On Saturday about 6 p.m Liz and Ann, two of the other volunteers from the UK, set off with me for the journey out of Nablus; Liz to return to Jerusalem and Ann and I to join another team of volunteers for our second week.  We were a motley crew - Liz and Ann with large rucsacks and Liz suffering from a bad back (an olive harvesting injury), while the 'Bag lady of Sheffield' (me) followed on behind. As I still had not been reunited with my rucsack (strangely, Israeli airlines are not keen to deliver lost baggage to addresses in the West Bank) my worldly goods were then stored in one small rucsack, one conference style documents folder ('Non violent Resistance Conference: Bethlehem, 2005') and 2 small, flimsy black carrier bags.

Huwarra checkpoint

Part one of the journey was a servees to Huwarra checkpoint. Huwarra is a large, although not yet high tech checkpoint which controls all Palestinian movement between the central part of the West Bank and the Nablus, as well as on into the north of the West Bank.

The checkpoint was crowded at the end of the working day and after being dropped off with tens of other taxis and servees we trudged the 200/300 metres or so down to the checkpoint. We had to walk down a "path" with a concrete barrier to one side and a fence to the other. The "path" consists of rough rubble and you cannot see where you are walking because the flood lights from the checkpoint shine directly onto you, preventing you from developing any night vision. We passed a woman with a pushchair and a group of children being led by their father.

When we reached the actual cattle pen (checkpoint) there are four lines for people to queue, each separated from the other by concrete blocks up to chest height. Three queues are for men and the fourth (which unlike the others has no actual turnstiles to pass through) is apparently for women, or maybe for people who cannot get through the turnstiles. In this queue is a man carrying a sleeping child and in front of us is an elderly woman, bent double, being led by a young man who is presumably her son. I wonder how they managed to negotiate the rubble pathway.

I notice that Ann and I scarcely speak to each other as we pass through a checkpoint. I think it is partly out of anxiety (we have been in Nablus a week now. Will we be allowed out and what will we be asked?), but mainly a desire to concentrate on what is happening. Neither of us want to get used to this - we want to hold on to the fact that a whole population is subjected to this treatment every day of their lives.

There must be at least a hundred people in the four queues, lots of men returning to their villages from work, shopping or other activities in Nablus, and also lots of university students, as well as families. The university students all hold their books and papers in their hands - not carrying a bag is one way to try to minimise the delays and searches at a checkpoint. A young man in the 'Women and others' queue is sent back - he is presumably not allowed to be in 'our' queue. We shuffle slowly forward and each of us is stopped in turn by an uptight soldier who has his M16 pointed in a lazy sort of way at whoever is next in the queue. He points to Liz's rucsack and indicates that he wants her to open it. there is no real space to do this properly, but she opens up the top and he gets a few things out before turning his attention to Ann, who gets the same sort of attention from him. Then it is Bag lady's turn. I'm a bit nervous about my non violent resistance bag (donated to me earlier in the week to keep a few things in) so I'm glad its dark and that the writing is in English. He rummages in amongst my bags then wants to see my rucsack. Oops, I've only got two hands and the contents of the bags (mostly dirty clothes, since we've had no water in our flat in Nablus for the last two days) are in danger of going all over the floor. Ann tries to help but there is no real room because of her large rucsack. I manage to open my rucsack and he has a good look at my camera before asking what it is. The urge for sarcasm is great but I resist. This soldier's way of telling you he has finished with you is simply to turn to the next person. I want to repack my things as slowly as possible in a vain and illogical attempt to annoy him, but I hurry up because I'm aware of the queue behind and the man still carrying his sleeping child.

We shuffle forward to the next soldier, who stands in a sort of kiosk and examines our passports. He asks where we are going and where we have been, but after no further questions we are through.

We walk down to an area of rough ground: a makeshift car park for the tens of taxis and servees all competing for fares. A hurried goodbye to Liz, who is on her way to Jerusalem and then home, and we find our way to a servees going in our direction. Although everyone is desperate for a fare, I have seen little ill humour in these taxi parks and there are always people wanting to help the slow foreigners who scarcely know where they are going or how to pronounce the name of the place properly. Our journey onwards is going to lead us right into the heart of settlement land and on to the village of Kufr Quduum, which lies periously close to settlements. Its dark and so we can see how clearly the settlements are lit up and how they snake along the hillside.

We have been told to get dropped off at the olive press in the village; as usual there turn out to be two olive presses and as usual, we get dropped off at the wrong one. But we are soon met by Tom, one of the British volunteers and we walk down to the 'Town Hall' (built coutesy of USAID) where the group are staying. Its early evening and very few people are around: like so many villages, very few people venture out at night here.