Jordan was the first of three countries that I arrived in without guidebook or very firm plans. I knew I wanted to see Petra and Wadi Rum. I was open to suggestions for the rest.

Luckily, I had my hosts Ahmad and Ala providing ideas. They insisted I visit Madaba and Mt. Nebo. I asked why. They said, "You are Christian, right?" Warily, I answered "... yes..." only because I don't feel comfortable with any other answer. They said, "You will find much to see there." Mysterious.

Children's tribute to King Hussein; spotted on way to Madaba

Ahmad dropped me off at the bus station and pointed out the bus to Madaba—it is a white minibus with orange-and-brown stripes, and I believe the fare was 35 piastres. The most enjoyable part of this minibus ride was passing a wall decorated with children's paintings praising King Hussein. My favorite inexplicably featured teddy bears wearing bow ties with, written in English, "I LOVE YOU KING HUSSEIN."

Forty minutes later I arrived in Madaba, a pleasant town about 30km from Amman. As my purpose for being in Madaba had never been fully explained to me—for those who want to know its attractions, read HobWahid's entry—I elected to head straight for Mt. Nebo.

The bus station at Madaba is not conducive to getting cabs, and I don't know if there's a real reason for this. The white taxis inside the station overcharge, and the yellow taxis, which I assume have meters, drop off but don't pick up. I waited on the road for a taxi instead, and talked one very young driver into taking me up for only J$1. This is how I met Faisal.

The road to Mt. Nebo provides lovely views of rolling hills and olive trees. Faisal's family was from Nebo, but he lived alone in Madaba and worked as a driver while attending university in Amman. This nugget of information took the entire trip to ascertain, as Faisal's English was poor and my Arabic impoverished. There was a great deal of "Fempteh? (understand?)" "Ma fempteh! (I don't understand!)" going around during this ride.

At Mt. Nebo, I paid the J$1 fee to enter the Moses memorial. The paved path is a pleasant one, designed to keep cars from disturbing the peace of the site and approximating the feel of approaching the site as a pilgrim. The surrounding landscape is lovely; one can imagine why this was where Moses and the Israelites were led to view the Promised Land. Unfortunately, the day I visited was both blindingly bright AND hazy, so no matter how long I stood in front of the "map" pointing out the Dead Sea, Jericho, Jerusalem, and other sites, all I saw was fuzzy landscape in the distance. Well, I assumed the darkest fuzzy area was the Dead Sea, but I don't know if that qualifies as "seeing" it.

Inside the memorial, a few people were praying. There were various mosaics on the floor of the chapel, as well as many photos of the late Pope John Paul II on a visit. Behind the chapel was a small workshop where an Italian man was either painstakingly restoring the mosaics or making new ones—when a Jordanian staffer offered me a few sample mosaic tiles, I REALLY hoped they were new.

Back outside, I realized the folly of coming here without a plan. Taxis do not drive along the road (perhaps during high season, but not during June), and all other tourists had arrived on an organized tour. I discarded pride and asked a van driver for a ride to Madaba. He said regretfully that he was driving around an Italian camera crew that day, so he would like to help, but had no room. He suggested I ask the driver of a bigger bus. That driver refused flat out.

Faisal had given me both his home and mobile numbers, telling me to call if I needed anything. I hadn't wanted to get into a bad situation, but desperate times... I borrowed the van driver's mobile to call. Faisal arrived within 15 minutes, having traded his white taxi for a red sports car. Fancy!

Faisal drove me back to Amman, where he was picking up his graduation cap and gown. I had nowhere to specific to go until Ahmad and Ala got off work, so I planned to go to the Turkish bath. When we pulled up in front of his university, his car stalled. And stalled some more. And stopped. Faisal apologized profusely and sent me on my way in a taxi.

The next day, Faisal wanted to spend the day with me, so I told him I wanted to visit the Dead Sea and Jerash. Having absolutely no idea what I was saying beyond "Dead Sea" and "Jerash," he agreed to drive.

I rode the white-orange-and-brown minibus to Madaba once again, where Faisal met me at the bus station. First, he took me to meet his family in Mt. Nebo. Of his large family, I met one sister, one brother, and his mother. His brother shared taxi duties with him, and his sister had recently graduated and was taking some time off. She planned to teach Islamic studies, but at the moment, thoroughly enjoyed not working and sleeping in. Of course, they were as hospitable as every family I'd met in the Middle East, offering me breakfast and endless cups of tea.

The views of the Dead Sea while winding down the long, narrow road were stunning. We were stopped twice for passport checks, not a big deal. But then we finally got to the sea, swelteringly hot and humid at 11am, and it turned out that Faisal had not only never been in the sea, but had no idea how ANYONE would get in. Frustrated, he gestured widely, insisting, "This is the Dead Sea!" He didn't understand what else I wanted. The heat dragged me down until I no longer cared about going in.

I suggested the Ma'in springs as another nearby site to visit. Faisal nodded vaguely, but after some more unfocused driving, I realized that he did not know where that was either. Finally, I told him irritably that I was ready to go to Jerash, since we were clearly finished with the general Nebo/Dead Sea area.

We headed back toward Madaba. I began suspecting that Faisal had also never been to Jerash and wasn't even sure what direction it was in. Since I was similarly unprepared, I could hardly guide him. Saved by the bell—in the bad way—he got a call that his father was in the hospital, but was not told why. Distracted and distraught, he kept asking what I wanted to do and how he could help me. I begged to be let out—it was getting to be too much and I wanted him to check on his father. I jumped out of his car at the first opportunity to catch the bus to Amman.

While nothing much came of the day (I eventually found my way to Jerash myself), I enjoyed my 2 days of hanging out with Faisal, young and clueless as he was. Like most Arabs I met, he was generous and kind-hearted, and as much as he led me astray, he obviously meant well and aimed to please. I still get the occasional text message from Faisal, and would enjoy meeting him in Jordan again someday.

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