Since our time in Boise a week ago, we've been working our way through the northern wilderness with some time to relax in Calgary and now in Vancouver.
We went from Boise to Stanley, Idaho last Friday pulling over for some free camping not too far south of the Sawtooth Mountain town. In Stanley, we drove around to catch views of the Sawtooth Range and did a quick 'scenic' tour of Stanley. The town has a few hundred residents and its two main thoroughfares (Main Street and Wall Street) are wide dirt roads lined by quaint local businesses with Western storefronts. We did a hike up to Sawtooth Lake. We passed another lake along the way and took in her glacial, turquoise colors and the steep snow-spotted mountains that ringed her shores. When we found ourselves at last on the banks of Sawtooth Lake, we were surprised at how small it was. (more of a pond, I thought.) On our way down we wondered if we'd missed something; our suspicions were confirmed when we checked a map. The real Sawtooth Lake was another few hundred feet down the trail. Next time!
From Stanley, we headed north, taking a mesmerizing path through Idaho and Montana. We followed the Salmon River and stopped for lunch at a local park in Salmon, Idaho. We headed toward Glacier National Park in north-west Montana, but as night feel we decided to seek out a camp site.
We searched the dirt roads along the banks of Flathead Lake - a huge lake a few hours south of the park. We finally found a clearing and I heated up dinner while Ori prepared our tent. At one point I thought I heard Ori behind me, or to my side, but the roar of the stove made me question my own senses. I scanned the area, spotting something dog-like (but bigger) off to my right. Only when Ori Yelled, "Get in the Car" did I really register what was going on. We had seen our first bear! Ori said the small black bear had stared right at him, before sneaking off across the street and into someone's lawn. The bear set off the neighbor's motion detector lights, but generally let us be for the duration of the night.
A few days later, while driving near Glacier Park in Canada, we saw another Black Bear run swiftly across the highway.


Glacier National was absolutely stunning. Its beauty was simply incomparable to EVERY where else we had been. There is simply no comparison to the veritable and formidable nature in this park. Despite traffic and a good amount of visitors, we felt that Glacier was unable to be a mere Disney-ization of nature. We went on an amazing hike through an ancient forest, left unburned for several hundred years. Than we drove slowly over the continental divide, crossing the steep pass slowly amid snow flurries and hail.

From there we headed up for some couchsurfing in Calgary. We stayed with a couple who was nice enough to lend us their bikes, so we spent Monday exploring the city on bike, loving the cool fall weather the un-harsh sunlight and the brisk breezes of our northern-most point.

After a day and a half in Calgary, we hit the road again. This pasrt of the trip has felt a bit rushed because we are meeting up with friends and family in San Francisco for the New Year. Now in Vancouver, we have 5 nights until we have to be in San Francisco. It's a bit daunting, but I can say that I am enjoying the scenic drives more than I thought I would, and we are in fact trying to take the time to learn Arabic as we drive!

A trip highlight occured last Thursday as we made our way south and west to Vancouver. Seeking out a pretty, riverside lunch spot, we found our way to a small beach under a highway bridge, several miles off of Route One. We had to navigate around a few farms to get to this point, but we were rewarded by the serendipitous meeting of a local fisherman. He was enjoying the last of the summer's warm days to catch some of the salmon busily heading up stream with their bellies full of eggs. After our lunch, he offered to give us the next fish he caughtl!

This generous offer turned into an exciting afternoon. As I relaxed in the sand, photographing the mountains and gazing at the eagle overhead, Ori did some fishing. After a few hours, an unlucky salmon got caught offstream and beached himself on the sand nearby. Ori sprinted down the shore and caught the slippery swimmer in his bare hands! Meanwhile, our fishermen friend simultaneously got a nibble from a good-sized salmon, so together, the two guys could bask in their catches.


I was struck by the environmental tenderness and sense of responsibility that the fisherman expressed. He stuck strictly to the rules - 4 fish maximum, no barbed hooks, throw back the sturgeon and the smaller fish. As he carefully taught Ori how to kill and gut the fish, he explained the benefits of cleaning the fish on the beach. The head would go to feed the eagles and seagulls, the large store of eggs inside each fish were tossed back into the water to provide strength and protein to other fish.

Despite the fact that we were headed to the house of a strict vegetarian, we cooked up the fresh salmon in the neighbors' grill. Seasoned lightly with garden picked herbs and olive oil, it was simply fantastic. Here is a picture of Ori throwing the eggs back!

Out West
As I write this, I am sitting at the picnic table of our Grand Teton campsite, stars beginning to pop out above me, trees veiling the clearing that holds our tent, this picnic table and our car/home. Beside me our pasta is heating up to the roar of our backpacking stove’s burning and while we wait for it to cook, we’ll do some stretches to release the tension of today’s hike.
Our site is a bit off shore from Jenny Lake with Grand Teton herself looming over the trees. Today, despite a small bit of hail and rain, we enjoyed a 13 mile hike around the lake and through a canyon. There were quite a few people sharing the trail, but as usual, we run the late night shift, and they were coming as we were going. We saw several moose and shared the awe and beauty with our fellow hikers. The moose, even a mother and calf, chewed their grass nonchalantly as we tiptoed ever closer, cameras flashing and clicking wildly. We stood around them in disbelief for long periods of time, within 10 feet of the beautiful creatures – one photographer said “They’re too close for my zoom! Get me a wide angle lens!” We could see the enormous size and soft fuzz of their antlers and the necks that sustain their weight; we viewed up close the famous dangling chin-like protrusion.
The hike was a beautiful one, and despite spending the last several days in national parks, Ori and I felt for the first time that we were finally in nature. Yellowstone felt more like nature in a museum – a packaged sort of natural wonder made accessible to the old, the minivan family, the invalid. I think this is a wonderful thing. Truly. The brilliance of the national park system is that some of the most magnificent natural wonders – from geysers and waterfalls to 50 million year old trees have been preserved and made accessible to such a wide array of audiences. All in one –the parks preserve natural spaces and habitats, provide a sort of Eden for wildlife and allow the public an easy (physically and mentally) way to be in nature. You can sleep in a nice hotel, eat three meals in a restaurant (plus a stop for ice cream) and then drive by deer on your way to see a bubbling mud hole at 5000 feet. The parks go further though. For the “hard core” – there is back country camping, climbing and more. What we learned during our few days at Yellowstone is that stopping at all the “sites” of a national park is far less thrilling for us than one long hike. And that crowds and nature is not our favorite cocktail. Nonetheless, we loved it enough to want to see it one day in the winter –and to take hundreds of photos…
Tomorrow we are headed to Boise, Idaho via Craters of the Moon National Monument.

Wisconsin State Fair and other Midwestern Happenings

Chicago was difficult to detach ourselves from. The city far exceeded our expectations. The opportunities for culture, art and exercise are endless and we decided easily that it surpasses New York. We spent another day there to see Wrigley Field, eat at Uno’s, and enjoy the Lakefront beach. That night, we had the luck to discover that Wisconsin’s annual State Fair was in Full Swing – just 2 hours away in Milwaukee. Thursday morning, we hit the road and headed north.
The State Fair was a quintessentially American experience that managed to fit perfectly into all the expectations and stereotypes that I could possibly conjure up. I had long wanted to attend one of these events which take place every summer in most states. The emphasis on agriculture and livestock make the fairs particularly west/and midwest phenomenon, although they probably take place in other states as well.
The fair was held in a huge area that is set aside all year for this purpose. We followed signs to a giant car raceway which served as a parking lot. We entered the fair and were greeted immediately by stands selling beer, lemonade, frozen margaritas, hotdogs, and sausage. With a few minutes before the official start of the Cream Puff Contest, we grabbed a map and headed straight for the Wisconsin Cream Puff arena and the central mall. We arrived just minutes before the celebratory contest began. The contestants included local radio and television personalities, the Miss Cranberry Girl, Queen Dairy and a local football player. Each contestant introduced himself with a an air of friendly but fierce competition. One newswoman said she had been watching the contest her whole life, and was thus thrilled and honored to participate for the first time. A giant 5 pound cream puff was placed in front of each contestant. They were given about 5 minutes to eat as much as they could – without using their hands. The contest was a close tie, and the judges had to way the leftovers to determine a winner. Several television stations were filming the contest and journalists excitedly reported, live from the front row.
We followed up the event by sampling our own cream puffs which were filled with rich, thick fresh whip cream.
From there, we wove our way through the booths of local goods, crafts and rides. We stopped to watch a BMX and skateboarding show but hurried on to look for the swine race. Inside the Pig stables, we saw hundreds of pigs and watched as a group of 12-year-olds showed their own little oinkers off.
At 6 months old, the pigs are already huge, and a local nearby told me that most of them would not live past the weekend. The pigs are shown off by the owners who try to keep their animal near the judge by tapping them on the haunch with a stick. Some of the owners were gentle, but the girl who one was fierce with her pig. You could see bruises on the pink skin of the animal who looked miserable in the ring.
I left quickly, once again questioning my own choices in food consumption. We found a mini-racetrack nearby where baby potbelly pigs and ducks were racing around a short track while hundreds of people cheered their favorite on. The racers were released through small gates and encouraged by small bites of food at the other end. It was hysterical.
We saw horses and ducks, chickens, cows, goats and lamb. There were Budweiser Clydesdales being brushed and groomed and harnessed for the parade, and in another area we viewed baby animals.
All this touring made us quite hungry, so we headed for the tent filled with tastes of Wisconsin. The specialty of this season was chocolate covered bacon (sold from a booth outside the tent). I have to admit, the experience struck me as so once-in-a-lifetime that I tasted the first piece of pork I’ve had in many years. The bacon wasn’t bad; the guilt, subsiding. We tasted cheese and wine, honey and hot sauce. Bought some salsa and lunched on pulled lamb and corn on the cob (mom), a bison burger (me), and various sausages and beef jerkey. (Ori and me)
Yum!
Full and smiling, we bought 2 tee-shirts and headed out after a full day in the sun and smells of a real state fair. All stereotypes were confirmed…
From there, we went on an adventure to the little-known town of Iola. Our friend from Israel was amazingly on a business trip in the middle of Wisconsin in a small town among the chain of lakes. We drove north along Winnebago, stopping at a lighthouse in Fond du Lac.

Today was our second day in Wisconsin (the best-kept secret in America?) and yet I feel we've done about a week's worth of exploration. On one hand, I wonder if we will be so enthralled and surprised by other states along our way, or if Wisconsin is truly exceptional. Again, the theme of expectations has been strong for me on this journey so far. I had little to no expectations about what this state would offer, so its overwhelming variety of activities and attractions have totally surprised me.

We woke up in Waupaca, a small town amid a chain of lakes, about an hour from Osh Kosh on Lake Winebago. A good friend from Israel was, quite coincidentally, on a business trip in Iola, Wisconsin, so we crashed her hotel room. We went out for a cheap, American-style dinner at a local restaurant, shaped like a boat. We were aching for some Wisconsin cheese so we drove to a dairy nearby. Although we missed the guided tour, we chowed down on samples and had a great time talking with the staff. When we asked for some bread to complete our lunch, they sent us on a wonderful chase through windy, gravel roads (Country Road FF, O or Q anyone). We arrived an hour later in Wisconsin Amish country - Kingston. We stopped in a beautiful antique store filled with buried treasures at incredible prices. Lacking a trailer to cart home the furniture, we chatted with the owner and settled on a beautiful ring for my mom.

I have yet to see a supermarket in this state, although I am sure they exist. To get bread in Kingston, we went to an Amish bakery. The workers were fully adorned, bonnet and all, and we were asked kindly not to photograph them. The smell of donuts and fresh-baked bread flooded the parking lot and we couldn't resist stocking up bread, donuts and blueberry pie. The owner rung up our purchase on an old-fashioned cash register, pulling a handle to total the sums. There was quite a crowd at the bakery, despite the lack of people on the town's Main Street.

When I asked about picking up some tomatoes, the owner sent us a few miles across the town to her brother's farm. We found the house, with a sign posted out front, advertising produce. There were buggies parked in the driveway and 6-8 little children playing on the lawn in their Amish dress. They all looked under 12 and were staring curiously at us. The eldest boy approached us and helped lead us to park and find the garage where his older sister was selling the vegetables.

Amidst the rolling corn fields and silos of the state, we found a clearing in the woods for a picnic lunch. From there, we headed southwest towards Madison, or more specifically to the House on the Rocks. This place is really impossible to describe, but I will give it a go...
Alex Jordan, the imagineer of the house, was a wealthy guy from Madison with a taste for unusual art, obsessive collecting and, if his house is any indicator - a powerful dark side. Imagine the enormous lair of a vampire - a vampire obsessed with beautiful art. This would be his Eden.
We arrived with only an hour or so to tour, so we only got to see one third of the property. The sections we missed included the largest carousel in the world, covered in chandaliers, 20,000 light bulbs and carefully crafted characters riding eternally on the horses. The house has themed rooms, including an elaborate doll house, an enormous sea creature and a music room filled with self-playing orchestras.

We got to see Jordan's house, itself. Records show he only slept there four nights; he intended it as a getaway for artistic inspiration. The rooms are dark and small, with nooks and crannies built in to every wall. The ceilings are carpeted at times, the windows either stained glass, or covered with intricate lattice designs. Music echoes beautifully but ominously from self-playing bands of violins, drums, and pianos. The rooms are lit with stained glass lamps and old church windows are worked into the walls and used as tables.
The pinnacle of the house (literally and figuratively) is the Infinity Room, a jutting glass room that drives out off a cliff, parallel to the valley floor; it's 216 feet long and 156 high, ending in a point.


The Mississippi: We drove from Madison Wisconsin up to Minneapolis-St. Paul along the Mississippi. Our first sight of the river was near the border with Iowa, south of the Wisconsin city of LaCrosse. The river is impressive – wide, bordered by steep green cliffs and spanned by impressive bridges. We wove our way along and across the river a few times, driving along the Great River Road – a byway nationally recognized for its beauty and historical significance. There were houses and cottages along the way, and plenty of sailboats, motorboats, fishermen and ferries making use of the Great River. There were train tracks beside us most of the way and trains more than a mile long droned along side us on the traditional route from the Gulf of Mexico all the way to Canada. Just before reaching The Twin Cities, we stopped in a small town with Western store fronts and a distinctively mid-west feel. There were murals on the sides of the brick buildings and a clock tower near the town’s bridge that spans the Mississippi and heads over to Minnesota from Wisconsin. When a rain storm broke out, we took brief cover in a gas station along with some of the Harley Davidson riders we’d been trailing all along.


These days we’re in Minnesota. While we haven’t been doing typically touristy activities, we’ve been enjoying the chance to relax and get some errands done. We stayed with some great CouchSurfers who told us a bit about the neighborhoods of the city and showed us a great Thai restaurant. One of them grew up right by the Mall of America, but the other was a girl from the Mississippi. She grew up on the river, boating, fishing and stacking piles of woods with her nature-loving family.
Minnesota is full of all the kindness and politesse that stereotypes would lead you to believe. Our host last night called this “Minnesota nice.” She said everyone is extremely polite…and passive aggressive. By her definition, if a Minnesotan calls something “interesting” or “special” - beware. These are local euphemisms for terrible, ugly, or weird.
Minneapolis is a beautiful city. There is a large sculpture garden in the downtown and lots of theaters and art museums. The city is filled with water – the rivers and lakes make for great biking, waterfront hikes and - when weather permits – swimming.
Today, we spent the day with an old family friend from Maine who treated us like her own grandchildren. She fed us, played Scrabble; we in turn hooked up a new scanner and tried to help get her computer in shape. By we, I mean Ori.
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We've done a lot of driving, and I soon hope to spend a few days doing nothing by a lake with some vegetables, a tent, and a good book.



UPDATE: We're now in NORTH DAKOTA!!!! It's pretty much as I expected, except for the glorious sky. I spent most of the day playing with our new camera and photographing the incredible and constantly shifting array of clouds that spread out beyond our windshield. We saw a huge rainbow and finally arrived in the capital - Bismarck - late in the evening. The state capital building (not a dome!) is across the street. The tallest building in ND - it's about 15 stories.

Two weeks ago was a special season of holidays here in Israel. It was my first time being in the country during this season, and I hadn't expected the season to be so significant, so poignant, so full of customs and traditions that are far more Israeli than Jewish.

The season began on April 24th with Yom HaShoah - a day set aside in memorium of the Holocaust. Like all Jewish holidays, the day started at sunset the night before and was marked by a minute long siren - once at night and again in the morning. During the sirens, which would ring again the following week in honor of those who have fallen fighting for Israel, the whole country stops. Traffic stands still. People freeze. Families sitting alone in their living room stand up, in silent solidarity - a country taking (over the course of a week) 5 whole minutes to simply remember her fallen sons and daughters. Stores close, restaurants too. The radio plays dirges, on TV are movies about the Holocaust. It is impossible, in this tiny island in the middle east, to forget.
And yet around the world, as Holocaust survivors dwindle with time, I still worry that forgetting will happen.
In Israel, suffering is always in the back of people's minds. (This is one woman's opinion, of course.) But I see it and hear it all the time. I see the lines on people's faces, the worried looks of passersby, the stress that accompanies life in Israel.
Things here are never simple. Nothing is laid out on a table - rich or poor, black, white, brown - everyone here has a story of how they got here. Some are survivors or children of survivors. Others walked from Yemen or fled Iran. Some took an overnight-] plane from Ethiopia and arrived in a strange world with no common language or culture. Few have had the easy life, and virtually no one's parents did.

But all this suffering, or culture of suffering does a lot for building unity.

A week after Yom HaShoah, there is the even more solemn holiday: Yom HaZikaron. This day is set aside to honor soldiers and victims of terror who have lost their life in the 61-year history of this country. During one of the sirens, I found myself in the middle of the busy Tel Aviv market place. As the siren started, everyone froze. Arab and Jew, children, elderly. The fruit stood still mid air, the scales found their equilibrium, the shekels settled into comfortable positions inside pockets. The siren lasted two whole minutes - a long and surreal amount of time. Eyes turned inward or toward the ground. And I was left alone in this crowd with my thoughts and my utter awe at the awesomeness of such a moment.

Actually, several moments. The length of this pause was part of what made it so significant. For sure I've heard about it before. Read about it. But experiencing it, as with so many things in life, was something else entirely.

At sunset, the solemn mood ends in an instant. Memorial candles are replaced by fireworks. The sad songs by cheers. Flags wave from windows and windshields, grills ignite, marshmallows sizzle on sticks, and the entire country floods outside to celebrate Independence Day. Just like that. Back to back. Tears aside, not even a memory. Everyone eats steak and burgers, even the vegetarians light their grills. The air reeks of ash and smoke. The sky is a light smokey grey with flashes of fireworks grinning through the haze.

We took the opportunity of our days off to head up north for a 4-day hike. I thought that Israeli Independence Day was a perfect time to hike the breadth of the country. Ori, myself and 3 other friends headed up northeast to the Sea of Galilee (Kinneret). We parked our car, drove back across the country (70ish km) to the west coast town of Nahariya on the Mediterranean. While our friend Robert volunteered to set up the grill and keep our steaks cold, the rest of us began hiking from Sea to Sea. Sea to shining Sea in Israel - a hike of 4 (doable in 3) days. In the US, it would take a full year and a half to hike coast to coast.

And yet the richness and diversity of scenery seems to rival the US. We began amidst fields of bananas and avocados as we traced our way through the orchards owned by community farms. From there, we headed into a river bed far beneath the crusader fortress of Montfort. We spent our first night above the canyon and partook in the Independence Day tradition of barbecued steaks and chicken. On the second day, we hiked all day in the dry river's path and ended our evening in a Druze village.
We found an amazing restaurant which was quite the perfect example of Druzian hospitality. We filled ourselves and our bags with provisions and even found shelter in the skeleton of a Druze house. (A man at the gas station offered us the house his family is building as a place to lay our mats and sleeping bags.)
The rest of the hike wound us through rivers and up and over Mount Meron, of Kabbalistic Fame. We had views of Tzfat and Lebanon throughout. And of course we topped off our hike with a swim in the Kinneret.
Seeing so many aspects of this land within so few days helped me yet again to appreciate the unique richness of this country and also underlined its remarkable compactness. This country is tiny! And yet...
it seems to have it all. We find a way to hike on new terrain every month. The diversity of culture and traditions far rivals that of many much older countries.

All is well.

I am sure many of you are wondering about the cliff-hanger ending of the last blog. So was I. I only found out last Sunday night that the man had passed away, most likely due to blood loss and the long delay in getting him to the hospital. On Saturday, there was an eerie feeling in town. Funerals are held en masse at the end of the month, so most people were wandering around town in black cloth and head wraps. Sunday, too, was a day of mourning. Apparently, funerals here are occasions for copious drinking, so believe it or not, another man was killed when he wandered drunkenly into the street and was hit by a car.
I was glad when those grim few days were over and Monday morning arrived to mark the arrival of a new week. It is my last week in Ghana and I am extremely excited to go home to Israel. I miss my friends more than I imagined I would, but mostly I miss the feeling of being at home. Of familiar food, faces – of feeling comfortable and clean. I am truly surprised at these feelings (and don’t usually write about them in my blog) but I think they are closely tied to the many dramatic life events that have occurred in the past 6 weeks.
I am take advantage of the rest of my time here. I have become very close with my neighbors and will miss them. They are great to laugh with, to cry with, to cook and watch movies for hours… I feel totally comfortable around them, at home – and don’t feel like I have to host, or act as a guest. We can talk about everything from politics to sex or racism. They are very open. I know that keeping in touch with them will be virtually impossible; they don't even have a mailing address.
There have been countless memorable moments amid the long hours I have passed with my neighbors. Whole days spent doing laundry or watching television were spiced up by surprising moments of cultural exchange. They would bring over a machete and chop down plantains from my yard, or fashion a stick from a palm leaf to knock down ripe papayas. When I offered my friend a snack of cheese one day, she asked what it was. She had never tasted cheese! On another occasion, I gave my small boy his first taste or peas.
But if my eating habits surprised them, I, too, often needed to conjure up an adventurous spirit when tasting the neighbors cooking. When Ori was visiting, the neighbors labored hours over traditional foofoo. This dish is made by boiling plantains and cassava. Then, the two are ground together and mixed with a long pole. The result is a sticky white dough that is formed into balls, served with stew, and eaten with your hands. Apparently, I ate it all wrong. They laughed when I chewed the foofoo, telling me that it should be swallowed. I was reminded of how Ori laughs when I chew grape or pomegranate seeds instead of swallowing them whole in much the same way. I marveled, meanwhile, at the my neighbors’ ability to eat every part of chicken and fish – bones, eyes, feet, skin… nothing went to waste on their plates, and I was embarrassed by the large pile of rejected morsels on my own.
In the end, I found that the simplest Ghanaian foods made me happiest. I just couldn’t spring for the haut-cuisine of Ghana which includes “rat,” huge snails and cow skin that can all be found on display at the markets. Instead, I took lunch for 40 cents at a stall every day; it consisted of rice, pasta and spicy pepper sauce. On my last day in Osino, I finally tasted “Osino graphic” which is a local specialty that is known around the country. Women carry it on their heads and sell it along the roadside. It’s a corn based meal similar to cream of wheat, but it is thick and sweet, and boiled inside many layers of leaves. For dinner, I usually had a rice dish. Patrick could cook up an oily-fried rice dish that I loved to eat with ketchup. He, a 17-year-old boy less lazy than myself, would bring out a mortar and pestle tomatoes and hot pepper to make a sauce for the rice. My favorite stews were the ones cooked with canned mackerel, and not with the small salted or smoked fish so ubiquitous at the markets and in the cuisine.
I also learned how to dye batik cloth in the last few days. A Peace Corps volunteer set up a Batik center in Osino about 10 years ago. A woman named Rosemary runs the center as an employee of the local public high school. Students take batik as an elective. She is a kind, astute woman who seems more worldly than many other people I have met in Osino. Her husband lives in the capital city of the Eastern Region, and she spends weekends with him. Her two young sons are named Abraham (who everyone calls “Father” as a nickname) and David. We laughed that 4 month old David has “obruni” hair, and decided it was because King David from the Bible had also been known for his hair; he was a redhead.
While Rosemary spent the day with me patiently choosing colors and patterns, various students and a woman who helps her run her small snack kiosk took care of the children. Villagers came in and out, visiting Rosemary, making batik orders and watching over the children. Once we got more involved in the cloth design, a horde of children crowded around the outdoor art room, eager to learn, watch and generally see what the white girl was up to.
I won’t go into all of the details of batik here – but if anyone is interested, let me know in an email. In brief, we used foam sponges to stamp the fabric with hot wax. Then, we dyed the fabric. Wherever there is wax, the fabric stays white. Once the initial dye is set and dried, we added another layer of stamps and dyed the fabric a second color. It was a long and messy process, but a lot of fun.
Yesterday, I visited a nearby village called Abompe and met up with a Peace Corps volunteer who has been living there for three years. The village is only 4km away from Osino, but it has a very different feeling. The village sits at the foot of some green brown cliffs that offer a stunning backdrop from every direction. At times, they are clear and feel incredibly close – like you could run right to the top. Other times, they are veiled in mist, silhouettes in the distance. The whole village is green and brown – and is free from the traffic and busy highway that bisects Osino and ruins any chance of serenity. In Abompe, there is a small gold mine, but it is not the primary sustenance for the villagers; most of the residents are farmers, with fields around their houses and terraced in the cliffs. They grow cassava, yams, plantains, bananas and maize. On top of the mountain is a large deposit of bauxite which some families use to make beaded jewelry. One main Peace Corps project is to help the bauxite artisans sell their crafts directly to markets and consumers, rather than receiving meager payment from middlemen. Over the past few years, a bead center has been set up and I got a chance to visit and also to learn how the beads are made. A bow drill is used to make the tiny hole and the a stone to polish and shape the beads. It is delicate and slow work, but the artists I met made the difficult technique look easy.
At the close of one of the most touristy experiences of my time in Ghana, I met up with two friends to have a beer at the village spot. Actually, we went to an adjacent village. Our usually “spot” was closed so we settled for beers in another place. Ghanaian Spots serve only drinks. Beers are about 1 dollar for a large bottle, and they sell domestic beers, Guinness and, randomly, Smirnoff Ice. (which might be more expensive, but I have no idea) It felt good to sit with a few friends. The wooden benches and dusty tabletop made no difference. We shared stories, laughed hysterically and felt like rebels for staying out after dark. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t home until 7:30. It was a first for my time here in Ghana! The streets came alive in the evening, in a way that I had not seen or known about. People were huddled in crowds chatting and many stores were still open. My new friend, B, told me that different towns have different habits. Abompe, for example, goes to bed early. But his town, Dwanase, stays up until 11 or 12 hanging out in the streets, listening to music, drinking at spots and chatting . Overall, it was a joyous evening; one that made me believe I could in fact stick around Ghana for a longer period of time.

Ghana 5

First of all, the frogs in my house are getting a touch out of control, but I am determined to complain less in this blog. I worry that in highlighting the more extraordinary aspects of my Ghana experience, I may be giving off the impression that life here is far more challenging, or less enjoyable, than it actually is.

So I will get the “bad stuff” out of the way in one paragraph - and it will be vivid! - before moving on to the more glorious aspects of my journey and life here in sub-Saharan Africa.

The frogs continue to be a problem. I see at least two a day, and it’s the suddenness of their appearance that makes me jump. I will creep to the bathroom in the middle of the night, carefully eyeing around corners for a small ribbeting intruder, and just when I think I’m clear… I will sit comfortably on my ivory throne and … hop! yet another frog will join me in the most private of moments.

But I have other tormentors as well. Last night it was a dead cockroach, a few spiders and a large slimy millipede slithering under my table. Two nights ago, in Accra, I was tormented by a single ravished mosquito. Finally, in the dark of the night, I turned on the lights determined to overcome my tormentor. When I finally smacked him, he released a shocking amount of blood, and I returned to the most satisfied state of slumber that I have experienced in a while.

It’s hard to believe I’ve spent so much time traveling, living in nasty youth hostels and sleeping in the wilderness, isn’t it? How have I never identified my fear of bugs, my jumpiness over them, until now? It’s a mystery.


That’s all the gore for today. I am back in Osino after a weekend of utter relaxation and self-care in Accra. I hadn’t been feeling great, but I returned to work this afternoon. My colleagues at the bank greeted me joyfully. However, when I told them that I had spent the weekend in bed, they were unanimously convinced that I was referring to less-pure and more enjoyable things than food poisoning. I explained to them that my boyfriend was back in Israel, but they laughed and nodded as if they were “in on” a secret. A few minutes later, another co-worker asked me if I’d been sure to “treat my boyfriend right and show him the best time in Ghana.” I am amused and somewhat shocked by the blatant sexual discussions at work. There were some more graphic remarks as well which I will pass on writing about.

Ori and I did have an unforgettable, wonderful week. He arrived on Friday evening. We were famished so I whisked him to a “great salad place,” something you can only get in the capital city of Ghana. Having just arrived from Israel, he was far less impressed with the meal than I was. We journeyed through the city, starting at Independence Square. It is a huge empty parade ground marked by a boxy-looking arc-de-triomphe with a huge black star in the center. The square looks over the ocean so we wandered from there to the beach. We saw young teenagers playing soccer and adults and children dancing and drumming along the boardwalk. Locals were swimming, but we were too disgusted by the sewage flowing toward the ocean to want to dive in.

We went out for a fancy Valentine’s Day dinner at a South African place called el Goucho. Ori ordered crocodile tail. It sort of tasted like a cross between chicken and fish. We also had the most amazing frogs legs. Really. Incredible. Which is actually why I think that the frogs in Osino are tormenting me so much. Guilt. Payback. It’s rough.

The next morning we headed north to the Volta Region and to visit the Wli Water Falls near the border with Togo. At the Accra bus station, we were grateful to find a new, air-conditioned tro-tro van headed our way. Still, we had to wait over an hour for it to fill up, and the entire time a loudspeaker screamed from its roof announcing the destination. My head was pounding before we even began the 4-5 hour journey. Once we arrived in the town of Hohoe, we still had to take a 40 minute van ride on a dirt road to arrive to the town of Wli.

But it was worth it!

In Wli, there is a paradise-like inn owned by a German couple. The couple, in their 50s, had set out about 10 years ago to drive from Germany to South Africa. Along the way, they had fallen in love with Wli, bought some land and are now running a clean, efficient get-away overlooking the largest waterfalls (arguably) in West Africa.

We could order simple, delicious food from their menu, but our orders had to be in by the afternoon. We would receive specific meal times: soup at 6:50 if dinner was at 7. We asked once for a 10 minute pause before our dessert. The Ghanaian waiter look slightly frightened, shook his head and said no. Then he said…maybe 2 minutes. It was clear that the Germans were running a tight ship.

The spot was spectacular. There was lush jungle foliage, pineapples, bananas and "pawpaw" (papaya) growing on the property. Chickens and small goats wandered by, and the innkeepers kept a parrot as well. One of the trees would shed white snow-like fuzz in the wind and blanket the skies with beautiful flurries that glinted in the sun. We didn’t want to ever leave.

I felt a bit sick on Saturday night, but we managed to hike about 2 hours up to the falls on Sunday. It was a spectacular hike, with animals, insects, plants and hundreds of butterflies providing endless entertainment along the way.

At the base of the hike some wood sculptors were selling their wares to the tourist crowd. In addition to the traditional statues depicting lovers, masks and animals, there was also a huge collection of large wooden penises. Each sculptor told us the same thing: For AIDS demonstrations. I was tempted to buy one for my father – who is a urologist.

We left Wli on Monday morning and were sad to leave. Ori was feeling sick and had a fever so the long journey to my village was torture for him. We finally made it in the afternoon and he relaxed at home while I headed off to the bank.

During the course of the week, Ori had a great time interacting and meeting with villagers. He always had a camera in hand, so children would surround him, eager to have their picture taken and then to see the image on the digital screen. Around 2pm, when school lets out, throngs of children in their matching uniforms would literally follow us down the streets. I would glance back at Ori and laugh – he looked like the Pied Piper or the character in West Side Story leading the Jets gang through a New York City alley.

While I was working in various bank branches, Ori made plenty of friends around the village. He spent one whole afternoon talking with a storekeeper about politics, music, religion and the role of women.

Ghanaians are proud to describe themselves as “very curious” – to the point of being slightly nosy – but it makes for great conversation. This, and the impression I have that no one is ever in a rush, means that it is easy to find yourself in long conversations with people about all sorts of issues. I am often impressed by how much they know about Israel – Hamas, Netanyahu and Livni are well known names to many people I have spoken with. I also enjoy the ease with which I can ask people questions about race and their perception of whites, Africa or the “western world.”

My neighbor and I have discussed how Ghana has so much going for it – a port, natural resources including gold, oil, and some diamonds. There is plenty of water and fertile ground. There’s democracy, peace and a literate population. He lamented that in spite of all these great things, Ghana is still not living up to its potential. Why, he asked, (as I have as well) are so many people in Ghana living without running water, electricity, and roads? Why is malaria so rampant?

Last weekend I was resting in Accra for three days, worried I had caught malaria. My upset stomach and total loss of appetite were not eased by the fact that both water and power were turned off all day on Saturday. My friend explained that this is fairly normal. The political parties control the water/power and they ration it regularly. Before the elections that were held a few months ago, there was constant power and water. People had hoped that with the new government, there would be fewer outages, but apparently that is not to be the case. I couldn’t help but think that despite the unbearable heat and our being forced to flush the toilet with buckets of water, the “rationing” was an environmental blessing. I tried to imagine New York City having similar blackouts on a weekly basis.



Holy crap. Just now. I mean, really, just now, as I am sitting here writing this, one of the agents I work with came running into the room crying. What’s wrong? I asked. Through her tears she managed to tell me there had been an accident. “Go and see,” she said, which is apparently what everyone in town does when such a thing happens. All of Osino is now gathered along the roadside staring at the scene of the accident. It took me a while to figure out what had happened but people kept pointing at an object in the road and saying, “the leg! the flesh!” and I finally realized that the amorphous brown and red object in the road was part of a man’s leg.

Now, about 20 minutes into this tragedy, there are no police, and no ambulance. And no one knows anything; the community is just standing along the street crying and shouting as traffic buzzes by in the rain occasionally mowing over the severed body parts.

Here is the story that I have so far. A bus was heading south going about 60 miles an hour and hit a private passenger car. The body parts belong to a passenger from that car. The bus drove off, very fast. Oh! Sirens! Just now. Anyway…that is all I know. Ill be back. The police just arrived. I also saw an ambulance and a hearse. The crumpled remnants of a car door are lying by the road side. No one knows how the man is. No one knows if he is alive. But the saga continues, everyone is watching. Waiting.

Ghana 1

Written on or about Jan. 25, 2009

I arrived in Ghana about 5 hours ago and already so much as happened. My flight from Frankfurt stopped first in Nigeria, to drop off most of the passengers. I wasn’t aware of the pit stop beforehand, but it gave me a chance to see the landscape in daylight. The runway was surrounded by green – a small paved strip lined with umbrella like trees. The air was thick with very low visibility, as if covered by a fog. As we approached the runway, I saw scattered yellow lights and what appeared to be small fires burning here and there amidst the jungle.

After about an hour to refuel, we continued on a very short flight to Ghana. As we passed through the doorway and out onto the stairs of the aircraft, I was struck with the thick nighttime heat. (I later learned that this week has been a particularly cool one.) I made it through customs, passport control, baggage claim and emerged tentatively from the airport into the eager throngs beyond the airport entrance. There was a din of collective name calling and countless signs, but eventually I saw a white face in the crowd and heard her calling my name. My boss had a taxi waiting for us and as we toured the Accra evening streets, she and I played a bit of Jewish geography and reminisced about Cortelyou Road in Brooklyn. She told me the plan for the weekend and even surprised me with the wonderful gift of a SIM card and minutes! She also told me that one of her friends in the ex-pat community was hosting a party tonight, and that we were welcome to come.

I couldn’t see much at night, but I did notice the ubiquitous construction. On every street there were half built houses – huge ones. Apparently, people here will build homes little by little – the foundation one year, the walls the next. Even on this wealthy side of town (or perhaps especially) this phenomenon was clearly visible. We found my hotel, not far from the airport, and were both impressed by the A/C, cable TV and hot water (which I still think isn’t true…). It’s a simple motel room, but the bed is comfortable and the mosquitoes limited.

Accra has a din, a sound track. You can hear the airplanes as they head to and from the city, and everyone knows the daily flight schedules. Amidst the roar of the engines, someone here can identify “Delta” or “Ethiopian Airlines.” You can easily tell when people are coming to town, or when your friend has arrived from afar. I am not sure if this airplane-identification is an ex-pat pastime, or if the locals also play along. In addition to the airplanes, there is always some sort of music playing; sometimes American rap songs, sometimes West African hits. Apparently, much of the music comes from the Ivory Coast which is known to be a cultural hub for the region.

I rested for half an hour in my room, and then we left for the party. My boss left telling me, very nonchalantly, that she didn’t want to stay long because she had been sick last week and wanted to get rest. She described this in about the same tone and level of concern that someone would use to discuss a cold.
“Sick with what?” I asked.
Malaria and Typhoid.
Oh. Right… She told me they were very treatable (she was cured!) and that she hadn’t missed any work. She’d felt a bit sick, gone to the doctor and taken some medicine. Now she’s fine. Ok… I took a deep breath and tried to match her easygoing approach.

We’re staying in the eastern, wealthy part of the town. The neighborhood where the party was is even wealthier – huge mansions surrounded by high fences. We hopped in a cab that costs a dollar or two to get almost anywhere, and arrived at a dead end street. The house had a gate and several guards standing out front. Inside the huge home were marble floors, art on the walls, large, open rooms. Not your typical bachelor pad, but the inhabitant is a young European making a killing here in Ghana. Not sure what business… There was catered food – meatballs, potato salad, kebabs grilled up fresh all night. There was a table cluttered with various juices, wine and liquors – and a large bin of sangria. Around midnight, a DJ arrived, and rumor had it that later on there would be a band and yes, prostitutes or at least some “questionable” local women. People ran in and out of the swimming pool, jumping with fanfare and splashing the other guests.

It was a curious party – part high school house party, part college-drinking binge until you noticed the crowd. Despite all the hired help, it had a very casual, young feel. But the guests were all in their twenties and thirties, and only a few were drinking in excess. Mostly, people chatted in small groups, mingling and flirting. The crowd was filled with young singles, brought to Ghana by the hope of adventure, or charity, world-changing, money-making and more. The culture had an impulsive feel to it, as if Ghana for ex-pats is a place where actions have few consequences and love lasts only one night.

There were Europeans, Americans, Australians, Senegalese, Ivorians. Here, in one yard, was a collection of people who shared only their foreigness, if not their values. There were World Bank employees, mingling with staff from several NGOs. There were a lot of people working in shipping, and others making big cash in short term stints in Africa working for foreign companies. Ghana has one of the strongest markets in the world, and the country just recently found oil. It’s the hub of West Africa for foreign diplomats and there are endless ways to take advantage of its resources and potential for the foreign entrepreneur. I spent the night speaking in French, happy that I had not totally forgotten the language although each time I wanted to say the French word for “but,” I said it in Hebrew. I made a few friends, got invited to go to the beach today and for a moment felt sad that I didn’t have more time to spend in Accra with my new ex-pat community.

I introduced myself as being from Israel, mostly because I hope that if people enjoy my company, maybe they will improve in some small way how they think about the country. There are about 60 Israelis living in Accra and most of the people at this party had not met very many. (One guy told me proudly that he once knew some Jewish people in France who had moved to Israel.) People asked me a lot about the war and the Americans were curious about the upcoming elections. People listened and I didn’t feel attacked, but clearly the sentiment was against the recent events in Gaza. One man described to me in detail the length that his shipping company goes to ensure that their boats and cargo never go to an Israeli port. He told me they will travel all through the Mediterranean, with the sole exception of Israel.

Around 1AM (GMT), we headed home, although the party was going strong. The night air was blanketed with sand from the Sahara; apparently the air here will remain dry, dusty and hazy until the rains of late March wash it away.

Ghana  Part 4

A few anecdotes from yesterday. I love how every moment here is filled with surprises. Amidst what may seem like the most boring town, where on weekends I have spent hours playing Chutes and Ladders, there are tiny moments of fascination that make this experience so fulfilling for me. This morning, for example, I woke up to another breathtaking sunrise. The air is thick and misty and the large trees are silhouetted in the fog by the rising sun behind them. I opened my gate to a family of snails, nearly the size of hand, making their way across my path. Do snails live in families?

Last night, O, my neighbor, came over just to say hi. Suddenly, she squealed with excitement at the trees in my yard. Somehow, ridiculously, we had all failed to notice the hundreds of ripe plantains dangling mere feet from my door. She ran to get a machete, and before I could stop her, she had literally hacked down an entire tree in order to get to the high growing fruit. The huge bunches of plantains were laid out on the ground and the ripest ones were fried up immediately for a delicious dinner. O. also managed to chop down a few pawpaws (papaya) for dessert. Usually, I am not so keen on this fruit, but I loved the not-quite-ripe sweet crunch of the ones growing in my yard.

During dinner, I talked a bit with my neighbor R. about his work as a teacher. He told me there are 50 or 60 students in each of his high school classes so I asked him if discipline is difficult. R. is a small man who looks almost like a teenager. I have found him to be gentle, intelligent and the most intellectual person I have met in a while, in Ghana or otherwise.

He told me that discipline is maintained through the caning of students with a sort of bamboo or wicker rod. He complained that he has to thrash the students although he hates doing so, because of the ineffective headmaster of his school. He prefers the less violent method of having the teenagers kneel in front of the classroom when they misbehave. It has to be mentioned that one of his students is my small boy. In spite of the fact that we all spend time together nearly every evening, R. has still on occasion thrashed P. (my small boy) during the school day.

If students resist the punishment, they receive it on their backs, instead of their hands. A typical punishment might be 3-5 whips of the cane. R. told me that he once had to cane his entire class of 50, and that the process was exhausting. But the children he are stubborn, he explained, so I have to do it even though I don’t like to.


Evenings here are creepy. The house sits on a major road connecting Accra (Ghana’s capital) to the Northern part of the country and Burkina Faso. Cars and trucks roar by all night bringing people and goods to all the villages and towns along this north-south route. The house is set back from the road, but there is a constant din of traffic, ceiling fans and a choir of frogs who live outside my bedroom. Lizards scurry on the metal roof; the silence of the countryside I anticipated was as false a hope as clean air around here. With the constant music playing, and bonfires of garbage blazing, Ghana is not the peaceful refuge that I imagined. The tranquility manifests itself in different ways – through the patience of the people here and the lack of rush and business.

In addition to the hustle and bustle beyond my walls, there is plenty hubbub within. At night, the cockroaches come around, giant fast critters eager to overtake every dark, dank corner of my abode. There are grasshoppers too, and large spiders scurrying on the walls. It’s enough to make me nauseous, and the catalyst for my new purchase of a mosquito net – a wall between me and the nighttime visitors that terrorize my dreams.


This week, I spent my first Shabbat in Osino, in my house. It coincided with my first night alone in my new surroundings. A friend of mine from Hebrew University packed me a wonderful Sabbath kit, complete with candles for each week and 6 small gifts to create a festive mood. Her first present was a mini Kiddush cup, perfect for holding the sanctified Fanta-wine. I did Kiddush on the phone with my mom, and enjoyed a meal of sweet, sugar bread, pasta and tomato sauce. I cranked up the electric fence and settled in to bed with a movie.

The morning began with a phone call from my small boy who was on his way over to help with the laundry and cleaning. I told him not to touch anything, and ran to turn off the electric current surrounding the house. He was a bit shook up when I found him outside the gate, but I assured him that it was safe to enter. He told me had nearly come straight over without calling first and was grateful to god that he had opted for calling!

We spent Saturday assembling the mosquito net and cleaning the house. P. is good company and I enjoyed talking with him. After noon, we walked to town where passersby greeted us and asked if we were getting married. He laughed at them, inquiring, “Do you remember me having a wedding?” It was a silly question, brought on by fascination with my whiteness more than a true belief that we were actually a married couple.

P. invited himself over for dinner. Apparently, in Ghana it is much more appropriate to invite oneself over to someone's house, rather than to invite guests to your own. Thus, I am more likely to have guests come here than I am to receive invitations to their homes, unless I ask myself to come inside. In town we picked up ingredients for dinner – sweet plantains, tomatoes, cabbage and chicken. The meat here is sold at “Cold Store” stands, some of the stores featuring refrigeration. The storekeeper reached into her freezer with bare hands and pulled out a ¼ chicken from within the stacks of damp and soiled cardboard boxes. She then proceeded to hack apart the thigh and drumstick with a machete, before tossing my dinner into a plastic bag. With her same bare hands, she gave me change. Our whole chicken dinner cost around three dollars and easily fed five.

We began preparing the food at five o’clock, with O. from next door teaching me to cook. There were many steps involved; we pre-boiled the vegetables and chicken before frying them all separately. There is pepe pepper to grind with a mortar and pestle, rice to cook, vegetables to wash and clean for dirt and bugs. We didn’t eat until eight, but the food was great and the spiciness within reason. The chicken was hard for me to eat. I couldn’t tell what was flesh , bone or fat and I picked gingerly at the hacked chunks of poultry. The others ate it all, leaving only small pieces of bone on the side of their plates.

After dinner, two of the neighbors asked me about the recent war in Israel. They know about Hamas, but had not heard of the rocket attacks on S’derot or of Gilad Shalit. I filled them in as well as I could and then we changed subjects to music and dance.

O. played mp3s on her cell phone while P. danced in the hallway. They sang a Ghanaian hit for me that sings the praises of Barack Obama. Most of Africa is extremely excited about the new American president!

They left around 10, and then I went to bed where I crashed promptly onto the floor when my bed slats had come loose. Annoyed, I made another bed, disappointed that I could not try out the new mosquito net. I watched the rest of my movie and fell asleep.

Today most people are at church and shops are closed. I was going to go on a hike, but prefer to relax, read my book and catch up on writing. Tomorrow and this week will be full of travels and adventure.

Just now, I was cleaning my floors, collecting water from the faucet outside my door. I noticed the lizards running around furiously, brushing up against trees and frantically headed in every direction. Split seconds later, 5 large drops fell on my face, followed by a fury of angry rain spilling from the sky. The sun was gone in an instant, replaced by torrents of rain banging on the roof creating thunder in the house. I dropped the bucket and mop and ran for cover. I thought it didn’t rain here during the dry season, but it appears I had been misinformed.

Ghana Part 3

When I walk down the street, all the little children cry “OBRUNI!" "white girl white, or white girl red!” Look mama, white girl, they cry. I giggle and say hello, trying hard to remember the difference in how to say “good morning,” “good afternoon,” and “good evening” in the local language. So far, all I have really mastered is eh-yeh, which means “I’m fine,” and “m-dasseh” which is thank you.
People call me and E sisters and if only one of us is around, they inevitably ask us where our sister is. Since her Ghanaian name is Yaa, like mine, they are thinking of calling me either “Yaa-Squared” or “Yaa Junior,” but I may opt for the warrior name that one of my co-workers gave me at the bank- Yaa Ofuriwaa.
I have a lot of fun at the bank job. People are always joking around, laughing, poking into our office to grab a drink from the fridge. I also do a good deal of directing, managing and teaching but this is made easier by the incredible patience of the people here. There is so much patience for tedious tasks here, no rushing or stress in the work place; it is inspiring! But it is also a necessity – here is a bank with no network, no internet and wads of cash stored in its safe. Messages and deposits are delivered by messengers to various branches. The water flows only sporadically and there is one bathroom for at least 30 staff. One of my favorite unusual features is that the men wear fancy suits, short, wide ties and pointy, leather shoes, but the women wear hand-tailored dresses made from yellow and green fabric featuring the insignia of the bank! They even had one made for my boss and offered me as well!
I brought some of the bank staff gifts from Israel; they are thrilled. They recognize my name from the Bible and are excited that I come from the Holy Land. Still, one guy looked at me – just after thanking me for my Jerusalem magnet - and said, “you know, you really shouldn’t be killing so many Palestinians.”


Yesterday I ventured alone to another village to visit the bank branch there. It was an adventure! I climbed aboard one of the shared taxi-vans and squeezed in between at least 15 other passengers. We passed endless jungle, tiny villages and saw the road lined with bright red jugs of palm oil. Along the way are signs encouraging safe driving, saying “A hug is waiting for you when you get home.” After about 40 minutes of bumping and squishing, I arrived in Nkawkaw (pronounced Incocoa) There, I met with the bank manager and director to help advance our project.
Around 3 o’clock, the manager asked if I was hungry. I was starving, but knew we had big dinner plans, so I asked for a snack. Peanut butter ground-nut soup? He offered. No way could I handle that! So we settled on fried yams. Within 15 minutes I was served up a plate of piping hot yams, accompanied by the crispy golden head of a fish. I had no idea how to eat it. I tried the cheeks, and sought meat from within the poor guy’s skull, but in the end I had to abandon the effort. The yams were great, tasted more like yucca or potato, and were served (*of course*) with a really spicy sauce. I ate this all with my hands, sitting among my coworkers on the corner of a desk within the main room of the bank.
After my snack, I shadowed one of the susu money collectors. The susu agents travel from stall to stall collecting money from all different businesses in the community. The money is deposited into the bank, for which the susu collector receives 2% commission. They are not the most reliable group and seem frequently to be sick. Still, I am having fun getting to know them and build a relationship with them. Many are female and most young, hoping to save money for school or their own families and businesses. From the few people I have talked to, it seems that saving money for higher education is a major priority.


I wandered through the Nkawkaw market with one susu collector. There was a man fixing near-ancient televisions and radios, a place to buy coal for cooking traditional foofoo dough (a popular dish made from plantain and maize flour.) There were spare parts, refrigerators, gas valves and tires, goats and an architects office, pottery, palm oil and huge swaths of fabric for less than 2 dollars. I took it all in. But there was also raw sewage flowing down open sewers along the sides of the streets and the smell of fried fish at stalls and on the shared taxi. Women and young children wander around everywhere advertising the goods that sit piled high upon their heads – oranges, water, chocolate milk, bananas…
After work, we get groceries for dinner and head home. When shopping, we need to keep very small change on hand. 10 cents is far more useful than 10 dollars. I wanted to buy a plastic water sachet the yesterday, but only had a 1 cede coin. The girl had no change. (1 cede is equivelent to 85 cents. The water cost 5.) We must also use very small change for our meals, which cost about 1 cede, for both of us. Coming home yesterday, we saw what I thought was a snake in front of our door. Turns out, it was an extraordinarily large (and dangerous) form of caterpillar or centipede. We shoved it away with a stick and ran inside.
Tonight we had our neighbors over for dinner. There are three teacher who live next door, guys about my age. They came by along with one of their girlfriends and P., our “small boy,” a 2-meter tall 18-year-old who helps out with cleaning and chores. The term “small boy” or “small girl” is somehow not demeaning. E is eager to learn to cook Ghanaian cuisine, so we loaded up with groceries from the one small stall in town. They prepared a spicy-hot fish stew with okra, green peppers, onions and garlic. The fish – head and all - was deep fried in bright red palm oil and then the vegetables (boiled first) were added in. This stew is served with a dough-like dish called Banku, which is made by mixing water, fermented corn meal, and plantain flour. It is then slowly worked into sticky paste over a coal fire. I watched in awe as our friend stirred it using all of her strength and body weight. She latched two metal rods to the side of the metal cauldrin, and used them to brace her feet against as she vigorously stirred the boiling goo. Foofoo is made the same way, but does not have the malted taste and smell of banku.

Dinner took around 2 hours to prepare. Each of us received a softball size serving of banku with fish and stew poured atop – and thus were expected to dine with our hands. The flavors were good, although the dough was a bit too fermented for me. The incredible spicyness precluded me from enjoying the meal. I will have to adapt – and fast.
We played around with a digital camera, posing and taking pictures. Then we talked politics a bit. I learned about Ghana’s political history and the latest elections, and we all shared in our unebbing enthusiasm over Obama’s win. We all agreed: it’s still hard to believe he is actually president.
For dessert, I served up some poprocks chocolate from Israel and watched in joy as our guests were shocked and then giggly over the sugary explosion in their mouths. They begged for more and took turns covering their ears to listen to the popping chocolate, and then leaning over to listen to the crackling of eachothers' mouths. I will have to bring more soon!
It was a wonderful evening; we all exchanged numbers and it feels great to be building a community here. My small boy already told me he will be sad when I leave and that we will have to email.
I reminded him – and myself – that this was only my third day in Ghana.

Ghana, Part 2





These are pictures of my house and the bank where I work in Osino.



On Sunday, I got to see my work headquarters in Accra. We had lunch at a western-style restaurant featuring smoothies and paninis. Then, we headed to the grocery store – Lebanese owned – to buy provisions for the week. The store had lots of variety – foods from around the world ranging from matza farfel to laughing cow cheese to petit beurres cookies. We bought some cereal and cheese and headed on our way. (No matza this week.)

In the afternoon, we headed with our bags up to Osino. My boss warned me about the bus station in advance. The minute we stepped down from the taxi, we were accosted with people trying to help us find our way and carry our bags. We walked assertively, repeating that we knew where to go. We found our mini-van (a new, air-conditioned vehicle) and climbed aboard. While we waited about 20 minutes for the shared-taxi to fill, we were surrounded by people on all sides selling water, phone cards, ice cream and endless other snack foods. Most were women, carrying their goods on their heads, piled heavy and high. Still, they walked effortlessly and reached their arms through the van windows, enticing us to buy. I tried a frozen chocolate milk treat and filled up my phone with minutes.
Just before taking off, the driver put on a heavy winter coat – the air conditioning was apparently too cold for his tastes! We witnessed the same thing today at work when people inside the bank were bundled up in jackets despite the at least 80 degree weather.
The roads were incredibly bumpy. At first, we drove through herds of goats, but eventually we followed a single road through the jungle, thick trees, shrubs and vines on either side of us. Occasionally, we passed through a village with people loitering along the road. The women carried babies on their backs and water, fruits or other goods upon their head. I urgently needed the bathroom and was grateful when we stopped about 2 hours into the ride. Everyone poured out of the car, and women and men lined the side of the road, standing only 1 or 2 meters apart, and did their business. The women could even do it standing! I tried to go a bit down a path for privacy, but the men told me not to stray far.

When we got to the edge of Osino, E decided it was time for me try real Ghanaian food. I had heard of foofoo and ground nut soup so I ordered them, although I had no idea what they were. The foofoo was an enormous glob of sticky dough, made from ground cassava and plantains. The soup was poured on top – an oily and extremely spicy mixture of peanuts, red pepper and a few pieces of meat. The price was according to chunks of meat – each one cost about 80 cents. I got two, but had to ask several times for a better looking piece. The ones she served at first were covered with gristle and cow skin. Yes, thick, chewy looking cow skin.
E got plantains served with a spinach-like side dish, also very spicy. Meals here are eaten with your hands and on the table was soup, water and bowls for hand-washing. The food was certainly not bad. Very flavorful and hearty. But it was spicy and I couldn’t eat that much. With time, E assured me, I will get used to it! (Today’s lunch was much more basic – white rice, spicy red tomato paste called stew and a hard-boiled egg – all for 80 cents.)
After dinner, we hopped in a cab. The driver’s boss was nearby so we started talking with him. Turns out, he knows a Ghanaian man in the area who lived in Israel for 20 years. He said he will try to introduce us. The taxi driver himself was not a very good driver, so we had him let us down despite his pleas to help us more…
And thus, we arrived at my new home during the next 6 weeks! In the dark, off the side of the main street, we stumbled through the gates, around to the back entrance.
The house is huge. Really huge! There are wide open rooms with tile floors – a living room, a huge entry/greeting room that we don’t use, a kitchen, 3 bathrooms and at least 4 bedrooms. There is very little furniture and no hot water. We have a huge, unkempt yard filled with papaya trees. I may switch bedrooms to the far end of the house, but for now I am a room with a large bed, a night stand and a chair. The house is surrounded with thick walls, barbed wire (that is even electric) and a porch where we keep on the light at night. So for the audience at home, no need to worry!
The internet is working better than I thought, although I can’t skype or talk on gchat, I can check my emails and occasionally (slowly!) the news. Putting up this blog may take a while…

On War and Pizza

Well, well. I have two papers due tomorrow, so what better way to procrastinate than write about what's really on my mind...
Everyone I know it seems - right, left, Jewish, Christian, Atheist, Arab, French, Floridian, New Yorker, Hippie, Relatives and Strangers - all seem to want to (a) share their opinion about the war and (b) hear mine.
Well, mine changes from day to day, but why not put today's perspective into words.
I am scared, of course, about the response that I may get from this blog, or - worse yet - that I may down the line regret the very words I wrote. But doing things I might regret letter never stopped me in college, so why start now! Besides, risks have truly led to some of the best experiences of my life. So here goes.

Every day I get new information. Today, Israel was attacked again by three rockets from the north. I am praying that a war doesn't start on the northern front.
And then, on the other side, Israel made some grave decisions that I can't quite understand or place into my way of thinking. Cognitive Dissonance strikes again. Why, for example, did the Israeli Parliament ban 2 Arab parties from running in the next election? (A decision, which the ISRAELI Supreme Court will end up overturning, but still...) It strikes me as blatantly undemocratic, regardless of the inflammatory nature of some of the comments made by Arab ministers in the past few weeks. And why, I might add, is Israel using white phosphorus - a chemical that burns in contact with oxygen and whose use in civilian areas is banned?

That being said, I am supporting this war as a concept. I think Israel had and has a right to defend itself and respond to the thousands rockets that have fallen on us over the past 10 years. I also understand the decision of Hammas to fire qassam/grad rockets on us in response to the siege we've placed on the Palestinians living there. In 1967, when Egypt put a siege on us, we responded with violence. That's what countries do in order to defend themselves...

As far as the war is concerned...it's been a weird feeling for me - to be supportive of a war. The liberal inside me is screaming in confusion, but as I try and read, listen, and think about it from so many ways... well.
Basically I've come to this: Israel completely left Gaza 3 years ago - military and residents pulled out. Since then, Sderot and other southern cities and towns have been under constant threat of rocket fire. Israel has barely if at all responded to these attacks - something I think no other country would do. Even during the 6 month so-called cease fire, Gazan militants fired qassams at Israel. Right after the cease fire ended, we were hit with 70+ rockets in one day!
In a perfect world, we would all be able to sit around and have diplomatic conversations. I so wish it could be that way. But Hamas clearly calls for Israel's destruction - entirely - so what impetus do they have to talk to us? It is easy enough for them to stop the war and the siege. If they are concerned about their people, they can stop attacking us. Period. They'll get more water, supplies, trade, open borders - we could advance talks of statehood. But how can Israel open borders and lower our level of security when Israeli citizens are being attacked: randomly and regularly?
I do believe that the purpose of a government is to keep order and protect its citizens. For many years, the Israeli government has not been doing that for the residents of southern Israel. They have a responsibility to act. That's the way governments work, and sadly, in our current world, violence is the universal language.

Furthermore, I am frustrated, extremely, by the whole world's seeming obsession with this issue. Where is the anger. the interest. the obsession. when it comes to: Georgia? Darfur? Ivory Coast? Chechnya? Congo? Kurdistan?
The numbers here in Israel/Palestine are much less significant, and the situation so complex that even living here it is near-impossible to figure out what to believe. The protests against Israel in Europe seem to be so laced with cruelty, hatred, and a general disdain/regret for Israels very existence. I can understand why people who don't want Israel to exist would also be against this war... but for people with attachments here, I feel that ignoring the qassams amounts to an existential threat for this country.

All this being said - I am sad about the war. I am sad about children dying, about people having no where to go. The lack of supplies. (although we do have a THREE HOUR daily cease-fire to get aid into Gaza during which they continue to launch rockets at Israel)
I want it to end. today, if not so, then tomorrow. but I want the end to mean a real ceasefire. on both sides. My friend Emily put it best: "Everyone just wants to be able to go home at night and order a pizza."
May it be so...

For those of you who are worried about the war, here is a public service update:


Things are okay here. What is going on is about an hour south of where I am, which seems close, I know, but in Israel an hour is really far away. We still go to parties, eat out, go to work, go to weddings, stress about bills and buses: life as usual.

How the war (thus far) affects my life:
*There are certain arab-israeli neighborhoods that I won't travel in now, especially in Jerusalem. (examples for those who know: I am not using Route 443, or going to Yaffo and Beit Hanina these days. There has been some throwing of molotive cocktails that I would rather avoid.)
*I am trying not to take buses as much and will start taking the car (!)(!!!) to school.
*We have signed up to host Israeli families from near the gaza border so they can be safe from the bombings
*A few acquaintances of mine are being called up for reserve duty, especially people in the airforce For others I know who are in the army right now, they've shifted location...
*The news is always on, and people sort of have a general air of concern and extreme interest in the news. I"ve been having some very heated debates and keep getting invited to protests both for and against the war. (I am opting out of both.)
*I would say that tensions are a bit higher between myself and my arab friends, but not to an extreme extent - more like a general awkward feeling.



Anyway, as I said, it's life as usual for now.
Will keep you posted.

Also, for those of you who don't know, I am headed to Ghana on January 24th for an internship with a non profit! Very excited!
Rach

What do Bachelorette Parties, Jewish Youth Groups and War Have in Common?


Last night I went to my first bachelorette party in Israel. I had no idea what to expect - had to ask for advice on what to wear, what to write in the card, etc. And, well, apparently I didn't ask for quite enough advice because I didn't know that most people would be bringing gifts...

I also didn't realize that the party was not in a club, but rather in a hall dedicated to singing along to classic Jewish and Israeli songs. Ironically, I was reminded of the beer halls in Munich. The 20 of us sat at long wooden tables and were handed tambourines. We ordered food which seemed very secondary to the occasion. No one ate it, and the pitiful service proved that the music was the draw to this packed establishment.

Groups of people were crammed in wall to wall, celebrating birthdays, anniversaries and engagements. Up front, on a simple platform, we were entertained and motivated by an energetic Israeli singer accompanied by a gy on a Yamaha-style keyboard. The accompanist showed no restraint in putting on those cheesy background rhythms (disco, salsa, harpsichord deluxe) and the crowd went wild.
Women, men, old (like us) and older danced on the tables, on the chairs. You could forget the cheesiness of it all because the crowd was simply eating it up. Everyone was singing, no one noticed that their food was still frozen or cared that their salad hadn't arrived. Mayaan (the bride) danced from table to table and the "song leader" made sure to highlight the occasions and celebrations throughout the crowd.

On my part, it was great to meet some of the people who will be at the wedding; for once I won't know only Ori and the bride and groom!

But the surprising part of the evening was how many of the songs I knew. Thank you to U.S.Y. (my jewish youth group.) THere we were, in a established venue dancing on tables and chairs just as we had during sabbath "ruach" (spirit) sessions as teenagers. I found myself singing the same songs, with the same exuberance, and yet here I was three continents across the globe in a bar filled with non-kosher food and alcoholic beverages. Moments like these spur warm, fuzzy feelings of Jewish unity: Israelis - with ancestry in Europe, Russia, the Middle East, and North Africa know the U.S.Y songs! I was elated.

On a more somber note, a table next to us had driven up from the south where they are spending too much time in bomb shelters these days. The leader promised them an "explosive evening" (roaring laughter) and then sang a song we all know - whose words remind us that "the world is a narrow bridge, and that the important thing is not to be afraid!"


As narrow as this bridge is, I feel oddly un-affected by the war. We are talking about it, reading about, debating about it, but it's life as usual here in Tel Aviv. How narrow is that bridge?

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.

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.

- 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.