We landed without incident. "Me and Tamara go in pairs" — if you're flying together, it's better to go through passport control together, so you don't have to explain the same thing twice to the officials. They let us through quickly, no problems.
Right by baggage claim, we spotted a stand where you could buy e-tickets for the bus to Eilat. They didn't take credit cards, but we had wisely exchanged some shekels at the Bank of Latvia beforehand. They immediately sold us a round-trip ticket; even though I warned them the return trip wouldn't be anytime soon, they assured us everything would be fine.
Working the camera. In reality, I feel like I'm about to drop dead
We immediately dragged our bikes into the bus's luggage compartment before it left, and started taking in our surroundings at a leisurely pace. Our surroundings sounded suspiciously Russian-speaking: both the girl who escorted us to the bus and the one who met us by it spoke Russian with that familiar accent. But that was nothing compared to the passengers: the free guide that came with the bus (and actively self-promoted to pay off her freeness) conducted her tour in Russian, knowing that the aircraft had arrived from Kaunas, and at least half the passengers spoke the great and mighty language.
The guide revealed that Eilat has these miracle machines on the streets that work even on Shabbat: they swallow banknotes of any country and denomination, and spit out shekels. This came in pretty handy for us later. Other information was educational but not quite as valuable: for instance, that sunbeds on the public beach aren't free, and if you accidentally lie down on one, a tax collector will come and demand tribute.
50 kilometers along a hilly highway, which on one side has a massive fence on the border with Egypt, additionally wrapped in hefty coils of barbed wire and sometimes even equipped with video cameras, and on the other — views of the Jordanian mountains, and we are in Eilat. They explain to us when and where the return bus leaves from, but we memorize it differently, which would later add an excess of completely unnecessary adrenaline on the way back.
In Eilat at 1-2 PM it is hellish heat by our standards. I have a fever, I barely slept on the plane because my neck hurts and I can't lean my head back on the seat, and when by some miracle I put my bike together and lean over to pump the tires, my head starts hurting terribly too. The wheels are huge, and pumping takes a long time, so I take breaks to let the headache subside a bit. Rybakov offers to help, but as long as I'm capable, I keep going myself.
A very pleasant-looking sidewalk surface in Eilat
By around two o'clock the bikes are assembled, and I go to the store across the street for water. The thought slips through my mind that it would be a good idea to ask if we could leave the cardboard bike boxes in the store (they can be folded up), but I have absolutely zero energy for this, so we just stick the boxes in a corner of the square so they aren't an eyesore.
Beautiful
But if you take a closer angle, our handiwork makes it look a bit trashy
Sasha warming up
I always say that the hardest part is simply getting into another country with a bike. After that, whatever happens happens, at the very least you can live by the sea and go to the beach if absolutely nothing else works out. But this time all the hotels were booked, and there could be no deviations from the plan: otherwise they'd just charge me the full price, and that's that. Not a huge tragedy either, but I still desperately want to see Jordan, so we mount our iron steeds and roll toward the border checkpoint.
Our bike trip officially begins.
The border isn't far, about ten kilometers or even less. There our first surprise awaits: turns out the Israelis charge 25 euros per person to leave. Not too shabby, to put it mildly, and the message is clear: you have no business going to a Muslim country, what if you get recruited into ISIS there, better stay here and throw your money around with us, where true greenhouse conditions have been created for exactly this purpose.
As for Jordan, it's immediately obvious it's a kingdom: a crown dead center on the gates. A beautiful flag, too. But the checkpoint itself reigns with all the hallmarks of a third-world country: border guards are drinking coffee and puffing on cheap, strong cigarettes right at their desks, so much so that it smells like the computing center at RTU back before Euro-standards took over and employees could smoke right at their computers. The latter are a dirty grey color from constant smoke saturation. No one is in a hurry at the border: there might not even be a worker in the window at all, so we wait for about 15 minutes along with a crowd of people of Arab appearance and a few Russians.
In the process, we look around and spot a currency exchange. The rate is almost certainly a rip-off, but the Russians nearby ask a question that makes us think: what if the exchanges in the city we're heading to aren't open late? Fear has big eyes, but foresight has even bigger ones, so I step into the fly-infested little shed and exchange just enough money to cover the bus to Amman. To my surprise, I recall that the local currency, the dinar, is worth roughly the same as a lat, which is exceptionally convenient. The thing is, the dinar is permanently pegged to the dollar, and so it grew alongside it, until the dollar matched the euro in value, and the dinar matched the lat. Such are the quirks of monetary policy.
We pass through the border at twenty to four, the city is still 10 kilometers away, and the Jett Bus Co bus we desperately need to catch is at four o'clock, with an uphill climb still ahead. We're screwed — we decide, and we are wrong.
By some incredible stroke of luck, soon the road to the city is not only downhill, but we also have a tailwind! True, there's another checkpoint on the way, where the bored border guards wouldn't mind a chat, but we shake them off in a few minutes. Time is melting away, but our foresight (a track routed exactly where it needs to be) bears fruit: we pedal like madmen, as fast as a sleepless night and our health will allow, and fly into the Jett bus station next to the Movenpick hotel at 33 km/h.
I run to the ticket counter, Sasha is trying to sell the driver on what we need from him. The clerk at the counter is dressed to the nines: impeccable English, in a suit and tie, understands my situation, and tells me to wait: like, if the bikes fit, we'll take you, "I'll talk to the driver."
I nervously sit on a pleasantly soft chair, examining the passengers: women of various ages, but all in hijabs, almost normal European hipsters, worn-looking men, and clerks in suits. My ticket clerk leaves, but soon returns: Rybakov comes running, keeping one eye out so our bikes and bags don't get stolen, and the other on me, yelling at me to buy the ticket faster because the bus is leaving and our stuff is already in it!
My clerk is busy, in a panic I ask another one, they sort it all out between themselves, hand me the tickets, Sasha and I run onto the bus feeling like the luckiest guys in the world, and it pulls out. Quest completed, one of many, many more to come on this trip.