Aquba is at the northern point of the Red Sea and is along Jordan’s very small Red Sea coast.  It is an important port and the easiest way to enter Jordan if one wants to avoid Eilat, Israel, which was along the land-based route to Jordan.  I would actually have had no problem visiting Israel, but I still harbored some idea of heading in Syria after I left Jordan, and rumor had it that Syrian authorities would deny you entry if there was any evidence in your passport that you had ever been to Israel.

I took a bus north to Nuweiba, Egypt, which dropped us off at the ferry terminal.  At the ticket office I met up with a young American couple who were backpackers who had started in India and were working west.  We bought tickets for the cheaper ferry with the understanding it would leave sooner.  After having boarded this slow ferry we saw a nice hydrofoil come screaming into port.  My male friend started asking questions and it seemed this hydrofoil, while leaving 45 an hour later from Nuweiba, would actually arrive sooner in Aquba.  He managed to get us off the slow ferry, but this involved at least a dozen petty officials, ticket takers, ticket punchers, gatekeepers, and other persons who all seemed to have a strong opinion on the matter.

We finally were in line for the hydrofoil but still with the cheaper tickets for the slow ferry and no time to buy new ones.  It was suggested to us that we tuck a $20 bill into our passports to grease the bureaucratic skids, which it apparently did.  A policeman spotted us standing near the back of the line, asked us if we were Americans, then walked us to the front of the line.  I thought I could feel the heat of the evil looks we got from everyone else but, once again, it proved interesting being in Egypt in the company of an attractive blonde.

Arrival in Jordan proved interesting.  The authorities there would look at your passport, then at you, then quote what they thought an appropriate entry fee.  These fees appeared to be completely subjective, though maybe there was some underlying scheme unfathomable to me.  They told me I owed $35.  I explained that I had already paid my fee back in the U.S. and had a brightly colored stamped pasted in my passport to prove it.  This got me a very dour scowl, the soldier apparently offended by my impudence, but I was allowed to go.

I stayed at a beach resort and had one day of very boring diving just south of the city.  There was nothing to see underwater except sand and trash.  The boat operator seemed rather perplexed when I surfaced with a handful of trash.  I place the trash in the boat but it was thrown overboard when I wasn’t looking.

There were also several U.S. Navy ships in port to support a joint U.S.-Jordanian exercise, so all the beach bars were filled with loud, drunken, soldiers and sailors.  I suppose I was that loud drunken soldier more than once in the past, but Aquba was proving not to be a place I wanted to be.  On to Petra.