Jordan: There and back again. Part One: The Visa.

My trip to Jordan started early on a Sunday morning, at around 5:45 am. I dragged myself out of bed with the intention of catching the 7am bus to Jericho, from where I could figure my way through to the Allenby bridge crossing and into Jordan. It turned out that no such bus existed, so i jumped into a shared taxi (servie) to Jericho instead. Sharing a taxi means you have to wait until it is full of people before they depart. Sometimes this takes 1 minute, other times it takes as long as an hour. It turned out on this occasion that I had woken up bright and early in order to sit in a van for much of the morning.

The road to Jericho is pretty amazing. It is one of the lowest points on earth, so you can imagine the decent through the barren hills. I managed to arrange a ride through to the border, where i was given an option to cross the bridge in either an Israeli taxi or a Palestinian bus. "Whatever one is cheaper," I replied, and not surprisingly I was recommended the latter option. I was the only tourist at the Palestinian bus station, and for some reason they decided that I should take my back pack on the bus while everyone else had to put their bag on another bus. This meant I basically had to hold my bag in front of my face squashed into my seat, and get subsequently questioned by everyone as to why I had my bag with me, to which I had no logical answer.

Allenby bridge border crossing. Right, time to leave Israel and head into Jordan, beginning my journey toward obtaining a new visa into Israel at the southern border. Snags emerged immediately. The moment they scanned my passport out of Israel they told me I was on the wrong visa and should have a volunteer visa from the interior ministry in Jerusalem. I would not be able to reenter Israel without one, they told me. I had obtained a letter from the university I was teaching at, which was supposed to be my special border weapon. They wouldn't even look at it. Another man came out to debate with me and I tried to explain that other individuals had been permitted by Israel to do the same volunteer work I was doing on a tourist visa. He asked me to give him their names. A grin spread across his face, the same grin I had given another volunteer, Patrick, the night before after I had beaten him in chess. Checkmate. What could I say to that? I had no power. He told me to go talk to the embassy. I asked what embassy. He said the New Zealand embassy. I asked him how a New Zealand embassy could grant me an Israeli visa. He was not concerned about such details, he just wanted me to leave. And so began a new journey, the journey of obtaining the illusive volunteer visa in Jordan, where every person you talk to tells you to go talk to somebody else.

This helped put my visa issues into perspective.

I try not to overuse the term Kafkaesque. But so many Kafkaesque things happen here. On my second day in Jordan I managed to find the Israeli embassy, where Jordanian police guarded the entrance. I explained my situation, but they could only do so much. The only authority that could do anything lay within the embassies walls. There was no way I could book a meeting with these embassy people through the guards. Instead, I had to call a mysterious number written on the wall. The problem was, nobody ever answered this phone number. I tried for near on half an hour until another poor soul came along from the Philippines wanting to organise a meeting for a visa. She too was told to ring the number, even after she tried to explain that she had been calling the number for days and nobody had ever answered. After an hour I gave up/ran out of money on my phone. Seeking to console me, the Jordanian official suggested I go back to my hostel and keep trying. Eventually that afternoon I did get through, and discovered that the embassy had even been discussing my case amongst each other. They assured me that as a New Zealander I qualified for a 3 month tourist visa. I then tried to explain the specific historical context of my situation and what Allenby border had said. This was too much for the embassy man. Finally, he suggested that I go to Jerusalem and apply for a visa. I asked curiously how I should visit Jerusalem if I can't enter Israel. Again, the man was uncertain, and suggested that perhaps someone I know could go to Jerusalem on my behalf. I graciously thanked the embassy man for nothing and gave up all hope of receiving help through embassies. I had one option left - just try to cross the border and hope for the best.

Jordan's neighbours, such alluring locations.

Sometimes in Jordan you can see nothing at all.

 

The journey south

Sunset at Wadi Rum

After a week of touring Jordan (see the upcoming part 2 for details), I reached Aqaba in the south, which crosses into Eilat in Israel. I queued, expecting the worst. One official walked up the line, checking passports and asking questions. He asked me a few questions, looked at a piece of paper, then said I would get my passport back later. I looked around me, everyone else seemed to have had their passports handed back to them. This didn't seem like a good start. I made it through the metal detector (I never fail that one) and waited for my backpack to be checked. I regretted packing a kafia into my bag, probably not a good look. Thankfully the attendant decided my back pack was in the too hard basket, given she had to take everything out in order to search it. At this point I had about three individuals to go, each with their own line of questioning. During this process it was reaffirmed to me how incapable I am at lying. "Have you been in Israel before?" "Yes" Where did you go?" "Oh you know, around. Jerusalem, Bethlehem." "Were you volunteering?" "Ahhhh, yeah." "Where?" "Nablus." "Will you volunteer again?" "Ahhh, maybe." It was around the time I had been waiting on a bench for about an hour for someone to come out and tell me to go back to Jordan that an official handed me my passport. "Where to now," I asked. She pointed to the exit. I was free to go. Things were finally coming up Milhouse. I poured through my passport. Sure enough there was a tourist visa stamp with "3 months" written beside it. I managed to grab a ride for a good price to Jericho and grab a servie back to Nablus on the same day. On entering my flat I was confronted with familiar sewage-like smells emanating from the bathroom, 26 leaks in the ceiling and a chorus of friendly and excited welcomes from the other volunteers. I was home.

Historic ruins played a significant part of my tour of Jordan. It was a wonderful week.