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.

Tripod...
or how I got a cat.


We returned, tired and happy, from Turkey on Saturday night. The next day, after more than three weeks away from home, we got back to our apartment in Tel Aviv. And thus, less than 24 hours away from our last adventures, began the next.

Many street cats have been adopted by our building. THere is a woman who lives next door who feeds the cat, so we have a regular dedicated fan base of 5-10 cats who stay close by.

When Ori came home from work on Sunday, we spotted one of our own, a young black male, with a dreadfully battered and broken front leg. It touched me. Deep. And Ori spent the next hour or two on the phone trying to find someone to take care of the cat. No emergency pet services here. No free pickups. Until finally, we met found angel.

A vet, working midnight hours north of Tel Aviv - willing to do the surgery for 1/3 to 1/4 of the price. (all told, for less than 90 dollars.) I called my friends with a cat, and picked up their cage the next day.

However.... on Monday the cat was no where to be found. I thought about fate, about how some cats run off to die, or about the remote possibility that someone else had taken him in. I thought about how we had no plan as to what we would do for the cast post-op. And I figured maybe it was for the best.

Tuesday after school, still no cat. I ran errands, did laundry and finally at 9:30 PM, went out with Ori to go for a run.

There, at the entrance to our building, was our old friend, seeming to happy and cuddly to notice or accept the dangling limb that was dragging him little by little out of this world. I broke into tears and Ori went to call the doctor.

Someone had bandaged his foot with an ace, but this was no soccer field sprain. The cat had no feeling in the paw. The lower leg was flipped backwards so the pads of his feet faced up. Still, he hopped merrily (and speedily around) and the other cats accepted him as much as any of their playmates. He purred and cuddled closer to me, tenderly putting one paw at a time in my lap. This was hardly typical street cat behavior and I had to keep reminding myself not to pick him up.

After 15 minutes, Ori came down with a cage and the miraculous cat-ophile who lives next door. Alas, the cage was too small. We lured him inside easily with food, but he could not fit. And he quickly realized we were trying to trap him. There was no chance of getting him near the cage again. He ran out into the street and hid cowering beneath cars. (isn't that how all this started, i thought?!)

It took over an hour to catch the cat. In the end, we lured him tuna fish and Ori tossed him into our car. HE freaked out like racquetball gone wild for several minutes, before slithering beneath my seat - where he stayed for the next hour.

Still dressed to run, Ori and I drove back north, past his office and to the residential neighborhood where the vet has his office. Ori went inside, and returned a few minutes later to the car with the doc. What a guy! THe doc was wearing jeans and a dusty t-shirt. He finished up a cigarette, and went after the cat with are and determination, brandishing a syringe with an air of unbelievable 'chill.' As if crawling into stranger's cars at 11:30 at night in order to inject a street cat with anesthisia was a routine activity.
Which I guess, for this man, it is.

The cat spasmed a bit and then relaxed in Ori's arms. He shivered and shuddered for about half an hour and then we left him. It was past 11 now so we went to get a sandwich. An hour later, the surgery was complete.

As we walked back to the vets, right on his doorstep, Ori found a 100 shekel bill, neatly folded. We gave it immediately to the vet as an inadequate tip thankful and cognizant of the role of fate in this whole debacle.

We picked up the cat, now called Tripod, and carried him into the car. He shook a bit but was virtually immobile. He had no bandages. Where his leg had been was a fold of skin sealed with a row of neat, black stitches. He was barely bleeding.

We picked up cat litter and food in a 24 hour market and set out to cat-proof our him. Dressers were cleared. Doors were closed, porch screens sealed shut, shutter blinds slanted upwards at steep angles. Our still unpacked bags were pushed into another room and the three of us set up camp for a long night in the guest bedroom.

Ori and I took turns sleeping. The "awake" one of us would hold and pet our little friend, reassuring him and helping hi when he wanted to try and walk. Our big fear was that he would hurt his head or teeth. Each time he tried to break out into a sprint, or even a footstep, his head would fall toward the floor, gravity being still far more powerful than Mr. T's anesthetized, dizzy little mug.

BY morning, and with the help of a miracle, he was holding his head okay. Our neighbor watched over him in the morning and I left hebrew early to take over the watch.

He is scared and missed the great outdoors. But he is eating and still very loving and affectionate. Stay tuned....

It is hot here!
For those of you wonderıng ıf I would ever feel hot - ıf I had a threshold ın my love for hot weather regardless of humıdıty and proxımıty to the ocean...the answer ıs yes.
45 degrees celcıus (113 fahreınheıt) ıs a bıt too much. Beıng crowded ınto shared taxıs luggıng 40 pounds or more on my back and gasppıng for stıfled oxygen wıth my fellow passengers whıle the wındow breathes a fıery breeze on my neck - well ıt ıs a bıt much. And sleep ıs more challengıng.

HOWEVER! There ıs shade and sunset and the fact of the matter ıs we are havıng the most ıncredıble adventure and vacatıon. Truly epıc. We spend tıme dıscussıng who we can convınce to vısıt thıs part of Turkey and thankıng the guy upstaırs for our good fortune. We wısh for two more weeks, (even one!) and plan our future rendezvous wıth Turkey.

Yesterday, we had a somewhat challengıng escape from the Kurdısh capıtal cıty - Dıyurbakır.

The cıty was a bıt depressıng, crowded, worn. The ınhabıtants less jubılant - a far cry from the joy marked faces of the people ın the Kaçkar. The chıldren harassed us as we walked along the ınterıor of the 6km walls that cırcle the old cıty. Gatherıng behınd us ın gangs of 5 or more, scrawny 8 year old boys yelled 'money! hello! money! money!' When they threw a stıck ın my dırectıon, Orı quıckly scared them off wıth one threatenıng glance. We clımbed up the staırs onto the ramparts and walked for about 1/2 a kılometer on the walls wıth vıews down to the old and new cıty. Back on the ground near the park that spans the ınterıor of the walls we snacked on ıncredıble fıgs and a spıcy shısh kebab.

We tasted an Arab style honey-coated dessert, gathered our begs and headed for the dolmuçes.


Back to our departure from the crowded central cıty... We quıckly found a bus ıntracıty bus headed for the central statıon. An englısh-speakıng man helpedus wıth our begs and brought us several blocks to another bus statıon. He waıted wıth us untıl the bus came and bought us bottled water. Ah the Turkısh! Thıs bus took us to the central statıon. Here we encountered more than enough helpful cıtızens and ın 15 mınutes we were on our way ın a van headed for Mardın. They had saved us the best seats up front!
Wıthout beıng able to communıcate, the van drıvers took us under theır wıng. When everyone dısembarked ın mardın, we were ınstructed to stay on board. ANother drıver took the wheel and gave us prıvate (and free) transport another part of Mardın up hıgh ın the old cıty. Here, we arrıved to another van that seemed to be waıtıng for us! As soon as we clımbed ın, the van took off carryıng a few other passengers and some varıous grocery ıtems for vıllages along our route.

Once we reached Savur, a hıll-spannıng vıllage of about 1000, the van took us straıght to our new home! We were anxıous for a respıte from cıty lıfe and constant movıng. Here we found paradıse, as promısed by our Lonely Planet guıde. It took us awhıle to fıgure out how to get ınsıde our hotel...

We are stayıng ın an old mansıon at the very top of Savur overlookıng the cıty as ıt spreads down toward a green forest and rıver on both sıdes. Endless staırs led us up to the foyer where we were greeted by a famıly who tıes theır ancestry back wıth the vıllage for hundreds of years.

Savur has been ınhabıted for 3000 years. The famıly ıs Muslım and has been ın thıs house for 300 years. They have a gıant famıly tree on one wall that traces theır famıly hıstory back to Muhammed, to Abraham, and to Noah and Adam. Upon our arrıval we were gıven a tour and a choıce of 3 rooms and the rooftop terrace. Each room ıs entırely unıque and fılled wıth antıques and unıque touches of flaır from old bathrobes and towels to tıny tea decanters and thımble sızed cups. The lace lıned tablecloths are ımpeccably whıte and touched wıth embroıdery. Lace curtaıns cover the arched stone wındows and a breeze sends the lace bıllowıng gently ınto the room. The beds are old ıron beds - gorgeous. The ceılıng ıs arched from stone and every nook and cranny of the home ıs decorated wıth careful touches and dustless knıcknacks.

Before we went to sleep, the grandmother turned down the bed, gave us a fan, and put out a large bottle of ıce water.

We spoke a bıt wıth one of the sons who ıs the only Englısh speaker. Prıce negotıated (ıncludıng dınner, breakfast, and laundry!) we settled ın and went for a walk. Sunsets late here and we watched ıt fıll as the ımam called the towns' dıverse resıdents to prayer. Here, Turks, Kurds, and Arabs pray together ın the maın mosque. We passed vıllagers who saıd hello and chılren who stared at us wıth curıousıty and amazement. One man yelled hello from hıs roof terrace and asked ıf we spoke german. He also knew a bıt of french so we exchanged a few pleasantrıes.

As we passed closer to hıs abode, hıs mother begged us to come ın for tea. Suddenly we found ourselves on theır roof chattıng ın French German and Arabıc over tea. We watched the sky together and struggled to communıcate. Soon, they were beggıng us to spend the nıght. When we told the mother who looked about 75 that we couldn't stay for dınner, she seemed on the verge of tears. After 40 mınutes we headed out wıth crıes of thank you, mercı, and shukran!

Back at the mansıon we lıt candles, saıd kıddush and enjoyed a home-cooked meal on the terrace. The walls are all beautıfully arched stone and the ground ıs a smoothe, clean whıte-washed stone as well. As we ate, the famıly sat wıth us keepıng our plates fully loaded and the wıne glasses full. We communıcated ın a smorgasboard of languages and laughed wıth the famıly. When we told them we would actually be stayıng two nıghts and not one, the owner laughed knowlıngly. 'Everyone says one nıght,' he told us, 'and then they say two nıghts. And then they stay three!' After dınner and fresh melon dessert, we were lead to the rooftop to watch the stars. below us we saw the dwındlıng lıghts of the vıllage and heard musıc from a weddıng. From one sıde of town came tradıtıonal musıc markıng the henna ceremony for the brıde. From the other sıde came thumpıng dısco as the men celebrated ın a large and boısterous party. Today ıs the actual weddıng and we just may have an ınvıtatıon!!!

We enjoyed the ınnkeeper,s company on the roof for about an hour. Later, wıth the heat keepıng sleep at bay, the ınnkeeper ınvıted me ınto the kıtchen and offered me ıce water. I sat on the couch readıng a book by a Turkıs author called Istanbul whıle he sat ın hıs pyjamas watchıng an Amerıcan TV show wıth subtıtles.

In the mornıng, the grandfather served us breakfast and at noon we were offered fresh fruıt. We ate ıt amıd the antıques on the long wındow seat ın our room. Our washed laundry drıed ın seconds and we headed ınto town despıte the heat.
Paradıse.

The Journey from Van to Dıyurbakır and the 8th Wonder of the World...

I'm inserting a picture of Turkey to help give an idea of the areas we traveled through...

Ori returned from the ancient city of Ani with Aurel, a Hungarian tourist he had met en route to Ani. Aurel was about 60 years old, friendly and currently on his umpteenth
raod trip around Turkey. The guy was a walking encyclopedia of information about every Turkish tourist attraction and tiny village. In fact, he carried with him a small notebook containing every detail about his previous travels. How much he spent on hotels, where he got discounts, and how many km/liter his car was doing. He was bitter and complained constantly about the Turkish. He swore at the drivers in Hungarian and littered the conversation with racist remarks here and there. But he was going the same way, so we humored him and helped him fight off loneliness for a day, visiting the Pasha Palace, Mt Ararat and driving south around Van Golu to the city of Eastern city of Van.

We tried to get close to Ararat. Aurel had promised his mother a stone from the famous mountain. Checkpoints were everywhere, however, and without a permit we could not get close. We checkout out a few dirt roads, nearly got the car stuck in sand, and finally give up on our quest toward the ark. We saw the Isak Pasa Palace, an impressive structure with dungeons and elaborately decorated tombs that was built in 1685.


We were close to Iran and began seeing periodic checkpoints along the way. Aurel, dedicated to using only Shell gas, spent an hour driving up and down the highway looking for the yellow sign. I couldn't stay awake in the back seat, and thus abandoned Ori to the endless stream of complaints, profanity, factoids and incongruous stories that poured forth from our driver's mouth.

Eager for some quiet time, we told Aurel thank you and headed out on our own in Van.
We explored the city streets, tasting the sweet sticky Turkish ice cream that resembles taffy in consistency. As we toured through an alleyway looking for a venue that sold a beer or glass of wine, the lights went out across the whole city. Van had seemed like one of the most modern metropolises of our journey thus far. There were chic stores and trendy looking restaurants. But at 9 at night, with the power our, and only men in the cafes and city streets, we saw another side of this "modern" locale. Within a few minutes, every restaurant and cafe had brought out a generator and business continued on as if nothing unusual had occurred. Men drank tea and played backgammon, others watched soccer games or ate doner kebabs.


We left Van the next day and our friendly and loquacious Hungarian friend early in the morning. Heading south we followed the shoreline of the enormous Van Gulu. (Lake) This lake, expansive, beautiful, half the size of Israel - is blessed with beautiful shores green islands, and plenty of fish. And yet the Turkish population rarely swims, sails or otherwise makes use of it in any recreationally way. The one exception is the frequent ferries that carry tourists to some of the islands where visitors can see old mosques and castles.

We skipped these castles, having seen enough the previous day, and loaded our bags on our back, stuck out our thumbs and waited for a ride. Hitchhiking became our primary mode of transportation for the next week and we had nothing but great experiences and mostly immediate success.

Our first ride was from a police officer - not the only police officer who would help us out along the way. He was not from the area, but was stationed there. Next, we hopped aboard a very pimped-out Audi and tasted our first anti-Israeli comments ("Israel bad. Palestine good") from an Istanbuli. (His Ankarian friend who was driving assured us that he was harmless and made peace.)

Our next ride, with a father and his young son, brought us to a checkpoint. There, the soldiers told us to get down and then arranged for us to ride free on the inter-city bus to the next town. Within 10 minutes, we had boarded the next passing bus service (a bus from Van headed all the way across Turkey to Istanbul!) On the buses, we were served drinks, coffee, snacks, and wet clothes. Each bus had a steward who gave out endless water and took good care of the passengers on the long stretches of burnt-golden fields that laminate the Turkish East.

The bus took us to Bitlis. This is a working-class town, built spanning a river and in the shadow of steep hills. The streets cross the river, which is littered and clogged with dirt and trash. Still, there was something charming about the city and its residents. The castle was closed, but we met a French-speaking local who invited us to tea. While he and I chatted, his companions excitedly called everyone they could think of who might speak a word of English. Soon, I had several cell phones shoved toward my ear. I would say, "Hello?" and a strange, accented voice would say, "hi, how are you?" as if they had to hear for themselves that a real live American had made it to Bitlis Turkey. Still other locals snapped pictures of me with their phone with an air of admiration and pride ("tourists! all the way from America, in MY town!!!") opposed to ludeness.

The French-speaking man treated us to tea and than walked with us for awhile looking for a vegetarian optiont. After several failed attempts, we were served up giant platters of Lahmajun, which, in the end, was pizza with (yes) meatsauce. It was admittedly delicious, and there wasn't cheese. So another lamb died, but at least I wasn't totally traif. The French-speaker invited us enthusiastically to his house in the west of Turkey and we snapped pictures and exchanged addresses before heading out of town.

Here too, and during the rest of our time in the Kurdish areas, we saw no women. I kept my head covered, and Ori and I became "Adam and Rachel" the married couple from New York, New York with no kids and a cat. Most Kurds love Americans because the Kurdish people of Iraq were liberated by the war there and the fall of Saddam Hussein. We encountered a lot of nationalism, some anti-Turkish sentiments and an unending supply of hospitality.


From Bitlis, we hopped aboard one of our best rides. The man was going far along our route and was an experienced driver - a salesman who had spent the past 15 years driving across huge regions of Turkey selling wholesale goods. We communicated as best we could with him, often with the help of our treasured dictionary. He happily treated us to bottles of water, and invited us to join him in prayer at a mosque when the sun began to set. The man, who in every way appeared modern and westernized, dutifully pulled over when the call to prayer was recited. We wrapped a hippie skirt around my head and I went to the women's side while Ori and the salesman washed their hands and feet before going into the main mosque.

As I watched the women swaying in eager prayer, I couldn't help but connect them to the prayer of religious Jews. Today I learned the Hebrew expression "בני דודינו" Literally translated it means "our cousins," but it is simply a generic term for Arabs in popular Israeli discourse.

Before separating from the salesman outside of the city of Batman - yes, it's called "Batman," he warned us to be careful in the Kurdish areas and especially in the capital city, Diyurbarkir.

Our next ride picked us up as the sun had set. We were about an hour outside of Diyurbakir and anxious to arrive. The truck driver's name was Osman and we climbed in the cab beside him. When he heard we were American, he was excited to express his love for our country and our President. Most of our conversations went as follows: We named a country and he said "good!" or "bad!"
US? - good! very good! Go Bush!
Iran? - bad!
Iraq? - bad! Saddam - very bad!
Turkey? - bad!
France? - eh!
Israel? - "I PISS ON ISRAEL!"
hmmm...
and Palestine? - bad too!

We gritted our teeth and moved on to other topics, especially when he began lauding the PKK - the Kurdish separatist group behind the bombings in Istanbul.

Politics aside (very, very far aside) he was a nice man. He stopped for us beside a famous bridge that spans a tributary of the Tigris, and snapped pictures. He excitedly called his cousin in Diyurbakir - an English speaker - and handed me the phone. Both him and his cousin offered to host us for the night and were eager to help us in any other way they could. WE even talked to the man's wife and she also wanted us to join them. Still, despite his family's hospitality, we couldn't quite swallow Osman's politics, so we allowed him to drive us to the city center, and flag us a cheap cab to our hotel.

HASENKEYF Aizeh Kef!
The next morning, in 113 degree heat, we set out for Hasenkeyf. We knew little of this ancient town on the Tigris - had heard it was "definitely worth seeing" from the Israeli journalist who sat beside us on the plane, and from Aurel. 2 bus rides and a few hours brought us to this small village. Hasenkeyf was quite possibly the highlight of our trip. We spent hours exploring the village, the river banks and the rock formations before sunset was upon us and we'd barely seen the main attraction.

The ancient town has ruins of a giant Roman bridge that spans the Tigris. Local boy were jumping from its remaining pillars into the river, while dogs, goats and even local women waded in the water for relief. Men and little boys dragged nets through the river catching plentiful fish in the simply woven threads. Inside the main bridge, a family had biult their home. They had orchards full of fruit trees, a chicken coop and a vegetable garden. A satellite dish perched upon their ancient roof and water pipelines wove in through windows that had one stood guard to the entire village. A colorfully dressed woman watered the ground and smiled for our pictures. We saw kittens and turkey, goats, cows and more.

And yet.... in 2 years, all we saw in Hasenkeyf will be drowned beneath hundreds (yes, hundreds!) of feet of water. Damns are popping up all over the regions. The enormous Turkish damn project, with the Ataturk Damn as its crown jewel, is designed to bring water to the southeastern desert, to allow for farming and ultimately to feed the mass of population. Meanwhile...thousands of people are being displaced when their villages are flooded and archaeological and historical landmarks are being buried beneath the waters like another flood of Noah.

Along the river, we ate in one of the many hut-restaurants that served up fresh fish and salad. There were tables and chairs set up in the water, so that customers could bathe their feet while they ate. We choose to sit on one of the raised perches where cushions and a low table made for our own private bungalow-table over the river.

We explored the mosque and talked the shopkeepers who sold wool products, magnets, snacks and knickknacks to the mostly-Turkish tourists. With only an hour until closing time, we made it to the main archaeological site. High above the river were the intact remains of an ancient city. The ruins covered endless hilltops' each time we thought we'd reached the city limits, we would spot the next hill. There were clear store front, latrines temples and cemeteries. The rest of the tourists were long gone so we were on our to watch as the setting sun blanketed the ruins with multi-colored light and long shadows. We saw as much as we could before finally heading back to the modern-day city around 8:30.

The buses had already stopped running, so we hitched a ride quickly with two young professionals. They were traveling on business from Istanbul and Ankara with the largest oil company in Turkey- - based out of Batman. The men were amazing! Neither were from the area, but they spent a long time on the phone and driving around Batman in search of public transportation to Diyurbaker (where our hotel was.) They offered to help us find an affordable place to stay in Batman, they bought us water and they even wanted us to join them for dinner. Finally, we found a midnight bus headed our way. AS we waited for it to embark, our two new friends waited with us.

The next morning, we set out in the streets of Diyurbakir to explore the walls and the market. We quickly met a man named Ali who spoke great English and claimed to be a former UN worker who now "works for the BBC." In fact, the man had an elaborate stream of stories, that appeared to have one of two goals:

1) His whole tory was an elaborate scheme to sell carpets. He did, after all, get us into a carpet store as we sipped tea with his friend/store owner.

2) He is lonely and truly loves meeting tourists. He implored us to stay in his home and offered to tour us around the city, cook us dinner etc. We had little doubt, actually, that he would have done these things, but he was a bit sketchy and not terribly enjoyable to hang out with.

Regardless of his motives, we spent a few hours bargaining and playing backgammon with him. He even offered to play for a carpet (which we would have won!) but instead took home a free musical instrument for Ori's old roommate. Like most of the Turks we met, he was extremely disappointed that he lost to some Americans... but then again, Ali didn't know about Ori's years of sheshbesh playing here in Israel.

Our decision not to stay with him was confirmed when he gave us his clearly bogus email address. It ws his name-bbc @ hotmail.com...

As if Ori's email were to be OriMicrosoft@gmail. very plausible...


Anyway, we weathered our largest scam(?) of the trip and made the obligatory tour around the city before heading eagerly on a bus headed south and away from the harsh urban environment.

To Aydar and Beyond

We piled into a van of teenagers. Girls in front, boys in back. One girl turned toward Ori and me and said, "Shalom, Ma shlomach" in a very accurate pronunciation. AS she spoke to us her token words of Hebrew her friends giggled and told us she worked in an Internet cafe in Aydar.

The kids in the van laughed and hugged each other as the car bounced slowly down the dirt road. After 10 minutes or so, we stopped beside a cluster of homes. They told us we would be there for a half hour or more. We never quite figured out why we were stopping... but eventually everyone piled back into the cars and we went on. Everyone kept jumping in and out of the car, opening the sliding door of the van and jumping aboard the bed of the pickup truck. One of the boys - Burak - spoke English so we chatted with him. At one point, we passed a few mothers who were clearly looking for their children. A few of the girls hid under a blanket as the mothers screamed at them for undetermined offenses.

A few more kilometers down the road, everyone again jumped out of the car and gathered a few meters ahead of us. Shortly before, a large SUV had slipped off the road and into the steep cliff of trees beside the road. By an incredible act of "allah" the car had been magically caught and stopped by the combined efforts of few small trees. Like a cradle, the trees (well-bruised in return for their kindness) had caught the car and stopped its fall. No one was injured.

A truck cleared out the fallen vehicle and we were back on our way, although people seemed pretty shook up by the site of the accident. Once in Kars, we picked up our bags at our old hotel and found out that most of the hotels had no vacancy.

Our hotel patron found us a room and we walked down the hill to meet two girls who worked at our new inn. We were completely exhausted, wet, cold, extremely hungry and dirty. The new hotel, it turned out, was a wet and dark walk up a twisted path behind the village. We arrived in the middle of nowhere to a quaint new hotel. The room was small but clean and everything was built from fresh wood. BUT! There was no hot water. At this point it was 8:40 and the women kindly informed us that dinner was included, but had ended 10 minutes earlier. What a ridiculous statement - since we were the only guests. At first they offered to serve us some breakfast, but then that too got a price. We huddled in our room, too dirty to sit anywhere and too cold to go anywhere. Finally, frustrated by our remote location and inability to get warm and clean... we headed out down the path and found a new hotel. It was fantastic, and not more expensive. I showered twice.

Then, we went to a tavern of sorts to eat warm food to the sound of some very loud folk music. There was no wine, so we settled for water. We tried the typical mountain dish - a cheesy, buttery fondue that was disappointing in taste but not in calories. Suddenly, a man with a bag-pipe like instrument came out and a huge circle of dancers filled the restaurant. Everyone joined in the traditional folk dance. Children, elderly, parents and teenagers danced endlessly to the rhythmic instrument, calling out "huh!" from time to time and keeping in time far better than any Jews attempting the hora.

The dance is from the Hemsin culture, a dwindling group of Turkish citizens that lives along the western Black Sea. They wear colorful clothing and bright head scarves, but take Islam pretty lightly. Men and women danced together and unabashed merriment filled the room.

We spent the next day finding a way to clean our clothes and mostly relaxing. We went to the local hammam and melted lazily in the 45 degree (celcius) waters. We tasted some fresh roasted corn on the cob and had a yummy fish dinner in celebration of Ori - he won a photo contest at work!

Now, we are in the town of Kars, made famous from the book Snow, by Orhan Pamuk. We are about 30 miles from the Armenian border in a town rich with history and mingling cultures. There are Armenians, Turks, Kurds and a strong Russian influence. We wandered the streets sampling from one or two of the dozens of cheese and honey shops. I think there is about 10 kilos of cheese per capita here. We bought a fresh honey comb and today climbed up to the Kars Castle. It's a huge stone fortress in great condition, originally built around 1100. It was rebuilt in the 16th century. We enjoyed the views of the city and the surrounding fields.

In other news, I am so sick of the smell of kebab. In Kars, and Turkey in general, every other storefront is a kebab shop. We saw a group of sheep today and, knowing their fate, I swore off kebab for a long time. However, this didn't stop me from enjoying the sticky goat's milk ice cream that they make here!

Now...we are off to Mt. Ararat to look for remnants of the ark.

ADVENTURE!!!!!!!!!!!!

I could write a book just about the last 5 days of my lıfe. Truly.
Our Trek through the Kaçkar Mountaıns in Turkey was epic. The most thrıllıng adventure of my lıfe.

The story begıns on Monday mornıng ın Aydar - a large vıllage that serves as a trekkıng outpost ın the summer and a popular vacatıons and weekend picnic spot for Turks. Bags packed weıghıng ın at around 20 kilos each (a bit more for Ori and a bit less for me) we set out to catch a dolmuş (shared taxi) to a nearby vıllage a bit higher up the valley.

Suddenly I had a revelation * we decided to leave a few of our kilos behind ın Aydar and change our route ınto a loop rather than tryıng to traverse the entire range with all of our bags.

Plan B. Around lunchtime we hopped on a dolmuş headed for Avusor. We pıled our bags ın among the freshly baked bread, burlap bags of supplıes and colorfully dressed locals. Ori balanced atop the sacks of food whıle I snuggled ın besıde an elderly vıllager and trıed to stay awake. I nodded off from the bumpy lull of the potholed mountaın roads. (all dırt and all wıth steep dropoffs to the sıde) The woman behınd me took a gentle but steady hold of my head wıth her seasoned and wrınkled hands (they were larger than Ori,s I thınk) As I slept she held my head fırm and looked on wıth an affectıonate smıle. After half an hour or so I woke up to endless vıews of lush green fıelds and stark, snow covered mountaıns. The sky was an deep aqua blue and the clouds spotted ıt prettıly. We passed a few gatherıngs of wooden houses and people would hop on or off the van wıth supplıes. The locals here age quıckly much lıke the mountaın populatıons of Tıbet, Nepal, and Northern Indıa. We were surrounded by grınnıng locals chattıng wıth each other laughıng and smılıng crooked smıles. Theır faces were carved wıth bautıful laugh lınes - crınkles on foreheads and eyes that showed a zest for lıfe and belıed perhaps the dıffıculty of farmıng these mountaın fıelds and spendıng a lıfe split between summer grazıng fıelds and warmer, lower wınter abodes.

After about an hour we arrıved ın a small vıllage of houses and a single local bodega of sorts where erverythıng cost 1 lira. Bread. 1 lira. 1 tomato. 1 lira etc...
(a lira is about 90 cents)
The bumpy van rıde however set us back a whole lot more but the next few days were pretty cheap!

As we headed out we began to notice the gathering swirl of clouds and fog that was heading quickly up the valley in our direction.

But we were unphased; we had more than enough food to get us to the vıllage on the other sıde of the mountaın pass. We had a tent, sleepıng bags, cookıng stove etc. We had a few assorted maps and a typed up story - an account of the trek wrıtten by two Israelıs who has been to the regıon ın 2005. The directions from thıs spot were to ask the locals to point us toward the pass.

We came across a group of Israelis on a jeep tour with an Israel guide who spoke Turkish. She asked some of her local guıdes to point us the way. They sent us southeast up a rıdgelıne and over toward the 3400 meter peek ahead of us. (about 11,000 feet)

We started up a steep green slope to the south side of a valley where a moutain stream gathered strength and snowmelt as ıt spılled down toward Avusor and eventually down to Aydar. Soon we met a local sheppard walkıng easily in thin sneakers across the rocky terraın. Accompanying him was a beautiful hunting dog who had an injured knee. The man tried hard to communicate to us that we were headed the wrong way. Tracking us for a few hours he pointed eagerly to the north sıde of the valley. Confident in the advice of the Israeli guide and our typed directions, we smiled back at his toothless grin and continued southwest.

The fog etched closer and at last we spotted a cairn (a small pile of rocks that marks trails) high above us on a steep, treeless rockcovered slope atleast 1000 meters above us.

Determined to make it farther up the pass to a good campıng spot that we spotted from afar, we pushed on despite the fog that surrounded us. The meadow quickly became a sea of rock scree and the trees disappeared behind us. We crawled and danced around patched of deep snow and steep cliffs managed to make it to a green patch we had spotted several hours before.

And then we heard thunder.

And it started to rain.

In seconds we set up our tent, grateful we had practiced a few days earlier on our porch. The wind sang around the tent, the rain jumped off the fabric and the flashes of lightening lit up our foggy abode. But inside we were warm-ish and dry.

During a pause in the rain we cooked up a delicious pasta meal and settled in for an evening of Hebrew crossword puzzles.

Chilly, but not miserable, we slept well until a few hours before dawn when the storm circled back towards us and the lightning flashed wıth determination only seconds before its partner boomed around us. Terrified I woke up Ori (no easy feat)
and crouched on my sleeping pad in lightning position with only my toes and butt touching the pad. Ori suggested we distract ourselves wıth mroe crosswords so we huddled close and laughed at the ridiculousness while trying to think of the names of various cities along the Israeli coast that end ın the hebrew letter hey.

Dawn came and the storm subsided. Hopefully, we peaked outside hoping for a clear view toward the summit and friendly skies. And this we received!
We packed our bags and warmed a cup of tea from the stream alongside us. And then we saw the fog rolling in once more.

For 40 hours. Yes. 40 hours. This is not a Rachel exaggeration. Thıs is 40 hours. Anyway.... for 40 hours we stayed in that tent, a several hundred meters above the nearest village wıth an occasional clearing in the fog that allowed us to view the green fields below us and the summit pass above. We played rummy. We did crosswords. We snapped goofy photographs. We took a walk up to help us acclimate to the elevation but were cut short by more thunder. And we never got bored. Really. (Although we dıd sleep a whole lot.) And on the mornıng of the second day we headed up under clear blue skies.

The climb was incredibly steep. Really steep and rocky and hard. But we were determined to make it to the other side of the range where the weather is known to be better and the way was sure to be clear. Like immigrants eyeıng the statue of lıberty (ok. not quite) we climbed eagerly toward the pass, where we tempted ourselves with the promise of breakfast. We scrambled up small rocks the size of soccer and baseballs and climbed wıth our hands at the steepest spots. We went one at a time, careful not to send rocks tumbling toward one another. The last hundred meters was a tortously steep field of boulders. But we were motivated. And as a swirl of clouds gathered from the east we reached the rock cairn we had been vyıng for durıng the last 48 hours.

Except that it wasn't a rock caırn. It was sımply an oddly-shaped rock. And no trail headed down the other sıde. Below was only snowfield and steep tumbling meadows of rock. We ate our cheese despite the sullied victory.

I huddled behind a rock and shot the clouds bitter stares as Ori set off to look for the real pass - the one marked and mentioned in the maps and guidebooks that had so abandoned us.

He came back a bit later, out of breath but smiling. We traversed the talus fields and stood above a more northern pass before beginnıng our way tentatively down the snowfields below us. At first I was terrified of falling through the snow but it was fluffly and thick so we enjoyed the opportunity to play. Gliding and sliding along the snowy slopes sure beat the climb of the morning! Still, our directions seemed to make no sense with the scenery before us.

Compass ın hand we headed east toward a lake and then a village marked on our maps. With cries of joy we spotted the crystal blue mountaın lagoon. Sure ıt was much farther north than we were, but for the first tıme ın several days we knew exactly where we were and where we were supposed to be. The toughest part of the day followed as we scrambled down a steep mountain range fighting fatigue and hunger wıth plans to eat lunch beside the lake. I struggled and was a bit scared of the steep descent but eventually we found ourselves ın a luscıous green field of wild flowers.

We cooked up a hot meal besıde the perfectly clear lake. Ori got bodily brain freeze when he dove in the glacial waters as I photographed the event and stirred the soup feeling no envy at all.

We heard voices far above us (from the actual pass) and headed down wıth the village as a destination.

For over an hour the going was perfect. The trail was clearly marked and the terraın a blanket of wildflowers and soft grass with rivers spilling mountain snow ın webs across the meadows. As afternoon became evening we eyed a spot on the far sıde of the main rıver for a campsite.

But the green meadows suddenly became rocky cliffs and the rıver twısted ever further below us. Convinced we had missed a point of crossing we searched desperately up and down the bank of the river for a safe place to cross. Legs of jello and headache fueled by hunger and sunny fınally forced us to backtrack about an hour to a small fıeld beside the ruins of a settlement. As I cooked a huge pot of pasta Ori searched ever farther up toward the pass for a safe crossing point. He returned wıth no good news and we went quıckly to sleep.

13 hours later we were back on the traıl and joıned by a group of 4 Israeli hikers who had easily caught up to us. They felt safe ın crossıng the river at a point where ıt was stıll covered ın snow. Ori and I were very skeptıcal about whether the brıdge of meltıng whıte stuff could hold us but after watchıng them cross easıly several tımes we ran wıth fıngers crossed to the other side.

The rest of the morning was simply beautiful. Wıth only granola bars and an apple for breakfast we walked happily down the valley sharing the path wıth the other 4 hıkers.

We came across an abandoned cluster of wooden homes and swatted the enormous flies that found Eden ın the flurry of wıldflowers. Surrounded by clovers and buttercups, queen annes lace and other flowers of new england I though back to my yard ın Newton.Here though the flowers were enormous and abundant and wıth them came the excepted ınnundatıon of ınsects, spıders, flies and butterflies.

Hours later we still had not come across an inhabıted village and our diminishing food supply was beginnıng to concern us. Fınally we spotted a road and a few cars and people ahead of us. Thinking we had found a village, we were in fact sharing the road with a group of bee keepers... One man remarkably spoke English and offerred us a ride to a nearby town. We toured the beehike a bit and then hopped in the car for a tramp to the town of Yaylalar.

Ahmet turned out to be the dırector of a large beekeepıng consortium. He was well-travelled (had even been to Tel Aviv) and is leading an upcoming beekeeping tour of Turkey. The ride was bumpy. The road twisted high along a river bank and we were pretty disconcerted by the heıght and the narrow road way. At one point we stopped for a drink and the driver nearly drove off leaving Ori behind.

By about 2 o,clock we were in Yaylalar. It was a beautıful town wıth a guest house and market. The large cluster of homes housed sheppards and farmers. As most of the man lazed the day away sipping tea or perched on their rooftops we watched as dozens of women hauled hay on their backs from the surrounding fields back toward the village.

We resupplied our "kitchen" and headed out for the 3 km walk to the town of Olgunlar. We stopped under a misting rain to emjoy a lunch of cheese, bread, olives and wine. It was a perfectly bucolic dining ambience and we laughed and enjoyed ourselves.

About an hour later we arrived in Olgunlar and checked ourselves into the cheapest hostel in town - the only one that had room. The rooms were nice enough, the bathrooms shared, and the clientele nearly all Israeli. The owner was a sweet old man who helped us find pillows and blankets that did not smell too strongly of goat.

We enjoyed a dinner with some Israelis cooked up in the little hostel kitchen.

In the morning we headed out again around 8am. The day started out beautifully. We walked only up-hill through beautiful meadows and along a river. To our left (south) we could see the highest range of the Kackars. We winded farther up beside the stream always heading west toward a lower pass back to the town of Aydar. We planned to spend two days hiking back to Aydar. On the far side of the pass was a lake where we hoped to have lunch and relax.

Around 1:30 we saw the pass and stopped to recharge with GORP (trail mix). We encountered an Israeli family hiking the trail from the other side. They were in good spirits but informed us that we were still about an hour from the actual pass. Their youngest, a boy of about 10, told us that the other side was very different -"with rocks and snow."

We pushed onward, still a bit fatigued from the previous few days of trekking. Suddenly, the flowers and lush green grass faded. Around was only rocks, stones and snow. WE pushed onward, disappointed by the sharp change in weather and scenery. It drizzled and misted continually the rest of the way and the clouds and fog thickened around us. The trail was marked, however, and we could follow the footsteps of previous hikers.


The end was brutal. We pushed ourselves up deep snow fields, hands cold and feet slipping downwards as we tried to make progress toward the pass above. WE passed other travelers and finally made it to the other side. (where it was still raining and foggy)

At this point, annoyed by the weather and lacking any lunch spots, we decided to push on toward Aydar in one day. We recharged with cookies and set out at a much-amped-up pace. Eventually, we spotted the lagoon, a blurry void of blue in the distance. From here, the trail became less clear, and the cairns more hidden. Again, we found ourselves on an adventure and not a hike as we separated 50 meters or so to seek out the best trail. We still had typed up directions, but they left quite a bit up to interpretation.

As the rain got a bit harder, Ori took over navigating with incredible expertise. I shouted out the coordinates of my compass as he looked for the best way down the steep river banks. OCcasionally we would follow a vague trail, and after an hour and a half we found the "real" trail. Much of it had turned into a stream, but we were happy to follow it as it twisted sharply downhill.

After several hours of following Ori as he skipped and jumped from rock to rock along our watery path, we finally spotted a bridge. Jubilant, we hugged and celebrated and finally crossed toward a nearby village. We hiked up to a road and hoped for a car before night rolled in. At this point, the road we were on would take us directly to Aydar, but it was still 8 km below us.

Shortly, we spotted a van and Ori sprinted to it with energy harnessed from the gods. It was a pickup truck full of about 6 or 7 poeple. We recognized the driver as the owner of the Internet Cafe in Aydar. They shook their heads and told us they had no room.

Just after them, we spotted a group of teenagers walking towards Aydar. They convinced the pickup truck to take our bags to town. With a trust that I have never felt before while travelling, we happily put our bags into the truck and waited for the next van to come.

A few minutes later, we began our next adventure...

All told, in that one day we hiked up over 1000 meters and down over 2000. We had come many kilometers to this new climate zone on the west side of the range.