Day 9: The Ferry from Aqaba to Egypt

Paul was hit with the infamous stomach bug just in time for our stressful journey from Aqaba to Dahab, Egypt. I loaded him up with lots of prescription drugs from the US and we headed out early to catch a cab to the ferry.

Navigating the ferry was a little confusing, but we figured out where to pay the exit tax and get our passports stamped and sat down to wait for the ferry. I think the man at the exit tax counter (who looked like a ridiculous bobble head doll with his wagging head and constant eye rolling) ripped us off and forced us to pay the higher Jordanian exit tax rather than the foreigner tax, despite our protests. Oh well.

We met a girl from France who was traveling alone and together the 3 of us worked to figure out the ferry protocol. We saw a big line forming and hurried over to wait, but we were waived to the front of the line and told to sit in the shade. We learned several times that day that foreigners are permitted first in line over locals. It wasn’t fair, but I pushed aside my guilty feelings and was thankful for the privilege. A big bus pulled up and we boarded and headed to the ferry.

The bus dropped us off at a big industrial looking ramp that led to the inside of the ferry. We dropped our suitcases on the ramp and headed up the steps to grab a seat for the ride. The ride itself was long (despite the name “fast boat”) but uneventful, and we finally disembarked at the Nuweiba port in Egypt.

It was like entering the 7th Circle of Hell. I guess that is a slight exaggeration…but Egypt is definitely a different country than Jordan. We stepped out of the ferry and I felt like the hot thick air almost knocked me over. All the foreigners were walking in confused circles trying to figure out how to get the hell out of the port. Eventually we boarded a decrepit bus with seats missing, sticky dates stuck to the seatbacks, and shabby curtains and were dropped a short walk away. More walking in circles and we were eventually pointed toward an office to retrieve our passports (which we had to hand over on the ferry). Then we were redirected to a bank to buy the visas that were required for our passports. Then back to the office. The whole time Paul and I were lugging suitcases over rocky broken “paths.”

After we got our passports, we still had no idea how to get out of the port. I tried to ask a man for help, but he told me he did not speak English. I know he was lying from the way he asked in perfect unaccented English, “Do you speak Arabic?” and smirked at me gleefully when I told him “No,” and he responded, again in perfect English, “I don’t speak English.” I hope that made his day.

Finally we were pointed toward huge lines of locals all yelling. There was a general sense of chaos. Paul was polite and walked toward the back of the line (I was heading straight for the front), but we were waived to the front anyway. Again, foreigners get to cut in front of locals. To be fair, the locals had A LOT (literally huge carts) of bags to be screened and we had just a couple of suitcases. We made it through “screening” (more a token gesture of sending bags through a scan as fast as possible), and Paul thought to wait again in the same line as the locals for the exit point. By this time I was irritated at the chaos, the heat, and the 1 English-speaking man who had refused to talked to me. I told Paul that this was a place with no rules and that we were leaving, so we just walked around the lines and headed out of the port with no further inspection. No one had a problem with that.

Luckily Paul had arranged transport with our hotel and there was a man holding a sign with the name Mr. Overmyer on it. If the port was the 7th Circle of Hell, he was an angel!

He took us to his car, gave us water, and an hour later we were delivered safely to our hotel in Dahab, Le Meridien. Paul managed the stress and chaos of the day despite his terrible illness, and by the time we were at the hotel, the drugs had kicked in and he was good as new. A big thanks to my Dad for the prescription!