I had just gotten out of a taxi from the Jordanian border, and here I was in Aqaba. Somehow it didn't seem to be the coral Eden I had imagined. Maybe it was a lack of sleep the night before, or the mild stress of being alone with my world strapped against my back 7,000 miles from home. But there wasn't time to do much pondering - my mission was to reach Petra, nestle down in a hostel and be off exploring. Somewhere close to where I stood a bus destined for Petra was boarding, and I wasn't about to hand over money for a taxi.

"You want to go to Petra? I give you a good deal my friend!" one of the strangers offered.

I had heard those words before, I heard the tales of travelers charged 10 times the value for a taxi, taken to different places than they asked, and I was not going to let that happen to me. Didn't matter that this was Jordan - I didn't trust them, and they weren't going to rip me off. I tersely told "my friend" that I was going to Petra, and going there by bus.

Without a clue as to where I was going, I brushed my way through the crowd and went to the nearest building that resembled a hostel. Sweating under the hot sun, I asked a man working there where the bus station was. Thankfully he pointed me in the direction, and soon enough I climbed into a minibus with "Petra" spelled out in faded letters. An old woman dressed in black sat behind me. A wrinkled face peered through her head covering, silently staring out the window. Outside, the large bearded driver in a white gown spoke loudly with a group of kaffiyeh-clad men. I leaned back into my seat and waited, hoping another tourist would come on who spoke my language, but to no avail. The bus departed in a cloud of dust, and soon blue water gave rise to a sandy landscape of jagged hills and lifeless expanses.

It was somewhere near Wadi Musa when I woke up. My hair was blown straight back from sleeping near the window, and my arm tinted a hot red from hanging out the window for 2 hours. Nervous that I might have missed my stop, I asked the driver if this was Petra. "No, I tell you when", he said as we pulled away from the stop and started descending a steep hill.

There wasn't a need for him to tell me when we were there - I surmised as much when the bus was surrounded by a small mob of people, shouting with raised hands waving business cards touting local hostels. I buried my face in my guidebook, nervously flipping through the pages, vainly hoping to find a map and locate exactly where I was. The mob made its way to my window, and as hands reached in I began to wonder why I ever left the comfort zone of my own society. At some point during my staring I concluded that Petra was at the bottom of the long hill, and that's where I needed to be. It didn't matter that authorities would soon be ushering out visitors - at least I could meet some fellow travelers, and get my bearings.

Seeing that I was about to leave the bus, the crowd made their way to the door to meet me. I brushed through them as before, but soon was confronted by a soft-spoken, casually dressed man and boy in a pickup truck.

"Where do you want to go? Are you looking for a hostel?" the man asked. "I just want to get to the bottom of the hill," I answered in a guarded tone. "But why? There is nothing down there, and Petra will soon close - I will take you to a hostel."

I again told him that I wanted to go to the bottom of the hill. Relenting, he told me to hop in the back of the truck. Before throwing my backpack in his pickup, I made it clear to him that he would get no money from me for the favor.

"Do you think everything is about money?" he asked, almost offended by my comment. I couldn't answer him.

Not coincidentally, there was nothing of interest at the bottom of the hill. Too hot and tired to get back to my original starting point and too late to enter Petra, I took the first cheap hotel I could find. I milled around the room aimlessly, eyeing the untouched beds, hoping that I'd meet a fellow traveler to shoot the breeze with, or at least talk to and whet my appetite for Petra. But I had no such luck. For the first time in my life I was the only person in an entire hotel. I laid down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, too excited to sleep, explosively anxious and unusually lonely.

First thing in the morning I made my way to a cozy hostel on the outskirts of town. A small trench along the sidewalk carried crystal clear spring water down the hill. The source of the spring was a rock a hundred meters up the road - according to Bedouin legend, this was the rock that Moses struck, giving water to the Israelites - hence the name Mussa Spring.

The front of the hostel had a pleasant covered patio with tables and chairs, one which was occupied by a man having breakfast. I asked if I could join him, and soon we started talking. His name was Peter, and he was a social worker from Germany traveling through Jordan. His bald head, stocky build, and beady blue eyes contradicted my image of the soft, gentle social worker persona, though his personality certainly didn't. It was of little surprise that he too was going to Petra, so I now had company for the day.

The Siq - the grand entranceway to Petra

After a luggage dump and quick breakfast, I stashed the leftover pita bread and water in my daypack, and we were off.

The dusty road that led into Petra seemed endless. Ancient tombs and carvings along the way tantalized the appetite for the wonders that lay ahead, causing our pace to quicken. After what seemed like an hour (which was probably 20 minutes), the path suddenly narrowed as the gradual hills on either side abruptly gave way to a massive sandstone wall split down the middle - the Siq. This still wasn't Petra - but it was the home stretch. We meandered through the dramatic Siq, which at some points narrowed to just 12 feet wide, admiring the colorful striations along the way.

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