Jordan: Story #2 - Same trip.
The drama of the missing boys had ended peacefully, Baruch HaShem. They were now quite safe and kept tightly under the wings of both grandmothers. We could breathe again … almost. But our visit in Jordan could continue.
The next morning, we toured the enormous Roman ruins at Jerash. Imagine, just about ten miles west of there in Israel, is a similar Roman ruin at Bet Shean. Seems that wherever they went, the Romans left ruins! The church of St. George at Madaba is tiny, and yet the entire floor is one gigantic mosaic map made out of small multi-colored tiles. It is estimated that the floor was designed and created around 565 CE. Time and tourists have taken their toll as many of the tiles are now missing, but the map is complete enough to show in remarkable detail its version, its perspective of the Middle East with Jerusalem in its center. (See the mosaic Madaba map in my previous Jordan story)
We had a lovely elderly couple on the trip. They were much liked and always seen in the company of other couples and families at stops and at dinners at day’s end. They were both what we called troupers – they kept up and never missed a tour site. But after our stop at Madaba, she came up to me and said that the dust was getting to her and her inhaler was not as effective as usual. Asthma. I asked the guide where we might get some medical help around here. He said that there was a hospital on the way to Petra. we could stop there tomorrow morning. I told him that she could not wait until tomorrow. Let’s drop our passengers off at the hotel for the night and take her to that clinic right now.
“But many miles, much gas, almost two hours … too far to drive.”
“She is having trouble breathing. If she dies because you would not get her to the clinic, I will have you to blame for her death. Is that very clear, my friend? Also, she is an American citizen, and when the US Embassy in Amman hears about how Jordanian guides treat US citizens, how many more of us will you ever see here? No business for you or any of your drivers. A little gas and a little time right now could save your business and perhaps your freedom. Call your company and tell them what you have to do.” He did.
“Okay. We can go to the hotel first and then ….”
“No, I have a better idea. It’s too far to go back to the hotel. This bus will now go to the hospital. We can leave her and her husband there. We’ll come for them in the morning. I’ll make arrangements for him if he can’t stay with her at the clinic.”
I called the hospital to tell them we were on our way and to be prepared for her. To the driver … “Yahla, let’s go.”
Rikki told her bus what had happened. They would return to the hotel. Our bus group would now go and visit a Jordanian clinic — an unscheduled new adventure. Everyone was okay with the sudden change of plans. We got to the hospital. They had her on oxygen within seconds of our arrival. Yes, they would keep her over night. She insisted that her husband go back with us and get a good night’s sleep.
The next day on our way to Petra, we stopped off at the hospital. She was so much better. Her oxygen levels were up, a new inhaler was doing its job, she had slept well, and was ready to go. We arrived at Petra. While the rest of the group set off down the Siq – the mile-long sandy trail leading to the unusual ancient ruins of the Nabateans, a people who specialized in water conservation and hospitality for caravans and merchants, I stayed behind for a while to chat with our patient. My job now was to convince her that while this was a special site to see, the walk through sand and dust would almost certainly precipitate a serious asthma attack. After quite a bit of back and forth, she relented and agreed to stay on the bus.
I led her husband down the Siq. He now carried two cameras and was charged with taking pictures of everything for her to see and enjoy. He was still snapping away when we returned to the buses. The drive from Petra to Aqaba on the Red Sea takes several hours. The patient and her husband were on my bus. As the day wore on, her breathing became more labored. We were past the point of no return. The hospital was further back than the port city was ahead. The area in between was part of the ancient land of Edom, and this road could have been in part the biblical Kings Highway that Moses asked for permission to travel on the way to the Promised Land. But the King of Edom refused him, and the Israelites had to go around Edom and Moab to get to the banks of the Jordan River. All this I said to the bus group as we hastened along.
It was about 4:00 in the afternoon when we reached Aqaba, and the heat was still merciless – well over 100 degrees. Our dear lady was not doing well at all. The Jordanian border police swarmed the bus checking passports.
“This lady is not well. We need an ambulance,” I implored the officer with the most badges and medals.
“Ambulance from Israel is not allowed on this side of the border. Bus can go no further. The lady must walk to the other side.” The guy was not about to change policy, and three Jordanian soldiers were moving in closer to the discussion.
Meanwhile, the buses had turned off their engines, and with that their air conditioning. The heat took over immediately. Rikki had come on my bus to deal with our patient who was fading fast. The heat was making it worse. Rikki left to go into the guard station. They had air conditioning. She spoke to the guard there.
“We have a very sick lady on our bus. She can not stand this heat. May I bring her in here for the cool air, until we can move her across the border?” She asked nicely. In Colorado, the lady would have been welcomed immediately, and given something cold to drink. Here, nothing but rebuff and hot coals.
I knew she couldn’t last in this heat. I went into the office to try out my negotiating skills. “Where is the nearest cemetery,” I asked the captain of the guards. He thought I was asking about ice cream — a creamery.
“Where do you bury the dead?” I was fairly calm and as what I was saying began to dawn on him, he seemed to get a bit jittery.
“You see,” I continued, “when the very old lady on that Jordanian bus dies from heat stroke because you wouldn’t allow her to come in here to cool down ... I am going to insist that you arrange for her funeral, that you dig the grave for her, and that you pay for all of the costs. Then I am going to press charges for your criminal neglect of a US citizen, and some 70 Americans on those buses are going to shame you in public. Understand?”
The Jordanian officer gave this a moment’s consideration and relented. He allowed Rikki to bring the lady into the cool office. He also made a call to the Israeli guard station across the border about 100 yards away. Within minutes, an Israeli ambulance pulled up to the border, but it could come no further. Its EMTs could not cross the border. Though now a bit cooler after sitting in the guard house, our patient was too weak to walk the length of a football field, and certainly not in this heat. The bus would not take her one foot closer to the border. There was no wheelchair, no gurney, no forklift, no scooter, bike, tram, wagon, nada, nichts, nil, no rolling conveyance at all.
We had a young dermatologist in our group. I asked him to help me carry her the distance. She stood; we locked arms behind and under her. She sat on the makeshift seat of our arms. We lifted her and began to walk sideways. Awkward, tedious, heavy, hotter than I remember ever being. When we had gone more than half way the soldiers on the Israeli side began cheering encouragement. “Yoffi, tamshichu, atem y’cholim, rak ode k’tzat, — great, keep going, you can do it, just a little further.”
The EMTs took her from us, while the soldiers patted our shoulders and shook our hands. It was a lovely moment. It felt for that moment as if we were making aliyah! I turned to see 65 more folks heading in our direction with broad smiles. Because of the heat, we were all soaked to the skin, but pleased that our patient was now in very good hands. The ambulance drove her and her husband to the hospital in Eilat, while we boarded Israeli tour buses for the trip to our hotel there.
Once settled, I called the hospital to see how she was doing. She was in a room and her husband answered. He thanked us for helping her get through this ordeal. He knew we were going back to Tel Aviv in the morning, and he said that they would not be leaving with us. They would stay in the hospital until she was stable and then perhaps they’d spend a few days at a hotel in Eilat to recuperate. Well, they had one night at our hotel prepaid for. I gave him the phone number of our travel agency in Tel Aviv. I told him that I would cancel their hotel reservation for tonight and would tell the hotel to expect them to use that night in a few days. I called the agency in Tel Aviv to cancel their flights for the day after tomorrow. He could call them when they are ready to reschedule their trip home.
All in all, it had been a long trip, but lovely tour. The experiences we had together in Israel had been fabulous. Our experiences in Jordan had been … um, unique. Two new Havurot developed out of the trip, and they are still functioning, as new members replace those who have passed along. From that time on, whenever I’m faced with a challenge be it physical or mental, I still hear those words of encouragement from the Israeli soldiers – tamshichu, keep going, atem y’cholim, you can do it, rak ode k’tzat, just a little further to go.
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Another account of warm solidarity that heals. Thank you for sharing this in these troubled times