My Journey Back: The Full Story

Warning to readers who get bored easily: this will be quite a long post. I won't be offended if you take a few days to read it...after all, it took me a few days to experience it.

My final day in Jordan was...well, almost heart wrenching. Ok, let's be honest, not even a little. Two things I noticed, though--it was overcast. Overcast. I almost fell over, I was so shocked. I have seen clouds maybe 3 times in Amman. White clouds. But when I looked outside Friday morning, the sky was covered with greyish, almost rain clouds. But without the rain part.

Rain, by the way, is my favorite weather. I looked long and hard at the sky and thought, ok, Jordan, maybe I will miss you a little. But one day with clouds is not enough to make up for four months of intense heat and no rain.

The second: my branch. I took a little bit of liberty (and this would get me in a lot of trouble later--a mistake costing about $4000) and decided that I didn't have to get to the airport 3 hours early, realizing that I wanted to go to church for one last time more than anything. My branch in Amman, after all, was my favorite part of being in Jordan, and I could hardly resist this chance to attend, even the first part of sacrament meeting, since my flight had been changed to an hour later the week before. Ok, I'll admit it, I really just wanted to see everyone's reaction when I walked into church, since it was the first week that all the students would have been gone. (By the way, I wasn't disappointed. Everyone was so shocked and asked me if I had missed my flight or something. Don't worry, that will come.) And, I got to play the piano one last time there. It was beautiful. I almost shed a tear, realizing that I would miss the people in the branch, and maybe I did like Jordan. Just a little, though.

Fast forward about an hour. I am feeling slightly rushed because we only have about an hour until our plane leaves--but only slightly, because the Queen Alia airport in Amman is quite small, with only two terminals, and only one or two flights to America per day. Plus, the security there is, well, Arab security, and really not that tight. Imagine my surprise when I walk into terminal 2, where Delta is housed, and ask where the Delta counter is, and all the security men get a panicked look upon their faces and say "Delta is closed! Run! Leave your luggage here!"

Now I feel more than slightly rushed. I drop my luggage by the scanner and run through the metal detector and over to Delta. I stop at the first available Delta person and start explaining in Arabic that I need to get on the flight, and why is everyone telling me that it is closed when I still have 52 minutes?

Without changing his facial expression, the man at the counter waits until my tirade is over and then says in English, "I'm sorry, I don't speak Arabic." I almost burst into tears! "Neither do I," I said, and proceeded to explain in English. He again waited until my tirade was over and then said, "I am sorry, you will have to speak to the manager of the flight. I can't do anything for you." (Hint: if this is ever you, please interrupt the person before they finish their tirade if you can't do anything for them to save them time!)

Well, neither could the manager of the flight do anything for me, and neither would any of the Delta employees do anything for me. It turns out that the airport in Amman completely closes their flights one hour before the plane is supposed to take off because of "Middle East security precautions." Was this on my ticket? No. Was this in any of the information I received about my flight? No. Now really, I know that we are advised to be there three hours in advance for international travel, but remember the Queen Alia airport? I thought we would be fine.

After pacing for about an hour and a half, trying to get something done with the Delta employees at the airport, I realize that it is a futile effort. No one will do anything to help us. My father decides to call Delta in America, thinking that surely they would do something for us, so he asks if he can use my phone. (Remember the phone throughout this story--I was planning on giving it to members in the branch, but I completely forgot, and I was upset when I got to the airport and realized that I still had it. It was actually a miracle that I kept it.)

This would have been no problem, but I had just recently finished off my international phone card, so I had to buy another one. No problem, except for the fact that I am inside the security checkpoint, and the place to buy the phone card is outside of the security checkpoint.

I walk up to the metal detector and try to communicate with the security guard in Arabic that I need to leave the area to buy a phone card. No problem, he says, I just have to talk to the "Daubit," or the officer in the army, explain my reason for leaving, give him my passport, send all bags through the scanner, walk back through the metal detector, buy the card, and then repeat the process to get back in.

I walked up to the Daubit and explained my situation. I don't know if he had a lot of time on his hands or was curious about my situation or just wanted to talk to this strange foreign women who was trying to speak Arabic or what, but I had to explain for at least 2 minutes why I wanted to leave the area. He finally agreed to let me go (what was I going to do? All I wanted to do was leave the secured area, in the opposite direction of the planes. Now why did I have to leave my passport with him?) and I bought the card.

Passing through security again, I dialed the number on my phone card, only to have the same annoying Arabic message that I heard way too many times while living in Amman--the message that said that even though I was using an international calling card that doesn't use the minutes on my phone, I didn't have any minutes on my phone and thus would need to buy another Zain card just to use the international calling card.

On the verge of tears from frustration and anger, I went and talked to the Daubit again, gave him my passport, went through security, and went to buy a Zain card. The only glitch was the "wander" woman, or whatever those security officials are who pat you down, was really irritated because I had just passed through there 3 minutes before. She asked what I was doing (I wanted to tell her that it was none of her business and she should talk to the Daubit, but I didn't) and I explained that I had to get a phone card. Clearly irritated, she asked, "Did you talk to the Daubit?" When I verified that I had, she put on her angry face, sighed heavily as she rolled her eyes, and let me walk back through.

I wanted to buy just 1 dinar of minutes, since I wasn't even going to use the minutes anyway, but just my luck, the kiosk only had 5 dinar of minutes--and for some reason, the taxes for the phone cards was way more expensive at the airport than in Amman. I bought the 5 dinar card (and this would become very important later on) and went back through security, got my passport from the Daubit, dialed the number, and gave my phone to my father.

10 minutes later, he walks over to me. Guess what else, my phone had just died! Being the prepared person that I always am, I just happened to have my phone charger in my carry on. The next challenge? Finding a plug. Remember how we are in the check in area--between security and the outside world, but also between a plane ticket and the terminals? After unsuccessfully asking about 5 different people (in both Arabic and English, since they couldn't seem to understand in either language--I should have tried Chinese) where I could find an outlet, I finally found one in the bathroom. Of all the unlikely places, there was finally a plug in the bathroom (it was the first plug in a bathroom I had seen in Jordan, both public and private!). Relieved, I gave the phone to my father once again and he went into the bathroom to finish the phone call to Delta.

And I went back to my seat, sat down, and started crying. This was a little more than I could handle--trying to communicate in Arabic, missing my flight, not knowing when I could leave this country, buying all of those stupid phone cards, etc etc.

I finally calmed down and fixed my makeup in time to see my dad coming from the bathroom, holding my phone, and asking me to buy another phone card because the other one had just run out of minutes.

You are kidding, right? I thought. I don't think he would be so anxious to keep buying phone cards if he had been the one that had to pass through security each time! But of course, I was the one that spoke Arabic, so I got to do all the dirty work!

I spoke with the Daubit one last time, apologizing profusely but telling him that I had to buy more minutes. I passed through security and was almost out of the secured area when one of the other security officials (by the "pilots only" entrance) started shouting to me and asking where I was going. Not again, I thought to myself, and tried to hold myself together as I explained once again that I had to buy some minutes for my phone. He told me that I couldn't leave without my passport, and when I exasperatedly told him that the Daubit had my passport, he let me through, saying something like "I wouldn't believe you except I can see from your eyes that you are telling the truth." Or maybe he just said that he was messing around with me because I looked like I was falling apart. Some Arabic phrase like that that I had never before heard.

And just when I thought things were going to start settling down, I try to buy an international calling card for four dinar, but because of the incredibly increased taxes of the phone cards, I am five cents short. Meaning, that I would either have to buy a two dinar card and risk not having enough minutes (and I did use all of the minutes on the card and wished I had more) or go back through security again, get five cents, go back through security, buy the card, and go back through security. I looked at the card, looked at the man, almost started crying, looked at the card again, and just when I was about to say I would buy the two dinar card, he said he would give it to me. Well, I guess there is some good in the world, right?

Final call to Delta in America, and my father comes out with bad news. They, of course, would do nothing for us. Beautiful situation, we find out that the next flight out of Amman to America with space on it is the 31st of August.

Wait a minute, the 31st? We would have to stay here for 9 more days?! No longer did I feel like I would miss Jordan. I just wanted to get out of the country, that day. No way was I waiting 9 more days...that would give me approximately 1.5 weeks in America to get everything done before leaving on my mission!

In full panic mode, ready to have breakdown #2, I call BYU. BYU Travel, to be exact, realizing that I am having an emergency, and they have an emergency line, and if anyone could help us, they could.

Well, I was right. BYU is beautiful and wonderful and its employees are more than a little helpful. They are incredibly helpful, in fact, and Nancy at BYU Travel got us a flight back to America the next night. The only problem? There really weren't any flights out of Amman until September, and so I told her that we could fly out from Tel Aviv. There were flights out from Tel Aviv, but we needed security clearance from the Vice-President of BYU to fly out of Israel, since it is on the US Department of State warning list, or whatever that is called. And since it was 6:30 in the morning their time, she couldn't get the clearance until everyone arrived at work.

Wasting no time, my father decided that he would rather get to Tel Aviv immediately and sit in the airport all night rather than miss his flight again, so we took all of our luggage, passed it all back through the scanners (tell me again why we needed to have our luggage scanned when we were leaving?!), and got a taxi to the north border (we had conveniently dropped our rental car off in the parking lot several hours before--the rental car that we had rented from the only car rental at the north border!) asap, since we couldn't cross the border by Amman and Jerusalem (and much closer to Tel Aviv) because it was now Friday afternoon, almost Shabbat, and the Allenby bridge border crossing was closed.

Going through all of the security at the north border for the final time (!), we finally passed into the Israel side. And, of course, each piece of my luggage had a problem as they went through the scanner. You see, I had packed carefully and I had several books in each bag to help distribute the weight. So of course each bag had to be opened and inspected, and each book had to be opened and inspected. I winced as they pulled out my Arabic books, especially my Quran, and had to explain at least three times why I was in Jordan and why I was studying the language of their enemies. But I like organized stress so much better than disorganized stress, so I was fine, right?

Of course, when we exit the building, it is 8:30 Friday night, Shabbat is in full swing, and there are no busses, taxis, or anything. And of course the north border is far away from anything of convenience!

My father asked an Israeli guard to call a taxi, which he does, and which was decidedly more expensive than it should have been (what other option did we have? It was Shabbat!), and which picked us up from the border and droped us off in Bet Shean while the driver went to fulfill some other duty until he could pick us up again and take us to Tiberias.

So picture this: 3 adults, 7 pieces of luggage, and a phone that is still picking up Jordanian cell phone waves sitting in a deserted parking lot on the edge of Bet Shean in the middle of the night--more specifically, the Shabbat night, meaning that nothing is open and very few cars are driving by on the deserted road.

Thankfully, my phone was still picking up Jordanian cell phone waves, so I was able to call my branch president in Amman to figure out how to make phone calls to Israel from Jordan (you have to dial 00 first, and then 972, and then the number) and then call my friends at the Jerusalem Center to get the number for the new missionary couple in Tiberias, and call a couple of hotels to see if they had any spots open.

Of course, being the end of vacation season, as well as being Shabbat, no one does have any room. Self, great day! And, remember how my phone costs 25 Jordanian cents per minute to call another country? And since I was using Jordanian cell phone waves, even though I was in Israel, calling places in Israel was still long distance for me. Luckily I had 5 dinar of minutes, but those were eaten up quite quickly as we were sitting and waiting to see if our taxi driver would show up again.

Finally, the taxi driver did show up, we did make it to a hotel, they did have two rooms available, it only cost about $430 (as they only had suites available), and we even made it to the airport the next morning (which taxi ride only cost us about $250), and we got permisison from the Vice President of BYU to fly out from Tel Aviv. The tickets only cost about $1,000 each, since Delta would not refund any of our money from the missed flight (even though the flight was full! I don't see why they wouldn't give us Delta credit, since we still had a Delta flight just the next day and from a different country! Delta wouldn't have lost any money) and flying out from Israel is much more expensive than flying out from Jordan.

Oh, and we only got to the Tel Aviv airport about 12 hours early this time, so we had plenty of time to wish that we had gotten to the airport in Amman a little bit earlier.

Well, $4,000 later, we got home. It was quite possibly the most expensive church meeting I have ever attended!