It's been three weeks since my shock re-entry into the holy land, and I've fallen into a kind of routine here. Frustrated with my slow progress in speaking Arabic, I've started taking 2 hour classes each morning. I can now read the Arabic script, albeit slowly and awkwardly, and I've started building my vocab, associating various Arabic words with similar sounding English phrases. For example, orange (the fruit) in Arabic is 'burtoqal'. To remember this word I combine the fine acting of Burt Reynolds with the word protocol, creating some kind of strange Burt Reynold's esque procedure. Burtoqal. Without the use of these quirky linguistic associations I have no hope of remembering anything. On top of these Arabic classes I am also taking English conversation classes at the university a few times a week, which, as the name suggests, merely involves initiating conversations in English to allow students to practice their speaking. I am getting better and better at sustaining conversations about just about anything over long periods of time, sometimes serious, sometimes as inane as a Seinfeld episode.
Aside from the university I also teach an English class for beginner adults. We have been meeting for a while, and they are an enjoyable bunch to teach. The highlight so far has certainly been one student who managed to full asleep halfway through writing a word, sitting upright, pen still on paper, for a good 20 minutes. I have also just started teaching some guitar classes in return for oud lessons. My natural instinct when playing the oud is to play it like a guitar, and it has been difficult to make the technical shift to oud. In fact, I still play the damn thing like a guitar, but my teacher is very patient with me. Finally, there was some discussion of me taking a group of teenagers in a refugee camp and preparing them for a trip to a United Nations youth convention in Geneva in June, but as of yet I am yet to hear of anything being organised, and so am yet to hold any classes. Don't get me started on the lack of organisation and structure that tends to dominate the culture.
If the above sounds relatively uneventful, it is because it is. Nablus is in Area A. Area A is under full Palestinian control, and applies to the main cities and towns around the West Bank (which actually ends up only being about 3% of the West Bank). Nablus tends to carry on with few obvious signs of occupation, the exceptions being should you travel to a neighbouring village and have to pass through an Israeli checkpoint, or if the IDF decide to conduct a raid for security reasons. Balata camp, the most dense refugee camp within Nablus, is particularly notorious for raids, and anyone living there gets pretty used to the sound of their neighbours doors (or their own) being knocked down in the middle of the night. Area C is a different story altogether. Under full Israeli military control and located primarily in the Jordan valley, it is particularly difficult for the decreasing number of Palestinians who persevere to hold onto their land. Palestine is therefore a diverse land with a diverse range of situations, perspectives and problems.
Although under occupation, the most pivotal problems within Nablus are similar to many countries around the world. Although university qualifications are abundant, there remain very few job opportunities for graduates within Nablus or Palestine in general, and unemployment is over 20%. Whether the lack of infrastructure is due to the occupation or not I'm not sure, though my concern is that the occupation can be used as an excuse for what is essentially poor politics and community development. I often find myself sitting with a group of interesting and bright
university students and wondering what they will do with their skills
other than find a job in a neighbouring country. Although as a teacher I have always seen education as important, being here has highlighted to me just how essential a critical education is. Palestinian schools do not seem to provide the creative and critical skills needed to form a society that can take Palestine in the direction it needs to go in. Say what you will about NCEA (especially its obsession with assessments), the New Zealand education system has long since realised that merely teaching information to students is not enough; conceptual and critical thinking skills (we still don't do creativity very well) is hugely important in a Google age. Although regimes around the world and in New Zealand seem obsessed with measuring schools in terms of grades and achievement, enabling students to think critically and creatively is the greatest task of any educational system.
My 3 months in Nablus finishes at the end of April. That leaves the month of May, and I'm currently in the process of working out what I will do for this month. June sees the commencement of my time in Europe, which will involve bicycles.
Saturday 29 March 2014
Saturday 15 March 2014
Jordan: There and back again. Part Two: The Tourist
Jordan is, in many ways, a land of refugees. It has become a land of stability amidst difficult neighbours. Westward is Palestine, eastward Iraq and Kuwait. To the north is Syria. In times of strife, refugees from these locations have found a home in Jordan. If you speak to someone in Jordan it is more likely than not that they are from Palestine, who today make up over half the population, over 3 million. I also met many from Kuwait, who arrived in the early 90s when Saddam decided he was going to try his luck on this small land in the south. More recently of course Jordan has become a refuge to over 1 million Syrian refugees. But Jordan seems to have thrived from such increases in its population, and from what I could tell it has fused a harmony of its own.
It was only after I started traveling through Jordan that I realised how significantly improved I was as a traveler. That's probably not saying much, considering how terrible I was to begin with. One of the key ways in which one improves as a traveler is being perfectly comfortable not knowing what you are doing, knowing that you will be able to figure it out somehow. Of course, it could have been that I was so grumpy after the Allenby border crossing that I could have made my way from A to anywhere without the least concern. My first stop was Amman, and I had rough plans for how I would spend my week, which quickly changed after I commenced a brief search for phantom visas and made friends at the hostel I was staying at. This leads me to two other things I was to learn while in Jordan. One, people in hostels are some of the friendliest people one can meet. Two, don't plan too far ahead when you are traveling, because sometimes you want to change your plans quickly, and one small change can put everything else out of kilter. A more fun way to travel is day by day, though I guess that depends on how busy places are. I was visiting in the low season.
Amman was like an unoccupied, comparatively relaxed, relatively touristy and significantly more populated Nablus. Or 'Nablus on steroids' as a friend Ben, who had just finished volunteering in Palestine, liked to call it. Bumping into Ben after arriving in Amman was a strange event. On my first night in Amman I was walking down the street when I spotted a juice store. I stared long and hard at the shop, trying to discern whether I wanted a juice or not. Meanwhile, just in front of me, Ben was waiting at a cash machine, staring into space as he waited in line. We stared past each other for a good minute. Eventually we spotted each other and exchanged puzzled and surprised glances, as both had been completely unaware that the other was in the city. We explored the city for the rest of the night, managed to find very expensive orange juice and cookies, and spoke some broken Arabic with some local Jordanians, before I finally succumbed to fatigue and had to go back to the hostel to bed.
It was in Jordan that I finally embraced my identity as a camera
happy tourist. I took over 200 pictures of everything from castles to
empty deserts to magnificent buildings carved into rock. After a few
days in Amman, and more than enough visits to ancient castles, a few of
us began to tour south. Unfortunately, dust storms from Saudi Arabia
prevented us from seeing some of the magnificent views Jordan is famous
for, but we were still able to experience the sights of Petra and Wadi
Rum. Petra lived up to its reputation, and the decision to wake up
bright and early to beat the crowds was a good one. Arriving at 6:30 in
the morning, we had the place pretty much to ourselves, and were able to
dwell on the grand structures of this now long past civilisation.
Petra was devoid of the safety regulations that the western world has embraced, so we were able to pretty much climb anywhere we wanted. Although I lead our expedition of 3 enthusiastic climbers astray a couple of times, we were able to find some great spots overlooking the famous treasury.
It was also in Petra that my traveling companion Liam and myself were able to create a new form of bartering. This basically involved approaching a small food and drink stall and asking about the prices. Exhausted and hungry from walking, and dumbstruck by the exorbitant tourist prices, we would then stand in a stupor for about ten minutes, unable to make a decision on what to order. Eventually, the owner would offer us a deal, sometimes cutting the price by up to 50%. This worked for us on numerous occasions, to the point where we stopped achieving this accidentally and began deliberately planning our inability to make a decision on what to order. Never has my indecisiveness worked to my advantage to such a degree.
My final stop in Jordan was Wadi Rum, the desert, famous for its connection to Lawrence of Arabia. In fact, I enjoyed the grandeur and silence of Wadi Rum so much that I think I have finally reached the patience level required to watch the film. The Bedouin people have made an interesting life for themselves in the desert, in one sense living a simple and traditional way of life, and in another thriving from a fruitful tourist trade. From what I could tell, education is a core part of Bedouin culture, and many have university degrees and speak English fluently. However, being in such a unique landscape inevitably raises questions about politics and the environment. Is the tourism you are involved in having an effect on the ecosystem? Who actually has control of the area - where are all the profits going? Were the big players really going to let the tourism potential of the Bedouin land go by unnoticed? I was not surprised to read of controversies and disputes over the land when I got a chance to do some quick online research the following week.
As good as it was to see Jordan, one of the key purposes for the trip was to renew my visa. Somehow, I managed to do that. I arrived home to find others had not been so lucky. One volunteer, on the same journey into Jordan as I had taken, had had her passport stamped 'banned from entry' when leaving Israeli territory. Her crime? Teaching art classes around Nablus. If only more Palestinian youth could see that art is a more powerful medium against occupation than throwing stones.
It was only after I started traveling through Jordan that I realised how significantly improved I was as a traveler. That's probably not saying much, considering how terrible I was to begin with. One of the key ways in which one improves as a traveler is being perfectly comfortable not knowing what you are doing, knowing that you will be able to figure it out somehow. Of course, it could have been that I was so grumpy after the Allenby border crossing that I could have made my way from A to anywhere without the least concern. My first stop was Amman, and I had rough plans for how I would spend my week, which quickly changed after I commenced a brief search for phantom visas and made friends at the hostel I was staying at. This leads me to two other things I was to learn while in Jordan. One, people in hostels are some of the friendliest people one can meet. Two, don't plan too far ahead when you are traveling, because sometimes you want to change your plans quickly, and one small change can put everything else out of kilter. A more fun way to travel is day by day, though I guess that depends on how busy places are. I was visiting in the low season.
 |
| Roman amphitheatre in Amman. |
 |
| Nod to the Petone Stonecutters football team. Have a good season lads. |
Amman was like an unoccupied, comparatively relaxed, relatively touristy and significantly more populated Nablus. Or 'Nablus on steroids' as a friend Ben, who had just finished volunteering in Palestine, liked to call it. Bumping into Ben after arriving in Amman was a strange event. On my first night in Amman I was walking down the street when I spotted a juice store. I stared long and hard at the shop, trying to discern whether I wanted a juice or not. Meanwhile, just in front of me, Ben was waiting at a cash machine, staring into space as he waited in line. We stared past each other for a good minute. Eventually we spotted each other and exchanged puzzled and surprised glances, as both had been completely unaware that the other was in the city. We explored the city for the rest of the night, managed to find very expensive orange juice and cookies, and spoke some broken Arabic with some local Jordanians, before I finally succumbed to fatigue and had to go back to the hostel to bed.
 |
| Things could be worse in NZ. |
 |
| Castle where Laurence of Arabia held off the Ottomans. |
 |
| Liam, Jose and myself atop yet another castle. The sand from Saudi Arabia was unfortunate timing - rumour has it it only happens 5 days of the year on average. |
 |
| The famous treasury building of the Nabataeans, guarded by two camels. |
Petra was devoid of the safety regulations that the western world has embraced, so we were able to pretty much climb anywhere we wanted. Although I lead our expedition of 3 enthusiastic climbers astray a couple of times, we were able to find some great spots overlooking the famous treasury.
 |
| Although we got lost on the way up, we eventually found this view from a Bedouin's hut. He gave us some tea too. |
 |
| Just a typical view in Petra. |
 |
| View from a mosque marking the burial place of Aaron, brother of Moses. We ran dangerously short of water during the 2 hour walk up. |
It was also in Petra that my traveling companion Liam and myself were able to create a new form of bartering. This basically involved approaching a small food and drink stall and asking about the prices. Exhausted and hungry from walking, and dumbstruck by the exorbitant tourist prices, we would then stand in a stupor for about ten minutes, unable to make a decision on what to order. Eventually, the owner would offer us a deal, sometimes cutting the price by up to 50%. This worked for us on numerous occasions, to the point where we stopped achieving this accidentally and began deliberately planning our inability to make a decision on what to order. Never has my indecisiveness worked to my advantage to such a degree.
My final stop in Jordan was Wadi Rum, the desert, famous for its connection to Lawrence of Arabia. In fact, I enjoyed the grandeur and silence of Wadi Rum so much that I think I have finally reached the patience level required to watch the film. The Bedouin people have made an interesting life for themselves in the desert, in one sense living a simple and traditional way of life, and in another thriving from a fruitful tourist trade. From what I could tell, education is a core part of Bedouin culture, and many have university degrees and speak English fluently. However, being in such a unique landscape inevitably raises questions about politics and the environment. Is the tourism you are involved in having an effect on the ecosystem? Who actually has control of the area - where are all the profits going? Were the big players really going to let the tourism potential of the Bedouin land go by unnoticed? I was not surprised to read of controversies and disputes over the land when I got a chance to do some quick online research the following week.
 |
| Wadi Rum |
 |
| Jump with your arms Jon, with your arms. |
As good as it was to see Jordan, one of the key purposes for the trip was to renew my visa. Somehow, I managed to do that. I arrived home to find others had not been so lucky. One volunteer, on the same journey into Jordan as I had taken, had had her passport stamped 'banned from entry' when leaving Israeli territory. Her crime? Teaching art classes around Nablus. If only more Palestinian youth could see that art is a more powerful medium against occupation than throwing stones.
Tuesday 11 March 2014
Jordan: There and back again. Part One: The Visa.
My trip to Jordan started early on a Sunday morning, at around 5:45 am. I dragged myself out of bed with the intention of catching the 7am bus to Jericho, from where I could figure my way through to the Allenby bridge crossing and into Jordan. It turned out that no such bus existed, so i jumped into a shared taxi (servie) to Jericho instead. Sharing a taxi means you have to wait until it is full of people before they depart. Sometimes this takes 1 minute, other times it takes as long as an hour. It turned out on this occasion that I had woken up bright and early in order to sit in a van for much of the morning.
The road to Jericho is pretty amazing. It is one of the lowest points on earth, so you can imagine the decent through the barren hills. I managed to arrange a ride through to the border, where i was given an option to cross the bridge in either an Israeli taxi or a Palestinian bus. "Whatever one is cheaper," I replied, and not surprisingly I was recommended the latter option. I was the only tourist at the Palestinian bus station, and for some reason they decided that I should take my back pack on the bus while everyone else had to put their bag on another bus. This meant I basically had to hold my bag in front of my face squashed into my seat, and get subsequently questioned by everyone as to why I had my bag with me, to which I had no logical answer.
Allenby bridge border crossing. Right, time to leave Israel and head into Jordan, beginning my journey toward obtaining a new visa into Israel at the southern border. Snags emerged immediately. The moment they scanned my passport out of Israel they told me I was on the wrong visa and should have a volunteer visa from the interior ministry in Jerusalem. I would not be able to reenter Israel without one, they told me. I had obtained a letter from the university I was teaching at, which was supposed to be my special border weapon. They wouldn't even look at it. Another man came out to debate with me and I tried to explain that other individuals had been permitted by Israel to do the same volunteer work I was doing on a tourist visa. He asked me to give him their names. A grin spread across his face, the same grin I had given another volunteer, Patrick, the night before after I had beaten him in chess. Checkmate. What could I say to that? I had no power. He told me to go talk to the embassy. I asked what embassy. He said the New Zealand embassy. I asked him how a New Zealand embassy could grant me an Israeli visa. He was not concerned about such details, he just wanted me to leave. And so began a new journey, the journey of obtaining the illusive volunteer visa in Jordan, where every person you talk to tells you to go talk to somebody else.
I try not to overuse the term Kafkaesque. But so many Kafkaesque things happen here. On my second day in Jordan I managed to find the Israeli embassy, where Jordanian police guarded the entrance. I explained my situation, but they could only do so much. The only authority that could do anything lay within the embassies walls. There was no way I could book a meeting with these embassy people through the guards. Instead, I had to call a mysterious number written on the wall. The problem was, nobody ever answered this phone number. I tried for near on half an hour until another poor soul came along from the Philippines wanting to organise a meeting for a visa. She too was told to ring the number, even after she tried to explain that she had been calling the number for days and nobody had ever answered. After an hour I gave up/ran out of money on my phone. Seeking to console me, the Jordanian official suggested I go back to my hostel and keep trying. Eventually that afternoon I did get through, and discovered that the embassy had even been discussing my case amongst each other. They assured me that as a New Zealander I qualified for a 3 month tourist visa. I then tried to explain the specific historical context of my situation and what Allenby border had said. This was too much for the embassy man. Finally, he suggested that I go to Jerusalem and apply for a visa. I asked curiously how I should visit Jerusalem if I can't enter Israel. Again, the man was uncertain, and suggested that perhaps someone I know could go to Jerusalem on my behalf. I graciously thanked the embassy man for nothing and gave up all hope of receiving help through embassies. I had one option left - just try to cross the border and hope for the best.
After a week of touring Jordan (see the upcoming part 2 for details), I reached Aqaba in the south, which crosses into Eilat in Israel. I queued, expecting the worst. One official walked up the line, checking passports and asking questions. He asked me a few questions, looked at a piece of paper, then said I would get my passport back later. I looked around me, everyone else seemed to have had their passports handed back to them. This didn't seem like a good start. I made it through the metal detector (I never fail that one) and waited for my backpack to be checked. I regretted packing a kafia into my bag, probably not a good look. Thankfully the attendant decided my back pack was in the too hard basket, given she had to take everything out in order to search it. At this point I had about three individuals to go, each with their own line of questioning. During this process it was reaffirmed to me how incapable I am at lying. "Have you been in Israel before?" "Yes" Where did you go?" "Oh you know, around. Jerusalem, Bethlehem." "Were you volunteering?" "Ahhhh, yeah." "Where?" "Nablus." "Will you volunteer again?" "Ahhh, maybe." It was around the time I had been waiting on a bench for about an hour for someone to come out and tell me to go back to Jordan that an official handed me my passport. "Where to now," I asked. She pointed to the exit. I was free to go. Things were finally coming up Milhouse. I poured through my passport. Sure enough there was a tourist visa stamp with "3 months" written beside it. I managed to grab a ride for a good price to Jericho and grab a servie back to Nablus on the same day. On entering my flat I was confronted with familiar sewage-like smells emanating from the bathroom, 26 leaks in the ceiling and a chorus of friendly and excited welcomes from the other volunteers. I was home.
The road to Jericho is pretty amazing. It is one of the lowest points on earth, so you can imagine the decent through the barren hills. I managed to arrange a ride through to the border, where i was given an option to cross the bridge in either an Israeli taxi or a Palestinian bus. "Whatever one is cheaper," I replied, and not surprisingly I was recommended the latter option. I was the only tourist at the Palestinian bus station, and for some reason they decided that I should take my back pack on the bus while everyone else had to put their bag on another bus. This meant I basically had to hold my bag in front of my face squashed into my seat, and get subsequently questioned by everyone as to why I had my bag with me, to which I had no logical answer.
Allenby bridge border crossing. Right, time to leave Israel and head into Jordan, beginning my journey toward obtaining a new visa into Israel at the southern border. Snags emerged immediately. The moment they scanned my passport out of Israel they told me I was on the wrong visa and should have a volunteer visa from the interior ministry in Jerusalem. I would not be able to reenter Israel without one, they told me. I had obtained a letter from the university I was teaching at, which was supposed to be my special border weapon. They wouldn't even look at it. Another man came out to debate with me and I tried to explain that other individuals had been permitted by Israel to do the same volunteer work I was doing on a tourist visa. He asked me to give him their names. A grin spread across his face, the same grin I had given another volunteer, Patrick, the night before after I had beaten him in chess. Checkmate. What could I say to that? I had no power. He told me to go talk to the embassy. I asked what embassy. He said the New Zealand embassy. I asked him how a New Zealand embassy could grant me an Israeli visa. He was not concerned about such details, he just wanted me to leave. And so began a new journey, the journey of obtaining the illusive volunteer visa in Jordan, where every person you talk to tells you to go talk to somebody else.
 |
| This helped put my visa issues into perspective. |
I try not to overuse the term Kafkaesque. But so many Kafkaesque things happen here. On my second day in Jordan I managed to find the Israeli embassy, where Jordanian police guarded the entrance. I explained my situation, but they could only do so much. The only authority that could do anything lay within the embassies walls. There was no way I could book a meeting with these embassy people through the guards. Instead, I had to call a mysterious number written on the wall. The problem was, nobody ever answered this phone number. I tried for near on half an hour until another poor soul came along from the Philippines wanting to organise a meeting for a visa. She too was told to ring the number, even after she tried to explain that she had been calling the number for days and nobody had ever answered. After an hour I gave up/ran out of money on my phone. Seeking to console me, the Jordanian official suggested I go back to my hostel and keep trying. Eventually that afternoon I did get through, and discovered that the embassy had even been discussing my case amongst each other. They assured me that as a New Zealander I qualified for a 3 month tourist visa. I then tried to explain the specific historical context of my situation and what Allenby border had said. This was too much for the embassy man. Finally, he suggested that I go to Jerusalem and apply for a visa. I asked curiously how I should visit Jerusalem if I can't enter Israel. Again, the man was uncertain, and suggested that perhaps someone I know could go to Jerusalem on my behalf. I graciously thanked the embassy man for nothing and gave up all hope of receiving help through embassies. I had one option left - just try to cross the border and hope for the best.
 |
| Jordan's neighbours, such alluring locations. |
 |
| Sometimes in Jordan you can see nothing at all. |
 |
| The journey south |
 |
| Sunset at Wadi Rum |
After a week of touring Jordan (see the upcoming part 2 for details), I reached Aqaba in the south, which crosses into Eilat in Israel. I queued, expecting the worst. One official walked up the line, checking passports and asking questions. He asked me a few questions, looked at a piece of paper, then said I would get my passport back later. I looked around me, everyone else seemed to have had their passports handed back to them. This didn't seem like a good start. I made it through the metal detector (I never fail that one) and waited for my backpack to be checked. I regretted packing a kafia into my bag, probably not a good look. Thankfully the attendant decided my back pack was in the too hard basket, given she had to take everything out in order to search it. At this point I had about three individuals to go, each with their own line of questioning. During this process it was reaffirmed to me how incapable I am at lying. "Have you been in Israel before?" "Yes" Where did you go?" "Oh you know, around. Jerusalem, Bethlehem." "Were you volunteering?" "Ahhhh, yeah." "Where?" "Nablus." "Will you volunteer again?" "Ahhh, maybe." It was around the time I had been waiting on a bench for about an hour for someone to come out and tell me to go back to Jordan that an official handed me my passport. "Where to now," I asked. She pointed to the exit. I was free to go. Things were finally coming up Milhouse. I poured through my passport. Sure enough there was a tourist visa stamp with "3 months" written beside it. I managed to grab a ride for a good price to Jericho and grab a servie back to Nablus on the same day. On entering my flat I was confronted with familiar sewage-like smells emanating from the bathroom, 26 leaks in the ceiling and a chorus of friendly and excited welcomes from the other volunteers. I was home.
 |
| Historic ruins played a significant part of my tour of Jordan. It was a wonderful week. |
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