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Published: June 30th 2007
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After days of torpor in the heat of a Jerusalem summer, I’ve managed to make the most of my last few days in Israel. I spend an afternoon in the Orthodox neighborhood of Mea Shearim and a morning watching the sun rise over the ramparts of the Old City. I head to the
shouk to watch the shopkeepers pushing buckets of soapy water over the sidewalk and stacking crates of produce. The fish are getting laid out on beds of ice, their mouths agape. Two Arab deliverymen are having a smoke in the back of their truck, crouching beside rows of empty palettes. They’re flirting with a pair of Israeli soldiers in rumpled uniforms who giggle and nervously twirl their hair. The sun is dipping into the alleys of Nahlaot, casting long shadows over the stone walls.
I’m up early one morning for a day-trip to Masada and the Dead Sea, two requisite stops on the Israeli itinerary that I’ve managed to put off for weeks. I’ve arranged the tour through a budget hotel in the Old City, a place with low stone ceilings and a cramped dorm room that looks like a catacomb. Our group meets at
7am in front of Jaffa Gate. There’s a quiet young Brit and a Palestinian by way of Teaneck, New Jersey, who soon proves himself to be so terrifically slow-witted I can’t tell if he’s suffering from heat stroke. There’s also a somber Dutchman who has a knack for narrowing his eyes and saying things like, “This city has changed hands nine times. There is so much blood on this earth. So many dead.”
And then adding, more gravely, “So many dead.”
We barrel out of Jerusalem and head south toward the Dead Sea, the temperature steadily rising as we descend toward - and then, below - sea level. It’s quickly grown clear that David, our driver, will be making some especially easy money this afternoon. Our collective energies have been sapped before we’ve even made it to our first coffee break; when he stops to point out the cave where the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered, we give it a few passing nods and snap some pics from the backseat, urging him to turn the A/C up a couple of notches and go about the business of getting the day over with.
It’s on the
wrong side of 100 when we reach Masada, the parking lot already packed with dozens of tour buses and dozens of drivers snoozing in the front seats. There are massive tour groups cramming into the cable car, ruddy Americans in polo shirts and baseball caps calling their kids “buddy” and “champ.” We do a listless circuit around the remains of the fortress and then make fast tracks back to the parking lot. By the time we reach the Dead Sea the car’s overheated, with warm air pumping from the vents and the engine periodically stalling. The mud is baking under our feet as we dash into the water for our obligatory float. We rinse the salt from our skin under the cool shower jets. The radio says it’s pushing 50°C - 122°F - though it’s just a shade past noon.
On the way back to Jerusalem we stop in Jericho; David wants to show us life in the West Bank. The town that proudly dubs itself the “oldest city in the world” was once a thriving hub of tourism, home to a centuries-old monastery, Biblical sites, and a bustling casino. But the effects of Israel’s security clamp-down have
been disastrous. From a distance, waiting behind the long line of cars that have queued for an army checkpoint, the city looks like a barren dust bowl baking in the desert heat. As we drive around town the streets are lifeless; there are packs of kids kicking around rocks in the dirt, or sitting in front of shuttered shops. Plastic chairs are stacked outside the cafés and restaurants. When we turn down a bumpy road toward the Mount of Temptation, a group of scruffy kids give chase. They circle around as David retells the story of how the Devil thrice tempted Christ, thrusting their hands at us and asking for change. When someone hands over a couple of shekel they swarm, and it’s only after David’s given them a few harsh words in Arabic that they slink away, eyeing us sullenly as our truck kicks up a cloud of dust.
We stop at a gift shop on our way back, a swank compound with its own restaurant and juice bar and a tiled fountain gurgling in the atrium. Two handsome, smiling men greet us at the door; a stout woman in an apron welcomes us just inside. The
aisles are cluttered with souvenir t-shirts and Jesus keychains and colorful, blown vases made from “Jericho glass,” but the place is all but deserted. A few young girls in black
chadors are browsing through piles of cheap plastic sandals. The ceiling fans are whirring and the cashiers are standing around with their hands in their pockets. The prices have been slashed thirty and forty and fifty percent, though the salesman assures us he’d be willing to strike a better deal.
Outside there’s a tall, avuncular guy standing in front of the fruit stand. He has a salt and pepper moustache and a cell phone clipped to his belt. He shakes my hand briskly and then pats a few young kids on the head. His family lives in Atlanta, but each summer they come back to Jericho to visit his brother, the restaurant’s owner. I watch his son and nephew - little sprigs of adolescence - squaring their elbows on a picnic table nearby. They want to arm-wrestle, and an older cousin comes over to steady their thin, hairless arms. There are squeals of pleasure after a couple of false starts, one of the boys trying to work for leverage
and getting reproached by a stern uncle. Finally they gasp and strain until their cheeks are pink; one of the hands slaps against the table. The winner raises his arms and does a little victory dance in the parking lot, earning himself five shekels. Just so there’s no ill will, the uncle slips a coin to the loser, too: a small act of magnanimity on this hot, unforgiving afternoon.
Back in Jerusalem a cool breeze has blown in. I spend my last
shabat with a
CouchSurfer in a cush suburb half an hour from the Old City. At the dinner table Maya and her brothers are teasing each other under their breaths, while their father - a dignified, gray-haired man with a healthy paunch - tries to maintain an air of solemnity. He sings the
shabat prayers, now and then looking up from his Torah toward the TV screen, where contestants on
A Star is Born - an Israeli take on
American Idol - are singing and dancing their way across stage. After dinner he pats his stomach and goes outside for a smoke. One of Maya’s cats is pawing at the patio door, scampering up the stairs
when we let him in.
In the morning the sun is washing the orange-tiled roofs on the hillside. There are late-model sedans in the driveways and old housewives in track pants walking their dogs: scenes of domestic contentment, a small suburban idyll. Maya points to the work her father’s done around the house, adding an upstairs apartment and retiling the kitchen and starting an extension to the roof that will shield her balcony from the sunlight. From outside we can see the separation wall running along the perimeter of the West Bank, a bleak gray line carving the brown hills. At night she can hear reports pop-popping from the other side of the wall - a Palestinian wedding party, she suggests, or maybe something else entirely.
We go downstairs, where my cab is waiting. The driver has a lean smile and a wristwatch that gleams in the sunlight. We say our goodbyes and offer promises to keep in touch, blowing kisses as the car pulls away. The wind is shaking the leaves of the citrus trees in the yard, their tiny, hopeful blossoms bursting with life. You watch the flowers bloom and fall until they carpet the sidewalks and the tidy suburban lawns. And then you wait for the fruit to grow.
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