chris willett

Sunday, July 02, 2006

Jerusalem day 2


I woke to the sound of the Mullah's call to prayer carrying across the roof tops and the sun blazing through the window, I had put in my trusty earplugs but I had a day in the Holiest city in the World and there was no time to sleep. After a most excellent DIY breakfast of fresh fruit and muesli bars and a sermon on the garden tomb from John (with the occasional mention of how everyone else staying there had experienced the joy of God) which I promised to visit I hit the streets. A little too early for all but the hardest hawkers (my brush off still working like a charm) I went to see the Wailing Wall- it was Muslim Friday and as a white European I was not allowed in, they wouldn't even accept a few 'Allah akbas' and I watched from without.
This had limited appeal and after some more brilliant advice from Dan hatched a plan to visit the new Holocaust Museum at Yad Vashem. Only trouble was my crappy guide book had only limited info, although it did have details on who had occupied the square foot of soil upon which I was standing 4 thousand years ago, which isn't terribly useful. No problem there though because I know where to find an Israeli TIC ha ha. After ten minutes of hawker dodging I was outside the little shop of horrors SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIT. It's Friday, the first day of the weekend (equivalent to our Saturday) not a holy day but a day when families get into their cars and drive to see interesting and historic places- what in God's name would they be requiring the services of a TIC for, so it was shut. Standing outside was a fellow selling walking tours and he eloquently gave me directions to the central bus station from where I could get to Yad Vashem. I thanked him for his politeness (he hadn't tried to sell me anything or drag me to look at his shop) to which he replied "I'm polite because I'm English", "and I appreciate it because I'm English".
A brisk walk through town and a quick cappucino was interesting and I was very relieved to be out of the pressure cooker that is the old city. The sun was turning the day hot and the hustle and bustle gave me the biggest feeling that I was somewhere different, amongst locals and not just tourists and those who prey upon them- Jerusalem was growing on me. I eventually found a bus stop with the required numbers atop and the helpful driver saved me 20 minutes of further walking to the central station. Busses are ubiquitous in J and armed security types hop randomely from one to another carrying out security checks and chatting to women. The thought of bombs never crossed my mind until mentioned by John and his wife later that day. I guess for them to even be out of the US is something and I'm sure it's only because God is 'on their side' that they travel at all. The bus dropped me about a mile from Yad Vashem and by now the sun was blazing. Having finally got through the predictably tough security I was impressed by the architecture of the complex and glad of it's air conditioning. The place is so new that they have not done the recorded tours yet- luckily they were unecessary. I group of Germans were beginning a tour which I found remarkable since the whole place was extravagantly dedicated to telling how they persecution the Jewish race for half a century and unilaterally attempted to eradicate what is now the Israeli populace. Anyway, slightly uncomfortable at being tall a fair and in a german speaking group I went with the flow which meanders through the history of the holocaust from inception to execution (literally). I actually found it so entralling that I was soon left behind by the group and sat to watch every video clip of survivors telling their stories. Deep in contemplation at about the halfway point I was nudged by a security guard and told that I had 20 minutes before they closed for the Sabbat'- it was 1.40 on Friday afternoon. Bummer, the best bit was ahead of me so I raced through scanning as much of the display info as possible and grabbed the last roll and an ice coffee from the expensive cafe on the way out. Another benevolent bus driver got me back into the city and as luck would have it I recognised the area as being near to a market Dan told me about- it's where hustle and bustle were invented to describe. I bought some pitas but the guy was too busy to take my money, another one short changed me on some grapes but I couldn't get his attention to sort it. Fresh fruit and veg were virtually free- like 1kg of strawberries for 40p and then what Dan had told me about happened- the religious guys came around and said it was time to close for the Sabbat' and close they did, everything was thrown or sold and the place was closed, just like that. It was an authentic Israeli moment.

I wandered back to the hostel and had a chill, challenged by John about the Garden Tomb, time was getting on so I fulfilled my obligations and went, he parted with a prayer to the Lord Jesus that I would see the light while there- which was nice. The garden is owned and run by a British charity and is based on the precept that Jesus was never crusified on a hill (it doesn't say that in the Bible, if you've read it) but at a cross roads just outside the garden The garden's owner whose name as usual escapes me took the corpse and put it in a tomb built into cliffs at the edge of the garden from where it disapppeared and all that. I infiltrated a group of Americans who threw in the odd 'alleluyah' and 'praise the lord' but were otherwise OK for the friendly presentation. The case (if you actually believe in resurrection) was strong and the whole experience interesting. I don't hold with any form of reincarnation- and I didn't last time I was alive either.

I went back to the hostel sure that John would be disappointed that I hadn't been converted. Back in the hostel's garden I got talking to my fellow traveller the German frauline Martina. The conversation, partly in German but mostly English eventually got round to the fact that she had given up her job as a civil engineer to go to the youth hostel En Gedi (there is nothing else there but desert) on the Dead Sea (and my next destination) because God had told her to. The talk was shortly interuppted by John's wife who decided to challenge my claim to be English because I didn't sound English to her- what can you say to that? Once there Martina would receive further instructions within 3 weeks- as you do! While a pleasant and genuine person there was, as you may expect something very odd about her- but I couldn't put my finger on it. Absolutely asexual she was feminine in a way, as tall as me but narrower in the shoulders and wider in the hips with remarkably big feet, she was soft and gentle and confident but not. I had planned to go to the Wailing wall again on Friday evening when it was the start of the Jewish Sabbat' proper and she joined me. As we sat in the public area in seemed and endless stream of men dressed in black coats entered and filled the huge square below the wall. Dana chuckled as she said that these holy men had originated in Poland and other parts of Eastern Europe where it was cold and for some reason they wore heavy black coats and black suits as their uniform- this backfired when they all moved to Israel but there was no religious mechanism for deciding on more suitable dress, so they suffered the heat.

We both marvelled at the lack of saftey consideration given to cramming about 4ooo people into a confined area in a city renowned for being a terrorist's playground. No emergency exits or anything but I guess they were being protected by a force higher than health and safety legislation. By the time things started winding down I was chilly and hungry and proposed we go for some food. Martina was thrilled- it transpired that she hadn't eaten for two days because she was 'uncomfortable' about going into a restaurant on her own. She had already become victim to the hawkers having been sold a set of plates she didn't want and since she was backpacking to a hostel wouldn't have for very long. I headed straight out of the city and to a local place by the Damascus gate. The only westerners in there I muddled through the Arabic menu and ordered for us both. The spread was impressive, the waiter jovial and the price agreeable- Martina said she would eat here always when in Jerusalem from now on, adventurer that she is. A walk back through the deserted and oddly lit streets was kind of spooky. Martina headed for bed but from the garden of the hostel I spotted a series or walkways and open areas on the rooftops. A brief investigation revealed a city above a city and a chance to try out the nightime mode on my camera.

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