Irregular Events. Regular Days.
From the perspective of Sunday morning, the week ahead looked to be an unremarkable one, save for my brimming calendar who warned that days would be long and sleep in short doses.
Despite the dwindling daylight hours, I've been waking up before 6 to a still dark sky and the cankerous music of the garbage collectors beneath my porch. By the time I leave the apartment, the sky is pink, the air warm and my body - while still not hungry - calling for the taste of java. I divide my days between Jerusalem (for study) and Tel Aviv - where I am working at a cafe-restaurant called Roladin. (known for the amazing jelly donuts and other desserts). I was attracted to the job by its proximity to my house and the opportunity to speak more Hebrew.
Waitressing is fun for me - busy, crazy, exciting. I prefer it that way. The dull mornings before the customers arrive bore me; my adrenaline kicks in amid the frenzy of Friday afternoon. Tuesday, however, was a bit too crazy.
The early morning weather was nice so people headed out for the artists' fair and market across the street from Roladin. As rain burst forth, shoppers sought shelter indoors with comfort of a coffee or molten chocolate dessert.
We were short chairs, without clean silverware, and with a computer that suddenly shut down. I had to push myself through the crowd and behind the dessert counter to put in orders and then write down the coffee requests for the barista. Then, I would have to explain to customers why I was delivering their meals hot and tempting, but could not offer a utensils preesntly. Perhaps they would want to get by with a spoon - in the meantime? Or maybe a soup spoon would suffice to stir their espresso?
The tables were squished close together, packed between with shopping bags and new market purchases. People hung damp clothes on the back of their chairs and the environment became warmer and more humid. It was at about this time that an elderly woman suddenly passed out.
I dashed to her side and began to assess the situation. She was nearly 70-years-old, and while breathing, her eyes were closed and she was not responding to us. We called an ambulance and while I monitored, she slowly came to. I offered her sips of water and as the minutes wore on, it became clear that she had forgotten to eat or drink for nearly 24 hours.
Meanwhile, despite my obvious attention to this emergency, I had customers motioning for their check. The table behind me, sitting mere centimeters form the poor woman, had the nerve to ask to exchange their pasta. For what? I asked... After 5 minutes of indecision, they requested a menu to help them decide.
Drink orders piled up, customers grew impatient and the ambulance seemed to take an eternity to arrive. When it did, the EMTs had no interest in my assessment of the situation. I returned awkwardly to work and waited for the post-lunch lull.
That was Tuesday.
Yesterday, I had to wake up before 6 again for a field trip in jerusalem.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
On Hiking. And Obama.
I spent the last two Saturdays hiking around the Dead Sea. Both hikes were challenging - one mentally, the other physically.
The first one was south of the Dead Sea. We woke up long before sunrise, threw together our gear and headed east as the sun began to rise. We drove the entire width of Israel, through Jerusalem, through Jericho and on to the border with Jordan. (This takes little more than an hour.) The sunrise was incredible, stretching ribbons of red and orange on both sides of the road. 360 degrees of horizon were rainbowed with color and when the sun finally showed her face, we were driving straight toward its blinding rays.
At edge of the Dead Sea, we turned right, heading south and I fought to stay awake and watch the desert scenary. We passed through the checkpoint just before Ein Gedi, and our of the territories. Soon, Masada was beside us, and we kept on southward until the southern shores of the Dead Sea were in sight. Beyond the sea, we turned east again, and parked among the wadis and foothills of the desert.
We were a group of about 15, and the trail was a 9 km loop up, then down and finally along a river bed.
There were many other hikers and campers around, but the trail wasn't overcrowded. By 9:30 or so we were on our way. It felt great to be outside in the desert, with Jordan and Israel both clearly visible around us. There was an amazing view down to the river below before we scrambled down a steep canyon wall to reach it.
I had been warned in advance that it was a water hike. I wore waterproof hiking sandals and had packed rain gear and quick-dry clothing. At the start of the river bed, it was dry. Here and there were murky, algae-filled pools that could easily be circumnavigated. By this time, it was afternoon, and we were glad to be dry. We figured the water had dried up in the last week and that we could avoid wading after all. As I watched a teenage boy play in the green-tinted pools, I was happy to be dry.
But soon, very soon... the terrain changed. For the next few hours, we, too, had to wade and swim in the festering pools. We would toss our bags across the water, of send them across a rope from one side to the next, but for us, swimming was the only options. The pool bottom was mushy and a deep, foul smelling mud greeted us at the banks of each pool.
I wish I could say I got used to it, but the day was waning and soon I got chilly. With each new pool in sight, I longed for the end and wished to avoid jumping in. Still, it was a new experience, and I'm glad to have had it.
Just before dark, we reached the end of the wedding and took a trail south and back to the car. Stinky and wet, we crawled into the comfort and warmth of sweats and stopped in the West Bank for a feast of hummus and pita during the drive home.
This week's hike, with Hug Elad, was less eventful.
It was beautiful and challenging - physically. Today, I nearly fell out of bed as my legs protested any further use. I was excited that a former Tevanik joined us. We hiked with the "easier" group on both days, which was well worth it for the difficult second day that included over 800 meters in elevation gain.
We hiked north of Ein Gedi, and could see Jerusalem from the 400 meter peak that we summited on the second day. We wove our away south along the Dead Sea and a bit east to the Yehuda Desert. The dunes were gorgeous. Remnants of seas that had covered the terrain thousands of years previous were everywhere - shells and water lines, plateaus and land formations all spoke of the geological history of the area. The quickly diminishing Dead Sea could be similarly observed. With a declining depth of nearly a meter each year, the shoreline is ringed with the watermarks of each previous year. Along the shore are sink holes, also causes by the diminishing water, as a salt later beneath the service collapses abruptly, at times bringing with it cars and even houses.
One shocking site during the trek was the river of black, bubbling and utterly-foul sewage that we had to cross on the first day. Heading down from east Jerusalem and draining into the Dead Sea, for me this black river spoke monuments about some of the differences in facilities given to Arabs and Jews. The sewage was from Arab villages and settlements, and yet, it was littering all of our planet, and the sea in which we swim, as it curled through the canyons and raced toward the Dead Sea. It smelled really, really bad.
The moon was just past full so we watched it set in the early morning and rise a few hours after sunset. We finishes the hike early on the first day and encircled a campfire - all 80 of us - sharing one large pot of soup and songs led by a single guitar. I felt just a little bit like a pioneering kibbutzik under the starry sky and amid the date palms, singing Israel folk songs with people of all ages.
I spent the last two Saturdays hiking around the Dead Sea. Both hikes were challenging - one mentally, the other physically.
The first one was south of the Dead Sea. We woke up long before sunrise, threw together our gear and headed east as the sun began to rise. We drove the entire width of Israel, through Jerusalem, through Jericho and on to the border with Jordan. (This takes little more than an hour.) The sunrise was incredible, stretching ribbons of red and orange on both sides of the road. 360 degrees of horizon were rainbowed with color and when the sun finally showed her face, we were driving straight toward its blinding rays.
At edge of the Dead Sea, we turned right, heading south and I fought to stay awake and watch the desert scenary. We passed through the checkpoint just before Ein Gedi, and our of the territories. Soon, Masada was beside us, and we kept on southward until the southern shores of the Dead Sea were in sight. Beyond the sea, we turned east again, and parked among the wadis and foothills of the desert.
We were a group of about 15, and the trail was a 9 km loop up, then down and finally along a river bed.
There were many other hikers and campers around, but the trail wasn't overcrowded. By 9:30 or so we were on our way. It felt great to be outside in the desert, with Jordan and Israel both clearly visible around us. There was an amazing view down to the river below before we scrambled down a steep canyon wall to reach it.
I had been warned in advance that it was a water hike. I wore waterproof hiking sandals and had packed rain gear and quick-dry clothing. At the start of the river bed, it was dry. Here and there were murky, algae-filled pools that could easily be circumnavigated. By this time, it was afternoon, and we were glad to be dry. We figured the water had dried up in the last week and that we could avoid wading after all. As I watched a teenage boy play in the green-tinted pools, I was happy to be dry.
But soon, very soon... the terrain changed. For the next few hours, we, too, had to wade and swim in the festering pools. We would toss our bags across the water, of send them across a rope from one side to the next, but for us, swimming was the only options. The pool bottom was mushy and a deep, foul smelling mud greeted us at the banks of each pool.
I wish I could say I got used to it, but the day was waning and soon I got chilly. With each new pool in sight, I longed for the end and wished to avoid jumping in. Still, it was a new experience, and I'm glad to have had it.
Just before dark, we reached the end of the wedding and took a trail south and back to the car. Stinky and wet, we crawled into the comfort and warmth of sweats and stopped in the West Bank for a feast of hummus and pita during the drive home.
This week's hike, with Hug Elad, was less eventful.
It was beautiful and challenging - physically. Today, I nearly fell out of bed as my legs protested any further use. I was excited that a former Tevanik joined us. We hiked with the "easier" group on both days, which was well worth it for the difficult second day that included over 800 meters in elevation gain.
We hiked north of Ein Gedi, and could see Jerusalem from the 400 meter peak that we summited on the second day. We wove our away south along the Dead Sea and a bit east to the Yehuda Desert. The dunes were gorgeous. Remnants of seas that had covered the terrain thousands of years previous were everywhere - shells and water lines, plateaus and land formations all spoke of the geological history of the area. The quickly diminishing Dead Sea could be similarly observed. With a declining depth of nearly a meter each year, the shoreline is ringed with the watermarks of each previous year. Along the shore are sink holes, also causes by the diminishing water, as a salt later beneath the service collapses abruptly, at times bringing with it cars and even houses.
One shocking site during the trek was the river of black, bubbling and utterly-foul sewage that we had to cross on the first day. Heading down from east Jerusalem and draining into the Dead Sea, for me this black river spoke monuments about some of the differences in facilities given to Arabs and Jews. The sewage was from Arab villages and settlements, and yet, it was littering all of our planet, and the sea in which we swim, as it curled through the canyons and raced toward the Dead Sea. It smelled really, really bad.
The moon was just past full so we watched it set in the early morning and rise a few hours after sunset. We finishes the hike early on the first day and encircled a campfire - all 80 of us - sharing one large pot of soup and songs led by a single guitar. I felt just a little bit like a pioneering kibbutzik under the starry sky and amid the date palms, singing Israel folk songs with people of all ages.
Monday, October 27, 2008
- On Returning to Israel, an Israeli -
Boarding the Czech Airlines Flight to Prague, on my way back to Tel Aviv, I have little thought to the fact that I was flying home to Israel – as an Israeli citizen – for the first time. I was surprised to hear Hebrew spoken around me, but soon discovered that most of my fellow passengers were also returning from a holiday trip to the United States.
The young Israeli woman next to me slept the whole way, while I read an Israeli book (translated to English) from cover to cover to keep myself awake. Across the aisle sat a couple, about my parents’ age, who were traveling from Florida to volunteer with the Israeli army for 2 weeks. Behind me were two Israeli women returning from a three-week stint in Central America.
The flight felt long and I was anxious to get back to my cat, my home and of course my boyfriend. I watched the tiny digital airplane jerk closer to Prague on the GPS screens and tried to sit still. Finally, we were preparing for landing. We studiously moved our seats to the upright position and secured our tray tables tightly against the seat in front of us.
And then the pilot, in a deeply accented English, mumbled something about circling the airport for 30 minutes. Nearly an hour later, he informed us that it was too foggy to land in Prague, and that with our fuel running low, we had to re-route to Dresden. In Germany.
During my first visit to this infamous city – we sat on the runway for over an hour. There was no food, little water, and only two dirty bathrooms to service entire aircraft. I was antsy, but knew that with a four hour scheduled layover in Prague; we would still make our flight to Tel Aviv. The clocks in Prague were turned back an hour, giving us an extra hour of leeway to make our flight.
Finally, we took off from Dresden, a mere 40-minute flight from Prague. Arriving again in Prague, we again prepared for landing, until the captain informed us in his indecipherable syllable that we would be circling the airport – again. Someone said something about fog. The woman next to me had heard him say “logistical difficulties.”
With my book finished, I was unable to fend off sleep. When I awoke, it was three hours later, and we were still circling.
We had little information about what was going on. The flight attendants made their usual announcements about overhead bins and seat cushions, and we finally descended upon Prague – 30 minutes after our flight to Israel was schedule to leave.
----
I sprinted off the plane, following the maze of signs leading me to the “Transfer Desk.” I spotted a departure/arrival board and saw that the Tel Aviv flight was still at the Gate – calling for final boarding! I quickened my pace, and ran on the front of the transfer desk.
“I’m from the New York flight,” I told the desk clerk, assuming she knew something of our story. “I need to get on that plane to Tel Aviv! May I please have my boarding pass?” I asked, trying to remain calm and somewhat polite.
Unapologetically, without sympathy, she informed me, “The gate is closed.”
I pleaded and pleaded as my fellow passengers piled into a lone crowded line behind me. “Please hold the flight!” I begged, wondering why Czech Airlines would prefer to strand 100 angry Israelis in Prague instead of further delaying an already delayed – and half empty- aircraft.
Anger began to surge amongst the crowd. Disbelief at the stupidity and wastefulness of it all. Surely the event, and its handing, was costing Czech Air an incredible amount of money, logistics, and fuel. And there seemed to be such a simple solution.
The women at the desk tucked their faces toward their computer screens and told us to stand and wait (more waiting!) for their manager.
Behind, the crowd of my fellow Israelis began mumbling bitterly. Most remarked at the stupidity of having our initial flight leave without us - and with all those empty seats! Others bemoaned enormous amount of fuel and money that had already been wasted. One girl had to get to the army. Another had lost her passport in the States and was forbidden to leave the terminal in Prague. Some of the tourists had weddings, family reunions and trips waiting for them. One woman rebooked her vacation – to Amsterdam.
Finally, the manager arrived. Smartly dressed in a suit and a bluntly highlighted bob, she informed us - with authority and not trace of sympathy – that we would all receive a hotel room across the street, plus two meal vouchers. Our luggage had already been unloaded for us beyond passport control and we could pick it up after we received our vouchers. She told us to wait in our rooms for a phone call at 7PM. At that time, we would be notified about when we were booked to fly out. All the upcoming flights were booked, so they were trying to bring in a larger aircraft, she explained.
Chaos ensued. I asked the woman behind the counter to push me to a later flight in a day or two so that I could freely tour the city without waiting endlessly for a call from Czech Airlines. She declined. The guy behind me rushed toward her first as the rest of the crowd pushed in afterward. “I need your card,” he growled. “For my lawyer.” Everyone shouted their requests. I received my vouchers and pushed my way out, wishing my fellow Prague prisoners good luck.
A few people rushed to the front of the line, and one woman screamed out to chastise them. “That’s just not fair, what you’re doing,” she screamed in Hebrew. “It’s not fair, and it doesn’t fit us.” Despite her anger, I wanted to hug her. I longed to tell everyone in perfect Hebrew. “We are always being watched. We represent our country. We’re under a microscope. Behave with civility if you care about our country.” But I stayed quiet and tried to remain one of the calmer passengers.
On my way out of line, a young woman at the end of the line approached me asking if we could spend the time together until our phone call. I gave her my number. Another girl asked me if she could send a text message from my phone. As I began to pass the phone around, I felt the warmth and closeness of this haphazardly assembled community. We shared something more than our crappy situation, a connection, a bond, link a barely noticed wink from a stranger across the street. It’s this same feeling that I love about Israel, and that I find so difficult to explain.
Our delegation herded over to the Marriot across the street (except for the girl who lacked a passport who stayed in the airport.) Even the hotel clerks, who are surely used to cancelled flights and the stranded passengers accompanying them, were shocked by our massive pilgrimage. Throughout the day, we crisscrossed paths everywhere – in the elevator, in the lobby, at the restaurant. A few people offered to go into the city with me – a couple in their 60s, a woman alone who spoke little but asked me to join her in town. Several people invited me to eat with them, and we all began to refer to each other as mishpuche (family.)
People trickled in with updates. Was there a plane to Tel Aviv leaving at 9:30? Were we all moved to the 11:55 flight? Why did none (not one!) on the phone cards we received from Czech Air work? (The hotel clerks told us they never do…)
I slept, ate and chatted with a German-Croatian guy in Prague for a three-week business trip. I learned the stories of my fellow passengers and at 9PM, we made our exodus across the street to the airport. (My bags got stuck in the red sea – or rotating doors – nearly swallowing me alive until a guy on his honeymoon pulled me free.)
Back at the airport, we all watched out for each other. Everyone had been reschedule for the midnight flight and while the normal passengers checked in at one counter, we were exiled to a distant corner of the airport terminal.
Where again, we waited. And waited. And stood in a vague resemblance of a line. We joked that the Jews were banished to the corner, and how Israelis can’t stand in line. We searched the airport for scattered members of our clan. I sent a text to the woman from the morning, wondering where she had disappeared to. Turned out, she was fast asleep, thinking it was still afternoon. I reassured her that she had missed nothing and held her spot on line.
When the Czech staff finally arrived, they made us all form a more perfect line, beginning about 50 meters behind us. We struggled to move backwards, wielding jackets, gifts and oversized luggage filled with goodies from America. One woman took the lead screaming at everyone to move back. Someone yelled back at her and warned her to calm down. Another declared that we needed a mefakhed (commander) to take the lead.
Finally. Finally at 20 past 11, we began to board the plane bound for Tel Aviv. With each announcement of the crew, we prayed that all would go smoothly – that we wouldn’t be re-routed to Prague, or Istanbul, or Tehran.
I chatted happily with my new friend and - grateful that I had woken her for our flight – she later treated me to a cab ride with her back to Tel Aviv. She is a musician computer specialist from a moshav in the north. Another couple took my phone number. When the plane finally landed, there were cheers, sighs, and contagious applause. Disregarding my usual disdain for this habit, I joined in clapping.
Our family separated ways and I find myself wondering about many of them throughout my day. As I told the story to Ori, noting how close I had felt to each of the passengers, he realized that a few weeks ago we had almost gone to a concert of the girl sitting beside me. My new friend, was in fact someone we were already connected to.
Sort of like everyone else here in Israel.
Boarding the Czech Airlines Flight to Prague, on my way back to Tel Aviv, I have little thought to the fact that I was flying home to Israel – as an Israeli citizen – for the first time. I was surprised to hear Hebrew spoken around me, but soon discovered that most of my fellow passengers were also returning from a holiday trip to the United States.
The young Israeli woman next to me slept the whole way, while I read an Israeli book (translated to English) from cover to cover to keep myself awake. Across the aisle sat a couple, about my parents’ age, who were traveling from Florida to volunteer with the Israeli army for 2 weeks. Behind me were two Israeli women returning from a three-week stint in Central America.
The flight felt long and I was anxious to get back to my cat, my home and of course my boyfriend. I watched the tiny digital airplane jerk closer to Prague on the GPS screens and tried to sit still. Finally, we were preparing for landing. We studiously moved our seats to the upright position and secured our tray tables tightly against the seat in front of us.
And then the pilot, in a deeply accented English, mumbled something about circling the airport for 30 minutes. Nearly an hour later, he informed us that it was too foggy to land in Prague, and that with our fuel running low, we had to re-route to Dresden. In Germany.
During my first visit to this infamous city – we sat on the runway for over an hour. There was no food, little water, and only two dirty bathrooms to service entire aircraft. I was antsy, but knew that with a four hour scheduled layover in Prague; we would still make our flight to Tel Aviv. The clocks in Prague were turned back an hour, giving us an extra hour of leeway to make our flight.
Finally, we took off from Dresden, a mere 40-minute flight from Prague. Arriving again in Prague, we again prepared for landing, until the captain informed us in his indecipherable syllable that we would be circling the airport – again. Someone said something about fog. The woman next to me had heard him say “logistical difficulties.”
With my book finished, I was unable to fend off sleep. When I awoke, it was three hours later, and we were still circling.
We had little information about what was going on. The flight attendants made their usual announcements about overhead bins and seat cushions, and we finally descended upon Prague – 30 minutes after our flight to Israel was schedule to leave.
----
I sprinted off the plane, following the maze of signs leading me to the “Transfer Desk.” I spotted a departure/arrival board and saw that the Tel Aviv flight was still at the Gate – calling for final boarding! I quickened my pace, and ran on the front of the transfer desk.
“I’m from the New York flight,” I told the desk clerk, assuming she knew something of our story. “I need to get on that plane to Tel Aviv! May I please have my boarding pass?” I asked, trying to remain calm and somewhat polite.
Unapologetically, without sympathy, she informed me, “The gate is closed.”
I pleaded and pleaded as my fellow passengers piled into a lone crowded line behind me. “Please hold the flight!” I begged, wondering why Czech Airlines would prefer to strand 100 angry Israelis in Prague instead of further delaying an already delayed – and half empty- aircraft.
Anger began to surge amongst the crowd. Disbelief at the stupidity and wastefulness of it all. Surely the event, and its handing, was costing Czech Air an incredible amount of money, logistics, and fuel. And there seemed to be such a simple solution.
The women at the desk tucked their faces toward their computer screens and told us to stand and wait (more waiting!) for their manager.
Behind, the crowd of my fellow Israelis began mumbling bitterly. Most remarked at the stupidity of having our initial flight leave without us - and with all those empty seats! Others bemoaned enormous amount of fuel and money that had already been wasted. One girl had to get to the army. Another had lost her passport in the States and was forbidden to leave the terminal in Prague. Some of the tourists had weddings, family reunions and trips waiting for them. One woman rebooked her vacation – to Amsterdam.
Finally, the manager arrived. Smartly dressed in a suit and a bluntly highlighted bob, she informed us - with authority and not trace of sympathy – that we would all receive a hotel room across the street, plus two meal vouchers. Our luggage had already been unloaded for us beyond passport control and we could pick it up after we received our vouchers. She told us to wait in our rooms for a phone call at 7PM. At that time, we would be notified about when we were booked to fly out. All the upcoming flights were booked, so they were trying to bring in a larger aircraft, she explained.
Chaos ensued. I asked the woman behind the counter to push me to a later flight in a day or two so that I could freely tour the city without waiting endlessly for a call from Czech Airlines. She declined. The guy behind me rushed toward her first as the rest of the crowd pushed in afterward. “I need your card,” he growled. “For my lawyer.” Everyone shouted their requests. I received my vouchers and pushed my way out, wishing my fellow Prague prisoners good luck.
A few people rushed to the front of the line, and one woman screamed out to chastise them. “That’s just not fair, what you’re doing,” she screamed in Hebrew. “It’s not fair, and it doesn’t fit us.” Despite her anger, I wanted to hug her. I longed to tell everyone in perfect Hebrew. “We are always being watched. We represent our country. We’re under a microscope. Behave with civility if you care about our country.” But I stayed quiet and tried to remain one of the calmer passengers.
On my way out of line, a young woman at the end of the line approached me asking if we could spend the time together until our phone call. I gave her my number. Another girl asked me if she could send a text message from my phone. As I began to pass the phone around, I felt the warmth and closeness of this haphazardly assembled community. We shared something more than our crappy situation, a connection, a bond, link a barely noticed wink from a stranger across the street. It’s this same feeling that I love about Israel, and that I find so difficult to explain.
Our delegation herded over to the Marriot across the street (except for the girl who lacked a passport who stayed in the airport.) Even the hotel clerks, who are surely used to cancelled flights and the stranded passengers accompanying them, were shocked by our massive pilgrimage. Throughout the day, we crisscrossed paths everywhere – in the elevator, in the lobby, at the restaurant. A few people offered to go into the city with me – a couple in their 60s, a woman alone who spoke little but asked me to join her in town. Several people invited me to eat with them, and we all began to refer to each other as mishpuche (family.)
People trickled in with updates. Was there a plane to Tel Aviv leaving at 9:30? Were we all moved to the 11:55 flight? Why did none (not one!) on the phone cards we received from Czech Air work? (The hotel clerks told us they never do…)
I slept, ate and chatted with a German-Croatian guy in Prague for a three-week business trip. I learned the stories of my fellow passengers and at 9PM, we made our exodus across the street to the airport. (My bags got stuck in the red sea – or rotating doors – nearly swallowing me alive until a guy on his honeymoon pulled me free.)
Back at the airport, we all watched out for each other. Everyone had been reschedule for the midnight flight and while the normal passengers checked in at one counter, we were exiled to a distant corner of the airport terminal.
Where again, we waited. And waited. And stood in a vague resemblance of a line. We joked that the Jews were banished to the corner, and how Israelis can’t stand in line. We searched the airport for scattered members of our clan. I sent a text to the woman from the morning, wondering where she had disappeared to. Turned out, she was fast asleep, thinking it was still afternoon. I reassured her that she had missed nothing and held her spot on line.
When the Czech staff finally arrived, they made us all form a more perfect line, beginning about 50 meters behind us. We struggled to move backwards, wielding jackets, gifts and oversized luggage filled with goodies from America. One woman took the lead screaming at everyone to move back. Someone yelled back at her and warned her to calm down. Another declared that we needed a mefakhed (commander) to take the lead.
Finally. Finally at 20 past 11, we began to board the plane bound for Tel Aviv. With each announcement of the crew, we prayed that all would go smoothly – that we wouldn’t be re-routed to Prague, or Istanbul, or Tehran.
I chatted happily with my new friend and - grateful that I had woken her for our flight – she later treated me to a cab ride with her back to Tel Aviv. She is a musician computer specialist from a moshav in the north. Another couple took my phone number. When the plane finally landed, there were cheers, sighs, and contagious applause. Disregarding my usual disdain for this habit, I joined in clapping.
Our family separated ways and I find myself wondering about many of them throughout my day. As I told the story to Ori, noting how close I had felt to each of the passengers, he realized that a few weeks ago we had almost gone to a concert of the girl sitting beside me. My new friend, was in fact someone we were already connected to.
Sort of like everyone else here in Israel.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Tripod...
or how I got a cat.
We returned, tired and happy, from Turkey on Saturday night. The next day, after more than three weeks away from home, we got back to our apartment in Tel Aviv. And thus, less than 24 hours away from our last adventures, began the next.
Many street cats have been adopted by our building. THere is a woman who lives next door who feeds the cat, so we have a regular dedicated fan base of 5-10 cats who stay close by.
When Ori came home from work on Sunday, we spotted one of our own, a young black male, with a dreadfully battered and broken front leg. It touched me. Deep. And Ori spent the next hour or two on the phone trying to find someone to take care of the cat. No emergency pet services here. No free pickups. Until finally, we met found angel.
A vet, working midnight hours north of Tel Aviv - willing to do the surgery for 1/3 to 1/4 of the price. (all told, for less than 90 dollars.) I called my friends with a cat, and picked up their cage the next day.
However.... on Monday the cat was no where to be found. I thought about fate, about how some cats run off to die, or about the remote possibility that someone else had taken him in. I thought about how we had no plan as to what we would do for the cast post-op. And I figured maybe it was for the best.
Tuesday after school, still no cat. I ran errands, did laundry and finally at 9:30 PM, went out with Ori to go for a run.
There, at the entrance to our building, was our old friend, seeming to happy and cuddly to notice or accept the dangling limb that was dragging him little by little out of this world. I broke into tears and Ori went to call the doctor.
Someone had bandaged his foot with an ace, but this was no soccer field sprain. The cat had no feeling in the paw. The lower leg was flipped backwards so the pads of his feet faced up. Still, he hopped merrily (and speedily around) and the other cats accepted him as much as any of their playmates. He purred and cuddled closer to me, tenderly putting one paw at a time in my lap. This was hardly typical street cat behavior and I had to keep reminding myself not to pick him up.
After 15 minutes, Ori came down with a cage and the miraculous cat-ophile who lives next door. Alas, the cage was too small. We lured him inside easily with food, but he could not fit. And he quickly realized we were trying to trap him. There was no chance of getting him near the cage again. He ran out into the street and hid cowering beneath cars. (isn't that how all this started, i thought?!)
It took over an hour to catch the cat. In the end, we lured him tuna fish and Ori tossed him into our car. HE freaked out like racquetball gone wild for several minutes, before slithering beneath my seat - where he stayed for the next hour.
Still dressed to run, Ori and I drove back north, past his office and to the residential neighborhood where the vet has his office. Ori went inside, and returned a few minutes later to the car with the doc. What a guy! THe doc was wearing jeans and a dusty t-shirt. He finished up a cigarette, and went after the cat with are and determination, brandishing a syringe with an air of unbelievable 'chill.' As if crawling into stranger's cars at 11:30 at night in order to inject a street cat with anesthisia was a routine activity.
Which I guess, for this man, it is.
The cat spasmed a bit and then relaxed in Ori's arms. He shivered and shuddered for about half an hour and then we left him. It was past 11 now so we went to get a sandwich. An hour later, the surgery was complete.
As we walked back to the vets, right on his doorstep, Ori found a 100 shekel bill, neatly folded. We gave it immediately to the vet as an inadequate tip thankful and cognizant of the role of fate in this whole debacle.
We picked up the cat, now called Tripod, and carried him into the car. He shook a bit but was virtually immobile. He had no bandages. Where his leg had been was a fold of skin sealed with a row of neat, black stitches. He was barely bleeding.
We picked up cat litter and food in a 24 hour market and set out to cat-proof our him. Dressers were cleared. Doors were closed, porch screens sealed shut, shutter blinds slanted upwards at steep angles. Our still unpacked bags were pushed into another room and the three of us set up camp for a long night in the guest bedroom.
Ori and I took turns sleeping. The "awake" one of us would hold and pet our little friend, reassuring him and helping hi when he wanted to try and walk. Our big fear was that he would hurt his head or teeth. Each time he tried to break out into a sprint, or even a footstep, his head would fall toward the floor, gravity being still far more powerful than Mr. T's anesthetized, dizzy little mug.
BY morning, and with the help of a miracle, he was holding his head okay. Our neighbor watched over him in the morning and I left hebrew early to take over the watch.
He is scared and missed the great outdoors. But he is eating and still very loving and affectionate. Stay tuned....
or how I got a cat.
We returned, tired and happy, from Turkey on Saturday night. The next day, after more than three weeks away from home, we got back to our apartment in Tel Aviv. And thus, less than 24 hours away from our last adventures, began the next.
Many street cats have been adopted by our building. THere is a woman who lives next door who feeds the cat, so we have a regular dedicated fan base of 5-10 cats who stay close by.
When Ori came home from work on Sunday, we spotted one of our own, a young black male, with a dreadfully battered and broken front leg. It touched me. Deep. And Ori spent the next hour or two on the phone trying to find someone to take care of the cat. No emergency pet services here. No free pickups. Until finally, we met found angel.
A vet, working midnight hours north of Tel Aviv - willing to do the surgery for 1/3 to 1/4 of the price. (all told, for less than 90 dollars.) I called my friends with a cat, and picked up their cage the next day.
However.... on Monday the cat was no where to be found. I thought about fate, about how some cats run off to die, or about the remote possibility that someone else had taken him in. I thought about how we had no plan as to what we would do for the cast post-op. And I figured maybe it was for the best.
Tuesday after school, still no cat. I ran errands, did laundry and finally at 9:30 PM, went out with Ori to go for a run.
There, at the entrance to our building, was our old friend, seeming to happy and cuddly to notice or accept the dangling limb that was dragging him little by little out of this world. I broke into tears and Ori went to call the doctor.
Someone had bandaged his foot with an ace, but this was no soccer field sprain. The cat had no feeling in the paw. The lower leg was flipped backwards so the pads of his feet faced up. Still, he hopped merrily (and speedily around) and the other cats accepted him as much as any of their playmates. He purred and cuddled closer to me, tenderly putting one paw at a time in my lap. This was hardly typical street cat behavior and I had to keep reminding myself not to pick him up.
After 15 minutes, Ori came down with a cage and the miraculous cat-ophile who lives next door. Alas, the cage was too small. We lured him inside easily with food, but he could not fit. And he quickly realized we were trying to trap him. There was no chance of getting him near the cage again. He ran out into the street and hid cowering beneath cars. (isn't that how all this started, i thought?!)
It took over an hour to catch the cat. In the end, we lured him tuna fish and Ori tossed him into our car. HE freaked out like racquetball gone wild for several minutes, before slithering beneath my seat - where he stayed for the next hour.
Still dressed to run, Ori and I drove back north, past his office and to the residential neighborhood where the vet has his office. Ori went inside, and returned a few minutes later to the car with the doc. What a guy! THe doc was wearing jeans and a dusty t-shirt. He finished up a cigarette, and went after the cat with are and determination, brandishing a syringe with an air of unbelievable 'chill.' As if crawling into stranger's cars at 11:30 at night in order to inject a street cat with anesthisia was a routine activity.
Which I guess, for this man, it is.
The cat spasmed a bit and then relaxed in Ori's arms. He shivered and shuddered for about half an hour and then we left him. It was past 11 now so we went to get a sandwich. An hour later, the surgery was complete.
As we walked back to the vets, right on his doorstep, Ori found a 100 shekel bill, neatly folded. We gave it immediately to the vet as an inadequate tip thankful and cognizant of the role of fate in this whole debacle.
We picked up the cat, now called Tripod, and carried him into the car. He shook a bit but was virtually immobile. He had no bandages. Where his leg had been was a fold of skin sealed with a row of neat, black stitches. He was barely bleeding.
We picked up cat litter and food in a 24 hour market and set out to cat-proof our him. Dressers were cleared. Doors were closed, porch screens sealed shut, shutter blinds slanted upwards at steep angles. Our still unpacked bags were pushed into another room and the three of us set up camp for a long night in the guest bedroom.
Ori and I took turns sleeping. The "awake" one of us would hold and pet our little friend, reassuring him and helping hi when he wanted to try and walk. Our big fear was that he would hurt his head or teeth. Each time he tried to break out into a sprint, or even a footstep, his head would fall toward the floor, gravity being still far more powerful than Mr. T's anesthetized, dizzy little mug.
BY morning, and with the help of a miracle, he was holding his head okay. Our neighbor watched over him in the morning and I left hebrew early to take over the watch.
He is scared and missed the great outdoors. But he is eating and still very loving and affectionate. Stay tuned....
Saturday, July 26, 2008
It is hot here!
For those of you wonderıng ıf I would ever feel hot - ıf I had a threshold ın my love for hot weather regardless of humıdıty and proxımıty to the ocean...the answer ıs yes.
45 degrees celcıus (113 fahreınheıt) ıs a bıt too much. Beıng crowded ınto shared taxıs luggıng 40 pounds or more on my back and gasppıng for stıfled oxygen wıth my fellow passengers whıle the wındow breathes a fıery breeze on my neck - well ıt ıs a bıt much. And sleep ıs more challengıng.
HOWEVER! There ıs shade and sunset and the fact of the matter ıs we are havıng the most ıncredıble adventure and vacatıon. Truly epıc. We spend tıme dıscussıng who we can convınce to vısıt thıs part of Turkey and thankıng the guy upstaırs for our good fortune. We wısh for two more weeks, (even one!) and plan our future rendezvous wıth Turkey.
Yesterday, we had a somewhat challengıng escape from the Kurdısh capıtal cıty - Dıyurbakır.
The cıty was a bıt depressıng, crowded, worn. The ınhabıtants less jubılant - a far cry from the joy marked faces of the people ın the Kaçkar. The chıldren harassed us as we walked along the ınterıor of the 6km walls that cırcle the old cıty. Gatherıng behınd us ın gangs of 5 or more, scrawny 8 year old boys yelled 'money! hello! money! money!' When they threw a stıck ın my dırectıon, Orı quıckly scared them off wıth one threatenıng glance. We clımbed up the staırs onto the ramparts and walked for about 1/2 a kılometer on the walls wıth vıews down to the old and new cıty. Back on the ground near the park that spans the ınterıor of the walls we snacked on ıncredıble fıgs and a spıcy shısh kebab.
We tasted an Arab style honey-coated dessert, gathered our begs and headed for the dolmuçes.
Back to our departure from the crowded central cıty... We quıckly found a bus ıntracıty bus headed for the central statıon. An englısh-speakıng man helpedus wıth our begs and brought us several blocks to another bus statıon. He waıted wıth us untıl the bus came and bought us bottled water. Ah the Turkısh! Thıs bus took us to the central statıon. Here we encountered more than enough helpful cıtızens and ın 15 mınutes we were on our way ın a van headed for Mardın. They had saved us the best seats up front!
Wıthout beıng able to communıcate, the van drıvers took us under theır wıng. When everyone dısembarked ın mardın, we were ınstructed to stay on board. ANother drıver took the wheel and gave us prıvate (and free) transport another part of Mardın up hıgh ın the old cıty. Here, we arrıved to another van that seemed to be waıtıng for us! As soon as we clımbed ın, the van took off carryıng a few other passengers and some varıous grocery ıtems for vıllages along our route.
Once we reached Savur, a hıll-spannıng vıllage of about 1000, the van took us straıght to our new home! We were anxıous for a respıte from cıty lıfe and constant movıng. Here we found paradıse, as promısed by our Lonely Planet guıde. It took us awhıle to fıgure out how to get ınsıde our hotel...
We are stayıng ın an old mansıon at the very top of Savur overlookıng the cıty as ıt spreads down toward a green forest and rıver on both sıdes. Endless staırs led us up to the foyer where we were greeted by a famıly who tıes theır ancestry back wıth the vıllage for hundreds of years.
Savur has been ınhabıted for 3000 years. The famıly ıs Muslım and has been ın thıs house for 300 years. They have a gıant famıly tree on one wall that traces theır famıly hıstory back to Muhammed, to Abraham, and to Noah and Adam. Upon our arrıval we were gıven a tour and a choıce of 3 rooms and the rooftop terrace. Each room ıs entırely unıque and fılled wıth antıques and unıque touches of flaır from old bathrobes and towels to tıny tea decanters and thımble sızed cups. The lace lıned tablecloths are ımpeccably whıte and touched wıth embroıdery. Lace curtaıns cover the arched stone wındows and a breeze sends the lace bıllowıng gently ınto the room. The beds are old ıron beds - gorgeous. The ceılıng ıs arched from stone and every nook and cranny of the home ıs decorated wıth careful touches and dustless knıcknacks.
Before we went to sleep, the grandmother turned down the bed, gave us a fan, and put out a large bottle of ıce water.
We spoke a bıt wıth one of the sons who ıs the only Englısh speaker. Prıce negotıated (ıncludıng dınner, breakfast, and laundry!) we settled ın and went for a walk. Sunsets late here and we watched ıt fıll as the ımam called the towns' dıverse resıdents to prayer. Here, Turks, Kurds, and Arabs pray together ın the maın mosque. We passed vıllagers who saıd hello and chılren who stared at us wıth curıousıty and amazement. One man yelled hello from hıs roof terrace and asked ıf we spoke german. He also knew a bıt of french so we exchanged a few pleasantrıes.
As we passed closer to hıs abode, hıs mother begged us to come ın for tea. Suddenly we found ourselves on theır roof chattıng ın French German and Arabıc over tea. We watched the sky together and struggled to communıcate. Soon, they were beggıng us to spend the nıght. When we told the mother who looked about 75 that we couldn't stay for dınner, she seemed on the verge of tears. After 40 mınutes we headed out wıth crıes of thank you, mercı, and shukran!
Back at the mansıon we lıt candles, saıd kıddush and enjoyed a home-cooked meal on the terrace. The walls are all beautıfully arched stone and the ground ıs a smoothe, clean whıte-washed stone as well. As we ate, the famıly sat wıth us keepıng our plates fully loaded and the wıne glasses full. We communıcated ın a smorgasboard of languages and laughed wıth the famıly. When we told them we would actually be stayıng two nıghts and not one, the owner laughed knowlıngly. 'Everyone says one nıght,' he told us, 'and then they say two nıghts. And then they stay three!' After dınner and fresh melon dessert, we were lead to the rooftop to watch the stars. below us we saw the dwındlıng lıghts of the vıllage and heard musıc from a weddıng. From one sıde of town came tradıtıonal musıc markıng the henna ceremony for the brıde. From the other sıde came thumpıng dısco as the men celebrated ın a large and boısterous party. Today ıs the actual weddıng and we just may have an ınvıtatıon!!!
We enjoyed the ınnkeeper,s company on the roof for about an hour. Later, wıth the heat keepıng sleep at bay, the ınnkeeper ınvıted me ınto the kıtchen and offered me ıce water. I sat on the couch readıng a book by a Turkıs author called Istanbul whıle he sat ın hıs pyjamas watchıng an Amerıcan TV show wıth subtıtles.
In the mornıng, the grandfather served us breakfast and at noon we were offered fresh fruıt. We ate ıt amıd the antıques on the long wındow seat ın our room. Our washed laundry drıed ın seconds and we headed ınto town despıte the heat.
Paradıse.
For those of you wonderıng ıf I would ever feel hot - ıf I had a threshold ın my love for hot weather regardless of humıdıty and proxımıty to the ocean...the answer ıs yes.
45 degrees celcıus (113 fahreınheıt) ıs a bıt too much. Beıng crowded ınto shared taxıs luggıng 40 pounds or more on my back and gasppıng for stıfled oxygen wıth my fellow passengers whıle the wındow breathes a fıery breeze on my neck - well ıt ıs a bıt much. And sleep ıs more challengıng.
HOWEVER! There ıs shade and sunset and the fact of the matter ıs we are havıng the most ıncredıble adventure and vacatıon. Truly epıc. We spend tıme dıscussıng who we can convınce to vısıt thıs part of Turkey and thankıng the guy upstaırs for our good fortune. We wısh for two more weeks, (even one!) and plan our future rendezvous wıth Turkey.
Yesterday, we had a somewhat challengıng escape from the Kurdısh capıtal cıty - Dıyurbakır.
The cıty was a bıt depressıng, crowded, worn. The ınhabıtants less jubılant - a far cry from the joy marked faces of the people ın the Kaçkar. The chıldren harassed us as we walked along the ınterıor of the 6km walls that cırcle the old cıty. Gatherıng behınd us ın gangs of 5 or more, scrawny 8 year old boys yelled 'money! hello! money! money!' When they threw a stıck ın my dırectıon, Orı quıckly scared them off wıth one threatenıng glance. We clımbed up the staırs onto the ramparts and walked for about 1/2 a kılometer on the walls wıth vıews down to the old and new cıty. Back on the ground near the park that spans the ınterıor of the walls we snacked on ıncredıble fıgs and a spıcy shısh kebab.
We tasted an Arab style honey-coated dessert, gathered our begs and headed for the dolmuçes.
Back to our departure from the crowded central cıty... We quıckly found a bus ıntracıty bus headed for the central statıon. An englısh-speakıng man helpedus wıth our begs and brought us several blocks to another bus statıon. He waıted wıth us untıl the bus came and bought us bottled water. Ah the Turkısh! Thıs bus took us to the central statıon. Here we encountered more than enough helpful cıtızens and ın 15 mınutes we were on our way ın a van headed for Mardın. They had saved us the best seats up front!
Wıthout beıng able to communıcate, the van drıvers took us under theır wıng. When everyone dısembarked ın mardın, we were ınstructed to stay on board. ANother drıver took the wheel and gave us prıvate (and free) transport another part of Mardın up hıgh ın the old cıty. Here, we arrıved to another van that seemed to be waıtıng for us! As soon as we clımbed ın, the van took off carryıng a few other passengers and some varıous grocery ıtems for vıllages along our route.
Once we reached Savur, a hıll-spannıng vıllage of about 1000, the van took us straıght to our new home! We were anxıous for a respıte from cıty lıfe and constant movıng. Here we found paradıse, as promısed by our Lonely Planet guıde. It took us awhıle to fıgure out how to get ınsıde our hotel...
We are stayıng ın an old mansıon at the very top of Savur overlookıng the cıty as ıt spreads down toward a green forest and rıver on both sıdes. Endless staırs led us up to the foyer where we were greeted by a famıly who tıes theır ancestry back wıth the vıllage for hundreds of years.
Savur has been ınhabıted for 3000 years. The famıly ıs Muslım and has been ın thıs house for 300 years. They have a gıant famıly tree on one wall that traces theır famıly hıstory back to Muhammed, to Abraham, and to Noah and Adam. Upon our arrıval we were gıven a tour and a choıce of 3 rooms and the rooftop terrace. Each room ıs entırely unıque and fılled wıth antıques and unıque touches of flaır from old bathrobes and towels to tıny tea decanters and thımble sızed cups. The lace lıned tablecloths are ımpeccably whıte and touched wıth embroıdery. Lace curtaıns cover the arched stone wındows and a breeze sends the lace bıllowıng gently ınto the room. The beds are old ıron beds - gorgeous. The ceılıng ıs arched from stone and every nook and cranny of the home ıs decorated wıth careful touches and dustless knıcknacks.
Before we went to sleep, the grandmother turned down the bed, gave us a fan, and put out a large bottle of ıce water.
We spoke a bıt wıth one of the sons who ıs the only Englısh speaker. Prıce negotıated (ıncludıng dınner, breakfast, and laundry!) we settled ın and went for a walk. Sunsets late here and we watched ıt fıll as the ımam called the towns' dıverse resıdents to prayer. Here, Turks, Kurds, and Arabs pray together ın the maın mosque. We passed vıllagers who saıd hello and chılren who stared at us wıth curıousıty and amazement. One man yelled hello from hıs roof terrace and asked ıf we spoke german. He also knew a bıt of french so we exchanged a few pleasantrıes.
As we passed closer to hıs abode, hıs mother begged us to come ın for tea. Suddenly we found ourselves on theır roof chattıng ın French German and Arabıc over tea. We watched the sky together and struggled to communıcate. Soon, they were beggıng us to spend the nıght. When we told the mother who looked about 75 that we couldn't stay for dınner, she seemed on the verge of tears. After 40 mınutes we headed out wıth crıes of thank you, mercı, and shukran!
Back at the mansıon we lıt candles, saıd kıddush and enjoyed a home-cooked meal on the terrace. The walls are all beautıfully arched stone and the ground ıs a smoothe, clean whıte-washed stone as well. As we ate, the famıly sat wıth us keepıng our plates fully loaded and the wıne glasses full. We communıcated ın a smorgasboard of languages and laughed wıth the famıly. When we told them we would actually be stayıng two nıghts and not one, the owner laughed knowlıngly. 'Everyone says one nıght,' he told us, 'and then they say two nıghts. And then they stay three!' After dınner and fresh melon dessert, we were lead to the rooftop to watch the stars. below us we saw the dwındlıng lıghts of the vıllage and heard musıc from a weddıng. From one sıde of town came tradıtıonal musıc markıng the henna ceremony for the brıde. From the other sıde came thumpıng dısco as the men celebrated ın a large and boısterous party. Today ıs the actual weddıng and we just may have an ınvıtatıon!!!
We enjoyed the ınnkeeper,s company on the roof for about an hour. Later, wıth the heat keepıng sleep at bay, the ınnkeeper ınvıted me ınto the kıtchen and offered me ıce water. I sat on the couch readıng a book by a Turkıs author called Istanbul whıle he sat ın hıs pyjamas watchıng an Amerıcan TV show wıth subtıtles.
In the mornıng, the grandfather served us breakfast and at noon we were offered fresh fruıt. We ate ıt amıd the antıques on the long wındow seat ın our room. Our washed laundry drıed ın seconds and we headed ınto town despıte the heat.
Paradıse.
The Journey from Van to Dıyurbakır and the 8th Wonder of the World...
I'm inserting a picture of Turkey to help give an idea of the areas we traveled through...
Ori returned from the ancient city of Ani with Aurel, a Hungarian tourist he had met en route to Ani. Aurel was about 60 years old, friendly and currently on his umpteenth
raod trip around Turkey. The guy was a walking encyclopedia of information about every Turkish tourist attraction and tiny village. In fact, he carried with him a small notebook containing every detail about his previous travels. How much he spent on hotels, where he got discounts, and how many km/liter his car was doing. He was bitter and complained constantly about the Turkish. He swore at the drivers in Hungarian and littered the conversation with racist remarks here and there. But he was going the same way, so we humored him and helped him fight off loneliness for a day, visiting the Pasha Palace, Mt Ararat and driving south around Van Golu to the city of Eastern city of Van.
We tried to get close to Ararat. Aurel had promised his mother a stone from the famous mountain. Checkpoints were everywhere, however, and without a permit we could not get close. We checkout out a few dirt roads, nearly got the car stuck in sand, and finally give up on our quest toward the ark. We saw the Isak Pasa Palace, an impressive structure with dungeons and elaborately decorated tombs that was built in 1685.
We were close to Iran and began seeing periodic checkpoints along the way. Aurel, dedicated to using only Shell gas, spent an hour driving up and down the highway looking for the yellow sign. I couldn't stay awake in the back seat, and thus abandoned Ori to the endless stream of complaints, profanity, factoids and incongruous stories that poured forth from our driver's mouth.
Eager for some quiet time, we told Aurel thank you and headed out on our own in Van.
We explored the city streets, tasting the sweet sticky Turkish ice cream that resembles taffy in consistency. As we toured through an alleyway looking for a venue that sold a beer or glass of wine, the lights went out across the whole city. Van had seemed like one of the most modern metropolises of our journey thus far. There were chic stores and trendy looking restaurants. But at 9 at night, with the power our, and only men in the cafes and city streets, we saw another side of this "modern" locale. Within a few minutes, every restaurant and cafe had brought out a generator and business continued on as if nothing unusual had occurred. Men drank tea and played backgammon, others watched soccer games or ate doner kebabs.
We left Van the next day and our friendly and loquacious Hungarian friend early in the morning. Heading south we followed the shoreline of the enormous Van Gulu. (Lake) This lake, expansive, beautiful, half the size of Israel - is blessed with beautiful shores green islands, and plenty of fish. And yet the Turkish population rarely swims, sails or otherwise makes use of it in any recreationally way. The one exception is the frequent ferries that carry tourists to some of the islands where visitors can see old mosques and castles.
We skipped these castles, having seen enough the previous day, and loaded our bags on our back, stuck out our thumbs and waited for a ride. Hitchhiking became our primary mode of transportation for the next week and we had nothing but great experiences and mostly immediate success.
Our first ride was from a police officer - not the only police officer who would help us out along the way. He was not from the area, but was stationed there. Next, we hopped aboard a very pimped-out Audi and tasted our first anti-Israeli comments ("Israel bad. Palestine good") from an Istanbuli. (His Ankarian friend who was driving assured us that he was harmless and made peace.)
Our next ride, with a father and his young son, brought us to a checkpoint. There, the soldiers told us to get down and then arranged for us to ride free on the inter-city bus to the next town. Within 10 minutes, we had boarded the next passing bus service (a bus from Van headed all the way across Turkey to Istanbul!) On the buses, we were served drinks, coffee, snacks, and wet clothes. Each bus had a steward who gave out endless water and took good care of the passengers on the long stretches of burnt-golden fields that laminate the Turkish East.
The bus took us to Bitlis. This is a working-class town, built spanning a river and in the shadow of steep hills. The streets cross the river, which is littered and clogged with dirt and trash. Still, there was something charming about the city and its residents. The castle was closed, but we met a French-speaking local who invited us to tea. While he and I chatted, his companions excitedly called everyone they could think of who might speak a word of English. Soon, I had several cell phones shoved toward my ear. I would say, "Hello?" and a strange, accented voice would say, "hi, how are you?" as if they had to hear for themselves that a real live American had made it to Bitlis Turkey. Still other locals snapped pictures of me with their phone with an air of admiration and pride ("tourists! all the way from America, in MY town!!!") opposed to ludeness.
The French-speaking man treated us to tea and than walked with us for awhile looking for a vegetarian optiont. After several failed attempts, we were served up giant platters of Lahmajun, which, in the end, was pizza with (yes) meatsauce. It was admittedly delicious, and there wasn't cheese. So another lamb died, but at least I wasn't totally traif. The French-speaker invited us enthusiastically to his house in the west of Turkey and we snapped pictures and exchanged addresses before heading out of town.
Here too, and during the rest of our time in the Kurdish areas, we saw no women. I kept my head covered, and Ori and I became "Adam and Rachel" the married couple from New York, New York with no kids and a cat. Most Kurds love Americans because the Kurdish people of Iraq were liberated by the war there and the fall of Saddam Hussein. We encountered a lot of nationalism, some anti-Turkish sentiments and an unending supply of hospitality.
From Bitlis, we hopped aboard one of our best rides. The man was going far along our route and was an experienced driver - a salesman who had spent the past 15 years driving across huge regions of Turkey selling wholesale goods. We communicated as best we could with him, often with the help of our treasured dictionary. He happily treated us to bottles of water, and invited us to join him in prayer at a mosque when the sun began to set. The man, who in every way appeared modern and westernized, dutifully pulled over when the call to prayer was recited. We wrapped a hippie skirt around my head and I went to the women's side while Ori and the salesman washed their hands and feet before going into the main mosque.
As I watched the women swaying in eager prayer, I couldn't help but connect them to the prayer of religious Jews. Today I learned the Hebrew expression "בני דודינו" Literally translated it means "our cousins," but it is simply a generic term for Arabs in popular Israeli discourse.
Before separating from the salesman outside of the city of Batman - yes, it's called "Batman," he warned us to be careful in the Kurdish areas and especially in the capital city, Diyurbarkir.
Our next ride picked us up as the sun had set. We were about an hour outside of Diyurbakir and anxious to arrive. The truck driver's name was Osman and we climbed in the cab beside him. When he heard we were American, he was excited to express his love for our country and our President. Most of our conversations went as follows: We named a country and he said "good!" or "bad!"
US? - good! very good! Go Bush!
Iran? - bad!
Iraq? - bad! Saddam - very bad!
Turkey? - bad!
France? - eh!
Israel? - "I PISS ON ISRAEL!"
hmmm...
and Palestine? - bad too!
We gritted our teeth and moved on to other topics, especially when he began lauding the PKK - the Kurdish separatist group behind the bombings in Istanbul.
Politics aside (very, very far aside) he was a nice man. He stopped for us beside a famous bridge that spans a tributary of the Tigris, and snapped pictures. He excitedly called his cousin in Diyurbakir - an English speaker - and handed me the phone. Both him and his cousin offered to host us for the night and were eager to help us in any other way they could. WE even talked to the man's wife and she also wanted us to join them. Still, despite his family's hospitality, we couldn't quite swallow Osman's politics, so we allowed him to drive us to the city center, and flag us a cheap cab to our hotel.
HASENKEYF Aizeh Kef!
The next morning, in 113 degree heat, we set out for Hasenkeyf. We knew little of this ancient town on the Tigris - had heard it was "definitely worth seeing" from the Israeli journalist who sat beside us on the plane, and from Aurel. 2 bus rides and a few hours brought us to this small village. Hasenkeyf was quite possibly the highlight of our trip. We spent hours exploring the village, the river banks and the rock formations before sunset was upon us and we'd barely seen the main attraction.
The ancient town has ruins of a giant Roman bridge that spans the Tigris. Local boy were jumping from its remaining pillars into the river, while dogs, goats and even local women waded in the water for relief. Men and little boys dragged nets through the river catching plentiful fish in the simply woven threads. Inside the main bridge, a family had biult their home. They had orchards full of fruit trees, a chicken coop and a vegetable garden. A satellite dish perched upon their ancient roof and water pipelines wove in through windows that had one stood guard to the entire village. A colorfully dressed woman watered the ground and smiled for our pictures. We saw kittens and turkey, goats, cows and more.
And yet.... in 2 years, all we saw in Hasenkeyf will be drowned beneath hundreds (yes, hundreds!) of feet of water. Damns are popping up all over the regions. The enormous Turkish damn project, with the Ataturk Damn as its crown jewel, is designed to bring water to the southeastern desert, to allow for farming and ultimately to feed the mass of population. Meanwhile...thousands of people are being displaced when their villages are flooded and archaeological and historical landmarks are being buried beneath the waters like another flood of Noah.
Along the river, we ate in one of the many hut-restaurants that served up fresh fish and salad. There were tables and chairs set up in the water, so that customers could bathe their feet while they ate. We choose to sit on one of the raised perches where cushions and a low table made for our own private bungalow-table over the river.
We explored the mosque and talked the shopkeepers who sold wool products, magnets, snacks and knickknacks to the mostly-Turkish tourists. With only an hour until closing time, we made it to the main archaeological site. High above the river were the intact remains of an ancient city. The ruins covered endless hilltops' each time we thought we'd reached the city limits, we would spot the next hill. There were clear store front, latrines temples and cemeteries. The rest of the tourists were long gone so we were on our to watch as the setting sun blanketed the ruins with multi-colored light and long shadows. We saw as much as we could before finally heading back to the modern-day city around 8:30.
The buses had already stopped running, so we hitched a ride quickly with two young professionals. They were traveling on business from Istanbul and Ankara with the largest oil company in Turkey- - based out of Batman. The men were amazing! Neither were from the area, but they spent a long time on the phone and driving around Batman in search of public transportation to Diyurbaker (where our hotel was.) They offered to help us find an affordable place to stay in Batman, they bought us water and they even wanted us to join them for dinner. Finally, we found a midnight bus headed our way. AS we waited for it to embark, our two new friends waited with us.
The next morning, we set out in the streets of Diyurbakir to explore the walls and the market. We quickly met a man named Ali who spoke great English and claimed to be a former UN worker who now "works for the BBC." In fact, the man had an elaborate stream of stories, that appeared to have one of two goals:
1) His whole tory was an elaborate scheme to sell carpets. He did, after all, get us into a carpet store as we sipped tea with his friend/store owner.
2) He is lonely and truly loves meeting tourists. He implored us to stay in his home and offered to tour us around the city, cook us dinner etc. We had little doubt, actually, that he would have done these things, but he was a bit sketchy and not terribly enjoyable to hang out with.
Regardless of his motives, we spent a few hours bargaining and playing backgammon with him. He even offered to play for a carpet (which we would have won!) but instead took home a free musical instrument for Ori's old roommate. Like most of the Turks we met, he was extremely disappointed that he lost to some Americans... but then again, Ali didn't know about Ori's years of sheshbesh playing here in Israel.
Our decision not to stay with him was confirmed when he gave us his clearly bogus email address. It ws his name-bbc @ hotmail.com...
As if Ori's email were to be OriMicrosoft@gmail. very plausible...
Anyway, we weathered our largest scam(?) of the trip and made the obligatory tour around the city before heading eagerly on a bus headed south and away from the harsh urban environment.
Monday, July 21, 2008
To Aydar and Beyond
We piled into a van of teenagers. Girls in front, boys in back. One girl turned toward Ori and me and said, "Shalom, Ma shlomach" in a very accurate pronunciation. AS she spoke to us her token words of Hebrew her friends giggled and told us she worked in an Internet cafe in Aydar.
The kids in the van laughed and hugged each other as the car bounced slowly down the dirt road. After 10 minutes or so, we stopped beside a cluster of homes. They told us we would be there for a half hour or more. We never quite figured out why we were stopping... but eventually everyone piled back into the cars and we went on. Everyone kept jumping in and out of the car, opening the sliding door of the van and jumping aboard the bed of the pickup truck. One of the boys - Burak - spoke English so we chatted with him. At one point, we passed a few mothers who were clearly looking for their children. A few of the girls hid under a blanket as the mothers screamed at them for undetermined offenses.
A few more kilometers down the road, everyone again jumped out of the car and gathered a few meters ahead of us. Shortly before, a large SUV had slipped off the road and into the steep cliff of trees beside the road. By an incredible act of "allah" the car had been magically caught and stopped by the combined efforts of few small trees. Like a cradle, the trees (well-bruised in return for their kindness) had caught the car and stopped its fall. No one was injured.
A truck cleared out the fallen vehicle and we were back on our way, although people seemed pretty shook up by the site of the accident. Once in Kars, we picked up our bags at our old hotel and found out that most of the hotels had no vacancy.
Our hotel patron found us a room and we walked down the hill to meet two girls who worked at our new inn. We were completely exhausted, wet, cold, extremely hungry and dirty. The new hotel, it turned out, was a wet and dark walk up a twisted path behind the village. We arrived in the middle of nowhere to a quaint new hotel. The room was small but clean and everything was built from fresh wood. BUT! There was no hot water. At this point it was 8:40 and the women kindly informed us that dinner was included, but had ended 10 minutes earlier. What a ridiculous statement - since we were the only guests. At first they offered to serve us some breakfast, but then that too got a price. We huddled in our room, too dirty to sit anywhere and too cold to go anywhere. Finally, frustrated by our remote location and inability to get warm and clean... we headed out down the path and found a new hotel. It was fantastic, and not more expensive. I showered twice.
Then, we went to a tavern of sorts to eat warm food to the sound of some very loud folk music. There was no wine, so we settled for water. We tried the typical mountain dish - a cheesy, buttery fondue that was disappointing in taste but not in calories. Suddenly, a man with a bag-pipe like instrument came out and a huge circle of dancers filled the restaurant. Everyone joined in the traditional folk dance. Children, elderly, parents and teenagers danced endlessly to the rhythmic instrument, calling out "huh!" from time to time and keeping in time far better than any Jews attempting the hora.
The dance is from the Hemsin culture, a dwindling group of Turkish citizens that lives along the western Black Sea. They wear colorful clothing and bright head scarves, but take Islam pretty lightly. Men and women danced together and unabashed merriment filled the room.
We spent the next day finding a way to clean our clothes and mostly relaxing. We went to the local hammam and melted lazily in the 45 degree (celcius) waters. We tasted some fresh roasted corn on the cob and had a yummy fish dinner in celebration of Ori - he won a photo contest at work!
Now, we are in the town of Kars, made famous from the book Snow, by Orhan Pamuk. We are about 30 miles from the Armenian border in a town rich with history and mingling cultures. There are Armenians, Turks, Kurds and a strong Russian influence. We wandered the streets sampling from one or two of the dozens of cheese and honey shops. I think there is about 10 kilos of cheese per capita here. We bought a fresh honey comb and today climbed up to the Kars Castle. It's a huge stone fortress in great condition, originally built around 1100. It was rebuilt in the 16th century. We enjoyed the views of the city and the surrounding fields.
In other news, I am so sick of the smell of kebab. In Kars, and Turkey in general, every other storefront is a kebab shop. We saw a group of sheep today and, knowing their fate, I swore off kebab for a long time. However, this didn't stop me from enjoying the sticky goat's milk ice cream that they make here!
Now...we are off to Mt. Ararat to look for remnants of the ark.
We piled into a van of teenagers. Girls in front, boys in back. One girl turned toward Ori and me and said, "Shalom, Ma shlomach" in a very accurate pronunciation. AS she spoke to us her token words of Hebrew her friends giggled and told us she worked in an Internet cafe in Aydar.
The kids in the van laughed and hugged each other as the car bounced slowly down the dirt road. After 10 minutes or so, we stopped beside a cluster of homes. They told us we would be there for a half hour or more. We never quite figured out why we were stopping... but eventually everyone piled back into the cars and we went on. Everyone kept jumping in and out of the car, opening the sliding door of the van and jumping aboard the bed of the pickup truck. One of the boys - Burak - spoke English so we chatted with him. At one point, we passed a few mothers who were clearly looking for their children. A few of the girls hid under a blanket as the mothers screamed at them for undetermined offenses.
A few more kilometers down the road, everyone again jumped out of the car and gathered a few meters ahead of us. Shortly before, a large SUV had slipped off the road and into the steep cliff of trees beside the road. By an incredible act of "allah" the car had been magically caught and stopped by the combined efforts of few small trees. Like a cradle, the trees (well-bruised in return for their kindness) had caught the car and stopped its fall. No one was injured.
A truck cleared out the fallen vehicle and we were back on our way, although people seemed pretty shook up by the site of the accident. Once in Kars, we picked up our bags at our old hotel and found out that most of the hotels had no vacancy.
Our hotel patron found us a room and we walked down the hill to meet two girls who worked at our new inn. We were completely exhausted, wet, cold, extremely hungry and dirty. The new hotel, it turned out, was a wet and dark walk up a twisted path behind the village. We arrived in the middle of nowhere to a quaint new hotel. The room was small but clean and everything was built from fresh wood. BUT! There was no hot water. At this point it was 8:40 and the women kindly informed us that dinner was included, but had ended 10 minutes earlier. What a ridiculous statement - since we were the only guests. At first they offered to serve us some breakfast, but then that too got a price. We huddled in our room, too dirty to sit anywhere and too cold to go anywhere. Finally, frustrated by our remote location and inability to get warm and clean... we headed out down the path and found a new hotel. It was fantastic, and not more expensive. I showered twice.
Then, we went to a tavern of sorts to eat warm food to the sound of some very loud folk music. There was no wine, so we settled for water. We tried the typical mountain dish - a cheesy, buttery fondue that was disappointing in taste but not in calories. Suddenly, a man with a bag-pipe like instrument came out and a huge circle of dancers filled the restaurant. Everyone joined in the traditional folk dance. Children, elderly, parents and teenagers danced endlessly to the rhythmic instrument, calling out "huh!" from time to time and keeping in time far better than any Jews attempting the hora.
The dance is from the Hemsin culture, a dwindling group of Turkish citizens that lives along the western Black Sea. They wear colorful clothing and bright head scarves, but take Islam pretty lightly. Men and women danced together and unabashed merriment filled the room.
We spent the next day finding a way to clean our clothes and mostly relaxing. We went to the local hammam and melted lazily in the 45 degree (celcius) waters. We tasted some fresh roasted corn on the cob and had a yummy fish dinner in celebration of Ori - he won a photo contest at work!
Now, we are in the town of Kars, made famous from the book Snow, by Orhan Pamuk. We are about 30 miles from the Armenian border in a town rich with history and mingling cultures. There are Armenians, Turks, Kurds and a strong Russian influence. We wandered the streets sampling from one or two of the dozens of cheese and honey shops. I think there is about 10 kilos of cheese per capita here. We bought a fresh honey comb and today climbed up to the Kars Castle. It's a huge stone fortress in great condition, originally built around 1100. It was rebuilt in the 16th century. We enjoyed the views of the city and the surrounding fields.
In other news, I am so sick of the smell of kebab. In Kars, and Turkey in general, every other storefront is a kebab shop. We saw a group of sheep today and, knowing their fate, I swore off kebab for a long time. However, this didn't stop me from enjoying the sticky goat's milk ice cream that they make here!
Now...we are off to Mt. Ararat to look for remnants of the ark.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
ADVENTURE!!!!!!!!!!!!
I could write a book just about the last 5 days of my lıfe. Truly.
Our Trek through the Kaçkar Mountaıns in Turkey was epic. The most thrıllıng adventure of my lıfe.
The story begıns on Monday mornıng ın Aydar - a large vıllage that serves as a trekkıng outpost ın the summer and a popular vacatıons and weekend picnic spot for Turks. Bags packed weıghıng ın at around 20 kilos each (a bit more for Ori and a bit less for me) we set out to catch a dolmuş (shared taxi) to a nearby vıllage a bit higher up the valley.
Suddenly I had a revelation * we decided to leave a few of our kilos behind ın Aydar and change our route ınto a loop rather than tryıng to traverse the entire range with all of our bags.
Plan B. Around lunchtime we hopped on a dolmuş headed for Avusor. We pıled our bags ın among the freshly baked bread, burlap bags of supplıes and colorfully dressed locals. Ori balanced atop the sacks of food whıle I snuggled ın besıde an elderly vıllager and trıed to stay awake. I nodded off from the bumpy lull of the potholed mountaın roads. (all dırt and all wıth steep dropoffs to the sıde) The woman behınd me took a gentle but steady hold of my head wıth her seasoned and wrınkled hands (they were larger than Ori,s I thınk) As I slept she held my head fırm and looked on wıth an affectıonate smıle. After half an hour or so I woke up to endless vıews of lush green fıelds and stark, snow covered mountaıns. The sky was an deep aqua blue and the clouds spotted ıt prettıly. We passed a few gatherıngs of wooden houses and people would hop on or off the van wıth supplıes. The locals here age quıckly much lıke the mountaın populatıons of Tıbet, Nepal, and Northern Indıa. We were surrounded by grınnıng locals chattıng wıth each other laughıng and smılıng crooked smıles. Theır faces were carved wıth bautıful laugh lınes - crınkles on foreheads and eyes that showed a zest for lıfe and belıed perhaps the dıffıculty of farmıng these mountaın fıelds and spendıng a lıfe split between summer grazıng fıelds and warmer, lower wınter abodes.
After about an hour we arrıved ın a small vıllage of houses and a single local bodega of sorts where erverythıng cost 1 lira. Bread. 1 lira. 1 tomato. 1 lira etc...
(a lira is about 90 cents)
The bumpy van rıde however set us back a whole lot more but the next few days were pretty cheap!
As we headed out we began to notice the gathering swirl of clouds and fog that was heading quickly up the valley in our direction.
But we were unphased; we had more than enough food to get us to the vıllage on the other sıde of the mountaın pass. We had a tent, sleepıng bags, cookıng stove etc. We had a few assorted maps and a typed up story - an account of the trek wrıtten by two Israelıs who has been to the regıon ın 2005. The directions from thıs spot were to ask the locals to point us toward the pass.
We came across a group of Israelis on a jeep tour with an Israel guide who spoke Turkish. She asked some of her local guıdes to point us the way. They sent us southeast up a rıdgelıne and over toward the 3400 meter peek ahead of us. (about 11,000 feet)
We started up a steep green slope to the south side of a valley where a moutain stream gathered strength and snowmelt as ıt spılled down toward Avusor and eventually down to Aydar. Soon we met a local sheppard walkıng easily in thin sneakers across the rocky terraın. Accompanying him was a beautiful hunting dog who had an injured knee. The man tried hard to communicate to us that we were headed the wrong way. Tracking us for a few hours he pointed eagerly to the north sıde of the valley. Confident in the advice of the Israeli guide and our typed directions, we smiled back at his toothless grin and continued southwest.
The fog etched closer and at last we spotted a cairn (a small pile of rocks that marks trails) high above us on a steep, treeless rockcovered slope atleast 1000 meters above us.
Determined to make it farther up the pass to a good campıng spot that we spotted from afar, we pushed on despite the fog that surrounded us. The meadow quickly became a sea of rock scree and the trees disappeared behind us. We crawled and danced around patched of deep snow and steep cliffs managed to make it to a green patch we had spotted several hours before.
And then we heard thunder.
And it started to rain.
In seconds we set up our tent, grateful we had practiced a few days earlier on our porch. The wind sang around the tent, the rain jumped off the fabric and the flashes of lightening lit up our foggy abode. But inside we were warm-ish and dry.
During a pause in the rain we cooked up a delicious pasta meal and settled in for an evening of Hebrew crossword puzzles.
Chilly, but not miserable, we slept well until a few hours before dawn when the storm circled back towards us and the lightning flashed wıth determination only seconds before its partner boomed around us. Terrified I woke up Ori (no easy feat)
and crouched on my sleeping pad in lightning position with only my toes and butt touching the pad. Ori suggested we distract ourselves wıth mroe crosswords so we huddled close and laughed at the ridiculousness while trying to think of the names of various cities along the Israeli coast that end ın the hebrew letter hey.
Dawn came and the storm subsided. Hopefully, we peaked outside hoping for a clear view toward the summit and friendly skies. And this we received!
We packed our bags and warmed a cup of tea from the stream alongside us. And then we saw the fog rolling in once more.
For 40 hours. Yes. 40 hours. This is not a Rachel exaggeration. Thıs is 40 hours. Anyway.... for 40 hours we stayed in that tent, a several hundred meters above the nearest village wıth an occasional clearing in the fog that allowed us to view the green fields below us and the summit pass above. We played rummy. We did crosswords. We snapped goofy photographs. We took a walk up to help us acclimate to the elevation but were cut short by more thunder. And we never got bored. Really. (Although we dıd sleep a whole lot.) And on the mornıng of the second day we headed up under clear blue skies.
The climb was incredibly steep. Really steep and rocky and hard. But we were determined to make it to the other side of the range where the weather is known to be better and the way was sure to be clear. Like immigrants eyeıng the statue of lıberty (ok. not quite) we climbed eagerly toward the pass, where we tempted ourselves with the promise of breakfast. We scrambled up small rocks the size of soccer and baseballs and climbed wıth our hands at the steepest spots. We went one at a time, careful not to send rocks tumbling toward one another. The last hundred meters was a tortously steep field of boulders. But we were motivated. And as a swirl of clouds gathered from the east we reached the rock cairn we had been vyıng for durıng the last 48 hours.
Except that it wasn't a rock caırn. It was sımply an oddly-shaped rock. And no trail headed down the other sıde. Below was only snowfield and steep tumbling meadows of rock. We ate our cheese despite the sullied victory.
I huddled behind a rock and shot the clouds bitter stares as Ori set off to look for the real pass - the one marked and mentioned in the maps and guidebooks that had so abandoned us.
He came back a bit later, out of breath but smiling. We traversed the talus fields and stood above a more northern pass before beginnıng our way tentatively down the snowfields below us. At first I was terrified of falling through the snow but it was fluffly and thick so we enjoyed the opportunity to play. Gliding and sliding along the snowy slopes sure beat the climb of the morning! Still, our directions seemed to make no sense with the scenery before us.
Compass ın hand we headed east toward a lake and then a village marked on our maps. With cries of joy we spotted the crystal blue mountaın lagoon. Sure ıt was much farther north than we were, but for the first tıme ın several days we knew exactly where we were and where we were supposed to be. The toughest part of the day followed as we scrambled down a steep mountain range fighting fatigue and hunger wıth plans to eat lunch beside the lake. I struggled and was a bit scared of the steep descent but eventually we found ourselves ın a luscıous green field of wild flowers.
We cooked up a hot meal besıde the perfectly clear lake. Ori got bodily brain freeze when he dove in the glacial waters as I photographed the event and stirred the soup feeling no envy at all.
We heard voices far above us (from the actual pass) and headed down wıth the village as a destination.
For over an hour the going was perfect. The trail was clearly marked and the terraın a blanket of wildflowers and soft grass with rivers spilling mountain snow ın webs across the meadows. As afternoon became evening we eyed a spot on the far sıde of the main rıver for a campsite.
But the green meadows suddenly became rocky cliffs and the rıver twısted ever further below us. Convinced we had missed a point of crossing we searched desperately up and down the bank of the river for a safe place to cross. Legs of jello and headache fueled by hunger and sunny fınally forced us to backtrack about an hour to a small fıeld beside the ruins of a settlement. As I cooked a huge pot of pasta Ori searched ever farther up toward the pass for a safe crossing point. He returned wıth no good news and we went quıckly to sleep.
13 hours later we were back on the traıl and joıned by a group of 4 Israeli hikers who had easily caught up to us. They felt safe ın crossıng the river at a point where ıt was stıll covered ın snow. Ori and I were very skeptıcal about whether the brıdge of meltıng whıte stuff could hold us but after watchıng them cross easıly several tımes we ran wıth fıngers crossed to the other side.
The rest of the morning was simply beautiful. Wıth only granola bars and an apple for breakfast we walked happily down the valley sharing the path wıth the other 4 hıkers.
We came across an abandoned cluster of wooden homes and swatted the enormous flies that found Eden ın the flurry of wıldflowers. Surrounded by clovers and buttercups, queen annes lace and other flowers of new england I though back to my yard ın Newton.Here though the flowers were enormous and abundant and wıth them came the excepted ınnundatıon of ınsects, spıders, flies and butterflies.
Hours later we still had not come across an inhabıted village and our diminishing food supply was beginnıng to concern us. Fınally we spotted a road and a few cars and people ahead of us. Thinking we had found a village, we were in fact sharing the road with a group of bee keepers... One man remarkably spoke English and offerred us a ride to a nearby town. We toured the beehike a bit and then hopped in the car for a tramp to the town of Yaylalar.
Ahmet turned out to be the dırector of a large beekeepıng consortium. He was well-travelled (had even been to Tel Aviv) and is leading an upcoming beekeeping tour of Turkey. The ride was bumpy. The road twisted high along a river bank and we were pretty disconcerted by the heıght and the narrow road way. At one point we stopped for a drink and the driver nearly drove off leaving Ori behind.
By about 2 o,clock we were in Yaylalar. It was a beautıful town wıth a guest house and market. The large cluster of homes housed sheppards and farmers. As most of the man lazed the day away sipping tea or perched on their rooftops we watched as dozens of women hauled hay on their backs from the surrounding fields back toward the village.
We resupplied our "kitchen" and headed out for the 3 km walk to the town of Olgunlar. We stopped under a misting rain to emjoy a lunch of cheese, bread, olives and wine. It was a perfectly bucolic dining ambience and we laughed and enjoyed ourselves.
About an hour later we arrived in Olgunlar and checked ourselves into the cheapest hostel in town - the only one that had room. The rooms were nice enough, the bathrooms shared, and the clientele nearly all Israeli. The owner was a sweet old man who helped us find pillows and blankets that did not smell too strongly of goat.
We enjoyed a dinner with some Israelis cooked up in the little hostel kitchen.
In the morning we headed out again around 8am. The day started out beautifully. We walked only up-hill through beautiful meadows and along a river. To our left (south) we could see the highest range of the Kackars. We winded farther up beside the stream always heading west toward a lower pass back to the town of Aydar. We planned to spend two days hiking back to Aydar. On the far side of the pass was a lake where we hoped to have lunch and relax.
Around 1:30 we saw the pass and stopped to recharge with GORP (trail mix). We encountered an Israeli family hiking the trail from the other side. They were in good spirits but informed us that we were still about an hour from the actual pass. Their youngest, a boy of about 10, told us that the other side was very different -"with rocks and snow."
We pushed onward, still a bit fatigued from the previous few days of trekking. Suddenly, the flowers and lush green grass faded. Around was only rocks, stones and snow. WE pushed onward, disappointed by the sharp change in weather and scenery. It drizzled and misted continually the rest of the way and the clouds and fog thickened around us. The trail was marked, however, and we could follow the footsteps of previous hikers.
The end was brutal. We pushed ourselves up deep snow fields, hands cold and feet slipping downwards as we tried to make progress toward the pass above. WE passed other travelers and finally made it to the other side. (where it was still raining and foggy)
At this point, annoyed by the weather and lacking any lunch spots, we decided to push on toward Aydar in one day. We recharged with cookies and set out at a much-amped-up pace. Eventually, we spotted the lagoon, a blurry void of blue in the distance. From here, the trail became less clear, and the cairns more hidden. Again, we found ourselves on an adventure and not a hike as we separated 50 meters or so to seek out the best trail. We still had typed up directions, but they left quite a bit up to interpretation.
As the rain got a bit harder, Ori took over navigating with incredible expertise. I shouted out the coordinates of my compass as he looked for the best way down the steep river banks. OCcasionally we would follow a vague trail, and after an hour and a half we found the "real" trail. Much of it had turned into a stream, but we were happy to follow it as it twisted sharply downhill.
After several hours of following Ori as he skipped and jumped from rock to rock along our watery path, we finally spotted a bridge. Jubilant, we hugged and celebrated and finally crossed toward a nearby village. We hiked up to a road and hoped for a car before night rolled in. At this point, the road we were on would take us directly to Aydar, but it was still 8 km below us.
Shortly, we spotted a van and Ori sprinted to it with energy harnessed from the gods. It was a pickup truck full of about 6 or 7 poeple. We recognized the driver as the owner of the Internet Cafe in Aydar. They shook their heads and told us they had no room.
Just after them, we spotted a group of teenagers walking towards Aydar. They convinced the pickup truck to take our bags to town. With a trust that I have never felt before while travelling, we happily put our bags into the truck and waited for the next van to come.
A few minutes later, we began our next adventure...
All told, in that one day we hiked up over 1000 meters and down over 2000. We had come many kilometers to this new climate zone on the west side of the range.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Checkıng ın from the land of amazıngly nıce people....
We arrıved ın Turkey yesterday. Had four hours ın Istanbul so we hopped on the metro to a nearby part of the town. Changed money wandered the streets and ate ın a restaurant where they kept brıngıng us food untıl we had to motıon for them to stop. We are workıng on the basıc words but even the word for Thank You ıs 6 syllables.
AUTHORS NOTE there are no commas on thıs keyboard that I can fınd and I cant seem to change the language. I am also havıng a bıt of trouble wıth lowercase I.
On our flıght to Trabzon ın the northeast of Turkey we were lucky enough to sıt next to an Israelı journalıst who ıs leadıng a tourgroup ın the regıon. He gave us lots of ıdeas and was generally a fascınatıng man. He wrıtes a lot for Ha,aretz arguable the best Israelı newspaper. He ıs also currently workıng on a documentary of Iraq. Tour guıdıng ın thıs regıon ıs sort of a hobby of hıs.
From the aırport we skıpped the overprıced taxıs and hopped on a shared cab to the center of town. Trabzon ıs buılt ınto the sıde of a sharp hıll. The town spılls out onto ıts port of the Black Sea. The sea there begıns abruptly besıde the road wıthout sandy beaches or a shorelıne to relax upon.
The shared taxı dropped us off on the sıde of a major road and we clımbed down narrow staırs ınto the heart of town. The central square ıs a park fılled wıth people sıppıng tea at small round tables. In the center ıs a huge statue of Ataturk. We checked out a few hotels recommended by Lonely Planet and were pretty shocked by the hıgh prıces and really crappy rooms. One hotel smelled soooo bad.... Anyway.
Thanks to a couchsurfer we found a perfectly acceptable place across from the Town Hall. The only real shortcomıng was the lack of toılet paper. Luckııly wed brought our own.
So far we havent met anyone who speaks Englısh. Gettıng by has been challengıng but fun because the people are amazıngly frıendly. They go out of theır way to tell you how to get places. In the banks when we wanted to change money clerks would leave theır post to come out on the street and poınt us ın the rıght dırectıon.
Thıs mornıng we woke up pretty early after our fırst decent sleep ın weeks. We had a sımple breakfast on the roof of the hotel stored our bıg backpacks and headed out to the Sumela Monastary. The guıded tours were all chargıng 20 dollars per person whıch seemed a bıt outrageous so we set out on an attempt to hıtchhıke to the monastary.
Wıth no common language (why dont I know german!!!?) ıt was hard to make people understand that we wanted to fınd the road to the monastary and not the tour busses that left from the center. EVentually after many faıled attempts (and a stop ın a pastry shop) we decıded to ask people the way to another more major cıty. Hıtchhıkıng was amazıngly sımple. The thırd or fıfth car stopped took us part way. One shared taxı we hopped on managed to actually flag down a bus on our behalf. The bus took us about two thırds of the way and we soon found ourselves ın the cozy Ford of a Turkısh famıly that was headıng exactly our way.
In the comfort of theır vehıcle we wound our way up the mountaınsıde over waterfalls and around haırpın turns wıth only two stall outs. The monastary ıs spectacular. 1500 years old covered ın frescoes. There are endless staırs and many rooms all buılt ınto the sıde of a clıff hundreds of meters above a roarıng rıver. We pıcnıcked ın the mıst besıde the rıver and soon found ourselves a rıde all the way back to Trabzon.
We trıed our second kebab and loaded up on the amazıng fruıt of the regıon. Then headed on a 3 hour bus rıde to Aydar where we wıll be for two days.
We arrıved ın Turkey yesterday. Had four hours ın Istanbul so we hopped on the metro to a nearby part of the town. Changed money wandered the streets and ate ın a restaurant where they kept brıngıng us food untıl we had to motıon for them to stop. We are workıng on the basıc words but even the word for Thank You ıs 6 syllables.
AUTHORS NOTE there are no commas on thıs keyboard that I can fınd and I cant seem to change the language. I am also havıng a bıt of trouble wıth lowercase I.
On our flıght to Trabzon ın the northeast of Turkey we were lucky enough to sıt next to an Israelı journalıst who ıs leadıng a tourgroup ın the regıon. He gave us lots of ıdeas and was generally a fascınatıng man. He wrıtes a lot for Ha,aretz arguable the best Israelı newspaper. He ıs also currently workıng on a documentary of Iraq. Tour guıdıng ın thıs regıon ıs sort of a hobby of hıs.
From the aırport we skıpped the overprıced taxıs and hopped on a shared cab to the center of town. Trabzon ıs buılt ınto the sıde of a sharp hıll. The town spılls out onto ıts port of the Black Sea. The sea there begıns abruptly besıde the road wıthout sandy beaches or a shorelıne to relax upon.
The shared taxı dropped us off on the sıde of a major road and we clımbed down narrow staırs ınto the heart of town. The central square ıs a park fılled wıth people sıppıng tea at small round tables. In the center ıs a huge statue of Ataturk. We checked out a few hotels recommended by Lonely Planet and were pretty shocked by the hıgh prıces and really crappy rooms. One hotel smelled soooo bad.... Anyway.
Thanks to a couchsurfer we found a perfectly acceptable place across from the Town Hall. The only real shortcomıng was the lack of toılet paper. Luckııly wed brought our own.
So far we havent met anyone who speaks Englısh. Gettıng by has been challengıng but fun because the people are amazıngly frıendly. They go out of theır way to tell you how to get places. In the banks when we wanted to change money clerks would leave theır post to come out on the street and poınt us ın the rıght dırectıon.
Thıs mornıng we woke up pretty early after our fırst decent sleep ın weeks. We had a sımple breakfast on the roof of the hotel stored our bıg backpacks and headed out to the Sumela Monastary. The guıded tours were all chargıng 20 dollars per person whıch seemed a bıt outrageous so we set out on an attempt to hıtchhıke to the monastary.
Wıth no common language (why dont I know german!!!?) ıt was hard to make people understand that we wanted to fınd the road to the monastary and not the tour busses that left from the center. EVentually after many faıled attempts (and a stop ın a pastry shop) we decıded to ask people the way to another more major cıty. Hıtchhıkıng was amazıngly sımple. The thırd or fıfth car stopped took us part way. One shared taxı we hopped on managed to actually flag down a bus on our behalf. The bus took us about two thırds of the way and we soon found ourselves ın the cozy Ford of a Turkısh famıly that was headıng exactly our way.
In the comfort of theır vehıcle we wound our way up the mountaınsıde over waterfalls and around haırpın turns wıth only two stall outs. The monastary ıs spectacular. 1500 years old covered ın frescoes. There are endless staırs and many rooms all buılt ınto the sıde of a clıff hundreds of meters above a roarıng rıver. We pıcnıcked ın the mıst besıde the rıver and soon found ourselves a rıde all the way back to Trabzon.
We trıed our second kebab and loaded up on the amazıng fruıt of the regıon. Then headed on a 3 hour bus rıde to Aydar where we wıll be for two days.
Monday, June 30, 2008
This past Friday, I had lunch at a naval base on the coast of Israel. The base isn't open to the public, so the Mediterranean there is as pristine, as clear, as blue and turquoise and aquamarine as the Tel Aviv waters once were.
I swam out into the water, the sandy bottom just beyond my toes for a long way out. Even in deeper water, the bottom appeared mere inches away. A heard a swoop, and saw a seagull fly off, having passed mere inches above my head. He came back once more, with a friend, encouraging me to join my own species on shore before I got pecked! The other downside was the onset of the jellyfish season. We saw a few big ones hovering menacingly just beneath the surface. The smaller ones swam out of sight, leaving tiny stings on my legs and stomach.
It was an extremely hot day, so some of the guys put up a shelter on the beach. I stayed as much as possible out of the sun by the picnic tables nearby. There were about 15 families there and lots of young children to play with. It was sheer joy to watch the fathers caring tenderly for their children, taking them into the water, helping them navigate the buffet, showering them, and even dealing with some less pleasant crisis related to, em, certain human necessities.
There was an obscene amount of food, and the mass consumption of rare meat was the one aspect of the day that fit neatly into my preconceptions. After one huge gorging of steaks and kebabs and sausages (no forks necessary!), we all went for a swim. Stuffed, I was shocked when the guys lit up the fire again an hour later and started round two. Ori came over to me, dripping steak in hand, red juice trickling down his chin, and offered me a bite... (Uncle Chris, I think you would have been in heaven!) There was dessert, too - Ori's mom had hand made ice cream and brownies and chocolate mousse. It was, simply - a food orge.
The meal, however fabulous, was hardly the highlight of the day. After everyone cleared out, we headed out to explore the ancient ruins that remain securely protected from public grasp by the elaborate security forces of the base. Adorned with headlamps, sneakers, long pants and some water, we went into the depths of the crusader fortress. The fortress, erected in 1218 by the Knights Templer, truly defies description. It is in incredibly good condition. There is an elaborate system of underground, cavernous rooms. There is a long hall, somewhat reminiscent (and I apologize for what I am about to say) of the dining hall in Harry Potter. The complex of large gray stones stretches out into the sea, with systems of arches, towers and walls that protected the city that once stood along the shore.
We walked out towards the sea, into the dining chambers where the water crashed up against the outer walls. Light poured in from the long, arched windows at the end of the rooms. From there, we walked into rooms more hidden underground. The floor of the fortress was sandy (and flea-covered, we found out later!) We stuck close together to see in the dim beam of our headlamps. We heard the distinct squealing of bats and stayed far from one of the rooms where the din of their soanr navigation was deafening. We choose an alternate passageway and tunneled on until the site of the disease-carrying fleas beneath us was too terrifying for us to want to linger any longer.
We found a shelf of rock and coral barely covered by the water and sat watching the sunset amidst barnacles, crabs and a giant jellyfish.The water splashed against us and the sun shed changing hues of orange against the stone arches and walls that have stood guard to so many sunsets...
Very few people have had the incredible privilege and adventure of exploring this place. Lacking the tourist trap feeling of an archaeological dig, I couldn't help feeling that such sites might be better left untouched. There were no glass cases filled with artifacts, no hole covered in glass to show the layers of ancient construction over thousands of years. Perhaps the knowledge gained from such archaeological projects is fascinating and important. Still, I've always felt a bit tentative about museums and they're flagrant exploitation of the simple day-to-day life of ancient cultures...
For photos:
http://www.sitesandphotos.com/catalog/actions-show/id-389281.html
I swam out into the water, the sandy bottom just beyond my toes for a long way out. Even in deeper water, the bottom appeared mere inches away. A heard a swoop, and saw a seagull fly off, having passed mere inches above my head. He came back once more, with a friend, encouraging me to join my own species on shore before I got pecked! The other downside was the onset of the jellyfish season. We saw a few big ones hovering menacingly just beneath the surface. The smaller ones swam out of sight, leaving tiny stings on my legs and stomach.
It was an extremely hot day, so some of the guys put up a shelter on the beach. I stayed as much as possible out of the sun by the picnic tables nearby. There were about 15 families there and lots of young children to play with. It was sheer joy to watch the fathers caring tenderly for their children, taking them into the water, helping them navigate the buffet, showering them, and even dealing with some less pleasant crisis related to, em, certain human necessities.
There was an obscene amount of food, and the mass consumption of rare meat was the one aspect of the day that fit neatly into my preconceptions. After one huge gorging of steaks and kebabs and sausages (no forks necessary!), we all went for a swim. Stuffed, I was shocked when the guys lit up the fire again an hour later and started round two. Ori came over to me, dripping steak in hand, red juice trickling down his chin, and offered me a bite... (Uncle Chris, I think you would have been in heaven!) There was dessert, too - Ori's mom had hand made ice cream and brownies and chocolate mousse. It was, simply - a food orge.
The meal, however fabulous, was hardly the highlight of the day. After everyone cleared out, we headed out to explore the ancient ruins that remain securely protected from public grasp by the elaborate security forces of the base. Adorned with headlamps, sneakers, long pants and some water, we went into the depths of the crusader fortress. The fortress, erected in 1218 by the Knights Templer, truly defies description. It is in incredibly good condition. There is an elaborate system of underground, cavernous rooms. There is a long hall, somewhat reminiscent (and I apologize for what I am about to say) of the dining hall in Harry Potter. The complex of large gray stones stretches out into the sea, with systems of arches, towers and walls that protected the city that once stood along the shore.
We walked out towards the sea, into the dining chambers where the water crashed up against the outer walls. Light poured in from the long, arched windows at the end of the rooms. From there, we walked into rooms more hidden underground. The floor of the fortress was sandy (and flea-covered, we found out later!) We stuck close together to see in the dim beam of our headlamps. We heard the distinct squealing of bats and stayed far from one of the rooms where the din of their soanr navigation was deafening. We choose an alternate passageway and tunneled on until the site of the disease-carrying fleas beneath us was too terrifying for us to want to linger any longer.
We found a shelf of rock and coral barely covered by the water and sat watching the sunset amidst barnacles, crabs and a giant jellyfish.The water splashed against us and the sun shed changing hues of orange against the stone arches and walls that have stood guard to so many sunsets...
Very few people have had the incredible privilege and adventure of exploring this place. Lacking the tourist trap feeling of an archaeological dig, I couldn't help feeling that such sites might be better left untouched. There were no glass cases filled with artifacts, no hole covered in glass to show the layers of ancient construction over thousands of years. Perhaps the knowledge gained from such archaeological projects is fascinating and important. Still, I've always felt a bit tentative about museums and they're flagrant exploitation of the simple day-to-day life of ancient cultures...
For photos:
http://www.sitesandphotos.com/catalog/actions-show/id-389281.html
Monday, June 16, 2008
Last night, in spite of being exhausted from another very short night on Saturday and a trip to Jerusalem for Hebrew classes, Ori and I went out to a concert. We walked the several kilometers to "Barbie" - venue near Yafo (the southern part of Tel Aviv). The draw was a musician named Idan Haviv, a friend of Ori's.
As we walked through the seedier neighborhoods of Tel Aviv, i didn't know what to expect from the evening, nor was I particularly mollified when we walked into the smoky club.
However!
In contrast to the dingy surroundings, the unassuming man on center stage was singing with a voice, a passion, a rare talent and a tenderness that were completely captivating. I have been to more than a few concerts - but this one was special, unforgettable even. With a backup entourage of four musicians and plus a female vocalist, plus lights, and smoke - Idan was still able to snag and maintain everyone's attention. The other musicians - also talented - faded into the background as Idan sang his own creations. Tender, smart songs that ranged from romantic, to introspective to lively and fun.
Ori and I agree - he will be a star. And when we told him so after the show, he humbly thanked us and told that he does not yet have a CD. I wished him good luck, and then assured him he wouldn't need it...
Bedouin Field Trip
Today, we went with our colloquium class to the south of Israel. We spent the day learning about the Bedouin tribes of the Negev Desert. In spite of the logistical nightmares that ensued - unordered buses, lack of directions etc..., we had an incredible experience.
Our group had seven students and we were accompanied by Erez, a young security guard who was very nice, but slept during the long drives in the van. *As we all did, I should add!* Our first stop was at the Bedouin Museum, named (inexplicably) for a forger Israeli pilot named Joe Alon.
The Bedouins are named after the Arabic word for "desert." The museum depicts their life as it was until about 50 years ago - nomadic, tribal based, tent-dwelling. The Bedouins survived off their herds of goats, and some camels - using their bounty for food, clothing and shelter. Today, as I have seen on some of my hikes, many Bedouins still live in the traditional way. Saudi Arabia is mostly Bedouin as is the Sinai Desert. Tribes wander throughout Jordan and make up a large percentage of the population in southern and northern Israel.
In the Negev Desert, with modernization and political agendas squeezing the nomads from all sides, they, too, have begun to settle in permanent communities.
We stopped next in the huge Bedouin city of Rahat. There, we went to the community center, dedicated to encouraging and helping young Bedouins to attend college.
Throughout the day, the people we met expressed the same themes over and over again. On a positive note, the Bedouin are reputed for their hospitality - tea, and copious food (pita, desserts, fruit) was served to us, as it would be to any guest. Even in the midst of the desert, a wandering stranger would receive 3 days of hospitality- no questions asked. We stopped at a roadside convenience store for drinks, and the clerk there insisted on giving our whole group free drinks. Most of us paid anyway, suggesting they give the money to charity instead. The Bedouins of southern Israel have a surprisingly high level of school attendance. They also volunteer for the Israeli army at high rates.
Still, problems are rampant - in Rahat, the major Bedouin 'metropolis' unemployment is 54%. It is worse in other cities and villages.
There are drug problems from the goods smuggled into Israel from across the Sinai in Egypt. Violence is increasing in the major cities and many Bedouins live in unrecognized communities. These residents have no access to facilities for water, electricity or decent schooling. They do have citizenship, however, and free health care.
Polygamy (although illegal in Israel) is still widely practiced and culturally accepted among the Bedouin. Having several wives means that many Bedouin nuclear families can have as many as 60 or more members!
As we drove through Rahat, we also were exposed to the layers of social division and tribal differences within the Bedouin culture. The black Bedouins - orinngally from Sudan and Egypt - are the lowest class. They live in tin shanties sitting on dusty clearings. The children were barefoot, the yard of homes surrounded by barbed wire. Up on a hill, a few meters above the poor neighborhoods, were large villas. In those homes, we were told, lived smaller families of wealthy Bedouins - the lawyers, and other professional of Rahat whose homes literally overlooked the slums of the the city from above a stark, daunting fence. Our guide informed us (after apologizing if he seemed racist) that the black Bedouins tend to be lazy and don;t work, thus explaining their higher poverty rates.
I couldn't help but think back to Ladakh, in India. There, too, the encroaching globalization and modernization had changed the way of life for small villagers. While the modern era has brought cell phones and satellite dishes to remote groups of people it has also destroyed the ability of these groups to live self-sustainably. Their former way of life as nomads isn't possible in modern Israel, and thus they are forming more permanent settlements and facing new problems of modernity - homelessness, drug use, unemployment and increasing domestic violence. Of course the "old way of life" had its problems too, I am sure, and the museum made it clear that the Bedouin life had always been challenging and very divided by gender and tribe.
Our last stop was at the 'unrecognized town' where the manager of the community center lives. We drove around for another 45 minutes or so looking for the place, and finally pulled up a dusty road to the community gathering room. Our bus pulled up beside an outhouse and we were directed into a room lined with cushions and mattresses. We waited about 10 minutes for children to bring us platters piled high with fresh fruit and pastries. Only after we ate and drank did the presentation begin.
We were introduced to the village leader - a man who had served 28 years in the Israeli army and is the holds the highest rank ever achieved by a Bedouin. He told us about the problems of the village which has 11,000 residents. For years, he has been trying to get the Israeli government to recognize the town. They don't want to put in the financial commitment of suppling the settlement with water, electricity or schools. The residents have offered to give up 2/3 of their 15,000 dinams of land in exchange for recognition, but the government still declines.
The government wants them to relocate to already established towns, such as Rahat. The leader pointed out, however, that there are several reasons why the local community does not want to move. They are a different tribe than the reisdents in the cities, and the relationships between different Bedouin groups are not always good. Furthermore, they have been in this settlement for over a generation and do not wnat to leave behind their home or their more rural lifestyles. Finally, they have much less crime and drug problems than a city such as Rahat and they do not want to raise their families among the rpoblems of the urban areas.
In spite of their arguments in favor of obtaining status and their assurance that they will pay taxes, become educated, join the military and generally add to Israeli society, the government requried that they prove that there are at least 800 families
in the town. They lack this number, and are also aware that for Jewish settlements, only a few dozen families or less are necessary in order to obtain government recognition.
All in all, the day was fascinating. There is a clear dearth of nonprofit organizations working in this community and a great deal of need. The problems the Bedouins face are typical of a minority group that is being affected by modernization, overpopulation, under-education and general neglect. Of course the problems are complicated, but I think by visiting the community and learning about it, all Israelis and tourists in Israel can help get a more realistic view of the variety of existence in this country.
PICTURES:
1. Rahat - contrasting neighborhoods
2. Rahat - child in front of her home
3. Unrecognized Village
As we walked through the seedier neighborhoods of Tel Aviv, i didn't know what to expect from the evening, nor was I particularly mollified when we walked into the smoky club.
However!
In contrast to the dingy surroundings, the unassuming man on center stage was singing with a voice, a passion, a rare talent and a tenderness that were completely captivating. I have been to more than a few concerts - but this one was special, unforgettable even. With a backup entourage of four musicians and plus a female vocalist, plus lights, and smoke - Idan was still able to snag and maintain everyone's attention. The other musicians - also talented - faded into the background as Idan sang his own creations. Tender, smart songs that ranged from romantic, to introspective to lively and fun.
Ori and I agree - he will be a star. And when we told him so after the show, he humbly thanked us and told that he does not yet have a CD. I wished him good luck, and then assured him he wouldn't need it...
Bedouin Field Trip
Today, we went with our colloquium class to the south of Israel. We spent the day learning about the Bedouin tribes of the Negev Desert. In spite of the logistical nightmares that ensued - unordered buses, lack of directions etc..., we had an incredible experience.
Our group had seven students and we were accompanied by Erez, a young security guard who was very nice, but slept during the long drives in the van. *As we all did, I should add!* Our first stop was at the Bedouin Museum, named (inexplicably) for a forger Israeli pilot named Joe Alon.
The Bedouins are named after the Arabic word for "desert." The museum depicts their life as it was until about 50 years ago - nomadic, tribal based, tent-dwelling. The Bedouins survived off their herds of goats, and some camels - using their bounty for food, clothing and shelter. Today, as I have seen on some of my hikes, many Bedouins still live in the traditional way. Saudi Arabia is mostly Bedouin as is the Sinai Desert. Tribes wander throughout Jordan and make up a large percentage of the population in southern and northern Israel.
In the Negev Desert, with modernization and political agendas squeezing the nomads from all sides, they, too, have begun to settle in permanent communities.
We stopped next in the huge Bedouin city of Rahat. There, we went to the community center, dedicated to encouraging and helping young Bedouins to attend college.
Throughout the day, the people we met expressed the same themes over and over again. On a positive note, the Bedouin are reputed for their hospitality - tea, and copious food (pita, desserts, fruit) was served to us, as it would be to any guest. Even in the midst of the desert, a wandering stranger would receive 3 days of hospitality- no questions asked. We stopped at a roadside convenience store for drinks, and the clerk there insisted on giving our whole group free drinks. Most of us paid anyway, suggesting they give the money to charity instead. The Bedouins of southern Israel have a surprisingly high level of school attendance. They also volunteer for the Israeli army at high rates.
Still, problems are rampant - in Rahat, the major Bedouin 'metropolis' unemployment is 54%. It is worse in other cities and villages.
There are drug problems from the goods smuggled into Israel from across the Sinai in Egypt. Violence is increasing in the major cities and many Bedouins live in unrecognized communities. These residents have no access to facilities for water, electricity or decent schooling. They do have citizenship, however, and free health care.
Polygamy (although illegal in Israel) is still widely practiced and culturally accepted among the Bedouin. Having several wives means that many Bedouin nuclear families can have as many as 60 or more members!
As we drove through Rahat, we also were exposed to the layers of social division and tribal differences within the Bedouin culture. The black Bedouins - orinngally from Sudan and Egypt - are the lowest class. They live in tin shanties sitting on dusty clearings. The children were barefoot, the yard of homes surrounded by barbed wire. Up on a hill, a few meters above the poor neighborhoods, were large villas. In those homes, we were told, lived smaller families of wealthy Bedouins - the lawyers, and other professional of Rahat whose homes literally overlooked the slums of the the city from above a stark, daunting fence. Our guide informed us (after apologizing if he seemed racist) that the black Bedouins tend to be lazy and don;t work, thus explaining their higher poverty rates.
I couldn't help but think back to Ladakh, in India. There, too, the encroaching globalization and modernization had changed the way of life for small villagers. While the modern era has brought cell phones and satellite dishes to remote groups of people it has also destroyed the ability of these groups to live self-sustainably. Their former way of life as nomads isn't possible in modern Israel, and thus they are forming more permanent settlements and facing new problems of modernity - homelessness, drug use, unemployment and increasing domestic violence. Of course the "old way of life" had its problems too, I am sure, and the museum made it clear that the Bedouin life had always been challenging and very divided by gender and tribe.
Our last stop was at the 'unrecognized town' where the manager of the community center lives. We drove around for another 45 minutes or so looking for the place, and finally pulled up a dusty road to the community gathering room. Our bus pulled up beside an outhouse and we were directed into a room lined with cushions and mattresses. We waited about 10 minutes for children to bring us platters piled high with fresh fruit and pastries. Only after we ate and drank did the presentation begin.
We were introduced to the village leader - a man who had served 28 years in the Israeli army and is the holds the highest rank ever achieved by a Bedouin. He told us about the problems of the village which has 11,000 residents. For years, he has been trying to get the Israeli government to recognize the town. They don't want to put in the financial commitment of suppling the settlement with water, electricity or schools. The residents have offered to give up 2/3 of their 15,000 dinams of land in exchange for recognition, but the government still declines.
The government wants them to relocate to already established towns, such as Rahat. The leader pointed out, however, that there are several reasons why the local community does not want to move. They are a different tribe than the reisdents in the cities, and the relationships between different Bedouin groups are not always good. Furthermore, they have been in this settlement for over a generation and do not wnat to leave behind their home or their more rural lifestyles. Finally, they have much less crime and drug problems than a city such as Rahat and they do not want to raise their families among the rpoblems of the urban areas.
In spite of their arguments in favor of obtaining status and their assurance that they will pay taxes, become educated, join the military and generally add to Israeli society, the government requried that they prove that there are at least 800 families
in the town. They lack this number, and are also aware that for Jewish settlements, only a few dozen families or less are necessary in order to obtain government recognition.
All in all, the day was fascinating. There is a clear dearth of nonprofit organizations working in this community and a great deal of need. The problems the Bedouins face are typical of a minority group that is being affected by modernization, overpopulation, under-education and general neglect. Of course the problems are complicated, but I think by visiting the community and learning about it, all Israelis and tourists in Israel can help get a more realistic view of the variety of existence in this country.
PICTURES:
1. Rahat - contrasting neighborhoods
2. Rahat - child in front of her home
3. Unrecognized Village
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
First of all...I know it's been awhile, but no one event has seemed that interesting.Granted, the two weddings of two of my closest friends in the US were certainly UNFORGETABLE, precious occasions, but I am not sure how interesting they are to "my readership." (that's all 5 of you, mom, dad, etc...!)
The biggest news in my life happened today: I am officially a GERMAN! More importantly, I am a real, live European citizen... and it feels great. A little bit like cheating - since I've spent all of 3 weeks there and I don't speak the language- but exhilarating none the less. The windows of opportunity feel wide open to me, the glass of borders smashed; I sort of feel like my own view of myself as citizen of the
"world" is official. Of course that is a nauseatingly closed-minded and western-centric attitude...but I'll bask in this feeling for at least 24 hours nonetheless!
Other news...I move to Tel Aviv this week! Come and visit us near Shuk HaCarmel - and a few blocks from the beach! We have an extra bedroom :)
On to more interesting stories...
Israel had a 4-day weekend in honor of Shavuot (a holiday marking the giving/receiving of the Ten Commandments at Sinai) I celebrated in the wilderness - which I feel is very fitting. (And also with the customary sweet, dairy foods that are eaten on Shavuot. Ori's mom made AMAZING blintzes, and even let us take the leftovers! :)
Thursday night I went to two weddings here and then woke up a few hours later to take a bus up to the most northern part of Israel.
THE GOLAN HEIGHTS:
The Golan is in the north of Israel, to the east of the Jordan River. From its heights we could view Syria, Lebanon, and the finger of the Galilee (the region of Israel that is to the west of the Jordan River.) Beginning up North near Har Dov, with Mount Hermon in site, we spent 4 days wandering, trail blazing, fence hopping, jungle crawling, bushwacking, berry picking, river crossing, swimming and generally crisscrossing the territory as we headed mostly south towards Lake Kinneret.
I learned two Hebrew words this week, although sharing them hardly represents the amazing, breathtaking, memorable experience of the weekend. Still, it's only fair:
בֹּץ - "botz" - mud
מוֹקֵשיםׁ - "moksheem" - landmines
The weekend began with a word of advice from our incredibly knowledgeable guide. The Golan is filled with landmines (something I never knew...) that are left over from the time before 1967 when Syria controlled the territory. There are many, many barbed wire fences posted with warnings about the mines... but Sharon (the guide) also taught us how to distinguish between the metal fence posts used by the Israeli army and those used by Syria. (It's all in the shape of the tiny groves that hold the barbed wire in place.) Although the threat was scary in principle, on the trail it was not a major issue. The mine fields were clearly marked and we walked close together in a single file line. (No mom, I was not in front.) At some points the cleared path was narrow and steep, but certainly passable.
The first day was probably the most remote. The hilly landscape was scattered with beautiful but thorny flowers - purple, blue balls of spikes atop long, thick stems. There were also poppies and other various wild flowers. There were fewer hikers than on a typical weekend, so we went as one group. This meant - much to my advantage! - that the pace was not nearly as challenging as the previous hikes I have done with this group. I got, over the weekend, the worst blisters I have ever had. They plagues me throughout the trek, and , to be honest, put a damper on the entire expreience. I don't at all regret going, but I am busy wondering what exactly I should do about my hiking boots in Turkey next month.
Okay, between thorns, landmines and blisters, I know I am not painting a pretty picture. Let me explain...
First of all, just being in this much argued-over territory, and seeing its geography first hand helped to enhance my understanding of the place. It is lush and green and bursting with fertile fruit trees, agriculture and endless tiny springs. There were lots of cattle, chewing happily or grazing, feeding their young, or lying down, basking in the sunny breeze and swatting at the flies with their tails. We watched a small deer as she pranced across a sloping field and then "did her business," while hiding modestly under one of the few shade-granting trees. She skipped off happily afterwards, never seeming to take note (or care) of our presence.
More soon...
This is just the beginning!
The biggest news in my life happened today: I am officially a GERMAN! More importantly, I am a real, live European citizen... and it feels great. A little bit like cheating - since I've spent all of 3 weeks there and I don't speak the language- but exhilarating none the less. The windows of opportunity feel wide open to me, the glass of borders smashed; I sort of feel like my own view of myself as citizen of the
"world" is official. Of course that is a nauseatingly closed-minded and western-centric attitude...but I'll bask in this feeling for at least 24 hours nonetheless!
Other news...I move to Tel Aviv this week! Come and visit us near Shuk HaCarmel - and a few blocks from the beach! We have an extra bedroom :)
On to more interesting stories...
Israel had a 4-day weekend in honor of Shavuot (a holiday marking the giving/receiving of the Ten Commandments at Sinai) I celebrated in the wilderness - which I feel is very fitting. (And also with the customary sweet, dairy foods that are eaten on Shavuot. Ori's mom made AMAZING blintzes, and even let us take the leftovers! :)
Thursday night I went to two weddings here and then woke up a few hours later to take a bus up to the most northern part of Israel.
THE GOLAN HEIGHTS:
The Golan is in the north of Israel, to the east of the Jordan River. From its heights we could view Syria, Lebanon, and the finger of the Galilee (the region of Israel that is to the west of the Jordan River.) Beginning up North near Har Dov, with Mount Hermon in site, we spent 4 days wandering, trail blazing, fence hopping, jungle crawling, bushwacking, berry picking, river crossing, swimming and generally crisscrossing the territory as we headed mostly south towards Lake Kinneret.
I learned two Hebrew words this week, although sharing them hardly represents the amazing, breathtaking, memorable experience of the weekend. Still, it's only fair:
בֹּץ - "botz" - mud
מוֹקֵשיםׁ - "moksheem" - landmines
The weekend began with a word of advice from our incredibly knowledgeable guide. The Golan is filled with landmines (something I never knew...) that are left over from the time before 1967 when Syria controlled the territory. There are many, many barbed wire fences posted with warnings about the mines... but Sharon (the guide) also taught us how to distinguish between the metal fence posts used by the Israeli army and those used by Syria. (It's all in the shape of the tiny groves that hold the barbed wire in place.) Although the threat was scary in principle, on the trail it was not a major issue. The mine fields were clearly marked and we walked close together in a single file line. (No mom, I was not in front.) At some points the cleared path was narrow and steep, but certainly passable.
The first day was probably the most remote. The hilly landscape was scattered with beautiful but thorny flowers - purple, blue balls of spikes atop long, thick stems. There were also poppies and other various wild flowers. There were fewer hikers than on a typical weekend, so we went as one group. This meant - much to my advantage! - that the pace was not nearly as challenging as the previous hikes I have done with this group. I got, over the weekend, the worst blisters I have ever had. They plagues me throughout the trek, and , to be honest, put a damper on the entire expreience. I don't at all regret going, but I am busy wondering what exactly I should do about my hiking boots in Turkey next month.
Okay, between thorns, landmines and blisters, I know I am not painting a pretty picture. Let me explain...
First of all, just being in this much argued-over territory, and seeing its geography first hand helped to enhance my understanding of the place. It is lush and green and bursting with fertile fruit trees, agriculture and endless tiny springs. There were lots of cattle, chewing happily or grazing, feeding their young, or lying down, basking in the sunny breeze and swatting at the flies with their tails. We watched a small deer as she pranced across a sloping field and then "did her business," while hiding modestly under one of the few shade-granting trees. She skipped off happily afterwards, never seeming to take note (or care) of our presence.
More soon...
This is just the beginning!
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Following my wild week in the wilderness, I spent the next few days in elegant company, wearing suits and cocktail dresses in wedding halls, fancy hotels and the homes of dignataries!
What a week I had - a time when I feel once again that I am so unbelievably blessed - a time that makes me want to turn to the little guardian angel on my shoulder and hug him until he nearly bursts. Life is incredibly, and I feel almost guilty at the continuous stream of good fortune that is spilling forth into mine.
On Saturday and Sunday, I attended a conference sponsored by Tel Aviv University on Faith and International Development. There were about 100-150 attendees from non profit organizations in Israel and abroad. It was an amazing opportunity and experience to be able to talk with the heads of so many organizations that I admire. IT gave me enormous hope and excitement that so many faith based organization are working to improve the lives of people far beyond their immediate community circles. In a year, when (god willing!) I have my degree, it seems there will be many amazing options for me...
At the conclusion of that conference, I has the bus drop my off at the President's House in Jerusalem for Conference Two! This conference, of the Jewish Funders Network was aboslutely impressive, even from the vantage point of a mere volunteer. In one room were gathered a powerhouse of Jewish philanthropists seeking ideas and opportunities to set the direction of the Jewush people on the coming years. The creators of Birthright, of Table to Table, and many other international organizations were together, networking, creating ideas, sharing best practices, admitting and examining failures. President Perez spoke in a near-perfect English, without notes, and was inspiring and wise. I hesitate to say more out of respect for the attendees, but it was increible, interesting, exciting.... They conference truly impressed me as more than a shmoozing of celebrity and a sharing of fancy clothes and delicious food. That was all there, but the purpose behind the conference held a premium and the attendees fought for standing room in the many workshops and lectures that were offered. Everyone wore their nametags and chatted diligently with people who had stickers marking common interests. (For example, a blue sticker might indicate an interest in health care and a purple in Zionism...)
Along with a woman I study with, I handed out translation headphones and helped direct people around the hotel. After two days, some of the attendees even knew who we were and why we were there!
------------
Thursday we had a guest lecturer come and speak about the relationship between altruistic behavior and genetics. It was fascinating and a bit refreshing to be debating about science, about nature vs. nurture instead of about our more typical arguments related to the nonprofit world.
----------------
THE ISRAELI WEDDING
Following class, I made my way through the Thursday evening weekend rush at the Central Jerusalem Station and hopped a bus to Tel Aviv. From Ori's house, we drove north to Kadima (near my former digs in Hod HaSharon!) and went to my first Israeli wedding!
Orthodox or Secular, Jewish or Muslim, weddings in Israel are known to be must-see events. AS in any culture, I suppose, they are filled with traditions and customs typical only to the local population. Many of them seem "oh so Jewish" and shed light on the underlying values of the society. Others are just humurmous, unusual or exciting for the foreign spectator.
Thursday was the wedding of longtime friend of Ori's so I knew some of the guests there from his hometome crew of friends.
AS we entered the enormous and lavishly decorated complex, we parked in a lot filled with hundreds of cars (Think of a mall parking lot!)
Custom 1: The wedding present
In Israel, there are no gift registries, no engagement presents, no hours of hemming and hawing over gift options. You give money, and to do otherwise can be seen as bad taste. You give according to the estimated price of your attendance at the event, plus more if you are close. At the entrance to the party, there was a table of envelopes. Each guest seals their check in an envelope, scribbles a quick message on the outside and shoves it into one of the safes stationed nearby. Then, the frenzy begins.
Custom 2: The cocktail frenzy
The cocktail hour was lavish. There were HUNDREDS of people, (really HUNDREDS!) and we bagan drinking and eating furiously before the end of the shmoozing period. It was outdoors, and the catering hall had beautiful flowers and (I think) a fountain in the middle.) In spite of his longtime acquaintance with the groom, Ori knew a very small percentage of the guests.
Custom 3: The Ceremony
An announcement was made over a loudspeaker that the ceremony was about to begin. The food stations closed down and even the bartenders got a break. The DJ pumped up the music and we all gathered around the huppah that (I am sorry) really reminded me of the set of a music video. The event was, by no exaggeration, a production. There were sexy violinists dressed in tight, chinzy dressed who accompanied the blasting, eleectronic music. The huppas was two long sheets of white cloth lit by an ensemble of lighting that must have been conjured up by a lighting designer and engineer.
We gathered nearby the "stage" but did not sit. The crowd's roar lowered slightly to a din and a few people turned their heads to watch the bride waltz down the aisle. A beautiful woman, who works at a gym, the dress was oh-so-Israeli too. Its design was clearly intended to accentuate the hips, just like every pair of jeans I've tried to buy in this country!
The chasedic Rabbi looked anachronistic on stage with his black suit and tall black hat. He mumbled some prayers to a smattering of Amens, but as the ceremony continues, most of the audience (i mean guests) were busy chatting, smoking cigarettes or gazing watching the scene with an air of nonchalence. Two good friends of the groom were chosen to set off fire crackers on Confetti after the groom broke the glass, and with that, the party began. the music pumped up and we all filtered inside accompanied by techno, jazzy violinisits and a light show that led us to the dance floor.
THE PARTY:
We were seated at an enormous table beside the dance floor. (Of note - I was truly impressed that we all had placecards! It must be an incredible task to try and write hundreds of place cards and table arrangements for this size of an event!) The flowers, lighting and centerpieces were spectacular. There were salads, wine and bread on the table, and throughout the night food arrived and was cleared mostly without time to eat it (or even notice its presence on our table.) We danced, drank, chatted a bit and generally enjoyed the party. By about 1am, it was clearing out, and we headed home tired. It was certainly impressive and a good time, but different from the sort of wedding I imagine for myself, and certainly a far cry from what I expect these next few weeks at the weddings of two of my closest friends.
On Wednesday, we are going to another wedding here in Israel. My research will be more conclusive with a bigger sample size!
What a week I had - a time when I feel once again that I am so unbelievably blessed - a time that makes me want to turn to the little guardian angel on my shoulder and hug him until he nearly bursts. Life is incredibly, and I feel almost guilty at the continuous stream of good fortune that is spilling forth into mine.
On Saturday and Sunday, I attended a conference sponsored by Tel Aviv University on Faith and International Development. There were about 100-150 attendees from non profit organizations in Israel and abroad. It was an amazing opportunity and experience to be able to talk with the heads of so many organizations that I admire. IT gave me enormous hope and excitement that so many faith based organization are working to improve the lives of people far beyond their immediate community circles. In a year, when (god willing!) I have my degree, it seems there will be many amazing options for me...
At the conclusion of that conference, I has the bus drop my off at the President's House in Jerusalem for Conference Two! This conference, of the Jewish Funders Network was aboslutely impressive, even from the vantage point of a mere volunteer. In one room were gathered a powerhouse of Jewish philanthropists seeking ideas and opportunities to set the direction of the Jewush people on the coming years. The creators of Birthright, of Table to Table, and many other international organizations were together, networking, creating ideas, sharing best practices, admitting and examining failures. President Perez spoke in a near-perfect English, without notes, and was inspiring and wise. I hesitate to say more out of respect for the attendees, but it was increible, interesting, exciting.... They conference truly impressed me as more than a shmoozing of celebrity and a sharing of fancy clothes and delicious food. That was all there, but the purpose behind the conference held a premium and the attendees fought for standing room in the many workshops and lectures that were offered. Everyone wore their nametags and chatted diligently with people who had stickers marking common interests. (For example, a blue sticker might indicate an interest in health care and a purple in Zionism...)
Along with a woman I study with, I handed out translation headphones and helped direct people around the hotel. After two days, some of the attendees even knew who we were and why we were there!
------------
Thursday we had a guest lecturer come and speak about the relationship between altruistic behavior and genetics. It was fascinating and a bit refreshing to be debating about science, about nature vs. nurture instead of about our more typical arguments related to the nonprofit world.
----------------
THE ISRAELI WEDDING
Following class, I made my way through the Thursday evening weekend rush at the Central Jerusalem Station and hopped a bus to Tel Aviv. From Ori's house, we drove north to Kadima (near my former digs in Hod HaSharon!) and went to my first Israeli wedding!
Orthodox or Secular, Jewish or Muslim, weddings in Israel are known to be must-see events. AS in any culture, I suppose, they are filled with traditions and customs typical only to the local population. Many of them seem "oh so Jewish" and shed light on the underlying values of the society. Others are just humurmous, unusual or exciting for the foreign spectator.
Thursday was the wedding of longtime friend of Ori's so I knew some of the guests there from his hometome crew of friends.
AS we entered the enormous and lavishly decorated complex, we parked in a lot filled with hundreds of cars (Think of a mall parking lot!)
Custom 1: The wedding present
In Israel, there are no gift registries, no engagement presents, no hours of hemming and hawing over gift options. You give money, and to do otherwise can be seen as bad taste. You give according to the estimated price of your attendance at the event, plus more if you are close. At the entrance to the party, there was a table of envelopes. Each guest seals their check in an envelope, scribbles a quick message on the outside and shoves it into one of the safes stationed nearby. Then, the frenzy begins.
Custom 2: The cocktail frenzy
The cocktail hour was lavish. There were HUNDREDS of people, (really HUNDREDS!) and we bagan drinking and eating furiously before the end of the shmoozing period. It was outdoors, and the catering hall had beautiful flowers and (I think) a fountain in the middle.) In spite of his longtime acquaintance with the groom, Ori knew a very small percentage of the guests.
Custom 3: The Ceremony
An announcement was made over a loudspeaker that the ceremony was about to begin. The food stations closed down and even the bartenders got a break. The DJ pumped up the music and we all gathered around the huppah that (I am sorry) really reminded me of the set of a music video. The event was, by no exaggeration, a production. There were sexy violinists dressed in tight, chinzy dressed who accompanied the blasting, eleectronic music. The huppas was two long sheets of white cloth lit by an ensemble of lighting that must have been conjured up by a lighting designer and engineer.
We gathered nearby the "stage" but did not sit. The crowd's roar lowered slightly to a din and a few people turned their heads to watch the bride waltz down the aisle. A beautiful woman, who works at a gym, the dress was oh-so-Israeli too. Its design was clearly intended to accentuate the hips, just like every pair of jeans I've tried to buy in this country!
The chasedic Rabbi looked anachronistic on stage with his black suit and tall black hat. He mumbled some prayers to a smattering of Amens, but as the ceremony continues, most of the audience (i mean guests) were busy chatting, smoking cigarettes or gazing watching the scene with an air of nonchalence. Two good friends of the groom were chosen to set off fire crackers on Confetti after the groom broke the glass, and with that, the party began. the music pumped up and we all filtered inside accompanied by techno, jazzy violinisits and a light show that led us to the dance floor.
THE PARTY:
We were seated at an enormous table beside the dance floor. (Of note - I was truly impressed that we all had placecards! It must be an incredible task to try and write hundreds of place cards and table arrangements for this size of an event!) The flowers, lighting and centerpieces were spectacular. There were salads, wine and bread on the table, and throughout the night food arrived and was cleared mostly without time to eat it (or even notice its presence on our table.) We danced, drank, chatted a bit and generally enjoyed the party. By about 1am, it was clearing out, and we headed home tired. It was certainly impressive and a good time, but different from the sort of wedding I imagine for myself, and certainly a far cry from what I expect these next few weeks at the weddings of two of my closest friends.
On Wednesday, we are going to another wedding here in Israel. My research will be more conclusive with a bigger sample size!
Monday, March 31, 2008
If you read one entry in this blog, let it be this one...
If a more eventful, exciting weekend ever happens to me, I have trouble imagining what it could possibly entail...
This story is one for Hollywood films, maybe even Bollywood. It includes soldiers, weapons, special effects, politics. There's the required blood and guts, the teeth clenching moments of danger, the posh lives of rich and famous celebrities and notables parading around in cocktail dressed and plastic faces. This story is one about potential and opportunity - moments that could have been tragic, opportunities that presented themselves unexpectedly. And somehow, amazing, this story is true, and it all happened this weekend.
I promise to TRY not to embellish, because really the facts speak for themselves...
After two months or Urban life, I needed some time in the wilderness. Chug Elad, the hard core hiking group that I had been introduced to in January, was hosting another hike. One core attraction to the group is that by going in large numbers, the group is able to hike in places that would be dangerous or inaccessibly to solo hikers. Ori told me we were going to the Shomron; in fact, he probably told me this three times. Somehow I thought this was like the Sharon - a geographical area in the center-west of the country. Somehow, in 6 months here, I had never learned that Shomron, in fact, means West Bank. Okay, so we were spending the weekend in the Occupied Territories. I've been there before, we're a large group, sababa.
My first shock came when I found out that many of the hikers had decided to take the precaution of bringing handguns with them. Some of my friends were carrying their registered weapons. Now, this is one of this typical Israeli experiences that I still have not become accustomed to.
Anyway, we arrived and began our hike near Ramallah. Ori and I went with the fast group who tends to head off in a rush with very few stops and a speed that impedes side conversation. After a few hours of hiking through the cliffs, we stopped overlooking a beautiful wadi and enjoyed our breakfast. We tended to lag near the back of the group, caught up in conversations and slowed by my more modest pace.
Sometime before lunch, (around 10:45 AM), a woman told us to catch up with the group. We were entering a more risky area and were advised to stick together and be alert. Just then, the zipper on my bag burst apart, sending its contents on a short journey. Eager to keep up with the group, we carried on with my bag in poor shape. We were entering a valley surrounded on all sides by high, rocky hills. With the bag held closed in my teeth, I used my arms to climb my way up the rocks and toward to the peak.
Just then, we heard another group member announce that someone had fallen and broken a leg. Being a Wilderness First Responder, I had an obligation to act. I tossed my bag on the ground and made my way carefully down to the patient.
The man who had fallen was in his 60s, in good shape. He was alert, calm and able to tell me about his fall. He had slipped about a meter and a half, landed for a moment, and then fallen again. His right ankle was twisted back, the bone jutting out just above the top, inside of his shoe. There was a little blood, but it was hard to determine its source. I debated for a bit with the other medic present, but we eventually decided that we had to see remove his sneaker in order to see the injury more clearly. Unable to keep his leg stable while we removed his shoe, Ori proceeded to cut apart the hiking boot in order to give us access to the injury.
It was about 11:30 at this time and the sun was relentless. No shade could be found and we had eaten breakfast quite early. Two hikers helped us shade the patient with an old blanket and we encouraged him to drink as much water as possible.
The injury exposed, we found the source of the bleeding and bandaged it tightly. Meanwhile, someone had long ago called the paramedics, search and rescue, the Red Cross (Called Magen David Adom in Israel) and the army. We were told that our location was too close to Ramallah and that the army did not want to risk sending a helicopter,
After about an hour in the sun, with the patient calm and lucid with a stable pulse, the first paramedic arrived...without morphine or other painkillers. From about a kilometer above us where cars were able to access, several medical personnel began climbing down the rocks towards us, each carrying medical equipment and automatic weapons.
It took about 7 medical professionals and volunteers to final realize that even with the three different types of stretchers they had brought down, it would be impossible and risky to carry carry the patient up and out of the valley. The going was steep and rocky, and his leg had to remain stable. The helicopter was called in again; this time the army agreed to come in about a half an hour.
With a one minute warning for the arrival of the helicopter, we scrambled to find a safe spot on solid ground. Even the wife of the injured man was bemoaning her lack of a camera! WE heard the machine before we saw it. . , and then from beyond the edge of one the mountains, an enormous, sleek black helicopter floated toward us. The wind swirled furiously, picking up bits of debris, dust, hats and forgotten trash. The helicopter circled a few times, trying to negotiate the least dangerous descent toward the injured man. Images of the film "Black Hawk Down" flashed before my eyes, and Ori confirmed that the copter was in fact a Black Hawk from the 669 Airforce Unit of the Israeli Army. AS it hovered near the ground, a panel in the bottom slid open, and four soldiers descended on a retractable metal cord. Wearing helmets and uniforms, and bearing huge machine guns, they carried medical supplies as they clung to the rope from the teetering black bird and jumped to the ground beside the patient.
Ori, unable to stand his own and my disappointment and the total absence of film, raced straight up the hill to retrieve his camera from the vehicles parked a kilometer above us. His friend doubted his ability to get back before the patient was evacuated, but we were lucky... the copter had to make three descents and we were able to photograph the final one where two soldiers accompanied the patient as his stretcher was lifted into the helicopter on the metal rope.
The spectacle complete, the Bedouin spectators dispersed and we regrouped at the top of the hill. It was now 2:15 and we had to walk quickly to reach our campsite before dark. We were hungry and drained from the sun, but we had to hike nearly three hours before we found a shady spot to eat.
There were about 7 or 8 of us walking together with a guide and the small group had a nice, communal feel. As we approached a road, we stayed close together and put Diego, our four legged group member, on a leash. Along the road, we were a bit tentative as we passed a group of three or four Palestinian men. They were friendly with us, however, with that overly anxious expressions of friendship and kindness that so frequently typify this sort of meeting. They asked for a bottle of our water which we eagerly offered and we joked about them joining us for the hike. As we said our "salaams" (us) and "Shaloms" (them), they called after us a final wish: "We hope no one throws stones at you."
The rest of the day finished with little notable events of this sort. We hiked through the beautiful hills, along the rocky dried river wadis and to a settlement called Rimonim. I wasn't that thrilled to be sleeping in a settlement, but given our location, the options were limited. Ori and I stayed out in the desert for awhile watching the sunset along the desert scape, scattered by Bedouin tents, Palestinian villages and a dew Jewish settlements.
The next day, we awoke early. Ori brought me coffee and biscuits in the tent and then we packed up the tents and headed back into the desert. We hiked through fields of endless wildflowers, dotted with red poppies and yellow, white and purple flowers that I couldnt name. There were thorny purple cactus blossoms, and giant black flowers looking like velvet that trapped bugs deep inside their grip.
We passed Bedouin tent villages and herds of sheep and goats. At one point, our fried Assaf stopped to chat with a group of boys on their way to school. It seemed hard to imagine that a school existed within walking distance! The boys ranged in age from four or five to maybe 16 or older. They had some textbooks with them, and ASsaf leafed through them, reading chapter titles about biology and chemistry.
We began a long descent. Waling down through the desert wash, the sides of the caves rose on either side of us and at times we proceeded extremely carefully along steep cliffs of loose scree and slippery edges. Partway down, we entered a cave, formerly home to monks and pilgrims. In one cave, we slithered deep inside using head lamps to light our way as we crawled from room to room. The ground was covered with deep, soft ashy material and probably a lot of bat feces! At one point, my fellow explorers went off to search for another tunnela nd I was left alone in a cavernous room to contemplate the utter darkness and the swirling bats around me. It was amazing.
Lacking futher tunnels to explore, stifled by the heat of the cave (and Ori less than thrilled that a bat had mistaken him for a wall...) we made our way back out and searched for a cozy lunch spot. We found one amid the sides of the cliff. A few of us ate together, sharing hummous, vegetables, olives and pita.
I am beginning to love this group of hikers more and more, in spite of my conern about their lack of preparedness in the emergency. (If I go again, Im bringing medical equipment!) Noentheless, the group is filled with such fascinating, eclectic people with stories to tells and many lives lived. In spite of the fierce individualism and independent spitit that typifies the group, i feel very much supported and cared for there.
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