The Promised Land

Our wake up call is at 4:30 A.M. for our morning flight between Cairo, Egypt and Amman Jordan. Our group shuffles sleepily through the buffet breakfast and boards the bus obediently for the hour drive to the airport through rush hour traffic. The morning is a blur of waiting in lines; security checks, baggage checks, passport and ticket checks and more security checks. We eventually board the plane and surprisingly, after all the security, are allowed to take photos of our group boarding the plane. My assigned seat is in the last row, middle seat, between two young, well dressed and handsome Arab men. The flight to Amman takes close to two hours and the plane is well appointed. I am very aware of the two bodies on either side of me, and they soon acknowledge my presence. Each passenger has his/her own small T.V. screen, mounted on the back of the seat in front. When I begin to fumble with the remote control the man to my left immediately comes to my assistance. I push a few buttons to no avail and the man to my right leans over to help. I am soon connected to the movie of my choice and thank my seat mates for their assistance. Although the flight is short, I loose myself in what I am watching until a rather elaborate “snack” is served. The man to my right offers me his juice, which I decline, but in turn I offer him the pastry that I have not touched. The man on my left offers me his fruit cup which I accept and I offer him my roll and butter. If only our international relations could be as simple and civilized as this. Words cannot express how delighted I am to be squeezed between these two gracious and accommodating men and for the three of us to be connecting.

We land in Amman shortly after 1:00 P.M. After claiming our baggage, we are herded out to the waiting busses for the three hour drive to Petra. I am stunned at how bleak the landscape is; only vast expanses of hard packed dirt and sand, punctuated by electrical wires and the occasional settlement. The flat topped buildings are without paint, camouflaged within the color of the landscape. There are no trees and there is no visible human presence within these settlements.

An hour into our journey, hungry and in need of restroom facilities, we stop at a tourist restaurant and gift shop. The exterior is nearly as bland as the miles of country we have traveled, but there are clean restrooms and the cavernous store is packed full of souvenirs to sell to us tourists. We are not in Egypt anymore. The prices here are two or three times what things cost in Egypt and I spend 5 dollars on a small bag of almonds to tide me over until dinner in Petra. Our 20 minute stop extends to over an hour as our group shops. Some in our group gravitate to the adjoining cafe, ordering plates of lamb and rice, salads and hummus. The almonds quickly loose their appeal and I am soon sharing plates of lamb and hummus with Stephanie.

Eventually we are on the road again. The sun is dipping low on the horizon and I find beauty in the starkness of the landscape, the power poles and the emptiness. An hour and a half later the road snakes up and then winds down into the town of Petra. It is dark when we arrive at our 5 star resort overlooking the sculpted canyons of Petra. ( I will be amazed at the view that I wake to in the morning.) As soon as baggage is unloaded and our rooms assigned Stephanie, Sandy and I, take a taxi, the short distance back into the town. The three of us spend a delicious two hours on our own, enchanted with the brightly lit tourist shops. We are seduced into one shop in particular; by a charming Bedouin man offering us cups of Turkish coffee and a story with every Pashima scarf. He has honed his ability to capture even the most difficult prey and I am soon allowing him to wrap my head with the scarves and I am encouraging both Stephanie and Sandy to purchase one. I too leave his shop with a Pashima scarf, and for $1 we share a taxi back to the hotel and fall into our luxury beds, exhausted.