glimpse of life on the *moshav*, and I'm glad it was only for one day. We got up before dawn in order to catch a ride with Ehud and his crew back to the highway restaurant up the hill. Nobody sharing the van with us said much on the way there, and none seemed too enthused by the prospect of going to work. I learned that our carpool companions, plus just about everyone else in the community, worked at least six days a week, from dawn until well past sunset. When I noticed some of the same Thai workers I'd seen coming back from the fields last night I asked Ehud about them and he said every family employed \"six or seven\"
imported laborers, each earning only 1020 shekels (about \$300) a month. Soon we had been reunited with our bicycles and were munching on croissants and coffee generously provided by Ehud, who told us how he had abbreviated his stint in the military by disagreeing with his superiors. With dismay we looked out the window and noticed the flags flapping outside. During the night the wind had shifted 180 degrees. It would be a long 130 km to Aqaba. The desert takes on a wholly different aspect when riding against a headwind. While it had seemed beautiful and magical yesterday, it looked harsh and endless today.
In my head I kept calculating how much further we had to go, and each kilometer felt longer than the previous one. After a couple of hours of difficult pumping, KM 101appeared like a mirage in the distance. A ramshackle compound in the middle of the vast desert, this kibbutz-cum-rest stop/roadside attraction (complete with live monkeys) looked uncannily like the set from \"The Road Warrior.\" Any variance from the desiccated wilderness and baking sun take on an oasis appearance, though; it was as if we had stumbled upon Shangri-La. We scarfed down falafels and ice creams (despite the fact that it was still before 10am) and queried an American who worked there about the road ahead.
I meant to ask him what possibly could have led him from Bellingham, WA to such a god-forsaken place, but he seemed very occupied with an overabundance of chores. After another hour or so of pedaling, we had reached the day's summit, at 260 meters above sea level, and the wind had somehow managed to shift to our favor again. The road ahead of us was a sight to behold. It descended gradually, sublimely, towards the floor of the vast valley of Wadi Araba, making for almost unsurpassed cycling ecstasy. We stopped for lunch at another oasis, this one a considerably more stylish kibbutz, complete with manicured lawns, a gleaming restaurant, and a swimming pool.
We toyed with idea of spending the night in this beautiful place, but regretfully decided to press on towards Jordan. This brat was ready to experience a new country. Climbing into my saddle, I noticed that my front tire had gone flat, the tire I'd been riding on since Pensacola, almost eight thousand kilometers ago (converting me to a steadfast believer in Continental 2000 tires). After putting on a new tire supplied by brother Mar-tay and trashing the old one with a twinge of nostalgia, we were back on the road, screaming southwards with the most delicious tailwind I can recall since our ride out of El Paso.
I thought how we'd be following this tack all the way down the Sinai coast and smiled. Forty-some k. later we turned a bend and saw the Gulf of Aqaba. In my head I could hear Peter O' Toole as T. E. Lawrence pronounce the ancient port's name as if it was the Promised Land, and I couldn't help feeling the same. It glistened in the distance, a gathering of white buildings stretching along an aquamarine sea, in stark contrast to the Vegas-esque megahotels of Eilat, on the Israeli side of the border. Alas, Aqaba was to remain just out of our grasp for the time being.
When we arrived at the border, the Israeli police warned us that Jordan wouldn't let us in with bikes. Feeling invincible after such an invigorating ride, we decided we'd try our luck, gambling the hefty exit tax levied by the Jewish State. --A losing bet, it turns out. While the Jordanian immigrations officer at the other side of the no-man's land was sympathetic to our cause, nothing we could say or do seemed to help. He called his supervisor a couple of times, to no avail. Our bikes could only come in if they were in a box or in a truck, and he had no place to stash them at the border either.
\"Try the other side,\" he suggested (meaning Israel), \"they'll be able to keep your bikes.\" Fat chance. The Israelis welcomed us back by subjecting us to a thorough search through all of our belongings, even though they knew full well that we hadn't even made it into Jordan. No one was around to give us and our bikes a lift, and leaving our bikes anywhere near the border proved \"impossible.\" So it was back up a rude little hill (and straight into the wind which had blown us down here). We still had a good hour and a half of daylight.
Still eager to make it to a new country, I proposed to Fred that we bike into Egypt, just ten kilometers away. He convinced me that this was madness, thinking it wiser to search out a place to ditch our bikes for a week while we tour Jordan by motorized transport. I gave in to this idea, and --unbelievably---we found a place to stash the bikes almost immediately, in the bomb shelter of a nearby kibbutz. Tired, dirty and frustrated, I walked into the kibbutz office and asked if we could leave our bikes there, expecting to be rejected. But friendly Alexandro from Argentina surprised us.
\"Sure,\" he said, \"here's the key.\" We stripped our bikes of what we thought would be essential in Jordan, and headed back to the border, on foot this time. \"Welcome to Jordan,\" said the many employees at the border, leading us through a bewildering maze of Arab bureaucracy. Before being released, we had to submit to a customs inspection (where they confiscated all our food), change money, buy visas, declare our computer, and show our passports to seemingly dozens of guys in uniform whose exact jobs remained unclear. After the dead-serious efficiency of Israeli immigration, the Jordanian approach to immigration (and life in general, it turns out) had a haphazard, low-tech feel to it.
We had definitely entered another world. We'd never intended on riding in Jordan after entering the coutry. Our thinking was that it would make a convenient starting point for our venture into Egypt. We also thought it more than serendipitous that our friends Claire and William would be stopping over here on their way to India. With the help of our dear friend Olivier we coordinated a rendez-vous in Amman. Arriving in Aqaba we found our way to the Crystal Hotel and negotiated a room with two enormous beds and windows opening out onto the central market. Aside from the size of our nests and the welcome letter from the hotel's general manager the centrally located Crystal was completely unremarkable.
Apparently translated by someone with a sick sense of humor the letter declared proudly that his hotel featured \"widey rooms\" and \"speacial estrained arts\". We left too soon to figure out what these amenities could possibly be, but are sure that someone will appreciate them. Aqaba treated us to a wonderful fish dinner, part of which stray cats vigorously enjoyed until a mean street urchin burned one with his lit cigarette. Our other Aqabese discovery was the best chocolate ice cream ever (in the terms of Michelin guides \"worth a detour\".) The next day we made an early start of it.
We rented a micro agouti car, named it Akbar and made our way north to Amman to meet Claire and William. Riding along the Red Sea, this time on the Jordanian side of the border we began to appreciate our trip along the other side. Far less inhabited than the Israeli counterpart. Our lunch stop caused quite a commotion. We drove through a little village in search of something to eat. There was no Burger King or McDonald's so we settled for a little falafel in a stand near the bus station. Our presence somehow made the shop very popular. Everyone in town with a free moment stopped in to buy something and greet us with their best English while mischievous Arab boys tried to roll our car down the hill.
We faced many challenges to make our next destination. Not the least of which was Andy's desire to stop and have a photo session with each camel we passed. (It sparked an idea in me. We'll create an on-line calendar featuring the camels of Jordan, Israel and Egypt as a feature on the page.) Our biggest barrier to making it to our bathing place on the Dead Sea were the numerous check points where invariably a surly soldier would demand our passports and ask for a ride for someone who was waiting with him. Each conversation, no matter how curtly we turned down the opportunity to have a passenger, ended with \"Welcome to Jordan.\"
When we finally did make it to the Dead Sea Rest House I learned why so many people carry flasks of fresh water to the beach. The eye-full of Dead Sea water dished out the most painful stinging sensation I could have imagined. Even knowing the risks I can't stop singing the praises of bobbing about in the water feeling the minerals leach out the impurities from my skin. In an experiment we tried to get the water to dry on us after leaving the water. In the desert, where you air-dry from a shower in five minutes, it was a surprise to find us still wet after nearly half an hour.
We finally gave up and rinsed off in the outdoor showers where Andrew shrugged off the amorous advances of a handsome young Jordanian. Our car Akbar, showing surprising strength for such a small beast, rocketed us out of the Dead Sea valley to Amman, where we reached the airport in ample time to exchange him for a more refined and larger beast well in advance of Claire and William's flight. Of that meeting and our subsequent adventures in Amman and on the road to Petra fair William writes: *Flight RJ116 from Paris to Amman's Queen Alia airport arrived at around 6pm local time.
We (William and Claire (see France trip (Chalonnes sur Loire)) were expecting to take a yellow Mercedes service taxi to Downtown Amman to stay at the RUM Continental hotel on Basman street ... but that's not what happened. A pair of well tanned legs, with white socks and dusty black shoes were standing behind the aluminum barrier. It was Andrew. Our 3-day stopover to Jordan had just taken an interesting new direction ... we certainly needed directions to find that hotel in Amman, especially as we found out that there are two downtowns - we needed the really deep downtown place.
Fred was at the wheel and made some impressive U turns, one of which got us flagged down by some local police.* *After a few left turns we found the hotel and decided on an immediate stomach update. The Ammanese are very friendly and we found the Jerusalem restaurant without too many problems ... en route we met Sultan (if you're reading this Sultan then hello and thanks). After Jerusalem's we embarked on having a sweet - the expression 'Dessert Storm' has taken on a whole new meaning - there is a remarkably dangerous array of sugary based products for sale in this region.
The evening was topped off with Turkish coffee and backgammon.* *Next day (Thursday 13^th^ November 1997) ... breakfast consisted of coffee, pita bread, jam and the \"La Vache qui rit\" triangular shaped cheese ... then off and out of Amman. Full marks to Fred for not having sweaty armpit marks on his grey \"American Rattlesnake Museum\" T-Shirt ... the driving can be very creative at times. We finally found the King's highway - a very twisty, turny mountainous road that cuts through the heart of Jordan. First stop was Madaba to explore the mosaics of the St.George church - 4 Jordanian Dinars (JDs) later and a visit to the archeological museum we carried on southwards ...
towards Petra. Yet another stop from the local police at Kerak; this time they wanted to hitchhike, in the back of the car.* *Room 303 of the Petra Palace hotel looks out at the red neon sign for the 'Sun Set Hotel' and the bouldery mountain-like surface of this 2,600 year old site.* If you've seen the third Indiana Jones movie you have had a glance at one of the most astounding sights of Petra, the Treasury. Unfortunately you have missed the sense of anticipation of walking through the narrow slit canyon that leads to it and the awe of its revelation to you through the keyhole which is the opening to the site.
Arriving to the site in the morning you'll see the sun beaming down on it lighting up the wavy red and orange hues of the iron impregnated sandstone. What is harder to imagine than the beauty facade carved from one piece of sandstone is that it is still in tact after over 2600 years. We spent two full days wandering around the site and I still feel that I could have done it greater justice. The staff at our hotel recommended that it would take in excess of two weeks to see all of the structures. (This was probably true, though they were likely looking to convince us to stay a little longer in order to fill some of their empty rooms.
The area is vastly overbuilt with hotels. Many seemed to be staying away with the seemingly imminent threat of war between the US and Sadam Hussein's forces in Iraq.) (Many folks may be staying away due to the cost of visiting Petra. A day trip from Israel would be exorbitant. The exit tax from Israel is 56 shekels, entry to Jordan \$20-50 (depending on your nationality), transportation to and from by bus (who knows....) and finally the entry for one day is nearly \$30. The locals thinking that anyone who visits must be rich if they can afford entry tries to exact as many Jordanian Agoutis as they possibly can out of everyone.
Regardless of the expense it is worth it.) Petra is not for the faint hearted. Though many of the sights are located in the valley and can be accessed by foot, horse, camel or cart, a true appreciation is only found by those who venture into the steep wadis (canyons). From the plateau surrounding the valley, once can survey it from above and see the other buildings on high. Some of these hikes involve climbs up one thousand or more steps or along precariously perched trails. Anyone who meets these risks and exerts the effort to climb is richly rewarded with views beyond their imagination.
Sadly we said goodbye to William and Claire wishing them a bon voyage to India. We had decided to visit a Bedouin town called Wadi Rum in an immense canyon. Our intent was to spend the night there in a tent but we were ferociously disappointed upon finding this locale to be a horrible tourist trap. During our drive through the village we were accosted by no fewer than a dozen touts pitching jeep trips through the valley. A stop at the rest house there revealed that accommodation was not in Bedouin tents as promised but in drab olive green army surplus canvas jobs.
We paid our three agoutis for a cup of \"Bedouin Coffee\" served from a pump thermos and hit the road. Avis had asked us to return the car empty, and we managed to get it to their lot on fumes. We actually went there twice. Naively Andy thought that bringing it back early we'd get some sort of discount. In effect we were two hours later than we'd picked it up and would be responsible for the entire day regardless. We drove to our favorite restaurant and had another chocolate ice cream. (see above) Getting the bill for something like a rental car in the Middle East is seldom a simple experience.
This day was no exception. Everyone in town seemed to be involved in the transaction somehow, including the manager's two-meter and ten-centimeter tall basketball playing brother. After an eternity we were whisked away to the border to retrieve Siegfried and Roy from the bomb shelter.