Strange places without a map

I’ve got a ton of stuff on my mind and on my to-do list here in Monterey, so instead of continuing to stress out about those things, I am going to write about something completely different: Palestine and Israel.

Wanting to share about the trip I took there was one of the main reasons I started this blog in the first place, but writing about it proved challenging and time consuming so I didn’t make it past the border (see Why leaving the country with strangers can be a good thing).

People have formative years; trips have formative weeks. This was the formative week of my travel experience in the Middle East. It came about after I hit my first “crash” in Jordan. This crash is best exemplified by a conversation I had with Rico one Wednesday morning standing on the very busy Queen Zein Al Sharif St. in Amman on my way to work.

<ring> <ring>

Rico (sounding understandably surprised as I am calling him on my cell phone from Jordan): Hello!

Me: Hi.

Rico: How are you?

Me: I’M GOING BAT SHIT CRAZY!

Rico: Oh….um. Well, ok.

I start to cry.

Rico: You know, I thought maybe we’d go through the whole, ‘how are you, fine, how are you, oh, I’m ok,’ first. But this is fine too.

For all those times Rico and I have said to each other, WHY exactly are we friends again? This is why.

I cried on the sidewalk for a bit, while taxis zoomed by and honked at me (because a crying passenger is better than no passenger), and Rico convinced me that IT IS OK, which is sometimes what you just need to be told, no matter what IT is. He also assured me that things were going to turn around, that in a few weeks I would be so busy that I wouldn’t even have TIME to call him from the street crying, and that I would find a way to make things work out, because I always did.

The trip to Palestine is what I found.

I’ve already written about the border crossing, so I will jump right in from here.

We spent the first day in Jerusalem playing tourist. Ethan and I were both in work and information gathering mode, me with regards to FoEME and the research that I kept saying I was going to start, and him with regards to a list of permaculture and environmental projects that he had found that were happening in the Middle East. BUT we agreed that Jerusalem was too good a spot to just pass up without a good few hours of wandering around gawking at things.

And there is plenty to gawk about. I’m going to shamelessly quote myself from an e-mail I wrote about this trip, because I still can’t come up with anything better to say about Jerusalem:

Now as you all know, I am not a religious person. I am at best politely curious about other people’s religions, and at worst critical of the power structures of major religions and their social implications. That said, Jerusalem, the holiest of Holy Cities, is a pretty cool place. It’s beautiful and dynamic, and the mix of peoples, religions and cultures that fit so naturally into its seams, although sometimes a source of conflict I know, make for a fascinating place. I was at a loss to describe it, which meant that, as Ethan dryly noted, I simply kept exclaiming, “this is so cute!”

“Really?” he said. “Cute?”

“Well….no,” I answered. “But I can’t think of the right word for what it is…”

Quaint was too condescending, charming was too shallow, beautiful too vague. We never hit the right word, and that’s about the best description of Jerusalem I can give you.

Jerusalem

Apart from getting to and from buses, Ethan and I stuck to the Old City where there was plenty to see in the short time we spent there. We stayed at a The Jaffa Gate Hostel, which I highly recommend to anyone going that way. Although we were exhausted from our harrowing 45 mile 8 hour trip from Amman, we spent a fair amount of the evening getting lost in the Old City. We ate mezze in a beautiful restaurant carved out of stone, stumbled upon the ancient ruins of the Hasmonians, which Ethan, the rogue environmentalist snuck into to remove some trash, and finished the evening with a beer at a sidewalk café. When the waiter came to take our order, we asked if he had anything local.

We have an Israeli micro brew and a Palestinian micro-brew, he told us.

Even our beer selection felt political. We ordered one of each.

Being in this part of Israel was quite a switch for both of us, having come from spending a few weeks in Arab countries. I had been in Jordan for almost a month, and Ethan had spent a few weeks in Kuwait before he came to Amman. Both of us are students of the Arabic language, and although we were not anti-Israel, it was pretty clear which side we lean towards in sympathies. This meant that we were having a bit of a hard time switching linguistic gears, and occasionally would address people in Arabic. There is a strong Arab presence in the Old City, so for the most part that was not offensive, but it did create some awkward situations.

Most notable was an experience in the shared taxi we took from Jericho to the gates of Jerusalem. After a harrowing haggle and a long wait in the heat of the day, we were finally en route to Jerusalem; we hadn’t eaten all day, were a bit exhausted, and I was cranky as all hell. As we rattled along the bumpy road, I shut my mouth and stared out the window at the dry barren land that is the West Bank in June. Ethan however chatted away happily in Arabic with his neighbor, who turned out to be a very friendly dentist from Ramallah. As we approached the last checkpoint, we got a flat tire.

The road quality in the West Bank isn’t great, so this seemed to be no big deal. The cab driver and the front passenger hopped out and started changing it. Since we were no more than 50 meters from the checkpoint, several Israeli soldiers wandered over to make sure we weren’t up to no good. Upon finding us non-threatening, they stood around to watch the men changing tires, me taking pictures, and all of us passing around a bunch of grapes that one of the lady passengers procured.

Israeli soldier watches the flat tire drama unfold

As we waited, one soldier poked his head into the van to look at Ethan and I.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Al Quds,” I responded without thinking. This is the Arabic name for Jerusalem, and the word I had been using all day.

The soldier gazed at me. He looked to be no more than 20, small framed in baggy fatigues and a machine gun slung comfortably across his chest.

“No,” he said. “It’s not Al Quds. It’s Jerusalem. You’re going to Jerusalem.”

Conscious of my snafu but not willing to agree with him, I said nothing.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“America,” Ethan answered.

“You speak Arabic?” he said. “You love Arabs? You love Palestine? Or Israel?”

What a choice. Again I said nothing. Finally Ethan chimed in, “both. We love both.”

The soldier looked at me again. I muttered something about being American and not having to choose—it was probably inaudible. Eventually he gave up and walked away. Although I felt somewhat uncomfortable being questioned about my political allegiances by a man with a machine gun, throughout the encounter I did not feel threatened or unsafe. If anything I was struck by the tone of sadness in the soldier’s voice when he put forth the choice: do you love them, or me? Sitting in a cab full of Palestinians, speaking their language and sharing their grapes, to him no doubt my choice was made.

At any rate, we agreed once we got to Jerusalem that we should stick to English only, since neither of spoke a word of Hebrew, and Arabic was politically loaded. That said, when we met people who were obviously Palestinian, we jumped at the chance to practice our Arabic. We had a nice chat with two Arab boys who took us to see a view of the Wailing Wall, where we discussed the US presidential election (these boys were probably about 8 and 12, yet well versed in Obama vs. McCain), assured them that we do NOT like Bush, and talked about their favorite subjects in school (reading). We also had a lovely visit with an older Palestinian man who was sitting on a chair outside his house, and flagged us down for a cup of tea and a chat. He was from the Old City but had lived for many years in Brazil, and was very fond of America, which he seemed to view as an entity that included all of North and South America. He insisted we write down his address in Brazil should we ever happen to pass by.

These two experiences marked another situation that Ethan and I were struggling to understand; the balance between hospitality towards tourists, and the desire to profit off of tourists. In any place that sees a high volume of tourism, there are a fair amount of people who will offer to help you find things, show you “special” views, take you to the “best” shops and services, but who expect something in return and are often taking you to patronize businesses run by their family or friends. This is fine, but it means when someone on the street offers to help you, you accept knowing that there are strings attached. In Jerusalem, there seemed to be a struggle between these two mindsets, and we were not entirely sure how to maneuver them.

The best example of this was the two little boys who took us to see a “special” view. Ethan and I were wandering around aimlessly, and had ended up in a dead end. We had all the marks of tourists; we were speaking English, walking in circles, may have had a guidebook in sight, and probably just looked generally lost (we were). The two boys were sitting on the sidewalk by a door. When the younger one addressed us, Ethan answered in Arabic. Surprised, the boys got up and followed us, offering to show us where to go.

Now I am a sufficiently paranoid traveler that I generally respond to offers of help from strangers by questioning what they want in return. Not that I won’t accept help, but so that I am mentally prepared if someone does expect compensation. It is part me not wanting to cheat anyone, and part me not wanting to be cheated. When the boys offered to help us, I hesitated, but Ethan accepted immediately. I swallowed my reservations and counted out a few coins in my pocket to offer up later on.

This did not change the fact that we had a genuinely nice conversation with them. The view that they showed us was actually pretty special, and one we might have missed on our own. It was in a bit of a nook and overlooked the Western Wall. It was a great chance to speak Arabic and have an interesting cultural exchange. After they grew bored with us, the two boys prepared to leave. Then it became obvious that they were struggling with the same question that I was.

chatting with the locals

The younger one obviously wanted compensation. He held out his hand and asked for a tip. The older one clearly felt uncomfortable with this. He said something rapid in Arabic and kind of pulled his brother away. Don’t worry about it, he said. The younger one was annoyed by this and pushed for the tip. I gave him some coins; although he seemed to want more, the older one pulled him again, and said thank you and this time won. The boys left. Ethan seemed a bit flabbergasted by this entire exchange, surprised that they wanted anything at all. We would continue to have this conversation throughout our trip. He was more inclined to think that people were helping him out of kindness, whereas I was more inclined to be suspicious of ulterior motives, and pleasantly surprised when there were none. We both won a few of these muttered under the breath arguments, but I would say that overall he was right more often than not.

There were many many people who would help us freely wanting nothing in return. This ranged from people giving us directions, which would more often than not involve them simply saying, “follow me,” and walking us to the place, to a Palestinian boy in Bethlehem who drove us to his favorite falafel restaurant and kept us company while we ate, wanting nothing but a chance to practice English and hear what we were up to.

In fact, sometimes people would try to help us when we didn’t even think we needed help. One of our favorite moments was in Palestine, walking back from the bus stop in Beit Sahore. We were staying at the guest house in Bustan Qaraka, which was about a 10 minute walk from the town. It was mid day and we were walking down the street towards the farm, when a car drove past us going the opposite direction. It didn’t get far before we heard it slam on the breaks, and back up to where we were standing, having stopped walking to observe what was going on.

It was a station wagon driven by an old Palestinian man with his family. Rolling down the window, he exclaimed to us in heavily accented English, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING???”

We were walking to Bustan Qaraka, we explained. The man was clearly SHOCKED that we were doing something like this: walking in the afternoon sun. He started to back up the car and insist that we get in and be given a ride there.

“It’s very close,” we insisted, “we’re almost there.”

He seemed skeptical, so we appealed to his daughter who was in the passenger seat. Really, we assured them, it’s not that far, we’re ok. The daughter finally convinced him, and the man drove off, shaking his head and no doubt muttering something to the effect of “crazy foreigners.”

“That was the most belligerent helpfulness I’ve ever received,” Ethan said to me as we walked on, laughing. I had to agree.

Back in California the other night, I was driving from the Bay Area to Monterey when I accidentally missed my freeway exit that would have put me on the 101 South to get me home. I have done this drive many times and know it well, but just happened to spacing out at that point—taking in the scenery, the novelty of having left and come back home with a completely different basis for comparison.

At any rate, I ended up pulling off the freeway in downtown San Jose in hopes of cutting back across to the 101. I quickly realized that this was easier said than done, and, with a broken back window that wouldn’t go up and a terrified cat in tow, I decided the fastest way to get back on track would be to ask someone for directions. The first chance I got I pulled over to a man standing outside a pickup truck looking at something on his windshield. He had apparently just gotten a ticket. I asked how to get to the 101 South. Ticket in hand, he thought for a minute and then said, I live near the freeway entrance and I’m going that way—why don’t you just follow me? I agreed to do so, and waited for him to pull out of his parking spot.

The route he lead me on was one that I certainly never would have found myself, and when it came time for him to turn off and go home, he got out of his car at the light, came back and told me go two more blocks down and then turn right onto the freeway—I thanked him and waved, and he was gone.

As I pulled onto the freeway I realized that this is one thing that I love about traveling; it forces you to rely on other people in a way that we don’t have to do when we stay in a place where we know where everything is. Having gotten used to being in strange places without a map, I was still in the mode of asking for help, and very rarely had the world let me down. In Jordan, Israel, Palestine, and even in California, there are people who will simply say, ‘follow me’ and get you where you need to go.

where i need to go

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