i drove under the suez canal...twice

I have a huge number of things to catch up on with the blog here. Like a couple of days spent in Bethlehem, Hanukkah in Jerusalem (and elsewhere), a beautiful wedding of some friends, and a recent trip to Cairo with my sister (who is visiting for a couple of weeks). Anyway, here's Cairo. Stay tuned for more soon!

Cairo is the largest city on the African Continent and in the Middle East. Roughly it is the size of New York, with 8.5 million inhabitants within the city limits and 18 million in the metro region (New York has 8.5 in the city limits and 19 in the metro region).

To get there, we took a bus to Eilat, at the southern tip of Israel, spent the night there, then crossed the border at the crack of dawn and took another bus on to Cairo. From this bus we had a view of Israel, Egypt, Jordan and Saudi Arabia all at once! Alas, there was no way to capture it on film. In Egypt, we drove under the Suez Canal. Somehow it had escaped my thinking that we would have to cross the Canal. Then when I did realize that this was a necessity, I would have figured a bridge, but I imagine a tunnel is just more practical in a lot of ways.

We went through a tour company, because otherwise we would have had many hassles at the border, and then trying to get across the Sinai Peninsula (which is not exactly safe nor is it replete with public transportation). It was great to have the tour company take care of these things, the rest of the things they took care of... Let's just say that neither my sister nor I will ever be going on a planned tour again. And really who were we kidding in the first place? Heckler children just don't behave themselves and listen to a tour-guide when they could be off exploring subways and street food.

Anyway, Cairo is vivacious, dirty, and full of people. Just the kind of thing a New Yorker (even one living in exile) finds beautiful in a city. Our guide, Mohammed had the theory that if you drive or walk past something, even if you don't notice it was there, you've seen it. This posed a slight problem to the residual five year old in me who thought King Tut was the coolest thing ever and could have spent hours looking at his funereal mask (eleven kilograms of gold). It also posed a slight problem for the ceramicist, who when in a room surrounded by Egyptian Faience (an interesting self glazing clay that is one of the earliest examples glazed ceramic) was told to hurry up. Nonetheless, I made a good time of it and got to see a good number of the artifacts from King Tut's tomb.

the pyramids

Annabelle could have skipped them I think, in favor of more walking around Cairo. That residual five year old I mentioned earlier was really excited about them. Rather than post two many photos (you've seen them all I'm sure), here is a photo of Annabelle and me in front of the Pyramid of Khafre. And a photo of the same pyramid, without the siblings. The Egyptian Antiquities Authority has done a good job of preventing the area directly around the Pyramids from becoming the disgusting tourist trap I thought it would be. Not to say there weren't plenty of men on camels trying to sell us things (no, really), but the whole place was relatively quiet. Immediately outside the gates... Not so much.

the market and the food


We wandered around the Bazar. I've probably posted more than enough photos of markets, but this one was really beautiful. Here are some of the shops we walked past. I didn't include a few, like the live chicken store, or the haberdasher, who was busy making traditional and contemporary hats with a coal fired steam table. But here is a beautiful little coffee shop, the charcoal vendor, some pottery fresh from the wheel drying in the open, and a textile merchant. I'm kicking myself a little that I didn't purchase any of the textiles.

And what would a Travel Blog from Paul be without some notes about food?

An Egyptian staple is called Qoshari. It consists of noodles, lentils, other noodles, rice, chickpeas, a spicy spicy tomato sauce, and crispy onions. The cart pictured below sells Qoshari.

The dude with the deep frier was making felafel and fries, and fish cakes. I had some felafel. The photo (credited to Annabelle Heckler) does a pretty good job of describing my feelings about it.


the minarets



Cairo has been a muslim city since the tenth century. It is called the City of a Thousand Minarets. I think the City of Ten-Thousand Minarets might be more accurate.

The Mosques in the old city of Cairo were filled with life. The Madrassas (the same root as the Hebrew Midrash, and the same idea as the Jewish Beit Midrash) were full of young men studying (there were several Madrassas for women as well, but I wasn't welcome to enter). I think that Muslims and Jews must use the same printers to publish their holy books. They had the same red blue and green leather bindings, and similar patterns on the pages. To anyone who doesn't know the difference, the barefooted men in skullcaps studying in a Madrassa couldn't possibly look all that different from their shod cousins in a Beit Midrash. In point of fact, I do know the difference, and yet was struck by how similar everything was.

I didn't go into the prayer hall. Something about being a tourist where people pray makes me uncomfortable. This might come as a surprise being that right now I live in one of the prime locations for religious tourism, but there it is.

I could have stared all day at the repeating geometric patterns that are basis for the architectural elements of the Mosques I went in or walked past. I probably would have if Annabelle hadn't dragged me away.

life on the streets (and roads)

Almost every intersection in Cairo has a traffic light. Most of the traffic lights just blink orange all the time. Some of them actually go through the proper cycles. No one seems to pay any attention to any of them. We were given advice by many people on how to cross the street. The advice differed, but ended the same... Take a Deep Breath and Pray. People just kinda walk along the highways, and cross where ever they'd like (with a tinge of fear in their eyes). Everyone uses their horns continuously, although it isn't the angry "get the hell out of my way" horn usage one sees in Israel. It is more of a conversation. One driver starts "I'm here," another chimes in "You're THERE?" "Yes I'm here," replies the first "Oy, I'll move," finishes the second. And what a collection of vehicles! From the tinted window Mercedes with armed guard, to the refurbished 1950's Peugot still sporting the French license plates (under the egyptian ones), to the vintage vespa, to the truck that I can't even begin to describe. And yes, there were even a few donkeys and camels.



Driving back, we went under the Suez Canal again, and enjoyed the stars, which, even from the inside of our van, were brighter than I've seen in years. It was a bit a of a whirlwind. But oh, how about that Qoshari? Oh, I nearly forgot about the subway. I didn't really get a good photo of the subway itself. But here's the sign...

this past week in photos and anecdotes

In Jerusalem, the curbs are painted different colors. Blue and white means pay to park, red and white means don't park, black and white means don't park or stand or even think about slowing down because it's a main thoroughfare and we'll tow your ass (more or less).

Imagine my surprise the other day when I discovered yet another color scheme on my walk to Ulpan. I'm not sure what this one means. Parking for princesses only? Perhaps it's an attempt to make new a tired old color scheme?

Maybe they just ran out of red paint, but then why did the municipality have pink curb paint on hand?

This week included a four day festival Muslim festival, Aid al Adhan (with lots of guttural inflection). It is the festival of the sacrifice, honoring the story in the Koran where Ibrahim (Abraham) was supposed to sacrifice his son Ishmael (whose name is about the same in Hebrew and Arabic). It differs from the Judeo-Christian story where Isaac is the son bound on the alter. The rest of the story is about the same, an angel stays Abraham's hand, and his son goes on to find a mighty people.

Anyway, the point is that many of the students in my Hebrew class are Muslim, and they took the time off from school in order to celebrate. With our class at less than half it's normal size we had a slightly different game plan, including small conversations in class about whatever topics we wanted (I talked at length about Psalm 92). The next day included a walking tour of Jerusalem with our teacher, who, it turns out also has a certificate in Jerusalem guiding... Go figure.

Having heard of the walking tour, several of the Muslims made their way back to class to hear what Renana had to say about Yemin Moshe, an old neighborhood overlooking the old city. Sharif, the young man who starred in the moonwalk of my last blog entry, was dressed to the nines in order to honor the holiday. Here we are.

i loving learning languages...i just hate memorizing vocabulary

So I realized it has been almost two weeks since I posted anything! Deepest apologies, I've been insanely busy.

Here are a couple little anecdotes about my Hebrew class. Hopefully they'll tide the hypothetical you over for a couple days when, hopefully, I will be able to post something more substantial.

Anyway, we've been doing oral presentations in Ulpan. These are in order to prepare us for a ministry of education test that includes an oral component. This test, which I will probably write more about as time comes certifies me as having taken roughly the equivalent of two years of college level Hebrew. A useful piece of paper indeed.

I figured that the best way to get through my presentation would be to speak about something that in English I would still be able to speak about after a root canal (which is more or less where my Hebrew is). This left two options, pottery or restaurant work. I went with pottery, figuring it was more professional than some of the stories I could tell about my restaurant jobs. And so I spoke, for five minutes, with photographs to support me, about pottery through history and then my own work. It went okay.

But today's presentation really took the cake for creativity. Sharif, a friend of mine who lives near the Mount of Olives, speaks English, French, Arabic and a lot more Hebrew than I, and is eighteen years old. He spoke about the many different styles of dance in the world, starting with Dabket (which is worth youtubing), a traditional Lebanese dance which has seemingly migrated throughout the Muslim World. He moved on to a discussion of breakdancing, which included a demonstration (complete with music blaring from his cellphone). And most importantly, American pop. It featured non other than the King of Pop, MJ, singing Billy Jean (again from Sharif's cellphone). Learning about the moonwalk from a young Arab Israeli man in Hebrew language class might not be exactly the experience that the Jewish Agency was thinking of when it gave me the scholarship to come here. But really I think it's a lot better this way. Besides, Sharif really rocked the moonwalk better than I've seen in a long time, maybe ever?

some lighter notes

In lieu of yet another heavy political post here are some photos and anecdotes from the past week or three.

The vegetable that kicked my ass...

This is called a snake gourd. It's really beautiful, it looks and feels like something between a cucumber and a zucchini... It tastes like no such thing. I've tried roasting it, braising it, sautéing it, currying it, eating it in salads. Nothing works, it's just weird.


Lots of dates (the edible kind)...

Here are some almost ripe ones (a little late in the season) they turn that dark luscious carmel color as they dry. The dates here are amazing.




A nice view of Jerusalem-Al Qudds...

This is a view of East Jerusalem from just above where the Nof Tzion (View of Zion) planned community (read settlement) is under construction... Okay maybe in lieu of heavy politics was a misleading subtitle for this entry. You'll forgive me I hope.

Just to the left of center is a gold splotch. It's the Dome of the Rock and the Old City. Between that splotch and the foreground is Silwan, the village through which I walked and posted my first mamoth blog entry. You can also see the Mount of Olives to the right of that. It was a spectacular view

olive picking (an introduction to the skills required and some anecdotes)

Apple picking is a pretty ubiquitous activity in Maine in the fall. I always enjoyed it when I was in college. We would go pick apples, get away from school, from studying, etc. It was relaxing and felt so wholesome. Later, when I worked at Willow Pond Farm, apple picking took on a different meaning. I no longer went out to the farm to regain that feeling of connection with the earth that seemed lacking in college. It became work, exhausting work that held a certain satisfaction at the end of the day, when the other farmers and I would sit down to a huge supper that we had harvested and cooked that day.

Apple picking is the nearest activity I can relate to olive picking. There are some important differences to note. For one, apples on the tree are fragile, if the picker grasps them too hard, they bruise and are no longer fit for sale, only for cider. If an apple falls on the ground, it is automatically a cider apple, although the FDA and USDA are trying to make that illegal out of concern for food borne disease. I could get into the politics of orcharding in New England, but I'd rather talk about olives and their politics.

Olives are neither fragile nor tender when they are on the trees. In order to eat them, one needs to cure them for a month or so in a fairly strong brine. There are two uses for olives, to eat and to press for oil. Most of the oil in a olive is actually in the pit, so if one is cultivating olives for oil, than it doesn't matter anyway if the olive bruises.

This leads to the primary method of collecting olives for oil. Lay tarps and other drop cloths out on the ground. The smallest child in the group climbs into the tree, he begins to shake the branches as best he can while an older family member goes around beating at the branches with a stick. Jill,my farmer at WPF, would have drawn and quartered me if I had done this to her apple trees. What's left, one goes through and rakes by hand (something like raking blueberries, but without the benefit of those nifty ergonomic rakes). All the olives fall on the tarp and then get put into giant bins, bags, whatever is at hand really, until they get taken to the olive press (which is more like a cider press than I would have thought).


The biggest difference though, between olive picking and apple picking is the political climate in which these lovely fall time activities take place. In Maine, apple picking was an escape for overwhelmed students and families looking for "agri-tainment" (this is what the USDA calls it). Then apple picking became an exhausting but satisfying job for a student who didn't want to be a student anymore. The olive harvest has far more political implications.

In 1949 during the armistice, a group of diplomats and generals drew a line (with a green pen) on a map that became the accepted border between the new state of Israel and the Jordanian administered Palestine. The saying goes, and It seems like there is a fair bit of truth in this saying, that the green pen was wide and the map was small. And based on my own observations, none of the diplomats or generals had any idea of the either the geography or the demographics...I guess that's not a huge surprise, when do they ever?

This is by way of introduction to the idea that the green line was never perfect or sacred or well thought out. It is however, internationally recognized as the closest thing to a border between Israel and the future state of Palestine.

After the second intifada began in 2001, Ariel Sharon began construction of a "fence" to separate Israel from Palestine. It very loosely follows the track of the green line. But it cuts broad swaths of what would otherwise be Palestine and effectively makes it Israel. Water sources, arable land, and olive groves often end up on the "Israel" side of the line. Farmers who own the olive groves between the wall and the green line are supposed to be able to attain permits to harvest their olives. The permits are at the discretion of the army and don't necessarily line up with the agricultural calendar. Often the IDF will issue a permit only to one member of a family for one or two days during the harvest. It just isn't enough time or labor power to get everything done.


The wall where it is really more of a fence (above) and the gate where farmers are let through to pick their olives with the proper permits (below)

Another and slightly more difficult problem arises in areas of Palestine that are near Jewish settlements. The settlers are an interesting group of people. They are by no means homogenous, but tend towards the very orthodox and fundamentalist. They are not particularly open to non Jews, and not particularly respectful of any law but their own (which they misinterpret as God's). They resent the IDF (although they rely on the IDF for their security) because the IDF removed the settlers from Gaza. They resent Jews who don't agree with the settlement policies. They resent the Israeli Government for the possibility of dividing the land (the two state solution).

The settlements are built high up on hills, surrounded by walls, fences, floodlights and guard towers. The follow the ridge-lines. As a settlement grows, it expands by setting up an outpost further along the ridge-line. The outpost grows until the two connect. I wrote, in my post about Tzfat, about heights and the safety of the hills (thousands of years ago when Tzfat was founded). It didn't occur to me just how much height still means security.

Itamar (above) and one of its outposts (below)


I should mention something here about the landscape of the West Bank. As I was driven through the West Bank, I saw more olive trees than I have eaten olives in my entire life. It is a forest of olive trees, thousands, millions, I don't really know. But everywhere I looked was filled with olive trees. Except on the hilltops, where the settlers, in their western style ecological arrogance, have planted many other non-native trees. Like kudzu (in the American South East) or zebra muscles (in the American North East), the result is something of an ecological disaster.

Regardless, olive trees, everywhere, as far as the eye can see. They are beautiful, silvery grey, short trees that require almost no irrigation after the first four years. They are a wonderful crop, perfect for this area of the world.

The settlements are built on top of the olive groves. I can't find a good verifiable statistic, but many of the settlements are built on seized land, land that was, before the settlement, filled with Palestinian olive groves. To compound the problem, Palestinians are not allowed within 200 meters of the settlements, even when they have trees within that 200 meter ring. Permits are hard to come by, and by the time a family has received a permit to pick its trees within the 200 meter boundary, the olives may have already been picked (by the settlers presumably). Even with the permits, the settlers often harass and throw rocks at the palestinians, or sometimes worse. The army is supposed to protect the Palestinians in this case, and, so far as I've seen their presence does differ violence. But their presence is neither guaranteed nor is it a guarantee that the settlers will behave. When the settlers misbehave, when they assault and attack Human Beings, they are given a slap on the wrist if anything... When the Palestinians misbehave, they end up in prison without any pretension of Habeas Corpus. Sometimes Palestinian misbehaving is as violent and destructive as a suicide bomb. Sometimes it isn't. One of the days I went to pick olives the IDF had arrested two men for not having the proper permits to harvest their olives. The IDF had been alerted to their presence by the settlers who claimed that they were Jewish olives (there are no Jewish olive trees in the territories outside of the walls of the settlements, and there is almost no chance that the Palestinian men could have gotten inside those walls). The Palestinians were arrested, their olives and identity cards seized, and they were put in what's called administrative detention (the inspiration I think for Guantanamo Bay). The same settlers could have attacked and thrown rocks and even wounded the men, and unless the IDF had witnessed the incident, there would be no consequences.

A quick note on time frames.

Jamal, and his extended family have many olive trees near their village, Awarta. Awarta is near the settlement Itamar. The settlers arrived in the early 1980s. Jamal's great grandfather planted the trees, I don't know exactly when, but I can guess that it was around 90 years ago, give or take. This is long before the establishment of the State of Israel (60 tears ago), and long long before the Itamar was established.

Awarta

Jamal works as a building contractor during the rest of the year, he takes time off for the olive harvest. His brothers are electricians and mechanics. His son Jihad is in primary school, but also takes time off to help with the olive harvest. The oil they make from the trees is their oil for cooking throughout the year, and a nice secondary source of income. But it can be difficult to obtain the permits and to pick the trees when the settlers are feeling feisty. The army helps but is inconsistent in its help.

A group called Rabbis for Human Rights is working to help (in the short term) with the problems of the olive harvest. They organize trips to help the farmers who are stuck between the wall and the green line, and to help the farmers who are attacked by the settlers. To help the farmers stuck between the wall and the green line is easy, help them pick their olives, and act as mediation between the army and the farmers.

To help the farmers whose trees are around the settlements is more difficult. The settlers are better behaved if Jews and foreigners are present, especially if those Jews or foreigners have cameras and video cameras. One of the settler tactics has been to throw rocks at the Palestinians then claim in court that the Palestinians attacked them. The courts have been less favorable towards the settlers since RHR started video taping the interactions.

I've now gone out on both types of trips with RHR. The activity itself, as apple picking used to be, was a relaxing and fun way to spend a morning, feeling connected to agriculture. But the political climate changes everything.

It was interesting to hear the perspectives on the conflict here from the farmers who are so often victimized by it. Jamal for instance, who is both secular and moderate, told me in some combination of Hebrew and hand gestures (our common languages) about how the Palestinians blame the settlers for everything bad that happens to them. And that the settlers do the same thing. But he also talked about how much more power the settlers have. Although they aren't supposed to, they come into Awarta and exact eye for eye types of retribution. If the Palestinians get anywhere near the 200 meter fence, first the private security forces of Itamar and then the IDF arrest them. Jamal didn't dwell on this point though. What really struck me about his viewpoint was that he wanted to move forward, past the injustice, towards reconciliation (which isn't exactly the sense of what he was talking about, but peace and justice don't seem right either)... Maybe the best way to describe it is to say that he just wanted to move on with his life.

Jamal with his son Jihad (above) fed us massive amounts of coffee, spiced with cardamom, in little tiny glasses (below). I like anyone who force feeds me coffee.


There wasn't as much in the way of conversation with the family between the fence and the green line. I was with a group of Rabbinical Students from the Jewish Theological Seminary (JTS, one of the two Conservative Jewish seminaries). I let them speak in their much stronger hebrew, and did my best to listen. The story was much the same. Instead of coffee, this family fed us tea from small glasses. The recipe was simple. Fill the glass half full with sugar. Fill the rest with tea and fresh mint (a particularly strong and fragrant variety of which grows in and around the olive trees). I wont' tell my dentist if you won't.

A teapot (above) and a break for tea (below)


The Palestinians are not allowed to use mechanical equipment near the settlements. Donkeys are okay. Working between the wall and the green line, we got a ride on a tractor. It was a Fiat, an Italian brand. Jill at Willow Pond had a beautiful Fiat that I sometimes still dream about, it was also orange and two sizes up from the tractor pictured here.

I do so love tractors...

p.s. here is an article that just appeared in the New York Times that is pertinent to this entry. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/14/world/middleeast/14settlers.html

it's four a.m. do you know where your presidential candidate is?

So it’s 3:30 am here. Which is 8:30 pm Eastern Time. And, although I’m rather tired from a long day of learning the how the הפעיל verb binyan (class) conjugates in the past tense, and how there is this thing called compensatory lengthening whereby the ultra-short vowel שוא lengthens to compensate for the inability of the consonants ה and ח to perform…errr…double when they need to.

Anyway, back to the point. When I woke up at 6:45 this morning, it was not yet Election Day in the United States. Yet I’ve been worried about the election all day…when the polls opened it was 2:00 p.m. my time. I had already been worried and anxious for 7 hours and 15 minutes. Awesome. Now we’re finally having some results after a good 21 hours of worrying. Fortunately there are a few of us here, and I splurged on a bottle of bourbon.

The political climate here, which I’ve written a bit about, and will write more about, is an interesting one. Overwhelmingly, the young Israelis (whom I spend time with) tend to support Obama. The young Americans in Israel also tend towards Obama, but slightly less universally. The young Americans who have made Aliya (immigrated) to Israel tend to be much more conservative. One of the new Olim (the plural noun form of Aliya) was telling me about how worried he was, having made this investment to move to Israel that Obama wouldn’t do enough to protect Israeli Interests. I didn’t really push him about what that meant.

In my Ulpan (Hebrew Class) there are a good number of Muslim students. They seem to all be supporters of Obama, whom, Mohammed expressed to me yesterday is more concerned with external issues than McCain.

So I’m going to post this and get back to watching the election. We’re watching it on Fox News International, which is the only channel that is offering full coverage. It’s like regular Fox News, as yellow as yellow journalism can get. BUT it has the added bonus of little three-minute human-interest stories about American Citizens living abroad instead of commercials.

They also seem to be having major technical malfunctions. I think the teleprompter operator must be an Obama supporter and trying to sabotage the uber conservative anchorman. Also, said anchorman just said "Why don't you come on over here, big boy," I don't know why. Maybe we're just too tired and heard it wrong...

cold weather and part one of the special election edition

I remember my third winter in Maine, specifically when I was still in college. It was the coldest winter I have ever seen. There was a two month stretch where it didn't get above 15 below. It's possible that I'm exaggerating, but I don't think so. It was really really cold. Three winters ago saw an insane amount of snow, as did this past winter. Portland doesn't ever get as cold as Lewiston. But Lewiston is bone dry in the winter, skin cracking sucks the moisture from your lungs as you walk to class dry. Portland is not. Although the winter is still much drier than the spring or summer, it sometimes has a humidity to it that makes the cold feel even worse than lewiston.

Regardless, I thought after eight winters in Maine I would be pretty cold hearty. This past summer, I think my cold tolerance must have sweat out. It must have happened sometime in August, around the start of my second month directly under a blistering sun.

According to my i-google home-page it is 74 degrees Fahrenheit here in Jerusalem. It is just a little under twice the temperature in Portland Maine. It is almost 11:00 p.m. here. The high today was something like 80 degrees Fahrenheit. I'm pretty sure that 37 is going to be the high in Portland. And yet somehow, it feels cold here. I think it's related to two main factors.

1. The houses here are meant to stay cool during the summer. Stone floors, stone walls, etc. They are NOT meant to stay warm during the winter.

2. My first three days here, I sweat buckets. It is the hottest I have ever been in my life. After a week, I acclimated enough to be able to breath without sweating (it had been a challenge). After a month, the heat didn't bother me much. Now, it's finally cooled down and I feel a bit chilly.

So I feel silly, but also need to get a couple of warmer layers.

The election is tomorrow. I have plans to go to an all night election party. Should be interesting. The California polls close sometime around 6 or 7 a.m. (I'm not feeling exactly mathematical at the moment). I don't know if I'll make it the whole time...or if I want to. I'll write something soon about the perceptions and attitudes about the election here.