Losing my Passport in Jordan
My trip to Jordan started with an empty gas tank and ended with a missing passport.
Everything in between, though? Magical. But maybe I should start at the beginning: before the empty gas tank, there was Queen Alia International Airport in Amman, served by a cheap RyanAir flight from Budapest.
My excitement at having arrived in Jordan may have caused some temporary selective hearing when the rental agency informed me that I would need to fill up the car, and thus I ended up on the King’s Highway approximately halfway between Amman and Petra, hazards flashing and completely out of gas.
As I climbed out of my rental, shrugged on my backpack, and started walking towards the gas station I could see up ahead. I hiked up, bought a bottle of water, and asked where I could buy some petrol.
No one, of course, spoke English, and I was the quintessential Ugly American who knew only a word or two of Arabic.
Luckily the manager spoke English and was quickly fetched. One of the other workers produced a bottle that could carry some fuel, and the manager (despite my protests that I could walk back!) insisted on driving me back to my car. Once there, he fashioned a funnel from half an old Coke bottle and assured me that it was his pleasure to help me, as we all have the duty to help one another if we are able.
That’s when I first realized that Jordan was a magical place.
From there I spent an amazing few days in Petra (the hotel delivered homemade Christmas cookies to each room!), drove on to hike (and play with puppies!) at Dana Biosphere Reserve, and finally pulled into my final stop in Jordan: the Dead Sea.
Originally I’d planned to use this as my base from which to explore Jerash, but instead, I spent the entire day soaking in the Dead Sea and then relaxing in the resort’s delightful spa. I have absolutely no regrets about this change of plans, especially in light of what was to come next.
That’s when it happened: the realization that my passport was missing.
I’d had a spa day and a really good dinner, returned to my suite to pack for the drive back to Amman the next morning, and abruptly realized that my passport was not in its holder. I panicked, in the least obvious way that I could, searching the entire hotel room, then the restaurant, spa, and front desk. I tore everything out of my rental car and dug my hands in all the crevices. Unpacked and repacked my luggage. Called the American Embassy, which was of course closed by that time of night.
Every time I laid down to go to sleep I thought of one more place it might be and hurried to tear something else apart. Finally, somewhere around 2:00 AM, I drifted off to sleep with the understanding that I might not be catching a flight home that day after all.
The next morning, after choking down some breakfast, I checked the front desk one last time.
“I gave the clerk my cell phone number and drove off to reach the Embassy when they opened for the day. The line for United States citizens was thankfully short, and within no time I was being asked about my business.”
This was, of course, when I finally burst into tears, spilling the tale of the lost passport and my night without sleep. The dear, sainted gentleman conducting the interview gave me a quick shoulder squeeze, assured me he’d help, and sent me down the road to get a new passport photo taken.
It was while sitting there, waiting for the passport photo shop to open, that the front desk clerk from my Dead Sea hotel called: he’d found my passport! After check-in, I’d been taken to my room in a golf cart, and apparently, my passport had slipped between the cushions as I rode. He had torn the resort apart looking for it, and now I could go home!
The extremely kind gentleman that found my passport even volunteered to meet me halfway to my current location so I could make my flight! I gave him my last 50 JD and a fervent thank you, returned my rental car, and slept so hard on the flight back that I didn’t even wake up for overpriced drinks or snacks.