For those who are interested, a brief, not-terribly-exhaustive catalogue of the things I did and did not do over my week-long excursion into the wilds of northeastern Israel.
Did: Sleep on the back of a tank. Solo hike through the Yehudiyeh Nature Preserve living on peanut butter and pita. Almost fall off a mountain/die of exposure.
Did not: Actually fall of mountain/die of exposure.
Did: Get hit on by fourteen-year-old Israeli girls bathing suggestively together--you couldn't make this up--in a waterfall.
Did not: End up in Israeli jail on charges of statutory rape.
Did: See a variety of strange animals, including wild pigs, foxes, and cliff-climbing waterfowl.
Did not: Despite how sick I was of peanut butter and pita, catch and eat them.
Did: Try.
Did: Try to pick cactus fruit using a T-shirt to avoid the spines.
Did not: Succeed, or manage to salvage shirt.
Did, in Tzfat: Illegally explore an archaeological dig. Get followed around for two separate days by a stray dog. Learn Torah with Hassidic Rabbis. Dance around in caves with same rabbis, but after Shabbat, when they were kind of tipsy.
Did not, in Tzfat: Feel any need to do anything constructive, at all, ever again.
Did: Sleep in parks to avoid paying for rooms. Mooch food off of Chabadniks in Tzfat. Talk them into giving me a free bed for a couple of nights just, you know, because.
Did not: In any way deserve it.
Did: Go national Israeli dance festival in Carmiel, where tens of thousands of people get together to, um, folk dance. Spend literally ten hours there, because the people I was meeting there are into that sort of thing.
Did not: Dance. Ever want to see Israeli folk dance again.
Did: Hitchhike (tramp, in colloquial Hebrew, as in Lady and the) from city to city as method of transportation.
Did not: Get kidnapped, raped, or murdered (although I think one girl's boyfriend was thinking about offing me). Find it to be a good idea.
Did not: Find Jesus, who is said to hang around the Galilee.
Did: Try.
Did not: Get sick of falafel. Or understand why I haven't gotten sick of falafel yet.
Did not: Do any planning at all, whatsoever.
Did: Enjoy myself thoroughly. Blow my own mind. Get back to Jerusalem with more questios than answers.
Did not: See any hope for the future.
Did not: Care.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The Trouble with Tramping
Buses? There aren't any buses in the West Bank. There is only God and your finger.
-Rachel Yeul, crazy settler and hitchhiker extraordinaire
Tramp (v) - Hebrew slang for 'to hitchike.'
Ex: I tramped from Hebron to Jerusalem with some sketchy settlers.
The highway is empty, and if no one stops, I am going to die. I realize this as I throw my pack down at the trampeada, my head spinning from heat and lack of water. It's a shock when I realize that's not an exaggeration. Going to die. We say this all the time—if I fail this test, if I don't get some food, if I have to keep running, I'm going to—but now, for the first time in my life, it's actually true. It's five in the evening, but it's still 95, easy, the air hot and dry. I am dehydrated and out of water. I'm essentially crippled. I am stuck in the Golan Heights, thirty-five kilometers from anything, and if a car doesn't stop in the next couple of hours, I are going to pass out from dehydration, and that will be that.
The worst part is that it was all my own fault. As my mother and more than one ex-girlfriend has told me, in varying tones-of-voice, I don't always make the best decisions. When I decided I was going hiking in the Golan, I talked to some people and went, alone, with a backpack, a few days' food, and a road map. Just like that. This already might not have been my best example of good judgment, but at least I've done this sort of thing before. But there was one other problem: there aren't really buses in the Golan. If you want to get around without a car—which, silly me, I had thoughtlessly forgotten—you have to tramp, or hitchike.
The problem with relying on random stranger to drive you around is that you are relying on a random stranger to pick you up. That sentence sums up the twofold problem with hitchhiking. The first one is what people think is dangerous. The second is what actually is.
One, which most people worry about, is the 'random stranger' part. You are proposing getting into a car with someone you do not know and trusting them to take you where they say they will. This is obviously risky. But this doesn't necessarily mean it's a bad idea. What it means is standing back from the car when it pulls up, profiling the driver like you're manning a metal detector at DFW Airport. White or black--okay, they're Jews. You probably get in. Dark skinned could be Druse, Jewish, Arab. Galilee Arabs are notorious for kidnappings. You don't get in.
It means carrying a road map in your pack and studying it, religiously, to know what towns are nearby, so you know where you're going and if a driver is taking you where he says he is. It means keeping your eyes on the road and a knife in your pocket, just in case. It means being cautious on the side of paranoid. But this side of hitchhiking is a problem of risk, not danger. If you're alert and careful, you're usually fine.
No, the really, subtly dangerous thing about hitchhiking is the second part. You are relying on someone you do not know to pick you up. Now, in most places where people tramp, this is not an issue. In Israel proper, even in the West Bank, there are regular, heavily subsidized buses. You may be waiting a while, but one will come. But in a place like the Golan, if a car doesn't stop, you have no options. You can wait or start walking.
Two days before, I had spontaneously caught one of the rare buses north from Jerusalem to Qazrin, unofficial capital of the Golan Heights. In what proved to be a horrible decision, I went wearing my old pair of hiking sandals instead of something crazy like, oh, shoes. I rode up into the Golan, got off the bus about ten kilometers south of Qazrin, spent the night sleeping--for reasons that are another story altogether--on the back of a tank, then set off hiking the next morning. By the end of that first day, the balls of my feet were already beginning to blister from cheap rubber, and tears in the straps were rubbing the tops of my feet raw. The second day I did the Nahal Zavitan hike, a punishing six hour ordeal of steep climbs and really pretty views. I finished at another trailhead, caught a ride back to Qazrin with a stunningly attractive Israeli woman and her silent boyfriend . . . and there my troubles began.
I had two really big problems, both results of my own stupidity. One, I had very little water. I had enough space to carry five liters, but at the end of the trailhead, I had drunk my fill and (stupidly) filled only one liter back up. This wasn't going to last, and there was no place to get more. Second--less pressing, but ultimately as serious--I couldn't walk. It wasn't just that I was tired—I was, but I could have gone on a while. But the stress of two days of hiking and my cheap sandals had made my soles a mass of blisters. The straps had actually rubbed the skin away from the top and sides of my feet. Every step was agonizing.
Neither of these would have been a problem, had anyone stopped for me there, on the outskirts of Qazrin. No one did. I don't entirely blame them: I wouldn't have picked up a single, young man either, backpack or no. But they still didn't stop.
Qazrin is on a minor road, 9088, that connects to another, Highway 90, which is more of an artery—it goes from the Golan to a major intersection near Tzfat before heading up north to the Upper Galil and Kiryat Shmona. That was going to be my best bet to get a ride, but it was about five miles away. I didn't have much choice. I started walking.
But before I could start, I dug into my first aid kit and covered the worst spots on my feet with band-aids. This wasn't really enough to solve the problem, but it made walking bearable. Every kilometer or so, the band-aids would fall off, and I would have to replace them. By the time I got to the interchange, I was out of water. My feet were bleeding in places. It was still early, around three in the afternoon—the benefit to getting up at 5 is that you finish early. I threw my pack down to sit...and sat, and sat. No one stopped.
I had no options. The feeling was almost sublime; it sounds odd to say this now, but it felt like absolute liberation. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't walk the thirty-five kilometers to Tzfat—I couldn't even walk back to Qazrin. Also, more walking was about the best way to get even more dehydrated. I could only wait. Talk about in God's hands. I could only hope the big guy didn't drop me.
Needless to say, a car eventually stopped, although it took a few hours and I was near to passing out. And needless to say, I didn't end up kidnapped or killed. It took me five tramps and a short bus ride to get to Tzfat, but I made it. I had nowhere to stay there, either, and when I got there, I stumbled around barefoot because my feet hurt so bad . . . but those are other stories.
No, what stays with me now, a few days later, and what may stay with me forever, is that feeling of absolute dependence. Not powerlessness—that's what strikes me now. I should have felt powerless, but I didn't. It was a specific feeling, like suddenly I wasn't in the driver's seat anymore. And I wonder, now, sitting at my computer, how much any of us really are. How much we're just yanked around by puppeteers acting out their own private dramas. Out there, in the middle of no-place, I felt something, I can't say what, and I feel it even now.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Saul Elbein, Stray Cat Owner
Here's a story for you: I woke up yesterday morning to a large Russian woman standing in my apartment, yelling at me in Hebrew: "WHO'S CAT IS THIS?!"
I look over at my roommate, Dan, who has also just woken up. He looks like he's trying to wake up from a bad dream. I have two parallel thoughts. One: I never, ever want to wake up to this again. Russians are scary, especially in your apartment. Two: cat?
Israel in general and Jerusalem in particular are notorious for stray cats; the Middle East had a huge rat problem in the 30s and the British, who were then running the place, solved it with about as much foresight as they solved the rest of the region's problems. They released boatloads of cats. Now, there are no rats, and cats are everywhere. Including, apparently, the Beit Canada Absorbtion Center.
Russian woman kept yelling, so I got up. A small gray cat--probably like 6 months--was sitting on our dining room floor, meowing loudly. Galina--the Russian woman--pointed at the cat and told me to get it out. I scoop up cat and take it out of the apartment. Galina keeps yelling something about a new roommate coming, presumably not the cat. I smile and nod until she walks out.
Cat under bed
Dan walks over. We confer. We decide three things:
Cat dissing our food
We find some tuna, probably belonging to DB. We give it to the cat. The cat eats it and stops meowing. We throw it in the bedroom, give it a bed. I walk out. Suddenly, I hear a cry of pain from Dan. I walk back in and the cat is flying around the room, attacking any vertical surface with its claws. We don't have string, so I play with it with a long piece of toilet paper until it passes out on a nest of toilet paper shreds. I decide I am a good cat owner. I leave.
Fast forward a few hours. I come back to DB ranting about how we did not consult him about bringing a cat in the room, and how it better stay in our room. I reply that I understand it bothers him, but on the other hand he can go tell the Jewish Agency that we already have four beings living in our room, and then maybe they won't send another roommate. This makes him slightly happier, until he realizes that it is ridiculous. He walk into our room, and picks up the cat, which scratches him fiercely. He announces that he is going to get rid of the cat. We laugh and say whatever. He tells us that it's a safety and health hazard, and that cats are like Israeli rats. We point out that the cat will eat Israeli rats. Unconvinced, DB picks up the cat and takes it outside. We are shocked by his lack of humanity. He feels completely justified. We feel better about feeding the cat his tuna.
So the cat is gone. But now that I think about it, it really resembled one some friends of mine in the building adopted before they left. I played with it before, and, surprise, it showed up at our apartment. So I have every belief that it will be back. And when it is, we may shave it against the heat. On DB's bed.
I look over at my roommate, Dan, who has also just woken up. He looks like he's trying to wake up from a bad dream. I have two parallel thoughts. One: I never, ever want to wake up to this again. Russians are scary, especially in your apartment. Two: cat?
Israel in general and Jerusalem in particular are notorious for stray cats; the Middle East had a huge rat problem in the 30s and the British, who were then running the place, solved it with about as much foresight as they solved the rest of the region's problems. They released boatloads of cats. Now, there are no rats, and cats are everywhere. Including, apparently, the Beit Canada Absorbtion Center.
Russian woman kept yelling, so I got up. A small gray cat--probably like 6 months--was sitting on our dining room floor, meowing loudly. Galina--the Russian woman--pointed at the cat and told me to get it out. I scoop up cat and take it out of the apartment. Galina keeps yelling something about a new roommate coming, presumably not the cat. I smile and nod until she walks out.
Cat under bed
Dan walks over. We confer. We decide three things:
- The cat is cute,
- The cat clearly chose us, using apparently magical powers to get through a locked door,
- Our keeping the cat will really, really piss off the Jewish Agency, as well as our obnoxious, anal-retentive religious roommate, DB, who flips if there is dirt on his soap. If he (cat or DB) stays, there will be trouble.
Cat dissing our food
We find some tuna, probably belonging to DB. We give it to the cat. The cat eats it and stops meowing. We throw it in the bedroom, give it a bed. I walk out. Suddenly, I hear a cry of pain from Dan. I walk back in and the cat is flying around the room, attacking any vertical surface with its claws. We don't have string, so I play with it with a long piece of toilet paper until it passes out on a nest of toilet paper shreds. I decide I am a good cat owner. I leave.
Fast forward a few hours. I come back to DB ranting about how we did not consult him about bringing a cat in the room, and how it better stay in our room. I reply that I understand it bothers him, but on the other hand he can go tell the Jewish Agency that we already have four beings living in our room, and then maybe they won't send another roommate. This makes him slightly happier, until he realizes that it is ridiculous. He walk into our room, and picks up the cat, which scratches him fiercely. He announces that he is going to get rid of the cat. We laugh and say whatever. He tells us that it's a safety and health hazard, and that cats are like Israeli rats. We point out that the cat will eat Israeli rats. Unconvinced, DB picks up the cat and takes it outside. We are shocked by his lack of humanity. He feels completely justified. We feel better about feeding the cat his tuna.
So the cat is gone. But now that I think about it, it really resembled one some friends of mine in the building adopted before they left. I played with it before, and, surprise, it showed up at our apartment. So I have every belief that it will be back. And when it is, we may shave it against the heat. On DB's bed.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
What Now?
So the winds are turning cold, birds are flying south, and Beit Canada is filling with new immigrants. It's about time for me to move on. Actually, I may not have a choice soon--I just got a notice from the absorption center that if I don't, they will kick me out. I'm quaking in my sandals.
I finish my JPost internship on Thursday, which means I'm essentially done now but am still hanging out in the office, waiting for the Jordanian Ministry of Antiquities to call me back, which really means looking busy while taking advantage of free internet. I've been spectacularly unmotivated this week; I've only gotten one mediocre story out, and even that should have gone out Friday, except that I was spectacularly hung-over (secondary consequence of a week spent dealing with the Israeli government). Oh, and it being the weekend, no one would return my calls.
If you're interested, the last few stories I've written that I'm at all proud of are here, here, here, and here, with that last being another Daily Texan editorial.
So I finish the internship Thursday, and then God knows what I'll do the next three weeks. I'm thinking a hiking trip in the Golan, maybe chilling in Tel Aviv, traveling across the West Bank by camel, whatever. Something like that. Basically, I have no idea what to do with myself, which, at the moment, feels very nice.
So I'm calling on the three people who read this blog--you know who you are--to tell me what to do with myself for the next three weeks, 'go fuck' being an acceptable but kind of juvenile answer. Come on, it'll be fun. Like a contest. With the added benefit of horrible guilt if I take your advice and it kills me.
I finish my JPost internship on Thursday, which means I'm essentially done now but am still hanging out in the office, waiting for the Jordanian Ministry of Antiquities to call me back, which really means looking busy while taking advantage of free internet. I've been spectacularly unmotivated this week; I've only gotten one mediocre story out, and even that should have gone out Friday, except that I was spectacularly hung-over (secondary consequence of a week spent dealing with the Israeli government). Oh, and it being the weekend, no one would return my calls.
If you're interested, the last few stories I've written that I'm at all proud of are here, here, here, and here, with that last being another Daily Texan editorial.
So I finish the internship Thursday, and then God knows what I'll do the next three weeks. I'm thinking a hiking trip in the Golan, maybe chilling in Tel Aviv, traveling across the West Bank by camel, whatever. Something like that. Basically, I have no idea what to do with myself, which, at the moment, feels very nice.
So I'm calling on the three people who read this blog--you know who you are--to tell me what to do with myself for the next three weeks, 'go fuck' being an acceptable but kind of juvenile answer. Come on, it'll be fun. Like a contest. With the added benefit of horrible guilt if I take your advice and it kills me.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Mount Sinai, Bedouin, and Russian Tour Groups
When Moses walked up Mount Sinai to talk to God, the first words he heard were not, I think, "I am the Lord Your God." They were not, "Thou shalt have no other gods before me." No, if Moses' experience at the holy mountain was anything like mine, the first words he heard were something like "Mister, mister, you want buy keffiyeh?"
My travel buddy Roma and I arrived at the base of the mountain at two in the morning to find it crawling with tourists and local Bedouin trying to sell scarves.
"Buy keffiyeh," one of the Bedouin men said, pushing a head scarf at me. "Only twenty pounds."
"La, shukran," I said, exhausting my store of Arabic.
"No, buy," he said. "Is cold at the top of the mountain, and all your money will not keep you warm."
I felt it. Synthetic. "What's it made of?" I asked.
The Bedouin smiled through stained teeth. "Keffiyeh," he said. "Like Arafat. Yassir Arafat? You know?"
Now there's a good selling point. I laughed. "Oh, this is Arafat's keffiyeh?"
He nodded, not understanding. "Yes, Arafat."
I walked away. God only knows the bad karma involved in buying Arafat's old keffiyeh. And besides, I was dissapointed in the man. I would have thought he had too much class to wear polyester.
Roma and I had pulled an all-nighter to catch the minibus from our hotel in Dahab out to Jebel al-Mousa (Mount Moses), which the Bedouin say is the biblical Mount Sinai. The mountain lies about about fifty miles inland, on the other side of a wall of shield mountains that separate it from the coast. It is desert in the purest sense, which means that it is very, very hot very, very early in the day. So to climb it without dying of dehydration, you go at night, make the punishing hike to the summit, catch the sunrise, then speed down before it gets to hot. It would be a solitary, spiritual experience. This, at least, was the plan. We hadn't figured on the Bedouin, or the camels, or the Russian Orthodox tour group.
(Sidebar: The Bedouin having lived in the area for centuries, it seems like they would have the best claim as to the location of any mountain. On the other hand, though, it's not clear whether the Bedouin were in the area before the Arab Conquest fifteen hundred years ago, which most sources would put a while after the Revelation at Sinai. It may be that the Bedouin aren't quite the authorities on the subject they would have you believe--these are the same people who say Aaron is buried at Petra.)
Around two-thirty we started up the mountain. The moon was still almost full and the desert landscape glowed with a pearly light. The white sand path was easy to see, so we could hike fast without worrying about wandering off it. We passed Saint Catherine's, a Byzantine-era monastery about half a mile up the path, and ran directly into the camels.
The way up to the summit, we discovered, is very long--most people take about two-and-a-half to three hours to do it, although a decent hiker can do it in two. So the Bedouin sell camel rides up and down so that the lazy or out-of-shape can see the top without dying. There must be many of these, because in the course of the hike I counted easily a hundred camels, perhaps more. At first--near the bottom--the Bedouin would try to stop you and ask 'Mister, do you want ride gammel?' Later, they dropped even that formality and walked by saying 'Gammel," much in the small-time drug dealers say "Crack," or "X," walking off if you didn't respond quickly.
One saw me and Roma, gestured at her, and said, "Gammel for your wife?"
"Trade?" I asked. Roma shot me a dirty look. Whatever. She wasn't going to carry me and my bags up the mountain and donate hair for making carpets.
"No, no. Ride."
"Why not? I give you her, you give me camel. She cook, she clean, she bear strong Bedouin sons." I have no idea why I was talking like this. It was late.
"No, no good," he said. Then his eyes lit up. "Take camel. Is three hours walk to top. With gammel, only one." Mind, he was leading the camel. Walking. The Bedouin have an interesting way with numbers. Another promised it was two hours walk to the top. One trying to sell me a scarf said it was very cold at the 1250 meter summit, and another next to him swore I would freeze when I reached 2000.
We heard this, or variations of it, most of the way up the mountain. And it was a long way, especially since we spent most of it passing tour groups and camels. The path was narrow, and the camel is reluctant to let you pass. It is also smelly and ill-tempered, so you don't want to get too close. I was alomst run off cliffs several times by the beasts.
As for the mountain? Well, it's spectacular. Around an hour from the summit, you see it soaring above you, a great craggy peak that looks like the work of God Himself. Beneath, lit by moonlight, you see the valley, the path white against the stone, and behind it row on row of mountains. And from there it's a long climb, culminating in seven hundred and fifty--again, taking the Bedouin at their word--slick, rough hewn steps. Each is about a meter wide, though, so you can only go as fast as the slowest person anywhere on the path. And nothing against Russian endurance--I mean, WW2, come on--but there were definitely some slow people on that hike.
Eventually, we got to the top, dug into our halwa (A mixture of sesame oil and honey. All we had for food, since Egyptian grocery stores suck) and sat out to watch the sun rise. Five minutes later, freezing, we realized the sun wouldn't come up for another two hours. We unpacked the sleeping bag, wedged ourselves into a crack in a rock that blocked the wind, and covered ourselves with the bag. I closed my eyes for a second, and woke up two hours later to Japanese voices arguing and light streaming over the mountains.
We got up, opened our eyes. I wrapped myself in a blanket and went to go watch the sun rise. The view was incredible. The Sinai Mountains stretched to infinity like the waves of a stalled sea. And then, just as the sun crested the mountains, every Japanese tourist on the mountain ran to have his or her picture taken against it. And the Russians started singing Orthodox hymns in loud, deep, choral voices. It was time to go. We sped down the mountain.
This is the point where I should reflect on the experience, tell about what it did to my spirit, how I touched the face of God. But really, I'm not at the level where I can have a spiritual experience when surrounded by Japanese tourists, and I'm not even sure the Bedouin have the right mountain. So maybe I should bitch about how tourists ruined a good experience. But I was a tourist too. So I'll close with this: Sinai was an awesome hike. Do it. God is watching. And if you can't make it to the top, well, there's always gammels.
My travel buddy Roma and I arrived at the base of the mountain at two in the morning to find it crawling with tourists and local Bedouin trying to sell scarves.
"Buy keffiyeh," one of the Bedouin men said, pushing a head scarf at me. "Only twenty pounds."
"La, shukran," I said, exhausting my store of Arabic.
"No, buy," he said. "Is cold at the top of the mountain, and all your money will not keep you warm."
I felt it. Synthetic. "What's it made of?" I asked.
The Bedouin smiled through stained teeth. "Keffiyeh," he said. "Like Arafat. Yassir Arafat? You know?"
Now there's a good selling point. I laughed. "Oh, this is Arafat's keffiyeh?"
He nodded, not understanding. "Yes, Arafat."
I walked away. God only knows the bad karma involved in buying Arafat's old keffiyeh. And besides, I was dissapointed in the man. I would have thought he had too much class to wear polyester.
Roma and I had pulled an all-nighter to catch the minibus from our hotel in Dahab out to Jebel al-Mousa (Mount Moses), which the Bedouin say is the biblical Mount Sinai. The mountain lies about about fifty miles inland, on the other side of a wall of shield mountains that separate it from the coast. It is desert in the purest sense, which means that it is very, very hot very, very early in the day. So to climb it without dying of dehydration, you go at night, make the punishing hike to the summit, catch the sunrise, then speed down before it gets to hot. It would be a solitary, spiritual experience. This, at least, was the plan. We hadn't figured on the Bedouin, or the camels, or the Russian Orthodox tour group.
(Sidebar: The Bedouin having lived in the area for centuries, it seems like they would have the best claim as to the location of any mountain. On the other hand, though, it's not clear whether the Bedouin were in the area before the Arab Conquest fifteen hundred years ago, which most sources would put a while after the Revelation at Sinai. It may be that the Bedouin aren't quite the authorities on the subject they would have you believe--these are the same people who say Aaron is buried at Petra.)
Around two-thirty we started up the mountain. The moon was still almost full and the desert landscape glowed with a pearly light. The white sand path was easy to see, so we could hike fast without worrying about wandering off it. We passed Saint Catherine's, a Byzantine-era monastery about half a mile up the path, and ran directly into the camels.
The way up to the summit, we discovered, is very long--most people take about two-and-a-half to three hours to do it, although a decent hiker can do it in two. So the Bedouin sell camel rides up and down so that the lazy or out-of-shape can see the top without dying. There must be many of these, because in the course of the hike I counted easily a hundred camels, perhaps more. At first--near the bottom--the Bedouin would try to stop you and ask 'Mister, do you want ride gammel?' Later, they dropped even that formality and walked by saying 'Gammel," much in the small-time drug dealers say "Crack," or "X," walking off if you didn't respond quickly.
One saw me and Roma, gestured at her, and said, "Gammel for your wife?"
"Trade?" I asked. Roma shot me a dirty look. Whatever. She wasn't going to carry me and my bags up the mountain and donate hair for making carpets.
"No, no. Ride."
"Why not? I give you her, you give me camel. She cook, she clean, she bear strong Bedouin sons." I have no idea why I was talking like this. It was late.
"No, no good," he said. Then his eyes lit up. "Take camel. Is three hours walk to top. With gammel, only one." Mind, he was leading the camel. Walking. The Bedouin have an interesting way with numbers. Another promised it was two hours walk to the top. One trying to sell me a scarf said it was very cold at the 1250 meter summit, and another next to him swore I would freeze when I reached 2000.
We heard this, or variations of it, most of the way up the mountain. And it was a long way, especially since we spent most of it passing tour groups and camels. The path was narrow, and the camel is reluctant to let you pass. It is also smelly and ill-tempered, so you don't want to get too close. I was alomst run off cliffs several times by the beasts.
As for the mountain? Well, it's spectacular. Around an hour from the summit, you see it soaring above you, a great craggy peak that looks like the work of God Himself. Beneath, lit by moonlight, you see the valley, the path white against the stone, and behind it row on row of mountains. And from there it's a long climb, culminating in seven hundred and fifty--again, taking the Bedouin at their word--slick, rough hewn steps. Each is about a meter wide, though, so you can only go as fast as the slowest person anywhere on the path. And nothing against Russian endurance--I mean, WW2, come on--but there were definitely some slow people on that hike.
Eventually, we got to the top, dug into our halwa (A mixture of sesame oil and honey. All we had for food, since Egyptian grocery stores suck) and sat out to watch the sun rise. Five minutes later, freezing, we realized the sun wouldn't come up for another two hours. We unpacked the sleeping bag, wedged ourselves into a crack in a rock that blocked the wind, and covered ourselves with the bag. I closed my eyes for a second, and woke up two hours later to Japanese voices arguing and light streaming over the mountains.
We got up, opened our eyes. I wrapped myself in a blanket and went to go watch the sun rise. The view was incredible. The Sinai Mountains stretched to infinity like the waves of a stalled sea. And then, just as the sun crested the mountains, every Japanese tourist on the mountain ran to have his or her picture taken against it. And the Russians started singing Orthodox hymns in loud, deep, choral voices. It was time to go. We sped down the mountain.
This is the point where I should reflect on the experience, tell about what it did to my spirit, how I touched the face of God. But really, I'm not at the level where I can have a spiritual experience when surrounded by Japanese tourists, and I'm not even sure the Bedouin have the right mountain. So maybe I should bitch about how tourists ruined a good experience. But I was a tourist too. So I'll close with this: Sinai was an awesome hike. Do it. God is watching. And if you can't make it to the top, well, there's always gammels.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
My Journeys Begin
Jerusalem being too quiet, what with the near-riots and all, I am going backpacking through Jordan and Egypt.
It should go something like this: North through Israel to Beit Shean, cross at the border and work my way south through Jordan to Wadi Rum, then west to Aqaba, crash back in Israel, in Eilat, then west across the Sinai to Cairo and south along the Nile to Luxor and Aswan. Then I'll work my way back, see a lot of Cairo, the Delta, and Sinai. Hoping for a nightime climb up Mount Sinai, as well...divine revelation remains a possibility.
Should all take about two-ish weeks.
All this is a long way of saying: I'll be out of touch for a while, but with good reason. There may or may not be occasional posts.
Don't miss me too much, now.
It should go something like this: North through Israel to Beit Shean, cross at the border and work my way south through Jordan to Wadi Rum, then west to Aqaba, crash back in Israel, in Eilat, then west across the Sinai to Cairo and south along the Nile to Luxor and Aswan. Then I'll work my way back, see a lot of Cairo, the Delta, and Sinai. Hoping for a nightime climb up Mount Sinai, as well...divine revelation remains a possibility.
Should all take about two-ish weeks.
All this is a long way of saying: I'll be out of touch for a while, but with good reason. There may or may not be occasional posts.
Don't miss me too much, now.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Keeping the Peace in the Holy City
The Gay Pride Parade, Part II
The parade was an anticlimax. Other than one counter-demonstrator holding signs wishing the marchers a complete recovery (presumably from their perversion) and pointing out that there was, in fact, “NO PRIDE IN SHAME!!” the religious opponents of the parade were absent. Actually, 'parade' is kind of a misnomer—it was more like a semi-directed rainbow mob. There was no organization—marchers milled around for a full half hour after the event was supposed to start. Finally, the police told them to start moving already, so they demonstrators marched haphazardly down a mile or so of King David Street, finishing finally in front of the King Solomon hotel. That was it.
It was an intensely depressing experience, for a couple of reasons. First, because the parade was super lame. Second, and more importantly, because it was so quiet.
Now, let me clarify that. Despite my desire to see burning cars, I can acknowledge that it's a good thing no one died. I may have been, as several ex-girlfriends will happily confirm, born without a heart, but I can agree that people dying is, generally, a bad thing. Even people getting rocks thrown at them is a bad thing. This said, two questions need to be asked. First: Why, exactly, did no one die? And second: What did it all prove?
Here's why it was quiet. When I was writing my first piece on this yesterday morning, right next to where the parade would finish, the street was already filled with uniformed police, their riot gear laying out on the sidewalk. When I was downtown, far from where the parade would start, at around two, far beforehand, there were dozens more. And when I say police, I don't just mean your normal blue-shirted, cop-on-the-beat variety, although they were there too. There were also heavily armed riot police, in full armor, with shields, billy clubs, and assault rifles. Some rode horses, the better to break up a riot. And riding around on motorcycles were members of Israel's SWAT equivalent, trained to roll off a motorcycle at 60 kph while firing an M4. Which sounds more like a Bad Boys movie than a workable system of law enforcement, but then I kind of suspect there are some things that the Israeli military trains its people do just, you know, because they're cool.
The point, however, is that the Jerusalem municipality took no chances. It deployed 8000 police, MPs, and border guards to lock down the downtown area. (Just to understand the resources this involved, the Israeli Army has, on active duty, something like 10,000 combat infantry). They closed off the streets with roadblocks, parked buses sideways to create choke points, screened every person who walked onto King David street for weapons. Beards, too—I saw a few haredim turned away from the entrance by the police.
You begin to see, I hope, why this is so depressing. Because there are really only two possibilities here, neither good. One, is that all of the manpower, the time, the expense—13 million NIS, or $3.25 million—was, as some Jerusalemites say, a big waste of the city and national government's scant funds. The other is that it wasn't. That the only thing that kept the parade from degenerating into an orgy of violence and blood was 8000 heavily armed cops.
I don't know which is true. I do know this: despite everything, the police arrested more than two dozen haredim who tried to “disrupt the parade,” through means ranging from throwing eggs to—in one case—attempting to smuggle in a bomb. One was arrested for trying to get in “dressed as a homosexual,” to uncertain purpose. I'm not entirely sure what this means, or what he was trying to do, but I'd kind of like to see a picture.
I would like to believe that the fact that it came off quietly was a result of enlightened progressivism on the part of the city's religious. I would like to believe that it shows that Jerusalem is not a city totally gone mad. I would like to believe the parade proved something.
At least, I would like to believe it proved something beyond this: when people in Jerusalem don't like each other, there can still be peace—as long as you have roadblocks, and soldiers, and cops. But at the end of the day, nothing was proven. Not that the city needs to learn a lesson about tolerance, not that the government can stop freaking out over the idea of a gay pride parade here.
I don't want to say that it would be better if the police hadn't been there and the parade come to its natural, bloody conclusion. I don't want to say it would have been better if it had been canceled. But after all the argument, all the demonstrations, all the money spent, the city is the same as if it had never happened. And it's not in any way clear what the hell the point was.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Precursor to a riot?
Jerusalem Gay Pride Parade, Part I:
I should start by saying that Jerusalem is not like other cities. In other cities, gay pride parades happen and no one, this no longer being the 70s, takes them seriously. They're just sort of an even, and the only people who care are the participants and the most hardcore of homophobes. In Jerusalem...well, I'm sitting on the side of King David Street, waiting for my editor to email me back, and I can count, from here, about 25 uniformed, heavily armed policeman and soldiers with riot gear. They are setting up roadblocks.
Mind, the parade doesn't start for six hours. But gay pride parades in Jerusalem have a history of causing trouble. Two years ago, a haredi, or ultra-Orthodox, man stabbed three marchers; one died. Last year, bowing to combined pressure from Orthodox Jewish, Muslim, and Christian leaders--it's good that bigotry can bring together people who agree on nothing else--the city cancelled it, citing 'safety concerns.' The 'parade' was held in the convention center. This year, though, it's back on the street.
And no one really knows what's going to happen. On Sunday, 10,000 haredim demonstrated peacefully against the parade, although, in this city, 'peacefully' includes 'burning trash cans.' Friends of mine were there, and at some point it got so out of hand that the police broke it up with firehoses. In Mea Sharim, the city's best known Hasidic/Orthodox neighborhood, people are blocking the roads and spreading trash so the marchers won't go there. On the other hand, the demonstration was supposed to bring out 100,000, and I have heard--this is purely anecdotal--that a lot of haredim are saying now that it creates more division and hurts the children more to make a big deal about the parade than it does to ignore it.
Me, I'm expecting it to be a riot.
So we'll see. Part of me hopes that peace, love, and understanding will triumph, and part of me--the part that kinda wishes it had been in Paris, circa August 2005--wants to see some rocks and burning cars. I think the latter part is stronger and, in this city, more likely.
It does all bring some interesting issues to the fore, though. In a sense, the parade is the failure of democracy, or more accurately, the defeat of a tyranny of the majority. Most people in Jerusalem--I don't have the actual statistic, but it's like 60%--oppose the parade, some violently. So I think it's a good thing that someone take a stand for individual liberties and against religious bigotry.
However--and this is a big however--it bothers me that the marchers insist on going through religious neighborhoods. True, you can't throw a stone in this city without it landing in a religious neighborhood, and true, the religious really ought to respect gays' rights to be gay--but the fact is, it isn't respectful to march through their neighborhoods. It will win no one over. And, for that matter, it isn't respectful. True, the religious don't respect gays either, but I must point out:
I should start by saying that Jerusalem is not like other cities. In other cities, gay pride parades happen and no one, this no longer being the 70s, takes them seriously. They're just sort of an even, and the only people who care are the participants and the most hardcore of homophobes. In Jerusalem...well, I'm sitting on the side of King David Street, waiting for my editor to email me back, and I can count, from here, about 25 uniformed, heavily armed policeman and soldiers with riot gear. They are setting up roadblocks.
Mind, the parade doesn't start for six hours. But gay pride parades in Jerusalem have a history of causing trouble. Two years ago, a haredi, or ultra-Orthodox, man stabbed three marchers; one died. Last year, bowing to combined pressure from Orthodox Jewish, Muslim, and Christian leaders--it's good that bigotry can bring together people who agree on nothing else--the city cancelled it, citing 'safety concerns.' The 'parade' was held in the convention center. This year, though, it's back on the street.
And no one really knows what's going to happen. On Sunday, 10,000 haredim demonstrated peacefully against the parade, although, in this city, 'peacefully' includes 'burning trash cans.' Friends of mine were there, and at some point it got so out of hand that the police broke it up with firehoses. In Mea Sharim, the city's best known Hasidic/Orthodox neighborhood, people are blocking the roads and spreading trash so the marchers won't go there. On the other hand, the demonstration was supposed to bring out 100,000, and I have heard--this is purely anecdotal--that a lot of haredim are saying now that it creates more division and hurts the children more to make a big deal about the parade than it does to ignore it.
Me, I'm expecting it to be a riot.
So we'll see. Part of me hopes that peace, love, and understanding will triumph, and part of me--the part that kinda wishes it had been in Paris, circa August 2005--wants to see some rocks and burning cars. I think the latter part is stronger and, in this city, more likely.
It does all bring some interesting issues to the fore, though. In a sense, the parade is the failure of democracy, or more accurately, the defeat of a tyranny of the majority. Most people in Jerusalem--I don't have the actual statistic, but it's like 60%--oppose the parade, some violently. So I think it's a good thing that someone take a stand for individual liberties and against religious bigotry.
However--and this is a big however--it bothers me that the marchers insist on going through religious neighborhoods. True, you can't throw a stone in this city without it landing in a religious neighborhood, and true, the religious really ought to respect gays' rights to be gay--but the fact is, it isn't respectful to march through their neighborhoods. It will win no one over. And, for that matter, it isn't respectful. True, the religious don't respect gays either, but I must point out:
- They have their lives too. They stay in their neighborhoods. Yes, they are obnoxiously homophobic but they--mostly--don't go to Tel Aviv to march against 'alternative lifestyles.' It sucks to have to respect someone's right to hate you and everything you stand for, but, folks, this is, more ore less, a democracy and, more importantly
- Practically speaking, gays in Jerusalem live in Jerusalem, which means they have to live with the Muslims and haredim. Failing a Messianic Redemption, the best that they will ever be able to hope for is a cautious live-and-let-live attitude on the part of the city's religious--something that parading through their neighborhoods will not help. Yes, that's kowtowing to their prejudices, but this may not be the best place to abandon practicality for principle.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Eilat and Petra
So it's been two weeks since I've posted, which, given what I said at the beginning, apparently means I'm dead. Which—I'm sure you've figured out by now—I don't happen to be. So sorry, Samira, you don't get my Hebrew-English Dictionary, and Nicole, same goes for the Life Application Bible and, Lisa, while I'll take your demand for my signs as your way of making sure I'm okay, the answer is still no. Save that for when I actually am dead. But take heart: given the trip I'm planning to Jordan in a couple of weeks and Egypt after that, it could still happen. Then you explain to my parents why you're ruthlessly looting my still-cooling corpse, and maybe you'll get something.
So here's what I've been up to while, you know, not dying: I've been busting my ass for the Jerusalem Post, which lures you into a false sense of security with its relaxed hours (I go in at 11 on an early day) and atmosphere, then sucks the life out of you. It's been good, though. I've published three stories so far (here, here, and here, if you are interested), the editors are happy with me—which directly translates into 'Give me more work'—and I have, so far, managed to avoid spending a single minute working in the archive room. All good things. Then weekends usually find me at the beach in Tel Aviv, which I vastly prefer to actually practicing my religion, although I do that too.
So you see, gentle people, why I have not been updating you on the vagaries of my Israeli life. However, I realize that this blog is, for many of you, the only sign that I am still among the living, and that my stuff is still not—I say this most emphatically—up for grabs. So here goes:
I spent most of last week slaving for the Post, then took off Wednesday night and headed down south with some friends to Eilat, which--for those not in the know--is a resort town on the Red Sea, known mostly for beaches, diving, and the Exodus. Because my friends are, ah, Jewish, they decided to take the midnight bus to Eilat and spend the night, or more accurately morning, on the beach. So we took a five hour ride through the desert, then watched the sun rise over Jordan, less because we wanted to than because we really had no place else to go. We slept for a few hours on the beach, went swimming--the usual, except really crazy tired.
Really, the only thing less interesting than actually being on a beach is writing about being on a beach, and I imagine reading about it is even worse. So I won't subject you to that. Suffice to say, we got a hostel, established that we would be going to visit Petra, in southwest Jordan, at seven the next morning, then proceeded to make a series of bad decisions.
Seeing as how my parents, as well as possible employers, may someday read this, I will not subject you to what those were. But it may or may not have involved some Israeli soldier girls, a bunch of Argentines, some Palestinians teenagers and several bottles of very cheap vodka. Use your imagination.
But the end result was that we didn't get up at seven--nine found us groggily moving in the direction of the border, where we found the Israeli guards to be surprisingly incompetent. As we were paying our exit visa, one guard's desk calculator ran out of paper, so we had to wait for--I wish, oh I wish I were making this up--half an hour while she figured out how to replace it. But, eventually, we made it across into Jordan, into the beneficent gaze of King Abdullah, who, I might add, was everywhere.
Jordan was my first chance to be in an authoritarian state, and I have to say, I was impressed by the ubiquity of the royal family. I mean, windshields, restaurants, really creepy big two-sided portraits--everywhere. Another difference: the Israeli side was run by twenty-year old women, presumably army conscripts. The Jordanian side was populated swarthy soldiers with mustaches and large cups of tea. There were no women in sight.
Anyhow, we got a cab from the crossing to Aqaba, then from Aqaba into Petra. The cabbie ripped us off, but, luckily, getting ripped off in Jordan is kind of like being charged normal prices in America. So we rode off through the Jordanian desert, when E, who was a little sick from the previous night's festivities, decided we needed to stop. So we told our cab driver, Mahmud, to pull into the nearest market, which happened to be a one room concrete shack filled with the best American imported candy and soft drinks (Arabic Coke, anyone?), where the Bedouin owner pushed Turkish coffee on us, insisted it was free, and then charged us for it.
(Side note: one obnoxious thing about the Middle East in general is that even when people rip you off, things are still inexpensive. For example, three cups of good coffee cost two dollars. Now, this is partially a good thing, but it really makes it hard to argue with the person ripping you off. Because I mean, the Bedouin will do more with those two dollars than I will. They need it more than I do. So I can be an asshole to get money I don't need, or I can be taken advantage of. Usually, I try to strike a balance, but it's a problem.)
Other than his insistence on making pit stops at establishments run by his friends, though, Mahmud seemed like a pretty nice guy. He didn't speak much English, but still tried to tell us everything we were passing, which was all right, because the names weren't English either. Then we got to Petra.
It seems like a cop-out to say this, but Petra was indescribably awesome. Not literally--I could describe it, and I may another time--but indescribable as in it will save us both time if you just look at the pictures, and then I'll write something to supplement that. You can do so here.
So that's all for the moment. My friend's birthday is tonight, so I'm heading home to put on real clothes (JPost is very, very lax on dress code...I do not choose to elaborate on that statement).
From Jerusalem, Saul Elbein.
So here's what I've been up to while, you know, not dying: I've been busting my ass for the Jerusalem Post, which lures you into a false sense of security with its relaxed hours (I go in at 11 on an early day) and atmosphere, then sucks the life out of you. It's been good, though. I've published three stories so far (here, here, and here, if you are interested), the editors are happy with me—which directly translates into 'Give me more work'—and I have, so far, managed to avoid spending a single minute working in the archive room. All good things. Then weekends usually find me at the beach in Tel Aviv, which I vastly prefer to actually practicing my religion, although I do that too.
So you see, gentle people, why I have not been updating you on the vagaries of my Israeli life. However, I realize that this blog is, for many of you, the only sign that I am still among the living, and that my stuff is still not—I say this most emphatically—up for grabs. So here goes:
I spent most of last week slaving for the Post, then took off Wednesday night and headed down south with some friends to Eilat, which--for those not in the know--is a resort town on the Red Sea, known mostly for beaches, diving, and the Exodus. Because my friends are, ah, Jewish, they decided to take the midnight bus to Eilat and spend the night, or more accurately morning, on the beach. So we took a five hour ride through the desert, then watched the sun rise over Jordan, less because we wanted to than because we really had no place else to go. We slept for a few hours on the beach, went swimming--the usual, except really crazy tired.
Really, the only thing less interesting than actually being on a beach is writing about being on a beach, and I imagine reading about it is even worse. So I won't subject you to that. Suffice to say, we got a hostel, established that we would be going to visit Petra, in southwest Jordan, at seven the next morning, then proceeded to make a series of bad decisions.
Seeing as how my parents, as well as possible employers, may someday read this, I will not subject you to what those were. But it may or may not have involved some Israeli soldier girls, a bunch of Argentines, some Palestinians teenagers and several bottles of very cheap vodka. Use your imagination.
But the end result was that we didn't get up at seven--nine found us groggily moving in the direction of the border, where we found the Israeli guards to be surprisingly incompetent. As we were paying our exit visa, one guard's desk calculator ran out of paper, so we had to wait for--I wish, oh I wish I were making this up--half an hour while she figured out how to replace it. But, eventually, we made it across into Jordan, into the beneficent gaze of King Abdullah, who, I might add, was everywhere.
Jordan was my first chance to be in an authoritarian state, and I have to say, I was impressed by the ubiquity of the royal family. I mean, windshields, restaurants, really creepy big two-sided portraits--everywhere. Another difference: the Israeli side was run by twenty-year old women, presumably army conscripts. The Jordanian side was populated swarthy soldiers with mustaches and large cups of tea. There were no women in sight.
Anyhow, we got a cab from the crossing to Aqaba, then from Aqaba into Petra. The cabbie ripped us off, but, luckily, getting ripped off in Jordan is kind of like being charged normal prices in America. So we rode off through the Jordanian desert, when E, who was a little sick from the previous night's festivities, decided we needed to stop. So we told our cab driver, Mahmud, to pull into the nearest market, which happened to be a one room concrete shack filled with the best American imported candy and soft drinks (Arabic Coke, anyone?), where the Bedouin owner pushed Turkish coffee on us, insisted it was free, and then charged us for it.
(Side note: one obnoxious thing about the Middle East in general is that even when people rip you off, things are still inexpensive. For example, three cups of good coffee cost two dollars. Now, this is partially a good thing, but it really makes it hard to argue with the person ripping you off. Because I mean, the Bedouin will do more with those two dollars than I will. They need it more than I do. So I can be an asshole to get money I don't need, or I can be taken advantage of. Usually, I try to strike a balance, but it's a problem.)
Other than his insistence on making pit stops at establishments run by his friends, though, Mahmud seemed like a pretty nice guy. He didn't speak much English, but still tried to tell us everything we were passing, which was all right, because the names weren't English either. Then we got to Petra.
It seems like a cop-out to say this, but Petra was indescribably awesome. Not literally--I could describe it, and I may another time--but indescribable as in it will save us both time if you just look at the pictures, and then I'll write something to supplement that. You can do so here.
So that's all for the moment. My friend's birthday is tonight, so I'm heading home to put on real clothes (JPost is very, very lax on dress code...I do not choose to elaborate on that statement).
From Jerusalem, Saul Elbein.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Way I Live Now
It is kind of a sobering thought that Israel puts new immigrants in better housing than UT puts college students. Not much better, granted--Beit Canada is about equivalent to the University Towers, with fewer Jews--but better. On the one hand, my room has a small kitchen (with a sink!), as well as its own bathroom; on the other, it doesn't have air conditioning. On yet another hand (this is the third hand, which I'm borrowing from another table), I'm not sure Blanton did either, and at least Jerusalem cools off at night.
Actually, though, BC reminds me of nothing more than a college dorm, minus a college, plus several families with children, and with stray cats running around. Like Blanton, there are lots of rules for interns--no alcohol in rooms, you can't leave for more than a few days, no non-BC people allowed past 10 without special permission, no loud noise past 10--which, if violated, will lead to your expulsion from the Center. Also like Blanton, these rules are uniformly ignored. Also--I'm not sure how this fits in, but it does--the Frenchies on the floor below me routinely throw trance parites at 4 am.
Oh, the Frenchies. Don't let the name fool you: they are a distinct group from 'the French.' That is, all Frenchies are French immigrants, but not vice versa. There are three main groups in Beit Canada: the Frenchies, mostly part of an aliya group and mostly from Paris; the Latin Americans, who come from all over; and everyone else, which mostly means English speakers but also includes Germans and any French people who are sufficiently cool to have avoided the label of 'Frenchy.' In a center of a few hundred, there are about five. Otherwise, the French are not well liked.
(The Parisian French, I have determined, are much like Latin Americans in that they will party vigorously and heartily at odd hours, and that, if asked to shut up because it's four in the morning, will not. However, unlike Latins, they will not then invite you into the party and offer you a beer, unless of course you, too, are Parisian French. Non-Parisian French, by contrast, seem to be lovely people.)
The center is pretty empty now, though--olim (new immigrants) can only stay for a year, so most are moving out to more permanent housing or going back home. Soon, though, all of the summer interns will show up and the place will be full of college kids from all over the world. For the moment, I have a two bedroom apartment to myself, which is very nice, but in a week I get a roommate and a week after that another. Both are American, which does not thrill me, but neither is Parisian, which does.
Unrelatedly--or semi-relatedly--I awoke yesterday morning to what sounded like automatic weapons fire coming from East Jerusalem. This did not immediately alarm me, because there had been fireworks the night before for the end of the Israel Festival. However, at this moment it was 7:30 am, so I assumed it was not fireworks. Which meant that either:
Actually, though, BC reminds me of nothing more than a college dorm, minus a college, plus several families with children, and with stray cats running around. Like Blanton, there are lots of rules for interns--no alcohol in rooms, you can't leave for more than a few days, no non-BC people allowed past 10 without special permission, no loud noise past 10--which, if violated, will lead to your expulsion from the Center. Also like Blanton, these rules are uniformly ignored. Also--I'm not sure how this fits in, but it does--the Frenchies on the floor below me routinely throw trance parites at 4 am.
Oh, the Frenchies. Don't let the name fool you: they are a distinct group from 'the French.' That is, all Frenchies are French immigrants, but not vice versa. There are three main groups in Beit Canada: the Frenchies, mostly part of an aliya group and mostly from Paris; the Latin Americans, who come from all over; and everyone else, which mostly means English speakers but also includes Germans and any French people who are sufficiently cool to have avoided the label of 'Frenchy.' In a center of a few hundred, there are about five. Otherwise, the French are not well liked.
(The Parisian French, I have determined, are much like Latin Americans in that they will party vigorously and heartily at odd hours, and that, if asked to shut up because it's four in the morning, will not. However, unlike Latins, they will not then invite you into the party and offer you a beer, unless of course you, too, are Parisian French. Non-Parisian French, by contrast, seem to be lovely people.)
The center is pretty empty now, though--olim (new immigrants) can only stay for a year, so most are moving out to more permanent housing or going back home. Soon, though, all of the summer interns will show up and the place will be full of college kids from all over the world. For the moment, I have a two bedroom apartment to myself, which is very nice, but in a week I get a roommate and a week after that another. Both are American, which does not thrill me, but neither is Parisian, which does.
Unrelatedly--or semi-relatedly--I awoke yesterday morning to what sounded like automatic weapons fire coming from East Jerusalem. This did not immediately alarm me, because there had been fireworks the night before for the end of the Israel Festival. However, at this moment it was 7:30 am, so I assumed it was not fireworks. Which meant that either:
- the Frenchies were at it again with a surprisingly powerful and staccato bass, or
- the Syrians were invading.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
The Most Dangerous Movie in the Middle East
The greatest threat to the fragile peace between Israel and Syria is not the latter's support for Hezbollah. It is not Syrian meddling in Lebanon, nor even—directly—Israeli control of the Golan Heights. No, the one thing most likely to cause another Syrian invasion is a tourist video at the Qesem HaGolan (Magic of the Golan) information center in Qazrin, largest city in the Heights.
Mind, this is not just any video. Most tourist videos are dull, shoddy affairs, with bored- sounding narrators regaling the viewer with all the things they can do in the area, seeing has how they have already bothered to leave their hotels. Not so the 'Magic of the Golan,' which is was not so much a video as a particularly intense acid trip. By the end, I was not only ready to visit the Golan. I was ready to spend my life sitting on Mount Hermon communing with nature, along with all the other happy people who seemed to be living there.
It is difficult to describe the video in words, for it had only a few. The audience was bidden to 'See,' 'Hear,' 'Feel,' and 'Smell' the Golan, but that was all. There was no plot, no narrator, no description of sites. Instead, we saw a sequence of short scenes, shot in the hightest of high definition, of the Golan in spring. A few images stick in my mind like remnants from a beautiful dream. Tanned, fit Israelis practicing Tai Chi before soaring windmills. Tall green grass bending under a spring breeze. Snowmelt pouring down the slopes Mount Harmon. Rain pouring over flowered hillsides, combined with mist falling from the ceiling. Dew beading on rich purple grapes. Water cascading down Nahal Devorah. All of this to soaring, majestic music. I left wondering what cruel twist of fate had conspired to keep me from the Golan, and how I could manage to stay. I wanted to sink down and become one with the earth, drink Golani wine, ride the wild herds of horses down to the Jordan.
Mind, this was last week. It was almost summer. The Golan was still beautiful, but it was also hot and dry and infested with flies. It bore more resemblance to the Hill Country than Eden. And for that matter, I have never seen a horse running wild over the heights, and I know for a fact that, if Israeli wine doesn't exactly suck, it's also not too great. But no matter. I was a man bewitched.
If there is another war with Syria, here is how it will start: Bashir Assad will come to Israel for some reason, perhaps for peace talks, perhaps to get a decent bagel. On his way home, he will stop in Qazrin, and on a whim, he will visit Qesem HaGolan. As he watches the video, he will tense up. His eyes will fill with tears as he realizes what Syria has lost. The bagel will turn to ashes in his mouth. All of a sudden, the three-quarters of the Golan that Syria already owns will mean nothing to him. He will have seen the magic of the Golan, and he will want it back. Assad will storm out, his fists clenched, and an hour later the Syrian army will surge again toward Qazrin. Because they too will want to See, and Hear, and Feel.
So I beg you, Israeli Ministry of Tourism, turn back from this path of folly. Fire whatever ad agency designed the Magic of the Golan. They are clearly brilliant, but brilliance like that is something Israel does not need. Remove the video and destroy all copies. Then find a bad narrator, preferably with a stuffy British accent, and give him a grainy, budget camera and inexperienced crew. Send them to the Golan in winter, when things are safely dead, or summer, when they are covered in flies. Replace the video in Qazrin at once. Then, perhaps, if it is not too late, war can be averted.
Mind, this is not just any video. Most tourist videos are dull, shoddy affairs, with bored- sounding narrators regaling the viewer with all the things they can do in the area, seeing has how they have already bothered to leave their hotels. Not so the 'Magic of the Golan,' which is was not so much a video as a particularly intense acid trip. By the end, I was not only ready to visit the Golan. I was ready to spend my life sitting on Mount Hermon communing with nature, along with all the other happy people who seemed to be living there.
It is difficult to describe the video in words, for it had only a few. The audience was bidden to 'See,' 'Hear,' 'Feel,' and 'Smell' the Golan, but that was all. There was no plot, no narrator, no description of sites. Instead, we saw a sequence of short scenes, shot in the hightest of high definition, of the Golan in spring. A few images stick in my mind like remnants from a beautiful dream. Tanned, fit Israelis practicing Tai Chi before soaring windmills. Tall green grass bending under a spring breeze. Snowmelt pouring down the slopes Mount Harmon. Rain pouring over flowered hillsides, combined with mist falling from the ceiling. Dew beading on rich purple grapes. Water cascading down Nahal Devorah. All of this to soaring, majestic music. I left wondering what cruel twist of fate had conspired to keep me from the Golan, and how I could manage to stay. I wanted to sink down and become one with the earth, drink Golani wine, ride the wild herds of horses down to the Jordan.
Mind, this was last week. It was almost summer. The Golan was still beautiful, but it was also hot and dry and infested with flies. It bore more resemblance to the Hill Country than Eden. And for that matter, I have never seen a horse running wild over the heights, and I know for a fact that, if Israeli wine doesn't exactly suck, it's also not too great. But no matter. I was a man bewitched.
If there is another war with Syria, here is how it will start: Bashir Assad will come to Israel for some reason, perhaps for peace talks, perhaps to get a decent bagel. On his way home, he will stop in Qazrin, and on a whim, he will visit Qesem HaGolan. As he watches the video, he will tense up. His eyes will fill with tears as he realizes what Syria has lost. The bagel will turn to ashes in his mouth. All of a sudden, the three-quarters of the Golan that Syria already owns will mean nothing to him. He will have seen the magic of the Golan, and he will want it back. Assad will storm out, his fists clenched, and an hour later the Syrian army will surge again toward Qazrin. Because they too will want to See, and Hear, and Feel.
So I beg you, Israeli Ministry of Tourism, turn back from this path of folly. Fire whatever ad agency designed the Magic of the Golan. They are clearly brilliant, but brilliance like that is something Israel does not need. Remove the video and destroy all copies. Then find a bad narrator, preferably with a stuffy British accent, and give him a grainy, budget camera and inexperienced crew. Send them to the Golan in winter, when things are safely dead, or summer, when they are covered in flies. Replace the video in Qazrin at once. Then, perhaps, if it is not too late, war can be averted.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Buses
There is a wrong reason and a right reason not to ride the buses in Jerusalem. The most compelling reason, which is also the wrong one, is fear of suicide bombers. Many tourists, understandably, avoid the bus system because they are afraid of being blown up. This is understandable but also irrational. The idea of anonymous, explosive death is scary, but even at the height of the intifada it was not a huge risk. There are so many buses in Jerusalem that even when they were blown up weekly, one's odds of being killed were still relatively low. Now, with the relative peace and security brought by the wall, those odds are effectively nil. There hasn't been a suicide bombing in Jerusalem in months, if not longer. You should not, I repeat should not, avoid the bus system for fear of suicide bombers.
No, if you avoid it, do so for fear of the bus drivers.
On the one hand, the Jerusalem bus driver is one of the most skilled professionals I have ever seen. He has no choice. Jerusalem, to the extent that it is designed at all, is not a well designed city. Its neighborhoods perch on the tops of the high Judean Hills, linked together by a network of narrow mountain roads. This would work, I suppose, in a smaller city. But a million people live in the greater Jerusalem area, and a sizable percentage must commute into the city. This all combines to produce terrible, terrible traffic. If you know Austin, imagine rush-hour on FM 2222. Then imagine that 2222 was the main city road, onto which all other roads fed. And that all of those other roads were two lanes, and packed with irate Israeli drivers. That's more or less what Jerusalem traffic it's like. At rush-hour, which takes up most of the day, it all combines to a recipe for going nowhere.
But the bus driver is a man with a calling. He knows that the citizenry of Jerusalem depends on him to make its livelihood. He knows that their lives call for prompt, efficient service. And so he looks down on the traffic with a sneer, hurling his iron steed into any opening that presents itself. He maneuvers a multi-ton bus with the deft touch of a Formula One racer, dodging pedestrians, backing cars, and stray cats in their headlong rush toward the next stop. When he gets there, he stops for seconds. People push frantically to get on. And then, almost before the bus has finished braking, he takes off again.
Riding a public bus as it surges through traffic on a Friday afternoon, looking out over oddly low railings at disturbingly deep ravines, is an experience much akin to terror. You hold on to the railing, wedged tight into your seat if you are lucky, standing if you are not, as you are thrown from side by the violent swerving of the bus.
Like a sailor on a ship rounding Cape Horn, you sit tight and pray. It is all you can do.
And when you reach your destination, if you are, like me, a Jerusalem bus virgin, you begin to stand. You think to yourself, 'I am in a residential neighborhood. Around the corner is my stop. He will slow down.'
You are wrong. As you rise, the driver sees you. He appreciates that, even now, nearing home, you need the seconds of extra time his speed can buy you. He smiles, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror, and he takes the turn at forty miles an hour. If you are holding onto the support, as I was in this instance, your body becomes the outer edge of a large centrifuge, and you spin around in a beautiful circle into the next seat. If you are not, you hit the opposite side, and whatever unfortunate is sitting there. Then the bus slams to a halt, and you have ten seconds to get off. The driver knows that you appreciate his promptness and dedication.
I have heard that Egged, the national bus company, requires new drivers to spend two years driving in Jerusalem before they go anywhere else. The idea being that, if they survive Jerusalem traffic, they can drive anywhere. I don't know if that's true, but I can believe it. There is a story told in Jerusalem about a bus driver who dies and goes to heaven at the same time as a great rabbi. The rabbi finds himself stuck in a long line outside the gates, while the bus driver is admitted immediately.
When he reaches the front, the rabbi asks the Angel Gabriel angrily, “Why was that bus driver let in before me?”
Gabe says: “Because when you prayed, everybody slept. But when he drove, everybody
prayed.”
From Jerusalem, this is Saul Elbein.
Thoughts from Crack Square
Israeli coffee, she is good. Very good.
Israeli coffee in the greater Kikar Tziyon area is crazy expensive. Like worse than Starbucks prices. I paid like 2 dollars for a falafel that was so big I couldn't finish it. Then I paid 4 for a 16 ounce iced cappuccino. Gah.
Israeli radio DJs have bizarre taste. Listening to "Take it Easy" while looking out at Yafo Street is incongruous to say the least. Although it serves as a nicely ironic counterpoint to the omnipresent Orthodox.
Writing that "I'm sitting in a coffee shop of Yafo Street, looking out over Kikar Tziyon" sounds far, far more romantic than the actual reality of sitting in a coffee shop, looking out over Kikar Tziyon. Kikar Tziyon is dirty, covered in graffiti, and smells like piss--young Israelis call it Kikar Crack, Crack Square. The Coffee Bean is nice, but it has all the character of your average Starbucks. And they play a lot of Eagles, which, as I mentioned, is weird.
There are three Americanized coffee shops--Coffee Bean, Cafe Hillel, and Aroma Espresso Bar--selling overpriced coffee within less than a hundred meters of each other. I don't get how they all stay open. You'd think that, this being a Jewish city, someone would have won a price war and forced the other two out of business. My bet would be on Coffee Bean, which has free WiFi, which Cafe Hillel does not. On the other hand, Hillel is literally fifteen feet from CB, so their patrons can just steal its WiFi. This is convenient, because Hillel gets all the benefits of providing its patrons with free internet without having to, you know, actually provide it. Which is kinda brilliant, actually. It's ideas like that make me proud to be Jewish.
But maybe they're all still here because it doesn't work that way. Maybe they all complement each other, creating a sort of coffee oasis that anyone craving coffee, or air conditioning, or internet, will come to. After all, there's effectively no difference between the three stores, so it's just a roll of the dice which you wind up at. Maybe there's just enough traffic that all can stay open.
Okay, okay. They're probably government subsidized. Like everything else in this country.
It's sometimes hard to tell whether all of the English and apparent Americanization of this area is just a touristy facade, or whether its indicative of something deeper in Israeli popular culture. On the one hand, this cafe is like a transplanted Starbucks--on the other, a lot of the people in here are Israeli. There are a lot of soldiers, a lot of people speaking Hebrew. Across the street, in Kikar Crack, you see Hebrew ultra-rightist graffiti scrawled next to '2pac lives' or 'Stop Snitchin.' Which, by the way, you also find in public parks in Haifa, which is not an especially touristy city. On the one hand, English is everywhere here--on the other, English is everywhere everywhere in Israel, even places that lack English speakers. Maybe it's part of a larger trend, an obsession with things American, the same trend that makes Israelis freak out over their versions of crappy but popular shows like 'The Biggest Loser' or 'American Idol.' And maybe the English signs in places like Haifa or Be'ersheva is there not to send a message to Anglos but to Israelis, something like, 'Yeah, this club is hip.' Perhaps there's English everywhere for the same reason that there is American fast food everywhere, eaten mostly by Israelis. It has a certain foreign cachet.
Or there are just too many Americans.
I'm writing this at the tail end of Shavuot, which is one of the Big Three Jewish holidays, supposedly the anniversary of our receiving the Torah, which some in these parts consider a big deal. Anyhow, tradition is you stay up all night learning Torah, then say morning prayers at the Western Wall and pass out. So I overdosed on coffee and spent 11 pm to 4 am learning at a variety of different yeshivas in the Old city. Then I walked with some friends outside the walls to watch literally thousands of Jews pouring in from every corner of Jerusalem. It was an immensely powerful experience, an unbroken stream of
religious Jews walking through the Arab markets, just before dawn, heading for the Western Wall. We said morning prayers there, surrounded by ten thousand Jews, just as the sun broke over the wall. It was incredible. Shortly afterward, we were nearly torn limb from limb by angry Orthodox Jewish women...but that's another story.
It strikes me that there are two Israels intermixed together. I would call them, not terribly originally, Third World and First World Israel. On the one hand, as I said before, I'm sitting in an overpriced
coffee shop sipping $4 dollar coffee. On the other, I just bought lunch from a falafel store for $2. Where I'm sitting is an oasis of cleanliness and, ah, culture--across the street, graffiti and the smell of piss. Half a mile away, the Old City, which, especially but not exclusively in the Arab neighborhoods, is filthy and, well, medieval, with fruit vendors and crappy souvenir shops and cheap falafel stands. The hotel I'm staying at is nice and modern, but it's two blocks in one direction from the Salah al-Din shopping area--which is the beginning of Arab East Jerusalem and looks like Amman--and two in the other from Mea Sharim, the ultra-Orthodox ghetto. For that matter, our hotel is only seven years old, and half of it is really nice, and half of it is disgusting. The lobby is beautiful--the weight room...well, despite the age of the hotel, the weight room has to have been there since the War of Independence. And beaten regularly by the staff. And never cleaned.
Maybe all countries are like that, on some level. Half-civilized, which I mean in the least pejorative sense possible. It makes you wonder, though, which is the real Israel.
Which reminds me of a story I heard, before I sign out. Some background: Israel has a holiday in April, Yom HaAtzmaut, Independence Day, which commemorates the day that Israel declared its independence from Britain in 1948.
A friend was telling me that a friend of hers (so this is already two degrees of separation) heard that falafel sellers don't change their oil all that often. Falafel is deep-fried, so this worried him greatly. So the next timehe went to get falafel, he asked the vendor, 'When was the last time you changed your oil?'
'Yom HaAztmaut.'
'Oh, so just a couple weeks ago.'
'No, no. Yom HaAtzmaut.'
Live from Crack Square, this is Saul Elbein.
Some things that came to me, sitting in the Coffee Bean coffee shop in downtown Jerusalem, looking out at Kikar Tziyon, or Zion Square.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)