The situation in Beirut was chaotic. Panic erupted unexpectedly in front of bus 18. The giant ferry door had been opened to let the evacuees from 25 waiting buses on board; then suddenly bomb explosions were heard in the background, recounts Fredik Undevik. He is still shocked following his arrival in Cyprus by ship on Wednesday.

Fear spread through the port in Beirut, Undevik recalls. "Then they just closed the door. We had to leave people behind." Those people stood crying on the docks, watching the large ferry leave for Larnaca in Cyprus, he says.

"Welcome to Larnaca Port -- A crossroad to peace and safety," reads the caption on a poster displayed on the harbor building. The numerous evacuees from Lebanon pass underneath the poster as they arrive. A total of five ships have arrived in Larnaca Port since Monday morning, according to a police spokesman.

The first ship was a Greek ferry chartered by the French. Next came an Italian and then a Greek warship, then another ferry and finally the ship that arrived Wednesday morning, which travelled under a Norwegian flag. About 1,100 people were on board -- including 700 Swedes, but also Finns, Danes, Norwegians, Americans, Germans and Lebanese. Most have already boarded airplanes bound for their home countries -- the others are waiting to continue their journey in a large conference hall in the port, or they have found a hotel. Totally unplanned, Larnaca is becoming the main destination for the streams of evacuees out of Lebanon.

And now the Cypriot government is sounding the alarm that is can't handle the crowds. "We gladly help," says Foreign Minister George Lillikas while visiting the port. "But our country is small. We're reaching the limit."

The older Cypriots are experiencing first-hand how history repeats itself: Whenever Lebanon becomes a flash point, Cyprus turns into such a thoroughfare for the resulting exodus. When civil war raged in Lebanon between 1975 and 1990, roughly 800,000 people fled the country, many of them travelling via the Mediterranean island. Then, it was mainly Christians and Muslims who fought each other in Lebanon, once called the "Switzerland of the East." With the Muslims controlling almost all key points into the country, the Lebanese Christians had no other choice but to escape by sea, from the port city of Junia to Cyprus. Fearful of being killed in a Muslim attack, many Christians were willing to pay $145 for a standing spot on a cargo ship to Cyprus -- the exact price of a Beirut-Cyprus airplane ticket at the time. And the situation was even more chaotic then than it is today: The little ships of the Cypriot shipowners were often so old it took them more than 20 hours to travel the 180 kilometers (112 miles) to Cyprus.

"Badly organized"

Werner Pfeifer walks restlessly back and forth in front of the port building. The Norwegian has been up on his feet for more than 24 hours, but he can't sleep -- his bus to the airport leaves in a few minutes, and he plans to be home in a few hours. "All of this has been organized badly," he complains. "We had to sleep on the deck, and there was no food except for the children." Pfeifer wanted to spend his vacation in Lebanon. When the bombs started falling, he drove to the port of Beirut. "There was only one ferry left that could carry cars," he reports. "We were given a choice of sleeping down on the cargo deck or in the burning sun on the upper deck."

Once they make it to Cyprus, people like Pfeifer are met by Jan Topani. The Swede, a member of the Swedish Rescue Service Agency, tries to calm down the arriving evacuees. He provides them with food and drink and organizes their trip to the airport. But Topani now looks just as worn out as the people he's helping. "We're just going to keep going," he says.

Twenty-five Swedes are taking care of their compatriots -- many of them live in Cyprus and are helping out on a voluntary basis. Most wear blue T-shirts with a yellow cross -- the Swedish flag is meant to help people orient themselves in the chaotic situation. Another ship with several hundred people on board is expected to arrive in a few hours. "We're just going to keep sending the empty ships back as long as that's possible," Topani says.

The Swedes don't have to pay for the journey -- but the Americans do. "They've photocopied our ID cards and told us we're going to have to pay for the ferry trip as if it were a flight," says Leena Odeg, who has also arrived on the last ferry. "The Americans told us the price would be between $200 and $400." Odeg, a student, is exhausted. She wants to go to a hotel now with a friend; she doesn't care about the price. "My college is paying for everything," she says, whose life is normally that of a Minnesota student.

But the stay in Larnaca is a difficult one. The hotels are overcrowded. A taxi driver promises to help Odeg find a room. "I would have liked to stay in Lebanon longer," she says as she climbs into the car and takes a last look at the port. "The country is so beautiful." Then she pauses and corrects herself: "Was beautiful." She shuts the car door.

As the port quiets down for bit, the many camera teams from all over the world are taking a break and rolling up their cables. They're waiting for the next mass arrival. A CNN team is already looking for the best camera angle. The waiting room in the port building is empty except for a small group of Lebanese refugees waiting for entry clearance between empty water bottles and multi-language signs. Their European relatives are already at the airport.

"My wife and my daughter are already in Norway," a computer scientist from Beirut explains. "I'm glad they're safe." He says he lived in Lebanon during the civil war, but that it's become impossible to stay there now. "Just a few weeks ago I said to my wife that we should register our little daughter at a school in Beirut soon," he says, sounding bewildered. "She had her doubts -- and it's turned out she was right."

While he talks, he tries to attach his mobile phone charger to the socket. It represents his only possibility of getting in touch with his wife. "What's really ironic is that we're being shot at by Israelis in Beirut, and then a few hours later we're escorted by an Israeli warship," he says.

But not everyone waiting in the port comes from Lebanon. "I arrived here from Düsseldorf yesterday," says an American woman who is married to a German. Her two brothers, aged eight and 10, are staying with their grandmother in eastern Beirut for their vacation. "My grandmother doesn't speak a word of English," she says. "I have to get them out of there somehow."