Kids play soccer in a parking lot across the street from my apartment. They take over every evening. Some wearing sandals, rolled up jeans, stylish button down shirts, occasionally two different shoes, gelled hair, cigarettes, big time swag. Nine or ten up through fifteen years old, these kids play hard. No such thing as a pass. It’s all about how badly you shake the person playing defense, make them take a seat, literally. Rollover to a pull back tipped up for three juggles before smoothly lofting the pumped but tattered ball over your shoulders, head trap down to another rollover or two before cracking a shot past the keeper – ‘Ahhh gola gola!!’ slew of amiyya’ curses, big grin, high five, then it's back to the pavement. These kids dance with the ball – all of them. The older guys who have been out here for years have it down, putting it through legs and spinning around opponents easily. The younger ones try just as hard, laughing all the while.
I head out there with two roommates and a few other American students who live close by. As soon as we get there the games start. Some kids literally jump when we show up – immediately the jousting and making fun begins. We’re split into teams, exchange a few greetings, and go to work. They LOVE playing around us – we petty Americans who think working hard and making nice passes means something out there. No way. If you don’t have some skills you’ll be in net or sitting on the curb.
The parking lot, covered with loose rock and dirt, sends us sliding all over the place. So much fun playing with these kids, throwing around some Arabic, putting together beautiful one touch plays that end with a cross to header game winning goal. This is what they do. No Playstation or big screen TV’s, these kids ball hard, day in and day out.
Two or three American girls come out and play with us. They aren’t pushovers, quick to throw their body around and go in for a tackle. Some locals react positively, embracing the American women playing rough with them, forcing the girls to run in circles after the ball. Others are more conservative and will put up their hands and back away as soon as a girl comes charging in. I wonder if these kids have ever played soccer with a girl, let alone a young woman.
Always nice to recover after a few hours of streetball with fresh mint tea or delicious coffee. The trick when brewing coffee is to not pour settled coffee from the pot into the glass. Add the coffee and sugar into water just before boiling, and as soon as the rich dark juice begins to bubble up and over the edge of the metal pot tip the pot slightly toward your glass, simply guiding the spill. Taste is in the bubbly, thick, milky top layer, which is lost if you just pour from the pot. Be generous with the coffee, and the sugar. The grounds at the bottom of each glass are a welcome surprise.
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Beautiful sunsets here in Amman. The city of hills, as the sun heads to bed the sky brightens up for one last stand, neon green minarets pepper the horizon. Evening call to prayer, more soothing each time, rings out from several nearby mosques, always within a moment or two of each other. Cool breeze on our fourth floor balcony, perfect vantage point to watch the traffic lighten. Like the sky Jordanians come to life in the early night hours. Celebratory gunshots and fireworks ring out for hours each night – sometimes frighteningly close. I sit on my neighbors balcony and listen to stories from his years in Iraq, where he was born and raised, became a doctor, and only left after the death threats to his friends and family became too much too handle. He will never go back, ever. We live beside three young doctors, two from Iraq and one from Gaza. Our political discussions are gut-wrenchingly tense, but always productive and friendly in the end.
Nate and I keep ourselves on as tight a budget as possible. I often make a pot of rice, beans, veggies, and an uncomfortable amount of chili powder that will carry me through five or six meals. Occasional splurge for local hal’wiyat – deserts – at a nearby bakery, or a mansaf up near the University of Jordan. The drought here is no joke and we do our best to dry wash our dishes, shower every few days, and use little more than a dribble of water to brush our teeth.
My roommate and classmate Colin and I talk politics day and night. As conservative as they come, Colin and I beat each other up about torture, the morality of war, US domestic policy, the wonderful conflicts raging throughout the Middle easy, health care, what to do about drug dealers, and whether or not we should strangle China before she openly squashes our economy (as I write this Colin is claiming what I listen to isn’t music…and so it goes). For the first two weeks we not only slept in the same room, but we woke up together, ate breakfast together, walked to Qasid together, sat in class together, walked home together, spent evenings reading and working together, then replayed steps 1 through 734 every day. I recently enrolled in Tajweed, which meets every morning at eight. While Colin and I still have class together at ten, I’ve replaced our time together with 530am runs, lone breakfasts of left over rice and beans, fresh coffee, and a pleasant walk to Qasid with Nate – soft spoken, tall and lanky, distractingly kind and sincere, heavy southern accent. Our conversations lean more toward emotions and where we are spiritually, as he shies away from politics, and shares my unfortunate sense of wanting to be home.
Tajweed lessons teach me to recite the Qu’ran. Like reading Torah there is a particular trope for chanting the Qu’ran. That is what we hear five times a day with the call to prayer. Unfamiliar but exotic and deep, Tajweed lessons change the way I hear the Adhan. Now I understand why certain notes are held, why some burrow up in the nose and others burst out of the throat. Learning to recite the Qu’ran is a thrilling challenge. My reading skills are par but my singing skills are in the gutter. Half an hour a day I sit two and a half feet from a renowned singer trying to eek out decently melodic notes, often failing miserably. At least my voice doesn’t crack. I don’t have my own Qu’ran yet but I will soon, and it will be a treasure I pass on to my grandchildren.
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Class is intense and enjoyable. Four hours a day, two professors, mostly if not strictly Arabic, homework every night. My class of nine is coming to speak and understand more confidently, we joke and ridicule in Arabic, we put together presentations and skits on short notice. I’ve warmed up to both professors, Ibrahim and Bana’an. He is short, loud, hysterical, overly energetic, and pulls vocab out of us. She is conservative, talks much faster, more critical and stern, but easing up to us every day. Just yesterday she administered an exam and came around with sweets half-way through saying ‘Kayef al’imtihaan, kayef al’imtihaan!? Ay su’ell? Jordan, Brit, Colin – ainda su’ell? How is it? How are you guys doing? Jordan, any questions? Brit? Here, have some candy, don’t hate me,’ as she passed out ginger sweets produced in Palestine, wrapped in Southeast Asia, and sold throughout the Middle easy.
Yesterday in class we were doing an exercise with new vocab words – one of us would define the word without using the word itself, the rest of the class would guess. My word was Fow’qa, towel. I meant to say ‘After I take a bath, I use a…!,’ the verb (to bathe oneself) being istahamma. Instead I mixed up the verb with ustoosheda and said ‘After I become a martyr I use a…!’ Classmates didn’t understand and were silent, Bana’an looked at me dumbfounded and expressionless. I quickly realized nobody had any idea what I said so I began frantically scrubbing my chest and arms, making an imaginary shower above my head, saying ‘You know, become a martyr! After I become a martyr I use a !!’ Ban’an said ‘I understand, ya Jordan, ana afham, where did you learn that word?!’
I realized what I was saying and replied, in perfect English ‘Oh. Shit. I am so sorry, professor, ya ustath. I didn’t mean that at all.’ Ban’an began to smile as I told the class what I had said – they roared with laughter as I smiled and turned redder than a baby butt spanked by a conservative Russian immigrant straight off the boat. Pretty funny moment, but I was silent for the rest of class. Of all things to say, go figure.
I’ve never been in an intense academic environment like Qasid. Little support from the administration and teachers so the students buckle down together, tutor and support one another. PhD candidates, wildly smart Ivy League button-down-shirters, academics, professionals. Out there melting pot of excited, motivated, lost individuals desperate to learn Arabic.
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I miss home big time. Miss the brothers and the family, comforts of an easy life, my routine, close friends, being somewhere familiar. I’ve tried to convince myself that I’m not homesick, but just have a really good situation at home that I’m reluctant to leave, and if I’ve left it, I sort of want to go back. But that’s not being homesick damnit! I finally gave in to myself, home would be sweet right now. Jed is growing up too quickly, I don’t see enough of mom, must get more of Jesse’s unbearability while I can, too seldom do I stay up late talking with dad. Alas, home soon, where I’ll see little has changed, same old goodness as always.
Thoughts that keep me up at night bounce between academics and Phi Psi this fall. Not so different when broken down – I play with my role as a Community Advisor for sophomores and one of the pledge educators for potential Phi Psi brothers. As a CA I need to balance friendship and openness with residents alongside my role as a rule maker and enforcer. With Phi Psi, I wonder how I can command the respect of new brothers without screaming or barking at them. How can I ensure the pledge process is intense, with the pledges respecting and quietly fearing me, without turning into some abusive frat animal? Radomir was a monster in the gym, screaming and often beating us with his bamboo stick. Yet outside the gym he rarely spoke above a whisper, was compassionate kind and smiling, and would do anything to help anyone. How can I become a hero like Radomir?
Healthy, safe, and filthy with high spirits and a hunger for more Arabic, Middle easiness, and experience.
Lots of love,
SF
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Sacrifice
June 11, 2011
A passage from my journal:
482 Kilograms. We led it head-first off the truck through a dark hallway into a dimly lit room, one bulb hung from the ceiling. The bull didn’t resist. I wondered if he knew what was coming. The butcher was dressed in all white, I was nervous. His front legs were tied tightly. The bull reared up on his hind legs, buckled in front, but regained his upright posture, snorting occasionally. The butcher and his aids threaded a second rope loosely around the bull’s hind legs and in one well rehearsed motion pulled the rope taught bringing the legs together and knocked the beast onto its side. It bucked once or twice, then lay still. The butcher showed Ahmed were to cut, grabbing handfuls of skin by the bull’s neck.
The knife was sharp and sliced deeply into the animal’s neck. Blood spurted out from the incision and poured onto the floor. With each huff more blood spewed from his neck, now in pieces. The bull may have died after a few seconds but it continued to huff and jerk long after its neck lay in bits on the blood soaked floor.
Skinning was done carefully and methodically, beginning with one long slice from the neck to the anus. The butcher frequently sharpened his blade, cutting the skin from the bull’s contorted body.
We raised the beast off the ground to remove his insides. Cutting and pulling the butcher removed everything inside the bull, careful to separate what was edible from what was poisonous or inedible. The majority of this animal will feed families around Ahmed’s farm and those who work the land. Only a small portion will be ours to eat.
The bull cost roughly 12,000 Egyptian pounds, about 2,000 US dollars, a new MacBook Pro. It will feed tens of families.
I wish the bull had been killed quicker, almost guillotine style. I would have kissed it first, made it comfortable, given it a hearty meal before its death, then said a prayer before opening its neck. It shat as we tied its legs, just before we knocked it to the ground. I wonder what he was thinking, eyes wide scanning the room, moments before the knife touched his throat.
The atmosphere was relaxed. Butcher and aids smiled easily as they worked, not sickly, just casually, it was another day’s work. Blood and sweat soaked clothing. A cellphone rang every few minutes.
SF
A passage from my journal:
482 Kilograms. We led it head-first off the truck through a dark hallway into a dimly lit room, one bulb hung from the ceiling. The bull didn’t resist. I wondered if he knew what was coming. The butcher was dressed in all white, I was nervous. His front legs were tied tightly. The bull reared up on his hind legs, buckled in front, but regained his upright posture, snorting occasionally. The butcher and his aids threaded a second rope loosely around the bull’s hind legs and in one well rehearsed motion pulled the rope taught bringing the legs together and knocked the beast onto its side. It bucked once or twice, then lay still. The butcher showed Ahmed were to cut, grabbing handfuls of skin by the bull’s neck.
The knife was sharp and sliced deeply into the animal’s neck. Blood spurted out from the incision and poured onto the floor. With each huff more blood spewed from his neck, now in pieces. The bull may have died after a few seconds but it continued to huff and jerk long after its neck lay in bits on the blood soaked floor.
Skinning was done carefully and methodically, beginning with one long slice from the neck to the anus. The butcher frequently sharpened his blade, cutting the skin from the bull’s contorted body.
We raised the beast off the ground to remove his insides. Cutting and pulling the butcher removed everything inside the bull, careful to separate what was edible from what was poisonous or inedible. The majority of this animal will feed families around Ahmed’s farm and those who work the land. Only a small portion will be ours to eat.
The bull cost roughly 12,000 Egyptian pounds, about 2,000 US dollars, a new MacBook Pro. It will feed tens of families.
I wish the bull had been killed quicker, almost guillotine style. I would have kissed it first, made it comfortable, given it a hearty meal before its death, then said a prayer before opening its neck. It shat as we tied its legs, just before we knocked it to the ground. I wonder what he was thinking, eyes wide scanning the room, moments before the knife touched his throat.
The atmosphere was relaxed. Butcher and aids smiled easily as they worked, not sickly, just casually, it was another day’s work. Blood and sweat soaked clothing. A cellphone rang every few minutes.
SF
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Hebron to Cairo
Nate and I were groggy as the sherut hit downtown Hebron. Classic head-bob wrench your neck bang your face against the window sort of trip from Jerusalem across the border to Bethlehem and south to Hebron. We stumbled out of the van wiping grime from our eyes and I had absolutely no idea where we were. The driver said Hebron but it didn’t look familiar. After a few minutes I recognized the street as one of the two main streets that run parallel downhill toward Hebron’s old city and primary settlement. Off we were, weaving through taxies and falafel stands, past the Lacoste and DKNY Jeans outlets, into the old city. Nate spotted the first crows nest, a small tin can looking pill box sitting on a rooftop protecting two or three IDF soldiers. We walked slowly through the market, politely declining local tour guides, offers for five shekel kufiahs, and handshakes from men exclaiming “I remember you! You’ve been here before, right!?” Nate knew I had been here one year earlier and thought the man was sincere. But once we heard that line a second and third time Nate caught on to the scam. We stopped to watch a man kill chickens. Taking each chicken by the tail, cleanly slicing its throat, once yelping now limp and silent. Methodical. Similar to the way men make falafel, scooping the delicious green mush and tossing it into the hot oil. Almost like a dance, killing chickens, making falafel.
Through two metal finger revolving doors into the site of Abraham’s burial and the settlement. Immediately I was face to face with an M4. Literally. This boyish looking soldier could have plucked my nose hairs with the barrel of his semi-automatic rifle. “We’re American, from Boston, tourists,” as we waved our golden ticket American passports. “Ahh,” the soldier replied, “Ray Allen! Paul Pierce!” “You got it,” and we were in. Nate too found himself uncomfortably close to a scruffy short soldier who wasn’t in the lightest of moods. Just like last year we were Christian to get in to the Mosque, Jewish to get into the Synagogue, and a weak combination of both as we explored the settlement. It was shabbos and the area was quiet.
Around one Nate and I took a seat on the steps of a run-down building to watch six soldiers arrest a young boy and what could have been his older brother. The boy perhaps 14, the man closer to his twenties. The Arabs were handcuffed and helped over a brick wall back into the settlement from the Arab cemetery were they had been arrested. They were told to sit/squat along a wall several meters apart. The young man was blindfolded, stuffed into an IDF jeep and driven away. The boy was taken by the arm and led deeper into the settlement. Just as the boy was being led away a settler came walking by holding his sons hand. Interesting sight, the soldier holding the Arab and the settler holding his son.
Just as Nate and I were making sense of the situation a short male settler, Yisroel, approached us. He spoke first in Hebrew then caught on that we didn’t understand. Within three minutes we established that Yisroel was born and raised in Brookline Mass, five minutes from Nate. Yisroel insisted that we join him for Shabbos lunch, then began calling us by our Hebrew names – me Reuven and Nate Yitzhak. Off we were.
After a short walk we entered his apartment – six or seven young women, four more adults, several toddlers, and food for an army. “Be comfortable be comfortable” he kept saying as he sat us down and began the introductions. Turns out Yisroel’s brother lives just a few blocks north of me in Manhattan – Go figure, here we are in one of the most violent cities in Israel, sitting down to Shabbat lunch with settlers who grew up or currently live within walking distance of Nate and I. The food was delicious – chicken, humus, salad, vegetables, kus kus, and juice galore. Nate and I had already eaten (three shekel falafel) but we did not hesitate for a bit more. The apartment was warm and cozy, conversations thrown about the room in Hebrew and English. One of the daughters in the apartment would be married on Monday. She is twenty-two.
After about two hours Yisroel decided it was time to take Nate and me on a tour of the settlement. Yisroel turned out to be a big shot in the settlement and claimed to be a tour guide, student, and event planner. This wasn’t your average tour. Yisroel took us to five different apartments throughout the settlement. In each we met children of all ages, their parents and family friends. More cake, biscuits, ice-cream, and a soda-like beer, more stories, more “These are my American friends, they just finished Taglit and had no place to eat Shabbos lunch.” Each family was open and welcoming, never hesitating to place a plate and cup before the foreigners. Immediately Nate and I felt a part of this close-knit community.
Yisroel took us around the settlement pointing out a four-thousand year old trash covered wall, various places where family and friends had been shot, one-time markets and newly constructed living units. He showed Nate and I a side of the settlement we could not have dreamed of ever experiencing. When we returned to his apartment for one last cup of tea the conversation turned political. He asked what the Palestinians thought of the settlers. I answered carefully and related that the locals only see the bricks used as weapons, violent soldiers set in place to protect the settlers, and barbed wire fences around their market. No local Arab has ever been inside a settler’s home, or shared lunch with six families in their respective homes. They knew nothing about settler life, and I quickly realized I was in the same position.
I have never perceived settlers in the West Bank as loving compassionate human beings. I have only known the side I see in the news, the violent extremist side that leads settlers to travel with automatic rifles and attack Palestinians. I pointed out a settler to a friend while our group was in the Old City. A middle-aged man, innocent face with puffy cheeks and unkempt curls, walking toward his car beside his family. White button down shirt, kippah, tzi tzit, in his left hand he held one son (perhaps five), and in his right he held a daughter on his hip. Inches below her butt was a 9mm tucked into his waste. If she bounced up and down she might knock it out of her father’s pants. The family got in their station wagon, a curtain was pulled around the rear windows, a small Israeli flag raised in one window, and off they were. Our birthright tour guide said the M16 was the most popular firearm among the settlers.
What to make of this adventure. Yisroel was a sweetheart, as were his family and friends. They related stories about living through the second intifadah, listening to gunshots day and night, coming home to bullet holes in their doors. Alas, life must go on. They were happy, proud, probably fanatical and blind to outside opinion, but nevertheless kind-hearted human beings.
Nate and I left the settlement exhausted and upbeat. Pretty fricken spectacular way to see the inside of Hebron and a settlement. Next would be a short pit-stop in Tel-Aviv to grab our bags before heading over land to Cairo.
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Ten am overpriced shwarma and we were out. Late start. Nate and I would grab a bus from Tel Aviv’s central station south to Eilat, where we would cross the border and head west to Cairo. Few minutes wait in the station but we were in no rush. It would be a fiveish hour shlep to the southern most city in region, the hottest spot vegas esk resort town along the sea, Eilat.
The bus was mellow, we sat in the way back, had a nice guy sleep on my shoulder for several hours. At one point two young Israeli women broke out in a screaming argument. They began yelling in English, I assume so less people would understand, which was great for Nate and me. After several tense minutes Nate turned to me and made me promise that that would never be us. I said I would make sure to leave him before stooping so low as to criticize the size of his butt, his willingness to sleep with strangers, or the color of his hair.
We caught the last bus from Eilat to the Taba border crossing – six and a half shekels. Eilat looked pretty, if you’re into ugly resorts, crumby casinos, and the complete absence of the teeney weeniest culture. 24 hour border, no problem on the Israeli side. 101 shekel exit fee, stamp, warm smile, expensive duty free, and we were walking to Egypt. There it got a little bit more interesting. Turns out you have to buy a visa in advance, woops. Not only does the visa cost 15 dollars, but you have to purchase it through a travel agency, or have the guarantee of a travel agency, or have some seal of approval sent to the Egyptian government (is there one?), or have your name on some stupid hand-written list that doesn’t exist proving nothing – except that it costs 60 dollars. After some hooting and hollering about how little money we have, how bogus this border nonsense was, how every border ‘officer’ looked like a miserable bum with nothing better to do than harass tourists, Nate and I forked over 40 dollars. It sucked. Too much money wasted on some crumby tourist trap. Every man for himself.
Strutted on past a few cabbies, each had a better price, one guy drove alongside us blasting music drumming on his steering wheel. If we didn’t get in before he did this little dance there was no way in hell we were getting close to this cab after that performance. After checking with several people we learned that only two buses travel from the border to Cairo every day, one at 1030 am and the second at five pm (which we missed by minutes). We would have to spend the night here in Taba. We picked up two cans of pre-cooked beans and decided the beach would be our home tonight – spending two hundred dollars at one of the three resorts, not including the additional 30 dollars for internet, was not exactly in our budget.
Strolled into the Movenpick resort looking for a place to eat our beans and a safe place to sleep – turns out this is the biggest, most beautiful, most secure resort around. We were escorted out within 30 minutes (dirty looking travelers with shoes hanging from their backpacks don’t fit in at this absurdly luxurious resort). We didn’t need them anyway!
Alongside one wall of the resort was a dark ally lined with barbed wire and two high walls. Thinking it would lead to the beach we walked down. Groups of locals passed us in the alley, we stopped to grab water from a fountain – if the locals drank it I figured we could too. The alley opened into a garbage-strewn shanty town. Hanging exposed bulbs revealed single room units, broken fences, rusting vehicles, windowless and doorless homes. This is where workers in the nearby resorts lived. Two hundred yards away European tourists threw money away on lavish dinners, high-speed internet, beautiful rooms balconies beds tours drinks and activities, while the men cleaning tables and washing linens returned to this ghetto. Then again, who are we to judge? These men were probably earning a decent living, perhaps sending money home to a family.
Nate and I walked through this shanty town, down to the water, and onward along the beach for a few minutes. I was lucky enough to step in raw sewage. At about 830 we found a low wall far enough from this community and the dimly lit road to afford us some isolation. We propped our bags against the brick and lay down. A strong wind blew trash over and around us, but we were comfortable. Cloudless warm breezy evening, sleeping 25 yards from the sea, bellies full, spirits high, this was our adventure. Couples of men walked nearby though we were quiet and were not disturbed. At about eleven we woke up to a man standing above us. Talk about creepy! This guy was literally two feet from me looking down at the two of us! His only English seemed to be “I police! Open bag!” Yea f that this shmoop was in sweat pants and a T-shirt, police my ass. He seemed to motion that we couldn’t sleep by this wall. Under who’s authority I have no idea. We were sufficiently freaked out to pack up and leave immediately.
We walked several hundred meters along the main road until we came to a partially concealed drop, what Nate calls the ‘Ski Slope.’ We lay down under a tree, bracing our butts with our shoes so we didn’t slide down into the water. The road was just two or three meters above us, but we were low and hidden under a tree. We ‘slept’ here for the next few hours.
Around five we were too awake to sleep, the sun was rising, so we decided to head back into town. Grabbed a few dusty sodas, four and a half hours to kill before the bus. Nate needed an ATM so we decided to check out the Hilton, maybe grab some Wifi. Like the Movenpick wireless in the Hilton was FAR from free. We did, however, luck out with breakfast. For ten US dollars it was an all you can eat buffet, from 7 to 1030. At 715 we sat down and began stuffing our faces. Juice, coffee, sausages, eggs, potatoes, fruit, vegetables, yogurt, and DANISHES. For three hours we ate, went to the bathroom, ate again, revisited the toilet, wrote, laughed, plate number nine, twelfth cup of juice, and schemed about stealing food. Ten dollars well spent. We cut out for the bus at 1015 laughing at the resorts.
Comfortable bus, packed, but strong cold AC. Just as we were leaving the border we passed one final checkpoint. 75 Egyptian pound port tariff. Are you kidding?! More?? We were livid! We had avoided this the night before nearly coming to blows with the guy trying to squeeze the money out of us. Here it was not avoidable. It was the same man as the night before, walked on to the bus, stood beside us, “Remember me?” with some poop-faced grin like he had won. And he did, we paid. Rules of the game. We are dollar signs before human beings in this part of the world. Pay up.
Couple of checkpoints later we were in Cairo, late afternoon, perhaps four, 430. Even before we stepped off the bus taxi drivers were screaming by the windows. Blew past them and began walking. Every few minutes we would ask for Tahrir Square. It was between ten and 15 kilometers away, but we would walk most of it. A nice young student steered us toward the metro, which we rode for half a pound each. I prayed before we stepped on. This train was so broke down falling apart rusted out ghetto-crackin oh man kiss your life away sort of car. But it went, and so did we. Jumped out a half an hour walk away from the square.
It felt wonderful to be back in Cairo. Not sure what it is about these city streets but I find this place exhilarating. We were nearly skipping as we came closer to Tahrir. We hadn’t been in touch since Israel and Nate now realized his phone was gone, so we made it a priority to find an internet café. Found a hostel near Tahrir which let us use their internet. The first facebook message I see was from one of our Birthright trip advisors telling us to get in touch immediately! The police, Brandeis community, friends, family, and US embassy were all looking for us. The world had lost its head when Nate and I went quiet for 24 hours.
Emailed and messaged a bit, then skyped Ahmed, who was also freaking out about us. He agreed to come snag us by Tahrir Square. We stood on the raised grass courtyard looking out for Ahmed who claimed his car was too small for all three of us. Couple of creepy guys moved in on me and Nate. One offered us cigarettes, another stood silently staring at Nate, a third shyly approached me and began talking about giving me a message. Lucky for us Ahmed came screaming by in a drop top Mini and we were OUT! Tossed our backpacks in the car and jumped in. Nate sat shotgun, I sprawled out in the back. Off we were, safe and secure with Ahmed. First to his apartment, then dinner on the street, then shot out to his farm house in the suburbs outside the city, bongo drums and Stella in hand.
I melted into bed around midnight, exhausted after a few loonng sleepless days and nights. This week with Ahmed will be wild. Cairo is too much alive. She is loud, obnoxious, expensive, beautiful, frightening, and welcoming, even to a few lonely Americans far far from home.
Couple of quick notes – I’ve been sick for over a week. Coughing and sneezing like its my job. Nate lost his wallet and cell phone on back to back nights, both of which were recovered. My left pinky toe is a giant blister, Nate is struggling to remove a dead toenail from his left foot. Ahmed is pissed that he hasn’t shaved in two nights, little does he know that Nate and I have been wearing the same underwear for five nights and haven’t showered in four.
We are both relatively safe and having an incredible time. Cairo is not in a state of ruins. There is as little order as there was before the revolution.
Lots and lots and lots of love,
SF
Through two metal finger revolving doors into the site of Abraham’s burial and the settlement. Immediately I was face to face with an M4. Literally. This boyish looking soldier could have plucked my nose hairs with the barrel of his semi-automatic rifle. “We’re American, from Boston, tourists,” as we waved our golden ticket American passports. “Ahh,” the soldier replied, “Ray Allen! Paul Pierce!” “You got it,” and we were in. Nate too found himself uncomfortably close to a scruffy short soldier who wasn’t in the lightest of moods. Just like last year we were Christian to get in to the Mosque, Jewish to get into the Synagogue, and a weak combination of both as we explored the settlement. It was shabbos and the area was quiet.
Around one Nate and I took a seat on the steps of a run-down building to watch six soldiers arrest a young boy and what could have been his older brother. The boy perhaps 14, the man closer to his twenties. The Arabs were handcuffed and helped over a brick wall back into the settlement from the Arab cemetery were they had been arrested. They were told to sit/squat along a wall several meters apart. The young man was blindfolded, stuffed into an IDF jeep and driven away. The boy was taken by the arm and led deeper into the settlement. Just as the boy was being led away a settler came walking by holding his sons hand. Interesting sight, the soldier holding the Arab and the settler holding his son.
Just as Nate and I were making sense of the situation a short male settler, Yisroel, approached us. He spoke first in Hebrew then caught on that we didn’t understand. Within three minutes we established that Yisroel was born and raised in Brookline Mass, five minutes from Nate. Yisroel insisted that we join him for Shabbos lunch, then began calling us by our Hebrew names – me Reuven and Nate Yitzhak. Off we were.
After a short walk we entered his apartment – six or seven young women, four more adults, several toddlers, and food for an army. “Be comfortable be comfortable” he kept saying as he sat us down and began the introductions. Turns out Yisroel’s brother lives just a few blocks north of me in Manhattan – Go figure, here we are in one of the most violent cities in Israel, sitting down to Shabbat lunch with settlers who grew up or currently live within walking distance of Nate and I. The food was delicious – chicken, humus, salad, vegetables, kus kus, and juice galore. Nate and I had already eaten (three shekel falafel) but we did not hesitate for a bit more. The apartment was warm and cozy, conversations thrown about the room in Hebrew and English. One of the daughters in the apartment would be married on Monday. She is twenty-two.
After about two hours Yisroel decided it was time to take Nate and me on a tour of the settlement. Yisroel turned out to be a big shot in the settlement and claimed to be a tour guide, student, and event planner. This wasn’t your average tour. Yisroel took us to five different apartments throughout the settlement. In each we met children of all ages, their parents and family friends. More cake, biscuits, ice-cream, and a soda-like beer, more stories, more “These are my American friends, they just finished Taglit and had no place to eat Shabbos lunch.” Each family was open and welcoming, never hesitating to place a plate and cup before the foreigners. Immediately Nate and I felt a part of this close-knit community.
Yisroel took us around the settlement pointing out a four-thousand year old trash covered wall, various places where family and friends had been shot, one-time markets and newly constructed living units. He showed Nate and I a side of the settlement we could not have dreamed of ever experiencing. When we returned to his apartment for one last cup of tea the conversation turned political. He asked what the Palestinians thought of the settlers. I answered carefully and related that the locals only see the bricks used as weapons, violent soldiers set in place to protect the settlers, and barbed wire fences around their market. No local Arab has ever been inside a settler’s home, or shared lunch with six families in their respective homes. They knew nothing about settler life, and I quickly realized I was in the same position.
I have never perceived settlers in the West Bank as loving compassionate human beings. I have only known the side I see in the news, the violent extremist side that leads settlers to travel with automatic rifles and attack Palestinians. I pointed out a settler to a friend while our group was in the Old City. A middle-aged man, innocent face with puffy cheeks and unkempt curls, walking toward his car beside his family. White button down shirt, kippah, tzi tzit, in his left hand he held one son (perhaps five), and in his right he held a daughter on his hip. Inches below her butt was a 9mm tucked into his waste. If she bounced up and down she might knock it out of her father’s pants. The family got in their station wagon, a curtain was pulled around the rear windows, a small Israeli flag raised in one window, and off they were. Our birthright tour guide said the M16 was the most popular firearm among the settlers.
What to make of this adventure. Yisroel was a sweetheart, as were his family and friends. They related stories about living through the second intifadah, listening to gunshots day and night, coming home to bullet holes in their doors. Alas, life must go on. They were happy, proud, probably fanatical and blind to outside opinion, but nevertheless kind-hearted human beings.
Nate and I left the settlement exhausted and upbeat. Pretty fricken spectacular way to see the inside of Hebron and a settlement. Next would be a short pit-stop in Tel-Aviv to grab our bags before heading over land to Cairo.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Ten am overpriced shwarma and we were out. Late start. Nate and I would grab a bus from Tel Aviv’s central station south to Eilat, where we would cross the border and head west to Cairo. Few minutes wait in the station but we were in no rush. It would be a fiveish hour shlep to the southern most city in region, the hottest spot vegas esk resort town along the sea, Eilat.
The bus was mellow, we sat in the way back, had a nice guy sleep on my shoulder for several hours. At one point two young Israeli women broke out in a screaming argument. They began yelling in English, I assume so less people would understand, which was great for Nate and me. After several tense minutes Nate turned to me and made me promise that that would never be us. I said I would make sure to leave him before stooping so low as to criticize the size of his butt, his willingness to sleep with strangers, or the color of his hair.
We caught the last bus from Eilat to the Taba border crossing – six and a half shekels. Eilat looked pretty, if you’re into ugly resorts, crumby casinos, and the complete absence of the teeney weeniest culture. 24 hour border, no problem on the Israeli side. 101 shekel exit fee, stamp, warm smile, expensive duty free, and we were walking to Egypt. There it got a little bit more interesting. Turns out you have to buy a visa in advance, woops. Not only does the visa cost 15 dollars, but you have to purchase it through a travel agency, or have the guarantee of a travel agency, or have some seal of approval sent to the Egyptian government (is there one?), or have your name on some stupid hand-written list that doesn’t exist proving nothing – except that it costs 60 dollars. After some hooting and hollering about how little money we have, how bogus this border nonsense was, how every border ‘officer’ looked like a miserable bum with nothing better to do than harass tourists, Nate and I forked over 40 dollars. It sucked. Too much money wasted on some crumby tourist trap. Every man for himself.
Strutted on past a few cabbies, each had a better price, one guy drove alongside us blasting music drumming on his steering wheel. If we didn’t get in before he did this little dance there was no way in hell we were getting close to this cab after that performance. After checking with several people we learned that only two buses travel from the border to Cairo every day, one at 1030 am and the second at five pm (which we missed by minutes). We would have to spend the night here in Taba. We picked up two cans of pre-cooked beans and decided the beach would be our home tonight – spending two hundred dollars at one of the three resorts, not including the additional 30 dollars for internet, was not exactly in our budget.
Strolled into the Movenpick resort looking for a place to eat our beans and a safe place to sleep – turns out this is the biggest, most beautiful, most secure resort around. We were escorted out within 30 minutes (dirty looking travelers with shoes hanging from their backpacks don’t fit in at this absurdly luxurious resort). We didn’t need them anyway!
Alongside one wall of the resort was a dark ally lined with barbed wire and two high walls. Thinking it would lead to the beach we walked down. Groups of locals passed us in the alley, we stopped to grab water from a fountain – if the locals drank it I figured we could too. The alley opened into a garbage-strewn shanty town. Hanging exposed bulbs revealed single room units, broken fences, rusting vehicles, windowless and doorless homes. This is where workers in the nearby resorts lived. Two hundred yards away European tourists threw money away on lavish dinners, high-speed internet, beautiful rooms balconies beds tours drinks and activities, while the men cleaning tables and washing linens returned to this ghetto. Then again, who are we to judge? These men were probably earning a decent living, perhaps sending money home to a family.
Nate and I walked through this shanty town, down to the water, and onward along the beach for a few minutes. I was lucky enough to step in raw sewage. At about 830 we found a low wall far enough from this community and the dimly lit road to afford us some isolation. We propped our bags against the brick and lay down. A strong wind blew trash over and around us, but we were comfortable. Cloudless warm breezy evening, sleeping 25 yards from the sea, bellies full, spirits high, this was our adventure. Couples of men walked nearby though we were quiet and were not disturbed. At about eleven we woke up to a man standing above us. Talk about creepy! This guy was literally two feet from me looking down at the two of us! His only English seemed to be “I police! Open bag!” Yea f that this shmoop was in sweat pants and a T-shirt, police my ass. He seemed to motion that we couldn’t sleep by this wall. Under who’s authority I have no idea. We were sufficiently freaked out to pack up and leave immediately.
We walked several hundred meters along the main road until we came to a partially concealed drop, what Nate calls the ‘Ski Slope.’ We lay down under a tree, bracing our butts with our shoes so we didn’t slide down into the water. The road was just two or three meters above us, but we were low and hidden under a tree. We ‘slept’ here for the next few hours.
Around five we were too awake to sleep, the sun was rising, so we decided to head back into town. Grabbed a few dusty sodas, four and a half hours to kill before the bus. Nate needed an ATM so we decided to check out the Hilton, maybe grab some Wifi. Like the Movenpick wireless in the Hilton was FAR from free. We did, however, luck out with breakfast. For ten US dollars it was an all you can eat buffet, from 7 to 1030. At 715 we sat down and began stuffing our faces. Juice, coffee, sausages, eggs, potatoes, fruit, vegetables, yogurt, and DANISHES. For three hours we ate, went to the bathroom, ate again, revisited the toilet, wrote, laughed, plate number nine, twelfth cup of juice, and schemed about stealing food. Ten dollars well spent. We cut out for the bus at 1015 laughing at the resorts.
Comfortable bus, packed, but strong cold AC. Just as we were leaving the border we passed one final checkpoint. 75 Egyptian pound port tariff. Are you kidding?! More?? We were livid! We had avoided this the night before nearly coming to blows with the guy trying to squeeze the money out of us. Here it was not avoidable. It was the same man as the night before, walked on to the bus, stood beside us, “Remember me?” with some poop-faced grin like he had won. And he did, we paid. Rules of the game. We are dollar signs before human beings in this part of the world. Pay up.
Couple of checkpoints later we were in Cairo, late afternoon, perhaps four, 430. Even before we stepped off the bus taxi drivers were screaming by the windows. Blew past them and began walking. Every few minutes we would ask for Tahrir Square. It was between ten and 15 kilometers away, but we would walk most of it. A nice young student steered us toward the metro, which we rode for half a pound each. I prayed before we stepped on. This train was so broke down falling apart rusted out ghetto-crackin oh man kiss your life away sort of car. But it went, and so did we. Jumped out a half an hour walk away from the square.
It felt wonderful to be back in Cairo. Not sure what it is about these city streets but I find this place exhilarating. We were nearly skipping as we came closer to Tahrir. We hadn’t been in touch since Israel and Nate now realized his phone was gone, so we made it a priority to find an internet café. Found a hostel near Tahrir which let us use their internet. The first facebook message I see was from one of our Birthright trip advisors telling us to get in touch immediately! The police, Brandeis community, friends, family, and US embassy were all looking for us. The world had lost its head when Nate and I went quiet for 24 hours.
Emailed and messaged a bit, then skyped Ahmed, who was also freaking out about us. He agreed to come snag us by Tahrir Square. We stood on the raised grass courtyard looking out for Ahmed who claimed his car was too small for all three of us. Couple of creepy guys moved in on me and Nate. One offered us cigarettes, another stood silently staring at Nate, a third shyly approached me and began talking about giving me a message. Lucky for us Ahmed came screaming by in a drop top Mini and we were OUT! Tossed our backpacks in the car and jumped in. Nate sat shotgun, I sprawled out in the back. Off we were, safe and secure with Ahmed. First to his apartment, then dinner on the street, then shot out to his farm house in the suburbs outside the city, bongo drums and Stella in hand.
I melted into bed around midnight, exhausted after a few loonng sleepless days and nights. This week with Ahmed will be wild. Cairo is too much alive. She is loud, obnoxious, expensive, beautiful, frightening, and welcoming, even to a few lonely Americans far far from home.
Couple of quick notes – I’ve been sick for over a week. Coughing and sneezing like its my job. Nate lost his wallet and cell phone on back to back nights, both of which were recovered. My left pinky toe is a giant blister, Nate is struggling to remove a dead toenail from his left foot. Ahmed is pissed that he hasn’t shaved in two nights, little does he know that Nate and I have been wearing the same underwear for five nights and haven’t showered in four.
We are both relatively safe and having an incredible time. Cairo is not in a state of ruins. There is as little order as there was before the revolution.
Lots and lots and lots of love,
SF
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Last Act: Failing to Understand, Let Alone Solve
I learned to spell ‘Forgiveness’ in Hebron; a West Bank city where Palestinians, Settlers, and Soldiers clash – often violently - every few minutes.
Spray-painted in clear capital letters on cement blocks draped in barbed wire sealing an alley, or road, preventing passage between the Jewish settlement and Palestinian neighborhood. Forgiveness. Thick black letters offset by the sunburnt, dusty, colorless crumbling stone buildings. In english, almost as a compromise. A meet-me-halfway. Not in Arabic or Hebrew. A concession. A call for both sides to lower their weapons, and for the passersby, the tourists, the foreigners, to take heed of what is going on.
That image will never leave me. The word Forgiveness painted on nine or so cement blocks. Similarly, the sight of a colorful animated hop-scotch court touching a wall of these cement blocks and barbed wire, is burned, ingrained, tattooed somewhere deep inside me.
__________________________
I left Israel four weeks ago and began traveling around the Middle East. Fending off hawkers in Cairo, hitch-hiking between Hezbollah communities in southern Lebanon, sleeping under the sky on a shattered glass covered run-down roof in Amman, and splitting my time between a local family and IDF soldiers in Hebron. I found myself down and out when I was denied entry into Syria. I begged, pleaded, yelled, refused to leave, and was finally physically removed from the entry office. What a waste, I thought. I would now have to throw away more money and fly to Jordan. I decided to spend the week I would have given to Syria in the West Bank. I learned more during that single week, about the conflict and the Middle East, than I could have dreamed to learn during ten months in Yaffo.
I was detained while crossing from Jordan into Israel via the King Hussein/Allenby Bridge. It was foreseeable; my story was pretty ugly. Two and a half months ‘working’ in Israel, a new passport, Lebanese stamps, no cell phone numbers or places to stay in Israel. They detained the crap out of me. Hours and hours, four or five interviews, unpleasant questions about my beliefs, my family, my education and upbringing. I sat for four hours in an enclosed sitting area. Stiff metal connected seats, calmly, patiently, just waiting, not doubting for a second that I would get through.
There were 45 or so other people in the sitting area. Each woman was fully covered, many with only their eyes showing. Men were dark, many in religious attire, bearded. I sat down beside the only other white person there, a woman married to a Palestinian man and living in Bethlehem. She was flustered, tearing up, panicking, totally out of sorts off kilter uncomfortable freaking out. At first she just complained – moaning about being awake for 50 hours, not having eaten since the previous day’s lunch. My eyes traveled from her to the young girl sitting across from me, perhaps fourteen years old, beside her mother.
This girl had a backpack twice her size, her head was covered except for an innocent, full, smooth face, and was slightly hunched forward from the pack. She sat silently. Motionless. Never once complaining, getting upset, or even asking for food, water, or to use the bathroom.
I had seen her seven hours earlier (5:30am) at the Jordanian border in the exact same position. I can only imagine how ordinary this was for her. How normal it was to sit and wait. To be interrogated, to be held up, to be told to step out of line, fill out additional paperwork, and wait for further questioning.
I had no sympathy for the woman next to me. She began to cry. I asked her if she could imagine going through this every time she wanted to visit family, friends, to travel, even for work. She stopped crying for a moment, looked absently into my eyes, glanced at the girl, and continued to bawl. I moved to another section of the waiting area, disgusted. Weak. Get over yourself.
From the border I went south to Hebron. After shacking up in one of the two stupidly expensive hotels, I went out for dinner. I walked into a nearby restaurant, indicated that I was looking for dinner, and said (with phenomenal hand gestures) I wanted something BIG (hands fly out wide) and CHEAP (rubbing fingers to indicate money, then shaking my finger to illustrate I have none). Blank stare, no comprendo, the man must have thought I was crazy. A kid piped up behind me and in near perfect english told me to head around the corner for a great Shwarma. On the way he asked to hang out after I had finished eating. I was skeptical, as I am about every english-speaking local in the Middle East, but found I had little choice when the boy kept popping his head into the dive spot to make sure I was still there.
Tye was his name. An ‘activist’ to use his words. Well traveled, into making films, originally from Dubai, hates Hebron, and is dying to get a copy of the new Starcraft computer game. A friend of his was there too, Subeherr. Also spoke english, but not quite as well as Tye. Subeherr began smoking cigarettes and Nargilah when he was 13. With four sisters and stylish clothing he is all about the girls.
If Subeherr could go anywhere in the world it would be Jerusalem, then the United States.
A big futballer, Subeherr was slapping hands and kissing guys up and down Hebron’s main drag, while we walked sipping luke warm sodas.
That night they told be about life in Hebron. They go to an all boys school, are forbidden to look at let alone speak with girls, and find little to do except smoke cigarettes and walk up and down this street. They travel to Bethlehem after saving three weeks worth of allowance, where they can meet girls and go to a cinema.
Tye and Subeherr are terrified of Israeli soldiers, far more than local criminals. Both boys had multiple stories about horrific encounters with the IDF. Subeherr recalls a night a few months earlier when he was stopped and beaten by a soldier for walking on the wrong side of a street. Tye recalls stepping out of his father’s car, with his entire family, and watching two soldiers tare it to shreds looking for weapons and explosives.
_____________________________
The next day Tye took me into Hebron’s old city, and toward the Jewish settlement. He wanted to get some footage for a film he was making about “how crazy the conflict is.”At one point he pulled me across the street to avoid two soldiers standing guard. He told me to watch out and stay clear of the soldiers. He was not able to give me much of a tour because he is Palestinian.
I spent four days in the old city and Jewish settlement. Two nights in a hotel and two nights in Tye’s home. He was scared of what his parents would think or do if they caught him bringing an American in to their home, so he had me sneak into his room. From a back alley, I climbed a ladder, crossed three roof tops, walked through an abandoned building, and crawled into Tye’s bedroom window. I would arrive late and leave early.
I became close with Yaron, an IDF commander in the settlement. I spent two six hour shifts with him, just sitting, talking, enjoying each others company. Long moments of silence, speaking softly, white broad smile behind a dark leathery face. He told me a few gut wrenching stories about his time in the army, and from before his service. In 2006, during the war with Lebanon, a rocket decimated his home. Luckily his family was out for the evening. Had they been home, Yaron would be without a mother, father, and four siblings.
At one point we heard over the radio that a rocket hit Sderot. It landed a few meters from his close friend’s home.
Yaron told me he fights because he is not sure that he will have a home tomorrow. He longs to get out of the army, after which he plans to work with children. He has one year left. I told him I would pray for a quiet year.
Yaron’s 17 day tour in Hebron is up on August 12, after which he will spend four days with his family in Haifa. I leave for my home on the 12th. He invited me for shabbos, and was very disappointed when I had to decline. He gave me one of his shirts as a parting gift. I have great respect for Yaron. A young man, 21 years old, who has seen so much, has endured and suffered and struggled through death and pain, but continues to smile. Continues to hope for a better tomorrow. Continues to laugh, to be open and caring, even with a complete stranger from the other side of the world.
I hope to see him again, perhaps in a different setting.
_____________________________________
I went to a demonstration outside a main gate entrance into the Jewish settlement. 60 or so foreigners, many Scandinavian, big cameras, Christian Peace Makers (fucing twisted ass activists wanna be peacemakers trouble causing close minded Americans who use their religion as an excuse and bring shame to the word Peace), signs, a few older male Arabs, one with a drum, and a donkey draped in an Israeli flag covered in red arabic. They screamed, chanted, beat the drum, all in the face of the IDF soldiers who were gathering outside the entrance. There was a fight. A man decked a soldier, taking him to the ground, rolling around. Immediately there was tear gas, screaming soldiers, and an armored vehicle roaring its engine. Kids went running into the old city.
A few minutes earlier Tye helped me speak to a small Arab boy. I asked, just as the demonstrators approached, if the boy was ever scared. He said “only when they shoot.”
I stood near the demonstration, but not close enough to be considered part of it. I didn’t agree with the objective, the method, the movement, none of it. When it began to disintegrate I caught up with the leader, a male Arab roughly 45 years old, and began arguing with him. He said the goal was to ‘tease’ the soldiers. I didn’t get it then, and don’t get it now. ‘Tease’ the soldiers.
And there I was. Jewish to get into the settlement and synagogue at Abraham’s burial, Christian to get into the Mosque and while I walked Hebron’s littered, lustful streets with covered women and angry boys. The synagogue and mosque are side by side, separated by bulletproof barriers and barred windows. The muslim side is quiet, a few men praying, carpeted, closed. The Jewish side is full of men women and children, a tour passes through, open to the sky, soldiers in the corners. I wonder if tours ever pass through the muslim side.
That to me was the conflict. Listening to Tye and Subeherr retell terrible stories of abuse and suffering at the hands of young IDF soldiers, while Yaron speaks of dead comrades and friends, losing his home and nearly his family. There is no good guy and bad guy in this conflict. No side in the right, and side in the wrong. Just immeasurable suffering. No end in sight. No peace, no coexistence, no resolution.
________________________________________
The Hezbollah museum in southern Lebanon, Mileeta, has captions beneath artillery and beside bunkers which portray Israel as a terrorist state with bloodthirsty soldiers and fanatical leaders. It was clearly exaggerated, one sided, and favoring Hezbollah. Nevertheless, I found messages that used language in a similar distorted manner in the Jewish settlement. One sign read, “These buildings were constructed on land purchased by the Hebron Jewish community in 1807. This land was stolen by Arabs following the murder of 67 Hebron Jews in 1929. We demand Justice! Return our property to us!” A sign just a few meters away went into greater detail about the 1929 fighting, and said that the Arabs in “1929 suddenly launched a murderous terror assault…ghastly massacre [in which] 67 elderly, women, and children were tortured, raped, burned, and butchered.”
I did not take quotes from the Hezbollah museum, but both sides seem to be extremist, fanatical, manipulating, and of no benefit to those passing by or reading the messages.
I was reluctant to leave my new Palestinian crew, and found it more difficult to depart from Yaron. But I did, as we all do. I spent a few nights up north in Nablus. No soldiers, no cement blocks and barbed wire - just one side, just the Palestinians. I spent hours walking through the old city, run-down, dirty, narrow cobblestone passageways. Every door, window shutter, sign post, and flat surface is plastered with pictures of Arab fighters who have been killed in this conflict. I am dancing around the word Martyr. To the local population, the posters are of Martyrs. To others, perhaps murders. My father told me to choose my words carefully, but which do I choose? To Subeherr they are liberators, fighting for a better world. To Yaron, they are terrorists. To me they are victims. However you call them, the man with the M-16 or the boy with the AK-47 decked out in camouflage with a Palestinian-flag colored bandanna covering his nose and mouth, they are people who are now dead. A husband who has left his wife alone with her children. A son who has left parents to grow old alone. A brother who has left his siblings to fend for themselves. A future father who will not have children or a future politician who cannot advocate for better working conditions or a future shop keeper who cannot provide for a family or a future peace advocate, who will not help raise, rather than condition and indoctrinate the next generation.
A group of boys threw stones at me in Nablus. Perhaps they thought I was Jewish or recognized that I was a white foreigner, and therefore a supporter of Israel.
_________________________________________
A quick quote from my journal written while in Nablus –
“ Nas and Biggie as I sit in the hotel windowsill watching Nablus close down for the night. Family run barber shop across the street just closed, now the alley is dark. Cats. Older men pushing carts with leftover vegetables. Boys walking arm in arm. Minaret overlooking, offering its neon green blanket. Six gun shots. Cars obeying traffic signals. No soldiers or heavily armed guards like Hebron. Signs of Martyrs plastered all over old city walls. Kids with guns.
Now it’s A Tribe Called Quest while I dress an infected blister. Thinking about Yaron. Maybe he is on shift. Hopefully quiet. Orange street light fills my room. Fan, but doesn’t move the air. Sweat, walking or lying down. Never dry, never fresh. Two shekel falafel for dinner. Poverty, but people aren’t starving. Goodnight.”
_______________________________________________
From the West Bank I crossed into Jerusalem. A city where extremist Jewish settlers can visit freely but innocent young teenagers like Tye and Subeherr will only dream about. I stayed at a hostel just inside the Jaffa Gate. I realized quickly that there is very little I like about the old city. I find it superficial, not pretty, not historic and only slightly interesting. However, there are one or two images that will stick with me.
Early morning and late night in the old city, boys pushing three wheeled carts with goods for their shop. Skinny, well dressed Arab boys. Heavy carts overflowing with vegetables or merchandise. Pushing pushing pushing these boys worked hard getting carts up and down stairs. I’ll never forget the dance they did to turn the cart.
The carts were makeshift and heavy, difficult to turn. Each time a boy wanted to turn the cart, even slightly to avoid a foot, post, or ditch, he would have to push, jump and land on one handle pressing all his weight to lift and pivot the front tire. A jump press wiggle shake and prrrressssss lean heavily on the left handle to push the cart slightly to the right. Every time he had to maneuver the cart, whether avoiding a tourist or swinging a 90 degree turn, you could catch this ritual dance. Ever two or three steps, the jump wiggle while laughing, calling out to men and boys on either side, yelling this and that, just doing his thing. If he needed to stop the cart, there was a tire dragging behind the cart attached by a chain that he would jump on while leaning back to slow, and eventually stop the cart. A very very very cool little act to watch.
Another image was the boys carrying tea on an elaborate sort of hanging tray. Whirling through crowds these boys would carry four six even eight cups of tea, swinging them around people and avoiding walls, all with perfect balance, delivering tea to elder men.
____________________________________
And so it goes, another blog. Another attempt to capture thoughts, emotions, experiences, and fears with the right words. Not too many, not too few. Trying to include all of those powerful sights but failing miserably, to even begin to convey how I am feeling or what these past few weeks, months, have done to me. It’s so tough. I try to pour it out, to stay somewhat peaceful, diplomatic, to paint pictures that help you understand what I am going through, but it’s not easy. I guess that’s what makes a great writer.
I am ready to go home. I miss my family, my brothers, my parents. I miss my routine, the comforts of an easy life. I leave Israel far more confused than I arrived, with unanswerable questions, desires to see people I will never again meet, to explore the same rundown shacks and buildings that will be gone when or if I return. I do not know where I stand with Judaism. Do I let the man in Mea’Sharim, who screamed at me for not wearing a kippah calling me a terrible Jew and saying I do not belong in Israel, get to me and push me further away from Judaism. Or do I focus on Yaron who will pray tomorrow morning for peace, for security, for good health and accuracy if the moment arises. Who the fuck knows.
One thing is absolutely clear – This summer has been dynamic, frightening, eye opening, wild, delicious, wet, and mind blowing. I am a stronger healthier human being for doing what I did and seeing what I saw this summer.
I am not looking forward to the Middle East’s near future. I do, however, look forward to being a part of whatever that near future is, for better or for worse.
There is nothing better in this world than leaping outside of your comfort zone and drowning yourself in a different world. I did that this summer.
L’Chaim
SF
Spray-painted in clear capital letters on cement blocks draped in barbed wire sealing an alley, or road, preventing passage between the Jewish settlement and Palestinian neighborhood. Forgiveness. Thick black letters offset by the sunburnt, dusty, colorless crumbling stone buildings. In english, almost as a compromise. A meet-me-halfway. Not in Arabic or Hebrew. A concession. A call for both sides to lower their weapons, and for the passersby, the tourists, the foreigners, to take heed of what is going on.
That image will never leave me. The word Forgiveness painted on nine or so cement blocks. Similarly, the sight of a colorful animated hop-scotch court touching a wall of these cement blocks and barbed wire, is burned, ingrained, tattooed somewhere deep inside me.
__________________________
I left Israel four weeks ago and began traveling around the Middle East. Fending off hawkers in Cairo, hitch-hiking between Hezbollah communities in southern Lebanon, sleeping under the sky on a shattered glass covered run-down roof in Amman, and splitting my time between a local family and IDF soldiers in Hebron. I found myself down and out when I was denied entry into Syria. I begged, pleaded, yelled, refused to leave, and was finally physically removed from the entry office. What a waste, I thought. I would now have to throw away more money and fly to Jordan. I decided to spend the week I would have given to Syria in the West Bank. I learned more during that single week, about the conflict and the Middle East, than I could have dreamed to learn during ten months in Yaffo.
I was detained while crossing from Jordan into Israel via the King Hussein/Allenby Bridge. It was foreseeable; my story was pretty ugly. Two and a half months ‘working’ in Israel, a new passport, Lebanese stamps, no cell phone numbers or places to stay in Israel. They detained the crap out of me. Hours and hours, four or five interviews, unpleasant questions about my beliefs, my family, my education and upbringing. I sat for four hours in an enclosed sitting area. Stiff metal connected seats, calmly, patiently, just waiting, not doubting for a second that I would get through.
There were 45 or so other people in the sitting area. Each woman was fully covered, many with only their eyes showing. Men were dark, many in religious attire, bearded. I sat down beside the only other white person there, a woman married to a Palestinian man and living in Bethlehem. She was flustered, tearing up, panicking, totally out of sorts off kilter uncomfortable freaking out. At first she just complained – moaning about being awake for 50 hours, not having eaten since the previous day’s lunch. My eyes traveled from her to the young girl sitting across from me, perhaps fourteen years old, beside her mother.
This girl had a backpack twice her size, her head was covered except for an innocent, full, smooth face, and was slightly hunched forward from the pack. She sat silently. Motionless. Never once complaining, getting upset, or even asking for food, water, or to use the bathroom.
I had seen her seven hours earlier (5:30am) at the Jordanian border in the exact same position. I can only imagine how ordinary this was for her. How normal it was to sit and wait. To be interrogated, to be held up, to be told to step out of line, fill out additional paperwork, and wait for further questioning.
I had no sympathy for the woman next to me. She began to cry. I asked her if she could imagine going through this every time she wanted to visit family, friends, to travel, even for work. She stopped crying for a moment, looked absently into my eyes, glanced at the girl, and continued to bawl. I moved to another section of the waiting area, disgusted. Weak. Get over yourself.
From the border I went south to Hebron. After shacking up in one of the two stupidly expensive hotels, I went out for dinner. I walked into a nearby restaurant, indicated that I was looking for dinner, and said (with phenomenal hand gestures) I wanted something BIG (hands fly out wide) and CHEAP (rubbing fingers to indicate money, then shaking my finger to illustrate I have none). Blank stare, no comprendo, the man must have thought I was crazy. A kid piped up behind me and in near perfect english told me to head around the corner for a great Shwarma. On the way he asked to hang out after I had finished eating. I was skeptical, as I am about every english-speaking local in the Middle East, but found I had little choice when the boy kept popping his head into the dive spot to make sure I was still there.
Tye was his name. An ‘activist’ to use his words. Well traveled, into making films, originally from Dubai, hates Hebron, and is dying to get a copy of the new Starcraft computer game. A friend of his was there too, Subeherr. Also spoke english, but not quite as well as Tye. Subeherr began smoking cigarettes and Nargilah when he was 13. With four sisters and stylish clothing he is all about the girls.
If Subeherr could go anywhere in the world it would be Jerusalem, then the United States.
A big futballer, Subeherr was slapping hands and kissing guys up and down Hebron’s main drag, while we walked sipping luke warm sodas.
That night they told be about life in Hebron. They go to an all boys school, are forbidden to look at let alone speak with girls, and find little to do except smoke cigarettes and walk up and down this street. They travel to Bethlehem after saving three weeks worth of allowance, where they can meet girls and go to a cinema.
Tye and Subeherr are terrified of Israeli soldiers, far more than local criminals. Both boys had multiple stories about horrific encounters with the IDF. Subeherr recalls a night a few months earlier when he was stopped and beaten by a soldier for walking on the wrong side of a street. Tye recalls stepping out of his father’s car, with his entire family, and watching two soldiers tare it to shreds looking for weapons and explosives.
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The next day Tye took me into Hebron’s old city, and toward the Jewish settlement. He wanted to get some footage for a film he was making about “how crazy the conflict is.”At one point he pulled me across the street to avoid two soldiers standing guard. He told me to watch out and stay clear of the soldiers. He was not able to give me much of a tour because he is Palestinian.
I spent four days in the old city and Jewish settlement. Two nights in a hotel and two nights in Tye’s home. He was scared of what his parents would think or do if they caught him bringing an American in to their home, so he had me sneak into his room. From a back alley, I climbed a ladder, crossed three roof tops, walked through an abandoned building, and crawled into Tye’s bedroom window. I would arrive late and leave early.
I became close with Yaron, an IDF commander in the settlement. I spent two six hour shifts with him, just sitting, talking, enjoying each others company. Long moments of silence, speaking softly, white broad smile behind a dark leathery face. He told me a few gut wrenching stories about his time in the army, and from before his service. In 2006, during the war with Lebanon, a rocket decimated his home. Luckily his family was out for the evening. Had they been home, Yaron would be without a mother, father, and four siblings.
At one point we heard over the radio that a rocket hit Sderot. It landed a few meters from his close friend’s home.
Yaron told me he fights because he is not sure that he will have a home tomorrow. He longs to get out of the army, after which he plans to work with children. He has one year left. I told him I would pray for a quiet year.
Yaron’s 17 day tour in Hebron is up on August 12, after which he will spend four days with his family in Haifa. I leave for my home on the 12th. He invited me for shabbos, and was very disappointed when I had to decline. He gave me one of his shirts as a parting gift. I have great respect for Yaron. A young man, 21 years old, who has seen so much, has endured and suffered and struggled through death and pain, but continues to smile. Continues to hope for a better tomorrow. Continues to laugh, to be open and caring, even with a complete stranger from the other side of the world.
I hope to see him again, perhaps in a different setting.
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I went to a demonstration outside a main gate entrance into the Jewish settlement. 60 or so foreigners, many Scandinavian, big cameras, Christian Peace Makers (fucing twisted ass activists wanna be peacemakers trouble causing close minded Americans who use their religion as an excuse and bring shame to the word Peace), signs, a few older male Arabs, one with a drum, and a donkey draped in an Israeli flag covered in red arabic. They screamed, chanted, beat the drum, all in the face of the IDF soldiers who were gathering outside the entrance. There was a fight. A man decked a soldier, taking him to the ground, rolling around. Immediately there was tear gas, screaming soldiers, and an armored vehicle roaring its engine. Kids went running into the old city.
A few minutes earlier Tye helped me speak to a small Arab boy. I asked, just as the demonstrators approached, if the boy was ever scared. He said “only when they shoot.”
I stood near the demonstration, but not close enough to be considered part of it. I didn’t agree with the objective, the method, the movement, none of it. When it began to disintegrate I caught up with the leader, a male Arab roughly 45 years old, and began arguing with him. He said the goal was to ‘tease’ the soldiers. I didn’t get it then, and don’t get it now. ‘Tease’ the soldiers.
And there I was. Jewish to get into the settlement and synagogue at Abraham’s burial, Christian to get into the Mosque and while I walked Hebron’s littered, lustful streets with covered women and angry boys. The synagogue and mosque are side by side, separated by bulletproof barriers and barred windows. The muslim side is quiet, a few men praying, carpeted, closed. The Jewish side is full of men women and children, a tour passes through, open to the sky, soldiers in the corners. I wonder if tours ever pass through the muslim side.
That to me was the conflict. Listening to Tye and Subeherr retell terrible stories of abuse and suffering at the hands of young IDF soldiers, while Yaron speaks of dead comrades and friends, losing his home and nearly his family. There is no good guy and bad guy in this conflict. No side in the right, and side in the wrong. Just immeasurable suffering. No end in sight. No peace, no coexistence, no resolution.
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The Hezbollah museum in southern Lebanon, Mileeta, has captions beneath artillery and beside bunkers which portray Israel as a terrorist state with bloodthirsty soldiers and fanatical leaders. It was clearly exaggerated, one sided, and favoring Hezbollah. Nevertheless, I found messages that used language in a similar distorted manner in the Jewish settlement. One sign read, “These buildings were constructed on land purchased by the Hebron Jewish community in 1807. This land was stolen by Arabs following the murder of 67 Hebron Jews in 1929. We demand Justice! Return our property to us!” A sign just a few meters away went into greater detail about the 1929 fighting, and said that the Arabs in “1929 suddenly launched a murderous terror assault…ghastly massacre [in which] 67 elderly, women, and children were tortured, raped, burned, and butchered.”
I did not take quotes from the Hezbollah museum, but both sides seem to be extremist, fanatical, manipulating, and of no benefit to those passing by or reading the messages.
I was reluctant to leave my new Palestinian crew, and found it more difficult to depart from Yaron. But I did, as we all do. I spent a few nights up north in Nablus. No soldiers, no cement blocks and barbed wire - just one side, just the Palestinians. I spent hours walking through the old city, run-down, dirty, narrow cobblestone passageways. Every door, window shutter, sign post, and flat surface is plastered with pictures of Arab fighters who have been killed in this conflict. I am dancing around the word Martyr. To the local population, the posters are of Martyrs. To others, perhaps murders. My father told me to choose my words carefully, but which do I choose? To Subeherr they are liberators, fighting for a better world. To Yaron, they are terrorists. To me they are victims. However you call them, the man with the M-16 or the boy with the AK-47 decked out in camouflage with a Palestinian-flag colored bandanna covering his nose and mouth, they are people who are now dead. A husband who has left his wife alone with her children. A son who has left parents to grow old alone. A brother who has left his siblings to fend for themselves. A future father who will not have children or a future politician who cannot advocate for better working conditions or a future shop keeper who cannot provide for a family or a future peace advocate, who will not help raise, rather than condition and indoctrinate the next generation.
A group of boys threw stones at me in Nablus. Perhaps they thought I was Jewish or recognized that I was a white foreigner, and therefore a supporter of Israel.
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A quick quote from my journal written while in Nablus –
“ Nas and Biggie as I sit in the hotel windowsill watching Nablus close down for the night. Family run barber shop across the street just closed, now the alley is dark. Cats. Older men pushing carts with leftover vegetables. Boys walking arm in arm. Minaret overlooking, offering its neon green blanket. Six gun shots. Cars obeying traffic signals. No soldiers or heavily armed guards like Hebron. Signs of Martyrs plastered all over old city walls. Kids with guns.
Now it’s A Tribe Called Quest while I dress an infected blister. Thinking about Yaron. Maybe he is on shift. Hopefully quiet. Orange street light fills my room. Fan, but doesn’t move the air. Sweat, walking or lying down. Never dry, never fresh. Two shekel falafel for dinner. Poverty, but people aren’t starving. Goodnight.”
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From the West Bank I crossed into Jerusalem. A city where extremist Jewish settlers can visit freely but innocent young teenagers like Tye and Subeherr will only dream about. I stayed at a hostel just inside the Jaffa Gate. I realized quickly that there is very little I like about the old city. I find it superficial, not pretty, not historic and only slightly interesting. However, there are one or two images that will stick with me.
Early morning and late night in the old city, boys pushing three wheeled carts with goods for their shop. Skinny, well dressed Arab boys. Heavy carts overflowing with vegetables or merchandise. Pushing pushing pushing these boys worked hard getting carts up and down stairs. I’ll never forget the dance they did to turn the cart.
The carts were makeshift and heavy, difficult to turn. Each time a boy wanted to turn the cart, even slightly to avoid a foot, post, or ditch, he would have to push, jump and land on one handle pressing all his weight to lift and pivot the front tire. A jump press wiggle shake and prrrressssss lean heavily on the left handle to push the cart slightly to the right. Every time he had to maneuver the cart, whether avoiding a tourist or swinging a 90 degree turn, you could catch this ritual dance. Ever two or three steps, the jump wiggle while laughing, calling out to men and boys on either side, yelling this and that, just doing his thing. If he needed to stop the cart, there was a tire dragging behind the cart attached by a chain that he would jump on while leaning back to slow, and eventually stop the cart. A very very very cool little act to watch.
Another image was the boys carrying tea on an elaborate sort of hanging tray. Whirling through crowds these boys would carry four six even eight cups of tea, swinging them around people and avoiding walls, all with perfect balance, delivering tea to elder men.
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And so it goes, another blog. Another attempt to capture thoughts, emotions, experiences, and fears with the right words. Not too many, not too few. Trying to include all of those powerful sights but failing miserably, to even begin to convey how I am feeling or what these past few weeks, months, have done to me. It’s so tough. I try to pour it out, to stay somewhat peaceful, diplomatic, to paint pictures that help you understand what I am going through, but it’s not easy. I guess that’s what makes a great writer.
I am ready to go home. I miss my family, my brothers, my parents. I miss my routine, the comforts of an easy life. I leave Israel far more confused than I arrived, with unanswerable questions, desires to see people I will never again meet, to explore the same rundown shacks and buildings that will be gone when or if I return. I do not know where I stand with Judaism. Do I let the man in Mea’Sharim, who screamed at me for not wearing a kippah calling me a terrible Jew and saying I do not belong in Israel, get to me and push me further away from Judaism. Or do I focus on Yaron who will pray tomorrow morning for peace, for security, for good health and accuracy if the moment arises. Who the fuck knows.
One thing is absolutely clear – This summer has been dynamic, frightening, eye opening, wild, delicious, wet, and mind blowing. I am a stronger healthier human being for doing what I did and seeing what I saw this summer.
I am not looking forward to the Middle East’s near future. I do, however, look forward to being a part of whatever that near future is, for better or for worse.
There is nothing better in this world than leaping outside of your comfort zone and drowning yourself in a different world. I did that this summer.
L’Chaim
SF
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Middle East I Shouldn't See
I left Israel for Cairo on Saturday evening. After a 12 hour layover in Istanbul, Justin and I landed in what would become the beginning of a true adventure. I will cover a lot in this blog - reflection about the time in Israel, conflicts both internal and external, as well as anticipation for what awaits beyond borders, safety nets, and comfort zones.
It's been weeks since I last wrote in my journal or blogged. I have not yet taken a single photograph. I regret the former, but understand both. Writing has always been a passion, and more recently a tool for me to open up, to process, understand, to explore, and to hide. I have been living in Yaffo, and by living I mean far more than sleeping, eating, and spending most of my time. I mean really living; dancing in a far off seemingly unfriendly culture comprised of people who look, sound, and act in a manner I have been taught to fear, or question, even challenge. I was not a tourist in Yaffo. Living through each day, allowing what I encountered to seep into my person and my spirit.
Yaffo became a part of me. The cats fighting and children crying. The smell of fresh tobacco, steaming tea, succulent vegetables covered in flies, handled by Arabs, Ethiopian Jews, covered women, and dirty children. It was no paradise. No sheltered community protected from the realities of blood, politics, religion, and safety. It was my conflict. People who were tired of war, of loss, of suffering. Tired of children carrying rucksacks and fully automatic rifles. Tired of a life shaped by paranoia and mistrust. It was not easy for me to leave Yaffo. It is not with support for one side or the other that I leave Yaffo. But rather a taste for what prolonged violence can do to an innocent population.
The objective of SCB (and this could be entirely wrong) was to send me to Israel where I would 'experience' the 'conflict,' intern in a cross-border NGO, and even 'help' something or someone. I wonder if I fulfilled that mission. My apartment was beautiful, looking out over Tel Aviv and Yaffo. I ate well, went out in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem with friends, friends of friends, and strangers. I spent time on the beach playing games, living life, enjoying youth. How did I experience the conflict? At the Peres Center? Enclosed in a protected, air-conditioned, gorgeous cement and glass ultra modern building 25 paces from the most beautiful beach I have ever seen? We often had lunch along the water, dropping 35 Shekels on a Shuk Shuka or hamburger.
Was it through the people I met? Cab drivers in Jerusalem, in the West Bank, the police or store clerk in Sderot? What did I do, if anything, that came remotely close to experiencing the conflict? I'm not sure, and I don't think I will know for a very long time.
I should not downplay my time at the Peres Center and in Israel. Powerful encounters with adults and children. I had the privilege of observing activities through the Center, and met one or two dozen hard working, respectable individuals who are giving the prime of their lives to good, honest work. Holding Kazaam rockets in Sderot, walking in and out of bomb shelters, hearing a nine year old girl excitedly describe them as "gifts from the government."
One of the most powerful moments was at a barbecue marking the end of a two year program bringing Palestinian and Israeli youth together. These were not kids, they were nearly adults - sixteen and seventeen years old. Both sides had gotten extremely close, many communicating on a daily basis. The scary part came when I realized the Israeli participants, the ones who had become so open and deeply connected with the Palestinians, would within a year be IDF soldiers kicking down doors, gutting cars, and patrolling the borders. Some said they would be different soldiers, but at the end of the day, how different can you really be?
In retrospect, the conflict I experienced is largely internal. Battling with Judaism and deconstructing my own perceptions of the Middle East turned my time in Israel into an emotional, spiritual battlefield. I felt pushed away from Judaism at Brandeis. Orthodox students are cliquey (I apologize for the generalization, just my take), often loud and usually in big groups. I find they act older than they are, but at the same time, am intimidated by their closeness to one another and the religion. During this time I questioned my relation to Judaism. I began to think of religion as a cult, an excuse for people to act certain ways, as a justification for harmful practices and beliefs. Only those religions (Hinduism and Buddhism come to mind) that called for, above absolutely everything else, peace of mind, body, and soul, as well as introspection, do not fall under this cult category. Upon arriving in Israel, I realized how much I dislike (from a purely superficial, judgmental, ignorant, even malicious perspective) the look of many Orthodox Jews. Young men with dirty, scruffy beards. Sweaty, smelly, wearing unsettling clothing day and night. So often they seem to be in a hurry. I found myself almost disgusted with such an extreme, unattractive look. How different, I wondered, are they from someone who covers their entire body except for their eyes, or wears a white full body length cloth and a red turban. The images that comes to mind when someone mentions 'terrorist.' Is it so far from an adult, male Orthodox Jew? (once again, I apologize if what i've written above is offensive. I do not mean to liken religious Jews to terrorists, or anything of the like. What I've written above is me being completely honest, open, and forthright about thoughts and emotions I deem worthy to be shared with others).
I began to see another side here in Israel. In Jerusalem one Friday night, I went to services for the first time in a few years. Several young men came in separately. All seemed to be roughly my age - casually dressed, each with a kippah and sidur. As they came in, they embraced one another - deeply, with kisses, hugs, and warm smiles. Almost as though they had returned from war.
I watched enviously as they prayed - reciting silently, singing loudly, all by heart. While I, sitting in the back, stammered through the prayers and sang softly. Were they bound by religion? Perhaps experience, or just growing up together. For whatever reason, these young men joined hands in shul, where they opened up to each other and seemed to pray as though they would meet God tomorrow.
Every Friday night Shirel had me come over for shabbat dinner. Boy can she cook! A few blessings, BIG meal, wine, laughter, pointed jokes and plenty of roasting. That, to me, is what I realize I love about Judaism, and religion in general. To look beyond the extremists, the politics, the rigidity and self-deprecation, toward the love, community, support - three things we could all use a bit more of.
I find myself yearning to adopt certain principles of Judaism, but brace myself against others. It is with this mindset that I am drawn to Islam. To fully covered, hidden women. Piercing eyes, soothing voices, masked, protected, terrorist. I like it. I love it, here in the Middle East, with these people, and Arabic. I feel alive here, in this culture, so far from what I know and love. A complex, misunderstood, rich part of the world.
I will return once more to the idea of 'experiencing' the conflict. How can I begin to understand, let alone experience what is taking place between Jews and Arabs, Palestinians and Israelis, in the Middle East. I am no soldier kicking down doors, or gutting cars. I am not a bereaved parent or sibling, and I have not encountered a ruthless IDF soldier in my bedroom. If anything, I am a tourist. Not even an original or adventurous traveller. Just a Brandeis student. I ask questions, read a book or two, argue, follow the news. In no way does that sound like anything except spending time in another country. I believe that I cannot begin to understand (anything) unless I am that soldier or that victim. Unless my house is destroyed, my brother killed in a suicide bombing, or my daughter given 15 seconds warning to sprint from her classroom to the bomb shelter and wait, terrified, until the alarm quiets. Not only will I not understand these people or this conflict, but I ought not fool myself into thinking that because I have done my research or asked my questions that I know whats going on.
I approached Gordon Fellman midway through 1st semester last year carrying my decision to join Army ROTC. I was confident if anyone could steer me away from it, he could do it. I told him weakly that one reason for my joining the Army was to experience the military. To feel combat, to meet those on the front lines, to feel the terror, stress, love, fright, and pride so closely associated with combat. I told Fellman I refused to continue judging my military, our wars, our soldiers and their actions when I myself had not been there and seen what they see every day. He countered by saying we judge things every day - Rape, murder, autotheft, for instance, are acts we condemn without experiencing them. At the time I felt defeated, he was right, I was wrong.
Thich Nhat Hanh wrote that to fully understand, to be capable of empathy and any degree of support, we must become one with that person. We judge and condemn these criminals, but we do not understand. Perhaps these are two separate issues - groundless judgement and understanding. Nevertheless, just as I have decided to join the Army (in part) because that is the only way I feel I can understand the machine, the people behind it, and the reason for it, I will not understand this Middle East conflict until I am in it. Living in Yaffo, working at the Peres Center does not cut it.
As I mentioned above, I write this from Cairo. In just three days the experience I have shared with Justin, with a few locals, and myself, is beyond this blog. On Wednesday I will fly to Lebanon, and hopefully gain entry into Syria, before moving south to Jordan and back to Israel. I am falling in love with this culture, with these people, and with the language. I will not tell people I am Jewish, and I will not talk politics. I am confident I will be met with smiles, people trying to get my money, support, warm handshakes, delicious food, advice, and moments that will change my life.
I am eager for new cities, scary lonesome dark streets, challenges, and encounters that will shake my deepest most concrete beliefs.
Although I have failed to experience the conflict, I am, and will continue to experience life without borders, without preconceived notions, without shame, fear, or hesitation, but with an insatiable appetite for adventure and understanding.
Lots and lots and lots of love
sf
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Stinky Feet in the Middle East
"How can there be peace when the only way to peace is not peace" "A country is not only what it does, it is also what it tolerates" "Here is a wall at which to weep" "Martyr for God" "Our blood is the same color" "Live love love life"
These are words grafittied on the wall, or barrier, or fence, or whatever politically sour word you choose to call it, on the outskirts of Bethlehem. It is massive, and ugly, looking down on anyone walking by. I have a similar structure near my home; it was designed to insulate highway traffic and give us a more quiet, peaceful setting.
"The wall is screaming," I noted in my journal after leaving the West Bank city. Such an emotional trek exploring Bethlehem, Deisha, and standing at the base of the barrier. We started at the Church of Nativity, where Jesus was born, or ate, or spent some time, or who really knows what. Beautiful, with high arches, uneven steps leading deeper into a musty, claustrophobic spiritual cauldron, ornate chandeliers, and dark corners. Tourists with their cameras, expensive, flashes, poses, to show to their East Asian or French or Italian or American friends that they were here, at this historical church, in the West Bank. I guess you can tell I wasn't so turned on by our time at the church. Perhaps things would have been different if fewer people tried to sell me jewelery, or give me an 'official tour,' or if there wasn't such a phony rush to take every possible picture, or kiss the exact place where Jesus was born. The adventure after the church was quite the opposite.
Leaving the church we decided to explore Bethlehem, or at least what we could find near the church. I took the lead, a potentially grave mistake. We crossed the church's courtyard, passed more tourists, more pictures, more expensive cameras, a small museum, a few pricey restaurants, and headed for the market. The street narrowed, arts and crafts became vegetables, became fish and meat, and tourists became locals. I took us left through this narrow tunnel around this stand, crossed over and back the other way, and made sure to get shamelessly lost.
The market opened up into a crowded city street lined with small shops, vendors, cars honking and trying to waddle through this mess of people. Not a single tourist. Not one. A Stinky Feet victory - lost, potentially unsafe, but no tourists. We were five - Shirel, Wajida, Anushka, Dan, and myself. Some stared, others smiled. A young boy, perhaps ten or twelve years old, came by pushing a rickety rusted shopping cart. We made eye contact and he immediately threw out a hand for a classic, internationally known, hand-clap finger interlock 'dap' handshake.
It was truly impressive. Here we were, two Americans, an Indian, a Pakistani, and an Israeli, strolling through a part of Bethlehem that was so totally alive with business, culture, music, and food, fifteen minutes from a major tourist attraction, but so authentic. This was a glimpse at life in the West Bank. No soldiers, no molotov cocktails or violently gutted cars. No rockets, no bomb shelters, just life, humming along. Lost as we may have been, we managed to grab a phenomenal lunch at a small shwarma and falafal shack, and get back to the church in one piece. From there we grabbed a taxi to Deisha, one of three refugee camps in Bethlehem.
After a ten minute drive the car pulled over and the driver said "here." No sign, particular building, or any indication that we were in the right spot. We crossed the street and entered a sort of back alley which looked like it would open up. It did. We were absolutely in the right place. An upper-class shanty town, half constructed concrete homes, garbage strewn along the street, Arabic and Hebrew graffiti on every wall, and children. "Welcome welcome" they yelled, or "Hello, how are you?" in perfect English. It was likely the only phrase they knew, because we could not solicit any other words from them. I say "them" and refer to kids that peaked out from behind walls, children that called down to us from behind barred windows, and a few fearless ones who walked right up to us.
I played a little ball with one who was convinced I was Michael Jordan. "Bye Michael!" he yelled while laughing as I walked away.
As we were leaving the camp I met a young boy walking with his two younger brothers, Wayid. Collard shoes, gelled hair, white teeth, stylish but scuffed jeans, and a dirty, bare feet. Although his brothers trailed, he walked shoulder to hip with me. After greeting and exchanging names, we spoke about football. He was rooting for Argentina, but couldn't quite explain why. It didn't matter. Gave him a big hi five, his brothers too, and he was off - to where? It was Tuesday at one thirty, he should have been in school.
We stopped by the wall just before the checkpoint. To most, ugly. To some, vital. The graffiti was powerful, whether it called for Arabs to destroy the Jewish state or called for both sides to tear down the wall. I consider it to be the symbol of apartheid, of struggle, of inequality, of a reluctance to embrace the creativity and ingenuity that would end this conflict.
The checkpoint was terrible. Ugly, barbed wire, looked like a prison. The dying potted plants and tourist posters depicting Nazareth as a paradise tacked on the orange wall make it all the less bearable. Sadly, those words come from someone who will never truly pass through the checkpoint, never begin to understand what it represents, or empathize with those who are forced to wait hours each day just to get to their menial job and put the bare minimum amount of food on their family's dinner table.
I live in Yafo, a predominantly Arab city a few minutes south of Tel Aviv. Similar to Brooklyn, Yafo is an up and coming trendy spot for young wealthy Jews, entrepreneurs, and boasts a gorgeous coastline and a generic 'old-city.' My flat is in a new compound, five minutes in from the coast (where one can tour the old city, eat at a gratuitously expensive sea side restaurant, or lounge in a cafe overlooking the water), on the border between expensive cafes and hustle bustle city life. I shop at an Arab market where I rarely understand what I am buying, but always enjoy the surprise. Fresh pita every morning, the best Hummus and Mesabacha in the Middle East from a small restaurant called Abu Nassan. Open six days a week, Abu Nassan has seats for roughly 15 people, but is always preparing food for at least forty. They have no official open hours. When they have food, they serve it. If they run out of Peta or hummus, they close. I was once on line with about ten people and out came one of the older men who worked there saying in Arabic, Hebrew, then English, "We're out of hummus, my sorries, my sorries. You'll have to come back tomorrow." And we did. People left without hesitation, we all knew the food would be there tomorrow, and it would be fresh, and warm, and delicious.
The four other SCB Fellows live together in Jerusalem. In many respects I live alone. My flat is quiet, large sliding doors that are always open inviting a cool breeze. A roof overlooking Yafo, part of the water, and Tel Aviv in the near distance. Its a good energy, clean, cozy apartment. I could not ask for anything nicer.
I often hear the Adhan while reading, or eating, from three nearby Minarets. I find the call comforting, even inviting. I am fascinated by Islam, even the extremism.
Quickly about work with the Peres Center for Peace. Young, vibrant, motivated staff, doing incredible work. Whether it is team building with small Palestinian and Israeli children, or bringing a group of 45 Palestinian businessmen to a convention in Jerusalem, the work is powerful, and vital in the struggle to create a lasting peace in the region. Although I do not contribute much, and my day to day tasks are generally small research projects, filing, typical intern right-of-passage busy work, I have had the privilege of meeting Arab and Jewish individuals who are committed to bringing peace to the Middle East, and attending the grassroots activities that lay the foundation for a future of coexistance. It is an honor to be at the Peres Center.
I have done my best to dive into the conflict throughout the past five weeks. Reading the news every day, reading testimonies published by human rights groups, books on the 48 war, on the origins of US-Israeli relations, all of it. Drinking as much of the stuff as I can get a hold of. I find it frightening that you can find brilliant, credible intellects and scholars that support completely different approaches to ending the conflict, and create opposing histories of the nation. What to believe, who to read, how to argue, piece together, understand. I had an Arab-Israeli coworker tell me the other day to 'go home, don't worry about us. This is our problem. Why bother yourself with this nonsense, you have a comfortable safe home. Don't stress. Let us deal with this."
How do I respond to that?
I say its an honor to be at the Peres Center, it is also an honor to be here, working in Israel, as an SCB Fellow. Proof that there are many people out there, students and adults alike, who have decided to bother themselves with this conflict. To act, to observe, to learn, to spread messages and call for more support.
I, as well as the other SCB Fellows, are here in what seems to be a historical moment. The Flotilla, culminating intolerance for the blockade, and looming war with Iran. A melting pot of emotions, politics, and discomfort, for all of us, myself included.
I am about to leave the Jerusalem flat for Tel Aviv. It was yet another wild shabbos, with delicious home cooking thanks to Shirel, drinks, laughter, and emotional breakdowns. Its thrilling to be here, alone and with the other fellows.
I have my sights set on Egypt, Jordan, and Lebanon. Who ever said 'one step at a time' was flat out false. A no name bum status nudnick who probably had a lousy life. I whole heartedly disagree. Skipping steps, jumping down entire stairwells, or riding banisters is a much better way to go about life.
All is well. Moderately safe, clean, and healthy. My feet have been black for a few weeks but that hasn't been an issue.
I miss home very much. Only when you leave behind the routine, the values, challenges, comforts, good space, parents, brothers, emotions, drama, indescribably immature inside jokes and stories, do you begin to appreciate it.
Thoughts and emotions frequently tap into my joining the Army. Particularly here, in a culture where boys and girls carry fully automatic weapons every where they go.
Much much more to come
Lots of love from he who hast ferociously stinky feet
Onward!
These are words grafittied on the wall, or barrier, or fence, or whatever politically sour word you choose to call it, on the outskirts of Bethlehem. It is massive, and ugly, looking down on anyone walking by. I have a similar structure near my home; it was designed to insulate highway traffic and give us a more quiet, peaceful setting.
"The wall is screaming," I noted in my journal after leaving the West Bank city. Such an emotional trek exploring Bethlehem, Deisha, and standing at the base of the barrier. We started at the Church of Nativity, where Jesus was born, or ate, or spent some time, or who really knows what. Beautiful, with high arches, uneven steps leading deeper into a musty, claustrophobic spiritual cauldron, ornate chandeliers, and dark corners. Tourists with their cameras, expensive, flashes, poses, to show to their East Asian or French or Italian or American friends that they were here, at this historical church, in the West Bank. I guess you can tell I wasn't so turned on by our time at the church. Perhaps things would have been different if fewer people tried to sell me jewelery, or give me an 'official tour,' or if there wasn't such a phony rush to take every possible picture, or kiss the exact place where Jesus was born. The adventure after the church was quite the opposite.
Leaving the church we decided to explore Bethlehem, or at least what we could find near the church. I took the lead, a potentially grave mistake. We crossed the church's courtyard, passed more tourists, more pictures, more expensive cameras, a small museum, a few pricey restaurants, and headed for the market. The street narrowed, arts and crafts became vegetables, became fish and meat, and tourists became locals. I took us left through this narrow tunnel around this stand, crossed over and back the other way, and made sure to get shamelessly lost.
The market opened up into a crowded city street lined with small shops, vendors, cars honking and trying to waddle through this mess of people. Not a single tourist. Not one. A Stinky Feet victory - lost, potentially unsafe, but no tourists. We were five - Shirel, Wajida, Anushka, Dan, and myself. Some stared, others smiled. A young boy, perhaps ten or twelve years old, came by pushing a rickety rusted shopping cart. We made eye contact and he immediately threw out a hand for a classic, internationally known, hand-clap finger interlock 'dap' handshake.
It was truly impressive. Here we were, two Americans, an Indian, a Pakistani, and an Israeli, strolling through a part of Bethlehem that was so totally alive with business, culture, music, and food, fifteen minutes from a major tourist attraction, but so authentic. This was a glimpse at life in the West Bank. No soldiers, no molotov cocktails or violently gutted cars. No rockets, no bomb shelters, just life, humming along. Lost as we may have been, we managed to grab a phenomenal lunch at a small shwarma and falafal shack, and get back to the church in one piece. From there we grabbed a taxi to Deisha, one of three refugee camps in Bethlehem.
After a ten minute drive the car pulled over and the driver said "here." No sign, particular building, or any indication that we were in the right spot. We crossed the street and entered a sort of back alley which looked like it would open up. It did. We were absolutely in the right place. An upper-class shanty town, half constructed concrete homes, garbage strewn along the street, Arabic and Hebrew graffiti on every wall, and children. "Welcome welcome" they yelled, or "Hello, how are you?" in perfect English. It was likely the only phrase they knew, because we could not solicit any other words from them. I say "them" and refer to kids that peaked out from behind walls, children that called down to us from behind barred windows, and a few fearless ones who walked right up to us.
I played a little ball with one who was convinced I was Michael Jordan. "Bye Michael!" he yelled while laughing as I walked away.
As we were leaving the camp I met a young boy walking with his two younger brothers, Wayid. Collard shoes, gelled hair, white teeth, stylish but scuffed jeans, and a dirty, bare feet. Although his brothers trailed, he walked shoulder to hip with me. After greeting and exchanging names, we spoke about football. He was rooting for Argentina, but couldn't quite explain why. It didn't matter. Gave him a big hi five, his brothers too, and he was off - to where? It was Tuesday at one thirty, he should have been in school.
We stopped by the wall just before the checkpoint. To most, ugly. To some, vital. The graffiti was powerful, whether it called for Arabs to destroy the Jewish state or called for both sides to tear down the wall. I consider it to be the symbol of apartheid, of struggle, of inequality, of a reluctance to embrace the creativity and ingenuity that would end this conflict.
The checkpoint was terrible. Ugly, barbed wire, looked like a prison. The dying potted plants and tourist posters depicting Nazareth as a paradise tacked on the orange wall make it all the less bearable. Sadly, those words come from someone who will never truly pass through the checkpoint, never begin to understand what it represents, or empathize with those who are forced to wait hours each day just to get to their menial job and put the bare minimum amount of food on their family's dinner table.
I live in Yafo, a predominantly Arab city a few minutes south of Tel Aviv. Similar to Brooklyn, Yafo is an up and coming trendy spot for young wealthy Jews, entrepreneurs, and boasts a gorgeous coastline and a generic 'old-city.' My flat is in a new compound, five minutes in from the coast (where one can tour the old city, eat at a gratuitously expensive sea side restaurant, or lounge in a cafe overlooking the water), on the border between expensive cafes and hustle bustle city life. I shop at an Arab market where I rarely understand what I am buying, but always enjoy the surprise. Fresh pita every morning, the best Hummus and Mesabacha in the Middle East from a small restaurant called Abu Nassan. Open six days a week, Abu Nassan has seats for roughly 15 people, but is always preparing food for at least forty. They have no official open hours. When they have food, they serve it. If they run out of Peta or hummus, they close. I was once on line with about ten people and out came one of the older men who worked there saying in Arabic, Hebrew, then English, "We're out of hummus, my sorries, my sorries. You'll have to come back tomorrow." And we did. People left without hesitation, we all knew the food would be there tomorrow, and it would be fresh, and warm, and delicious.
The four other SCB Fellows live together in Jerusalem. In many respects I live alone. My flat is quiet, large sliding doors that are always open inviting a cool breeze. A roof overlooking Yafo, part of the water, and Tel Aviv in the near distance. Its a good energy, clean, cozy apartment. I could not ask for anything nicer.
I often hear the Adhan while reading, or eating, from three nearby Minarets. I find the call comforting, even inviting. I am fascinated by Islam, even the extremism.
Quickly about work with the Peres Center for Peace. Young, vibrant, motivated staff, doing incredible work. Whether it is team building with small Palestinian and Israeli children, or bringing a group of 45 Palestinian businessmen to a convention in Jerusalem, the work is powerful, and vital in the struggle to create a lasting peace in the region. Although I do not contribute much, and my day to day tasks are generally small research projects, filing, typical intern right-of-passage busy work, I have had the privilege of meeting Arab and Jewish individuals who are committed to bringing peace to the Middle East, and attending the grassroots activities that lay the foundation for a future of coexistance. It is an honor to be at the Peres Center.
I have done my best to dive into the conflict throughout the past five weeks. Reading the news every day, reading testimonies published by human rights groups, books on the 48 war, on the origins of US-Israeli relations, all of it. Drinking as much of the stuff as I can get a hold of. I find it frightening that you can find brilliant, credible intellects and scholars that support completely different approaches to ending the conflict, and create opposing histories of the nation. What to believe, who to read, how to argue, piece together, understand. I had an Arab-Israeli coworker tell me the other day to 'go home, don't worry about us. This is our problem. Why bother yourself with this nonsense, you have a comfortable safe home. Don't stress. Let us deal with this."
How do I respond to that?
I say its an honor to be at the Peres Center, it is also an honor to be here, working in Israel, as an SCB Fellow. Proof that there are many people out there, students and adults alike, who have decided to bother themselves with this conflict. To act, to observe, to learn, to spread messages and call for more support.
I, as well as the other SCB Fellows, are here in what seems to be a historical moment. The Flotilla, culminating intolerance for the blockade, and looming war with Iran. A melting pot of emotions, politics, and discomfort, for all of us, myself included.
I am about to leave the Jerusalem flat for Tel Aviv. It was yet another wild shabbos, with delicious home cooking thanks to Shirel, drinks, laughter, and emotional breakdowns. Its thrilling to be here, alone and with the other fellows.
I have my sights set on Egypt, Jordan, and Lebanon. Who ever said 'one step at a time' was flat out false. A no name bum status nudnick who probably had a lousy life. I whole heartedly disagree. Skipping steps, jumping down entire stairwells, or riding banisters is a much better way to go about life.
All is well. Moderately safe, clean, and healthy. My feet have been black for a few weeks but that hasn't been an issue.
I miss home very much. Only when you leave behind the routine, the values, challenges, comforts, good space, parents, brothers, emotions, drama, indescribably immature inside jokes and stories, do you begin to appreciate it.
Thoughts and emotions frequently tap into my joining the Army. Particularly here, in a culture where boys and girls carry fully automatic weapons every where they go.
Much much more to come
Lots of love from he who hast ferociously stinky feet
Onward!
Sunday, May 10, 2009
How Real Men do Machu Picchu
End of Friday May 1st - Monday May 4th
'Joe and I agreed to make this an early one, tomorrow morning we leave for Machu Picchu. Unpacked and repacked my big bag, tried to get ahead of the game for tomorrow - Joe chose not to do the same.
I crawled home at about 3:30 this morning, fell out of bed at seven to begin getting ready for our trek. Joe was no where to be found. We agreed to leave at nine, so I figured he would be back at any moment.
I put together ten ham and cheese sandwhiches, double checked my bag, put what I decided not to take in storage, and melted into a couch in the Hostal. Still no Joe. At eleven he walked in, eyes bloodshot, skin pale, barely able to walk let alone formulate a complete sentence. This miserable heap of young adult managed to tell me he didn't sleep last night and woke up at a hostal in a stranger's bed across town. Sounded like a great night, just not before our trek.
Slowly but surely he began to pack. I had already put together a few apples, oreos, the sandwhiches, two big cans of Pork n Beans, and five liters of water. At the last minute I thought we would need a bit more food, so I boiled eight hot dogs and threw them in a plastic bag for the adventure. We left at 11:45, Saturday.
Half hour walk out of town to the Santiago Bus Terminal where we each paid 15 sol for a ticket to Santa Maria, half way to Quillabamba. Forty five minute wait, busted out a few sandwhiches nad Joe fell right to sleep sitting outside on a rusted bench. As we sat waiting for the bus, I noticed two young girls staring at us from the crack between a wall and door across the street. Each time my eyes met theirs, they would giggle. A few minuets later they shyly walked over towards where Joe and I were sitting, each holding a broken slab of concrete. They began to mark the pavement right next to me. 'Hopscotch' I heard Joe mumble. Sure enough, the squares and numbers were etched into the ground and without a moments delay out came the laughing, jumping, and beautiful spirit of these young Peruvian girls. They both wore shiny black shoes, tattered jeans, and a stain covered pink zip up sweatshirt.
The bus was an hour late, but when it did finally arrive it was comfortable. Joe and I had back row seats. The road was literally U turn after U turn, us back row boys felt each turn as though we were on a rollercoaster. The next six hours turned out to be the most beautiful bus ride of my trip. Looming snow capped mountins, riding above and below the clouds, frost forming on the windows, tiny huts growing out from the side of mountains, an occasional waterfall. Magnificant bus ride. Even though Joe slept the ENTIRE time, my appreciation was sufficient for both of us.
We arrived in Santa Maria just before eight pm. Quick and easy finding a colectivo for the one hour schlep to nearby Santa Taresa. All three drivers bumrushed the bus, somehow they seemed to know where we gringos were headed. Multiple drivers makes bargaining easy. Five minutes after stepping off the bus we were off to Santa Taresa for two and a half sols each.
Santa Taresa, like Santa Maria, is tiny. To say we arrived in the center is mos o menos the same as saying we stopped at the outskirtsof town. At nine we paid the 85 cents for the colectivo and set off on foot. The sun had long since set, slight drizzle, just cool enough to see each breath. Our first Point of Reference was the hydroelectric plant two hours away. From there it would be two more to the botttom of Machu Picchu, leaving one final blood bath 2400m slippery dippery climb to the top. We got off to a terrible start.
A kind woman directed us to the road that would lead us 'straight' to the plant. We didn't find the road. It took another pleasant elderly woman and finally a five year old to lead me literally by the hand to the stone steps down into dark abyss that would mark the beginning of our five hour walk. Five minutes later the stone path split four ways. FUCK! We took the path that lead towards a futbol pitch and what appeared to be a school.
There was an open lock on the gate, we pushed it open and walked in. Gavbe a few yells, sent up a prayer or two so as not to be shot. A young boy (12, 13 years?) came out with a headlamp and kindly pointed us in the right direction. He told us we would need to cross the 'puente.' I then asked Joe the second very stupid question of the trip. Thinking back to the Lost City trek and tiny, baby river crossings, I asked Joe if he was going to tkae off his shoes for the crossing. Little did I knowthis was no little river. This was a white rolling roaring ripping screaming fucking bucking bronco of a river! Death to he who set foot too close to the edge!!
After this kid pointed and we set off again, we still didn't make it. Walked right past the path down to the river. Luckily the kid had kept an eye on us. He came out and walked us to the path. Finally we were good to go, or so we thought. Four wrong turns, four people helping us and it wasn't even 9:30! Lord be with us...
We reached the puente and crossed the bridge laughing about my ridiculous question. Realizing then that my question earlier this morning about whether to wear shoes or flip flops was equally fricken retarted!
Incident free for roughly 20 minutes, after which we came to our first fork in the road. No easy logical reason to go one way or the other. Joe said one path looked a bit more beaten, I said we should try going up the other for 15 minutes but went with Joes better judgement. Glad I did because 30 minutes lter we asked some people in a small home half hidden from the road and they pushed us on the same way laughing and smiling while patting our backs. They dropped the same key phrase, 'straight,' which I took to mean no more intersections, one road one direction.
Before we had worked up even a slight sweat not only did we come to another fork, but there was another bridge! An hour in and we were stuck. Nothing to do but sit back, have a sandwhich, and choose one way to go. Joe wanted a spliff, I was too concerned. Its late, dark, raining, cold, and we are two lost lonely gringos, WHAT WERE WE THINKING??!!
The bridge led back towards Santa Taresa, I said we should keep on, continue hugging that lion of a river. Spent the next few minutes walking silently, up hill, down hill, barking dogs, silent homes, not knowing if we were going the right way. Both of us tired, little down, needing motivation.
Just when we needed it most, a colectivo came driving by. Sure enough we were heading towards the plant. Laughing at us through gritted teeth the young dude offered us a ride, even for free. We were too jazzed, sent his behind packin!
At eleven we reached the hydroelectric plant, right on point with the two hours. Fence, metal, lights, sleeping guards, nothing pretty or attractive but it was a victory for us. Nearly half way!!! The next two hours would be along train tracks. Nice and 'straight,' ish, we hoped.
We ducked into a small restaurant and paid a gratuitous amount for the best Powerade and Sprite we had ever tasted. Hung out there for an hour, I got some kip as joe skinned a spliff, avoiding the rain which had gathered significant strength.
A security guard told us to stay on these tracks until the third SALIDA sign, at which point we would just need to make a right and continue straight. My understanding was that that third sign would appear in more or less two hours. It sprang up in ten minutes. Slightly confused we left the tracks and began following a fuzzy path up hill through the woods. Note - My headlamp is a Saint that deserves to be knighted! Godsend!! We wound up at another set of railroad tracks, left, rainy, dark, right, rainy, dark, no signs, another intersection. Decided to go left, the same direction we had been heading in all night.
So it began, two horus, 120 minutes, 7200 seconds, looking down skipping block to block. Still drizzling, thick brush seeming to creep in on us from both sides. We were in good spirits. Joe decided to light up, I joined figuring there could be no better time than at 12:30am, in the rain, while walking alone along treacherous defunct train tracks with nothing (and hopefully noone) for miles in either direction. I tried the stuff a few years ago and really did't like it. Spitting, no high, itchy eyes, fuck that I thought, I've got better things to do with my time... until now.... Slow, shallow drags, trying hard not to cough. It was the first time I got high, and boy did it make those train tracks fun!! What better activity when stoned than walking on slippery train tracks in the dark... BRILLIANT! (sounds like something a Klebanow would do! idiots)
The endless laughing ensued, conversations with colorful topics ranged from fruit to Brazilian animals, and then we came to the mother of all bridges...
The metal rungs were slippery, widely and unevenly spaced, and I could not see the end with my torch. Laughing we said LES DO IT!! and started across. Not only did we not know how long it was, but it was the highest we had come to, shakey blocks, water roaring 20 ft below. About 15 steps in Joe stopped - 'Jordan my legs are shaking, I can't do it man I'm scared (maybe he meant to say stoned?).' He began to sit down, slowly bending over placing the joint on a nearby block. ' Joe!!, pass me the spliff, its all good, were going back' were my words of comfort. At that moment as we were beginning to head back I turned and saw a walkway on one side of the bridge. Reached land kisisng the ground and dying of laughter. After taking the path we realized there were about 150 steps to the bridge - ENORMOUS!!! We would not have been happy campers.
Off we were, on the rungs again, chatting away like old women. At about 2:15 we saw street lights not far from the tracks. Came to small factory alongside the tracks and decided to investigate. After straying from the tracks we crossed a daughter sized bridge and found that we had reached the base of Machu Picchu!! We knew this because a big sign read 'Welcome to Machu Picchu.' Not too excited though, victory yes, but we knew the pain that was about to become reality with the final one hour hike UP. During the day most people jump on the seven dollar (DOLLAR!! not sol, dollar!) bus ride to the top. At 2:30 in the morning its pretty quiet. Onwards!
It was painful. Hard enough after some sleep and a meal, but we were going on no sleep, largly empty bellies, and after four hours of trekking about! Slow go, especially for me with four liters of water and the canned (beast 570g cans!) beans. Alas, we made it. Reached the top thoroughly dead at 3:40am. The place was a dead as Joe and I, no security, no fellow bums. Found two benches near the ticket window. Joe ate his last sandwhich, I dropped mind (Sticking to the five second rule would have gotten me the dirtiest sandwhich I have ever seen, I though better of it). We had about an hour and a half ot go before tickets would be sold. We got 'comfy' on the benches.
Just after we laid down it began to rain hard. The canvas over us was full of holes, offered us no protection, cold and wet we were not happy. Neither of us slept.
How many people can say they were the first into the park!!!!! Victory for the exhausted miserable smelly bums!! Followed the signs to Wayna Picchu but chose to return at 10am. Heavy fog slowly began to lift, surrounded by mountains, above the clouds, it was awsome, inspiring, powerful. I am not one to hoot and hollar about the actual stones, ancient stairs or baths, sculptures, but I have never seen a landscape as stunning as the one from the top of Machu Picchu.
Joe and I had trouble functioning. Walked around for a while but quickly found a nice rock drenched in sun to sleep on. As is normally the case, Joe fell right to sleep. Took me longer but I eventually succeeded in using my knee as a pillow.
The climb up Wayna Picchu was greuling, but not quite a bad as up Machu Picchu itself. By our ten o clock date with this hidden beauty overshadowed by Machu Picchu, the sun had done away with the fog. One could see for miles in every direction. I don't have the words to describe the sensation experienced sitting thousands of meters above water, drowning in a sea of mountains. Just don't know which phrases do those moments justice.
Three hours at the main site, two more slipping and sliding around Wayna, we had seen enough. Time to begin the long haul back. At 12:45 we found the exit. Sandwhiches gone, ate our last four hot (raw cold) dogs, last apple for me, out of water as well. We inquired about the cost of a bottle of water at the MP restaurant shindig and were told a small half liter bottle went for eight sol (roughly $2.66). Bear in mind we bought our 2.5 liter bottles for 2 sol (66 cents) back in the city. We couldn't believe it, decided to go thirsty.
The walk down Machu Picchu was tough on the knees, ankles, not fun. Joe and I were beyond tired, our spirits low, especially without water. Not as much talking, uncertainties as to our making it all the way back to Santa Taresa on foot. I decided to fill an empty bottle with stream water when we came to the first bridge. Only a little bit of garbage, one or two toxic waste barrels floating by, nothing a yank like me can't handle. It was delicious!! Gave me new life! Joe had bought a bottle for three sol a few minutes earlier. Looked like we were going to make it after all!
Next issue at hand was food. I still had two giant cans of Pork n Beans. Thought about making a fire by the tracks, didn't seem doable. Three horus into the walk, when we reached the hydroelectric plant, I broke down. Busted open a can with my knife and went to town. Joe waited to see if I would turn green or shrivel up befoer venturing a bite. Like the water, the beans were awesome! You can't go wrong with canned beans, cooked further or not, they are a five star grade A non kosher DELIGHT!
The walk back to Santa Taresa was warm and bright, aka boring! But we made it. Colectivo to Santa Maria where we sat outside for two hours waiting for a bus. When it arrived, it was full. Standing room only. For the first half hour Joe, myself and a few others stood in the aisle. For the rest of the ride, Joe lay sprawled out in the aisle and fell asleep. I sat knees to chest stuffed in the aisle between seats so as not to roll around. It was a miserble ride, and it takes a lot for me to say that. Eight hours in that terrible position, I didn't sleep for more than five minutes at a time. Obnoxious women kept pushing me around, stepping on me, felt a hand make its way to my butt with my wallet on a few occasions. Bus rides are really never fun or enjoyable, they're usually bad or less bad. This one was awful!
Arrived back in Cuzco at 5:40 Monday morning. I didn't realize until I got off the bus and tried to tell Joe something that I couldn't speak. Literally, no sound, nothing. I had developed a nasty cold on the bus (still sick more than a week later). I felt horrible. We had a laugh about it in the taxi back to the Hostal. What a fucking adventure. 16 hours of walking after no sleep and little food, 14 hours on a bus, two and a half in colectivos, and a few unaccounted for. We made it. Fourteen dollars round trip, there and back. Compared to the normal 100 dollar train fare or 150 dollar tour.
VICTORY FOR THE BUMS IN BLUE!
Fell asleep sick and fully clothed at 6am Monday morning. '
Not much more to say, that's enough of a plate full.
Hope all is well on the homefront, everyone is healthy and safe.
My love to you all!!
xx
'Joe and I agreed to make this an early one, tomorrow morning we leave for Machu Picchu. Unpacked and repacked my big bag, tried to get ahead of the game for tomorrow - Joe chose not to do the same.
I crawled home at about 3:30 this morning, fell out of bed at seven to begin getting ready for our trek. Joe was no where to be found. We agreed to leave at nine, so I figured he would be back at any moment.
I put together ten ham and cheese sandwhiches, double checked my bag, put what I decided not to take in storage, and melted into a couch in the Hostal. Still no Joe. At eleven he walked in, eyes bloodshot, skin pale, barely able to walk let alone formulate a complete sentence. This miserable heap of young adult managed to tell me he didn't sleep last night and woke up at a hostal in a stranger's bed across town. Sounded like a great night, just not before our trek.
Slowly but surely he began to pack. I had already put together a few apples, oreos, the sandwhiches, two big cans of Pork n Beans, and five liters of water. At the last minute I thought we would need a bit more food, so I boiled eight hot dogs and threw them in a plastic bag for the adventure. We left at 11:45, Saturday.
Half hour walk out of town to the Santiago Bus Terminal where we each paid 15 sol for a ticket to Santa Maria, half way to Quillabamba. Forty five minute wait, busted out a few sandwhiches nad Joe fell right to sleep sitting outside on a rusted bench. As we sat waiting for the bus, I noticed two young girls staring at us from the crack between a wall and door across the street. Each time my eyes met theirs, they would giggle. A few minuets later they shyly walked over towards where Joe and I were sitting, each holding a broken slab of concrete. They began to mark the pavement right next to me. 'Hopscotch' I heard Joe mumble. Sure enough, the squares and numbers were etched into the ground and without a moments delay out came the laughing, jumping, and beautiful spirit of these young Peruvian girls. They both wore shiny black shoes, tattered jeans, and a stain covered pink zip up sweatshirt.
The bus was an hour late, but when it did finally arrive it was comfortable. Joe and I had back row seats. The road was literally U turn after U turn, us back row boys felt each turn as though we were on a rollercoaster. The next six hours turned out to be the most beautiful bus ride of my trip. Looming snow capped mountins, riding above and below the clouds, frost forming on the windows, tiny huts growing out from the side of mountains, an occasional waterfall. Magnificant bus ride. Even though Joe slept the ENTIRE time, my appreciation was sufficient for both of us.
We arrived in Santa Maria just before eight pm. Quick and easy finding a colectivo for the one hour schlep to nearby Santa Taresa. All three drivers bumrushed the bus, somehow they seemed to know where we gringos were headed. Multiple drivers makes bargaining easy. Five minutes after stepping off the bus we were off to Santa Taresa for two and a half sols each.
Santa Taresa, like Santa Maria, is tiny. To say we arrived in the center is mos o menos the same as saying we stopped at the outskirtsof town. At nine we paid the 85 cents for the colectivo and set off on foot. The sun had long since set, slight drizzle, just cool enough to see each breath. Our first Point of Reference was the hydroelectric plant two hours away. From there it would be two more to the botttom of Machu Picchu, leaving one final blood bath 2400m slippery dippery climb to the top. We got off to a terrible start.
A kind woman directed us to the road that would lead us 'straight' to the plant. We didn't find the road. It took another pleasant elderly woman and finally a five year old to lead me literally by the hand to the stone steps down into dark abyss that would mark the beginning of our five hour walk. Five minutes later the stone path split four ways. FUCK! We took the path that lead towards a futbol pitch and what appeared to be a school.
There was an open lock on the gate, we pushed it open and walked in. Gavbe a few yells, sent up a prayer or two so as not to be shot. A young boy (12, 13 years?) came out with a headlamp and kindly pointed us in the right direction. He told us we would need to cross the 'puente.' I then asked Joe the second very stupid question of the trip. Thinking back to the Lost City trek and tiny, baby river crossings, I asked Joe if he was going to tkae off his shoes for the crossing. Little did I knowthis was no little river. This was a white rolling roaring ripping screaming fucking bucking bronco of a river! Death to he who set foot too close to the edge!!
After this kid pointed and we set off again, we still didn't make it. Walked right past the path down to the river. Luckily the kid had kept an eye on us. He came out and walked us to the path. Finally we were good to go, or so we thought. Four wrong turns, four people helping us and it wasn't even 9:30! Lord be with us...
We reached the puente and crossed the bridge laughing about my ridiculous question. Realizing then that my question earlier this morning about whether to wear shoes or flip flops was equally fricken retarted!
Incident free for roughly 20 minutes, after which we came to our first fork in the road. No easy logical reason to go one way or the other. Joe said one path looked a bit more beaten, I said we should try going up the other for 15 minutes but went with Joes better judgement. Glad I did because 30 minutes lter we asked some people in a small home half hidden from the road and they pushed us on the same way laughing and smiling while patting our backs. They dropped the same key phrase, 'straight,' which I took to mean no more intersections, one road one direction.
Before we had worked up even a slight sweat not only did we come to another fork, but there was another bridge! An hour in and we were stuck. Nothing to do but sit back, have a sandwhich, and choose one way to go. Joe wanted a spliff, I was too concerned. Its late, dark, raining, cold, and we are two lost lonely gringos, WHAT WERE WE THINKING??!!
The bridge led back towards Santa Taresa, I said we should keep on, continue hugging that lion of a river. Spent the next few minutes walking silently, up hill, down hill, barking dogs, silent homes, not knowing if we were going the right way. Both of us tired, little down, needing motivation.
Just when we needed it most, a colectivo came driving by. Sure enough we were heading towards the plant. Laughing at us through gritted teeth the young dude offered us a ride, even for free. We were too jazzed, sent his behind packin!
At eleven we reached the hydroelectric plant, right on point with the two hours. Fence, metal, lights, sleeping guards, nothing pretty or attractive but it was a victory for us. Nearly half way!!! The next two hours would be along train tracks. Nice and 'straight,' ish, we hoped.
We ducked into a small restaurant and paid a gratuitous amount for the best Powerade and Sprite we had ever tasted. Hung out there for an hour, I got some kip as joe skinned a spliff, avoiding the rain which had gathered significant strength.
A security guard told us to stay on these tracks until the third SALIDA sign, at which point we would just need to make a right and continue straight. My understanding was that that third sign would appear in more or less two hours. It sprang up in ten minutes. Slightly confused we left the tracks and began following a fuzzy path up hill through the woods. Note - My headlamp is a Saint that deserves to be knighted! Godsend!! We wound up at another set of railroad tracks, left, rainy, dark, right, rainy, dark, no signs, another intersection. Decided to go left, the same direction we had been heading in all night.
So it began, two horus, 120 minutes, 7200 seconds, looking down skipping block to block. Still drizzling, thick brush seeming to creep in on us from both sides. We were in good spirits. Joe decided to light up, I joined figuring there could be no better time than at 12:30am, in the rain, while walking alone along treacherous defunct train tracks with nothing (and hopefully noone) for miles in either direction. I tried the stuff a few years ago and really did't like it. Spitting, no high, itchy eyes, fuck that I thought, I've got better things to do with my time... until now.... Slow, shallow drags, trying hard not to cough. It was the first time I got high, and boy did it make those train tracks fun!! What better activity when stoned than walking on slippery train tracks in the dark... BRILLIANT! (sounds like something a Klebanow would do! idiots)
The endless laughing ensued, conversations with colorful topics ranged from fruit to Brazilian animals, and then we came to the mother of all bridges...
The metal rungs were slippery, widely and unevenly spaced, and I could not see the end with my torch. Laughing we said LES DO IT!! and started across. Not only did we not know how long it was, but it was the highest we had come to, shakey blocks, water roaring 20 ft below. About 15 steps in Joe stopped - 'Jordan my legs are shaking, I can't do it man I'm scared (maybe he meant to say stoned?).' He began to sit down, slowly bending over placing the joint on a nearby block. ' Joe!!, pass me the spliff, its all good, were going back' were my words of comfort. At that moment as we were beginning to head back I turned and saw a walkway on one side of the bridge. Reached land kisisng the ground and dying of laughter. After taking the path we realized there were about 150 steps to the bridge - ENORMOUS!!! We would not have been happy campers.
Off we were, on the rungs again, chatting away like old women. At about 2:15 we saw street lights not far from the tracks. Came to small factory alongside the tracks and decided to investigate. After straying from the tracks we crossed a daughter sized bridge and found that we had reached the base of Machu Picchu!! We knew this because a big sign read 'Welcome to Machu Picchu.' Not too excited though, victory yes, but we knew the pain that was about to become reality with the final one hour hike UP. During the day most people jump on the seven dollar (DOLLAR!! not sol, dollar!) bus ride to the top. At 2:30 in the morning its pretty quiet. Onwards!
It was painful. Hard enough after some sleep and a meal, but we were going on no sleep, largly empty bellies, and after four hours of trekking about! Slow go, especially for me with four liters of water and the canned (beast 570g cans!) beans. Alas, we made it. Reached the top thoroughly dead at 3:40am. The place was a dead as Joe and I, no security, no fellow bums. Found two benches near the ticket window. Joe ate his last sandwhich, I dropped mind (Sticking to the five second rule would have gotten me the dirtiest sandwhich I have ever seen, I though better of it). We had about an hour and a half ot go before tickets would be sold. We got 'comfy' on the benches.
Just after we laid down it began to rain hard. The canvas over us was full of holes, offered us no protection, cold and wet we were not happy. Neither of us slept.
How many people can say they were the first into the park!!!!! Victory for the exhausted miserable smelly bums!! Followed the signs to Wayna Picchu but chose to return at 10am. Heavy fog slowly began to lift, surrounded by mountains, above the clouds, it was awsome, inspiring, powerful. I am not one to hoot and hollar about the actual stones, ancient stairs or baths, sculptures, but I have never seen a landscape as stunning as the one from the top of Machu Picchu.
Joe and I had trouble functioning. Walked around for a while but quickly found a nice rock drenched in sun to sleep on. As is normally the case, Joe fell right to sleep. Took me longer but I eventually succeeded in using my knee as a pillow.
The climb up Wayna Picchu was greuling, but not quite a bad as up Machu Picchu itself. By our ten o clock date with this hidden beauty overshadowed by Machu Picchu, the sun had done away with the fog. One could see for miles in every direction. I don't have the words to describe the sensation experienced sitting thousands of meters above water, drowning in a sea of mountains. Just don't know which phrases do those moments justice.
Three hours at the main site, two more slipping and sliding around Wayna, we had seen enough. Time to begin the long haul back. At 12:45 we found the exit. Sandwhiches gone, ate our last four hot (raw cold) dogs, last apple for me, out of water as well. We inquired about the cost of a bottle of water at the MP restaurant shindig and were told a small half liter bottle went for eight sol (roughly $2.66). Bear in mind we bought our 2.5 liter bottles for 2 sol (66 cents) back in the city. We couldn't believe it, decided to go thirsty.
The walk down Machu Picchu was tough on the knees, ankles, not fun. Joe and I were beyond tired, our spirits low, especially without water. Not as much talking, uncertainties as to our making it all the way back to Santa Taresa on foot. I decided to fill an empty bottle with stream water when we came to the first bridge. Only a little bit of garbage, one or two toxic waste barrels floating by, nothing a yank like me can't handle. It was delicious!! Gave me new life! Joe had bought a bottle for three sol a few minutes earlier. Looked like we were going to make it after all!
Next issue at hand was food. I still had two giant cans of Pork n Beans. Thought about making a fire by the tracks, didn't seem doable. Three horus into the walk, when we reached the hydroelectric plant, I broke down. Busted open a can with my knife and went to town. Joe waited to see if I would turn green or shrivel up befoer venturing a bite. Like the water, the beans were awesome! You can't go wrong with canned beans, cooked further or not, they are a five star grade A non kosher DELIGHT!
The walk back to Santa Taresa was warm and bright, aka boring! But we made it. Colectivo to Santa Maria where we sat outside for two hours waiting for a bus. When it arrived, it was full. Standing room only. For the first half hour Joe, myself and a few others stood in the aisle. For the rest of the ride, Joe lay sprawled out in the aisle and fell asleep. I sat knees to chest stuffed in the aisle between seats so as not to roll around. It was a miserble ride, and it takes a lot for me to say that. Eight hours in that terrible position, I didn't sleep for more than five minutes at a time. Obnoxious women kept pushing me around, stepping on me, felt a hand make its way to my butt with my wallet on a few occasions. Bus rides are really never fun or enjoyable, they're usually bad or less bad. This one was awful!
Arrived back in Cuzco at 5:40 Monday morning. I didn't realize until I got off the bus and tried to tell Joe something that I couldn't speak. Literally, no sound, nothing. I had developed a nasty cold on the bus (still sick more than a week later). I felt horrible. We had a laugh about it in the taxi back to the Hostal. What a fucking adventure. 16 hours of walking after no sleep and little food, 14 hours on a bus, two and a half in colectivos, and a few unaccounted for. We made it. Fourteen dollars round trip, there and back. Compared to the normal 100 dollar train fare or 150 dollar tour.
VICTORY FOR THE BUMS IN BLUE!
Fell asleep sick and fully clothed at 6am Monday morning. '
Not much more to say, that's enough of a plate full.
Hope all is well on the homefront, everyone is healthy and safe.
My love to you all!!
xx
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