Click on the window bellow to watch a multimedia "essay" on Ultra-Orthodox Jews protesting the opening of a parking lot in Jerusalem on the Jewish Sabath.

It had been a month or so since I was last in Bilin, a village in the West Bank, north of Ramallah. Regular protests occur here every Friday over the controversial Israeli barrier fence. Palestinian, Israeli  and international protesters and activists gather near the fence to protest and sometimes throw stones at the Israeli security forces standing guard on the other side who fire teargas at the protesters. Sometimes the amount of teargas the security forces fires can be overwhelming because they are firing into open fields rather than narrow streets or houses. The gas is usually enough to turn all but the hardcore protesters back along the path from which they came.

I knew beforehand the Israeli security forces had recently introduced a new sort of smelly chemical spray, called Skunk, fired from a police water cannon. I was told by Fadi Arouri, our Ramallah photographer, how horrible it was after he experienced the lasting stink it left with him the week before. He politely offered to stay back last Friday, a few hundred meters away, to get a long shot of the tear gas being fired.

I thought, no problem, I'll get in there and get the shots before any spraying starts. I should have known better with my track record. I was once sprayed by a police water canon in Kuala Lumpur during a protest and had to walk the walk of shame through a brand new shopping mall, covered in yellow die and  pepper spray,  to find a dry shirt and a  pair of pants. Nobody in the mall wanted to serve me.

A few years later, outside the American embassy in Jakarta, I was directly hosed by a police water canon, for more than the required amount of time I might add. Moments later I discovered, to the amusement of the few hundred hard-core anti American protesters who were also there, that I was the only person who was wet.

This time in Bilin, I promised myself, it would be different.

Some of the protesters were wearing heavy yellow rain gear, the type fishermen wear or crossing guards don in storms. I wonder where they bought them, out here in the desert where it rains only a few days a year. The police water canon quickly emerged from hiding behind a house on the hill. I was already wearing my gas mask as I casually started walking backwards, trying not to appear like I was retreating.

It was not the most dramatic sight in the world. The water cannon first sent a few feeble streams of the green liquid into the air to test the wind direction. It looked like most went back towards the Israeli troops watching from the distance. Then it started sending the plumes of spray 45 degrees to the right of us, high into the air. I watched it rain down on the protesters in front of me, took some pictures and stood back out of the way. Again and again it fired, but I was dry, safe and, I believed, smelling sweet.

And then it happened. It started with a drop of sweat on my nose, inside my tightly sealed gas mask. The sweat started a chain-reaction itch. I shook my head and even jumped up and down. This had to be dealt with, and quickly I thought. Walking away from the protesters, I gently slid my index finger through my mask's seal in attempt to solve my dilemma by scratching my nose. Big mistake!

It was, without doubt, one of the most horrible things I have ever smelled. I can't describe it without using expletives. But if you mixed dirty diapers with not so fresh road kill and left them all in the sun for a few days, you might get an idea. That half second scratch will last me a lifetime. And I wasn't even hit with it.

Despite changing my clothes by the car, and rinsing my exposed arms and face with water the stench was still there. It was on my boots, my cameras, my helmet and mask. I could smell it the whole ride home. I could think of nothing else. I thought about what I would say to the border police at the checkpoint if they searched my car. "No, I don't have a rotting corpse in the trunk, I was just at a protest"

Five days later, after countless washes and scrubs, I can still smell it. My cameras came out worst. I wanted to put them through the delicate cycle in my washing machine, but you just can't do that.  My gas mask went in the dishwasher, though, along with my helmet. Everything else that couldn't be machine washed, has been coated over and over with disinfectant spray, to no avail. The trunk of my car still has a "serial killer" stench to it.

Next time I am in Bilin, I will go for the long shot...

By the time I made it through the roadblocks, the scene was illuminated by floodlights, journalists had marked off spots along the fence facing the courthouse and locals were watching TV crews doing live shots. SWAT teams were already inside and in hidden positions nearby but the word was that the Mayor wanted to avoid bloodshed and was demanding a negotiated solution; some were saying that a police sniper was going to take out the hostage taker.

At midnight Cheryl went home to rest. Romeo and I settled in for the night, although the only pictures were of SWAT team members popping out for a smoke and it was impossible to doze on the hard ground with the noise of generators so close by. In the morning there were more rumours; an assault was imminent, the hostage taker was demanding money to release the hostages. More journalists showed up, others were replaced, all watched by a swelling crowd of spectators. Among the journalists, overtime claims and breakfast became the common topics but when breakfast coffee arrived it tasted like the cloud of dust kicked up from the street.

As the sun rose so my energy levels fell and the coffee did little to help. Nothing was happening; nobody had taken a photograph for hours. Some photographers dozed in sitting positions on their ladders. Many from the press were shouting and joking with each other, but they were the ones who spent the night in their own beds. It seemed like it was never going to end. I was on leave and had already secured my window seat on a flight out of Manila next morning that it increasingly seemed I would miss. I just wanted to curl up in a ball and go to sleep.

Then Cheryl arrived with the promise of a home cooked lunch for any photographer prepared to chip in a few dollars. The buffet was set for noon. More text messages, some even from inside the courthouse, brought more rumours; SWAT were ready, snipers were ready and we argued about likely scenarios as we waited.

The welcome distraction of the promised lunch, set up on a table right in front of the court, took our minds off things for a while. There was even ice cream.

Then we returned to positions with the three of us along the fence, covering every possible angle. Shortly afterwards an ambulance moved closer to the front of the building and a car was parked beneath a second story window. The drama was unfolding.

Moments later a man appeared at the window. He slowly opened it and looked around. The pistol and grenade were clearly visible. I could not believe my eyes when he started to climb out of the window, carefully lowering his leg and checking around for police. It was an easy picture. Then seemingly deterred by the height of the jump he withdrew back into the room. There was gunfire and a large blast. Windows shook violently, but didnt break. Members of the SWAT team rushed out of and took up positions in front of the building but there was no more firing. Another ambulance arrived then some of the hostages were rushed out.

It was over!

Wed like to hear from anyone who has witnessed news events first hand and has the pictures to match.