If you want an accurate representation of our time at the Dead Sea, Google “floating in the Dead Sea” and read an influencer’s travel blog. Look at the photos, but envision that everyone is freezing cold. It’s raining. Replace all the suntanned tourists with sketchy-looking teenagers, and think of every cocktail as if its a piece of trash. That’s what it felt like for Emmanuel and I, until we finally interacted with the main element: the ancient salt lake. The Dead Sea itself is an unimaginable, ecstasy-inducing experience with which beautiful people drinking margaritas in the sun cannot contend. It is a sacred place, special, and so so salty.

Whizzing along the King’s Highway, racing the sunset and the time limit on our rental car, Emmanuel and I drove four hours with fierce determination to swim in the Dead Sea.

As the surrounding desert turned abruptly to tropical rainforest at the lowest point on earth, I Google’d (with our rental car’s portable hotspot) cheap beaches open to the public. We made it to the first only to find, not tourists and locals mingling in the sun, but instead police cars lining the entrance. They informed us that this particular beach had been shut down, so we kept searching.

Then we watched the first drop of rain splatter. This should have been a sign for us to turn around and stop trying, like nature waving a giant red flag, but we looked the other way. That first droplet soon revealed a downpour, which was just enough to make us rethink the whole plan. We’d relented our dream of swimming in the Dead Sea, when a glimmer of sunshine--of hope--peaked through the clouds. If it were possible, we were doing it.

We continued the search and finally arrived at a beach that looked more like the set of a carnival-turned-horror movie: still drizzling, grim, and completely deserted. We approached the cashier, who spoke little English. Neither of us speak any Arabic, which made it difficult to convey our desperation. The man managed to communicate that we didn’t have enough money. (People always find a way to make that clear.) And they didn’t take cards. We hung our heads. We should know better by now.

With enough persistence, Emmanuel negotiated a way for us to pay in US dollars. We were finally in! It’s the moment we’d been waiting for! We’d driven four hours just for this! We hesitated to admit it, but in actuality, it felt more like a crime scene than anything. I felt safer flying down the cliff-lined highway.

The few locals that were there wouldn’t stop staring at us foreigners. They probably wondered from afar about our frantic disposition. As the sun was setting fast behind Israel, we had little time to stop and enjoy (and little aesthetics around us).

As one does at the Dead Sea, I slathered mud all over myself before getting in the water. It’s therapeutic for the skin, so they say. Inching slowly into the oddly warm water, I knew we’d made the right decision. With every step I took further into the salt bath, more doubts melted away, until the water swept clear beneath my feet, and I floated. And I kept floating. I couldn’t stop even if I tried. The novelty of it felt euphoric. How is this possible?

We only had about 10 minutes in the water, so we savored every second. The rain had cleared everyone else from the beach, and we’re certain we were the only people in the Dead Sea for just a moment. It was still, silent, salty.

I disrupted the peace by accidentally splashing a drop of water my eye. The burn felt impossible to remedy, since the rest of my body was covered in salt and mud. It felt like a good ending point--abrupt, and not ideal, but appropriate for the experience.

Before returning to the car, we took icy cold showers, exposed to the rain that had reappeared. Arriving back to Amman soaking wet and covered in a thin film of salt, we returned our rental car two hours late. We surely looked more like criminals than travelers, and we felt just as unstoppable.

Nothing could keep us from taking our moment in the Dead Sea—not rain, not a line of police cars, not even running out of cash. We reveled in the memory of the day, which already felt distant. A certain thankful sadness sets in when it’s time to go home. The whirlwind was over, but we’d made it.

The way that Emmanuel and I trudged through the Dana Valley in Jordan, you’d have thought we were climbing up a mountain at a 90 degree-incline. In reality, we were walking entirely downhill for eight miles.

I’d championed the idea, and Emmanuel went along with it. He’d sigh and say, “I can’t believe you convinced a Cuban to do this,” between long breaths. What he really meant was, “I told you this would be miserable.”

Just when the hike became not only exhausting but also monotonous, we found ourselves face to face with wild sheep. There were at least one hundred, plus a few mountain goats. Beyond the wildlife, we caught a glimpse of two men, the sheep herders.

They waved, motioning us to join them off of the path. I hesitated but followed Emmanuel as he made small talk with them. By “small talk,” I mean there was very little talking and a whole lot of pointing.

“Sheep,” Emmanuel said, motioning to the sheep.

The herders nodded. “Good.”

It is amazing, though, how much is communicable without words. They somehow asked if we wanted tea.

We sat down, while the two men began their preparations. One made a fire from dirt and sticks; the other took out a teapot and various ingredients from his bag.

I gave Emmanuel a side glance, hoping, like the Bedouins, to say as much as possible with few words. Apparently he was a master of non-verbal communication. I looked at him again, motioning with my eyes towards their stash of items.

“Emmanuel, they have cocaine!!!,” I wanted to yell. I could not believe he’d missed the small bag of white powder lying plainly in front of us.

My panic intensified, especially as the men proceeded to pour their mysterious powder into glasses.

“He must just be playing it cool,” I thought. “I’m sure we’ll make our quick departure any second.”

But to my surprise, Emmanuel took the glass and drank it.

“WHAT. Is he blind?!!” I was planning our exit.

Emmanuel passed the glass to me, and I shook my head with fervor. I finally whispered, “No!” and drew his attention towards the sketchy ingredients.

“You want it without sugar?,” he asked innocently.

I hung my head. Still skeptical, I reached for the glass, smelled it, and tasted the sweet black tea.

The herders thought it a good time to keep us entertained. One presented a flute and played the loudest, most dissonant noise possible. I could never enjoy such random notes together, but it was—quite literally—music to that man’s ears.

The situation was so strange at this point, I felt that I must actually be hallucinating. I managed to crack a joke about “falafel shawarma,” take a selfie, and exchange WhatsApp information before we said our goodbye’s.

We set out for five more deserted hours of hiking before reaching the end of the trail. At some points we found ourselves so tired that we were sure we must have been drugged after all. In the end, we figured that if we made it the whole way, it was probably just sugar. 

It’s difficult to decipher when trust is earned and when fear is warranted. In the middle of an empty trail, where the only other life that exists is in the form of a sheep, I would normally be more cautious. But this moment reminded us that the world is not all bad, that sometimes people want more than just money, that it’s possible the sheep herders’ only goal was to share hot tea and an experience under the desert sun.