An older man steps forward, “Hello, welcome, I am Salah Ali. I love American people but hate American government.” (And during the course of the evening, those sentiments echoed from all who approached.)
My reply was the same each time also, looking them dead in the eye. “I have traveled a long way to meet you, where do we go from here?”
Soon, 60-year-old Salah Ali reaches to take my hand. “You must come with me for tea.”
“Thank you, I’m tired and would rather find a hotel; maybe later.”
“No, you must come with me first for tea.”
Arab hospitality means that there is no such thing as refusing, so hooking his arm in mine, we stroll down the alley to his favorite café for a traditional herbal brew.
Like most of the others, his English is good. “For why have you come to Jericho?”
“Up until two hours ago, I had never met a Palestinian but had always wanted to.”
“We know what your news says about us, why are you not afraid?”
“Maybe I don’t believe everything on TV.”
“You must come to the election rally, hurry and finish your tea. We must go now. Dr. Mustafa Al Barghudi is running for president and he is coming to speak with us.”
With Salah Ali on the back of the Blue Beast, we thread our way through throngs of gawking young Palestinians milling beneath election banners in Arabic. I am the only foreigner. There are no police or press, but with Arabic music blaring from tinny loudspeakers, the crowd is festive. Lines form to shake my hand with the previous greeting.
A ragged man of 30 continues his handshake longer than comfortable, shouting with wild eyes, “Osama bin Laden is my savior, he helps Palestinians. Americans only kill us. I hope he kills your cities.” Still refusing to let go of my hand, he breaks into sobs. “I am sorry, I am sorry, I do not mean this but what can we do? Look at our lives. I was 10 years in Israeli prison that your government built.” A disturbing reality check — was I staring into the eyes of a future suicide bomber?
Throughout this uncomfortable encounter, no one intervenes, and I wonder what else is in store. Once we move inside a crowded lecture hall, if events go awry, there will be no escape. Like it or not, this situation could turn ugly. The candidate coming to speak may have made comments earlier, angering a militant group. In the West Bank, political debate can end in gunfire. Government crowd control using lethal force is another possibility. If this meeting became unruly, Israeli soldiers may enter the city, firing into mobs.
Before considerations turn to paranoia, men on either side whisk me inside to a row of folding chairs in front of the podium. “From here you may take pictures.” Past the point of no return, I am in the middle of a situation that could go either way. Rumor spreads that Dr. Barghudi was detained at the checkpoint, and I recall recently televised scenes of him dressed in a business suit, being roughed up and dragged around by Israeli soldiers.
As I ponder the outcome of political enthusiasm evolving into hostility, a five-car motorcade of honking taxis arrives. The excited town-hall crowd parts barely wide enough for Dr. Barghudi to be carried in on the shoulders of shouting supporters.
To make sure I understand what is happening, two young Palestinians translate the words of the introductory speakers. They address democracy, fighting corruption and standing up to the Israelis. I peg only one security man behind the candidate, next to satin-vested high school kids passing out flyers. I still haven’t seen a cop, and it appears that Palestinians police their own and may have finally come to the realization that this is their big chance for democracy. Sealing off Palestinian cities, the Israelis have made it difficult for candidates to campaign freely, but maybe that has kept the potential chaos in check.
Later, after bringing me to his home for the night, Salah troubles me once more. “It’s now four years since Israelis have closed our cities. We are prisoners in our own country. What is left for us anymore? How can we live like this? What if this happened to you in your country?”
Sometimes adventure travelers seeking what’s restricted or off the beaten path can find more than they are able to stomach. We need to be careful of what we wish for. At times, it’s a struggle to remain on topic and avoid the politics of the suffering we encounter. We often fail in our attempts to balance tales of our journeys with what affects our conscience. This is a wanderer’s diary concerning adventure, not a critique of international issues or an evaluation of how others choose to govern themselves. But to feel a man’s pulse, you must take his hand — and then determine for yourself how close to the fire you can stand to be.
Brothers
January 10, 2005
Tel Aviv, Israel
The quickest way to meet fellow motorcyclists when you’re traveling is to experience a problem. It seldom takes more than minutes for local riders on bikes or in cars to spot a brother down and stop to offer assistance. Flat tires and empty fuel tanks can occur anywhere, but bikers in distress don’t wait long.
Drive chains and rear-wheel sprockets are high-wear items that eventually need replacement. If we pay attention, half-worn sprockets can be unbolted and reversed to extend their life. For unknown reasons, the teeth on mine went from starting-to-wear to full-blown fishhook-shapes in 100 miles. Complications never occur when convenient — only in the rain or on a desert road after dark. In this case, it was both. Motorcyclists learn to constantly listen for unusual clinks, sputters or metallic grating noises that alert us to impending mechanical failure. There is usually a warning just prior to a final snap. So when my engine RPMs abruptly increased and the bike immediately slowed, it was obvious the rear chain had jumped off the worn-out sprocket teeth.
When mechanical failure strikes while we are in motion, even before stopping, experienced bikers are calculating damages, worst-case scenarios and resolutions. Months before, I had stashed a spare chain and front sprocket but no rear — in Turkey, local dealers seldom stock new ones. With 130 percent taxes in Israel, motorcycles cost twice as much as they do in the U.S., so expensive BMWs, and spare parts for them, are scarce.
Within minutes of coasting as far as possible and wrangling the Blue Beast under a bus stop roof, the first car arrives. Me with no Hebrew and Uri with no English, we manage in sign language to determine that we’ll need a wrench bigger than I have — but he will go get one and be back in 20 minutes. In the meantime, another car stops, whose driver insists on returning home to retrieve a light. Soon, a mini-workshop is underway on the outskirts of Jericho. With the help of total strangers, in less than an hour, I am back on the road, easing cautiously toward Jerusalem.
As in Russia, local Israeli and American riders have been tracking me via the Internet, and when reading my posted report, they contact me with directions and information about the only town with a dealer in the region — Tel Aviv. Feeling safe in Israel, I violate my own security procedures and reveal the name and location of my hotel. Members from the local off-road riding club were quickly on the phone with offers for escorts to the workshop. Upon arriving at the dealership, even before I shut down the engine, I see Nadav, the BMW service manager, come walking up — “Hi, you must be Glen, we’ve been expecting you, your parts are ready.”
Even with a discount on the brake pads and rear sprocket, the prices are outrageous. But Nadav says, “Don’t worry, we’ll handle maintenance on the house.” With that, two technicians spend the next hour inspecting my bike for other potential problems. There are another 6,000 miles ahead through Pakistan, India and Nepal, where there are no parts or mechanics familiar with BMW. Nadav, concerned about this, gives me personal contact information in case I need help. Although long-riders don’t take this kind of hospitality for granted, we’re accustomed to the brotherhood of motorcycle riders.
We may be from different countries and cultures, but when it comes to our passion, we all speak the same language. As others in the world bicker among t
hemselves, those in the biking community are anxious to meet and lend a hand. One more reason to believe there is no better way to experience the world than on two wheels.
Gaza
January 11, 2005
Gaza City, The West Bank
My original plan included only Christmas in Jerusalem and a short ride back to Jordan for air-transit to Pakistan. But after I also visited the Golan Heights, Sharon insisted on expanding my itinerary to include Gaza. The truth is, it didn’t interest me until I discovered that it was a closed military zone. For the last four years, without special permits, almost no one was allowed in or out.
The term Occupied Territory is used so often that the meaning is lost. Besides, the issues are clear; Arabs are dangerous terrorists who should be separated from the rest of humanity. But the more military officials tried to discourage me from visiting, the more important it felt. Like in Egypt, I became suspicious when I saw authorities trying to control what foreigners see.
It took five days of telephone interviews to get approved for a special unescorted entry, without a private vehicle and alone. After working my way up through the ranks, my last phone call was a direct plea to the general of the regional Israeli Defense Forces, whose subordinates had obviously thoroughly researched my name and U.S. records. Somehow, presumably to determine my politics, they had even managed to read my book. Yet, once I reached the infamous Erez checkpoint with a green light from central command, the crossing still involved two more hours of last-minute questioning before I began the half-mile walk through an intimidating tunnel of 20-foot-high cement barricades and slamming security gates. From security personnel watching on closed circuit TVs and inaudible loudspeakers barking scratchy orders to remove my jacket and empty my pockets, I went through buzzing steel gates feeding into electronically operated bull pens and rows of human cages. Scanning cameras and abrupt commands from heavily armed and nervous young soldiers left no doubt: a careless mistake could mean a bullet in the back. And I was an ally.
Sacrificing moral high ground for security, Israel disregards world opinion. This is little comfort for an imprisoned Palestinian populace fenced in by a foreign army. Even knowing I could leave, halfway through the dehumanizing transfer process, my stomach still churned — one can only imagine what it’s like to live here.
At the end of a dreary concrete corridor ripped open in places from car bombs, indifferent Palestinian guards sign me in for the final thousand-foot walk through open space manned by Red Crescent workers. Once I clear, I find only an idling beat-up taxi awaiting. If it was the army’s intent to spook me by delaying entry until dusk, it worked.
This is election day in Gaza, and Palestinians are determined to peacefully choose a replacement for Yassar Arafat under the suffocating yoke of a humiliating occupation. It’s a life-threatening economic disaster for humans entombed at gunpoint within electrified barbed wire and checkpoints manned by soldiers who don’t hesitate to fire their weapons with deadly accuracy. With radical Palestinians refusing to participate in the election and a general fear of the unknown, the challenge of an orderly transition of power is immeasurable.
In response to attacks by militants, daily Israeli army incursions to arrest suspects and bulldoze homes have become a way of life. Revenge. It’s a circle of violence that amounts to last-tags of murder and mayhem. The horror is unfathomable and mostly hidden from the world, even from Israelis.
To a certain extent, I trust Palestinians but not enough to venture out tonight — U.S. government financing of their tormenters might affect their judgment, and all it takes is one hothead to create an international incident. Divisions on both sides run deep. But today it’s irrelevant who slaughtered the first civilians; everyone is involved now. As Israelis load helicopters with sophisticated heat-seeking missiles, and Palestinians strap explosives on teenagers, each knows the outcome. At the receiving end, women and children are going to die. Yet, amidst the killing, life goes on.
Central Gaza in the daylight was a typical Arab city — strings of honking taxis backed up in traffic and crowded, fragrant markets scouted by veiled housewives bartering for fruits and vegetables. Busy streets were lined with groups of friendly old men huddled around small plastic tables, beckoning strangers to stop for tea. “Hallo, escuse me, ara you Germany man?” If accepting all the offers, it’d take a day to reach the end of the block.
Israeli commanders had only issued me a 24-hour pass. Unsure how to spend that time, I opt to wander the crowd. A third of the men here are unemployed, which has left groups of disgruntled young men idling on crumbling street corners, ripe for recruiting by militant leaders. Futures as gunmen or suicide bombers are more certain than college. These are the kids on TV throwing stones at Israeli tanks — if they survive the hail of gunfire; scars from bullets become badges of honor.
Abruptly aware of being forcefully prodded and nudged through a tightly packed throng of shoppers, I suddenly find myself in a garbage-strewn alley, facing an informal tribunal. Clearly the local tough guys, they still remembered to smile. A 20-something leader offers a strong handshake with a menacing grin. He issues sharp commands to his inquisitive lackeys who have surrounded me to back away. Pointing to one of two folding chairs, he orders, “You sit.”
Revealing my creeping fear would only ensure his upper hand. I point to the other chair, “We sit.”
“Verdee goot, verdee goot.” Pounding his chest with a fist he declares, “I mafia king!”
I resist gulping and reply, “It’s very nice to meet a mafia king.”
Eyeing my camera, he asks, “You telebison man?”
“No, I am motorsickle man from California.” Looping an index finger in circles, “I go around the world on motorsickle.” Knowing Arabs like being photographed, I ask, “Can we take a picture together?”
Waving his hand, “No peetchur, beeg problam.”
It’s understood that these young men likely don’t pose without face-hoods. I also noted that none of them had the indelibly inked-stained thumbs that officials used as proof for having voted in the election. As his questions continue, my discomfort increases.
“You Amerdica man. You like Eesralee man or you like Hamas?”
Merely hearing the name Hamas suggests that my feet are touching the fire. It’s underscored with the pocketknife he’s now unfolding. “This for Eesralee man. You like Hamas knife?”
Maintaining eye contact while attempting to control a rapidly increasing heart rate, I roll up my right sleeve while raising a tattooed forearm bearing a nine-inch scar. “This is from Mexican machete, a much bigger knife.”
“Ah haw! You verdee goot, verdee goot Amerdica man.”
Certain to lose a game of can-you-top-this with militant foot soldiers, I rise, tapping my watch. “Time to go now, Israeli soldiers have my motorsickle, maybe they don’t give it back. Where is the bus to Erez?”
Slapping the back of one of his obedient young henchmen, he says, “My fren take you to verdee goot taxee.”
Just before entering the no-man’s-land strip to Erez, an International Red Cross ambulance monitors the last stretch of dirt road leading to the first Palestinian Authority checkpoint. UN workers block my path, stating that no one is allowed to pass until Israeli commanders give the okay. There has been another shooting at the border, and soldiers are edgy. It could be several hours.
Much to my relief, 30 tense minutes later, cell phones ring and walkie-talkies crackle with permission to let people pass, but only one at a time. With a camera tucked inside my jacket, I click off as many photos as I dare until again intercepted by bullhorns and scanning closed-circuit TV cameras. Shamed for my complicity, departing Gaza is like shoving a manhole cover aside to climb from a sewer that I have escaped, with others left behind.
The no-man’s-land corridor entering Gaza via Erez Checkpoint, Gaza City, The West Bank
Jerusalem
&n
bsp; January 12, 2005
Jordanian Border
Since it’s claimed to be the holiest city in history, you’ll be either drawn or repelled by what you see in Jerusalem. This is ground zero for the Arab-Israeli conflict, today’s biggest obstacle to peace. With biblical justifications, religious extremists risk world war over this hallowed ground. True believers are not just dangerous to themselves — in this case, they are willing to take us all down in a quest for domination over the hottest chunk of real estate on the planet, their pipeline to God.
Travelers can get into trouble discussing religion, so we’ll just say it confounds me. But my opinions don’t matter; this is about meeting the people of the world to find out what they think. Seeing the world through my own eyes is insufficient. It’s better to feel it through the thoughts of those living there. To experience their life, it’s important to speak, eat and sleep with natives in their environment. To be invited home with the locals is the traveler’s dream, yet if those opportunities don’t arise, we’re content with street corner tea breaks or restaurant chat. Words are not the only way; ideas can be exchanged with gestures. At times, we communicate with sign language, facial expressions and drawing diagrams in the dirt. There is never enough time, but we reach some understandings. A soiled spaceman riding suit and helmet in hand draws the curious for instant engagement.
The Wailing Wall, the Temple Mount and the right to worship are discussed at length. I spent two entire days wandering East and West Jerusalem talking to whoever would take the time. I learned about Hasidic Jews, Orthodox Jews, Muslim clerics and holy shrines. At the Wailing Wall, I wore a skullcap out of respect for the Jews; on the other side, for Palestinians, I donned a black-and-white kaffiyeh. When asked what I thought, I told them that it didn’t matter. What didn’t vary was the ending of dialogue. Jews asked whom I supported. “I support world peace.”
One More Day Everywhere Page 16