Ramallah for Real: 'How is Ramallah?'

My landlord Mitri's a geography teacher. Man, did he ever teach geography that day. It's January. Orthodox Christmas. Palestinian Christians from the West Bank are allowed each year to enter Israel. Some good old divide et impera. A permit for worshipping in the nebula of holy places that is Jerusalem. The joy. 

"Our church always organizes a trip to Nazareth," Mitri says to me, he says "then it's always pray here, pray there." He rolls his eyes. What to do? They got the old Opel Astra, however meticulously maintained, it doesn't discount the little fact of 'green plates'. The verdant registration brings a car, qua usefulness, on a par with the average wheelbarrow. A very expensive, air-conditioned wheelbarrow. What to do?

"Do you have a driver's license, Tom? For yellow plate?" I can see where this is going. And I don't really mind, either. I got some time off. Should be a lark. Mitri gives me a budget. It's not much, but on the other hand, it's not like he's actually received a paycheck for the past year or so.

So next I'm on the phone, haggling with the car people. Meet the rentals. Long descendants of some rugged mountain folk somewhere along the silk road, I figure. They drive a tough bargain. I just want to drive their Isuzu Trooper, the only seven-seater I could find on short notice. Finally, I drive the point home, ánd the jeep, trunk rattling with mediocre puns.

I'm stopped at Qalandia checkpoint. "Shalom," I say. The soldier looks at the logo on the side and goes; "Greenpeace. You know, I give them money sometimes." I got all these one-liners in back but decide to clear up the misunderstanding. "Oh, but these are not the tree people. It's a car rental place in East-Jerusalem. God knows why they're called Greenpeace." The only way this humongous foaming-at-the-mouth Isuzu will hug a tree is by slamming into one. Love hurts. God forbid.

9.00 AM. Al-Bireh. The Rafidis are all set to go. Marina, Marina's mum, Mitri and the kids; Maher and Tamer (twins) and Ramzi. Today, for the first time in their lives, they will behold the Mediterranean. For real.

And we're off. Barreling down toward Tel Aviv. It's raining cats and dogs as we leave but soon enough the skies clear up and Apollo's toy casts its warm regard upon us.

"Kids, can you feel the pressure change in your ears? We're descending." Dimitri expounds on the land; the North and the South, the East and "All this here is Palestine too." He gestures wide at the tilled plains domed by Ben Gurion-bound Boeings and Airbusses. "Remember that. Always." An Israeli ear will extrude a menace there. Undoubtedly. But remembering invokes past, not future, save for those who've nothing to lose. Think about it.

We alight in Yafa, have a little in-car picnic, and head out to the marina. I switch roles from driver to cameraman. Dimitri explains the tides, but it's a Jet Ski that draws the kids' ravenous eyes. Then there's boats, and more airplanes, and a scaffolded church where we light a candle to no god in particular. We stroll along, awed by the pending orange tree whose tender flings up a shovel so that we may go forth and be fruitful. After two launches the tree yields and we divvy up the sun's labor.

Next stop; Caesarea. I'm still taping. It's sea-shells at the sea-shore time. Gross Domestic Products of the stuff. Tamer splashes round in the teasing reach and draw of the surf. Unencumbered. Then, wearied, we sit down and marvel at Rome's brick testament and a few brides and grooms braving the onset of chilly dusk for the wedding album.

"Where are you from?" We get to talking with the girl from the souvenir shop. Timid English on both sides. Mitri explains our fraught provenance. "I came here on a school trip once. More than twenty years ago."

"How is Ramallah?" the girl asks.

'Well, you know', might have been the gist of the reply. It's hard to really delve and rummage in polite to-and-fro. I doubt that she does though, 'know', but in that briefest moment... "Twins?"she grins at Maher and Tamer; Marina nods a bashful affirmation. It's just people talking. No frigging barriers. No fright. No accusations. No nuffin'. In that pithy instant all our leaders and all our TVs are unmasked.