Most tourists don't like Cairo. I think it's because they spend all their time at tourist attractions and fall into the con game of the sellers and the scammers. The pyramids must be seen, but I have the sense that all the hassles that go with it really put people off. That is not my experience.
I hang out in local shops and restaurants. That's where you meet the real Cairo. People are friendly and welcoming. The table next to you is full of 12 year olds talking on cel phone headsets, possibly to each other. The food is cheap and you never ask the price. After all, that would imply you don't know it already. After lunch I head back to my hotel and find turned into a makeshift masjid. The lobby is packed with kneeling men, wall to wall and thirty bodies deep. After an abortive attempt to wade through the faithful, I had to wait outside.
I spent the next day wandering the bazaars of old cairo, discovering brilliant mosques at every turn. I time it to go betwen Aazans (calls to prayer) and often find myself alone in grand marble courtyards looking at shafts of light as they penetrate the lattice in soaring archways. Best of all - Islam is free.
Another afternoon I headed to the Northern Cemetary, sometimes known as the City of the Dead. It is a place where the poor have moved into grand tombs, built centuries ago but still buzzing with the activity of the inhabitants. The friendly reaction of the locals gives the impression that few tourists venture there.
Walking among the graves on hot dusty earth, I dodge scrappy looking stray dogs sleeping in the shade of the tombs. A hysterical lade forbids me to go any further and wails on in Arabic. She musters the words "obey my advice" and warns me of untold peril lurking around every corner. Some old men come out of nowhere and start arguing with her in Arabic as I turn the corner and continue deeper into the maze of streets and alleyways.
The kids are all over and really happy about my assortment of Arabic greetings and the occasional catch phrase. They all want their photo taken and most are really nice about it. A couple of the older ones ask for money and a teenager groped one of my friends. I got rid of him quickly only to have him return shortly with a rifle that he first posed with, then shot at me. Fortunately there was nothing in the chamber. Another fifty metres and the people were nice again, inviting us into their homes and insisting on cups of shay.
I talk to dozens of people and cheer TaHir Musr (Egypt Rulz) to share my delight over the glorious football victory the previous night. There are lots of laughs and some tears from the little ones who are a bit camera shy. In the end I take a taxi back to my hotel and they continue with their lives. Impoverished among the graves.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
With the Smokers
Here in Cairo, I have managed to make myself some sketchy acquaintences. These are the burnouts, dropouts, hustlers and borderline criminal elements who prey on unsuspecting tourists, but perhaps more on each other.
I met a man named Sam who hustles for money however he can find it. He found me eating a big greasy shawarma and started with some weak attempts to deprive me of my cash. He uses a small papyrus shop as a platform to offer hashish to tourists. He can get anything though, bring you to any hotel, set you up with any tour.
I was curious about the hustler scene here so I strung him along and we took a walk. We made our way to a shop in the guts of a downtown Cairo building. After twisting and turning through hallways witn low clearance, we came to a courtyard of sorts where was a small souvenir shop and a bunch of guys hanging around smoking cigarettes and cursing in English and Arabic.
They all wanted to smoke hash with me, at my expense of course. These guys are seedy as they come and I joked with them for a while, pumping them for information about criminal activity. Turns out that one particularly crass man spent four years in prison for heroin offences in Netherlands. Seems the Dutch government recently repatriated him after four years of free room and board in one of Amsterdam's finest institutions.
There's another guy, a halfway respectable looking middle aged guy who has the prayer scar on his forehead. He is at the mosque five times a day. The rest of the time he hangs out upstairs and smokes hash. I sat outside last night and watched him tread his well worn path at the behest of the Aazan. Twenty minutes later, he was on his way back to the building.
The situation soon degenerated into a squabble over money and smoke. It seems that Sam had escorted some foreigners to a tour agency and made himself a healthy 400 Pound commission (roughly $80 USD). Everyone wanted to smoke and some harsh words were exchanged. There was a rustle in the shop and the fracas died down. The old man stepped out to investigate the commotion.
I was later informed that the old man was the boss in that area. Word has it that years ago he was accomodating some known hash slingers which led to an incident with police. It ended with the officers pleading for their lives, locked in the shop and doused in kerosene while he threw lit matches through the grate. That's the story anyway. Regardless of the reason, the old man is the boss, landlord and king over the smokers.
These guys are always on the streets and I see them every day hustling whatever they can. They sometimes try to get me in on the action and propose business arrangements that would effectively reduce me to the status of 'hotel tout.'
I decided to take advantage of my newfound acquaintances and detailed them to find me a very particular chess set. Negative results. In spite of assurances that they scoured the bazaars, it's more probably that they sat around getting high and bickering over petty scams.
These guys are not my friends. They are just a small pack of burnouts who want nothing more than a free meal so they can spend their cash on smoke.
I met a man named Sam who hustles for money however he can find it. He found me eating a big greasy shawarma and started with some weak attempts to deprive me of my cash. He uses a small papyrus shop as a platform to offer hashish to tourists. He can get anything though, bring you to any hotel, set you up with any tour.
I was curious about the hustler scene here so I strung him along and we took a walk. We made our way to a shop in the guts of a downtown Cairo building. After twisting and turning through hallways witn low clearance, we came to a courtyard of sorts where was a small souvenir shop and a bunch of guys hanging around smoking cigarettes and cursing in English and Arabic.
They all wanted to smoke hash with me, at my expense of course. These guys are seedy as they come and I joked with them for a while, pumping them for information about criminal activity. Turns out that one particularly crass man spent four years in prison for heroin offences in Netherlands. Seems the Dutch government recently repatriated him after four years of free room and board in one of Amsterdam's finest institutions.
There's another guy, a halfway respectable looking middle aged guy who has the prayer scar on his forehead. He is at the mosque five times a day. The rest of the time he hangs out upstairs and smokes hash. I sat outside last night and watched him tread his well worn path at the behest of the Aazan. Twenty minutes later, he was on his way back to the building.
The situation soon degenerated into a squabble over money and smoke. It seems that Sam had escorted some foreigners to a tour agency and made himself a healthy 400 Pound commission (roughly $80 USD). Everyone wanted to smoke and some harsh words were exchanged. There was a rustle in the shop and the fracas died down. The old man stepped out to investigate the commotion.
I was later informed that the old man was the boss in that area. Word has it that years ago he was accomodating some known hash slingers which led to an incident with police. It ended with the officers pleading for their lives, locked in the shop and doused in kerosene while he threw lit matches through the grate. That's the story anyway. Regardless of the reason, the old man is the boss, landlord and king over the smokers.
These guys are always on the streets and I see them every day hustling whatever they can. They sometimes try to get me in on the action and propose business arrangements that would effectively reduce me to the status of 'hotel tout.'
I decided to take advantage of my newfound acquaintances and detailed them to find me a very particular chess set. Negative results. In spite of assurances that they scoured the bazaars, it's more probably that they sat around getting high and bickering over petty scams.
These guys are not my friends. They are just a small pack of burnouts who want nothing more than a free meal so they can spend their cash on smoke.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Back in Cairo
Scars of piety mark the heads of the faithful in this throbbing metropolis. Men wear them on their foreheads like a badge of honour showing a lifetime of devotion, five times a day. Beneath me the noise rises from the streets as little Chinese motorcycles and donkey carts dodge in and out of traffic betwen minibuses and Mercedes. This is Cairo. This is Egypt.
It's a welcome change from Dahab, where nothing ever happens: "you been to the pyramids man?" "Naaaw man, I just been here three weeks and I fly home tomorrow but I am trying to change my flight so I can get drunk tonight with my dive instructor." I had enough of it, and missed the dive of dives on account of bad weather. I have yet to give up on the idea, though it is bound to require some creative re-routing toward the Sudan.
The Sudan itself feels ever closer. I began the visa process today which entailed visits to three embassies to obtain one of the most absurd documents imaginable: the letter of introduction. This is a letter from your home embassy saying that you are a nice guy and that you want to visit the Sudan. This morning I spilled off the bus on little sleep and amid a flood of Koreans. I found a cheap place downtown and swilled some McDonalds coffee while waiting for the embassies to open.
First I had to deal with the Canadians to get the ridiculous letter. It was nice to be in an outpost of my home and native land, even if it was just for a while. It was clean, efficient and organized. Within minutes they had received me and informed me that they could not issue any letter or offer any assistance. It seems that the Canadian government is warning against all travel to the Sudan and thus refuses to cooperate with anyone seeking to visit the country. They did however print out the government warning from the DFAIT website, warning me not to go. Sounds like the most dangerous place I have visited yet, but more on that when I am out the other side إن شاء الله (Insha'allah or 'god willing')
This in hand, I went round the corner to the Sudanese embassy. The contrast was incredible. The building was falling apart and there were mobs of people pushing their way to unlabelled windows. I fought my way to the front and was asked for a letter of recommendation. I explained that the Canadians wouldn't issue one. Ironically, I was able to use the printout they had provided so as to avoid the letter. The Sudanese man scoffed at very idea of dangers lurking in the Sudan. He told me to go get an Ethiopian visa and return at which point he would issue me a transit visa. I was now relying on the Ethiopians to get me on my way.
After some internet research, I boarded the metro and headed to Dokki in Giza where I wandered around asking for directions in broken arabic: "أين هي السفارة الاثيوبية؟" This went well thanks to some gesturing and the occasional English speaker. I was pleased with myself and managed to find out that the address was wrong. I stopped at McDonalds for a McArabia, hit the Metro again, returned to my hotel, made some calls, got a new address, headed back to Dokki, wandered around for a while, and finally found the place with the assistance of some friendly locals. These missions are a headache at the best of times, but really take their toll when one is running on no sleep.
The Ethiopians were friendly, though they conduct all business through a small hole in the door to the compound. I was quoted $20 USD for the visa but this was raised to $30 because I paid with a $50. I pick it up tomorrow at 13:00 and then its back to the Sudanese so they can spin me in some more circles. More of the same no doubt.
Looks like I have a few days to kill here, which should present no problem. This is my kind of city, full of action. Besides, I have more than enough things to take care of to fill the days. Might even get out to the pyramids, yet another lifelong dream to many people. Here I am with an opportunity to live it again and all I want to do is hang with the locals in smoky cafes. I want to feel this city and stay away from the tourists, the touts, the hawkers, to have a real experience of what its like.
It's a welcome change from Dahab, where nothing ever happens: "you been to the pyramids man?" "Naaaw man, I just been here three weeks and I fly home tomorrow but I am trying to change my flight so I can get drunk tonight with my dive instructor." I had enough of it, and missed the dive of dives on account of bad weather. I have yet to give up on the idea, though it is bound to require some creative re-routing toward the Sudan.
The Sudan itself feels ever closer. I began the visa process today which entailed visits to three embassies to obtain one of the most absurd documents imaginable: the letter of introduction. This is a letter from your home embassy saying that you are a nice guy and that you want to visit the Sudan. This morning I spilled off the bus on little sleep and amid a flood of Koreans. I found a cheap place downtown and swilled some McDonalds coffee while waiting for the embassies to open.
First I had to deal with the Canadians to get the ridiculous letter. It was nice to be in an outpost of my home and native land, even if it was just for a while. It was clean, efficient and organized. Within minutes they had received me and informed me that they could not issue any letter or offer any assistance. It seems that the Canadian government is warning against all travel to the Sudan and thus refuses to cooperate with anyone seeking to visit the country. They did however print out the government warning from the DFAIT website, warning me not to go. Sounds like the most dangerous place I have visited yet, but more on that when I am out the other side إن شاء الله (Insha'allah or 'god willing')
This in hand, I went round the corner to the Sudanese embassy. The contrast was incredible. The building was falling apart and there were mobs of people pushing their way to unlabelled windows. I fought my way to the front and was asked for a letter of recommendation. I explained that the Canadians wouldn't issue one. Ironically, I was able to use the printout they had provided so as to avoid the letter. The Sudanese man scoffed at very idea of dangers lurking in the Sudan. He told me to go get an Ethiopian visa and return at which point he would issue me a transit visa. I was now relying on the Ethiopians to get me on my way.
After some internet research, I boarded the metro and headed to Dokki in Giza where I wandered around asking for directions in broken arabic: "أين هي السفارة الاثيوبية؟" This went well thanks to some gesturing and the occasional English speaker. I was pleased with myself and managed to find out that the address was wrong. I stopped at McDonalds for a McArabia, hit the Metro again, returned to my hotel, made some calls, got a new address, headed back to Dokki, wandered around for a while, and finally found the place with the assistance of some friendly locals. These missions are a headache at the best of times, but really take their toll when one is running on no sleep.
The Ethiopians were friendly, though they conduct all business through a small hole in the door to the compound. I was quoted $20 USD for the visa but this was raised to $30 because I paid with a $50. I pick it up tomorrow at 13:00 and then its back to the Sudanese so they can spin me in some more circles. More of the same no doubt.
Looks like I have a few days to kill here, which should present no problem. This is my kind of city, full of action. Besides, I have more than enough things to take care of to fill the days. Might even get out to the pyramids, yet another lifelong dream to many people. Here I am with an opportunity to live it again and all I want to do is hang with the locals in smoky cafes. I want to feel this city and stay away from the tourists, the touts, the hawkers, to have a real experience of what its like.
Monday, January 25, 2010
To Sinai
I am the first to admit that I am spoiled for the things I have seen in this life. Another day, another ancient monolithic rock hewn temple. What's the big deal guys? They didn't even carve the inside of these ones. The think that most impressed me at Petra were the vistas over the desert, looking back to the Dead Sea and the Holy Land in the distance. I soaked up the atmosphere, imagining frankincense laden camels plodding their way through the canyons with five hundred kilogram loads. I imagined the bustle of ancient bazaars where traders and priests walked among the locals in an ancient kingdom long since vanished, a people who disappeared, their blood now mixed throughout Jordan and beyond. The Bedouin remain and work the camels to the delight of lazy foreign tourists. These once vital beasts are hardly the resource they were in the ancient times. Some have a diet of cardboard boxes.
After a couple of days I had seen enough and made my way south. I boarded a ferry and headed out of Aquaba to the port town of Nuweiba in Egypt. I gained some small amount of fame on the boat on account of my shirt printed with “Jameela Filistin” or “Beautiful Palestine.” My Mommar Ghadafi impression further endeared me to my new friends, particularly the Libyans. There I was, growling “Strong Man” in my best ArabEnglish accent. There was appropriate bicep flexing to illustrate the point. We were soon thick as thieves and there was no escape. One of the guys to show me loads of 'big booty' porno on his cel phone. The initial hilarity turned quickly to disgust amid explanations that this was not in fact how people behaved in America. He had a seemingly limitless supply, with the booties growing larger and larger. I had to request he show me something more wholesome.
He switched to Arabic quasi striptease (need I say more?) and then we moved on to a video he had taken of a massive heroin smuggling operation. The video showed men using rollers and stencils to paint green camels on packs of heroin. There were loads of guys sitting on piles of Egyptian money, purportedly amounting to the equivalent of ten million USD. I don't know how I make these friends. As we docked in Egypt, the encounter finished with the man showing me photographs of his children and a number of Russian, Moroccan and Tunisian girlfriends that he proudly objectified for my benefit.
The bastards at customs used a full new page in my heavily stamped Canadian passport. Yes, I have repatriated myself after some evasive maneuvering through Israeli and Jordanian customs. Goodbye to her Britannic Majesty...for now. I have two empty pages left and am relying on my limited Arabic to entreat friendly Sudanese officials to overlook the obvious problem of onward travel. Maybe its time to start ripping visas out...
We hit a minibus and ripped along the Egyptian highway under ominous clouds. Dead camels littered the roadside, rotting into the desert sand. I reached Dahab with some duty free booze for the sullen owner of a guesthouse who had agreed to hook me up with a room on the cheap. It never rains out here in the desert, but that night was cold and stange. A “storm” rumbled in over the Sinai, its clouds covering spectacular stars and drizzling through the dark desert night.
I made my way to the shore of the Red Sea and looked out as the heavens billowed and lightning crashed over the other holy land: Saudi Arabia. I could feel the power of it and thought about the Biblical passages describing the Lord appearing as dark swirling clouds and towering pillars of fire. I gazed with wonder on that far off shore, a land so inaccessible to all but the Hajji. Its a place I may never go.
I did however take advantage of my present location to climb Holy Mount Sinai for a second time. There is no substitute for the feeling you get watching the sun break one ray at a time over the desert mountains. A cold wind whips over the mountain top and heightens the senses as the Bedouin huddle under blankets trying to stay warm. The panoramic vista is incredible and I am lucky to be here again. Some people dream of things like this all their lives. Here I am again, this time with a new friend. I think back to the last time and get a laugh when I think of Martin and Maurice "man spooning" for warmth in the frigid night air. Soon I am back on the minibus winding a path through the desert and back toward the sea.
So here I am now with salty skin, “stuck in Dahab” - an expression that is all to common around here, usually uttered by people watching life pass them by under under the Red Sea sun, people who never got started and have consciously opted for beach bars and coral reefs in a colossal denial of something greater lying beyond this concrete oasis on the edge of nowhere. In my case, “stuck in Dahab” is more of a reality, since the “storm” dropped 40 millimetres of rain on the Sinai. This resulted in buildings crumbling, hotels flooding, airport closure, and roads shut down for a couple of days. I was trying to get out, thinking the run off would lead to murky water and ruin the diving I had intended. I checked out of the dump roach hotel with the sullen booze drinking manager, and effectively took up residence in a restaurant where I swilled beers and waited for word that I wasn't going anywhere.
Rather than waste any more time, I signed up for an advanced SCUBA course the following morning and spent the next few days in the world's biggest fishbowl looking out into the deep blue with a coral wall dropping off toward the bottom, 600 metres below me. My fears of poor visiblity were unfounded and I floated weightlessly in the infinite blue as the days slid by. One day has turned into nine as I sit here waiting for the final three dives I intend to complete before moving on.
Tomorrow I head to a shipwreck: the SS Thistlegorm, sunk in WWII and containing motorcycles, tanks, anti aircraft guns, and even couple of locomotives still chained to the deck. Stuck in Dahab. Could be worse.
After a couple of days I had seen enough and made my way south. I boarded a ferry and headed out of Aquaba to the port town of Nuweiba in Egypt. I gained some small amount of fame on the boat on account of my shirt printed with “Jameela Filistin” or “Beautiful Palestine.” My Mommar Ghadafi impression further endeared me to my new friends, particularly the Libyans. There I was, growling “Strong Man” in my best ArabEnglish accent. There was appropriate bicep flexing to illustrate the point. We were soon thick as thieves and there was no escape. One of the guys to show me loads of 'big booty' porno on his cel phone. The initial hilarity turned quickly to disgust amid explanations that this was not in fact how people behaved in America. He had a seemingly limitless supply, with the booties growing larger and larger. I had to request he show me something more wholesome.
He switched to Arabic quasi striptease (need I say more?) and then we moved on to a video he had taken of a massive heroin smuggling operation. The video showed men using rollers and stencils to paint green camels on packs of heroin. There were loads of guys sitting on piles of Egyptian money, purportedly amounting to the equivalent of ten million USD. I don't know how I make these friends. As we docked in Egypt, the encounter finished with the man showing me photographs of his children and a number of Russian, Moroccan and Tunisian girlfriends that he proudly objectified for my benefit.
The bastards at customs used a full new page in my heavily stamped Canadian passport. Yes, I have repatriated myself after some evasive maneuvering through Israeli and Jordanian customs. Goodbye to her Britannic Majesty...for now. I have two empty pages left and am relying on my limited Arabic to entreat friendly Sudanese officials to overlook the obvious problem of onward travel. Maybe its time to start ripping visas out...
We hit a minibus and ripped along the Egyptian highway under ominous clouds. Dead camels littered the roadside, rotting into the desert sand. I reached Dahab with some duty free booze for the sullen owner of a guesthouse who had agreed to hook me up with a room on the cheap. It never rains out here in the desert, but that night was cold and stange. A “storm” rumbled in over the Sinai, its clouds covering spectacular stars and drizzling through the dark desert night.
I made my way to the shore of the Red Sea and looked out as the heavens billowed and lightning crashed over the other holy land: Saudi Arabia. I could feel the power of it and thought about the Biblical passages describing the Lord appearing as dark swirling clouds and towering pillars of fire. I gazed with wonder on that far off shore, a land so inaccessible to all but the Hajji. Its a place I may never go.
I did however take advantage of my present location to climb Holy Mount Sinai for a second time. There is no substitute for the feeling you get watching the sun break one ray at a time over the desert mountains. A cold wind whips over the mountain top and heightens the senses as the Bedouin huddle under blankets trying to stay warm. The panoramic vista is incredible and I am lucky to be here again. Some people dream of things like this all their lives. Here I am again, this time with a new friend. I think back to the last time and get a laugh when I think of Martin and Maurice "man spooning" for warmth in the frigid night air. Soon I am back on the minibus winding a path through the desert and back toward the sea.
So here I am now with salty skin, “stuck in Dahab” - an expression that is all to common around here, usually uttered by people watching life pass them by under under the Red Sea sun, people who never got started and have consciously opted for beach bars and coral reefs in a colossal denial of something greater lying beyond this concrete oasis on the edge of nowhere. In my case, “stuck in Dahab” is more of a reality, since the “storm” dropped 40 millimetres of rain on the Sinai. This resulted in buildings crumbling, hotels flooding, airport closure, and roads shut down for a couple of days. I was trying to get out, thinking the run off would lead to murky water and ruin the diving I had intended. I checked out of the dump roach hotel with the sullen booze drinking manager, and effectively took up residence in a restaurant where I swilled beers and waited for word that I wasn't going anywhere.
Rather than waste any more time, I signed up for an advanced SCUBA course the following morning and spent the next few days in the world's biggest fishbowl looking out into the deep blue with a coral wall dropping off toward the bottom, 600 metres below me. My fears of poor visiblity were unfounded and I floated weightlessly in the infinite blue as the days slid by. One day has turned into nine as I sit here waiting for the final three dives I intend to complete before moving on.
Tomorrow I head to a shipwreck: the SS Thistlegorm, sunk in WWII and containing motorcycles, tanks, anti aircraft guns, and even couple of locomotives still chained to the deck. Stuck in Dahab. Could be worse.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
To the Rose City
I woke in Jerusalem this morning and was on my way before the sunrise. Tonight I sleep in Petra. In between there was some wrangling at the border in order to ensure I avoided the dreaded Israeli stamp. It's not that I have a problem with Israel, it's just that the Republic of Sudan doesn't view things the same way.
Considering a negative results report from an American who carried out the exact plan I envisioned, but one day earlier, I made some last minute alterations to the scheme and decided to head to Eilat at the far south of the country. Contrary to the three and a half hour “welcome interrogation” that I received on my way into the country, I was through Israeli customs in two minutes without a single question about what I did in Israel.. I am amazed that they are so careful to screen people coming into the country but are apparently unconcerned with what they do while inside.
The Jordanian side was a nice surprise too. I had planned to bite the bullet and accept the entry stamp on my Canadian passport, which would inevitably lead to the logical inference that I had exited Israel. The Jordanians were more interested in advising me to shave my beard, and telling me how to meet women than they were in stamping my passport. I regaled them with my piss poor Arabic and they were very impressed. They noticed I had no exit stamp, and just when I thought I was busted pulling the passport switch the guy asked me if I wanted him to stamp a piece of paper. They stamped an exit form and didn't charge me for the visa. I was shocked and entered the country in high spirits, having achieved optimal results through no fault of my own.
After wrangling with a taxi man over the fare to the bus station, I got in the cab and listened to him pitch a ridiculous scheme which would have me go to Petra in his cab. I hit the bus, met a friendly local, chatted with him in french at his request (though he had no idea what I was saying), learned some Arabic, and rolled into Petra before sunset.
I missed the rose red colours sinking sun, but did manage to feast on 'all you can eat' Jordanian cuisine at my hostel. It was the best meal that I've had in months. The evening ended with somebody popping Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade into the VCR. I couldn't have imagined a better way to begin my own adventure.
Considering a negative results report from an American who carried out the exact plan I envisioned, but one day earlier, I made some last minute alterations to the scheme and decided to head to Eilat at the far south of the country. Contrary to the three and a half hour “welcome interrogation” that I received on my way into the country, I was through Israeli customs in two minutes without a single question about what I did in Israel.. I am amazed that they are so careful to screen people coming into the country but are apparently unconcerned with what they do while inside.
The Jordanian side was a nice surprise too. I had planned to bite the bullet and accept the entry stamp on my Canadian passport, which would inevitably lead to the logical inference that I had exited Israel. The Jordanians were more interested in advising me to shave my beard, and telling me how to meet women than they were in stamping my passport. I regaled them with my piss poor Arabic and they were very impressed. They noticed I had no exit stamp, and just when I thought I was busted pulling the passport switch the guy asked me if I wanted him to stamp a piece of paper. They stamped an exit form and didn't charge me for the visa. I was shocked and entered the country in high spirits, having achieved optimal results through no fault of my own.
After wrangling with a taxi man over the fare to the bus station, I got in the cab and listened to him pitch a ridiculous scheme which would have me go to Petra in his cab. I hit the bus, met a friendly local, chatted with him in french at his request (though he had no idea what I was saying), learned some Arabic, and rolled into Petra before sunset.
I missed the rose red colours sinking sun, but did manage to feast on 'all you can eat' Jordanian cuisine at my hostel. It was the best meal that I've had in months. The evening ended with somebody popping Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade into the VCR. I couldn't have imagined a better way to begin my own adventure.
Settling for the Facts
This is not the same place I visited all those years ago. Ideology has poisoned the holy land. Back in 2001 when the bombs were going off, the fear they induced had everybody on edge. Back then I felt confused and couldn't figure out how things had gone so far off the rails. Through all of that, I was amazed how friendly people were, how welcoming. I felt genuine sympathy for the plight of both sides. This time I did not get the same impression.
There are normal people living here, like people do anywhere else. But somehow I feel more as if this is a land of troops, zealots, tear gas, protests, barbed wire, fences, concrete barriers and guns. Too many guns. Guns everywhere. In the market, in the park, attached to belt of the fat guy swilling coffee in the bus station. A large number of the gunmen are not even in uniform, either off duty military, civilians or private security. I have yet to see any action though. It is about time these guys waste some terrorists.
I find that the longer I spend in Israel, the less comfortable I feel. I attract suspicious looks in certain quarters from people wondering what I am doing close to their home sand holy places. The Apartheid wall dividing Israel from the occupied West Bank snakes its way over the ancient Judean hills.
After spending time in the West Bank and observing the absurdity of the Israeli policies there, I am baffled by the Settler movement. How could anyone write this: http://www.shovrimshtika.org/gallery_item_e.asp?id=53 . It smacks of ignorance and hatred, nothing more, nothing constructive, nothing of value. Is this what the writer teaches his kids?
Shockingly this sector of society exerts a great influence over government policy. I ask myself what they have planned? Continued expropriation of land, homes and resources until they have the whole west bank? This is no logical plan: it can lead only to further catastrophe for everybody involved. There will never be peace with an alien population taking over land and homes in a territory it rules by military occupation. All this breeds is vicious and perpetual animosity.
“Facts on the ground” do not in any way justify the expropriation of land, homes, and resources of their inhabitants. They do not justify the division of the territory into isolated hamlets, segregated from each other by “bypass roads” for the exclusive use of Settlers and functioning as de facto walls prohibiting the movement of vehicles or farm machinery between areas with longstanding territorial links.
Back in Jerusalem, men stand near the Western Wall asking for a donations. When I was asked, the guy took offence to my inquiry about the cause I was supporting and replied “What are you doing in my country anyway? You come here and you don't want to give anything.” I felt uneasy standing there in the shadow of a large golden menorah. According to some, it will grace the Third Temple when it is built over the ashes of the Dome of the Rock.
Later that night, I sat in a tent on a street in East Jerusalem. This is the residence of Mr. Nasser. For all his life, he lived in the house across the street, the one draped with Large Israeli flags, a wooden menorah affixed to the roof. It really stands out in this neighbourhood, an area of town populated entirely by Arab people. The Settlers are here and they want everybody to know it. There is racist graffitti in the streets, swastikas and slogans scrawled in Arabic. This does not make the situation any better. I can't help but think that this is a microcosm of the entire Settler movement. Expropriation without compensation.
For now the situation rests in a perpetual state of hopelessness and breeds inexplicably incendiary actions that will lead to nothing but more instability and loss of life. I feel as if the prospects are dimmer now than they were back in 2001 when all the hope of the 1990s had only just vanished amid the blasts of suicide bombers.
It is not about pointing fingers or laying blame, but rather about determining a fair resolution that both sides can live with. It is about finding courageous leadership who will implement it. This will not happen through “facts on the ground,” the resurrection of Apartheid policies and an insatiable appetite for expansion combined with a dangerously unfounded sense of entitlement.
Ideology and hatred lead to war and resistance. War and resistance have led to segregation and a struggle for survival.
There are normal people living here, like people do anywhere else. But somehow I feel more as if this is a land of troops, zealots, tear gas, protests, barbed wire, fences, concrete barriers and guns. Too many guns. Guns everywhere. In the market, in the park, attached to belt of the fat guy swilling coffee in the bus station. A large number of the gunmen are not even in uniform, either off duty military, civilians or private security. I have yet to see any action though. It is about time these guys waste some terrorists.
I find that the longer I spend in Israel, the less comfortable I feel. I attract suspicious looks in certain quarters from people wondering what I am doing close to their home sand holy places. The Apartheid wall dividing Israel from the occupied West Bank snakes its way over the ancient Judean hills.
After spending time in the West Bank and observing the absurdity of the Israeli policies there, I am baffled by the Settler movement. How could anyone write this: http://www.shovrimshtika.org/gallery_item_e.asp?id=53 . It smacks of ignorance and hatred, nothing more, nothing constructive, nothing of value. Is this what the writer teaches his kids?
Shockingly this sector of society exerts a great influence over government policy. I ask myself what they have planned? Continued expropriation of land, homes and resources until they have the whole west bank? This is no logical plan: it can lead only to further catastrophe for everybody involved. There will never be peace with an alien population taking over land and homes in a territory it rules by military occupation. All this breeds is vicious and perpetual animosity.
“Facts on the ground” do not in any way justify the expropriation of land, homes, and resources of their inhabitants. They do not justify the division of the territory into isolated hamlets, segregated from each other by “bypass roads” for the exclusive use of Settlers and functioning as de facto walls prohibiting the movement of vehicles or farm machinery between areas with longstanding territorial links.
Back in Jerusalem, men stand near the Western Wall asking for a donations. When I was asked, the guy took offence to my inquiry about the cause I was supporting and replied “What are you doing in my country anyway? You come here and you don't want to give anything.” I felt uneasy standing there in the shadow of a large golden menorah. According to some, it will grace the Third Temple when it is built over the ashes of the Dome of the Rock.
Later that night, I sat in a tent on a street in East Jerusalem. This is the residence of Mr. Nasser. For all his life, he lived in the house across the street, the one draped with Large Israeli flags, a wooden menorah affixed to the roof. It really stands out in this neighbourhood, an area of town populated entirely by Arab people. The Settlers are here and they want everybody to know it. There is racist graffitti in the streets, swastikas and slogans scrawled in Arabic. This does not make the situation any better. I can't help but think that this is a microcosm of the entire Settler movement. Expropriation without compensation.
For now the situation rests in a perpetual state of hopelessness and breeds inexplicably incendiary actions that will lead to nothing but more instability and loss of life. I feel as if the prospects are dimmer now than they were back in 2001 when all the hope of the 1990s had only just vanished amid the blasts of suicide bombers.
It is not about pointing fingers or laying blame, but rather about determining a fair resolution that both sides can live with. It is about finding courageous leadership who will implement it. This will not happen through “facts on the ground,” the resurrection of Apartheid policies and an insatiable appetite for expansion combined with a dangerously unfounded sense of entitlement.
Ideology and hatred lead to war and resistance. War and resistance have led to segregation and a struggle for survival.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Spectre
I stand in the south Hebron hills at the tip of the occupied West Bank. Around me are the tent houses that make up the remains of Susiya, a rural Palestinian village. Dirty kids run about taunting a couple of old dogs. Men work what's left of the fields, little more than some soil collected in the recesses of the rocky land. According to some, they should have sold the animals and moved on a long time ago anyway.
The villagers have been rounded up repeatedly packed into trucks and buses with all their belongings and left on the doorstep of Yatta, a Palestinian town miles away from here. Their tents have been burned down, they have been evicted by military order. Thy have no electricity and struggle to find a subsistence level of water. Yet they fight to remain here. They are back now after a period of absence on account of a court order authorizing their return and recognizing the legitimacy of their claim to the land. The forged warrant was not enough to break their will. They have nowhere else to go.
There is a settlement up on the hill. The electrical lines swoop around Susiya in a great arch that terminates in the paved suburban comfort of the settler community. Its red roofs peer down toward the tents and the security zone around it now accounts for over sixty per cent of the original farmland used by the Susiya villagers. It encompasses most of the springs containing water.
The archeological site down below is the original site of the village. Its preservation was the reason for the first eviction order. It was not long however until the settlement sprung up in place of people's homes, right on top of the very ruins they had been evicted to protect.
I am not here alone. My guide is an ex-Israeli army soldier who was posted in the area. Somehow he could not overcome the injustice of what he saw, the orders he carried out, and now the time has come to fight back by exposing others to an ugly reality. The day is full of disturbing stories coming form first hand experiences of Palestinians and Israelis. My objective is not to set these out in detail. It is merely to relate my horror at the condition that the people I met are now living under.
This situation transcends all considerations of religion. It is nothing to do with religion. It is perverse ideology imposed at the behest of the settlers, a right of entitlement to land occupied by other people, simple people, farmers and shepherds.
Shot out tractor tires are expensive to replace. Burning tents scare the kids in the nights. And they call them terrorists...
The government points out that the settlements are illegal. This does not prevent the state from providing the settlers with roads, water, electricity, and military protection.
The inhumanity here raises the spectre of facism. How did it come to this.
The villagers have been rounded up repeatedly packed into trucks and buses with all their belongings and left on the doorstep of Yatta, a Palestinian town miles away from here. Their tents have been burned down, they have been evicted by military order. Thy have no electricity and struggle to find a subsistence level of water. Yet they fight to remain here. They are back now after a period of absence on account of a court order authorizing their return and recognizing the legitimacy of their claim to the land. The forged warrant was not enough to break their will. They have nowhere else to go.
There is a settlement up on the hill. The electrical lines swoop around Susiya in a great arch that terminates in the paved suburban comfort of the settler community. Its red roofs peer down toward the tents and the security zone around it now accounts for over sixty per cent of the original farmland used by the Susiya villagers. It encompasses most of the springs containing water.
The archeological site down below is the original site of the village. Its preservation was the reason for the first eviction order. It was not long however until the settlement sprung up in place of people's homes, right on top of the very ruins they had been evicted to protect.
I am not here alone. My guide is an ex-Israeli army soldier who was posted in the area. Somehow he could not overcome the injustice of what he saw, the orders he carried out, and now the time has come to fight back by exposing others to an ugly reality. The day is full of disturbing stories coming form first hand experiences of Palestinians and Israelis. My objective is not to set these out in detail. It is merely to relate my horror at the condition that the people I met are now living under.
This situation transcends all considerations of religion. It is nothing to do with religion. It is perverse ideology imposed at the behest of the settlers, a right of entitlement to land occupied by other people, simple people, farmers and shepherds.
Shot out tractor tires are expensive to replace. Burning tents scare the kids in the nights. And they call them terrorists...
The government points out that the settlements are illegal. This does not prevent the state from providing the settlers with roads, water, electricity, and military protection.
The inhumanity here raises the spectre of facism. How did it come to this.
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