Voices from the Middle East

by Terry Dirks

On our last morning in Jerusalem, I wanted to savor the beauty of the city from the rooftop of our hostel - alone.  I rose at 5:00, a full hour after the haunting call to prayer which echoes across the city five times each day, saturating the air with religion.  Indeed, the daily world of the Middle East is buzzing with voices which reflect faith in God, which is both the bane and beauty of this place.

 As I mount the arching Hogwarts-style steps to the roof, my mind begins to replay the words of the many people I have encountered on our travels here.  I remember the enthusiasm of the Jesus Trail founder, Maoz, and his handsome grinning brown face, as he described the hills that Christ walked near the Sea of Galilee, that blue jewel of the north. I remember the eagerness of Dani, the taxi driver, urging us to eat more of the honey cakes and special coffee he had brought for our lunch on the first day of hiking. I loved the pride of our host in Cana, as she announced, “I will be cooking for you, all Arabic food.” And of course there was wine in Cana. I remember the astonishment at our early arrival in the soft voice of the goat farmer whose grandfather had owned this settler land, and the bleating voices of goats and roosters throughout the night, reminding me that Jesus had surely lived among farmers and herders such as these. I remember the sadness of Gefan, our Israeli hotel owner’s son in Arbel, who was returning for a week of army duty which he hated, as he would be going to “an area of danger – they are always areas of danger,” he sighed.

I remember the bright intelligence of Sadam, our Jordan guide, who filled us in on the “correct” details of historic Petra, and I remember the harsh business voice of Rosa, high up on the rocky Petra trails, who convincingly sold me four necklaces at “best” bargain prices.  But I also remember the eager-to-please hotel manager at the Amra Palace Hotel who was so anxious that we should be happy, that after I explained that I was partially deaf and wore hearing aids, he exclaimed, “I hope you get better soon.”  And I remember the voice of the Indonesian masseuse whose limited English never-the-less commanded me to disrobe for the body scrubbing of my life, and the eager voices of the male attendants who accepted my tip for her, an injustice that still rankles in my heart.

In the Wadi Rum, I remember the soft spoken Abdullah, our desert jeep driver and the unspoken confidence conveyed to me in the strong hand grip of Zedan, the Bedouin leader at our desert camp, as he assisted me across the treacherous rock bridge in the sky with its death precipices below. I still can see Zedan standing on the front of the jeep’s hood, face to the wind as he and Abdullah, who was driving from the back seat, perform stunts that belong in a modern Hollywood version of Lawrence of Arabia. And I remember the braying voices of the camels, as we raced over the beautiful red sands of the desert, breathing in the perfume of the cleanest air in our world.

            I still can hear the intensity of Ibram, our Palestinian guide who was imprisoned for two years without trial as a “security” risk and who passionately showed us his people’s lands now occupied.  I remember the tired voice of Amahl, our Arab billet host, who described how she would prepare meals hurriedly in her Bethlehem kitchen, and then take her young daughter and hide under the stone steps of her flat during the Israeli shelling of the Church of the Nativity. And I remember the disheartened Israeli voice of our ICAHD (Israeli Committee Against House (Palestinian) Demolitions) guide, as she responded to our questions about the future – “NO HOPE” was her reply. But she took us to visit the bulldozed home of a Palestinian father, whose eager voice lifted our hearts as he explained how he was preparing to rebuild his home for the fifth time, and that UN observers would be his lunch guests on Friday.

            And in Jerusalem, as I climb the steps to the rooftop, I remember the eager voices of all our students as they echoed my own wonder at this remarkable place in the world where God has touched humankind in such a profound way that we sadly fight and squabble to own His attention more vehemently than elsewhere on the planet, it seems.

            I look down to the street, Via Delarosa, where Christ carried his cross, right there, on those ancient stones below me.  I see a young girl in a wheelchair, waiting to be picked up for school. Her father sits beside her. Down the street, a shopkeeper hangs up orange and yellow galabeyas from his overhead awning, and black-haired ten year olds play soccer on the street where Christ walked. “What are their lives like?” I wonder. I remember back to all I have met and heard. Their voices are unique here, different, and yet, as I see the father lovingly lift his handicapped daughter into the school van, I understand that in many ways, the world is the same. God, our Father is lovingly guiding us all as we struggle everywhere to find Him.

Jerusalem

Jerusalem is too stinking hot and crowded today. It's the weekend, so if we were staying for the next two days, we would get to experience the joy of moving around a bursting city. Luckily, lots of stuff here is cheap, especially scarves and t-shirts. It's almost worth it to move around this happy city to find the cheap gifts. This is just the old city though. West Jerusalem is more expensive and a lot less crowded.

There are a lot of soldiers on patrol in the old city. Usually they're in twos, and mostly they just talk to each other and check their phones. But, a couple of nights ago, they quickly put up some police barriers before a crowd of jewish people marched through the Muslim Quarter, right in front of where we were staying in the Muslim quarter. I got a few good photos before we were asked to move away from the balcony. The marchers wanted to rebuild the Temple where the Dome of the Rock now stands, and they marched through the Muslim Quarter just to get that point across. Not the most happy demonstration I've seen. The next day, everything went back to whatever is considered normal here.

Eric

Bazaar Lines in Jerusalem

Just a sampling of some of the opening bartering lines we've heard while in Jerusalem.
"I like you, I give you good price"
"You have nice eyes, very beautiful, I give you good price"
" First customer of the morning, I give you good price"
" Welcome, where you from?
"I like your face I give you good buy"

second lines while bartering
"You very beautiful, you barter very hard...but I like you"
"Do you like me? I like you, I'm good man, I give you good price"
"Really are you insulting me?"
"Are you trying to rip me off"

closing thoughts
"you bargained very well"
"10 shekels?, go away"

10 shekels for a falafel at the New Gate
50 shekels for Meza
5 shekels for 8 "timbits" soaked overnight in honey or something. (delicious)

cost of an economics lesson in old Jerusalem.... priceless.
Lyndon

Traffic

 Pretty funny thing happened last night.  I went into the town to buy some multivitamins, get some money and buy a juice.  The town here is more open then in old nazareth but the streets are essentially the width of residential streets back home, with sidewalks and then just building. No yards, no grass, anyway, it was a nice walk, the temperature had cooled a bit and people were out on the streets.  I spotted Signe, O Danis and Michaela buying some stuff in a shop just as I entered the business area.  I waved and went to the ATM around the corner.  I had to wait to use the ATM, so I just kind of watched "city life".  It was wierd, car traffic seemed to get busier and busier and the speed of the cars was increasing. It was as if they had all gotten out of work at some factory all at once, but it was six o clock, wierd.  In fact at one point about eight cars were backed up in a line, usually you can cross the street without hardly even looking.  Anyway I got some Dinar, ran through the traffic across the street to the pharmacy and then started the walk back to the hotel.  I purchased some Mango juice at the little shop that I'd seen the girls at earlier. 
    Walking back I ran into the three girls just sitting on the curb and looking out over the sites of the city.  A man across the street stared at them, I made eye contact with him and he moved on. That was typical, blonde hair is an eye magnet around here.  Anyway, I'm talking to the girls about the day when the same car I've seen at least three times already comes around the corner, guns its engine and speeds down the road.

As I watched the rear of the car speed away it dawned on me, "Girls do you realize your the cause of the traffic congestion and speeding around here?"

They looked at me, then they looked at the traffic, there was a pause and Michaela said, "I think we'll come back to the hotel with you."

Boys,  cars and girls, seems the methods young males use to try and impress aren't all the culture specific.

Lyndon

Fun?

Would you think that being slapped around by a guy named Emir is actually fun and refreshing? (all names are fictitious and any resemblance to the real person's name is purely accidental).  New experiences are a cause of some trepidation and this proved to be no different.  Angst problem number one, what do you wear to a Turkish bath? On Magnum PI (this is obviously dating me to the Precambrian period) their informant seemed to wear only a towel.  T.V. is an educational device so I went with what I knew, oh! naturale.  Seems the woman in the steam room with me hadn't watched Magnum PI so she wasn't aware of the fact that she shouldn't be wearing a bathing suit, just a towel.  I crossed my legs, and thought about how hard it is to teach proper etiquette these days.

   I got the nod from "Emir" just after the room started to spin from the heat.  Interesting that they would have a steam bath in a country where the temperature hardly drops below 26 Celsius. I was doused with warm water and told to lay down on a slab of marble, the fun was about to begin.  Have you ever noticed that exfoliation rhymes with abrasion and mild violation?  Another interesting observation is that most people in the middle east are not 6 foot 5 inches, so I think that Emir was not used to people's feet sticking out about 2 feet over the slab I was lying on.  That might explain why when he gently dropped my feet, my shins would make a mild "clinking" noise on the edge of the slab.  I'm hoping that the slapping at the end was part of the process and not an anticipation of the cheapness of my tip.  It was truly a memorable experience.

   I think I might go back again.  

Greetings from Jordan, Petra.  Lyndon

Jordan and Petra

In addition to it being very hot, it is also very beautiful, sandy and sunny.

The border crossing into Jordan was very smooth and our fearless leaders only had to buy us emergency snacks once. 

Our tour guide for Jordan is Saddam ("but not the other one") and so far he has been a fount of knowledge. Apparently tour guides here have to go through a rigorous two year program before they can be certified. It shows. 

Today our adventure was Petra, where we walked through the gorge made famous by Indiana Jones, saw the Treasury, haggled with the Bedouin over donkey rides and walked up a ridiculous amount of roughly hewn stairs to an old monastery. We may have done some singing. You probably heard it all the way back in Canada - the echoes were fantastic. 

Tomorrow we're walking up even more stairs (900!) to "The High Place" where we're planning on sacrificing a camel or two. 

http://www.nationalgeographic.com/history/ancient/petra-360-3.html

Emma's Deeper Brain Thinking: If the Grim Reaper reaps grim, shouldn't he make people happy because he takes away grimness? 

New Word: Yalla means "hurry up you! get moving let's go!" and we said it a lot during the hike. 

After tomorrow, we're going to be with the Bedouin and the wifi isn't exactly robust, or existent, out in the desert so don't expect any updates. Yalla bye! 

-Ayla

Wadi Musa

It is very hot.

-Everybody