Today’s the day we attempt to get into the West Bank. We have a good shot, but nothing’s guaranteed since the Israeli government has been turning away many foreigners who work for NGO’s or who may be affiliated with the International Solidarity Movement. Therefore we make a conscious effort to not look like hippies. I borrow a nice shirt from Sherry and make-up from Sama. Intesar lets me borrow her suitcase. We are armed with official invitations from a church in Jerusalem and have been coached on what to and what not to say.
Intesar has prepared an amazing breakfast of cheese, fruit (most of the fruit in the Middle East is grown in Jordan, delicious pears and peaches, almost as good as Chilton County peaches in Alabama ), hummus, knafeh (which I developed an addiction to by the end of this trip, along with turkish coffee), and zaatar (a blend of spices you eat by rolling bread with olive oil around in it). Here, brewed coffee isn’t as popular as it is in America. Nescafe is the staple. Nescafe grew on me. I like the way the word “Nescafe” sounds. However next time I go, I will bring my own Nescafe. I think it takes 4 cups to equal the caffeine in 1 cup of regular coffee. However turkish coffee is thick, rich, and served in small cups like expresso, only sweeter. I drank it every chance I got.
Our driver is Bassam. He is a family friend of Dr. Alshaibi. He is borrowing his brother’s van and we squeeze into the seat. It is very hot. The mountains around us are alabaster white. We’re in the Jordan Valley.
There is a perplexing taxi operation to and from the bridge. Without Bassam we’d have to take a taxi to the first Jordan checkpoint, and then pay for another with special clearance. Later I learn this is how it works on the other side of The Bridge as well. Since Bassam is our private driver, we get really close to the building that everyone must go through who wants to cross The Bridge. Its an easy walk although our big portfolios of work make it a little clumsy.
Our luggage is scanned and we go to passport control to get our exit visas. Strangly enough, the tiny building is empty. I’ve heard horror stories of the chaos that unfolds inside. Certainly it must be moreso on the other side. Including ourselves there are only 8 people waiting for the bus.
We sit outside in the heat and touch up our lipgloss while waiting for the bus to take us across. We are 5 non-frivolous women traveling together, but it seems that we do this often……putting on a little lipgloss. Maybe it provides one of these little creature comforts or a small sense of normalcy. But I also know we don’t put this much effort into it at home. Maybe I’m seeing too much into it, but its one of those small quirks that entertains me. I have many many photos to prove it.
The bus is huge and air-conditioned. Its about a 10 minute drive through no-man’s land to the other side. Then the bus stops. We wait…wait some more….I thank God for the air-conditioning…and then we wait some more.
no man’s land
A well-dressed American man gets very flustered and paces back and forth on the bus. “So this is what the Israelis do to deter foreigners from touring the West Bank, right?” He is so angry. We stay quiet. Does he not know this is just a minor bump compared to what could happen on the other side of The Bridge? I ponder where he and his wife are travelling. My vote is on a spa at The Dead Sea. Which he can go to because he has an American passport.
Red-faced he speaks to the driver. The driver shrugs his soldiers, then points ahead. About 500 yards away there is a bus like ours on the side of the road. All of the passengers are out on the side of the road. Its a typical bomb check, but evidently it has been going on for over an hour. So so thankful for air-conditioning.
Finally the bus moves ahead. And it is our turn. We are a bus of 8 foreigners, compared to the one before of over 50 Palestinians. The young Israeli soldiers with their guns board and ask us to get off. The driver shrugs his soldiers again. They check our passports and smile. I question whether to smile back. I question this a lot on this trip. Every soldier I encounter is 19 or 20 years old. Often flirtatious. And just like the Palestinian young men we meet, they all dream of going to America. I think the one time it hurt us was our first attempt to get to the Dead Sea. But that will come later. We get back on and drive to the Israel Customs building.
Leave a Reply