Quick Escape

The border guard leans back in his chair and draws again on his cigarette. Its tip glows red and the tobacco sizzles. He exhales a plume of smoke that lingers above us. The ceiling is stained with swirls of yellow and grey, a cancerous coating from years of smoke. His colleague stands behind him, sipping a cup of coffee, his hands wrapped tightly around the warm mug. It is a cool February morning in Palestine, the last days of winter.

The wooden table we sit at is home to a dusty, outdated computer, littered with papers, notes, and stationery. An ashtray is overflowing with cigarette butts. On the wall behind the guards is an electronic picture frame with an image of Mecca. Tiny lights pulse on the top of minarets.

The smoking guard thumbs his way through my passport, pausing often and turning it on its side every few pages. His colleague spies over his shoulder.

‘You have travelled to many places,’ he states, ‘and did you like visiting Palestine?’

‘Yes, I did. It’s a nice country, the people are friendly.’

‘And today you want to go to Jordan?’

‘Yes, my flight home is leaving tonight from Amman,’

‘Mmm, this will be a problem,’ he says, placing my passport face down on the table.

The room fills with an ambiguous silence and a familiar feeling stirs in my stomach. I have been here before, at border posts in Liberia, Guinea, Burundi and now, it seems, in Jericho as well. The smoking guard draws again on his cigarette, leans forward, and taps the ash into a polystyrene cup. His colleague takes another sip of coffee. The silence is lingering, and I do not want to be the one to break it.

Dusk in Bethlehem, Palestine

‘You want some coffee?’ the smoking guard asks, indicating that we may be here a while.

‘Shukran,’ I nod, smiling.

‘Oh, you know Arabic?’ he queries.

‘Not much, just a few words,’ I say, as he pours a stream of black syrup into a ceramic cup. He pushes the sugar bowl across the table, and I stir in a teaspoon. The coffee is as strong as its dark hue threatens, and a rich hit of caffeine as our negotiations commence.

‘So,’ he resumes, ‘you entered Israel from where?’

‘Aqaba,’ the southernmost border crossing in Jordan, Aqaba is at the intersection of Jordan, Israel, Egypt and Saudi Arabia. Elat, on the Israeli side, is a popular coastal escape, though offers international travellers little more than an overnight pit stop and an introduction to the colonised lands. A Heineken sponsored Zion Beach resort, that attempts to replicate Miami in the Middle East, is one of many unsubtle developments that signify Muslims no longer occupy the land.

Zion Beach Resort in Elat, Israel

‘You must leave from the same place that you arrived,’ the smoking guard states matter-of-factly. His colleague takes another sip of coffee, ‘it is not possible to leave this way.’

My insides churn and I scold myself for having broken one of my own travel rules – always wake up in the city you are flying out from.

‘So… I must return to Aqaba? Aqaba is two days away. My flight leaves tonight, I can’t get back there in time. Anyway, why does it matter which way I leave?’

The guards appear unmoved by my plight, and the silence returns. They are in no rush and have enough coffee and cigarettes to sit here all day. Meanwhile, there is a bus waiting for me outside, and a flight leaving from another country less than 12 hours. I take a breath, have another sip of coffee, and allow the silence to continue. I need time to think, and to gather my thoughts.

The King Hussein Bridge is the only border crossing between the Occupied West Bank and Jordan. Opening in 1994 following the Oslo Peace Agreement, the bridge is the most direct route from Jerusalem to Amman. Yet in this part of the world, there is no such thing as a straightforward border crossing. Palestinians understand this better than anyone. The operating hours of the King Hussein crossing vary daily, with the bridge often closed for religious holidays, following armed conflict, or at the whims of the Israeli military who control the crossing. An early morning arrival is critical to any travellers’ chances of passing, as is patience.

Shuhada St checkpoint in Hebron, Palestine

The guards chat amongst themselves, debating my options.

‘You could return to Ramallah,’ the coffee drinking guard announces, ‘and you can get a stamp and then return.’

‘But by the time I return, the bridge will be closed, it is the Shabbat,’ I state, looking back towards the smoking guard who appears to have more seniority.

‘Ok, there is something else you can try,’ he begins, drawing again on his cigarette, ‘we can allow you to pass, and you can go to the Jordan border. But… you may need to buy another visa.’

‘That’s ok, no problem,’ and the relief surges through me, ferried by the bitterly strong coffee.

‘They may turn you back, the smoking guard warns, ‘they may refuse you entry.’

‘It’s ok, it’s ok,’ I say eagerly, ‘it’s no problem. I will try.’

‘We cannot be responsible if they don’t allow you in.’

‘Of course, of course. Shukran, shukran. They will let me in, inshallah.’

The smoking guard hands me my passport and walks me to the door, and I hope, in the nicest possible way, that I never see him again.

I am the last to re-board the bus, and nod in a silent apology to everyone who is seated, patiently waiting. Sitting next to me is an elderly man, silently passing prayer beads through his fingers. Outside, the clouds are stretching across the sky, breaking apart as the cool desert air warms. The bus lurches forward and we drive over the bridge, tracked constantly by a plethora of CCTV cameras, before stopping at an underpass that welcomes us to ‘The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.’ A border guard climbs aboard and ambles down the aisle, scanning the crowd. Amongst the bearded men and veiled women, he spots me, a distinct face.

‘Passport,’ he demands, peering down at me. I hand it to him, and he wedges it in his belt as he continues his stroll through the bus. The man sitting next to me continues to flick his prayer beads.

The border guard returns and taps me on the shoulder, ‘go,’ he says, pointing towards an office, ‘wait, five minutes, ok?’

‘Ok,’ and I walk down the aisle, feeling the eyes of the other passengers at my back.

I wait in the office, which is much tidier than the previous one, and adorned with images of Jordanian royalty. The guard arrives shortly and drops my passport on the desk.

‘You need to buy a Jordanian visa,’ he states, without offering me a coffee or second hand smoke.

‘No problem, shukran’ and I hand him JD20. The click and thud of the entry stamp unleashes another flood of relief and I say a silent prayer for whichever God from these lands was watching out for me.

He hands me my passport, ‘enjoy your time in Jordan.’

The Roman Theatre in Amman, Jordan