A night on the HLC and IBT routes, which for a time follow adjacent tracks along the Jordanian-Israeli border in the Aravah Valley. No plan for camp and too much time spent inspecting sandy dates and pomelos on the ground, night falls too soon. The desert expanse is without features for miles, and a north wind blows. A bus resides between and beneath two communication towers, within sight of a disused observation structure on the Jordanian side. Russian and Hebrew graffiti color the outside of the bus. Passing from Egypt to Israel, we are no longer wealthy tourists but experienced opportunistic dirtbags. I swear, we haven’t changed.