Waiting for the cab driver. He doesn't know what I look like and I don't know him. One more little bit of uncertainty.
That actually went remarkably well, but then Ahmad's father, the cab driver looks a little like me, to wit, short grayish-white hair and scraggly beard. Except that he doesn't have any teeth and I do, inshallah. He doesn't speak much English so it will be a quiet trip, at least in that sense.
Petra to Tel Aviv in one day, with a border crossing thrown in, plus transferring in Jerusalem. All with public transportation.
Unless he kills a few people on the way, two pedestrians , unbeknownst to them, having already escaped with their lives, we might make the Allenby (Kimg Husseini) bridge by noon. I can see why they say "inshallah " so much in this country.
I wish that this driver would stop waving his arms around and stay on our side of the road.
I can't tell if it's because of the heat that my palms are wet, or from abject fear.
In the middle of Jordanian nowhere , the engine stops for no reason.
I'm not sure I can adequately describe how desolate the landscape is. And the more often the car drifts to a stop and jerks to a start, the more desolate the landscape becomes.
Imagine Death Valley, and then imagine hitchhiking.
I suggest bad gasoline.
He offers " pompa? Like this" and holds up cylinder of some sort. Bad sign.
The engine continues to cut in and out, even at 140 kph.
Sweating profusely. Must be the heat.
We drift down from 140 to 2, and just before we come to a complete stop, the old beast kicks in again.
Back to 140.
At least , at 140 the motor has a longer time to rally before we reach 0.
Not sure if panic is yet in order, but sweaty palms sure are.
Still might just be the heat
Somewhat comforting to see that even down here, by the shore of the Dead Sea, the guy has cell service.
That people can live both I'm this country and also in Oregon amazes me.
We just coasted almost to a stop again. I dread coming to a complete stop. Which we just did.
I was wrong. There's no cell service.
I was wondering when it would be time to panic.
Now.
I remember that I left my passport in Petra.
Actually, this realization did not come to me at this point. First, I had to ditch this cab.
An old, old Toyota van, like we had years ago, a taxi even lower on the scale of taxis than the one paralyzed with me in it, stops to help us. This doesn't look like it's going anywhere waiting for the cab #1. I decide to bail. I pay the first guy something and agree to pay taxi #2 the remainder.
No one, remember, speaks English at all well.
I climb into this old bus, leaving taxi #1 fuming by the side of the road. I feel like this has probably happened to him before, witness the spare pump.
We them proceed to drive up into the hills delivering bags of pitta bread and a pile of plastic chairs.
I'm feeling very patient, stoic even.
This tax #2 then drops me on the side of the road, where taxi driver #3 tells me to get in. Deciding that I don't have much choice I get in.
For 20 dinars, i.e., twenty fingers and then pointing north down the road, we arrange that he will take me to the Allenby Bridge (King Hussein Bridge, depending on who you're talking to).
So, we are putting up the road when taxi #1 passes us. I still feel better where I am.
I'm even starting to think that I may be gettin pretty good at surviving the viscissitudes of off-piste travel.
That's when I remember the passport.
I stare out the front window, sitting among four Arabs who speak very, very little english. Fortunately, for me, they know a little bit more than they were admitting to.
Shy, maybe.
Using mostly nouns, I managed to get the idea of stupidity and no passport across.
Nothing much happened for a while. Between two fine fellows in the middle seat, I lean up between the other guys in the front seat, dodging all the fringe and medals ang icons hanging from the ceiling.
We drove on while I could only think of how we were moving in precisely the opposite direction from my passport. I could, at this early moment in the crisis, only imagine that I would need to return to Petra , many hours now behind us.
I could, feeling awfully alone, imagine only that I had to get myself out of this by myself. I couldn't see how it might be possible to get back to Petra and then return north again to reach the Allenby Bridge before it closed for the night.
In the meantime , the little bus putted along. I had said about all I could say to the guys around me, though they did seem to be talking among themselves. About me, maybe, but who knows.
At some point they pulled off to the side of the road. They got out and I did too. A big guy comes over and asks me in English what is the problem. I try to explain that I need a fast car to take me back to Petra and return. He says he can do it.
An old, old Toyota van, like we had years ago, a taxi even lower on the scale of taxis than the one paralyzed with me in it, stops to help us. This doesn't look like it's going anywhere waiting for the cab #1. I decide to bail. I pay the first guy something and agree to pay taxi #2 the remainder.
No one, remember, speaks English at all well.
I climb into this old bus, leaving taxi #1 fuming by the side of the road. I feel like this has probably happened to him before, witness the spare pump.
We them proceed to drive up into the hills delivering bags of pitta bread and a pile of plastic chairs.
I'm feeling very patient, stoic even.
This tax #2 then drops me on the side of the road, where taxi driver #3 tells me to get in. Deciding that I don't have much choice I get in.
For 20 dinars, i.e., twenty fingers and then pointing north down the road, we arrange that he will take me to the Allenby Bridge (King Hussein Bridge, depending on who you're talking to).
So, we are putting up the road when taxi #1 passes us. I still feel better where I am.
I'm even starting to think that I may be gettin pretty good at surviving the viscissitudes of off-piste travel.
That's when I remember the passport.
I stare out the front window, sitting among four Arabs who speak very, very little english. Fortunately, for me, they know a little bit more than they were admitting to.
Shy, maybe.
Using mostly nouns, I managed to get the idea of stupidity and no passport across.
Nothing much happened for a while. Between two fine fellows in the middle seat, I lean up between the other guys in the front seat, dodging all the fringe and medals ang icons hanging from the ceiling.
We drove on while I could only think of how we were moving in precisely the opposite direction from my passport. I could, at this early moment in the crisis, only imagine that I would need to return to Petra , many hours now behind us.
I could, feeling awfully alone, imagine only that I had to get myself out of this by myself. I couldn't see how it might be possible to get back to Petra and then return north again to reach the Allenby Bridge before it closed for the night.
In the meantime , the little bus putted along. I had said about all I could say to the guys around me, though they did seem to be talking among themselves. About me, maybe, but who knows.
At some point they pulled off to the side of the road. They got out and I did too. A big guy comes over and asks me in English what is the problem. I try to explain that I need a fast car to take me back to Petra and return. He says he can do it.
He has a brother who lives in New Jersey. Small world.
This will cost a lot. I know this and he knows this.
But have they found the passport? I feel like I want to know this before committing to this plan.
I ask to use his phone. We eventually get through and, yes, the passport's there and I explain my plan and the time problem and my new best friend in the world says they will send it up immediately by courier and meet me at Allenby Bridge in plenty of time and I am elated and I tell the man. He's not elated.
Vast sums just vanished from his plans. I say that I will pay him to take me to the bridge, but he's not happy.
I offer him more than the now short trip is worth, but I am not feeling sorry.
I realize that this has worked out so much better than I might ever have hoped, and I appreciate what he has done for me and I tell him so, many times.
He's not impressed but I get into his nephew' s car and head out for the bridge.
Omar, his nephew, leaves me at the entrance to the Jordanian border control and I give him a tip because I realize that uncle is going to take everything for himself. Nephew's a good guy and we shake hands warmly.
I wait in the Jordanian exit lounge a long time
Finally. The courier arrives with my passport. I board the bus to cross the bridge into Israel.
I meet these three german guys who just completed the Germany to Jordan car rally. 6000 K. The idea is to drive a car that is at least 20 years old, spend very little on food, bring something from every country you pass through, like a bottle of water, stay somewhere for less ythan 15 euros a night , and, at the end, donate the car to charity. Took'em 20 days.
I now have to get a mini- bus to jerusalem, cross the city somehow, get another bus to Tel Aviv, then a cab to my hotel, that is still only a distant dream but no longer a nightmare.
It's hard to describe what happens next, because it seems so improbable. I am asking if there is a taxi direct to Tel Aviv from the Allenby Bridge when this very pretty woman with the cutest daughter, an Arab woman in full head scarf, very stylish, walks up to me and says," come with me, we are going to Tel Aviv also. We can share a cab in Jerusalem."
I say yes without knowing what else to say. Her English is great, no mistaking her forceful offer.
My stereotyped image of arab women is that they don't talk to men outside their family.
Well, that opinion changed in about five seconds, though I am still not sure how this will work. We're not talking about a pick-up here, but rather a woman in charge.
Nothing is said as I and she and her daughter board the bus. As we prepare to leave and the driver asks where I am going, she, sitting in up front, turns around looks at me and says that we are together.
I must have looked puzzled because she smiles and says "trust me".
I has been a long day and my puzzler is sore.
"Well, okay, why not?", I think.
We reach Jerusalem. I grab her bag. She changes money. We get a taxi. She gives directions. I pay for us. She finds the bus. I grab her bag. We board the bus. She pays for us.
And off we go.
To extend the surreality, the Arab taxi driver speaks Italian to me all the way across Jerusalem.
Maybe the righter word is "magical".
So, we are sitting together on the trip to Tel Aviv and she tells me that we were in run-down east Jerusalem. I tell her that I know where we were because my first hotel was near there, the Alcazar. She not only knows it but her grandparents live nearby.
This kind of thing doesn't usually happen to me. Deb finds all kinds of connections with people, but me, not so much.
We talk about how difficult it is for her as a young woman, even with a baby, to travel without a man.
I feel useful.
Her husband comes from the occupied territories and can't come into Israel. They now live in Qatar. But she has to come back every 6 mos. to maintain some kind of residency relationship with Israel. She is a civil engineer, as is her husband.
For as much as bureaucracy and politics seem to impinge on her daily, she loves her life and laughs very easily. It's hard to understand why Israel doesn't want this family to be citizens.
She says not to worry about my mom, that Allah will care for her.
When we reach Tel Aviv main bus station, we run to catch her bus, with me dragging her substantial bag. We get them there at the last moment. They hop on and we wave, like real friends.
I head off to a cab to the hotel, out near the airport.
That's how i find myself sitting in the hotel eating Chinese takeout.
One of the most miraculous days in the history of travel!
This will cost a lot. I know this and he knows this.
But have they found the passport? I feel like I want to know this before committing to this plan.
I ask to use his phone. We eventually get through and, yes, the passport's there and I explain my plan and the time problem and my new best friend in the world says they will send it up immediately by courier and meet me at Allenby Bridge in plenty of time and I am elated and I tell the man. He's not elated.
Vast sums just vanished from his plans. I say that I will pay him to take me to the bridge, but he's not happy.
I offer him more than the now short trip is worth, but I am not feeling sorry.
I realize that this has worked out so much better than I might ever have hoped, and I appreciate what he has done for me and I tell him so, many times.
He's not impressed but I get into his nephew' s car and head out for the bridge.
Omar, his nephew, leaves me at the entrance to the Jordanian border control and I give him a tip because I realize that uncle is going to take everything for himself. Nephew's a good guy and we shake hands warmly.
I wait in the Jordanian exit lounge a long time
Finally. The courier arrives with my passport. I board the bus to cross the bridge into Israel.
I meet these three german guys who just completed the Germany to Jordan car rally. 6000 K. The idea is to drive a car that is at least 20 years old, spend very little on food, bring something from every country you pass through, like a bottle of water, stay somewhere for less ythan 15 euros a night , and, at the end, donate the car to charity. Took'em 20 days.
I now have to get a mini- bus to jerusalem, cross the city somehow, get another bus to Tel Aviv, then a cab to my hotel, that is still only a distant dream but no longer a nightmare.
It's hard to describe what happens next, because it seems so improbable. I am asking if there is a taxi direct to Tel Aviv from the Allenby Bridge when this very pretty woman with the cutest daughter, an Arab woman in full head scarf, very stylish, walks up to me and says," come with me, we are going to Tel Aviv also. We can share a cab in Jerusalem."
I say yes without knowing what else to say. Her English is great, no mistaking her forceful offer.
My stereotyped image of arab women is that they don't talk to men outside their family.
Well, that opinion changed in about five seconds, though I am still not sure how this will work. We're not talking about a pick-up here, but rather a woman in charge.
Nothing is said as I and she and her daughter board the bus. As we prepare to leave and the driver asks where I am going, she, sitting in up front, turns around looks at me and says that we are together.
I must have looked puzzled because she smiles and says "trust me".
I has been a long day and my puzzler is sore.
"Well, okay, why not?", I think.
We reach Jerusalem. I grab her bag. She changes money. We get a taxi. She gives directions. I pay for us. She finds the bus. I grab her bag. We board the bus. She pays for us.
And off we go.
To extend the surreality, the Arab taxi driver speaks Italian to me all the way across Jerusalem.
Maybe the righter word is "magical".
So, we are sitting together on the trip to Tel Aviv and she tells me that we were in run-down east Jerusalem. I tell her that I know where we were because my first hotel was near there, the Alcazar. She not only knows it but her grandparents live nearby.
This kind of thing doesn't usually happen to me. Deb finds all kinds of connections with people, but me, not so much.
We talk about how difficult it is for her as a young woman, even with a baby, to travel without a man.
I feel useful.
Her husband comes from the occupied territories and can't come into Israel. They now live in Qatar. But she has to come back every 6 mos. to maintain some kind of residency relationship with Israel. She is a civil engineer, as is her husband.
For as much as bureaucracy and politics seem to impinge on her daily, she loves her life and laughs very easily. It's hard to understand why Israel doesn't want this family to be citizens.
She says not to worry about my mom, that Allah will care for her.
When we reach Tel Aviv main bus station, we run to catch her bus, with me dragging her substantial bag. We get them there at the last moment. They hop on and we wave, like real friends.
I head off to a cab to the hotel, out near the airport.
That's how i find myself sitting in the hotel eating Chinese takeout.
One of the most miraculous days in the history of travel!
Escaped from a nutty cab driver.
Found by a group of wonderful Jordanian hangers-about.
Rescued by Arab woman and her beautiful child.
Discussed Rome with an Arab cab driver speaking Italian.
It goes on and on.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Rescued by Arab woman and her beautiful child.
Discussed Rome with an Arab cab driver speaking Italian.
It goes on and on.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
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