Arriving in Jordan by foot might not have been my best idea. 

From Tel Aviv it seemed entirely reasonable to fly to Eilat, take a quick taxi to the border and cross into Jordan by foot. I would be interrogated and strip searched in Tel Aviv and again in Eilat on my return from Jordan. The contents of my two day expedition, consisting of the clothes on my back and a small overnight bag, were meticulously inspected, scanned and tested for chemicals. 

I suspect many reasons for these uncomfortable encounters:

  - I happen to have the holiest surname in the land, yet I speak no Hebrew.
  - I answered questions during my interrogations with responses such as
     ‘Yes, my family celebrates Christmas’.
  - I was traveling too light - I am certain Israelis take more on a day trip to
     the beach than I might take on a trip around the world… for a year.
  - I had stamps in my passport from countries that the State of Israel may
     have found undesirable, the seals (so to speak) that likely closed the deal.  

Finally arriving in Eilat, I made my way to the border where I was met with more questions as I exited the country. No, I don’t speak Hebrew. Yes, I celebrate  Christmas. Either round two seemed easier or they cared less since I was leaving the country. Entering no man’s land on foot – the 150 meters or so between Israel and Jordan with nothing in between but the desert and me – there was a soldier posted at each border. To my back, the Israeli in his well kept uniform, dark sunglasses and rifle always prepared. And to my front, wearing a traditional loose fitting white dishdasha and sandals, was Mohammed, who introduced himself when greeting me with, ‘hello pretty girl’. 

Making my way by car, the 130 km drive from Aqaba was a reminder that this was a desert. Varying shades and shapes of sand dunes and the occasional Bedouin with camels or goats, there was little to see but the expanse of it all as we passed Wadi Rum and the lingering red dust stirred by four wheelers. Arriving at the entrance to Petra, it’s still a trek through a dried up riverbed where the water once bore a swerving narrow path between the rocks leading you head on into the Treasury. Once it is revealed in full, it looms overhead, and most visitors gasp at the sight of it. This city, a magical natural wonder was carved from the rock by an ancient people called the Nabataeans. It was the capital city of their culture, and even included an amphitheater. The Nabataeans carved over 500 tombs into the sides of ancient riverbeds. The number of facades are countless and only two are freestanding buildings. It’s a place of much ritual which included ancient funerary rites and became final resting place of an entire culture. As the sun sets, the Bedouins offer camels and donkeys as transportation for weary tourists making the journey to the site’s exit. Their sales pitch includes free air-conditioning on the four-legged taxis. 

After a magical day of exploring I enjoyed a long meal and dream-filled sleep as I reflected on the majesty of this incredible place, and begin to brace myself for the return journey to Israel. I am surprised to see my same interrogator at the airport. He begins asking all the same questions as the day before. Despite knowing who I am, he thumbs through my passport once again and requests I answer each question from the previous day in a new order. I do, and all the activities from the previous day ensue per protocol. After I am given the all-clear, he shyly asks me what I thought of Petra. I describe the spell I am under and offer to show some of my photos. He’s overwhelmed that I would offer after all I’ve had to endure. After showing uncountable photos I ask if he will ever go to see Petra. Though he would like to and wishes his response could be different, together we know he never will.

02/2005