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.
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