Across the Sea

If you're like me, many's the time you've smelled a bar of soap/lip balm/fabric softener so sweet that you wished you could eat it. And again, if you're like me, you learned early in life that pursuing this goal never ends well. So you can imagine my surprise upon popping into my mouth a candy that looked for all the world like a toffee rolled in potpourri, only to discover that the Jordanians have conquered man's ageless desire to eat something that tastes as good as good as perfume smells.

This has been just one of the delights that have greeted me in my few minutes on the ground here in Aqaba, Jordan's second-largest city after capital Amman. Clinging to the elbow of the Red Sea, Aqaba is near enough to be able to see Egypt, but between the two lies Israel. Lebanese immigration (who I expect to meet in a few days) will refuse entry to anyone with an Israeli stamp in their passport, so the simple option of traveling through the Chosen People's land was unavailable. Instead, I took a bus from Cairo to Nuweiba on the Egyptian coast, then a ferry from there to Aqaba. It took a solid 24 hours of travel time, over half of it spent killing time and swatting at flies in the Red Sea Port Authority, but having Jordan has already more than made the time spent worthwhile.

I met a friendly Scotch-Gaelic cartoon translator on the boat, and we killed time discussing scuba diving and humanity. At the port in Aqaba, she lit out for Amman to meet her tour group, and I braved the familiar swarm of over-eager cabbies outside the terminal. At first, I took this as a sign that, at least so far, Jordan and Egypt had something in common. "No more bus tonight! Bus to Petra, tomorrow morning. Taxi to Petra, how much?" One driver follows me as I head to the parking lot to see the bus situation for myself. A bus to Petra should be four dinars, my Lonely Planet says, so seeing that he was truthful (gasp!) about the buses being gone, I began there. "No, fifty dinar, five-zero, taxi to Petra." No thanks, I'll take the bus in the morning. "Okay. Seven o'clock, buses start." Really? Just like that? "What's your name?" I'm Ben. "Amben. Nice to meet you. Mahmoud." And the rest of the drive into Aqaba proper we spend in pleasant small talk. "Jordan, Israel, Egypt," Mahmoud points out across the gulf. Three countries in one glance, I exclaim. Mahmoud smirks. And drops me off. And doesn't even grumble about making change for a ten dinar note!

I'm already walking on air as I saunter through downtown Aqaba, poking my head into hotels and inquiring prices. I'll keep looking, I say when the quotes start at 30 dinars, and get a warm smile that seems to say, "no sweat, come on back if you don't find anything cheaper." And as I walk, Lonely Planet map in hand, rucksack behind and little backpack over my chest, not a single tout grabs my arm to direct me into this or that hostel. "Welcome!" a few headwaiters announce as I pass.

After finding a nice, albeit expensive room, I set off on a short wander, picked up a sack of assorted potpourri candies, and poked around a little to more calls of "welcome" and smiles abounding. One kitchen worker, holding two aluminum bowls over his shoulders like trays of h'ors d'oeuvres as he swung through an alley, noticed me peering curiously. He swung one bowl down low and grinned, "hummus!" And sure enough, leveled off at the rims of the bowls like icing on a cake, were what must have been three or four kilos of rich, creamy hummus.

And it occurs to me now that I'm sitting in an internet cafe while there are two huge bowls of hummus waiting for me. Petra tomorrow, seven o'clock, buses start. Thanks, Mahmoud.