December 26, 2003

This morning we left Zababdeh for good.

Zababdeh, Palestine: our home from 2000-2003.

A Zababdeh taxi driver picked us up early this morning. Our landlady and Veronique, the school's French volunteer teacher, helped us load our luggage and fifteen boxes of stuff into the taxi. After quite a little workout, we along with Veronique were finally off for the long last ride to Jalame. Once in the town of Jalame, we transferred all our things to the taxi of the Palestinian Israeli willing to try and take us across the border.

At the border, the soldiers made us remove all the boxes and open them for inspection. Their metal detectors were so sensitive that even clothing zippers and snaps set them off, so they had to go through everything, which took a lot of time. We were very thankful that the overcast day didn't break out in rain, as all our things were set out in cardboard boxes on the pavement.

After everything was cleared, we had the problem of a driver to solve. The soldiers confirmed that they would not let this man back into the West Bank if he left. Since his home and family is in the West Bank, understandably, he did not want to leave. So we had a problem. He called a cousin who was in Muqeible, the closest town past the Green Line, and he agreed to come to the border and drive us to the Afula post office (to send the boxes) and to the bridge (to enter Jordan).

When he arrived, however, the soldiers told him he could not walk the several meters across the border to get to us and the van. And they would not let Marthame drive it across because they said he does not have an Israeli license. At one point, Marthame suggested we push the van across the border to the new driver. You can't win for losing!

Eventually they relented and allowed our driver's cousin to walk up to them at the border and the few feet across to meet us and drive us away. He took us first to the post office in nearby Afula to ship our many boxes and Marthame's guitar.

The post office was a comedy of errors, being checked and not checked by security as we lugged all the boxes into the little office (crowded since it was the verge of Shabbat and the office would close early at 12:00). We filled out forms, then were told they were the wrong forms, then discovered that some of the boxes were too heavy, then that they wouldn't take credit cards (in spite of the VISA signs all over the place).

With a lot of patience, a lot of help from Veronique, and the purchase of a pack of packing tape nearby, we finally got everything off and then we were off to the Sheikh Hussein bridge to enter Jordan. Fortunately, our morning's luck did not follow us, and the process was smooth at the border, and soon we were in the bus crossing the Jordan River. Marthame breathed a huge sigh of relief once we were out of Israel, and smiled a huge grin as he saw a tumbleweed roll by on the Jordanian side.

We had been assured by every travel agent we talked to that we would be able to rent a car at the bridge. Since we were going straight to Petra, and then to the airport with lots of luggage, rental was the only reasonable plan. To be sure the office was open, Elizabeth went to ask the guys at information at customs. A friendly round man named Mohammed went through the usual questions (where are you from, how come you speak Arabic so well? how can I help you?) Elizabeth chatted with him, eventually getting around to car rental, mentioning that we were going return it at the airport. "Yes, there is National Rent-a-Car here, but I think you need to return the cars here. Let me call." He picked up the phone and said "Alo Nasser? Kul 'am wintum bikheer!" Meaning, "Hello Nasser? Merry Christmas!"

After a chat, the man informed Elizabeth that yes, all cars are supposed to be returned to the bridge, but we should go talk to Nasser; he might make special arrangement for us since we were Christians like him. Elizabeth thanked him and we headed off to get our bags x-rayed and then to Nasser the car renter.

We found the small National office and greeted Nasser. We explained our predicament: we need to return the car to the airport. Since it is Friday, we cannot get to Amman in time to rent from the airport or from other offices there. We can't afford what it would cost to take a taxi to Petra and really don't want to stay in Amman tonight.

As we were all pondering our fate, Marthame noticed a letter on his desk addressed to a Baptist church in Alabama. "Would you like us to post that for you once we arrive in the States? It will get there much faster." Nasser gratefully handed over the letter and then proceeded to make a very special arrangement for us, whereby we could leave the car in the parking lot at the airport (keys in the ashtray) and his cousin would come and pick it up and take it to the bridge later. We were immensely relieved and thankful.

Soon we were all breathing a sigh of relief and cruising down the long, long road toward the ancient lost city of Petra. After about four hours on the road, the three of us checked into our hotel, Veronique opting for sleep since we had worn her out with all of the lifting and moving and stress of border crossings.

The two of us shelled out a few extra dinars for the hotel dinner. As we feasted, we looked up and saw...Jonathan! The Arab American University teacher and dear friend of ours who has been stuck in Amman for some time now. He and another teacher from the University were refused re-entry to Israel because they work at the University in Jenin. We have missed him greatly and had tentatively planned to meet up in Jordan, but hadn't confirmed anything. We heard more of his news and then made plans to meet in the morning and wander the ruins together.