Day 3: Into Jersualem
The main Tel Aviv bus terminal, victim to one of the previous suicide bombings had the standard bag search on the way in. Can't help feeling it's a token effort to make people feel safer - if someone really wanted to get a bomb in there, they could.
I'd had the foresight to unlock my phone before coming out (Sony Ericsson K800/K810 users can find the software and do this for free if you search the Internet hard enough) and spoke to Ruth, who advised trying to get an Arabic taxi if possible (Jews refuse to drive into the Muslim quarter) and also I should wrap up because it's snowing there.
Down the motorway on the bus, the view confirms what I could see from the plane on the way in.. it's not all that much different from England, which is a lot greener than I expected. Anyone could easily be forgiven this was the UK, probably like somewhere on the M6 past juction 25. (Been drizzling all the way and plunging into sporadic thick fog) Not what I expected coming into one of the most hotly contested religious sites in the world. The centre of Judaism, probably the second most important place in Islam, and a significant site for Christians across the planet. As we traverse the hilly highways, I'm dayderaming about the conquests that spilled blood throughout history. The Romans, Byzantines, Israelites, Zionists, The Turks, The Crusades, Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians and probably as many fatalaties due to the insanely aggressive driving. (Ranks higher than central London, but lower than Italian)
Reaching Jerusalem, there's about 3 inches of snow on untouched ground and the rain is beginning to wash most of it away. Catching a taxi, I'm headed for the Faisal Hostel, just outside the Damascus gate. There's a wonderfully informal atmosphere here, and it's incredible to find a place run with exactly the minimum amount of organisation required for it to sustain itself. I pitch up mid-afternoon and spot Annie. I'd only met her once and exchanged a few words at the meeting a few weeks ago, but it's absolutely great to see a familiar face.
Annie is the sensible one, a cynic and a voice of reason. She keeps the group on the straight and narrow, ensuring the cogs turning smoothly and keeps to the plan. She has the responsibility of looking after the tattered Circus accounts notebook, where a careful log of expenses is tracked, every penny and Israeli shekel belonging to the precious pot of money collected from fundraising back in the UK. She doesn't smile much, but when she does, it's a damned huge one, it's like she saves them up all up for use at once.
As I spot her, she's looking fairly shell-shocked. So are the majority of the other guests in this humming, bustling and slightly zombified hive of activity. "There was a bit of a rave last night." Come 8pm, there's still no sign of Jo, and the foreigners affectionately refer to her as, 'the English girl that drank all the vodka'. I later find that this is the truncated version of, 'the English girl that drank all the vodka, stacked it from the top bunk, and soiled herself'.
Above: Some of the clowns practicing in the Faisal Hostel dorms. (L-R: Jen, Annie, Ruth)
It's bollockingly cold, and at the 25 shekel (£4) per night room, there are no frills here, the heating is limited to two stoves in a common room away from the mixed dorms where at any time of day, there's always at least one person trying to catch some sleep. I'm wearing 6 layers of modest clothing (the only advice I had: "Wear modest clothing at religious sites"). This really wasn't how it was supposed to be.
I overhear a conversation from a Belgian guy who's fucked his laptop - the hard drive is making clunking noises. I offer to take a look at the machine. It boots halfway into Windows and blue screens out. Presuming it's a primary partition cylinder error, I tell him I can probably recover most of his data - and he's thankful enough to buy me some fresh fruit, falafel and lend me his coat. A few hours later trying to pull a Knoppix distribution off the wireless connection at the hostel, he tells me I can even keep the coat because he has a few of them. I gracefully decline his offer (baseball jacket just ain't me) and slowly start pulling off nine months worth of his travel photos to another computer.
Above: The constant evening bustle of the Faisal Hostel - travellers, political students and people who stopped for a weekend and stayed for 6 months. Not for those who regard hygiene as a priority, but has a sleepover-with-your-mates kinda vibe. Except they're not your mates and you don't speak the same language. Would be even cooler if they didn't have the urge to suddenly play loud trance at sporadic intervals.
I was once inspired by a Che Guevara documentary - the politics went a little over my head (my summary: some bad Cuban shit), but the idea of being a travelling doctor (pre-Guerilla warfare) with people willing to put you up for treatment and going across continents... that seemed awesome, and because of this, I'd always had temporary moments of regret at having not trained as a doctor. But now I reckon maybe you could the same in most countries making computers better instead, just armed with a laptop, Knoppix and a cracked version of Windows SP2.
I'd had the foresight to unlock my phone before coming out (Sony Ericsson K800/K810 users can find the software and do this for free if you search the Internet hard enough) and spoke to Ruth, who advised trying to get an Arabic taxi if possible (Jews refuse to drive into the Muslim quarter) and also I should wrap up because it's snowing there.
Down the motorway on the bus, the view confirms what I could see from the plane on the way in.. it's not all that much different from England, which is a lot greener than I expected. Anyone could easily be forgiven this was the UK, probably like somewhere on the M6 past juction 25. (Been drizzling all the way and plunging into sporadic thick fog) Not what I expected coming into one of the most hotly contested religious sites in the world. The centre of Judaism, probably the second most important place in Islam, and a significant site for Christians across the planet. As we traverse the hilly highways, I'm dayderaming about the conquests that spilled blood throughout history. The Romans, Byzantines, Israelites, Zionists, The Turks, The Crusades, Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians and probably as many fatalaties due to the insanely aggressive driving. (Ranks higher than central London, but lower than Italian)
Reaching Jerusalem, there's about 3 inches of snow on untouched ground and the rain is beginning to wash most of it away. Catching a taxi, I'm headed for the Faisal Hostel, just outside the Damascus gate. There's a wonderfully informal atmosphere here, and it's incredible to find a place run with exactly the minimum amount of organisation required for it to sustain itself. I pitch up mid-afternoon and spot Annie. I'd only met her once and exchanged a few words at the meeting a few weeks ago, but it's absolutely great to see a familiar face.
Annie is the sensible one, a cynic and a voice of reason. She keeps the group on the straight and narrow, ensuring the cogs turning smoothly and keeps to the plan. She has the responsibility of looking after the tattered Circus accounts notebook, where a careful log of expenses is tracked, every penny and Israeli shekel belonging to the precious pot of money collected from fundraising back in the UK. She doesn't smile much, but when she does, it's a damned huge one, it's like she saves them up all up for use at once.
As I spot her, she's looking fairly shell-shocked. So are the majority of the other guests in this humming, bustling and slightly zombified hive of activity. "There was a bit of a rave last night." Come 8pm, there's still no sign of Jo, and the foreigners affectionately refer to her as, 'the English girl that drank all the vodka'. I later find that this is the truncated version of, 'the English girl that drank all the vodka, stacked it from the top bunk, and soiled herself'.
Above: Some of the clowns practicing in the Faisal Hostel dorms. (L-R: Jen, Annie, Ruth)
It's bollockingly cold, and at the 25 shekel (£4) per night room, there are no frills here, the heating is limited to two stoves in a common room away from the mixed dorms where at any time of day, there's always at least one person trying to catch some sleep. I'm wearing 6 layers of modest clothing (the only advice I had: "Wear modest clothing at religious sites"). This really wasn't how it was supposed to be.
I overhear a conversation from a Belgian guy who's fucked his laptop - the hard drive is making clunking noises. I offer to take a look at the machine. It boots halfway into Windows and blue screens out. Presuming it's a primary partition cylinder error, I tell him I can probably recover most of his data - and he's thankful enough to buy me some fresh fruit, falafel and lend me his coat. A few hours later trying to pull a Knoppix distribution off the wireless connection at the hostel, he tells me I can even keep the coat because he has a few of them. I gracefully decline his offer (baseball jacket just ain't me) and slowly start pulling off nine months worth of his travel photos to another computer.
Above: The constant evening bustle of the Faisal Hostel - travellers, political students and people who stopped for a weekend and stayed for 6 months. Not for those who regard hygiene as a priority, but has a sleepover-with-your-mates kinda vibe. Except they're not your mates and you don't speak the same language. Would be even cooler if they didn't have the urge to suddenly play loud trance at sporadic intervals.
I was once inspired by a Che Guevara documentary - the politics went a little over my head (my summary: some bad Cuban shit), but the idea of being a travelling doctor (pre-Guerilla warfare) with people willing to put you up for treatment and going across continents... that seemed awesome, and because of this, I'd always had temporary moments of regret at having not trained as a doctor. But now I reckon maybe you could the same in most countries making computers better instead, just armed with a laptop, Knoppix and a cracked version of Windows SP2.
1 Comments:
I'm sold , if I need a HD recovering DR.Ng is my choice.
Keep writing Den , enjoying the entries.
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