In an attempt to fit in my last minute
Middle East travelling, I went to Jerusalem and Bethlehem with my
friend Olly for a weekend. What was going to be a nice, relaxing,
touristy weekend before final exams turned into a frantic, stressful
adventure!
We left very early on Thursday morning, hoping to avoid hassles and long lines at the King Hussein Border Crossing. Our taxi driver dropped us off, and we were on our own. He dropped us off by the Palestinian entrance, but we were ushered through to the tourist line. The Palestinians had to put all of their baggage on the x-ray machine, go through the metal detector, and then have their identity cards checked multiple times. Only after all those steps were they allowed back into the line with the tourists. We walked up to the counter, flashed our passport, and went straight to pay our exit fee to get on the bus.
*Background information: The King Hussein Border Crossing is the only one of the three border crossings between Israel and Jordan through which Palestinians are allowed to enter/leave Jordan. The process is a lot slower, and there a lot more safety/security regulations for them to go through.
The next morning we woke up and took a bus to Bethlehem. The bus ride was short, but the checkpoint between the West Bank and Israel made it longer, especially when we crossed back into Israel. We saw the Church of the Nativity, the place of Jesus' birth, then headed back to Jerusalem. We got back at about 1pm and went to talk to the hotel owner about our little visa/border dilemma. He obviously thought it was a much bigger deal than we did!
Olly was carrying his backpack, my backpack, and my rather large mirror that I couldn't resist purchasing, while I tried to keep up behind him. We were walking on what seemed like the end of Jaffa Road, when I suggested we go ask the reception at the hostel we had just passed. At this point, it was already 2:30, but every second that passed smelled more and more like the $300 we would be paying for taxis the next day. This bus was our last hope.
The receptionist was very nice and called somebody (I don't know who, but whoever you are, THANK YOU! You saved our day!) who told us the last bus was leaving at 3pm. We looked at the clock, 2:40. That gave us 20 minutes to get a taxi, drive across town, and board the bus.
Olly was running ahead with all the bags and flagged down a cab while I caught up. We shouted “Central Bus Station” through the window to the cab driver who responded with “no English”. Great. We don't have time for “no English”, but luckily the next guy was willing to take us. We arrived at the bus station at 2:55.
Olly and I had devised a plan. He would pay and get the stuff from the backseat while I went to buy the tickets and hold the bus until he came up. I ran up to the front door of the bus station only to be greeted by a crowd of people trying to get through the metal detectors. I pushed my way up to the front and ran up the escalators to the third floor. All the ticket windows were closed, leaving me panicked for a moment. But there was not even a moment to spare. I saw Olly round the corner and we ran through the terminal looking for bus 961 to Beit She'an, the closest town to the northern border. It was the very last gate, and it was still in it's spot! I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness.
We boarded the bus and paid for our 34 sheckel ticket ($9.50...much cheaper than the $300 for taxis!), and as we were walking back to our seats, the bus backed out of the station. We had made the bus by literally 30 seconds, if that. Somehow, somebody was really looking after us! As we sank into our seats, I almost started crying. Tears of joy, of course.
Our three hour bus ride through the entirety of the West Bank was interrupted by a checkpoint when we crossed back into Israel. They made all the foreigners get off the bus, hand over their passports for verification, and luggage for inspection, which took about 20 minutes. After another half hour of driving, we arrived at our destination: Beit She'an.
It was dead. The city was completely dark. Nobody was on the roads. Not a single car or person in sight. I stood ignorantly hopeful on the side of the road looking for a cab, while Olly went to ask the Israeli soldier how we could get to the border. The friendly soldier said we would have no luck getting a cab at 6pm on a Friday night. Plan B. Wait, we had no Plan B.
The soldier said he would call his friends to see if they could take us across the border. In the meantime, I noticed a Japanese guy that was standing on the side of the road by himself, ignorantly hopeful of finding a passing cab too. I asked him if he was going to the border, and he said yes, so we invited him to tag along with us. So there we were, a Japanese guy, a British guy, and an American girl, talking to an Israeli solider about how to cross back into Jordan.
Then a man approaches us asking if we needed a ride. We said yes. He said he would charge 60 sheckels to the border (literally a 5 minute drive), and we knew we were getting ripped off, but honestly, at this point what other choice did we have?
He drops us off outside the border and we literally walk across. They check our passports, and off we go. We made it to the Jordan side, with the hopes of finding a taxi back to Amman. No such luck. The Jordan side was just as dead as the Israeli side. Fantastic. The Japanese guy and I went outside to think about our options while Olly was dealing with getting a new visa. Olly comes out to see the Japanese guy and I waiting for him help decide what to do. All of a sudden another British guy walks out of the terminal, and Olly asked him if he new a way to get back to Amman from the border. Astonishingly enough this kind British man offered us a ride in his car. As Olly likes to say, Brits like to stay together. Thank goodness for that!
We waited while Alex (the kind British man) went through the necessary procedures to drive his car across the border. And when I say car, I mean fortified vehicle. Alex worked for the European Union in Ramallah, Palestine and was driving to visit his wife for the weekend. So really when I mean fortified vehicle, this thing was like a tank.
Alex had some issues at the border with the car because he usually crosses at the King Hussein Bridge, but since it was Friday night, it was closed. Lucky for us! Since the car wasn't registered at the Northern Border Crossing, he had to get it registered, which was a hassle and a half from the first question asked.
Customs official: “Who is this car registered to?”
Thankfully, Alex had the patience to sort it all out, and an hour later we were on our way back to Amman. The first thing Alex asked us was if we were car sick, and thank goodness none of us were because he was driving on the poorly lit back roads of northern Jordan, flying over speed bumps, and rounding curves much faster than made me comfortable.
We left very early on Thursday morning, hoping to avoid hassles and long lines at the King Hussein Border Crossing. Our taxi driver dropped us off, and we were on our own. He dropped us off by the Palestinian entrance, but we were ushered through to the tourist line. The Palestinians had to put all of their baggage on the x-ray machine, go through the metal detector, and then have their identity cards checked multiple times. Only after all those steps were they allowed back into the line with the tourists. We walked up to the counter, flashed our passport, and went straight to pay our exit fee to get on the bus.
*Background information: The King Hussein Border Crossing is the only one of the three border crossings between Israel and Jordan through which Palestinians are allowed to enter/leave Jordan. The process is a lot slower, and there a lot more safety/security regulations for them to go through.
Then one of the customs officials
approached me and told me to come with him. I knew my multiple entry
visa had expired three days earlier since it had been more than 30
days since I had left the country, but I knew the fee was only 1.5
JD, so it wasn't a big deal. So I was discussing the problem with
Olly, when he realized he only had a single entry visa. Problem.
Major problem. The King Hussein Border Crossing is the only border
at which you cannot purchase a visa. Therefore, upon return, we
would have to figure out how to get to either the northern or
southern border!
We put that thought aside and said we
would deal with it when we had to and crossed the border into Israel.
We then took a bus to Jerusalem and dropped our stuff off at our
hotel (after about an hour walking around the Old City looking for
it, only to find out that it was about a minute outside the gates).
After an hour nap, we got act together and went walking around the
Old City. The Western Wall, the Stations of the Cross, the Armenian
Quarter, and the Arab souqs were on our list of places to visit.
The next morning we woke up and took a bus to Bethlehem. The bus ride was short, but the checkpoint between the West Bank and Israel made it longer, especially when we crossed back into Israel. We saw the Church of the Nativity, the place of Jesus' birth, then headed back to Jerusalem. We got back at about 1pm and went to talk to the hotel owner about our little visa/border dilemma. He obviously thought it was a much bigger deal than we did!
He explained to us that a taxi to the
northern border on a Saturday (no buses run on Saturdays) would cost
us about 800 sheckels, which is about $220. But that was just to the
Israeli border. How would we get back from Northern Jordan to Amman?
That would be another 50 JD, or $70. This was becoming a rather
expensive visa mistake. We asked him if there were any other
possibilities, but he said the buses stopped running on Fridays in
the early afternoon. He did give us one glimmer of hope when he said
there was a Egged bus company office on Jaffa Road which was about a
10-15 minute walk from our hotel. Off we were.
Olly was carrying his backpack, my backpack, and my rather large mirror that I couldn't resist purchasing, while I tried to keep up behind him. We were walking on what seemed like the end of Jaffa Road, when I suggested we go ask the reception at the hostel we had just passed. At this point, it was already 2:30, but every second that passed smelled more and more like the $300 we would be paying for taxis the next day. This bus was our last hope.
The receptionist was very nice and called somebody (I don't know who, but whoever you are, THANK YOU! You saved our day!) who told us the last bus was leaving at 3pm. We looked at the clock, 2:40. That gave us 20 minutes to get a taxi, drive across town, and board the bus.
I thought of it as my training for the
Amazing Race, the race around the world tv-show that I want to be on
with my brother, Michael. But I definitely need to be in better
running shape that's for sure! Lesson learned.
Olly was running ahead with all the bags and flagged down a cab while I caught up. We shouted “Central Bus Station” through the window to the cab driver who responded with “no English”. Great. We don't have time for “no English”, but luckily the next guy was willing to take us. We arrived at the bus station at 2:55.
Olly and I had devised a plan. He would pay and get the stuff from the backseat while I went to buy the tickets and hold the bus until he came up. I ran up to the front door of the bus station only to be greeted by a crowd of people trying to get through the metal detectors. I pushed my way up to the front and ran up the escalators to the third floor. All the ticket windows were closed, leaving me panicked for a moment. But there was not even a moment to spare. I saw Olly round the corner and we ran through the terminal looking for bus 961 to Beit She'an, the closest town to the northern border. It was the very last gate, and it was still in it's spot! I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness.
We boarded the bus and paid for our 34 sheckel ticket ($9.50...much cheaper than the $300 for taxis!), and as we were walking back to our seats, the bus backed out of the station. We had made the bus by literally 30 seconds, if that. Somehow, somebody was really looking after us! As we sank into our seats, I almost started crying. Tears of joy, of course.
Our three hour bus ride through the entirety of the West Bank was interrupted by a checkpoint when we crossed back into Israel. They made all the foreigners get off the bus, hand over their passports for verification, and luggage for inspection, which took about 20 minutes. After another half hour of driving, we arrived at our destination: Beit She'an.
It was dead. The city was completely dark. Nobody was on the roads. Not a single car or person in sight. I stood ignorantly hopeful on the side of the road looking for a cab, while Olly went to ask the Israeli soldier how we could get to the border. The friendly soldier said we would have no luck getting a cab at 6pm on a Friday night. Plan B. Wait, we had no Plan B.
The soldier said he would call his friends to see if they could take us across the border. In the meantime, I noticed a Japanese guy that was standing on the side of the road by himself, ignorantly hopeful of finding a passing cab too. I asked him if he was going to the border, and he said yes, so we invited him to tag along with us. So there we were, a Japanese guy, a British guy, and an American girl, talking to an Israeli solider about how to cross back into Jordan.
Then a man approaches us asking if we needed a ride. We said yes. He said he would charge 60 sheckels to the border (literally a 5 minute drive), and we knew we were getting ripped off, but honestly, at this point what other choice did we have?
He drops us off outside the border and we literally walk across. They check our passports, and off we go. We made it to the Jordan side, with the hopes of finding a taxi back to Amman. No such luck. The Jordan side was just as dead as the Israeli side. Fantastic. The Japanese guy and I went outside to think about our options while Olly was dealing with getting a new visa. Olly comes out to see the Japanese guy and I waiting for him help decide what to do. All of a sudden another British guy walks out of the terminal, and Olly asked him if he new a way to get back to Amman from the border. Astonishingly enough this kind British man offered us a ride in his car. As Olly likes to say, Brits like to stay together. Thank goodness for that!
We waited while Alex (the kind British man) went through the necessary procedures to drive his car across the border. And when I say car, I mean fortified vehicle. Alex worked for the European Union in Ramallah, Palestine and was driving to visit his wife for the weekend. So really when I mean fortified vehicle, this thing was like a tank.
Alex had some issues at the border with the car because he usually crosses at the King Hussein Bridge, but since it was Friday night, it was closed. Lucky for us! Since the car wasn't registered at the Northern Border Crossing, he had to get it registered, which was a hassle and a half from the first question asked.
Customs official: “Who is this car registered to?”
Alex: “European Union”
Customs official: “Who is European
Union, and where is he?”
Alex: “It's an organization”
Customs official: “What is his
nationality?”
Thankfully, Alex had the patience to sort it all out, and an hour later we were on our way back to Amman. The first thing Alex asked us was if we were car sick, and thank goodness none of us were because he was driving on the poorly lit back roads of northern Jordan, flying over speed bumps, and rounding curves much faster than made me comfortable.
After running through Jerusalem,
driving through the entire West Bank, walking across the border from
Israel to Jordan, and hitch hiking back to Amman, the first thing I
did when I got home was order a pizza from Dominos. (For some
reason, it seemed like the most logical thing to me at the time.)
