Final Day: Protest in Bilin

For a minute I panic that I've overslept because I've woken up and there's just me and the snoring guy in the room. I find the others later dotted around the hostel having sought somewhere quieter to sleep earlier in the night.

At the Israeli-Palestinian border at Bilin, the security fence placed by the Israelis is well inside the recognised border line and cuts off much of the farming land that belongs to the village's farmers. Israelis call it necessary for security, but the Palestinians call it a land grab.



On the way through, there's a pretty modest number of buildings and a couple of simple grocery shops (to my dismay, neither of them sold onions) but it seems that this tiny group of residences is a shining example to many Palestinians for managing to hold out against the Israelis for 3 years. In this small village of indomitable Palestinians, I half expect to find a cauldron of magic potion bubbling away and being dished out to the locals, but I'm told that for the 3 years they have held out against annexation by way of peaceful protest. Each Friday afternoon, local villagers and foreign activists gather to attend the weekly protest as a reminder to the Israeli authorities that they will not give up their land easily.







In the morning, the Circus provides the locals with some welcome light relief. On this gorgeous day, kids sit on walls and families watch from nearby rooftops as the clowns once more wreak comic havoc in an environment that feels subdued by constant pestering of an army on the doorstep.

After the show, we wait at the protest organiser's house. Not a home anymore, the downstairs has been made a base of organising resistance operations. It is kept bare for meetings - cheap plastic seats line the walls under activist posters and photos.





As the protest and media gathers outside - there's a kind of lazy Friday afternoon vibe as an SUV pumps out some dance music across the road and an old guy on saxophone meanders out some tunes. Kids set up markets and sell wristbands and handbags with the Palestinian flag on it. All we need is a copious amount of booze and drugs (both of which also help counter tear gas allegedly) and I could easily mistake this for any UK summer festival.



The Arab-owned MBC (Middle-East Broadcasting Corporation), one of the most globally-recognised news channels for the Arabic-speaking world is here for the Circus, to hear what their story is. There is confusion about the exact situation - it appears the broadcaster was expecting them to perform by the security barrier at the head of the protest but over some discussion, it's realised that this is a dangerous and somewhat irresponsible stunt. To draw children into the heated action is reckless and no doubt the news broadcaster would just love to have a clown shot by a rubber bullet on his coverage. Last week's protest saw an American activist shot in the head and the Arab media frenzy on that still rings on around Bilin. The Circus takes the sensible option and agrees to do some performances at the back of the protest, well away from any Israeli soldiers. The reporter looks a little disappointed and I feel an urge to injure him.


Above: Protesters carried this small coffin and a bundle to mourn the 6-month old baby killed in Gaza yesterday. Later, we find the guy who carried it got shot in the back with a rubber-coated steel bullet.







So we hang well back from the confrontational part of the protest and we hear regular 'thunks' of tear gas canisters being fired. (Perhaps perversely, I find this to be a really good sound) Jen and Ruth captivate some on-looking boys with firesticks and poi. Laura has taken a few younger girls under her wing and appears to be having entertaining conversation with them. Jo and Annie talk to an old embittered man who comes to tell us the story of the pile of rubble on the roadside that was a brand new health clinic - bulldozed by the Israelis due to it violating their building laws despite it being on Palestinian land.


Before he finishes his story, a couple of hissing projectiles have landed only about 20m away. Circus, kids and camera crews pack up and run.

With some distance between us and the gas, Annie is administering onion to the crying clowns. My lungs are burning but that's probably from having held my breath for the best part of a minute under a steady jog. For the kids with streaming eyes, I guess it's just another weekly dose of chemical weapons.





We don't stick around for long, there's another show to get to in Jerusalem. We hold up a checkpoint queue for about 20 minutes as all the Circus items get x-rayed. On the outside, I'm tutting and tapping my foot impatiently in solidarity with the queue of Arabs behind me. On the inside I'm pissing myself laughing as the guard has demanded to see the knife in Jo's bag. She's grinning as she waves the breadknife at him. "Uh, really don't think I could do much damage with this!" and she pokes it playfully in the guard's general direction. Meanwhile, just behind her, Ruth's stilts and Laura's inflatable globe (ingeniously constructed from a giant blue-space hopper and cut-out map sections) seem to have jammed the x-ray machine. In my head, Benny Hill music rolls on. I consider joining in the antics by moonwalking up to the bulletproof security window with my arse hanging out, but think better of it.



This is my final show with the Circus, so today I pay less attention to the camera viewfinder as my role of capturing moments with the Circus comes to an end. Instead I take more time to appreciate the show, the clowns' fine talents (I realise that they're actually pretty good) and the scenery. In the Palestinian district of Silwan, East Jerusalem, the stunning wall of the Old City sits on the skyline, but the troubles run below the streets. Israeli-led archaeological tunnel digs beneath Silwan are causing structural damage to buildings here, and there is a heavy suspicion that this is another tactic for Jewish settlers to lay claim to non-Israeli land and intimidate Palestinians further in the process.












My final day with the Circus has been a long, tiring one and the snoring twat at the Hostel really hasn't helped. Rather than celebrate, it's a fairly early night. I say my goodbyes to the Circus as tomorrow I will spend my last day here visiting Bethlehem. They will leave early for a show and head on to Ramallah. It's been a fascinating journey, getting to know the Boomchucka clowns and the people of Palestine and I'm sad to be leaving both.

Day 12: Airstrikes in Gaza

The Circus has a rare day off. It's quite incredible really, to be able to come to a country with an act like this who have nothing booked - but then with the help of contacts such as Susana and putting the word around to as many people as possible, to pretty much fill in a diary so that there's a show or two every single day. I guess it helps that what they do here is pretty novel and they offer their services for free. It's a liberating experience not knowing what's going to happen from one day to the next but still being an intense journey. It's been a real rollercoaster ride but I'm feeling an onset of melancholia as my time here will shortly becoming to an end. On the plus side, I'm pretty happy today as it looks like Subsource are set to play Glade this year.

I spend the day wandering through the Old City, looking at trinkets that I'm not really interested in. I express an extremely vague interest to a gangly guy who's selling musical instruments. They all look nice but they sound pretty shit. Tourist fodder. He tries the hard sell. "You first customer of the day so you get good price." Word-for-word, the Lonely Planet guide said that's what they'd say. Then, "Me like China very much, you not from USA so give you good price". Within about 3 footsteps he's gone from 1000 shekels (£125) down to 50 shekels (£6.25), but an Early Learning Centre toy still makes a better sound than that piece of crap.

Unknowingly, I stumble across a doorway to the Muslim's holiest place here - the Dome of the Rock. The giant gold turnip roof is mindblowing and as I approach the gateway, I fully expect the overly-serious, frowning, lumbering guy to tell me that non-Muslims can't come in. He does this, but not before a grin breaks across his face and he's half-hopping, half-dancing and singing, "Jackie Chan! Jackie Chan!", whilst pointing one finger in the air in a side-to-side motion. His machine gun flails around wildly in the other hand.

I venture into the main, modern city of West (Israeli) Jerusalem. It's your typical Westernised city. They are lacking in hair products for men. They do have the complete range of L'Oreal products at the Superdrug-equivalent but then it's just industrial-sized tubs of fluorescent coloured hair gel.

In the evening, there is news that in response to Hamas Palestinian rocket attacks from Gaza onto nearby Israeli towns, there have been Israeli airstrikes onto Gaza, in which at least 12 have died, including four children. Gaza is many miles from where we are in the West Bank - we're not worried about our own safety, but there is concern for the general situation. Sending in jets like this and accepting this many civilian casualties sounds like a pretty damn heavy-handed method. This isn't a tactic of a government taking out some rebel militants, but a tactic to cause intimidation of a populace.

Tomorrow, we will be heading to Bi'lin village for a show and then head on to the protest which happens each Friday. Internet research shows to expect tear gas and rubber bullets. The veteran protesters amongst the clowns recommend sniffing an onion to combat the effects of tear gas. And just hope you don't take a rubber bullet in the eye or that's it. Cunningly, I've got some swimming goggles to prevent chemicals from getting into my contact lenses and to fend off rubber bullets but Ruth astutely points out that a bullet would probably go straight through flimsy plastic.

There is one non-Circus guy in the hostel room who is driving everyone absolutely insane with his continuous heavy snoring and lack of sleep is definitely having a negative mental effect on everyone. Earplugs may feel weird to sleep with at first but I rank them as the most important item I've brought with me.

Day 11: The Youth Club

The morning starts with one of the rowdiest shows so far. At times, I worry that there's going to be a stage invasion - the kids are getting so caught up in it. The audience sprawls laterally as everyone clambers for a better position to see the show and so the girls quickly adapt to an encompassing 360-degree audience. The difference between how disciplined schools are is obvious.


Above: They are pretty spent after each show



There are the UNRWA schools, funded by the UN which are excellently equipped but places are in high demand. There are private schools where the parents pay up front each term (but due to the poor economy, lessons often continue where parents have been out of work and cannot pay) and also there are the government schools. Here, it's not uncommon for teachers to go for months without being paid due to the cash-strapped Palestinian Authority Government. (Just one of many by-products of the Israeli-imposed fincancial sanctions)

In the afternoon, it's another show, this time at an after-school youth club. Kids of all ages in the community have rallied together on a beautiful afternoon. To my irritation, I seem to be getting a lot of attention. Up until now I thought I'd been doing a pretty good job of not distracting from the Circus activities, but here the kids are surrounding me, touching my hair and posing more than usual for their photos to be taken. I soon discover why: Mohammed, one of the youth leaders has told them I'm Jackie Chan's cousin.









It's customary and respectful to spend plenty of time talking and socialising with your hosts, so after the show, we're there for a couple of hours getting to know more about the youth club and the organisers. (Compares directly to a Subsource gig, where it's customary to get completely shitfaced with the organisers after a show.) The main guy is a teacher and describes how he has to cross a checkpoint between his home and the school where he works. Sometimes, he's held there for hours. As he continues about how he has to smuggle schoolbooks in to avoid confiscation, my eyes drift upwards and around the room. From the massive hoard of football trophies on the wall, this appears to be a very active, organised youth club (I'm sure when I was a kid, we turned up, then just snuck round the back alley to neck Diamond White til our parents came) In centre-place, there is a modest printed A4 mono poster of a serious-looking boy who presumably went to this thriving group at some point. It's unmistakably a martyr poster. Like the scores of faded, weather-beaten posters I've seen in the towns, I don't understand the arabic that goes under the face, but it's shown as proudly as the rest of them. This one does not look like a gun-toting guerilla or a stern man in a suit. In the context of all the other laughing and jovial kids today, this is a much more real 14-year old boy in a formal jumper who probably did better in science than in P.E., had a crush on the girl over the road and I've no doubt he would have been belly-laughing like the rest of them at the Circus clowns. Instead, I'm looking up at his face with a plethora of tangled emotions with my imagination running wild about who he was and what rite of action he took in order to earn his posthumous place amongst the glittering sporting achievements.

I get to know Mohammed better - he has a wicked sense of humour. The Circus alreadys knows that comedy is a universal language. I'm 5'3 and he towers above me at 6'6 and we have laugh about the difference and the problems. Since I've been here I've been very attentive to the music around me, not entirely convinced that music is as universal a language as comedy is, with foreign scales and instruments with heavy overtones causing a language barrier in itself. Mohammed at least is very into Santana and is one of the few Palestinians that would very much like to learn guitar. (I get the impression that Western music is not quite trusted which to me is no bad thing since it means that MTV will not penetrate it's way here any time soon) I offer to teach him a lesson or two if the chance ever arises and he says he will save up to buy an instrument. He pats me on the back and I ask him if I'll see him again when the Circus performs at a local school later in the week and he says he can't. Because of the checkpoint.

On the way out, I'm cornered by some kids keen to practise their English skills. "What is your name?", and "How old are you?". Then they try something a few times in Arabic before they run off to fetch a translator, who says helpfully, "They want to know what hair product you use".

In the evening, Jo and I slink off to pig out on a huge plate of overpriced Chinese junk food. The food here is damn tasty, healthy and very affordable, but it's been a long day and it seems like a reward to chow down on something familiar, dirty and overpriced. Veal fried rice for me - it's like beef but naughtier.


Above: Who wants VO5 matt clay?

Day 10: Day of Rest

With bleary eyes, I'm woken up by Jen and Ruth getting ready to leave. The taxi turned up ten minutes ago and all-in-all, it sounded like a pretty good excuse to have a day off and I catch up with a bit of blogging and photo editing.

A nicely chilled day - the Hostel is definitely feeling like a home from home, largely thanks to a speedy Internet connection (and therefore also fresh Family Guy episodes). I guess there has been a subtle change of social graces at hostels across the world, where travellers are now often found huddled around laptops in the communal areas. In the evening, between his circus practice, (Mauro the video-cameraman is now the best juggler out of them all), he starts his informal documentary. Seedily, he keeps referring to this as his 'private tape', which mostly consists of Jo, the natural clown, arsing around hilariously for the camera.


The latest in Circus fashion: Frogsocks

As wine is being drunk by the bottle, from the bottle - the girls flip between topics that has them in fits of laughter and giggles (often beyond my comprehension) and also discuss improving the show, "These kids might see the Circus once in a lifetime, so it'd be nice if it wasn't shit". With the political backdrop, it's easy to forget that they're performers at heart and it's impressive to see they can take their act as seriously as their more serious dialogue.

Meanwhile, I have been banned from the Faisal for cavorting with the guests there despite the fact I'm staying at the rival Palm Hostel next door, and discover a steady influx of familiar faces that have moved too. Discussing how shit the Faisal is compared to the Palm Hostel is an easy starter conversation. Later in the evening, I find that coincidentally, Klaus has also made the move. Nothing like a friendly-neighbourhood stalker.

Day 9: Palm Hostel

Walid the taxi driver I think quite fancies himself as part of the circus now and this morning, he's showing off his skills by raising me up above his head in a variety of manoeuvres and poses.



Another show at a school in the Abu Dis area of Palestine.





The tarot cards from the previous day seem to have had a negative vibe on some of us. Laura tells us of her dream - in it, she was an undercover agent working for the Palestinians against the Israelis, but then she's discovered. They try to gouge her eyes out and she tries to tell them that she's really a Westerner but they don't believe her and also threaten to chop her hands off if she resists. We tell her that's pretty full-on, and she astutely realises that translates to, 'that's fucked up'.



Laura is an incredible character - vociferous, determined and courageous. As an American Jew in Palestine, that could well be the most disliked mixture of origins that anyone could be here, but it's exactly for that reason that she's here - to achieve what she can and do her part to undo some of the damage that the American government has done here. Total respect to her, and I'm so glad that the majority of Palestinian people share this sentiment.

Today, she seems to have mislaid 90 shekels.

The show is in cramped conditions compared to what they're used to but again, the kids love it. I'm starting to feel a bit sick of the sight of children.

Ruth has managed to make an administrative error in booking shows because she was looking at the 2009 section of the diary. I'm starting to wonder how anything has ever worked out okay, but I think she's one of those who somehow always manages to land on her feet.

We decide (or rather, it wasn't decided, but just seemed to happen without discussion) to split up and have some of us stay with Susana and some of us stay at a hostel in Jerusalem to help ease the burden of hostessing for seven people when you've got a husband and four kids to look after. We try out the Palm Hostel - next door to the Faisal Hostel. This is a much, much, classier affair for not much more money, but hot water seems a little sporadic and I'm still braving cold showers. My sperm count must be rocketing.

In the evening, I pop next door to the Faisal in search of beers at request of the girls and to my great pleasure, Martin is there - our Palestinian affairs guru from day 6. He looks like he and his girlfriend have been hitting the shisha pipes for a while before I'd got there and he helps fill out some questions that I'd had about the situation. I tell him that when he talks about the 'First Intifada', I have no idea what he's talking about, and he leaps from his seat so fast that his glasses very nearly come clean off his nose. He's pretty much crapped himself as he's so excited to be able to talk about all of this to someone who wants to learn. He rushes me to the map of West Bank on the wall (the one that I came close to stealing a few days ago) and explains the two intifadas are periods where the Palestinian people have had a mass uprising and rebelled against the occupation - often marked by the use of suicide bombers against Israeli targets. In my head, things begin to shift - we hear of the awful terrorist attacks on the news, but these are the desperate actions of a people who are suffering and choking at the hands of others, and for the most part, there is very little they can do.

As Martin talks passionately and fervently about the dismal state of affairs late into a somewhat hazy night, he is despondent. For all he knows and for all his energy behind the Palestinian cause, he confesses that there's very little he can do. "When you really get to know the Palestinians and find out what it is they want, you find it's usually two things - firstly, money. Secondly, a passport to get out of the country." He draws a long puff from the slow-burning Shisha and he exhales with a deep respect, "But the Circus, actually manages to bring a tangible commodity they also need - they really do need to laugh and smile. What they do is amazing." I can feel my heart swell, knowing that I'm proud to be associated with these clowns and on the way out, back to the Palm Hostel, I pick up a few beers for the alcohol-deprived girls. They're fast asleep by the time I get back (clowning around looks like pretty hard work) so I rest the cans on their pillows so that they'll each wake up cuddled up to a can of beer. My fuzzy shisha'd head tells me they deserve more. Especially since, odds-on are that they'll probably have caned those bevvies by midday tomorrow.

Day 8: UNWRA School / Ramallah

Cool! Like from the Thundercats!? Except I didn't say that out loud because I could have pretty much guessed that nobody would have known what I was talking about. Walid pitched up to pick us up and at least I knew I could hit him with the punchline without him giving me weird looks. I'd been practicing aluminium-pipe and tooted a couple of notes at him. He patted me on the back.



This is the Circus's biggest show yet, it's at a well-equipped, big school, with around 1000 students. It's been built and funded by the United Nations Relief and Works Agency, which suggested that somebody, somewhere is doing something right. The kids are excited to have guests, they're running up and down the corridors, posing for photos and mobbing the clowns. Today they're performing for around 300-400 of the smaller kids, but that doesn't stop some of the older ones trying to get a peek. Susana introduces the show and whips up the crowd, as they chant, "Boomchucka, Boomchucka!", and it begins.























Going back through the photos, every single kid is smiling or laughing - this is a performers' dream show and they skilfully take advantage of the wide open playground stage, whilst me and Mister Marrow are panting by the end from running around getting angles. Rather than her usual half-hidden, embarrassed smile, Ruth is beaming openly and it's a beautiful sight. She doesn't give much away with words, you always have to read her expression.



Jen is nowhere to be seen at the show finale, but surfaces later for the interactive part of the show. At first glance, she comes across as shy and withdrawn, but one of the very best things about this trip so far has been getting to realise the integrity and the character of this girl - never afraid to approach awkward subjects whilst being ultimately modest about her knowledge and awareness. And quite the perfectionist too - she later tells us that she missed the finale of this show because she was beating herself up about mishandling the fire staff during part of her act. She would have gotten away with it if it wasn't for the fact that when you fumble a fire staff, it's a pretty damn good idea to make sure that no part of you is alight.


Above: Jen's totally in her prime when she's with the kids.


Above: Every I look up to get a shot of the window, there's a sudden flurry of hiding and curtain activity.


Above: Trying to encourage the sport of extreme stupid-face-pulling. These guys have a little way to go.

After the show, we venture to Ramallah, one of the main Palestinian cities where we check into a cheap hotel. Partially to ease the burden that we're worried we're placing on Susana and also to hunt down some beer. It's a much more claustrophobic affair than Jerusalem, with tight, busy streets and plenty of stalls and markets. Annie, Jo and Ruth go hunting for trinkets and comedically distasteful spangly earrings, whilst I browse the hair products.

Across most of Palestine, I've been tending to attract more attention from the local populace than the girls - people shouting, "China!" or "Ni-how!" from across the road but in Ramallah, there's a constant echo of these words as I walk around. I really get the impression that they don't have many orientals out in these parts, and I learned quickly that when they ask where I'm from, there's just no point in saying, "England" because they just look at you confused until you say, "China".

In the shopping bustle we lose Laura and meet up with her again in, "Stars & Bucks" - it seems like the premier coffee shop in Ramallah and the green, white and black sign which sits proud on top of a main road intersection is very, very similar to another well-known coffee shop. Intellectual property rights are not a high priority to safeguard here.

I whip out my laptop to catch up on some blogging. The Stars & Bucks network is protected but I can get a weak signal on an unprotected network, 'Al-Quds Bank'.

Laura pulls out a few packs of cards later and offers tarot-style readings, which I take her up on. After a readings which all tell me that I'd be happier if I changed my job, I ask the cards a 'yes/no' question: "Will me and Mister Marrow have sexytime with each other before the end of this journey?", and the cards respond with the most definitive yes that Laura has ever seen. Hubba.

More readings later, Laura has tutted and, "Oh My Gosh"'d about a hundred times - things do not sound positive for her.

In the evening, we're off to one of the few pubs in the town, where we find 90 shekels (just over ten quid) on the floor. Having had experience with this kind of thing, Jo recognises it as having been given to us by the beer fairy and the clowns drink into the night. There's some tension as the property rights of Mauro's video are discussed and it is revealed that the Circus will not be able to do as much with the footage as they previously thought. It feels awkward, but we've spent a week together in fairly close quarters and it was only a matter of time before there'd be some sort of disagreement.

Ruth has e-mailed out a schedule to all of us. Euphemistically, Friday is labelled as, "Day Off", where we'll be going to an anti-wall protest in Belin. Conversation then descended into remedies against tear gas and how lethal rubber bullets can be.

Fuelled by a little bit of alcohol, it has become a bit of a dark evening, and as I bed down, I wonder if there's really any truth to the Tarot. Hubba.

Day 7: International Student Confernece

Above: Laura and Mauro, just a-chillin.. just like hanging out in the Middle East ya know..


Above: Morning Practice

We get a well-appreciated lie-in and the morning is spent chilling out and some light circus practice. Wahid has given us his mobile number and it looks like he's going to be our designated regular taxi driver for our stay. He's a wicked dude and I suspect we might have had some great conversations. He doesn't speak a word of English and I don't speak a word of Arabic, but that doesn't stop us from having a good chit-chat, even if we're not talking about the same thing.

I realise by now that Susana is THE local person to know with regards to all-things to do with activism and action in the area - she has been organising a conference between international university students in the area and Palestinian students in a chance for them to forge links, make connections and brainstorm ideas for Pro-Palestinian opportunities and the like. And I'm her geek-bitch for the day - after showing her how top operate a laptop yesterday (she's quite a whizz with computers considering, but this particular one had a lock switch on it that she didn't spot so it wouldn't turn on), she's got me making sure the projector unit is working okay.



The conference is dull. So dull. Various students take turns to say a little bit about their lives - an Austrian girl opens with what she describes as being a little inspirational introduction to the proceedings but by the end of it, the only thing I'm inspired to do is to temporarily and suddenly convert to Islam because I feel the urge to leave the building and scream in an Easterly direction. (Or actually, any direction would do). For about an hour or two, they continue to take turns to describe their life stories - one who manages to bring in his views on alcohol and drugs being the scourge of the world and another who has a speech about how he was fiddled with by a priest when he was a kid but look at where he is now. (We all award him with a rather polite golf clap, which seemed to be the only appropriate response at the time)



Jo is blatantly getting restless and starts looking at the rest of us with her sarcastic face on. The rest of us do our best to suppress fits of giggles and laughter.



Jo is a good friend of Annie's from back in the UK - she's the boisterous, good-humoured and not afraid to speak her mind. She loves her food, she loves her beer, and will wise-crack til the cows come home. Totally not your typical foreigner-in-Palestine, she's totally along for the party which is a welcome relief sometimes when there's so much serious political chat. She hasn't even had much Circus training in comparison to the others, but she's spent many years under the influence of Special Brew falling over ungracefully and she's never afraid to make a fool of herself. She's the perfect clown - and the strong relationship between her and Annie shows up beautifully when they both take to the stage as a hilarious comic duo.





Getting out of the conference room and talking to Jo is a massive relief. She laughs as I make a long, loud mock-snoring voice and then I suddenly realise that everyone who just made an 'inspirational' speech is standing right behind me.

The students finally get a short amount of time to get to the crux of this whole convention - to chat and network with each other, before it's announced that they have to head off because they're hungry. There's a quick fire show from Jen and Ruth for them first. I'm not sure whether they thought they were performers brought in for their own pleasure (like frat-party entertainment or a free vodka shot on entry for showing student ID) so I volunteer to stand up and describe to the students what the Circus does, before fumbling the responsbility on to Ruth who I suddenly realise is even a worse public speaker than me. I think they got the gist of the CIrcus, but I didn't get round to what I really wanted to tell them.

You guys can sit around all day discussing how you've come from nothing to where you are today, and feel good that ooh you've actually spoken to a real-life Palestinian in the flesh - you can go back to your respective countries and tell your friends that you're backing the underdogs in this everlasting ongoing conflict and have late-night discussions about your role and feel superior to your peers who don't - but at the end of the day, this understated five-clown circus act is here because they are your example. They're an example of how to achieve tangible results in an area where there are so many viewpoints that you could easily get bogged down in way too much bullshit trying to understand suffering, rather than ever do anything about it.

The students certainly look entertained and a few kids teeter on the edge of a rooftop to check out the scene.





We head up to a section of the Israeli-Palestine wall nearby where Mauro (or rather, 'Mister Marrow' as he has become affectionately known) wants to get some scenes for his documentary. The wall is made up of 8m high concrete slabs, apparently twice as high as the Berlin wall. Jen aks if the construction is the same as the Berlin wall. "No, I think that's in Germany", I quip unfunnily, but then break into uncontrollable hysterics. It dawns on me that I may be going a little bit crazy.







We head back to Susana's for more wonderful Palestinian hospitality. In a controlled, deliberate, furious rant, Susana describes her disappointment about today's conference. She says how rude it was of them to leave quite suddenly just as things were happening. She is definitely a person you would not want to upset, but her weariness of looking after us begins to show as we manage to get away with washing the dishes.

After a short fart-on-each-others-heads competition with Jo (I won), I leave her to entertain Susana's children with her lack of juggling and plate-spinning skills. She's great with the kids, and there's hoots and laughter coming from the next room into the night. I'm back blogging until Omar comes through to talk to me, he can't sleep. He shows me some of his music collection which is dominated by Arab Sheikh music. He also likes Avril Lavigne which he found on the Internet and he's singing along for me until well-past 3am.


Above: Omar

Day 6: Through The Jordan Valley

We're up early for another show. It's another beautiful day out in the sunshine and we head up north-east into the Jordan Valley, first meeting up with our British contact, Martin, who knows the families that the Circus is due to perform to today.



We first have to take a taxi to Jericho to the east. Our taxi driver, Walid, waits for us patiently to get the Circus equipment together. In the meantime he's happy to show off his skills on a musical instrument that resembles a recorder. As he hands it to me for me to have a go, I inspect it a little closer to find that it's an aluminium pipe with six holes cut into it. I can't even get a note out of it.


Above: Monastery carved into a mountain on the way to Jericho.
Below: Martin


From Jericho, we take a second taxi heading North. Martin explains that we're headed into territory that although it is in Palestine, has been designated as being under Israeli Military control. We've got one more person in the taxi than is lawfully allowed, and as we approach a checkpoint (not even on the Palestinian border), Jen, the tiniest member and also the contortionist of our group is stuffed under a load of blankets on the back seats. Here, even the smallest excuse to make life hard for anyone crossing this checkpoint is used - Rafeed's description of the Israelis just wanting to cause irritation is becoming evident. As the taxi driver shows his documents, we wait about 20 minutes, and we later find out that the taxi driver has been fined without reason. We're told it's common for corrupt guards to issue fines to boost their own income. There's no wall here, but there's a guardpost about 16 foot high, manned by a kid on a mounted machine gun turret. For obvious reasons, I haven't managed to get a photo of this yet.


Above: Jen peers out of the back window of the van along this dirt track of a road.

We drive on for another hour or so through barren lands. Every now and then, the taxi driver makes sure we've got our seatbelts on as we drive past an Israeli military placement. Having lived in the area for a few months, Martin is well-informed about the situation of the area and says how usually everyone takes their seatbelts off after passing these illegally placed military placements. A small act of defiance but one nevertheless. I'd take my seatbelt off but I'm rolling around at the very back of the cargo compartment of the taxi van anyway, and am feeling very much at home thanks to many a Subsource journey.


Above: At 30 metres below sea level, the Jordan Valley is the lowest land on Earth. It is a flat and extremely fertile plain compared to the rest of the dry, sandy land that we have passed so far. I'm told that Israelis have forcefully occupied this territory within Palestine with support from their military and much of the Israeli food exports that make it out of the country are actually from right here in Palestine. I get an eerie feeling from this place.

Martin, who has reached guru status in my eyes by this point (definitely helped out by the kick-ass beard), then tells me of the atrocities committed in the tiny villages that the Circus is about to perform at. In these tiny communities of Palestinian families within the Israeli military-controlled zones, they are having their homes bulldozed after an hour's notice. The lucky ones get a few days. Unlike the major towns and cities, these tiny encampments are powerless to resist any military takeover and the result is a gradual annexation of the land by the Israelis.

It's only when we get there and I see it with my own eyes that the reality kicks in. The sight of a few shacks built out of re-used food sacks and some sheets of corrugated metal feels like a kick somewhere just under and behind my stomach.








Above: Panoramic of the family camp. It really is in the middle of nowhere.

This is Al Hadidya, where the Palestinian families live in separate tribes, and the hope was for these different families to come together and bring the children to see the Circus. Unfortunately, there are feuds between the tribes and we're told that they refuse to all get together. It's a sad state of affairs, knowing that even with the military oppression, they fail to unite - it's as if the constant intimidation has brewed frustration between the camps with it. I ask our host what the intertribal fighting is all about and I'm told that nobody can really remember any more. For the Circus, it's all a bit of a blow as they do a short version of their act to just one of the families here: four children and a few dogs.













The taxi driver stops for a break by a few more shacks. We realise that this is where he lives and he invites us in for one hell of a meal. And a photo of the whole gang.





Afterwards, it's off to a second show at Ein Al Beida, where the children are called from working on the plantation to attend the show. The girls pull off another fantastic show. The kids love it of course, and it's incredible to see women are in hysterics, the men joining in and the teenage guys catching it on their mobile phones.











On the way back, there's another close call with the traffic - a van coming in the other direction has come a little too close to our taxi and we've lost a wing mirror. Nobody stops. At one point earlier in the trip, I was reading about renting a car and I'm sure I read somewhere that recommended that if you hit a pedestrian, you should just drive off.

We meet Walid again at Jericho for our final leg home. He hands me back my lens cap which I realised I'd misplaced earlier in the day. Then he hands Ruth back the single most important possession you might want to hang on to whilst travelling - her passport that she left there earlier. Nobody is surprised. I thank Wahid for the earlier music lesson and he gives me the aluminium pipe instrument to get some practise in.

We're really settling in at Susana's now. The flow of late night conversation is tending to divide between Jen, Laura, Mauro and Susana talking about the troubled situation of Palestinian affairs whilst the rest of us talk about the troubled situation of all my photos showing up too many double chins. There are a lot of double chins but hey, Photoshop can only do so much.

Martin's Blog:
http://brightonpalestine.org/

Day 5: The First Show

I poke Mauro hard in the ribs. No movement. I suspect he might be dead. I'd got a call from the others that the circus show is in one hour, at a school in Azarea, back across the wall. He's ready in a few minutes and with Susana on the phone, we pass the handset to various Arabs who are happy to point us in the correct direction. They're pleased to be able to help and some spot the camera and ask for their photo to be taken. Back on to the number 36 bus, we're into Palestine and meet up with the others. Then we wait for a taxi that will take us to the school. Today, the weather is much better.







Graffiti is fairly commonplace through Palestine. The locals are obviously happy and proud of the artwork and tell me the meaning which was something along the lines of, "When there is no water there is still sand", and the second bit was something to do with Yasser Arafat. My heart skips a beat when they tell me this is the symbol of Hamas - from watching the news back in the UK, I know that they're the militant, terrorist group. But I have a pleasant chat with these guys and figure that I probably got confused with the other group. These guys certainly weren't terrorists.



We pitch up at the school. "You can take pictures of the kids, but do not take pictures of the teachers", instructs Susana. All the teachers at this private school in Al Hadidya are female, in a wrapped headdress, wearing make-up and are very pretty indeed - even by British primary school standards, this school is in immaculate condition, only two years old and has a real focus on arts and design. The apparent quality of the school is surprising.

The Boomchucka circus is a hit. Apart from the one kid who was escorted off, crying, they look on, with laughter, amazement and wonder. I start to get a better idea about why the circus work so hard to raise funds and make the trek all the way out to the heart of Palestine, the kids have never seen anything remotely close to this before in their lives.













Back at Susana's, Saalma has finally come out of hiding - a beautiful little, girl, enthusiastic, cheeky and affectionate all in one. She keeps grabbing my hand and trying to kiss me and I shit myself about being thrown out of the house for inappropriate handling of girls/children.





Farid is much less intimidating today and he is keen to talk about his knowledge of the world. He tells me how he likes listening to all music - except for anything electronic, anything with guitars and drums, and anything post 1970. "I very much like music, eet ees my hobby". He talks about how much he likes literature, and mentions Shakespeare, Tolstoy and some arabic writers. "I very much like all the literature, eet ees my hobby". He talks about sports, how he likes to play all sports, as long as it's football or volleyball. "Eet ees my hobby". We're getting on so well, I almost have the guts to tell him that yesterday when he asked me to write his daughter's name in Chinese, I think I might well have written 'King Prawn Curry'.


Above: I've even got Farid doing comedy poses.

Having now had a proper introduction the family, they arrange for us to crash in their living room. Once again, Mauro and myself have to head back to Jerusalem, this time to collect the rest of our belongings from the Faisal. Farid escorts us down to where we need to catch the bus and I try to clarify the whole checkpoint situation. What's the worst thing they could do to foreigners going back through from Palestine. He shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know, they like to disrupt and they very much like to torture us." He looks down and shifts some dirt around on the ground with his foot. "Eet ees their hobby".

He tells me that the border control severely limits employment opportunities - himself a man of many trades taking whatever work he can get paid for. The Palestinian economy is poor. Trade and business with anywhere outside of Palestine is limited and controlled, as are water and resources.

Mauro has worked up a proper appetite and polishes off four Armenian pizzas straight off at the little cafe just inside the Damascus Gate. We quickly grab our stuff from the Faisal which is still bustling with people. I recognise Klaus from my stay in Tel Aviv - he's checked out the keyboards and is now looking around Jerusalem. Leaving the Faisal is like leaving Fabric at the end of the night, with plenty of handshakes, phone-number swapping and every intention of staying in touch.

I leave a Subsource CD with the hostel owner. He is very thankful and insists on putting it on straight away. That's my cue to leave - I really don't think they like heavy music here, and as I'm running down the stairs with my bags, I'm pretty much cackling as I think I hear the sound of speaker cones rupturing.

The others have texted me asking me to pick up a map of the West Bank if at all possible. I haven't even seen a map or even been able to find a decent one online at this point, apart from one hanging on the wall in the Faisal. I'm tempted to steal (but only because it's for a good cause), but I'm told they're not that desperate for it yet. I suppose that with the instability and constant changing situation, maps don't stay accurate for very long.

Back one more time into Palestine with our belongings, the Arabs once again help us find our way, except for one very dodgy guy, with a sneering Ren-like voice who keeps poking his face to talk to us. He engages us with a few semi-polite questions, and just before we get off the bus, he tries his luck. "Give me your money". We shake our heads and say no. Thankfully he gave up on that line of conversation quite quickly. "Oh, um, then what is the time please?".

Back at our hosts' house, Farid tells us that he's been vegan since he was 17 for health reasons. Now he won't get Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, memory loss. As he sparks up his fourth roll-up that I've seen him smoke that day, he proudly announces he will live for much longer because of his abstinence from meat.

Day 4: Into the West Bank

Above: Panoramic of the Jerusalem Old City Walls (Damascus Gate on left)

Accompanying one of the other guests at the Faisal, I'm up early for a spot of tourism before the planned Circus business. (Tiyen is a Chinese-Californian guy teaching science in a shitty inner city London school. His sense of humour and optimism has me in stitches, "The GCSE A-C pass rate is 20% - at least that means there's no pressure on us" and, "The kid that threw a pencil in my eye that meant I had to go to casualty... he was just really unlucky").


Above: The Via Dolorosa

Heading into the Damascus Gate and down the Via Dolorosa (the path that Jesus took when bearing the cross), it's only minutes until we're at the most sacred Jewish place in the world: The Western Wall. It's the site of the First Temple, before that was destroyed and the Second Temple was constructed. That was duly knocked down by someone else, before Herod's Temple was constructed on the same site - a hugely more grand affair, and the western wall is considered the closest accessible point to the site of the original temple. It's hard to feel holy when there's a steady stream of tourists heading straight through. And this is the low season.



An hour further, up the Mount of Olives (where it's believed the second coming of Jesus will take place), we expectedly get ripped off at the cafe at the top and look out across Jerusalem. (When Jesus does make it here, hopefully he'll have words with the cafe owner). There's no peak as such, at the top, there's a mixture of residential and derelict buildings and people go about their daily lives. Fairly underwhelming so far.


Above: The view from the cafe at the top of the Mount of Olives, looking back over Jerusalem. The dude will tell you about the view but fail to mention there's a huge fuck-off tree in the way.

Back to the hostel, I finally meet the rest of the circus. (I'd spotted the rest of them, but Ruth just forgot to introduce me to them.) We prepare to leave to meet the Circus's main contact in Palestine - a lady by the name of Susana. Every time I've asked for information in the past about our planned circus tour, I'm just told that Susana will be sorting it. Every time she is talked about by Ruth and Annie, you can feel a deep respect and reverence. Hopefully I won't fuck it by accidentally breaking wind at an inappropriate time. I remember the main rules to follow: "Greet how they greet and don't look, touch or taste the girls".



So the circus troop of five white girls, one big white guy (Mauro the cameraman) and a little Chinese guy, carrying a colourful assortment of Circus pariphenalia in comedy oversize bags head down to the Arab bus stop and hop onto a number 36 - headed through the infamous wall blockade from Israel to Palestine. Passers-by look on with amusement. Obviously very few tourists head this way - the bus driver and the other Arabs on the bus are keen and eager to help. We're relying on them telling us which stop we need to get off at. After a last minute dash to rescue the forgotten kerosene for the fire acts in the circus show, the bus takes off. There is much talk about do's and don'ts along the way. Make sure you have your passport. If an Israeli guard asks you where you're going, say you're going straight on through to Jericho as a tourist and absolutely do not say that you have Palestinian friends. I'm told the Israelis don't like the idea of foreigners listening to the Palestinian side of the story.


Left-to-right: Laura, Ruth, Jo, Annie, Jen

With much language confusion about where we should be getting off, we're there. We didn't even notice when the bus went through the wall security checkpoint, we must have been lucky.



When we arrive, Susana is not in. Her husband, Farid lets us in. A deeply solemn man with little expression - we attempt polite conversation. Conversation is awkward and fragmented as his English vocabulary is limited and we often repeat ourselves several times.. all of us talking slowly and doing that thing where for whatever stupid reason, you put on a slightly foreign accent and inflect the end of each sentence upwards at the end as if asking a question.

Like a gameshow, we take turns to ask him questions in slow, broken conversation in safe, non-offensive subjects like family and travel - attempting to His responses are defiant, reinforced with a wisened accent and each carefully constructed with limited vocabulary resembles a principle of life or a proverb from a fortune cookie. Every now and then he cracks a joke with straight face. I ask him, "Have you seen the circus show yet? I have not seen it".

"Yes I have seen it. You are very lucky." And there is a slightly overforced laugh from the rest of us.

He picks on me and tells me that his youngest daughter (too shy to come out from hiding) will love me because she loves the Chinese, kung fu and Bruce Lee. Before I get the chance to explain that the only Chinese I know is from working at a takeaway for a few years (vocabulary to include swear words first, followed by numbers and popular food orders), he's gone away and fetched a piece of paper and a pen. I'm ordered to write down his daughter's name, "Saalma", in Chinese. I jot down some glyphs that might vaguely resemble something Chinese, and bank on the fact that real Chinese people don't come by these parts very often.

The men attempt a pretty good chat on football (could have been sketchy considering my knowledge of football basics is perhaps only slightly better than my knowledge of Middle Eastern politics), and then I manage to pull out a corker by telling him Palestine is very beautiful.

"Yes it is very beautiful, but only for the tourists. The tourists cannot feel the suffering, the people here suffer terribly."

In the following 8-person 20 second silence that followed, my own tourist ass curls up and dies right there.



Susana arrives - her pale skin (later revealed that she is from Croatia), wearing a traditional headscarf and a permanant expression of concern and seriousness in a quarter-frown. Ruth and Annie, the circus veterans light up like a kerosene clown on fire. It's immediately obvious that a bond between these people had been made at some point that maybe one day I'll understand. "It's so good to see you, the kids have missed you so much!", and a young boy and even littler girl come bouncing through."

Our hosts whip up some magnificent food, talk at one point does cover a friend of a friend who actually had been killed in a car crash earlier that day, and Mauro and me get ready to head back through the checkpoint to the Faisal Hostel in Jerusalem. Susana and Farid have four children, and it's too much to ask of them to put up 7 of us, where the sexes must be segregated and most of us are strangers.

I'm bricking it - it's two noobs trying to get back through the wall, and we've heard the stories of Israeli guards checking photos on a camera to confirm whether you're a tourist or not. Susana has ordered taxis for us - one to drop us off this side, and another to pick us up on the other (taxis are either Palestinian or Israeli and do not cross the checkpoint). "If they ask you what you have been doing, say you are tourists coming back from Jericho." At this time of night, the checkpoint looks deserted. Walking through two full-size rotating gates, there is a window and an x-ray machine with the conveyor belt in operation. Having removed our valuable memory cards and DV tapes from our equipment already, we pass them through the machine. In the window, there are two kids, probably 18 and 20 as a guess - both with automatic rifles. They peer at our passports and we wait for ages in a small section between two gates marked "Further Inspection Area" (which gives me flashbacks about a latex glove nightmare I once had) and after a long wait the door clicks and we're through. On the other side of the checkpoint, we suddenly realise we're in the middle of nowhere, but thankfully, the taxi that Susana ordered has been waiting patiently for us to get through.

We get in - and with my heart still racing from the checkpoint negotiation, the taxi takes us to a completely different place to where we want to go. "I had the call from the hospital right?" - we had no idea what story Susana had spun for us to the taxi driver. "Um, no Damascus Gate please", hoping he'd totally forget about the hospital, because he was starting to seem suspicious. He turns the car round obligingly, and asks us where we're from. "Ah London, London! Yes", he exclaims, "Jimmy Carter! Yes?", and with brain still in be-very-careful-what-you-say mode, I assume it's some kind of test.

"Uh... No that's America. England is um... Winston Churchill".
"Ah! Tony Blair!"

As I try and figure out whether Tony Blair had good foreign policy in terms from the Israeli standpoint, I realise I don't know enough about what I ought to considering the situation and make a point of asking Mauro stuff on the way back since I never really got it before, I just knew there were some pretty unhappy people on both sides of the wall and some violence here and there.

He spelt it out for me, and here's how I get it, and I totally apologise to anyone reading this who knows all about this shit, because I'm learning on the job. The British Mandate split the area into Israel and Palestine. Israel had the support of the US and the UK, and a wall was built to prevent Palestinians from entering Israel. Israelis could go where they wanted. That explained why the Israeli-manned security checkpoints are for the way out and not the way in.



Mauro is a 40-something-old Chilean journalist who does director work for the Panorama-equivalent out there. He's doing his Masters in documentary-making in London, and the video documentary on the Circus that he is making will be the first one that he will have done everything for. (Camera, sound, directing and editing... the whole shebang.) He knows his shit, and he's often told tales about some of the horrific things he's covered. After the hairy checkpoint experience, we're that bit closer and into the night, we bounce ideas off each other for the different stories we wants to tell via our corresponding mediums. As he talks about it, I catch him a couple of times with tears of emotion and excitement welled up in his eyes. This is a passionate man - dedicated to his art, his children and the job in hand.

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.

Days 1-2: Tel Aviv

Think I made all the preparations I needed to.


Tel Aviv, from the beautiful Jaffa district looking north to the main city which faces out to the Mediterranean. The streets here feel very safe and well-lit at night, and in the flea market area where I'm staying, the place feels abandoned come sundown (other than skinny stray cats and the occasional dogwalker.)


The city is a total hotch-potch of styles - beautiful, immaculate, buildings stand side-by-side with derelict, abandoned structures just about held together with a bit of scaffolding. Here in the background you can see a church tower in the distance, flanked by the massive floodlights of the local football stadium.


Taking a stroll up through local markets into the busier areas, it's pretty much what you'd expect from any westernised city. The only hint that gives away past troubles are the obligatory bag-checks on entering any of the major shopping centres. People do cast suspicion on strange activity and it's awkward to try and get photos away from the beaten track. Pointing and clicking shows you're a tourist, but pulling out a tripod seemed to draw further suspicion. Things are going to get even trickier in the West Bank.


Heading back down the coast, there's a feeling of relief (and also a slight feeling of copping out) to come across some kiteboarders who thrive on having a camera pointed at them. "Sure, yes please, take as many as you can", says one of them as he promptly removes his underwear right in front of me. It's great weather for them, not so great for me and I spend an hour afterwards cleaning filters and lenses from sand and seawater.


Klaus chats with me on the spacious roof garden of the hostel. He's on placement studying keyboards in Nazareth. (Much later, I figure out he's actually talking about 'kibbutz') The next couple of days are going to be pretty wet across Israel he tells me, ("Jerusalem gets the same amount of rainfall as London, but this all falls in Jan-March") - so I abandon plans to explore Tiberias and the Sea of Galilee, and will head on to Jerusalem today to catch up with the circus.

Amersham Arms. Back With Beards

Happy Chinese New Year - it's year of the rat. A time for renewed energy and enthusiasm.

 

After only about a month off (and it feels well deserved), this gig at the Amersham Arms tides us over so at least we don't forget how to play. In a surprise twist, Nelly and myself have both been working on growing beards (independently) and with beard-cladding members outnumbering non-beardies, I think we can now officially call Subsource a beard band. (Joining the ranks of... well it turns out I can't find a definitive list of bands with beards online but I'm sure there are some good ones)

Tonight, we supported the mighty Pest (who feature in all these photos). It's funny how things come back round - it was before Subsource had gotten together firmly that Paul and I were experimenting with some electro/hip-hop stuff.. we put a band together for one show with Tom (Trombone) and Vinnie (Drums) from Pest, so it was good to see them. The Shadow Orchestra played too, who were doin some awesome ambient stuff.

 

I tell Ben from Pest (keys) that the last time I saw them was at 93 Feet East. He tells me he thinks that was actually their first gig.. (with this line-up anyway)

 

Pleasure to warm up for these guys, thanks to all that made it. After being told shortly before we played that we'd barely get any money for this one, the promoter finds us after the show (looking slightly drunk) and gives us far more than he promised, with an elated "I'm giving you what you deserve." I reckon the beards are totally paying off already.

On the subject of creativity, I've found my answer, and it feels like a breath of fresh air. For too long I was getting bogged down by the fundamental processes and connections you make between different thoughts, about reaching into an unknown territory but still within the framework of something that you are familiar with. That was totally the wrong approach.

Creativity is a complex social event.