The bus ride into Ramallah from Jerusalem was a somewhat chilling experience. This was the first time that we were among the Palestinian people. The majority of the people on the bus were elderly (they are allowed to pray at Aqsa) along with a few younger fellas who had obtained special permission to work on the Israeli side. The mood was somber as we traveled past large groups of Hasidic Jews heading back to their homes in Jerusalem. As we neared the border the separation wall appeared, snaking through the city at, dividing the Israeli and Palestinian portions of Jerusalem (distinctly different), adorned with a crown of razor wire and monitored closely by surveillance cameras and Israeli sniper towers. Desiring to snap some photos of the area, I relinquished out of respect for the folks that I shared the bus ride with. Hopefully I will have another opportunity to photograph this, it really is harrowing.
After an inspection by the soldiers at the checkpoint the bus transported us into Palestine (getting in is supposedly the easy part) the contrast between the two sides of the boundary were immediately apparent. Well maintained paved roads turned into semi-paved roads missing major sections of asphalt. Well kempt commercial areas gave way to run-down, outdated stores, most unrenovated and unmaintained for several decades. In Israel, people moved prudently from one location to the next while people in the West Bank meander through the city streets without much direction. However, the city is alive, the people are living and smiling and laughing. Kids play basketball in a nearby court wrapped in barbed wire fence.
We tumbled out of the bus into an intersection in Qalandia and reassembled ourselves on a crushed section of sidewalk. We immediately started catching gazes from people in our vicinity. A few brave adolescent boys approached us with a cautious smile and "Alo! Welcome!" and handshake. "Hello. Can you help us call our friend Fayez, we are supposed to meet him in Qalandia but we have no idea where we are." "Small English. Speak Arabi?" "Oh, no Arabic..." I hand the phone number to the apparent ring leader who is giving me a high-five and resting his arm on my shoulder, laughing with his buddies who are growing in number. A phone call and a few minutes later our local contact, Fayez, arrives, clean cut and sophisticated, recently back from working on a masters in Germany. We say goodbye to our new friends, likely that we won't ever see them again, jump in the diesel Skoda sedan and jump into the hectic Qalandia traffic bound for Ramallah.
Zipping through the city streets at 50-60 km/hr we catch quick glimpses of everyday life in the West Bank. Crowds of people shopping in open markets, groups of older men sitting outside shops watching passing traffic, young kids running and playing next to the busy street. The Palestinian people are out, and surprisingly happy. We hurry along with the flow of traffic, no stop lights, no lines separating lanes, the Kalashnikov armed Palestinian "police officers" paying no attention to the controlled chaos of Ramallah rush hour.
Arriving at our hotel, the Al-Hajal near downtown Ramallah, we're warmly greeted by the staff and shown to our rooms, conservatively furnished but everything we'll need for the next five days. The hotel staff (all men) are very attentive and courteous, making sure that we are satisfied with the accommodations. No sign of any extremist Muslims yet but according to western media this region is full of them.
Fayez, whose English is quite good from his recent studies in Europe, gives us a brief tour of Ramallah as the sun sets in the Mediterranean. Dinner time. We are exhausted and still jet lagged but Fayez takes us downtown for a little walk and a bite to eat. I feel the need to be cautious as we wander around the bustling downtown area, clutching my camera bag and repeatedly checking my front pocket to ensure that my passport is still there. Walking along the streets and sidewalks past fruit, bread and clothing vendors, we catch a lot of attention in the form of surprised looks and occasionally a "Welcome!". Hip Arab teenagers with greasy spiked hair look at us and joke with their friends then flash a peace sign. We stop at a popular open front restaurant serving "flatbread burritos" with chicken and kebab meet mixed with our choice of vegetables (mostly pickled). Still getting accustomed to the food and a cautious not to eat something that won't disagree with my stomach, I select only a few pickled carrots and some cabbage to mix in with the flavorful beef.
Fayez drops us back off at the Al-Hajal where I lift my heavy feet up the four flights of stairs and crawl into bed. The temperature has dropped outside and unheated room is chilly but I quickly drift into a dead sleep. This is going to be a long five days.
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