‘Tis the season to be… curmudgeonly!

I have a mate, Pete, who is a lovely fellow.  We were nodding acquaintances and then, during the brief period when I taught adults at night-schools, we became better friends. He used to have a social evening on a Thursday and I used to pop in after teaching; he offered me a drink one evening as he was getting his round and I was waiting to be served.  That we shared a pleasure in playing cribbage helped as well.  Currently he lives in The Limousin and I visited him there in my camper; there was a certain synchronicity (The Limousin being the origin of USian ‘limousine’ for car).

He was somewhat taken aback some years ago when, at the behest of others, I went for a drink at our local dive during the short Christmas Day opening hours.  I had been almost forced in to attending following the path of least harm – between night shifts all I wanted to do was sleep but the couple who invited me to join them would have had their Christmas spoiled thinking about me “being lonely”.  Pete walked in, full of bonhomie and came out with some claptrap like, “peace on earth and goodwill to all men.”  I responded with an expletive and we started a deep discussion about if it could happen for one day why not for ever; he humoured me, bless him.

My long-term volunteering throughout the faux jolly period confuses many people; they don’t realise that I am a refugee from all the cant, hypocrisy and cynical consumerism. As I used to tell students, Scrooge was modelled on me and then diluted to make him plausible!  It is heartening that so many fellow-volunteers are of a similar mind-set. Three o’clock in the morning is a favourite time not only for those who knock on doors to catch others unawares; it is better than a game of truth or dare.

After the visit to one son and his family I thought I had left my warm, wooley hat at their house.  My hat is black, my bag dark; I am a numpty.  Now spluttering and sneezing all over the place, at least I get space on crowded public transport.  When I eventually plumbed the depths of the bag I realised I had suffered in vain – the hat was snuggling down the bottom.

The day before Christmas Eve was one of pottering – I jacked up the camper thinking that it would be easier to inflate the tyres without the van’s weight bearing down on them – and then couldn’t find the electric pump.  My footpump wasn’t up to the job last time I tried to use it. Fortunately there is a car accessories shop but a short distance away and so I wasn’t that inconvenienced.

The Chatelain and Jean, who first supplied me with contact details for volunteering in Palestine, live within spitting distance of each other (but fortunately are both more refined), thus I killed two proverbial birds with one stone – at a stroke I have discharged my duty to Ghada and emptied the camper of extraneous rubbish (which means that I can sleep in it in comparative comfort, should the need arise).

Poems a-plenty abound about the tranquility of the pre-MWCF evenings but for Crisis people it is a living card.  We meet, we greet, we throw ourselves about each others’ necks.  Apart from the Grumpy Chums we have next to nothing to do with each other all year but that annual rendez-vous is an almost sacrosanct meeting.  We also repair to a convenient pub on Christmas Eve at 8.30am!

The Wee Mannie enjoys the naughtiness of seeing his city colleagues bustling off to work while we sup, dressed in our Crisis “may have to clean the khazi, may have to stand in the frosty/rain/cold outdoors for a couple of hours in the dead of night clothing”.  The night itself was quiet and unremarkable.  Following three months of next to no alcohol, next to no bulky food, oodles of walking, I was unprepared for the onslaught and suffered a fit of  nausea; the first sickie in 20 years didn’t seem to be a mickey-take.

Christmas Day was thus spent feeling sorry for myself but without the need for sleep.  There being no public transport I took the camper in the evening, popped down to see Cap’n John at the Samaritans’ base on way and wandered on to the shelter.  It was good to meet some old Samaritans’ chums but I was saddened to hear of the death of one and serious illness of another.  How situations change over time – the drive was easy until I reached Knightsbridge – there were foreign tourists in their thousands and a traffic jam of mammoth proportions.

Night Dutyitis is a syndrome that only shift workers truly appreciate.  Once, many years ago, I booked a ferry whilst on the night shift for a crossing some months in advance and booked a cabin for myself, three children and wife.  Arriving at the ferryport I was made aware that I had booked for the day before (arriving that morning – we were there that night!) – and there were no cabins available; my name was mud.  I still need to sort train tickets to help with the next little problem.

Of my three children I had seen two and made arrangements to see the third; as that one and I had drifted apart I was particularly keen to meet.  He suggested the afternoon after the end of Crisis and my next day sailing to the cottage.  Logistics is not one of my strong points (see night dutyitis, above as evidence).  I now had a Chinese Puzzle in the making – a need to collect passport, visa’d and ready to go to Russia; a need to spend some time with Grumpy Chums post final Crisis night; a need to pack van; a need to not drive van on 30th; a need to drive van to ferryport very early on 31st; a great need to not break the arrangement.  A need to avoid the recipe for disaster…   It all looked rather fragile.

As not even the nostalgia is what it used to be I have spent some down time thinking about the 20 years of Crisis and what changes have been good and what less so.  The old, abandoned factories and office-blocks which we used to borrow have given way to schools and colleges who allow us to use some of their premises whilst their students have a Christmas break; a definite plus.  Greater pernikitiness and over-administrating provide the counter-balance.  A rush to bigger and more inefficient hierarchies (usually synonymous) is another negative.  Less aggravation and guest ‘dynamic’ a huge plus.

The need to remember how annoying and futile the “in my day we did” refrain sounds is paramount.  All the changes would make it so easy ( and just as grating).  Crisis learnt from its (many) mistakes – once we almost caused a major medical emergency in TBS when an outbreak of food poisoning was one bed short of closing all the Accident and Emergency units throughout the capital!

The week seems very long with the end coming so far after the days of gluttony and overindulgence.  At least the end is now in sight – and the volunteers’ party is confirmed for January, 7th (which is fortunate as I return on that morning and fly out again on 12th). Planning?  Pah!

 

Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner.

Returning to The Big Smoke as the MidWinter ConsumerFest goes into overdrive is not the best tactic for my blood pressure; staying out of the UK during the interminable and over-extended run-up was.  In Tanzania Christmas over-drive started on 23rd. December, in India it was only on 25th. that the dreaded ‘C’ word was mentioned (with the preamble “happy”).  Strangely, in Muslim Egypt the hotel where I happened to be in mid-December once was gearing up for Christmas-avoiding-tourists some three weeks early.  2016 is the 20th. anniversary of my first volunteering at Crisis and so there is an almost unbreakable reason to ‘do’ this one.  As the NGO has become engulfed in the politicking which naturally followed Comrade Tony’s cunning idea of saving taxes by paying NGOs to provide services that had once been part of social services I have grown apart from it a bit but still feel that it is basically a good thing.  And the Crisis Grumpy Chums have become my best mates; even though we all have separate lives ex Crisis we still manage to meet a few times during the year and have one weekend annually together, rolling around in the mud and sloshing about in the great outdoors.

Geo. has two little ones of his own who are being absorbed into (amongst other things) the bushcraft world; perhaps, with this evidence of my grand-daughters’ similar interests, it is time to enlarge our circle with the next generation – and the one after.

Post WonderBar and buying all the coal, pretend logs, khazi-cleaner and other essentials of boat-dwelling there was little time to sort the camper.  One and a half tyres were in need of urgent attention but, the first of a series of jobs which required attention in sequence was completed; my cunning idea of leaving the van at base, with a solar trickle-charger connected meant that it started under its own power.

In order of priority, the next most important task was to hotfoot to RealRussia – a travel agency that specialises in sorting visas and helping people (there is a clue in the name) intent on travelling to Russia and other destinations involving the Trans-Siberian, Trans-Mongolian and Baikal-Amur Mainline railways.  As the Russian government has retaliated to the British by imposing niggly little bits of officialdom it is now necessary to then travel on to a consular service where one is finger-printed; at least it is electronic and not the messy, ink-stained business of yester-decade.  With a little bit of food shopping and a couple of other admin type tasks, the second shortest day of the year was done.

Never one to turn down the opportunity to visit any of my grandchildren, I had booked a train ticket for early on Wednesday morning until mid-evening on Thursday.  Crisis  was due to start on Friday night, so it made for not too much slack…

With all the writing I have done, especially of late, regarding rail travel I fear that I am coming across as a bit of a trainspotter.  In my own defence, I am not and never have been one of that strange breed.  However, I do have a soft spot for trains; rail termini can excite me in a way that airports never can.  There is something more comradely in sharing a train carriage than getting on the same plane. Accordingly I have to include a picture of the engine that took me from Jerusalem to Ben Gurion airport.  The Israeli rail network barely warrants the name but the carriages are comfortable, double-decker type, similar to some in mainland Europe.

In keeping with other reincarnations of the Luddites, I have previously asked what we did before the internet and mobile connections – especially when some-one with eyes glued to a screen walks into me or expects me to walk round them.  On Wednesday I rediscovered the lost art – we miss each other.  The son in question, with his three bairns, sat in the car park of their local station.  I alighted; I waited; I got fed up and rang – there was no reply on the house phone; there was no reply on his mobile.  Never having travelled by train to visit them before I asked a young lad for directions and set off on foot.  Needing the khazi and thinking that a wee winter warmer would not go amiss I stopped (very briefly) at a pub a short while down the road.  RMS Titanic needed only a fraction of a second difference in navigation, I needed only a fraction of a second difference in time.  Of such little differences such great moments are made.  There are two exits from the station and I took the one marked “exit”.  They were waiting, he with his mobile phone broken, at the one marked “car park”, as they did for 45 minutes.  We concluded that my khazi break coincided with their 45 minutes plus a couple eventual got fed up and went moment.

I had not realised that the station was only a couple of hundred metres from where I knew my route.  I trotted on, and then thought to check my phone; three missed calls and, as I was about to see from which number, it rang again.  My oldest granddaughter was querying my whereabouts.  She is approaching the age at which Maya was when she became my Arabic tutor; I am aware of how demanding they can be.  As their youngest is till a toddler and I was within ten minute walk it seemed easier to plod on rather than get them out again.

In many ways the winter solstice is more important than the summer one; from here the evenings get brighter.  The summer solstice is the beginning of decline, the winter one of rebirth.  Virgins should have been at greater risk in the sunny, brightness and warmth than the time of hope and an upwards trajectory; humans are a contrary bunch.  Whatever, it was damp and dank and not quite the weather for playing in the garden but that didn’t stop my enjoyment.  All three children are bright, well and sparkly; what more can one want?

MidWinter ConsumerFest rituals can interrupt any well-made ideas and so, despite my son and daughter-in-law thinking of what to cook, we fell back on the old standby, their local Indian restaurant is an old faithful (and fortunately has maintained a good standard). Having booked a quite early train for the outward journey I then forgot to alter my alarm, so had a rude awakening on Thursday morning – which was reinforced (pleasantly) by three wee furies barging through the doorway.  Time with them is precious – did I care? Not very much.  Fortunately their younger daughter shares my antipathy to mornings, so at least we could shuffle out in synchrony.

Of all the MidWinter ConsumerFest rituals with which I have a problem the worst is the sickly, syrupy canned music of Christian songs and ready-made ‘classics’.  In our ever faster world it seems that we only need a precedent of one for something to be a tradition.  I suggest that everybody adds ‘Maybe It’s Because I’m a Londoner’ to their MWCF requests and see how quickly it becomes a traditional favourite; it would make for an interesting social experiment (or, perhaps, not).

After my first long, volunteering trip to an impoverished part of the world I was more than mildly perturbed to find that British people were talking of time poverty because they were not able to say no to excessive work demands and/or were greedy for material possessions.  Having seen a farmer walk barefoot for eight hours carrying a milk churn to sell the contents at market and then walk back with other goods (which did not include shoes) I thought that our pampered youth did not understand the words.  Watching my son and his wife trying to balance their lives, their children’s needs, etc.  I wonder if I was a tad strong in my views; pressure can take many forms. Mind, I still think that consumerism has gone mad and (how often do the omens look portentous until a more dire one comes to light) that we are approaching Trotsky’s crisis of capitalism (he will only have been a few years out, after all).

 

 

 

 

When things change they don’t stay as they were.

Having mentioned the apparent greater tensions when I first arrived, followed (a wee while later) by less tension at the wall and in Al Quuds (Jerusalem) I became disorientated by the charm offensive – which was not an assault by an angry witch.  The bus driver to Tiberias was pleasantness personified, even saying in English about the five minute stop.  At Tiberias the next driver pointed to the ticket machine for me to read the fare and answered when I asked about the stop.

Yet another bus driver who at first tried to be curt but gave in to charm was the one to Tel Aviv; at Qiryat Shmona he spoke only Hebrew until I wore him down but, when he stopped for a khazi break, spoke to me in the loo and when I looked blank said (in English), “oh, you don’t speak Hebrew,” and then continued in English.  Tel Aviv bus station makes Kings Cross, London, look like Mayfair but still people bucked the Sabra trend.  A young man at the train station gave me wrong advice and then trotted back to put me right – and all the while the airport loomed, like a rhinoceros suffering with its haemorrhoids.

The train stops near Terminal 1, hold baggage needs to be deposited at Terminal 3; the woman at the information desk smiled (that made it one out of three occasions) and directed me.  The inter-terminal bus drew away as I approached – that’s more like it, thought I. Another was shown in either 15 or thirty minutes but arrived in 10.  The queue for pre checking in luggage security was not yet open for my flight but the rather pleasant woman regulating the queue came over and told me when I could go through.  I had read of fog delaying flights in the London area and so was not surprised to see my flight delayed.

A recconnaisance security woman mentioned the length of my stay; I made my usual response, she waved me on.  The man supposedly staffing the MRI scanner was reading a magazine and seemed surprised that I offered my Bergen – he waved me through.  At the Easyjet desk there were a few customers but no staff so I sneaked my Bergen onto the scales – it passed (by a whisker).  Ghada had packed me off with the fruits of my earlier labours – three large bottles of olives and a litre of fresh-pressed olive oil, thus my Bergen was appreciable heavier.  One older woman and a trainee were staffing the desk to which I went; the younger woman was pleasant, I wished her well in her new job, the older one smiled.  It was too civilised for words, I knew something would go wrong soon.  At the passport control the emmigration officer commented upon the length of my stay, I growled, she apologised; I think there is an invisible sign warning them to not antagonise the irascible old git.  An annoying old biddy in front of me did all she could to spoil this sign of new Israel but I was mellow.  I was also surprised as I had a part-drunk litre of water which, it transpired, I could have taken on the plane with me as no-one challenged me about it.

In this new-found spirit of detente even the ghost of Stelios, Easyjet’s now departed founder, stalked the terminal.  TOMA were playing at Manchester City with the final whistle due 15 minutes before take-off, meaning that I would have to turn off the football with the score remaining in the air – which is not a bad move when flying…  As it was, apparently the delay was not caused by fog but by a passenger on the outbound flight being taken sick.  The delay meant that I could watch the whole game before being called; now that’s what I call customer service.

Lu’on (in local parlance) airport is to the north of The Big Smoke and Easyjet is a budget airline.  The greatest concentrations of Jewish people is in the north of TBS; apart from the crew there were 299 Jewish people and one goy – and many of them had their full complement of infants.  Hare Krishna may not mean anything to them but he kept me sane.

Yet again The Wee Mannie had shown his (to his own belief, often deeply hidden) kinder side.  Despite his team playing at home that afternoon he sort of forsook his liquid anaesthetic in order to play Parker to my Lady Penelope (although his car is not a pink Rolls Royce). Although he had suggested that he might be delayed he was standing at the appointed spot at the non-appointed hour.  It was a damp and dank return, the fog had not properly lifted but, bless him, there was Doombar awaiting me chez TWM.

With a thank you breakfast en route at one of my favourite greasy spoons (apparently they have a different name in USian), he delivered me back at base.  My Arabic didn’t improve too much but living with two USians did wonders for my not English.

The camper has one flat and one half-flat tyre; the bike needs moving from his garage to his parents’; I know not (yet) of the state of either battery.  So many jobs, so little time.  So many jobs, so little enthusiasm.

There are only twelve days (not of Christmas) until I go abroad again – and then there are only four after my return before I go away again; for a proper trip, not one of these namby-pamby mini things.  So with a week at Crisis, seeing all my off-spring and, where appropriate, theirs as well I don’t think I’ll be getting bored.  In fact, with a Russian visa to sort out (around Christmas shorter office hours), coal, gas and general boat things to buy, I think I may well be short of time (again)…

Let alone short of time – what with alternative to logs, coal, firelighters, mooring fees, the liquid that stops the khazi stinking, booking a trip on Uncle Nobby’s Steamboat and a copy of the Transplanetarian Book of the Undead to buy, short of something else as well… How many dinners can one eat in a day?  How many motor-bikes can one ride at a time?  How many is the root of all evil?  Was Phil O’Sophy an Irish t’inker?

The pen ultimate day – the best one for writing?

The title is a hard wrung pun (who is not the Chinese Education Minister) but it works – after a fashion.  Eitan and I put the world to rights – oh that it was so easy – and Ella returned from whence she had been.  They are not overly observant and she had driven after sunset as well as he had baked a cake and they jointly made a salad, all after closing time,  which we all enjoyed.  Qyriat Shmona does not seem to be a centre of religious rectitude (despite the presence of a yushiva – religious school – in the town); Eitan thought that the evangelists might have come from there.  However on Friday morning there were a lot of Orthodox young men milling around, as there were uniformed and armed soldiers.  Pre-Shabbat Israel was on the move – generally homeward.

These tracks – I recognise the deer but the other escapes me (as it obviously did, I have only this photograph as a trophy) – I saw on my walk around the ruins but it was the closest there was to night-life on Friday.  After sunset the less than rigid conformity showed – throughout the evening and on Saturday morning the sound of more than a few cars could be heard.  It was less than normal (not that my experience of normal made a large sample) but still a comparatively sizeable number.  The tranquility of holy days is yet another commonality between the warring factions.

Whilst on the topic of the local fauna – when I walked the Jesus Trail (their name, not mine) a couple of years ago I saw some wee furry animals which I could not identify; they were hyax, either Syrian or rock ones.  I thought that was a 4 x 4 pick-up made by Toyota until I discovered Smirnoff.  Possibly forty-five years ago Smirnoff had an advertising campaign using that type of line and it got me a real telling off.  Contemporaneously, fondue parties were an in thing and at one somebody came out with the rule that if whatever one was cooking fell of the spear that person had to tell a rude joke.  As my bit of burnt offering slide gracefully to the bottom of the hot oil I said, “I thought that (here insert a colloquialism for auto-eroticism but pronounced in quite a cod Chinese way) was in China until I discovered Smirnoff.”  All was well until the journey home; did I get a roasting?  My ears were more burnt than the thingy that dropped off the spear.  You just can’t please all the people all the time.

One disparity is the noise emanating from places of worship – if Ella hadn’t pointed out that the building next door was a synagogue I wouldn’t have known – which made rather a change to the local muezzin in the flat, who we decided was the Town Crier and Regimental sergeant Major (and Master-At-Arms)  of Nablus as well as having the biggest lungs ever; he could shout for Planet Earth in the inter-planetry shouting contest.

I am convinced that the muezzin was appealing for shrapnel from tourists – at a couple of junctures where he stopped for breath I would lay good money that he said “dibdobs!”  We did not discuss it – I only mentioned it to the Andres on my last morning but I would similarly bet that, me having pointed it out, they heard it as well (and that it drove them to distraction).  Being a psychologist did have its benefits for an immature personality; it was like my little game with which I encouraged students when talking about proxemics (or the study of how close we stand to each other, in plain English).  Having told them to stand on other passengers feet in the rush hours and then apologise to see how far the victim would move away I am mildly surprised never to have been called as a witness for the defence.

Our blether supported my general life hypothesis, that most of us, whatever our creed or skin pigmentation, just want to rub along together.  There is a minority (one of the few sensible things to come out of a Conservative Minister’s mouth was from the one who used the expression “swivel-eyed loonies” about some group or other with whom he disagreed) who want power for the sake of power and they pollute many others, unfortunately.  As most of us can only eat one dinner a day what is the point of being able to buy 100 or 1,ooo dinners every day?  (N.B. Big, whizzy motor-bikes are a necessary exception to this rule).  As we agreed, when you have bled and cried together in training – and then possibly relied on your comrade to keep you alive – it is not easy to look upon that person as anything other than a pretty good mate.

What with deep conversation and tasty salad (Ella is a vegan) it was long after midnight that we bedded down.  I had checked the weather forecast and read that it would be clear and bright, Eitan lives here and said otherwise.  My idea of a final walk was evaporating and then I was invited to join them in their own special Shabbat breakfast – it takes a while to cook and Saturday is the only day when they have the time together, nothing more sinister than that.  A mate of theirs who was diagnosed with ADHD but disputes it joined us and so another lively conversation ensued – and the walk didn’t.

My deep antipathy to and distrust of the internet has not been assuaged.  Because of the use it or lose it nature of Easyjet tickets coupled with the leprechauns on duty at the airport I have been looking up my route.  The advice is to get there three hours early as there is a reconnaissance  leprechaun who sends all passengers to one of six emmigration officers; the lower the number, the less intensive the questioning.  This is on top of usual airport security and is nothing more than an information gathering exercise, but if you don’t play you can’t fly.  There is an extensive bus network but only a small rail service.  I am at a loss to understand why I have been advised to catch a bus with the destination Tel Aviv Central Bus Station, 7th. floor but get off somewhere else, then get another bus with the destination Tel Aviv Central Bus Station, 7th. floor.  The rail station is quite close to Tel Aviv Central Bus Station (but not on the 7th.floor).  I am sure all will be well.

One finger, one thumb keep moving.

After the final part of the journey in a torrential downpour (despite being well travelled and comparatively long-lived I have never yet seen an uppour) and sorting an RV with Eitan it was good to get indoors and dump my kit.  Wednesday, true to the weather forecast was cold and dismal.  Eitan’s partner, Ella, is a fellow student but also works part-time, thus we had a good old blether during the evening awaiting her return; he is a very pleasant lad (as is she – pleasant, not a lad).

Like most Israeli young people he had been a conscript (men serve for three years, women for two [apart from the Heredim – ulta-orthodox, who escape that and other contributions to the state, to the chagrin of many]).  He had been a rascal as a youth and so had been posted to a naughty-boys platoon (they have special remedial units for the bad boys) but made good and became a paratrooper. Whilst not a fan of Israel’s army and the country’s policies it was good to get a first-hand account ‘from the other side’; as a natural cynic I do not trust second-hand accounts.  There are far too many people who knew somebody that did (fill in your own blanks). When working at festivals I was amused that every year the story circulated of someone who had fallen in to the long-drop khazies, always whilst trying to rescue a mobile phone that s/he had dropped but, despite the plethora of cameras to capture every unwanted image, no pictures of  the crud-encrusted unfortunate were ever published.  With another couple of evenings I hope to ask a few more questions.  As he has a healthy streak of realism I expect to hear more unvarnished details.

During the Falklands War I overheard two henna’d, hippy-type middle-aged women speaking whilst on the oxo (USians [and other non-Cockneys] please ask if that is a rhymer too far).  One was declaiming the young men whose lives were at risk, the other pointing out that many young men enlisted to avoid the dole queue (metaphorically); she blamed the politicians but sympathised with the soldiers, sailors and airmen – and their families.  I could identify with the latter’s perspective.

Wednesday was dreech ( a beautifully onomatopoeic, Scottish dialect word) so my wanderings were limited to exploring Qyriat Shmona – not that that took too long.  It was so cold and miserable that on my return I tucked myself up in my  room and didn’t reappear until Thursday morning – which was a beautiful sunny and warm day.

Ghadeera, my student for the last two visits (whose photo adorns a back number) was working with an exchange department at An-Najah and had recently been taken on an official day-trip to The Golan Heights which included the nature reserve around what used to be the town mentioned in the Christian Bible as Ceasarea Philipi.  It is but a short bus ride from here and so Thursday was a trip there. Not far above the old town is a former Crusader fortress, Nimrod Castle.

There is a touch of irony in that the castle was built to protect the route from the coast to Damascus and that to get the photo I had to walk past the remains of a bridge blown up during the Six Day War of 1967 by retreating Syrian soldiers.  Today the castle is protected by signs which lead to a dead-end, thus I had to make do with a walk around the ruins and to a local waterfall.  It was curiously redolent of a walk I made with the Crisis Grumpy Chums last spring, when we did manage to synchronise our diaries and escape for a silly weekend.

After my visit to Taybeh I made comment on the way buildings have either been adapted or destroyed with the comings and goings of different religions, different tribes, different colonisers.  This part of a fortress guarding the old city shows signs of each invader up to the Ottomans.

The Israeli Dept. of Antiquities is regarded by many as being complicit in the revising of history.  Gift shops at such sites are not my natural territory and seeing the triumphalist, macho-Israeli, right-wing tat on display I would have stayed well away…  Ah me, the mollifying effect of grand-children.  My habit of sending them post-cards from as many places as possible means I had to grit my teeth, hold my breath and do what needed done (Scots’ Gallic grammar to go with the dialect above).

Everything being equal I will (for the first time in many a long year) see all off-spring (and wives) and off-spring of off-spring over the broadest dimensions of the MidWinter ConsumerFest; I am in a quandary – to post or not too post, that is the question.  Is it better that I deliver them or send them and perhaps beat them to their destinations?  It would be interesting to add Israeli Post Office to Russian and Palestinian for a three-way comparison; I have forgotten what previous countries were like.

I have a conundrum left from my first trip to Nepal (early 2001).  Having a chum who, with his then (now deceased) partner, liked to receive post-cards I sent them one from Kathmandu and returned to the UK some four months later; he made no comment about the postcard.  A couple of months later he thanked me for it and I thought sarky devil… but it had only just arrived!  Had it never appeared I could have understood; had it taken a week or so I could have understood – but six months?   I wonder if the carrier pigeon had to stop off to collect someone’s wallet in lieu of them appearing for a drink.

My investigation into return bus times suggested one every couple of hours or so.  Accordingly I went to the road, discovered a convenient bus stop and waited.  Eventually a bus arrived – and drove by without stopping.  There were two different numbers shown and I had a quandary, which I tried to solve by asking in a nearby cafe – to no good avail.  Going back to the road I decided to walk for a bit, only for another bus to pass me between stops – despite me jumping up and down and waving.  On seeing the second bus I realised why the first had not stopped – it had no number or route sign illuminated (so I presume it was out of service).  Hitch-hiking is supposedly still prevalent in Israel (and Palestine, by the by), so I tried.  Unlike Europe and the USA, ‘thumbing’ is not the local practice – here one stretches one’s arm and points at the road with one’s ‘trigger’ finger.  A couple of security type people gave me a friendly wave – but no lift – and that was the most of it until I passed a field school.  I avoid the expression ‘rule of thumb’ because of its origin but a rule of trigger finger might be that those with the most unruly hair, driving the muddiest 4 x 4s closest to an outdoor centre are the most likely to give lifts; and lo, it came to pass.  And I was saved a long wait and/or walk.

Having become mildly confused by over-lapping holy days – and the weather having returned to Wednesday’s damp and dreary outlook – Friday was mooch around again, find an ATM for a final top-up of dibdobs, find a post-office – the post-card dilemma was sorted in my head, at least – and have a coffee.  I happened to plonk next to some youngish, outwardly religious lads doing some evangelising and one engaged me in conversation.  Like Baruch Goldstein, who massacred worshippers in the Ibrahimi Mosque during Friday prayers twenty plus years ago, he was a Jewish man from Brooklyn.  I was surprised how reasonable and moderate he sounded, not that I bought into his arguments.  What with him, and a long blether with mine host about the price of green cheese and all sorts it was a grand day for a wet play.

Now my bags are packed, I’m ready to go.

A favourite of the pre-Dylan but not ancient, bucolic, folk scene, sung by Peter, Paul and Mary – an USian folksy trio – has a resonance, albeit there was no taxi waiting outside the door (that is the second line).  Having done a final dhobi (hopefully only for this trip rather than a providence-tempter) I didn’t pack until Tuesday morning – and still had a bag of soggy drawers, tee-shirts and socks.

Iniker made her farewells and I replied, “goodbye” – much to Hillarity’s mirth; I don’t know what else was expected – I didn’t want to get into any deep conversations or insincere embraces.  She (the former) left, we discovered that I could welch on the beer-bet at least until I have an accident (Fall, over in New England) in 2017; Andre had spoken of our rendez-vousing in Tokyo in the week commencing the 12th. but meant February – I had agreed, but meant January.  As with the ignored entreaties from a certain section of the blog-reading public, my wallet will not be RVing with them beforehand.

I had intended to catch a 1.45pm  direct bus from the Central Bus Station in Jerusalem; the best laid plans of mice and men…  As ever with me and mornings, time passed more quickly than jobs were completed.  My expandy time for waiting for serveece, waiting for bus in Ramallah, being delayed at Qalandia, etc. was only slightly eaten into.  Once past the checkpoint I watched with bated breath the clock in the bus.  At one stage we went close to the Jerusalem Light Railway and I was minded to jump off in an attempt to hasten my arrival.  Coincidentally the serveece to Raqi and Ghada’s had stopped at a roundabout in the village to drop another passenger and I made a spontaneous decision to alight – and was half way up the road before I realised that I had left behind the cake which I had bought for them.  Borne on this sad incident I thought better of it and stayed on the bus – which most probably adversely affected the rest of my journey.

As luck would have it, I walked out of the back of the Arab bus station (something I have never done before) – and realised I was right beside another JLR stop.  Deciphering the payment methods meant I missed not only the one with tail lights disappearing, but the next one as well and so was slightly pushed for time.  Having counted the number of stops (the timetable was multi-lingual) I was intrigued to find that so was the information matrix on the tram.  After Hebrew and Arabic went scrolling across the screen from left to right Etruscan whizzed by the other way; I had visions of a terrible collision and anagrams all over the floor.  The letters were obviously more nimble and sprightly than I gave them credit for – they continued their counter-poised, circular games with ne’er a mishap.  Two young women then got on and started a conversation – when they realised that I was an English speaking tourist one asked if I had been to the Dead Sea.  Having replied in the affirmative I couldn’t resist what became a terrible cul-de-sac with no side turnings.  I asked if she could tell because of my beautiful complexion… then said that she must have just come from there herself.  All the blarney and no brains, just as I felt rude for excluding her companion I looked at the other young woman – to have included her would have been an even bigger insult.  She had a most unfortunate attack of something acne like…  She still smiled, as I almost fell into their laps when getting up to alight.

The bus station has airport-style security – which meant a queue, the signs had me wandering round in circles for a few minutes (as did some of the speak-only-a-little-English staff). Eventually I found the right place but the wrong assistant – and missed the bus by five minutes.  There was one to Tiberias and change there, it was only a 45 minute wait.  Having decided to go the long way round I discovered there was an even longer one.  Qiryat Shmona is in the north of Israel, by the sun we were travelling south; by the road signs (Jericho, Dead Sea) we were travelling south.  The bus driver seemed pleasant enough and spoke some English.  Just as I was about to check whether I had been sent a hospital pass we turned left – and the sun assumed its correct position.  For some reason we were taking one of the Israeli-only roads through Palestine.  We passed a sign indicating 100 miles to Tiberias, the Allenby Bridge (border crossing with Jordan), signs to Nablus (after 4.5 hours on the road I was almost back where I started) and various other interesting destinations.

As the journey wore on I became ever more aware of a need for the khazi until, at a stop in the middle of nowhere I had to ask the driver to wait an additional 30 seconds; ten minutes later he announced a five minute break at a (sort of) service area.  I could have been pee’ed off at that.

Getting on the second bus at Tiberias the driver asked me to move aside for two soldiers trying to get on before getting soaked – it had started to pour down.  The Armalite of the second soldier decided to play games with the silly old foreigner; it is not only my trekking pole that tries to trip people up.  At least we all laughed.  Israeli soldiers would most probably have a good defence if any ever where brought to justice for using excessive force – the sights on their weaponry must rival those of fairground shooting ranges, the mistreatment they get.

Paradoxically, as there seemed to be higher than previous stress levels in Nablus, the border guards seem much less stressed than formerly – at Qalandia I did not have to even show my passport and my bag remained unopened.  At another checkpoint the guard said please and thank you when demanding my passport.  What with the pleasant bus drivers, I think Israel must have launched a charm school.  The opportunity has been all too obvious for far too long.  Andre had asked me whether I thought I didn’t get such a hard time because of my age (he said it ever so nicely); I think it suggests something else but I know not what.  Others seem to be getting the big bad wolf treatment.

The missed bus had added an hour to my journey, the missed directions in Qiryat Shmona added another.  I found the street without too much hassle – one set of mildly misleading directions was corrected – but there the trouble started.  After knocking at several wrong doors I went back to the main road looking for a WlFi connection; the fast-food shops don’t have them but at one a lad was willing to let me borrow his phone; I declined, thinking it would take too long.  At another a customer offered me his phone and, in desperation, I accepted. Having sent a message to Eitan, my AirBnB host (I have never used it before – it is interesting) I stopped at the end of his street for falafel (3 dibdobs in Nablus – 15 here!)  As I was being served I heard my name being called from behind me; the lovely lad had decided it was easier to come out and find me!

Raqi had mentioned that heavy rain was expected in Nablus on Tuesday and Wednesday – he didn’t mention Northern Galilee.  With a couple of miles to Qiryat Shmona I wrapped myself, Bergen and day-bag in waterproofs; traipsing the streets in search of my location I was sweating like the proverbial marine in a maths test (I didn’t ask the bags).  The thunder storm performed like the one a couple of nights previously – rolling round and round the hills but never going too far away.

Rum do but don’t do rum.

Following Friday’s truncated frolics I was dropped at the house of ill repute (Jihad is looking much better and more like his former self) and then wandered back to base.  Iniker is becoming more extreme and bizarre as days go by; she asked for ‘a personal word’ and then tried to tell me how much more I could help the Palestinian people if I listened to Jesus Christ (I quote).  Despite me telling her that I don’t discuss religion she needed quite an sharp rejoiner before she finally gave up.  Apparently she had been planning a visa trip – one day in Jordan and start again but the Project Hope staff have advised her that they have no facility for her to continue.  She, however, has her mind set and wants them to store her kit until she returns from somewhere else, taking a bit longer – with a wish to teach 17th. Century French literature or some such somewhere, anywhere (and commune with her guiding spirit)…

Having evaded her missionary zeal I went walkabout, intent on getting a few last pictures of Nablus society.  Thinking that one of the outside (and several more inside ) of cafe Hmmouz, for its pre-1948 history, would be good, as I was taking it a local shop-keeper averred that the building was actually constructed in 1892.  I am not sure how he knew, he doesn’t appear to have been around that long, but I will take his word for it.  Hamza’s eyes opened wide with delight when he saw my camera – and how could I refuse the lad after all his largesse?

Alkoni, the flounder and air-conditioning unit show just how Nablus has moved with the times.  None of them were there, according to my information, in 1892.

Not only is he a grand wee fellow, he observes the French tradition of shaking the outside of wrists when one’s hands are dirty. Fortunately, as he does some of the serving, dirty hands just means oily from using his fingers to add more for favoured customers.

Each tray contains a different type but all are calory-laden, super-sweet and deserving of a large helping.  I know, I was that soldier (to quote a very cheesey 1960’a record [cheesey being appropriate]).  The ‘serving spoons’ resemble (may well be) wall-paper scrapers, and a serving is a (roughly) six inch square as measured by said scrapers (unless one has a mate on the staff).

Possibly related to the end of a full tourist visa since the olive harvest (and the imminence of the MidWinter ConsumerFest) there is a nigh-on complete change of volunteers, both with Project Hope and some other NGOs.  Hence Saturday night was a hooley at Project Hope’s rather understated male dormitory.  Having shopped, photographed and supped – and thought that I had avoided Tweedlee and Tweedledum but they arrived at 35 minutes into the first half of TOMA, when I was going to swap WiFi spots at half-time – I did not think party frock and dancing pumps to be a necessity.  I was correct, walking boots and trousers was over-dressed.

Rum do is most probably not the most appropriate description but it certainly was a strange ‘party.’  Emanuel, a decidedly odd person, showed all of his anti-social aspects; he is either exceedingly rude or suffers from a moderately severe psychological disorder – perhaps we should have introduced him to Iniker.  He kept turning the music up full volume, much to the annoyance of Laurena, who kept turning it down again; Grand Old Duke of York Syndrome with backing beat!  Laurena, who can be feisty, so say the least (mardy, spoilt brat also springs readily to mind) had the hump because she wanted to invite some local lads but it is against Project Hope rules – no  locals in the volunteers’ sleeping areas – so she was up for the dynamic anyway.  The Andres and Migun from Milbun were discussing how friendly natives had a habit of being over-friendly – and keeping them virtual prisoner way beyond the time they wanted to socialise (quite the opposite of the silence from Azzoun [but at least I was aware of why]).  Old age won – I left with a degree of abruptness.

Being back in touch with the wider world , Ghada had invited me to arrive at 13.oo on Sunday (the Prophet’s birthday) and I had ascertained that serveece would be running.  The Andres had an invitation to their rather overbearing little chum; we made a bet on who would not make it back in the evening.  With every likelihood (alhumdulallah) that we will cross paths in Tokyo in January the bet is a Japanese beer (of which I had never heard and they were surprised that I had never heard).  When I overheard Raqi on the phone and recognised some of the conversation I thought I was on a winner – he seemed to be sorting a serveece from Qalqilya to collect me on its way through.  A little knowledge is a dangerous thing – he came off the phone and intimated that I was using the guest-room again.

On my return Andre came in from his daily run – he had had to be sharp with his dominant little chum and they had decided against going; the Tokyo beer will be on me.  Better to pay the wager – I was happy to be staying over, albeit with another cultural dissonance. I arrived, Ghada was marking exam papers, Raqi again went for the full, cheek to cheek bearhug greeting; we had lunch together – and then I was left much to my own devices as they got on with their own whatever.  At one stage they came out, dressed if not to the nines at least to the 4.5s, and went off somewhere.  Ameed is heavily into going to the gym – and over-readily accepting crackpot ideas.  After his gym session whilst I was there he ate the whites of thirteen eggs; he has seen something on the internet which suggests that this is a good idea.  Hakim was indoors throughout but only spoke to me over breakfast on Monday.  Maya is now the very grown-up young woman; I think it was her at the gate hijab free as I walked up the road but a blur of colour and her appearing ‘dressed’ was all that I can honestly report.

Raqi retired just after the wee accident in September (there was no connection of which I am aware) but works for three hours on a Monday and Wednesday, thus I was saved a walk to the serveece park and 10 dibdobs.  They (Ghada still works at the old campus) even dropped me at the door.  I have been given three large bottles of olives, one for me and one each for two women in the UK, and also on the table was a full litre in a Coke bottle.  When I got back I was a tad thirsty, so went to the Coke bottle but something made me falter – fortunately, it is freshly pressed olive oil!  It’s an old trick but sometimes it works.

The ramifications from Raqi’s little accident rumble on – he may be asking me for a statement.  It has already been to court but something else is happening, I think the aggrieved party is making a rather extravagant claim.  Incha’allah I shall hear – in due course, when I am far from their jurisdiction, just in case…

One of my eagle-eyed manuscript-readers (a.k.a. loyal readers), who acts as my conscience has let me down!  As with Josef Vissionarovich, Vladimir Ilyich and Lev Davidovich, I had cunningly adapted the names of two Protestant Fenians (before Irish seperatists were actually called Fenians) to protect their immortal souls (the Bolsheviks most probably didn’t have them anyway).  But my trusty Pancho has blasted their real names across the ether!  It was not a very Quixotic gesture.

Izmut, but not in Panama

Google and/or the leprechauns were at it again – on Thursday evening my spooky screen-saver evaporated and the sugary, default one replaced it; the WiFi connection failed and, again, my laptop told me that I was not authorised to use it and needed to consult the owner.  Yet again, but in spades, it became rapidly more Kafka than Kafka – it was all Franz to the pump!  Without the facility to type in capital letters at Google on a university computer I was stumped.  Which transpired to be a very good thing; old IT numpty had done it again…   Hilary became IT Hilary who, had she fallen about laughing would have been HilarITy.  I really shouldn’t be allowed to have such difficult toys.  But more of that later.

Having given the computer a night off I tried again on Friday morning, to no good avail.  Apart from some research of possibilities for the final week and touristing, Ghada had written.  I had thought it odd that post the unfortunate accident there had been no contact – Ameed and I had spoken earlier in the week when we happened across each other in the street but still no message from his parents ensued.  Apparently their house has been burgled twice and all laptops, etc. stolen.  She had written to invite me for a farewell meal and I did not want to appear rude in not replying.  Sunday is the Prophet’s birthday (by strange co-incidence, just two weeks before his main rival’s) and it is a public holiday, so, even if I delayed my departure, I could not make any arrangements as the university will be shut.  Just like Christmas, this is an annual event but it seems to catch the university unawares – the warning information was only broadcast on Wednesday.

What with dhobi to do, stymied for research options and a good book not quite finished I arrived at Hmmouz to see Tweedledee and Tweedledum waiting – as they had been since 1.30!  Cheeky wee scunners, they ticked me off for being six minutes after the appointed time; a) it was within my non-watch wearing, Time Lord, being and b) in Palestine, only six minutes?  They were having a laugh.

Their home is in Izmut, a village in the valley below Ashkar camp and close to where the advancing settlements are; they can only get one five-day pass annually, in the autumn to harvest their olives, to visit their appropriated lands.  Oddly, being to the east of Nablus it was like driving through the meaner streets of east London – car breakers and (comparatively) large, drab industrial sites.  The village is also remarkably similar to many others – breeze-block constructions besides narrow, not well-maintained lanes.  Their house is quite resplendent all things considered and a very pleasant time was had by myself and their nieces, at least.

Sidartha Gautama came to my rescue – despite Buddhism not being halal.  I had told Tweedledee and Tweedledum that I was pescatarian  and they did as  many do – and served up a meat dish with plenty of rice underneath.  The path of least harm was to pretend that no meat juices had soaked through (from the taste there was not too much pretending to do, fortunately).  A whole bevy of little nieces kept peeking round the corner at the funny-looking foreigner and running away midst floods of giggles when he looked at them, as we sipped tea in the garden.  Their psychologist brother was unwell and so the meeting of the minds didn’t take place but another brother and the husband of a sister where there – as with many languages, there is no term for brother-in-law.  After drinking tea we went to  the sumptuous spread (there were women in purdah but I don’t know whether they were eating).

Having been shown to the khazi, in the posh and padlocked part of the house I went back to the less posh dining room to retrieve my camera.  There was a rustle of skirts and a blur of colour as a young woman who had broken cover rushed from the room before she became forever  tainted.

A postprandial potter along a road out of the village elicited that I could go to the top of the hills but they could not; I declined the offer.  Settlers may not be able (or may not want) to tell the difference between a Palestinian man and an International.  The level of intimidation is surprisingly (for those who are fed propaganda and haven’t seen for themselves) high.  Despite my antipathy, a photo-call seemed a much better option.

From the front left there is Tweedledum, his sister’s husband, Tweedledee and their brother; in the back row are trees.  Being of a non-fruiting variety there is no danger (and no permits required) being in their vicinity.  My little chums are typical of many people, see a camera want their photograph taken; who am I to spoil their moment?

Having driven from the house to the path Tweedledee’s car was there for him to drive us back to near where we had started; the brother and husband of sister were dropped off and we continued.  The cultural differences mildly amuse me – without a reason or explanation we drove back to Nablus and I was asked where I wanted dropping off; the day was done.  Some Palestinian people seem to want to totally control visitors, others just dump them when they seem to get bored.  Just like additional days off at the university, warnings may be given – but at most with one day’s notice and many just a minute or two.

The Andres had gone out early – there had been a Project Hope trip to a couple of villages near Jericho and a meeting with some EAPPI volunteers.  Despite the proximity of initials they are not necessarily H-A-P-P-Y volunteers; they walk vulnerable people past flashpoints and help reduce violence by being witnesses to the excesses which regularly happen (but are not regularly reported in the various media anywhere) towards defenceless women and children of the minority in the Middle East’s Only Democracy.  A house that they visited was where settlers petrol-bombed a family and then barricaded the outside to make sure that they murdered the occupants.

When we met, back at the flat again, they helped me to sort my errant laptop.  The leprechauns were stood down – this time it was pure operator error – I had fiddled with the settings to my own detriment; all is now well (and I have learnt a salutary lesson).  Add to that a loyal and eagle-eyed reader pointing out another mistake and I wonder – about everything including the price of green cheese.  I have confused two books – John McCarthy wrote about the rewriting of history but in another book, the one I ascribed to him was written by a ‘new historian’.  So-called democracy can also be the tyranny of the majority (as EU remain people are finding out in the UK). There are many parallels between Northern Ireland and the Palestine/Israel situation, one of which regards subjectivity and truth (and another is who shouts the loudest).  Like Emmett Wolfe Tone and James Stewart Parnell, there are people on one side who fight for what they believe to be right for the other and that book is a fine example.  It should, but never will, be compulsory reading in secondary schools across the wall.

 

 

Can’t understand? Staff and nonsense.

In many countries I have been referred to as just ‘teacher.’  After a couple of months teaching in Tanzania I was joined by a chumess and, as the project was closed for a long weekend at Christmas (no additional bank holidays here – Christmas day was the Monday so we had three days off in total), we went on safari; there are many humerous tales emanating from those few days but the relevance here is one morning my little student mate, after classes often had a drink together (with others) pal and now general factotum, trying to wake us up.  I had told him not to call me sir (it seemed too hierarchical after drinking together) so when he shook the tent he said, “S…” and stopped; I had said to use my first name and so he tried (bless him) but only managed “R…” before proprietry got the better of him.  As he continued to shake the tent  a plaintive wail went up, “teacher.”

Similarly in Palestine, the job description becomes the default name; it was difficult at the hooley, with so many teachers abounding – it was hard to answer every student and we were all getting in a terrible tizzy.  Louha had suggested that teachers were going to get certificates but the hooley came and went with none.  Then the staff-as-students arrived – and vanished.  Eventually Hassum called us over – we were using the posh conference room in the adjacent, staff only bit.

Tyrant or tutor?  As members of my quite good but want to be better group arrived, to a person they all asked me if they could speak in Arabic now.

In common with anywhere in the world, when a Vice-Chancellor is on parade there must be a bit of hot air expended.  Firstly he spoke (as they do) and then went round the room inviting everybody else to chip in.  ‘Accent’ may be the same in both languages – I heard it a few times and thought I was getting another lambasting for not speaking USian; so cynical in one so young…  Actually I was being thanked – and apologised to – for sticking with it despite them not at first understanding my accent.  In Nepal in 2001 I had been horrified at the awful Laandn accents one class of very small children had used, then realised they had only ever heard one English person speak.  It is a bit like hearing oneself on tape – whoever did the recording had no idea of how the listener actually sounds.

Apart from certificates we were all presented with a gift-wrapped bar of soap.  Nablus used to be famed for its soap and so it might have been a gift typical of the town – or they may think we were an unhygienic bunch who needed a hint.  One problem with asking someone else to take some photos is that one is never sure of what may appear.  My reticence at being in front of the lens had to take second place as, with grinding teeth, I allowed myself to be snapped; who am I to cause offence to such lovely people?

She deserves some reward – this is my little friend, Ghadeera, from two years ago who still came for her twice-weekly lesson and chat.  It is her that is getting frustrated at the indecision about when she can book her flight to Saudi Arabia – her family are refugees but sent her ‘home’ (if they had a right of return) for her education.  The daisies don’t show but the trimmed for the occasion beard is resplendent (I think)

And, having had to endure the ‘say cheese’ bit – most of my lovely, pretty good group; with the footballing auntie (who caught me out playing in the street) front row and, opposite me in the middle row, the cheeky madam who had me laughing at my own words being thrown back at me when I asked why they called Al-Khalil Hebron.  She was working in the next office when I was here both times before and we used to exchange pleasantries during her first pregnancy – now she has two thriving toddlers (and her husband grassed me up about how often I am in that den of iniquity called Hmmouz).

One of the not particularly good at English group – those who had grumbled about by unintelligible accent – apologised in case they had got me into trouble.  She had been volunteered as she was the best (of a mediocre bunch) speaker.  With typical teachers’ arrogance we had decided it was their problem rather than mine – despite Christen (I had mis-heard her name) being drafted in for her USian, world friendly accent.

With everything done, farewells said and bags packed I was just wandering off when, like a panther leaping from its ambush, Tweedledee pounced.  Was I going to cafe Hmmouz?  Bear, Pope, catholic, woods… with one other word, rearrange into a well known phrase; I was trapped.  We wandered together, his brother joined us; the first one wants a hand to fill out an application for a ten day exchange at Lancaster University – he couldn’t tell me what it is all about so I think he may have a problem with his English, but who am I to judge?

We separated, I went to do a wee bit of shopping.  Jihad is looking slightly better and spends quite a lot of time sitting at the cafe.  As I returned from shopping my name was called – it was him, he has a hospital appointment (Thursday, I think).  I wandered on and my name was called – this is getting a bit regular, I thought.  It was Migan from Projict Hoape, being driven down the road; Laance, also from Milbun, (apparently they were an item but she dumped him just after he arrived; it does not make for harminy at Projict Hoape) had arrived at the cafe just as I was leaving.  I think there is armed neutrality from Milbun.

Thursday started warm and sunny but faded into jaded; wet and damp.  Having a good book (not the sort that Ineker clasps to her bosom as an attempt to ward off whatever) the day slipped past.  Tweedledee and Tweedledum were at Hmmouz before me (now there’s a first) but I had an easy chance to end on time – Tweedledum was shivering like timbers in a pirate barque.  Pirates were either clever with ropes or not very good at keeping shipshape – their barque was often worse than their bight.

I had been invited by the Tweedles to join them for the day on Friday but ‘The Day’ shrank to after mid-day prayers, then to a 2.00p.m. RV outside Hmmouz…

Listen to the daisies.

One of the problems with even starting to disentangle the Gordian Knot which binds the Middle East’s Only Democracy is the way place names have been altered by whoever appropriated what and when.  John McCarthy had over five years of reasons to be no friend of Islamist activists but in his book The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine  looked at how the current State of Israel has re-written all maps of the area – where Arab villages were razed to the ground Hebrew-named areas now abound.  The victors write the history; if only we knew who had won and when.  When the fat lady mimes who can tell if she has sung?

Taybeh (if it had a ‘z’ in the middle it would rhyme with Tizer) is a Christian village where, allegedly, Jesus and his henchmen lay doggo just before their tale reached its climax.  According to an information board it is quoted in The Scriptures under a plethora of alternative names but being quite close to Jerusalem it is still feasible.  It is also, being a Christian village, home to the only brewery in Palestine; there is also now a winery there.  For a tiny village it certainly has a huge alcoholic output albeit the brewery is a micro one – which also sells olive oil and other produce for local farmers.  Apart from several modern churches there is also one in ruins – with the ebb and flow of religions and zealots in the area most buildings seem to have been adapted to the needs of the times; or fall in to disrepair.

Now that teaching is done I have a wee bit of time to do some touristy things – and visiting Taybeh was one of them.  Tuesday was a pleasantly sunny day and, with nothing expected of me beyond the strange late-coming student and his brother at cafe Hmmouz at 4.30, I grabbed the opportunity with both hands.  Later, comparing notes with the Andres it was amusing to note how similar our expeditions had been – a khazi and coffee-break at Stars and Bucks in Ramallah between serveeces on the out run, a trip round the brewery, a bagful of beer for the home run.  All of us laughing at how the tour had exactly the same script as the film which we had to watch first (the blow was softened by a gratis glass of their dark beer during the screening).

Beside the ruins of the church lies a (presumably Christian) graveyard, which could just as easily be a Muslim one – even the writing on the mausolea is in Arabic script.  It is interesting how often similarity is the greatest driver to hatred; within families frequently it is the most similar who are the most implacable of enemies.  Jung, with his work on people’s ‘shadow side’ had a similar perspective – that which we dislike most is that of which we are most afraid of becoming.

As an antidote to the 2,000 years (and possibly much more) of history in the area I enclose a picture of a newly-planted olive sapling. It will, all things being equal, still be there when all the brewing and wine-making has long been forgotten. There are several such saplings planted by the ruins of the church – an offering to peace between warring parties, perhaps? Considering how propaganda suggests uncontrolled murderous rages between the “three religions of the book” within close proximity it is surprising that any adherents of any two out of the three have survived at all.  Ever one for a good conspiracy, I wonder if someone may just be telling a few porkies (which would exclude two of the three because of their rules – perhaps porkies should be renamed).

Despite officially being done with my classes the two strange brothers had attended informal sessions at the cafe so I hot-footed back – so efficiently that I was there by a little after 4.00pm.  It was a good job that I thought to take my book despite expecting to be returning laden; at 5.00pm I got fed up waiting and popped next door for a warming plate of kunafeh (I had to, Hamza had seen me on my way in to the cafe).  The jovial chap who I think may be one of the owners was there and, again, my self-indulgence was on the house; in counter-balance, I have been reduced to plastic spoons again.

Loyal (and long-suffering) readers may remember me passing comment on “Jerusalem Syndrome”, of which more than a few religious tourists every year fall foul and end up in psychiatric care.  Some context for Iniker’s recent outburst has come to light.  Apparently she has so alarmed some of the local staff of Project Hope with her pronouncements on who she is and who she has seen in the streets that they have even tried to involve the priest of the church which she attends; he, apparently, has declined to help due to previous experiences with her.

Never, ever plan!  The fate of TOMA should stand stark and clear for any who think they know the future.  It is often said how important it is to win one’s group in the European Champions League – which TOMA have now done after several years as runners-up; – in the year when two of Europe’s most formidable teams will be runners-up and therefore be playing one of the group winners.  Planning – pah! (and thrice, pah!)

In a similar but diffuse vein, Wednesday was the day of the big beanfeast and hooley at the Language Resource Centre.  In deference to the students I had thought to wear clean trousers and the new dancing pumps bought originally for Not Hakim’s cousin’s wedding. People who live in poor countries have different behaviour, particularly when it comes to scrubbing up; wardrobes full of extraneous clothing are an unwarranted excess.  Accordingly, whilst the dancing pumps seemed worthwhile, a new party frock was definitely over the top.

Post-shower my daisies (rhyming slang for boots – this is becoming a Cockney paradise today, two rhymers in the same message) tried to tell me something but, being a superior being, I ignored them.  They wouldn’t go on easily, then the laces went round the wrong route (twice), then they wouldn’t tie up properly; eventually I thrashed them into better behaviour and off I went.  My casual morning had slightly overrun itself and I was getting close to (even by Palestinian  standards) kick-off.  Hot-footing down the road it suddenly struck me (not the road, I had not fallen over) – boots, not dancing pumps!  My trusty daisies had been trying to warn me – it was almost like an episode of Lassie, the poor, dumb, man’s best friend knowing better but being totally ignored.  As it was I trotted along, got there late but would still have had time and a jolly frollick was had by all.  At least I will get some extra use out of the dancing pumps somewhere back in Europe – incha’allah.

As hooleys go this may not look the most rocking but, thinking of the ‘staff party’ in Ulaan Bataar last year (including the surroundings), it is not necessarily at the other end of the queue, either.  Palestinians and I share a revulsion of planning – what I had been told about a big, formal presentation of certificates for all was subsequently divided into this, low-key scene for students and a separate, more formal  (but with less cake and syrupy drinks), posher ‘do’ for the staff-as-students – and that one was late starting too.