More farewells than Jacques Loussier

An old school chum introduced me to the works of Jacques Loussier in 1960not very many.  He is a French jazz pianist who re-worked the music of J. S. Bach (that’s the German fellow, not someone called JS and  me going all Welsh).  I have several of his  (Jacues Loussier, not my old mate) records – still on vynil – and was mightily impressed with him. Unfortunately he blotted his copy book by going on more farewell tours than a kamikaze bungee-jumper; I paid to watch the first three but then got fed up!

Yesterday was Jacques Loussier day.  A constant stream of students came for a final lesson and mildly emotional farewell.  A couple even came round twice – it was a bit like missing your bag on a baggage carousel at an airport.  After the solemn partings in Azzoun it was all rather touching.  I have been invited back again – with free university accommodation thrown in – and was given a lift to the bus station because of my rucksack and daybag.

Many of my travels have ended up with travelathons, normally for mercenary reasons, but this one is different.  Because last weekend was likely to be difficult getting to and doing what I wanted in Al Khalil I had formed an alternative idea, hence the Bethlehem, Al Khalil, Bethlehem detour on way to Jerusalem.  The first sign of a hiccup was the news of a lad being shot near Ramallah.  Modern weaponry makes being shot quite hazardous; when modern weaponry includes something bigger than a standard 7.65 round it becomes even more injurious.  Allegedly the lad was hit with something much bigger.

Despite suggestions of actions in solidarity with the martyr, Ramallah was quiet (there is no direct link between Nablus and Bethlehem), too quiet.  No bloody train and no bloody bus, they don’t give a bloody cuss about bloody us (in bloody Orkney is how the original poem continues, but that is not relevant here).  There were no mini-buses and so, after a long and draughty wait, I succumbed to the advances of a cabbie and paid over the odds with some others just to get there.  Once in Bethlehem I asked him about the hostel so he rang them and gave me a price.  The hostel had e-mailed me with what should have been the price so we haggled, he came down, we agreed and off we went.  Then he stopped in a dark side street and demanded his first price; we discussed this somewhat briefly and came to an agreement – which I thought was amicable.

This morning was totally different.  As I double checked my route to the bus for Al Khalil a pleasant young lad showed me all the way, the driver was pleasantness personified (he even pointed out where to get the return bus from) and all was well.  Until I tried to get a few extra dibdobs to make sure that I can pay fares etc. tomorrow.  I have a mean streak which shows itself when travelling; I truly dislike having too many dibdobs left over and feeding banks’ profits but also have an irrational fear of not paying what is due, especially in countries where people are far worse off than I.

Yet again, three banks declined my blandishments.  I had e-mailed the owner of the last kufiyah factory in Palestine (a cruel twist of irony – they are now imported from China) to check that he would be open today.  As I couldn’t get the cash I decided against trying too find the factory but – great fortune – came across a collective Women in Hebron (or Palestine, I forget which) which sells kufiyahs from the factory.  Kind fates, I paid with my credit card – the snarling when at the Dead Sea seems to have worked there –  and so supported two good causes.

Guide books and relevant articles discuss Al Khalil, the tensions and the whole situation.  Nothing,  however, can prepare someone for the actuality; it is so terribly saddening.  The town is divided by settlements right in amongst everything.  Many towns are almost surrounded by the wall and settlements but here it is within the town.  The open air market has covers slung across the street to prevent thrown objects, what was once a thriving street full of shops now has a portacabin housing a metal detector and razor wire.  Heavily armed and body armoured soldiers with heavy duty riot wagons stand between and neither side is allowed access to the other’s manor.  It was midday of Friday prayers and so at its most heavily patrolled but it does hit with the technical skills of a raging rhinoceros just what life is like there.

I did it my way?

 

As I sit here, my packed rucksack behind me, two songs came to mind.  One had to go, so Peter, Paul and Mary, you were the weaker link; goodbye (it is just as bad in Arabic, by the way), even though your bags were also packed and you were ready to go, a taxi waiting outside the door.  Frank, your Mafia mates really scared me, so you won – by a horses head.  I did do it my way, to the delight (and sometimes hilarity) of some of the students.

It is a song I cannot mention without a humerous anecdote.  Radio one had just taken over from the pirate stations and I was still callow enough to like the sounds, there was a request programme and someone had requested this for their granny’s 90th. birthday.  The first few words are: Änd now, the end is near, I face the final curtain.”   I have been called sick for seeing the funny side of it.

I also did it my way with Hasna, Waseem’s sister – and neither a rectum nor anal sphincter in sight (or sound).  I transcribed another description of the large intestine for her (and even got most of the funny sounding medical/biological bits almost right), wrote a fair copy in my best handwriting – and she couldn’t read it.  As arranged, I went to see her last night to check that she had decoded it but there was no-one there.  Fortunately I bumped into Waseem this morning, said goodbye and checked; she seemed ok with it.

My little Hamlyn entourage escorted me to the roundabout and made solemn farewells – they are all about 14.  I have wanted a photo of the imposed gates to the village and yesterday managed a couple as I got off the bus (seeing no soldiery I hopped off a stop or two early for just this reason)- which was fortunate as the soldiers were back on duty, lounging against their LandRover this morning; it would not have been opportune.

One thing which has been niggling at the back of my mind is why the fire service where DPM.  They drive a big, red fire appliance with flashing lights, it’s not as if they want to creep up on the flames and catch them unawares.  However, the hose thingy on the top does look suspiciously like a water cannon; I wonder if they serve a dual purpose.  Whatever, I thought a photo would look nice, and was just getting my camera ready when I looked up the road – and noticed two heavily built and beribboned firemen walking towards me.  That one may wait until the next time. 

The small world syndrome has struck again.  I have written before of the French teacher, she whose family live close to where I drove by last November.  We discovered, whilst speaking of France, that she has an auntie who lives in the same commune as the cottage.  Just in case, I established that she is neither Madame Fleurie nor Jojo’s wife, Christianne.  That really would have taken the biscuit – and been a custard cream at that, although a Bourbon may have been more appropriate.

There is quite a Derry air to many place names – not only written in two or three languages, but having two names.  Thus it is with Al Khalil (Hebron), a sorely divided city with settlements almost dividing the Arab quarters into separate entities – and large numbers of soldiers to guard the settlers.  As a final tourist action I have booked two nights in Bethlehem so that I can visit both places.  Al Khalil on Friday is not best planning but a shop I sorely want to visit will be open, I have checked.

So, to Bethlehem now, then on tomorrow but back in the evening.  That should allow me to pad around Bethlehem on Saturday morning and still manage the airport in time….. despite, Qalandia check-point, shabbat, Old Uncle Tom Cobbley, Old Mother Reilly, her cow, her dog, Spot, a sausage roll and the proverbial bottle of pop. Inchaállah.

 

Hold off! Unhand me grey-beard loon.

  Further to the comment regarding literal translations, another occurred yesterday.  I gave some students an article to read from the BBC website which contained the word albatross, which some looked up on their phones and found a big old bird that goes to sea.  Aye, I’ve known a few that match that description.  Fortunately their translations were not golf related or I would have been equally at sea.

After a little grumble about how translators can miss the point I started telling them about the Rhyme of The Ancient Mariner and the significance of the albatross.  They were totally bemused  by ‘Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”  but seemed to see something that I had missed in “By thy long grey beard and glittering eye.”  It did remind me of an old mate whose family name was Ross.  In that circle we all knew him as Albert – partly because he disliked it so much.  Last I heard, some decade or more ago, he also had attained a TEFL certificate.

Firm in my belief that there are no rules, only generalised protocols, I cannot in truth always bemoan literal translations.  Recently Raqi told me a joke in Arabic –  about a rabbit that went into a hardware shop and asked for a pound of carrots!  There were one or two minor differences to the one with which I have bored many people for many years, but then again, too few to  mention (thanks, Frank).

One thing I forgot to mention about my steam clean from the other day – I had another Mr. Bean moment.  There is a ready supply of flip-flops in the changing room and so I picked a pair of nice, new-looking quite upmarket ones.  I lay on the hot slab, I steamed (and communed with Swedish Trades Unionists), I showered and wallowed; eventually I went back to change.  In the changing room  a young man asked me about the flip-flops; they were his own ones.  I have no idea how long he had been waiting, bless him, but he was gracious in his retrieval of them.  Well, they did look a nice pair, I do not blame myself (although he may have a different perspective).

As this is my penultimate day in Nablus (inchaállah) I have been busy taking some photos of one or two things which have drawn my interest.  It is a funny feeling, that after three months I shall move on tomorrow (yimkin; that’s Arabic for maybe, not Thursday).  I have booked a bed in a dormitory for two nights in Bethlehem – it’s not a plan, it’s a projection – and intend to go to Hebron for the day on Friday.  Having cunningly made a Saturday (Shabbat) my last day I will need a high degree of astuteness and forethought (not necessarily playing to my strengths) to get to the airport.  As evidence of that – I should arrive in Larnaca, some 100 miles plus from Paphos, after the last bus connection has gone;  I need to get to Paphos.  Bright lad wanted, apply within.

A very low flying military plane has just whizzed by; someone said, “duck’ but I think it was an F.16.  Last Saturday, on the way to Jericho, I was amazed at how few soldiers were evident but there was a plethora of Israeli flags flying.  On Sunday, however, it seemed the soldiers were on double time – more of them about than Spurs fans on their knees when someone said they had dropped a pound coin.

The incidence of co-incidence

At the third time of trying I managed my second visit to the hammam.  On the first occasion I got sidetracked, on the second I took a wrong turning but, yesterday evening, success!  With my new-found technical wizardry I can now show you in pictures as well as words the wondrous inside.

Every time I think of the place I am reminded of the owner of Wimbledon Football Club when they were a local South London team and even managed to win the F.A. cup once.  If my memory serves me right Sam Hammam was the owner; fancy, a crappy club owned by a toilet!  There was once a goalkeeper named Bert Glazier who played for Crystal Palace (whose nickname was The Glaziers – long before that name became synonymous with Manchester United).

Whilst there I fell into conversation with three large mzungu.  They transpired to be Swedish Trades Unionists in Palestine to help relaunch a transport (and general workers?) union and Trades Union Council.  Our conversation turned to Health and Safety and how, in the non-industrialised world, this is ridden roughshod over – the not too distant tragedy at the factory in Bangladesh being a case in point.  It is something that the Daily Mail editorial board and Little Englanders would do well to remember before berating too much red tape.  The Health and Safety Executive only exists because unscrupulous capitalists put profit above workers welfare.

Back at The Miss Havisham Suite I couldn’t help noticing a change.  There had been an old style school desk, a metal frame with seat and desk attached, by the wall.  It had been moved from beside my room to beside the khazi – and a step ladder placed precariously on top, leaning against the wall.  Raqi had been putting more rain defences in place.  So much for the health and safety rant, then.

Stepping back slightly in time, on my way back on Sunday I was invited for coffee by Waseem, the neighbour.  I had to decline but said I would be back on Monday by 6 o’clock.  Closer to seven though it was, he was still there, puffing on his nargilah and waiting to offer me coffee.  Then his sister popped her head round the corner and asked for a hand with translating something to do with her course.

She has to prepare a presentation about the role of the large intestine and had found a quite humerous  you tube cartoon which is gruesomely detailed.  With her hijab clad mother pouring coffee and the thought of a picture at the Language Resource Centre of a man in underpants and the rear view of a naked woman, both used to show the parts of the body, where the female buttocks have been defaced in an attempt to erase them, how to describe terms such as anal sphincter, just for a moment escaped me.  Like Dan Dare in the clutches of the Mekon, with one bound I was free!  She is due to be at the university tomorrow, so we will have a tutorial there – but I still need some basic words that will not be considered obscene.

Bankers’ logic is not a banker

Apart from 42 there does not seem to be a panacea.  I remember reading some few years ago that one, often overlooked in the western news media, reason for the fall from grace of Rhodesia as it transmogrified into Zimbabwe was not only Robert Mugabe’s desire for revenge.  When his government approached the world’s official money brokers for loans the IMF and World Bank were of one mind – to repay any loans the country would have to change from food crops to cash crops; to repay loans rather than feed his people.  That neither worked is a tragedy for the people.

In the same way that instruments to measure time in the industrialised world do not necessarily translate to the non-industrialised world, neither do measurements of wealth.  Per capita income is difficult (impossible?) to measure where there is so much barter rather than buying.  Where wealth is measured in cattle, and in times of drought herds are culled to ensure survival of some, it would mean that preserving some wealth was seen as self-inflicted penury.  The more I see of other cultures the more struck I am that logic is culturally specific.

The culture of banking seems to have an individual logic as well.  For several months I have been withdrawing money via one particular bank card as I made my slow and painful way across Europe and to the Middle East.  That card is valid until the end of April, 2015 (i e, another 14 months, for any bankers who chance to read this!).  Last Tuesday I felt the need for more ready cash, so stayed on the bus to the Municipality.  Despite my previous travails at Quuds bank, after both the Palestine Bank and Arab Bank showed transaction declined, I had to go there – still to no good avail.  So the following day I took all the paraphernalia and tried to use internet banking from the university – to be advised that I needed to ring in.  After an almost unintelligible conversation with a heavily accented woman who sounded non-UK I was put through to Clare from Liverpool; a heavily accented woman with whom I had an almost unintelligible conversation.  We did, however get to the bottom of the problem.  With a mere 14 months to run the card had been superceded by a new one – which had been sent to my home address.  Without any notification (to me) that it was coming and no notification (to the bank) that it had arrived, the bank cancelled the current one.  After 11 minutes of international roaming rates on a mobile I was finally able to use my perfectly valid card again – but with the admonishment that I would have to ring in on my return to validate the new one.  Perhaps it is my just rewards for deciding on the personalised, photo-bearing card some while ago – an exercise in stupidity and vanity.

In an action replay of the Tuesday the Palestine Bank again declined my kind offer of their cash – but the Arab bank succumbed to my charm.  As I walked back, near a mosque by the Municipality I was sorely tempted to override my preference not to photograph people – there were several elderly Arab men, replete with kufiyahs, taking the afternoon sun; it looked so peaceful and they looked content.  Then Ghada’s father called to me.  As a retired teacher he has time to survey his demesne at his leisure – and I was dragged off (not unwillingly) to her mum’s shop for shai and bikkies.  It made the bank hassle worthwhile.  She had been upset recently at the death of a caged bird which had left a bereft mate.  A new partner had been bought and now the female was sitting on a clutch of eggs.

Ghada’s dad asked me my age and we had a little chortle about young Raqi – a mere boy at 62.  Then he walked with me back to the Municipality – and made sure that I knew my way back to Raqi’s.  I have come to realise that it is wise to acknowledge local custom regarding names.  When referring to a couple it is customary to use only the man’s name.  In another place I tried to be aware of a common (then, at least) British women’s refrain of being a person in their own right, not just the mother of their children.  Thus I resolutely used Mariam rather than Mama Gatti – until John, the suave and urbane mountain guide with whom I was working, pointed that his wife, Mama Nora, would have been offended had I not acknowledged her status.  After that Mama Gatti even smiled at me (occasionally).

From what appears to be negativity comes goodness; it is always worth awaiting the final outcome.  But I still don’t understand why the other bank that I use (the one that controls my credit card) needs to be informed every single time I try to use it.  After the last (testy) phone call (when I hired a car by the Dead Sea) the woman to whom I spoke did promise that it would not happen again; I wonder if she had an uncle who had been captain of the Titanic.

Damn, Dhama and Dumbest

Friday is dhobi day, as well as other household chores.  As I should be leaving here after work on Thursday next I have entered that strange twilight world where everything is a last.  It is the converse of mourning, where everyday for the first year is the first of whenever since the loss.  The final dhobi day marked its going in style.

Some time ago a cousin of Raqi, who is an electrician, came to do something electrical.  He was fiddling in a very dark corner with what may have been live cables.  As I had a Poundshop headtorch in my pocket I shone a light for him and he was mightily taken with both my gesture and my toy.  When I mentioned it later both Ghada and Raqi were a trifled annoyed; apparently to appreciate so volubly is to ask for.  Rather than surrender my torch with so long to go, and the earlier bad weather induced power cuts still in my mind, I pretended no to understand, but asked The Wee Mannie to bring one with him.  Bless him, being unable to find one in a Poundshop he went hither and thither and eventually  bought an expensive one, which he brought with him.  Comparing the two, I decided to keep the better one (the one which had been brought out) and donate the cheaper one.

As Hakim and I were doing some weeding in the warm sun on Friday I took of  my fleece and left it  over a post near but not too near the washing machine; my dirty dhobi was in a bag beside the machine.  A little later Ghada told me that my dhobi was ready to be spun and I moved it across the twin-tub.  Imaging my surprise to find my fleece in the water!  Something was nagging at the back of my mind, something which became obvious as I picked up the sodden fleece – the new, super expensive torch was still in a pocket.  It was not only expensive but also very clean – with a light that would not extinguish due to a short circuit.  That would serve me right for my bad dhama inducing greed.  As luck would have it, stripping it down and hanging it on the line with the intentional dhobi meant that it dried and now works again as new and I have sufficient clean clothes to last.

On Saturday I went via Nablus to Jericho.  It was exceedingly hot but so, apparently, was everywhere else.  Not far from the town is the Mount of Temptation – where Jesus was allegedly tempted by the devil after his forty day fast.  I was tempted to walk up it, but I was hungry, and the devil in me thought it a tad too far and too pricey to go by taxi just to walk up another supposed biblical hill.  The town is small and very Arabic (lots of men in kufiyahs sitting round drinking coffee) but, surprisingly, has two offies right by the Plaza De Armas (Latino, but I don’t know the Arabic for it).

Returning to Nablus, I popped in for a shai nana at the Qasr Al Nile and was surprised when the arab music channel switched over for Chelsea vs Everton.  Having only an academic interest I wandered off for the bus to Azzoun but, once there, did walk to the electrical fittings shop where I watched a bit of a Premiership match some while ago.  Thus I spent the last twenty minutes with the pleasant wee chappie who owns the shop.  Just as I was thinking of going round the corner to a cafe to see if they would show TMA he mentioned that Real Madrid were due to kick off in ten minutes……  So I walked back, through different roads to Raqi’s.  My homing pigeon like sense of direction took me down one road where a man gave me an unfriendly stare and called out to a neighbour.  Just as I was thinking that this was a bad move the neighbour came out, shook me warmly by the hand and asked if I remembered him – which fortunately I did; I had met him at Nameer’s.  He pointed out that I was wandering down a cul-de-sac, showed me the correct path and sent me away with a smile and a wave.

If only a scroaty wee scunner in Jericho hadn’t tried to fleece me for a shai nana there it would have been perfect (and Chelsea hadn’t scored in the last minute).  Oh that all life’s hardships were so mighty and hard to deal with.

Nature is Balance, Balance is Nature

To describe life as an emotional big dipper is rather emotive ( and to describe it as a roller coaster seems a bit American), but it does seem that every up needs a down – otherwise we would all be on the moon, I suppose.  A minor down yesterday was supplanted by a huge up today – the Tulkarim Belle arrived with her two friends and asked if I minded having my photo taken with them.  As she does not use Facebook it is unlikely to appear there ( a select few know the relevance of this) so I readily agreed – and a French class was disturbed to get a photographer (pardon, madame).  Unable to resist the opportunity, and happily having my camera with me as well, I also have a (proper) photo.

Nablus is described in guides as a small town nestling between two mountains and so it was.  However, since the now Palestinian diaspora as well as many others, paradoxically, it has spread.  There is a steady march of half-completed and half empty blocks of 7 or 8 storey tenements up the two mountains (they have names but road signs prosaically describe them as North Mountain and South Mountain [at least you can’t get lost]) .  As Palestinian people feel compelled, either by economic constraints or the oppressive life-style, to emigrate there is a wealth of those wanting to maintain a stake in their country.  Whilst unemployment is rampant and the economy stagnates, those who have left are often quite rich and subsidise relatives who remain.  This presents many odd polarities, all based around extreme poverty and rampant wealth.  Cars are either enormous, petrol-swilling, modern, expensive BMWs, Mercedes or Audis or the aforementioned 30 years old Subaru and VW T2s and 3s.  The Palestinian villages tend to be a bit down at heel looking but the tenements are new and (where finished) sparkling.  The unfinished houses are often owned by non-resident Palestinian people who wish to keep a claim in their homeland and so time is no object; they are often unfinished to the level of only being floors, walls and rooves, thus there is nothing to damage – and no topping out party to pay for.

An apparent crossing of wires has taken place.  Ghada had said that the school is behind with lessons and thus it would be better for me to only go to the university from now on; I gathered that this was a message from the school.  Yesterday, as I was waiting for Raqi to pick me up from what is now my pick up point the English master with good English got out of a car by me and asked when I was going back; it is all very confusing and my Arabic is insufficient to explore further.  Naturally inclined to the Poor Bloody Infantry I shall just soldier on.  Another example of too many cooks spoiling the broth means that the big research project may be destined to become just another piece of holiday fun as well.  The show is not over until the fat lady sings – and that it is not meant to apply in anything but a metaphorical sense.

For those fellow workers who have another day before the weekend, my sympathies.  I can smell the oasis in the desert, I can hear the hoofbeats; the horses are stampeding, it’s going home time!

Politeness or Paternalism?

My late dad was a stickler for old-fashioned manners, a trait which he passed on to me.  I find it mildly amusing how common courtesy can now be interpreted.  I still hold doors open for people (gender free, but not those shouting on mobile phones) near me and often let others go first – especially to the bar.

During the post-radical feminist days of the 1970s I was once shouted at by one of that ilk for being patronising when I held the door for her; she insisted that she was not a sex object – I could not have agreed more.  Despite that, I still feel that some old world manners make for a more comfortable life.  I will no longer necessarily walk down stairs in front of a woman or walk on the outside of a pavement, but there is a difference (in my mind, at least) between treating women as fragile little things and treating everybody with a degree of politeness.  Oh that others feel the same.

On the London underground last year a couple of Oriental maids from amongst a large group of tourists almost came to blows in order to offer me a seat in a crowded carriage and then, when using a walking stick to ease a bout of sciatica, a real Yardie-looking gangster, complete with black overcoat on a  balmy summer’s eve and huge diamonte earrings, also on the underground, offered me his seat.  Unfortunately these occasions are few and far between.

Imagine my surprise, to see how polite the youths of Palestine are!  On Thursday last I asked a lad whether the first bus to stop outside the university went to Azzoun.  It did not and he wandered part way up the road with some mates – then came haring back as the next bus approached to tell me that this one did.  On Sunday a similar thing happened but this time I was invited into a cab with three other students; we all wanted Azzoun and the individual fare was the same as the bus.  Yesterday, as yet another company’s bus stopped the lad from Thursday called out to me that this was the one I wanted!  The lads even stand without crushing people as young women (and slightly older chaps) are allowed on in that order; it is all rather civilised, even if there is an element of that paternalism.

Unfortunately my plan to visit Hebron has had to be altered because that will not be the case on Friday.  It will be the 20th. anniversary of an innocent Israeli settler succumbing to the incitement of praying men and boys, to which he responded by killing 20 and injuring 100.  Since then the  police and army have been totally committed to preventing a similar incitement by closing the area around the scene, to the detriment of the Arab traders and residents.  Now, what was the main trading street is, apparently, a virtual ghost town.

The police in question would have been Israeli rather than Palestinian.  The latter are not even allowed to arrest tourists – they can only detain them until the powerful ones arrive.  The poor old Palestinian police use Piaggio three-wheeler scooters and one Honda Dulville, a white version of the one which I owned for 10 years and rode for 98,000 miles.  In fact, looking at its condition it could be the same one with a respray and new plates (if it hadn’t been looked after too well).  There is a large, blue, modern touring bike which often goes the other way as we are driving to the university; I hate the driver for no other reason that he has his bike with him.  I wonder if there is a local equivalent of CrimeStoppers…….  That would stop his farting in church!

To ensure the longevity of Raqi’s car I now walk down to the centre of the village and meet him once he has dropped off his children.  This has the interesting effect of me feeling like the Pied Piper of Hamlyn – a whole procession of youngsters trying out their English as we wander along.  Also, a lot of the older folk join in.  There is one lovely old fellow who drives his donkey and cart in the other direction; we always wave and pass a couple of greetings.  What a pity there is only a short time to go.

I have entered the twilight zone – having to think of UK jobs, make appointments, what will need doing whilst not yet having had enough.  The times that England has tried to hide from me and prevent my return have shown me that when time is up I accept it gracefully – even readily.  When I was sort of arrested in Nepal I enjoyed the experience for two days but when it turned into four I got a bit exasperated.  It was totally Kafkaesque.  I had  been robbed a while before and subbed by a friend in England to continue the trip.  On the weekend of the robbery I had returned to Kathmandu to renew my visa – which the clerk did, but gave me a less than legal one!  When I tried to leave I was an overstayer and thus liable to a fine – which I could not pay, so could not leave.  As I could not leave the fine grew daily, so I was less able to pay.  Eventually I managed to borrow the money to pay the fine but had to sell five books to a second hand bookshop to pay the cab fare.  The bookshop owner was happy to buy the books but would only do so if I bought one off him, after he was a trader.  On another occasion a whole airline changed its routes to keep me out, but that is too long a story for here – as is the time British Airways went on strike to support the Keep Him Out Campaign.  Is there something I am missing here?

 

The dangers of literal translations

A common greeting here is, “welcome,” which is a direct translation of Ahalan, a regular word of meeting but quaint when used in the street .  I frequently tell students that direct translation has many hidden pitfalls.  Despite the quality of teaching materials there is an immediate and clear need for teaching the teachers.  Their pronunciation is of variable quality and some have a tendency to fall back into Arabic to explain points of English. Which is one reason for there being so many grammatical errors.  Where you are going?  Is the Arabic sentence structure, which the students hear when being taught to ask, “where are you going?” It is very difficult for them.  There are also potential traps for the English speaking teachers.

I have joked with many that the name of Palestine should be changed to Facebook Nation, so many of them spend their whole time (including during classes) giving Shin Beth and Shabak their life histories; haven’t they heard of Bradley Manning and Edward Snowden?  Halfway through last week three new female students arrived and I did one of my usual first conversations and asked about family and pastimes – one actually doesn’t use Facebook!  As quick as a flash, and totally without thinking I told her that I loved her and wanted to marry her; this is a social faux pas in Palestine.

The poor wee lass went as red as a beetroot and tried to hide behind her hand.  It is a credit to her fortitude that she has come back for more – especially as her friends continue to rag her and she responds my doing an imitation of a brake light.  To be on the safe side I think I had best avoid the town of Tulkarim, from whence she comes.  There could be an AK47 marriage!

In days of old,                                                                                                                                                                                     when knights were bold                                                                                                                                                                               and shotguns weren’t invented.                                                                                                                                                         They held their weddings at swordpoint                                                                                                                                                     and had to be contented.

The biggest news here, likely to be received in sodden and battered England with a degree of undercare, is that we have rain!  After the December snow and a wet day as I was travelling to Jerusalem just before the new year, there has been virtually nothing even the rising damp from the ground that we expect in the UK has been conspicuous by its absence.  On Friday I had done my dhobi and decided to hang it on the roof to dry on the line up there.  It was a bit blowy and I played chase the knickers round and round but most of it dried; it was what an old grannie may have called a good drying day.  The few remaining items stayed on the line after dark – there is not even any dew here to re-wet that left  out overnight.  It was whilst playing chase the knickers that I thought how fortunate that Fat Chas. was not here with me – his smalls are an oxymoron, his drawers resemble the mainsail on the Mary Rose when she sank in Portsmouth Harbour.

At twilight I went into the Miss Havisham suite and continued reading, to be disturbed by an unusual noise – raindrops falling on the roof (they certainly don’t keep falling anywhere, including my head)!  The joy of dashing out and gathering the almost dry t shirts was overwhelming.  Then it stopped, but on getting up, the roof was under a inch or so of water; huzzah.  Yesterday I went to Jenin for the day, the northernmost town in Palestine.  It is an interesting place, with a few peace-aiming type things, like the Freedom Theatre, and a huge street market.  Puts Shepherds Bush to shame. Because of the overcast sky I took the waterproof shell for my fleece – fortunately, as it turned out.  More rain – and low cloud hiding the tops of the two mountains between which Nablus nestles.  And even more rain during the night.  It made me wonder how things are in the UK.

Although you may read this as continuous prose a group of students came for a session – including my little Tulkarim belle; she stills glows at almost everything I say but she does come back for more, bless her.  There was also a new to me lad who seems to want to insist on me accepting everything in the world is wrong apart from Islam.  Fortunately he is counterbalanced by a young woman with a refreshingly well thought out perspective.  What a strange thing co-incidence is – I was awake for large parts of last night and today lethargy entered the conversation (the crossword syndrome is spreading….)