The hotel bloke from last night was still hanging around the lobby and we exchanged smiles. It’s a curious thing. I could swear he looked a bit embarrassed, a bit morning-after-the-night-before. He had been a bit shouty, and he’d let his frustrations show maybe a little too much.
I can’t imagine what it’s like. Your name, your passport means you can’t go anywhere, can’t do anything, means you’re trapped in perpetual effective life poverty, and in walks this bloke, nice enough but his name and his passport means he can do anything, go anywhere.
I thought about having a chat, making a joke of it, but…no. I smiled, wished him a happy birthday and shook hands. Some get the golden ticket, some get schtupped.
Leaving Ramallah was very different to arriving there. All the trepidation had gone, all the unease eased. It’s easy to feel a bit embarrassed about feeling uneasy. It’s just a place, they’re just people, but it’s interesting how you can get caught up in the stories, in the narrative you’ve been fed. (And I could apply that to more than a few people back home with regard to Jews and Israel). A few days later, talking to some Israelis in Tel Aviv the feeling returned, but just me dealing with my own experiences and own my own feelings…
Ramallah was fine. It’s a big place, lots going on. Streets full of shops where you often see familiar names – Samsung, Acer, Apple – and some not so familiar. I’d be surprised to see Osama’s Pizza opening a branch in Brighton anytime soon. There are street markets full of the smells of amazing spices, colourful fruit traders rubbing up against stalls selling rubbish sweat pants and t-shirts with really funny slogans, fresh food and schmutters. Life everywhere you look.
Occasionally you get pulled up short. Like when you see a sign for “Pal Pay” and you remember that Paypal, our Paypal, doesn’t work in Palestine because (according to the Palestinians) Israel won’t give it access because through Paypal you can access international money. Restricting Paypal means money can’t get in and Palestine stays poor.
It feels poor but if you didn’t know the story it might not have felt or looked that odd. Another hot, dusty Muslim city. Being in Ramallah was very much old school travelling, all hustle and hassle and heat. The central bus station – a yard, really – was like the same as the rest of Ramallah: dusty, bustling and full of blokes smoking.
As the bus pulled out of Ramallah – and it takes a while to wind through the outskirts – the last two things I saw was a Jaguar car showroom (closed) and a KFC (open).
Next stop, Bethlehem. See if I can find somewhere to stay. After the hustle of Ramallah, it’ll be a relief to find somewhere more stable. Bethlehem. Stable. Oh, never mind.