Istanbul, Turkey

Before I begin writıng about Turkey, I want to catch up on my Israelı and Palestınıan experıences:

Regardıng Mea She'arim: One week ago today I vısıted Mea She'arım wıth four people from my hotel. Mea She'arım ıs one of Jerusalem's oldest and largest Haredı (a.k.a. ultra-Orthodox or Hassıdıc) neıghborhoods. The Lonely Planet descrıbes Mea She'arım as 'one of the world's most reluctant tourıst attractıons' and ıt encourages vısıtors to 'dress conservatıvely, don't take photos wıthout permıssıon and avoıd the area durıng Shabbat.' So naturally I decıded to vısıt Mea She'arım on Shabbat wıth a photojournalıst (my new buddy, Roger, photojournalıst-extraordınaıre) and a bare-armed, over-weıght, heavıly-sedated Austrıan gırl (plus two other people who were relatıvely ınoffensıve, and therefore ınconsequentıal to my story -- sorry guys). We entered the neıghborhood shortly after sunset and passed under a sıgn that dıscouraged sıghtseeıng, demanded modesty, and forbade group tours. The streets were full of people: groups of women pushıng strollers; young boys ın yarmulkas wıth theır soft sıde-locks flyıng out lıke lıttle wıngs; and men -- ın fur hats wıth black robes; ın fur hats wıth brown robes; ın fedoras wıth whıte shırts; ın fedoras wıth black vests -- each group stıckıng exclusıvely wıth theır own. We walked several blocks ınto the neıghborhood before stoppıng at a crowded square. After only a couple of mınutes, a group of black-vested fedorıstas gathered nearby, and we sensed that ıt may be tıme to leave. We had only walked about half a block before one of the brown-robed furrıstas decıded that the presence of Roger's camera was ınapproprıate on Shabbat and that Roger must dıe (mınd you, ıt was the mere presence of the camera that ıllıcıted thıs response, as Roger had respectfully refraıned from takıng any photographs ın the neıghborhood and the Austrian girl had long since covered her arms). Lackıng the approprıate tools for a good old-fashıoned stonıng, the furrısta grabbed a nearby pıece of wood and began chasıng Roger down the street. The rest of us attempted to remaın calm and hoped that our smıles and soothıng voıces would keep everyone else calm. It wasn't quıte workıng, and so we pıcked up the pace as Roger contınued to run all the way out of the neıghborhood. All of thıs provıng once agaın that relıgıon ıs fun!!

For more on the Haredim, tolerance, and provocation, see:
http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/696933.html
''It is forbidden to blend darkness and light. The nation of Israel is pure and the Arabs are a nation of donkeys. They are an evil disaster, an evil devil, and a nasty affliction." -- Rabbi David Batzri, Haredi 'Mystical Sage'

Regarding Hebron: The next day (Saturday) Roger and I met with two Amerıcan journalists (one photographer and one writer) and headed into the West Bank town of Hebron to see the occupation up close and personal. Our companions had been visiting Hebron for years, so we were extremely fortunate to benefit from their experience and expertise. We took a service taxi out to a dirt parking lot in the middle of nowhere and then switched to another service taxi that took us into Hebron. It was a surprisingly large, bustling city with an enormous, crowded market. This is a town where Hamas won all 9 of their 9 seats in the Palestinian legislature, and yet people seemed people seemed perfectly friendly, or at worst indifferent, to our 'provocative' visit. As we walked deeper into the central market, we found that more and more of the shops were closed and the street grew increasingly empty. Above us was a wire mesh filled with bricks and stones and garbage that the Jewish settlers above had thrown at the Palestinians below, partially explaining the abandoned shops and streets. Coming into an open square, our guide (Steve, the American photojournalist) explained that we were moving into an Israeli monitored area and that we would be in the sights of Israeli snipers for the next hour or two. As he was explaining the situation, Roger was taking a photograph across an Israeli barricade, and we all watched as an Israeli sniper moved into position, lining up Roger in the cross-hairs of his American-made rifle. The fun was about to begin.

Moving deeper into the old market, the number of bricks and stones weighing down the mesh above increased, and the number of people decreased dramatically. A few brave shopowners kept their businesses open, but there were few customers willing to visit this part of town. Eventually we came to an Israeli checkpoint (mind you, Hebron is technically under Palestinian Authority control). We passed through the checkpoint with relative ease, but we were informed that the Tomb of the Patriarchs (where the Prophet Abraham is buried) was closed to gentiles because it was Shabbat. Walking beside the Tomb we quickly encountered another Israeli barricade, but again we passed without incident. Turning right onto a street that had once been a central thoroughfare, we found ourselves in a ghost-town. Everything, every home and shop, had been abandoned. Stars of David had been spray-painted on every door to claim these abandoned homes and businesses for Israel, but nobody dared live in this no-man's-land. Metal shutters creaked and banged. Weeds grew up through the sidewalks. The only signs of life were the occasional stray dog, a lone Israeli settler with a machine gun strapped on his back, and all the Israeli snipers that lay in wait on the rooftops, their rifle sights trained on our heads. We had no desire to 'provoke' them, and yet it was very unclear what would be perceived as a 'provocation.' It was at this point that I decided to take up smoking again.

As we proceeded up the road, we were met by several Israeli soldiers who requested our passports and questioned the purpose of our business. Oddly, they seem satisfied with our explanation that we were 'just looking around.' As we approached a larger contingent of Israeli soldiers near the top of a hill, we decided to turn around and head into an even more bizarre area that was under Israeli military control but had both Israeli settlers and Palestinian families living relatively close to one another in a perpetual state of heightened tension. We carefully avoided greeting people in either Hebrew or Arabic, as we might 'provoke' them with our 'offensive' linguistic choices.

Coming over a hill, we saw a group of young settler girls loitering by the roadside. The scene looked relatively benign, but for the first time all day, Steve, our ad-hoc guide, became very nervous saying, 'Now we have a situation on our hands.' Apparently, Israeli school girls often hang out by the roadside and throw rocks at Palestinians and other uninvited guests in a conscious attempt to provoke a reaction and justify the use of deadly force by the snipers who had us in their sights. We gave them a hearty 'Shabbat Shalom!' and they let us pass without incident. Heading up the next hill we came into a Palestinian area where the young boys apparently felt 'provoked' by our presence, and they began throwing stones at us. As Roger would comment later, 'Small boys throwing small stones can easily turn into big boys shooting guns.' Fortunately, none of us were hit, and the situation did not escalate (although, much to my horror, Steve had picked up his own stone and threatened to throw it back!).

From one uncomfortable scenario to the next, we then headed to the largest Israeli settlement in Hebron, the primary raıson d'etre for all this madness. We were stopped at the gate by an armed settler who did not want to let us enter. Steve, the guy who had wanted to throw stones at the Palestinian kids, now wanted to barge past this armed settler and enter the settlement without his permission. Cooler heads prevailed, and we turned around and left.

Working our way back to the desolate old market, we now found ourselves in the midst of an Israeli foot patrol. Steve said to me very calmly, 'Don't look now, but there's an Israeli soldier with a grenade launcher pointed at your head.' Suddenly we were surrounded by six Israeli paratroopers in full combat gear sporting AR-15 machine guns with grenade launchers, locked, loaded, and ready to kill. We attempted to stay behind them so as to avoid the uncomfortable feeling of having loaded guns pointed at our heads by nervous young men, but this was a military foot patrol being executed by an occupying army, an it was impossible to escape the harsh reality of it all. Everyone on the street, men, women, and children, would have to put up with the guns being thrust into their faces. All men between the ages of 13 and 70 would be put up against a wall and searched by two paratroopers, as two others trained their rifles on their heads, and the other two kept the remaining population at bay. Every open doorway, every house, and every shop would be entered with guns at the ready. It was tense, it was terrifying (especially for the young children), and it was certainly humiliating for the Palestinians who were trying to live there. At the end of the old market, the patrol suddenly shut down the street, holding everyone at gunpoint, and then one by one they disappeared into a military outpost. We walked away with our nerves rattled and our eyes wide open, leaving the children behind to suffer through another day.

Regarding Hadash: After returning to Jerusalem from Hebron, Roger and I headed to the American Colony Hotel in East Jerusalem, where the majority of the international press corps are based. We needed beer. While there, we met an Israelı woman who is a member of Hadash, the only mixed Jewish/Arab political party in Israel. She was calm, kind, and rational, and completely opposed to the Israeli occupation. She was also planning to emigrate to the Netherlands next month, completely convinced that the bigotry and oblivion were so thoroughly institutionalized and so deeply ingrained in Israeli society that the situation was completely beyond repair. Visibly distraught, she stood up and left. Three days later, Hadash would win a whopping three seats in the 120-seat Israeli Knesset.

(Photo by Eric: Haredi, Jerusalem)

Jerusalem

Last night (Friday) I went to Mea She'arim, one of the largest and oldest Hassidic neighborhoods in Jerusalem. No aloha.

Today I went to the West Bank town of Hebron. Again, no aloha.

The remainder of my life should be pleasantly relaxing, by comparison.

Aloha!

(Photo by Eric: The garbage of settlers over the old market, Hebron, West Bank)

Jerusalem

After posting to the blog on Monday, I returned to the Fourth Station of the Cross to see if I could get into the chapel. Finding the doors still locked, I went back to the Church of Our Lady of the Spasm (naturally) and found someone to let me in. Not only did the gatekeeper let me into the chapel of the Fourth Station, he also took me into a crypt beneath the Church of Our Lady of the Spasm to show me an old Byzantine mosaic with the sandal-prints of the Virgin Mary on the spot where she is said to have met with Jesus on the way to his crucifixion. Nice fella, that gatekeeper at the Church of Our Lady of the Spasm.

Continuing along the remaining Stations of the Cross, I was invited into a small, cave-like chapel near the Ninth Station by an Ethiopian Orthodox monk. He sat down and began a repetitive prayer while I looked around the chapel, but as I began to leave he stopped and chirped at me, indicating that I should head further down into the cave. Down the narrow steps cut into the living stone, I came into a larger chapel where five monks and two nuns were performing a service that included some extraordinarily beautiful singing. I stayed for the remainder of the service (about 2 hours) before completing the Stations of the Cross.

On Tuesday I went on a tour to Massada (where the Zealots had their suicidal last stand against the Romans in 73 AD), the Dead Sea (where the 28% mineral content of the water makes human bodies float on the surface), Qumran (where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found), and Jericho (the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, at 10,000 years old). Jericho was the first place I visited that is under direct control of the Palestinian Authority. One must pass through two checkpoints, one Israeli and one Palestinian, in order to enter or exit the city. As part of a tour group, the checkpoints were quite uneventful. It was interesting, however, to realize that the West Bank is by no means under Palestinian control. The West Bank is entirely under Israeli control with a few small pockets under Palestinian administration. The Jewish settlements are not Israeli outposts in a Palestinian landscape, but gated communities in an Israeli dominated land.

On Wednesday I woke up early and attended the 6:30 mass at the Armenian Orthodox Church of Saint James. Afterwards, I took a bus to the large concrete security wall that separates Palestinian-administered Bethlehem from Israeli-administered Jerusalem (if not for the wall, Bethlehem would basically be an outlying suburb of Jerusalem). After passing through the security labyrinth, I emerged on the Palestinian side of the wall and proceeded into town to visit the Church of the Nativity, where all Christian denominations believe Jesus was born. But don't imagine for one moment that I went to Bethlehem just to see the wall or the church. Oh, no! I went to Bethlehem to visit the Milk Grotto!!! The very spot where the Virgin Mary spilled her breast milk, turning the ground white and helping hundreds of pilgrims like myself get pregnant every year! Afterwards, for good measure, I went to the Tomb of Rachel, an important pilgrimage destination for Jewish women who are trying to get pregnant. I don't mean to suggest that there has been some kind of miracle, but I have felt a little sick the past two mornings in a row...

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/4823042.stm

Yesterday (Thursday) I spent eight hours at the Israel Museum enjoying their extensive collection of Judaica, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and a great exhibition of contemporary Japanese art.

More soon!

(Photo by Eric: Milk Grotto St., Bethlehem, West Bank)

Jerusalem

I couldn't possibly remember everything I've seen and done since my last post, but I'll give it my best shot. On Friday morning I visited the Coptic Orthodox Patriarchate and the nearby Ethiopian Orthodox Monastery in the heart of the Old City. That afternoon at 3:00 I joined the Franciscan friars on their solemn procession through the Fourteen Stations of the Cross.

I spent Saturday on the Mount of Olives in Arab East Jerusalem. I began and ended my day by visiting the Tomb of the Virgin Mary. Controlled by the Greek Orthodox and Armenian churches, the tomb is accepted by all Muslims and all Christians, except the Roman Catholics, as the burial site of the Virgin Mary. From there I went to the Russian Monastery at the top of the Mount of Olives and visited their Church of the Ascension, from whence the Russian Orthodox, and only the Russian Orthodox, believe Jesus physically ascended to Heaven. I then went down the street to the dusty little Chapel of Ascension, from whence all Muslims and the vast majority of Christians believe Jesus ascended to Heaven (you can even see his footprint on the little launchpad!). When I say the "vast majority" of Christians believe this is Jesus's launchpad, I am obviously not including the Russian Orthodox, and much more recently the Lutherans have also rejected the authenticity of this site. It seems that the Lutherans recently made a hostile takeover bid on the Chapel of Ascension, and when that bid was rejected, they simply bought a nearby plot of land and declared it to be the true site of the Ascension. The purchase is so recent that they have yet to demolish the profane structures that defile the newly sacred ground.

After visiting the Holy Launchpads, I had a long, interesting conversation with a Palestinian man who allows tourists to have their pictures taken on his camels. As with most of the Palestinians I have met, he launched immediately into a conversation about global politics, George W. Bush, the war in Iraq, and of course, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. He was, however, somewhat unusual in his insistence that all peoples are generally good and that their leaders are liars who make money off of violence. He was just as quick to praise the Israelis and Americans as he was to praise the Palestinians and Iraqis. And he was equally quick to condemn Hamas as he was to condemn Bush or Sharon.

After our little chat I visited the Church of the Pater Noster and Eleona Church in the Carmelite Sisters' cloister on the top of the mountain. The Sisters were diggin' me. You could tell.

From there I visited the Jewish Cemetary that covers the side of the mountain, and the tear-shaped Basilica of Dominus Flevit built by Antonio Barluzzi. At the bottom of the mountain I visited the Garden of Gethsemane (where Jesus was arrested) and the Roman Catholic Church of all Nations.

I spent all day Sunday standing in the lines of various Jerusalem post offices. It was fun. I kept wondering why all the heavily armed soldiers in the lines didn't "go postal." Americans are so much more frisky!

This morning I decided to make a serious push to finish visting all the Christian sites in this city. First and foremost, this meant visiting all the shrines and chapels along the Via Dolorosa. I began at the Church of St. Anne, where the Virgin Mary was born. The acoustics in this Crusader church are extraordinary, and church choirs from around the world gather here to sing hymns before visiting the Stations of the Cross. I sat and listened to three different groups sing -- two from the United States (both were quite good) and one group from sub-Saharan Africa that just blew everyone's socks off. I was literally driven to tears by the beauty of their singing, as was almost everyone else in the church. I visited the crypt beneath the altar marking the spot where the Holy Virgin was born as another group took center stage.

From there I visited the Bethesda Pool, where Jesus gave the waters curative powers, and then I headed to the First Station(s) of the Cross (most of the Stations of the Cross consist of several little shrines and chapels in a small area, each claiming to be the true Station of the Cross -- you should all have the recurring picture by now). I visited the Chapel of the Condemnation and the Chapel of the Flagellation before heading to the Convent of the Sisters of Zion. The Sisters were, once again, diggin' me. You could tell.

On my way to the Third Station(s) of the Cross, I had two mildly disturbing experiences. From an Islamic madrassa I heard a young boy yelling something down onto the street. When I looked up, he was looking right at me, and he spat. He missed (the little shit), but it left me wondering what I had done to deserve his wrath. Was this a politically motivated attack? A religiously motivated attack? Or was he simply a little boy wanting someone to spit at? Nothing he said would indicate politics or religion as his primary motivation (there was no mention of the Greatness of God or the evils of American foreign policy -- at least, not as far as I could tell). But this event was followed almost immediately by an elderly Palestinian man saying quite loudly to me, "You work for the CIA!" I turned to him and said, "I do?" To which he replied, "Obviously." There were several men standing around watching the interaction (the spitter had disappeared into the madrassa), and so I felt obligated to defend myself. "I'm a teacher," I said. "No you're not," he replied. "You're obviously not a tourist. You've been here for days, just talking to people. You're CIA." That creeped me out. Although, it must be said, he didn't seem particularly concerned that I was CIA. He was just making a point.

So what did I do? What any sane person would do: I went to the Armenian Catholic Church of Our Lady of the Spasm, where a group of Armenian Catholic nuns were performing a service. Predictably, the Sisters were diggin' me. You could tell. And Our Lady of the Spasm protected me from further accusations of CIA involvement. She's good at that kind of stuff.

The Fourth and Sixth Stations of the Cross were both closed for lunch, and so I came to the internet place at the Eighth Station to make this posting.

Jerusalem is really a fascinating town. Not surprisingly, the economy is driven by pilgrimage (read: tourism). The Crusaders were the pilgrims par excellence, and they are the ones who introduced the Fourteen Stations of the Cross and made Jerusalem the pilgrimage destination that it is. While the Muslims have their Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque (on the same compound), there aren't any other significant Muslim holy sites in the area. And while the Jews have their Western Wall, there aren't any other significant Jewish holy sites in the area. (There are plenty of historical sites of interest for both Muslims and Jews, but no real pilgrimage destinations besides the obvious ones.) The Christians, on the other hand, have sites of religious significance at every turn. As far as I know, I haven't seen any Muslim pilgrims here, and away from the Western Wall, I haven't seen any Jewish pilgrims either. But the streets are packed with Christian pilgrims from all around the world, not to mention all the Christian priests, ministers, monks, and nuns (who dig me, you can tell) who make the Old City so colorful in their traditional vestments.

Lunchtime is over, and I've got to hit the rest of the Christian sites before the day is done! Wish me luck!

(Photo by Eric: The Tomb of the Virgin Mary, Jerusalem)

Jerusalem

Alright. I'll undo the moderation function. But I accept NO responsibility for the goofy things people say on this blog -- not even the goofy things I say!

Food update: I haven't had a meal worthy of mention since my Sinai sea bass -- until tonight. It was a simple meal of skewered chicken and hummus, but damn it was good! In Morocco, Egypt, and Jordan, the hummus was always way too salty for my taste (but it must be said that the Egyptians make a particularly good baba ganoush). Tonight, at a Lebanese restaurant, the hummus was absolutely delicious. And the skewered chicken was grilled to perfection with some interesting spices -- maybe a little cinnamon and cardamom? I don't know what the spices were (and the chef wouldn't tell me), but it was the best meal I've had in a couple of weeks!

Barakabaka, I don't think I'm worried about offending my readers so much as miscommunicating with them (I want them to be offended for all the right reasons). My own "appreciation" of Jerusalem's religious spectacle comes from years of academic study, but there's no reason a tourist couldn't feel a similar appreciation -- and I'm sure many do. It is an appreciation that is condescending, but not mocking. I am laughing at "human" behavior rather than laughing at the humans themselves. But in the end, I am still laughing. And, no doubt, still worried.

(Photo by Eric: Purim, Ben Yehuda Street, Jerusalem)

Jerusalem

I visited the Temple Mount (Haram Al-Sharif) yesterday morning. In many ways, it was the highlight of my trip: the Temple Mount is identified with the biblical Mt. Moriah, where God began His creation of the universe, where Abraham almost sacrificied Isaac, where Solomon built the Temple, and where Muhammad ascended to Heaven. In other ways, it was a significant let down: both the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque are closed to non-Muslims because of the current "situation," and all I could do was walk around the outside of these buildings I've dreamt of visiting for years. There was much wailing, gnashing of teeth, and rending of clothes. Now I need to find a good dentist and a good tailor.

In the afternoon I went down to Ben Yehuda Street in the New City where they were celebrating Purim (read: Israeli Halloween). For several days there have been children running around dressed like fairy-princesses, ninja-warriors, wicked-witches, and swashbuckling-pirates. My favorite costume was the vampire-ninja-pirate, who very much reminded me of Studentor the Masterbrarian (real name: Vladar) who is, in fact, a vampire-Japanese-sailor-pirate. Small world.

Anyhow, back on Ben Yehuda Street, the block party had three bandstands for live music and performances. Dozens of clowns and jugglers and larger-than-life puppets were milling about in a very drunk crowd. One of the ritual requirements of Purim is that one attain a sufficient level of drunkeness to be unable to distinguish between the phrases "curse Haman" and "bless Mordechai." Most of the teenagers at the event seemed to have fulfilled this requirement. It was fun to watch for a while, but I was still nursing a nasty headcold, and the retaliation threats of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine kept running through my mind, so I left before nightfall. Not that it was unsafe -- there were dozens of teenage soldiers running around with grenade launchers and machine guns wearing Mickey Mouse ears and fairy wings. If only they had been drunk, the security situation would have been completely under control...

For now, things seem to have quieted down here. The Friday sermon at the Al-Aqsa Mosque often sets the tone for Palestinian Muslims, so we will see what tomorrow's sermon brings.

I just overheard a guide explaining that this internet cafe is the Eighth Station of the Cross. Who knew?

(Photo by Eric: The Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem)

Jerusalem

Another wonderful day in the Holy Land! I spent most of my morning haggling over hotel rooms and ended up moving from my grungy, over-priced hotel in the Christian Quarter to a much nicer, much cheaper hotel in the Muslim Quarter.

After settling into my new digs, I walked to the Zion Gate and had a slice of pizza for lunch before heading to the Western (Wailing) Wall -- Judaism's holiest site. I must have sat there for 3 hours just watching the people come and go. The Hassidic Jews really have the run of the place, and they are quite aggressive in approaching Orthodox, secular Israeli, and non-Israeli Jews in an attempt to bring them into their fold. As with the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, there was some confusion about what to do when finally confronted with the reality of a sacred place known heretofore only in myth. The Hassidic Jews had their routine down pat, but everyone else seemed a little less certain about how to proceed. Some would make meager attempts at immitating the Hassidim, while others would pose for DisneyLandesque photos. And again, I was just as happy as could be to watch the whole thing unfold.

When I express my delight, I hope it is clear that I am sincerely delighted to be here. Not because I am wanting to mock religion or laugh at the religious -- but because I have dedicated the past 18 years of my life to the study of religion, and it is very exciting for me to be in this place! One need not be religious to appreciate the spectacle that unfolds here day after day. And like every other pilgrim, I have traveled far to get here -- physcially, mentally, and emotionally. And so it was with sincere appreciation that I watched the Koreans rolling on the floor of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and I would have joined them sooner than I would have mocked them. And while the confusion over the location of Christ's "real" tomb was a little laughable, I shared in that confusion, and in the end laughed mostly at myself.

And today the search for Christ's "real" tomb continued. After leaving the Western Wall I headed to the Damascus Gate where I exited the Old City and proceeded to the Garden Tomb -- the "true" site of Christ's crucifixion, burial, and resurrection, according to Protestant Christians (apparently they reject the Church of the Holy Sepulchre altogether -- as one Protestant explained to me today, "It's too Eastern." She said Eastern the same way I say Face-Herpes.) The place was filled with large tour groups, mostly from the US, but also from Korea and Nigeria. At one point the Koreans and the Americans got into a Gospel-shout-down, trying to sing louder, but certainly not better, than each other.

(This internet cafe is on the Via Dolorosa, the path that Jesus walked during the Passion, and at this particular moment there is a large crowd of Spanish pilgrims standing behind me being led in prayer by two Franciscan friars. It's really like a religious DisneyLand here! I LOVE IT!!! This internet cafe is apparently one of the Stations of the Cross -- Jesus sends His last e-mail.)

And of course, while I'm playing with the faithful and their Imaginary Friends, all Hell is breaking loose around me:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/4804424.stm

One must wonder when, "Palestinian militants from the al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigades in Gaza City warned US and UK nationals to leave the Palestinian territories immediately", if they consider East Jerusalem part of the Palestinian territories. It was taken in 1967 during the Six Days War, and according to international law the Israelis are here as part of an illegal military occupation. At the same time, unlike the Gaza Strip or the West Bank, the Israelis have officially annexed East Jerusalem, and they have no intention of ever returning it to the Palestinians.

This situation in Jericho puts the Israeli checkpoints in a slightly different light. I was happy to see the two young Israeli soldiers out in front of my hotel this afternoon, looking very serious with their grenade launchers. And I was even happy to see them stopping (not-so-random) people to check their bags and their papers, in spite of the fact that such checks exacerbate the situation in the long run (after all, I won't be here in the long run). Security is a very real concern for the Israelis, and one cannot blame them for being careful -- especially when it's my ass their taking care of! We'll have to see what the coming hours and days bring, but I suspect I will have to cancel my planned trips to Bethlehem and Hebron.

In the highly unlikely event that some kind of serious Hell should actually break loose in Jerusalem, I'm staying in the El Hashimi Hotel on Souq Khan al-Zeit in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City. I'm in room 106 -- it's got cable t.v. (awwww yeah!), but no telephone.

Also in the news:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/4804334.stm

Isn't religion fun!!??

(Photo by Eric: The Western Wall, Jerusalem)

Jerusalem

I spent the morning at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, and Coptic Christians all believe Jesus was crucified, buried, and resurrected. IT ROCKED! There were people there from all over the world, including large contingents of American Protestants (who believe this church marks the scene of Christ's burial and resurrection, but not his crucifixion, if I'm not mistaken), Sub-Saharan African Catholics and Protestants, Korean Presbyterians (who were doing a wonderful job of rolling around on the ground and speaking in tongues -- they really were my favorites), Russian Orthodox, and Ukranian Uniates. It was a sight to behold! I felt like a kid in a candy shop!

It was interesting to notice was that nobody really knew what to do. One is not normally confronted with Christ's tomb at an average Sunday service in Tuscaloosa. And then there's the fact that there seem to be three competing tombs of Christ within the church, so which one is supposed to make you all hot and bothered? Everyone desperately wanted to make a p.d.r. (public display of religiosity), but they just didn't know how (except for the Korean Presbyterians who stole the show!). So the Protestants were crossing themselves like Catholics, and everyone was kissing everything they could get their lips on (hasn't anybody heard of face-herpes?), and there was a general sense of sacred confusion. Everyone was asking their neighbor, "What's this?" "I think it's Christ's tomb!" "Oh? I thought that was Christ's tomb over there." "Yes, it is!" And off they ran to swap second-hand spit with the masses. It was all very Monty Pythonesque. And I was just as happy as could be!

I'm going to a bookstore this afternoon to see if I can find a guidebook just for Jerusalem, and hopefully I can find a book about the Church of the Holy Sepulchre as well. I would love to know the stories behind all of the shrines and chapels. I eavesdropped on a few tour guides, but they had very clear sectarian biases and very little historical information. One American woman yelled at me that this was the true tomb of Christ and proof that he was risen (because his body wasn't there, I suppose), and she insisted that I take a photograph. I loved her.

The Wailing Wall and the Dome of the Rock are going to have to really work to impress me now -- but I'm sure they will!

(Photo by Eric: Venerating the slab upon which the body of Christ was prepared for burial, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem)

Jerusalem

I left my hotel in Amman, Jordan at around 9:30 yesterday morning and arrived at my hotel in Jerusalem around 4:30 in the afternoon. If you look at a map, you will find that Jerusalem is only about 60 kilometers from Amman, and the trip really shouldn't take much more than an hour. The extra six hours were mostly spent waiting at Israeli checkpoints.

I took a shared taxi from Amman to the Jordanian side of the King Hussein Bridge on the border with the West Bank. After passing through Jordanian passport control, I boarded a bus that would take me across the bridge to the Israeli checkpoint on the other side. The Jordan "River" was little more than a marshy strip through the desert thanks to a recent drought and over use of a very limited water supply (there were banana farms on the Jordanian side of the river!). Arriving on the Israeli side of the bridge, we were told to get off the bus as Israeli soldiers boarded to look for stow-aways. So far, so good. Up to this point everyone (both the Jordanians and the Israelis) had been very polite and very efficient.

Then we came to a second Israeli checkpoint, and here everything ground to a halt. There were five of us on the bus -- a Japanese guy, a Palestinian-Canadian grandmother, two Palestinian-American men, and myself -- but somehow the guards at this checkpoint just couldn't be bothered to acknowledge our presence. We sat there for 3 hours before they finally waived us through.

From there we went to a third Israeli checkpoint where we got off the bus and put our luggage on a conveyor belt for security screening. We then went through a security check similar to those in American airports -- I had to remove my shoes and belt and all objects from my pockets, etc. When this initial screening was finished, we had to step into a bizarre little machine that spoke English with a seductive female voice. The little vixen said, "Prepare for jet commencement. Commence jets." And then these jets of air and God-knows-what-else started blowing on my head, and then my shoulders, and then my torso, on down to my feet, one region at a time. When it was over, a buzzer sounded and the little hussy said, "Please exit." It was creepy. If I die of cancer, we'll know who to blame.

After the unsolicited blowjob I was hearded into another line where I completed an entry visa form. I was then subjected to polite but serious questioning by an Israeli soldier. She asked me the same questions over and over again: "Are you traveling alone?" "Are you traveling with a group?" "How many people are in your group?" "Who are you traveling with?" "What are the names of your group members?" "Is everyone in your group American?" "Are you traveling alone?" I finally started laughing at the absurdity of her questions, but she didn't think it was funny. And so, I was shuffled off to another room where I was subjected to the same line of questioning by a higher ranking officer: "So, you are traveling in a group?" "How many people are you traveling with?" "Did you pay for this group tour in America, or did you pay for the group in Jordan?" It was apparently inconceivable that I was traveling to Israel by myself.

Eventually, the officer was convinced that I am traveling alone, that I have enough money to get back home, and that I am pretty unorganized when it comes to trip planning, as my itinerary was painfully loose for her tastes. I was then returned to the first soldier who, believe it or not, started with the same line of questioning again: "Are you traveling with a group?" She seemed a little less rigid this time, and the interview ended after only a few minutes. She apologized for the delay, and I was shuffled off to the next room to find my bags.

Unceremoniously, I was released into the West Bank with no Israeli shekles, and no clue. I changed some money with a shop keeper and found a shared taxi that was heading for the Damascus Gate in Jerusalem. The man sitting next to me was a Hamas supporter, and he immediately launched into an intense political conversation. He was very polite, but also very passionate. The trip across the West Bank takes less than half an hour, and unfortunately I missed most of it because this guy was quizzing me on my politics and familiarity with Middle Eastern history. It is interesting to note, however, that there was no Israeli checkpoint between the West Bank and East Jerusalem, and there are no Israeli checkpoints between East Jerusalem and West Jerusalem. In other words, the Occupied Territories are thoroughly integrated into the larger Israeli security scheme. (I did not know this.)

After walking to my hotel just inside the Jaffa Gate, I headed into the New City to try to find a pharmacy to get some cold medicine (all these radical temperture fluctuations have given me a nasty little head cold).

After only a few hours wandering around Jerusalem, my initial impression is that this is a bizarre town. Take the hippies of Boulder, mix them up with the Jews of Brooklyn, and put them in a medieval city, and there you have the "local" population. Then raid a few Indian ashrams and yoga centers, several large Southern Baptist churches, and one or two insane assylums, and there you have the "pilgrim" population. The city feels, sounds, and smells very American. You hear just as much American English as you do Hebrew. The shops and restaurants are all American (and I'm not just talking about McDonald's -- there's a "Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf" nearby, just like the one in Manoa Marketplace). And, unfortunately, the prices are American as well (perhaps closer to Denver prices than Honolulu prices, but American nonetheless).

I ate dinner in a vegetarian (and therefore kosher) restaurant last night, filled with Orthodox Jews. It quickly became apparent that they were all Americans (speaking American English), except for one table that was British. Judging from their conversations, they all lived in Jerusalem, but they must have been very recent immigrants. Looking at the designer "ethnic" clothing of the women, I couldn't help but imagine their pre-immigration conversations: "Honey, let's move to the Promised Land and play like we're Middle Eastern tribal people -- I'll wear hippie skirts and hiking boots and lots of purple stuff, and we can learn how to shoot M-16 machine guns. It'll be really fun. And authentic! And meaningful..."

These are just my initial (judgemental) impressions after a few hours walking around with a sinus headache. We'll see how those impressions change in the coming days and weeks... I'm sure I'll be much more tolerant once I shake this cold.

(Photo by Eric: Jerusalem at night)

Amman, Jordan

I can't decide if I have a lot to report, or nothing at all. I've been in Amman since last Tuesday, and while I have done very little, I feel I have learned a great deal from this city and its people.

On Wednesday a desert sandstorm created an urban duststorm here in Amman, blocking out the sun and causing temperatures to drop dramatically. An eerie yellow haze fell over the city and visibility was reduced to one or two blocks. On Thursday afternoon rain began to fall, and by Friday evening the dust had been washed from the sky. Today it is bright and sunny again.

Friday morning I visited the Mosque of the Martyr King Abdullah bin Al-Hussein. The mosque itself was fairly unattractive, making ample use of baby-blue tile better suited for public restrooms than a house of worship. But the custodian of the mosque was a font of useful information, demonstrating an unusually dispassionate understanding of Arab Islam. He confirmed my growing suspicion that Saudi Arabia is the only Muslim country where Sufism isn't a significant (if not the dominant) source of popular Muslim faith -- hardly the marginal movement that many scholarly texts (and media sources) represent it to be.

More than anything, I've just been hanging out and talking to people -- shop owners, street vendors, cab drivers, and random passers-by. Most of the people I've met have been displaced Palestinians, but there have also been several Egyptians and an occasional Jordanian or two. Without exception, they have all been remarkably kind and generous. They have also been painfully willing to discuss current events -- Iraq, Palestine, Israel, and Islamic terrorism. Sandwiched between the West Bank and Iraq, Saudi Arabia and Syria, it all hits very close to home here in Amman. Last week's news bleeds into next week's news with some predictability:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/middle_east/4764366.stm

Eventually, every conversation turns to Israel, its occupation of the Palestinian Territories, and America's unwaivering support for that occupation. What do I say to an elderly Palestinian gentleman whose eyes are filled with tears as he struggles to let out a dignified, "Why?" I just feel young and foolish and part of something very, very cruel. My liberal leftist politics, born of privilege, shatter under the weight of his pain, and I am exposed for what I am -- dumb. This isn't self-loathing so much as self-understanding. No room for sarcasm here.

Tomorrow morning I will take a service taxi to the King Hussein Bridge and cross the Jordan River into the West Bank. By nightfall I will be in Jerusalem, in a comfortable three-star hotel, enjoying my first beer in several weeks. My new friend will be left asking, "Why?"

(Photo by Eric: Policeman, Petra, Jordan)

Amman, Jordan

I left Dahab, Egypt at 10:00 on Saturday morning with Ashraf, my driver. Ashraf knew every policeman between Dahab and Nuweiba, but he didn't seem to be on good terms with any of them. Every roadblock brought a new adventure, but we finally managed to bribe our way through each of them, and we arrived safely in Nuweiba around 11:00.

At the ferry terminal we learned that the fast, safe, 12:00 ferry wasn't operating that day and I would have to wait for the slow, unsafe, 3:00 ferry instead. Ashraf felt terrible about me having to wait, and so he invited me to his sister's tent in a small Bedouin village on the Red Sea coast north of Nuweiba. We picked up some fresh pita and falafel along the way and were greeted by six men who prepared a delicious meal of spicy eggplant, fuul (fava bean paste), sweet tea and cigarettes. Ashraf's sister was nowhere to be seen, nor were any other women (a common phenomenon in Egypt).

After a long, relaxing lunch we headed back to the port of Nuweiba and I boarded the enormous ferry. On board I met two Americans and a French-Canadian who were heading to Wadi Musa, Jordan to visit the ancient Nabataean city of Petra. Although the two Americans were a little young, the French-Canadian fellow seemed interesting, and so I accepted their invitation to accompany them to Petra.

We arrived in the Jordanian port city of Aqaba around 8:00 p.m. and took a taxi straight to Wadi Musa. Aqaba is an unremarkable town by the looks of it, and several people had told me not to waste my time there, as there is very little to see or do.

We arrived in Wadi Musa around 10:00 p.m. on Saturday night, and after some haggling we settled on a cheap hotel (around $10.00 a night). At 7:00 on Sunday morning we headed to Petra -- an enormous region filled with extraordinary Hellenistic architecture carved into the living red sandstone (see photo). We spent a full day exploring the tombs, palaces, temples, canyons and mountains of Petra, returning to our hotel around 6:00 p.m. On Monday morning we returned to Petra for another day of hiking and exploring this fantastic site, returning to our hotel around 4:00 p.m. absolutely exhausted.

This morning we took the public bus to the capital city of Amman. My companions continued on to Israel this afternoon, and I found a nice, friendly hotel to spend a few nights. Amman is a relatively new, clean, and colorless city -- all of the buildings being constructed of the dull, off-white local stone. The Jordanians are an extremely friendly people, and Amman is a very progressive city, with many of the women sporting western fashions and free-flowing hair.

On a sour note, two of my three pairs of pants disappeared somewhere between Dahab and Amman. I have reason to believe they were stolen, not misplaced. This wouldn't be such a bad thing (my backpack is lighter now!), except that I am left with only one pair of filthy jeans to wear, and I am remarkably incompetent when it comes to shopping. I will, no doubt, be wearing something hideous for the next two months.

(Photo by Eric: Petra, Jordan)

Dahab, Egypt

I spent Tuesday afternoon snorkeling at a place called Eel Garden on the north end of Dahab. Out beyond the beautiful reef is a deep sandy area with hundreds of eels anchored by their tails in the sand, swaying with the current in a hypnotic, serpentine fashion. It was mezmorizing, and creepy.

I have no idea what I did on Wednesday.

Yesterday (Thursday) I took a bus to St. Katherine's Greek Orthodox Monastery at the base of Mt. Sinai. After checking into the monastery guesthouse I took a short nap before climbing the mountain in the late afternoon. It took about 2 1/2 hours to get to the top, and an hour and a half to get back down. God told me to tell you that it's none of your damn business if He spoke to me or not.

This morning (Friday) I visited the monastery itself, which boasts the biblical Burning Bush in its courtyard. The bush was not aflame when I arrived, but with a little flick of my Bic that puppy lit right up!

I am back in Dahab tonight. When I arrived in the village this afternoon I was stunned to see a mountain range off the coast (it hadn't been there before, I swear). It turns out this is Saudi Arabia, a mere 17 kilometers across the Gulf of Aqaba.

The call to prayer is ringing out, so I must go (the local muezzin clearly smokes too much -- his raspy voice always sounds painfully strained).

(Photo by Eric: The view from atop Mt. Sinai, Egypt)