Egypt, Day 10 part 2: Safely into Port

We pull into Nuweiba and the driver takes me to the port to buy my ticket for the ferry. I'm only slightly surprised by the industrial nature of the area - it's obviously mainly used for import/export of produce, not tourists, and I am surrounded by enormous trucks and metal sheds shimmering in the glaring heat. I buy my ticket, but the agent doesn't tell me when the ferry is leaving, just that I should go over there now. I get my bags scanned in an ancient commercial type scanner, built more for giant flats of vegetables or fabrics than for my single bookbag. I find my way to another metal shed, where I offer up my passport for stamping. I then realize that I'm rather hungry, so I ask if I can go back and get some food? I buy a few things, and spend a few moments in conversation with the salesman, confusing him with my use of Amiyya then trying to switch into FusHa but using Amiyya verb conjugation and so only confusing him more.

I go back and enter the waiting area, more than slightly nervous. It's an old warehouse building, packed with migrant Egyptian workers. It seems I'm either late or early or at the wrong location. I look for any signs of tourists or Westerners, finally spotting a white guy with a large packpacking outfit. I walk towards him and find a bench that's empty. I sit and eat my date-filled biscuits and drink some water; finally spotting an officer, I approach him and ask in Arabic if this is the right building and here's my ticket, when do I leave? He motions silently outside to a bus that has just pulled up. I clamber inside and put my bag beside me, blocking anyone from sitting there. I spot the western man again - the bus is nearly full and I haven't seen any women yet. I remove my bag and he sits beside me, a little surprised, I think at my Caucasian face. We sat silently until the bus stopped and we stood in the snaking line, with the hundreds of migrant workers filling up the belly of the ship. While waiting, the man asked me about my trip in Egypt and I found out he was a Frenchman heading to Amman for a day or two before traveling further to Beirut. In the crush of people, I lost sight of him as I worked my way slowly up the steps. It reminded me a bit of the ferry boats I had been on in Disney world; the same worn carpet, metal stairs, and wear-polished brass railing knobs. My passport was examined yet again, and I was told to go upstairs to get it stamped. I wandered through two decks before finally finding the tiny office. Being the only woman in the place, I was kindly waved to the font of the line and my passport stamped. I meandered out to the top deck to find a good place. The upper deck with its benches and good view was mainly filled with men, but I found a group of obvious tourists and stationed myself on an empty bench near them. They, however, appalled me with their ridiculous clothing and behavior. I, on the other hand, shocked them by speaking perfect English and telling them where to get their passports stamped. There was an older couple of an Australian man and his South Korean wife to whom I enjoyed talking, comparing prices in Egypt and talking about the situation in Syria. I found out that my 5LE cab rides were nothing compared to their minimum 20LE cab rides and food that I got for the posted price cost them a pretty penny….a little bit of Arabic and hijab go a long way, I guess. They wanted to cross the border at Ramtha into Syria, but I told them that when I had left, the border was closed. I wonder if they ended up flying there.

The Frenchman wandered up on deck and spotted me. I offered my guidebook for him to pick out a hotel and then spent the next two hours giving him a run down on Jordan in general and Amman in particular. I told him about the taxi and bus system, and I told him I would help him get a bus back to the city from Aqabah. After getting some snack food (I bought my own, thank you very much for your suspicions), we spent the next hour discussing French identity and its role in intercultural relations. A sudden rain storm broke out, and in the melee that resulted I lost sight of him. In seeking shelter, I decided that the best thing I could do would be follow the natives – which I did, into a comfortable movie theatre. I waited there until the rain died down, and then wandered onto deck. I found a nice looking younger woman and stationed myself beside her.

“Salaam alaykum,” I greeted her.

“Wa alaykum es-salaam,” she replied. In the next few minutes, we established names, homes, and general backgrounds and that I was a Christian but wearing the abeya and hijab for several reasons. My Arabic had pretty much run its course, so I smiled and went back to watching the sea.

She, however, did not think this was satisfactory. She started the conversation again, doing her best to convert me to Islam. Given my limited Arabic skills, this was difficult, but I got the general idea. It was frustrating to me to not be able to answer her questions: “Who made the world? Look at it all about us. God made it, of course,” to which I agreed. “How could God come as a man? Jesus was born, yes?” Yes. “He ate like us, drank like us, slept like us, yes?” Yes. “How could God do this? God is high, and holy. How could God become a man?”

Yes, indeed. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? That when we didn’t deserve it, the eternal Christ was made flesh, born of the Virgin Mary, and was crucified under Pontius Pilate and rose again on the third day according to the Scriptures – and is now seated at the right hand of the Father whence he shall come to judge both the quick and the dead.

My grasp of Arabic, however, could not explain all that, so the most I could do was hold to orthodoxy, re-iterating “There is one God, only one, and Christ is God. God*is* great, yes.” It rather takes your breath away, though, to hear the flat out denial, “Christ is not God. Christ was only a man.” It’s easy to pussy-foot around the matter, and be a good person, and go to church, and believe in God – but don’t the devils also believe in a god – and doing so, don’t they tremble? But the crux of the matter, of all the world, of all life, comes to rest upon Christ.

By this time, the boat had nearly pulled into port. She left me with strong injunctions to read the quran in Arabic – I told her I had read in in English (which I have) – she told me how when she read it, her heart lit up, and she rejoiced. It made her to sleep in peace and on a bed of ease was, I think, the general expression. I did my best to explain my Book did the same for me, but she was at a distinct advantage in the Arabic department. By this time, we had drawn enough stares from the other third class passengers surrounding us, and the ferry was in port. We parted with a hug and go in peace. And I pray she finds that true peace.

I went back inside and found the Australian couple and “Jacques” standing and talking. Joining them, we waited, contemplating how long it would take for us to be able to disembark. Well, it ended up taking 2 hours from the time we came to port to the time we disembarked. It might have been due to the pouring rain, but I rather doubt it. By the time we got to land, it was around 9 in the evening.

Some confusion later, and we got through customs. I sailed through easily, with my Jordanian residency card, and enjoyed talking with a few of the customs officers about UJ and Jordan, getting hearty “welcome-backs”; and, in many ways, it felt very much like a home coming.

We wondered out to the parking lot and split off from the Australian couple, who got a taxi to their hotel in Aqaba. I found a private bus going to Amman, and took Jacques with me. We waited at the bus (a large minivan, really), as one of the “controllers” went to find more passengers from the migrant workers. We waited for about 15 minutes, and another passenger showed up, an elderly man who was simply addressed by the term Hajj, out of respect for his pilgrimage. 15 more minutes or so of waiting – which I didn’t mind, because I was busy really enjoying listening to the conversation between the Hajj and one of the other “controllers” because I could understand nearly all of it because it was in the Jordanian and not in the Egyptian dialect. Jacques offered some dates around to everyone; I had told him their name was “belaH,” however, the big Palestinian controller gave them another name. The Hajj, however, backed me up; so, it seems, there are multiple dialect names for dates, perhaps depending on the variety.

After the 30-45 minute wait, the van was finally crammed full, and off we went. I called my host parents, telling them that I expected to be in around 1:30 am, since it’s a 4 hour trip back to Amman. This, however, was short sighted. First, I didn’t add in the time it took to stop to buy a brief meal for the driver (there was a driver and two controllers), or the time for a food/restroom stop later for the passengers, or the time for the check-point stop in which all the workers had to get out and the guards go through their belongings. I also didn’t take into account the fact that the Hajj lived in Tafileh, which is in the Ghor (Jordan Valley), which is a considerable distance from Amman. He insisted that he could be dropped off at such and such a place, but the drivers insisted right back; and so it was that I came to be riding at 1:30 am through the Ghor in a minivan with 9 Palestinians and a Frenchman. He started to ask me if I had been to Israel, and then I got to lecture him on the Arab-Israeli conflict. We encountered no problems, however, and the Hajj and the controllers were especially nice after I answered their questions by showing them my ring and informed them that Jacques and I were engaged (and then politely responding to the Hajj’s blessing of many children upon us). I also was careful to inform them that I was going home and that Jacques would be staying at a hotel. When you are a single lady traveling at night with a man, you are engaged, I informed Jacques, who was a little surprised when I answered his question of “what just happened?” This brought on another lecture about Middle Eastern culture and my general views on honesty. I spent a few more moments translating the general ideas of the conversation between the shebaab and the Hajj – they were talking, of course, about the doings in Syria and how it compared to Jordan, and what they thought it meant for the Palestinian state – before leaning forward over my bookbag and trying to get some sleep.

We arrived in Amman around 4am and got dropped off at the University of Jordan. The driver had earlier asked Jacques, at our food stop, if he was Christian or Muslim? Expecting, of course, the answer to be Muslim, because otherwise what is he doing with a Muslim woman late at night? Jacques answered Christian, of course, which nonplussed the driver – but Jacques not speaking any Arabic and no one else any English, the thing couldn’t go any further. Just before we left, however, the driver asked Christian or Muslim? I told him Christian and gave him a quick rundown of the reasons – it’s pretty, I’m a modest person, and out of respect to the culture. He smiled at me and gave me his quranic prayer book, inspired, I think, by the Hajj out of whose mouth came “Masha allah” (behold what God has done) every other word or so.

A taxi finally came along and I negotiated with the driver and told him to get me home and Jacques to his hotel. We had a nice ride, in which we had the typical conversation covering my life story and Jacques’ in my broken Amiyya. I got dropped off at home and Jacques continued on to his hotel.

I made a quick call home and was just as quickly asleep. I think my guardian angels need a vacation after my vacation.

Home is the sailor, home from the sea, indeed.