Israel

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2. Israel/Palestine



It wasn’t 20 minutes into Israel (or Palestine you may contend) before I came across my first tit bit to take away with me: the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF), especially female recruits. (At the age of eighteen all Israelis, unless excused, join the IDF.) Firstly, it is somewhat disconcerting walking the streets of Jerusalem to the sight of kids younger than myself carrying guns with barrels claiming diameters large enough for my fist to be adopted as munitions…should such a situation arise. The second point that quickly arose and Alex agreed with was: the female IDF recruits were often noticeably easy on the eye. Perhaps a coating of camo and semi-automatic is more alluring; whatever the reason, they also owned the fierce expression of a lover who would potentially perform a home vasectomy with a kid’s plastic knife if you were to forget to call.

Alex and I scoured the old city for a hostel at a reasonable price, primarily in the Jewish quarter. We were met by hordes of helpful Hebrews all too willing to exchange an ever-exhausted smile for directions. Finally, tired and sick of lugging Alex’s wheelie luggage up the cobbled streets we gave up and headed to the hostel the Americans had stayed in previously by Jaffa Gate. It was, as they had warned us, miserable. From minute one the guy behind the desk tried (unsuccessfully) to con us into paying more than base rate. The beds were shoddy, the shower was a reliable cold trickle and the staff were as helpful as a cocktail umbrella on a log flume. On the plus side we were in a room with a German photographer who had just come from four weeks in Damascus, Syria. Interestingly, he believed Israel to be the ideal spot to develop his photos...hmmm...We walked through the maze of covered alleyways of the old city in search of dinner. Just outside the Dome of the Rock we found a quiet shawarma place.

The next morning Alex and I had different itineries, so as she headed for Ramallah, I explored The Old City. The ramparts walk encircled the old city giving a new perspective of both old and new sections to the city not available from ground level. From street side, all that is visible are churches, mosque, synagogues, shops, and homes but from the air you see everything tucked away within the walls: football pitches, nunneries, schools, etc. I descended the wall to find myself at the Dome of the Rock, a disproportionately large plot of land set aside for a significant Mosque. The grounds are surrounded by their own gardens and a harem of supporting buildings of religious importance. On the way in/out is the West (or Wailing) Wall, a structure of sematic importance as the only structure still standing from a Synagogue otherwise completely razed in the depths of history which supposedly stands for strength and the Jewish religion as a whole. (I believe this to be right; once again a sorrowing lack of passion for religion forbade me from refreshing research done earlier in the week.)

After willingly losing my way navigating the four quarters of the city, I returned to the dive-of-a-hostel for a quick kip before heading out the Yid Vasham Holocaust Museum. The building, purpose built on the top of an enclosing hillside had far far too much: stories, recollections, artifacts, photographs, recordings and it became somewhat of a marathon to try and get through it all. Some stories were moving, and some recordings, extremely graphic. It’s hard to comprehend the size of such genocide, but the museum does well to draw empathy from someone who previously only thought of the holocaust as a collection of facts and figures.

Early the next morning, with remnants of the night before’s shawarma (i ate far too many as is clear) still being digested, Alex and I left early for the bus stop via the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; she was heading to Bethleman, I wanted a stop by Mount of Olives first. We said our goodbyes in the rain (it rained all day only increasing in soul-sapping intensity) and boarding our relative buses. The mount was, well a hill. A few nice churches…perhaps I missed the point. It did however have a great view of Jerusalem. I decided to walk (in the rain) back down, across the valley and back to the bus terminal on the other side of the Old City, on the way stopping by a number of religious monuments including a church with The Lord’s Prayer in 134 (if my memory serves me correctly) languages…which was embarrassingly amusing. Back on another bus, soaked through, I crossed the border into Occupied Palestine and on to Bethlehem. In the rain, trawling the surprisingly large town for the Church of the Nativity, Manger Square and Milk Grotto Church of Mary as well as the various Banksy’s dotted around didn’t appeal. The usual odd taxi driver approached offering tours and as a fellow Brit, Lauren, was on the same venture we agreed a tour together. The Milk Grotto was little to write home about (see early references to religious ignorance) but the headline act, The Nativity Church, was a lot more impressive. This lead on to lunch in Manger Square and a rather deep chat with our cabby about the Palestine /Israel debacle and general relationships between the different demographics and religions in Israel/Palestine. He was Palestinian and proud and this came through in his responses but he also appeared relatively level headed and saw two sides to the coin. He, and a most others I talked to, told me the only likely outcome they would like to see is two divided states. He might have said different to his friends. A few Banksys later and we were heading back to Jerusalem. Crossing the Palestine – Israel check point is so easy with a British passport which was surprising after the border control guy grilling me for my exact destinations whilst in Israel to make sure I wasn’t looking to enter Palestine. Straight onto a third bus of the day to Jericho, a smaller town deep in Palestinian territory. It dropped me at a town 30km away and I jumped in a service taxi (a shared cab) to Jericho. A friendly Palestinian and I got chatting, shared stories, and both got out at Jericho. He then went on to buy me dinner and a drink, and as we departed ways gave me his mobile number saying: “should you not like the hostel, or come across issues, give me a ring and you can stay with my relatives and I”. Their generousity and friendliness surpassed expectation time and time again. This may to some sound very similar to the ‘friendly’ (gay) Filipino guy I got chatting to when over there a few months back but this was all above board and purely a gesture of kindness which was appreciatively received. I continued on to my hostel regardless, not wanting to put his relatives (he was visiting family) out. Also I didn’t feel all too safe in Jericho. There were a lot of eyes on me, and not another foreigner in sight. Just from our walk through town for dinner it was clear the town wasn't popular with toursits, and i got the impression the town wasn't all too impressed with tourists either. The hostel, as I expected, only had a few guests: two Austrian bike messengers cycling across the Middle East and a German teacher. We chatted the evening away.

Then next morning I headed back to the border where it was soon clear no-one just walks up and crosses: you need to be on a coach so I was packed on the first coach the rolled by: I found myself sat next to fifty Palestinians. If I turned up and the border control was to ask if I had been to Palestine no A in GCSE drama would distract them my small army of Arabic compadres. Fortunately, there were separate entrances for them and I…this did not however make the process any faster and at every five meter interval another official found another excuse to raid my depleted funds to cover yet another fare/tax/expense. Once again the Jordanian side was smooth, and a local American who knew Arabic then proceeded to help me avoid, as he called it, the: ‘mafia like border transport system’ whereby the only way into Amman was by a private taxi company. Normal taxis, much like hyenas at a lions’ kill, waited their turn a lot further down the road. His Arabic saved me 60%!o(MISSING)f the fare I would have otherwise naively paid. From Amman on to the airport and now I found myself back in Hong Kong!

In five hours i leave for Burma/Myanmar: a country stuck in a military dictatorship, with a history of genocide and civil unrest, and a claim to the title of most types of venomous snakes in the world. It is also a country barely tainted by the tourist, a smorgasbord of unique religious master pieces, and supposedly some of the friendliest locals to be found on this planet. Wish me luck, blog to come in Febrary (just before my 21ST BIRTHDAY...just saying).

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Comments

[J]

Still can\'t believe you\'re now in Burma... Superb blog, and it\'s so nice to hear of the friendliness of the Middle East - it gets a lot of bad press here.

[bonbontraveltips]

Shalom!
Great post..i live in Jaffa, Tel Aviv.. i hope next time you come to Israel you'll come to this parts as well!.. Peace.