So, we went to Israel.

Our worries had been on several levels; there is a certain amount of general mayhem in that there country, getting one of their stamps in ones passport makes one quite unpopular in other places and in some respects it seems quite expensive (eating out for instance.)

We decided to take the kismet approach. - Go to the border and find out if the Jordanians would allow us to check out without stamping our passports and did not charge us a huge amount in departure tax.

The morning was overcast and there were telltale spots of rain. Is this an omen we thoughtÖ? (The option was to head east to the desert- not noted for rain). The journey to the border wove down to the Jordan Valley and got us to the border in good time.

- was that the vehicle registration document that we had been given at the Syrian border was out of date. Instead of giving us one for 1 month it was only valid for 2 days, despite the fact that our insurance was valid for a month! This meant a 5 quid excess.

5 quid each (bearable) on departure tax and we are on our way. Things are looking up; the very nice people on passport control agree not to stamp our passports if we fill in a separate piece of paper. Seems a fair exchange for being welcome in other Islamic countries.

Welcome to Israel

It's a nice change to see women border guards and a quick once over under the bike with a mirror to check for arms and we're through. The nice lady on passports agrees again to stamp a loose piece of paper. Through stage 2 and on the customs.

For the first time in our journey we have to unload everything, unpack the panniers, remove the bike seat, open billycansÖ I even had to take my braces off my motorcycle pants as they were setting off the metal detector! I suppose that what comes of entering a war zone. Whilst we repacked the panniers with the embarrassment of our underwear laying out for all to see, a little customs chap tentatively rode the bike round from the inspection area.

- Pat went of to get insurance and shouted across that to his dismay they wanted 50quid for 5 days insurance. Sitting in no-mans land on the border with half our stuff repacked and the rest strewn about, we contemplated whether this was too much of a rip off. Should we grit our teeth and pay the money or go back through customs and all the bureaucracy it entails possibly including paying departure tax for Israel when we haven't technically entered.

Should we, shouldn't we, should we, shouldn't we, should we, shouldn't we

We sat outside the customs post for some time mulling over our position and eventually decided to give up on Israel on the kismet principle. All the while, we had been listening to howitzer fire on the range in the distance and we lost all inclination to stay.

- on the bike, there is a hollow section in the middle of the tank which has a lockable hinged lid. Putting all of the gear back on the bike, I noticed that the lock was loose. I had a quick word with the gut at customs and in short order; a mechanic arrived to effect a repair. Not having the requisite sized pop-rivet, he bodged a nice screw in for me that can be unscrewed from the outside making the security somewhat ineffective. Ah, well.

After a bit of moaning, the Israelis (bless em) allowed us to return to Jordan without having to pay their exit tax and we were duly guided on our way by a very nice man.

Passport control in Jordan laughed a bit at our speedy return from Israel and although the Israeli in the queue in front of us disagreed about our rip off claims, he accepted our story without any problems.

- the customs officers at Jordan decided that they needed to do a full search of our kit even though it had been clearly explained to them that we had been through Jordanian customs not over an hour ago. After a good old poke about, they found a pair of pathetically powered binoculars, which with a bit of nudging and winking, they explained were not allowed. We were getting a bit hot and bothered by this stage and refused to budge on the baksheesh front no matter how many oily pocket greasing gestures he made. After asking about supervisors and explaining that we had taken these bins out of Jordan in the first place etc, he eventually backed down and waved us on.

- now we had to obtain a new temporary importation document for the bike. Having met the guy before to pay the 5 dinar excess on the way out of Jordan, I thought we knew enough about the procedure and made it quite clear that I needed the document to last as long as the insurance. I.e. 3 weeks. For a charge of 12 Dinars, he gave me a piece of paper and I walked away pleased with myself. Outside, Hippy suggested that I check the dates on this one. Once bitten and all that. I could find no expiry date and so I returned to the office in order for the guy to point out what it was. Amazingly, he had not filled in one of the boxes on the form and I would have been stung for an excess when we left the country. Hmm. Now we got onto the issue of whether I was going to get the full three weeks or not. After a bit of argy bargy, he offered me two weeks 'out of the kindness of his heart'. Strange, I thought, that he could actually give longer than the one week that he was claiming. Hippy stepped in at this point and sensed another baksheesh situation going down.

In the end, I accepted the two weeks on the basis that it wasn't worth arguing as we probably only needed that amount of time in Jordan anyway.

- while I had been going through the import document thing, Hippy had been outside. A customs official asking to inspect the entire luggage approached her. Like a trouper, she told him where to get off as everyone else in the Jordan Valley had inspected her smalls and no he couldn't have a look. Thankfully, he caved in and gave us the customs clearance that we needed.

We left the border area after one final group of guards had looked over our accumulated papers and we had gestured through our 'aborted passage to Israel' story.

Fed up with the whole process we were glad to be back on the road.

Waved back through customs we return to departures to get the prerequisite pink form. While Pat negotiated, a chap saw me and asked for the registration and insurance documents and I pointed him in the direction of departures where Pat was doing the business.

Pat returned a little manic and said that we were to rush to the other side where the man has the documents. The other sideÖ no manÖ I immediately jumped to the conclusion that this was the final dodgy icing on the cake and the 'man' was a trickster who has just disappeared off with our documents. At this point the stress was too much for me, and all I wanted to do was find a quiet corner and cry!

So, now I had all the hassle to contend with and a distraught Hippy to boot. The chap who had taken the temporary importation document was in the company of the guy who had issued it to me and so I knew him to be pukka. (in as much as one can know) After a bit more saga, we tracked them down to an office right at the end of the line. We were then told that the two weeks he had validated our form for was in fact not correct and he had to amend it to one week after all. I had run out of energy to debate the point and simply agreed and left with the paper as quick as my little legs would carry me.

We left the Jordan Valley Crossing vowing never to return. In the back of our minds was the fact that this is likely to repeat and repeat as we head for the lees scrupulous countries of the world. We have learnt a lot of lessons about checking paperwork and ensuring that we have all bits of paper. For the record, anyone getting in schtuck in the Jordan border post should reckon on 5 Dinars as the requisite amount of bribe at each stage. It all adds up, though.

Now in a frightful hurry to get somewhere before nightfall and the scary driving that goes on then, we found ourselves faced with 90 km of roads with small towns all the way. The speed limit all the way was 60 kph and I was not inclined to brush with officials again today so it took quite a while. I had hoped to stop in Salt so that we could have a real corny title for this piece (along the lines of 'rubbing our wounds in Salt'), but Salt has no signs of accommodation.

Instead, we returned to Amman where we had previously found out where all the hotels were. We could book into one for 3 pounds a night and start recouping our losses from today!