We face neither East nor West

Builders, who train as acrobats in their free time. We caught them practicing.

This week has been a blur of lethargy, walking and a bit of drinking. Not quite what one would have expected from a human rights internship. In between the abovementioned activities my human rights activities included

1.       research into the LGBT issues in Ghana (this involved writing an article, internet research, discussion with my fellow roomies, and Ghanains alike, and the search for the homo hangouts in Accra.

2.       various life-crisis after research into the African Refugee Issues in Israel, where I found that since I’d left things have turned for the worse; violent protests plague the streets which I’d loved and worked in where Israeli citizens beat up and broke African immigrants in the surrounding neighbourhoods of my beloved bus station. I felt so bad about being away and so unproductive in comparison to my NGO friends who were working day and night in Israel. My response to the situation involved insomnia, constant research, and eventually a letter (which I sent to the president) entitled “For we were strangers in the Land of Egypt” about how Israel, designed as a place of refuge for the persecuted Jews- the Jewish people whom read twice in their Torah that it is their civil responsibility to take in the stranger; for they were strangers in Egypt and thereafter (thousands of years later) so were the Sudanese (who came to Israel because they were suffering racist attacks in Egypt, after having escaped from their own country).

The weekly routine involved my American housemate who is doing a medical internship, arriving home after a tiring day of work to cried from the rest of us of ‘what did you do/learn/eat/see today?!’ and he tells us all sorts of intriguing stories about working life in Ghana, the pharmacy and the medical system in an underdeveloped country. And the he asks us what we did. “Oh, the usual” he has learned to take as, sat around all day/gone for a walk…

A goat window-shopping for a TV set in our Neighborhood

But I never did tell you about these fascinating roommates of mine; after an incredible adventure for our first weekend, me and my South African co-worker/liver/roommate/friend came home (a good 5 hours later than expected, from a 12 hour non-stop journey from a place no more than 4 hours away) to the 2 new volunteers. It was very exciting, and they were looking forward to us as much as we were looking forward to them. The house in Avocado Street in the small country of Ghana is not a place for 2 foreigners, something we had discovered the week before.

The one is an American boy, aged 20 from the State of Ohio. He is doing the medical internship, has a real accent, plays a lot of sport, and is extremely good natured, right down to the sole. (the later we learned a good while after). The other is from Québec, Canada aged 19 but going into his second year of Law School. He is quirky and queer and is a humanitarian to the core, and doesn’t take any nonsense from people who don’t respect basic rights. He doesn’t like silence. The Ohio boy lives for it. Neither has been to Africa before. And then there is us, the 2 South Africans. Us three are on the Human Rights internship. We will begin work (for real this time) Tomorrow. My South African is very wise, although apparently unaware of some social situations, like awkwardness. He is well read, and together we are going through existential philosophy. He is an Africanist and has climbed mount Kenya. They are 3 big burly men, and one little me. I feel like a gang-bitch when I walk with them. I have never walked with 3 white men before. Now it is all I do.

The (first) weekend away differs dramatically from this last one (the ends of which I am living now, back in front of the fan after a day of touring the surrounding suburbs of Accra).

It involved waking up at 4am and stumbling out of the house to the bus station in Accra. There we found out that we couldn’t get a bus. Our Director took us then to another bus station. There, we could. He asked us to ensure that we put our seatbelts on and wished us goodluck. I think it meant that we were going at our own risk. The Highway from Accra to Kumasi is not paved in gold. It is not even paved in tar. In an effort to renovate it, the last government had dug it up, only to hand over power to the current president elect who hasn’t yet felt the need to tar the 4 lane dirt road highway. From my perch at the very back of the bus I could see the shiny heads of 30ish passengers jerk up, then left then right then hit the ceiling in one smooth synchronised motion. For 5 hours. Cars drove in all directions, and lanes were not reserved for people travelling a certain way. Swerving out of the way of a car coming head-on was not uncommon on the Accra-Kumasi ‘highway’. At our destination, we thanked God for a moment before pilling onto a Kumbi-taxi (which I will from here on out only call tro-tro’s) which took us a piece of the way towards our destination. The friend we were to meet had not send out instructions, or an end point or even confirmation of the plan. Our only hope was my trusty little guidebook. (on the way back to Accra me and the said friend spent the treacherous journey planning how to re-write the guide book, our sure way to success and fortune. The plan involved sticking in the misinforming flyers that kept leading us astray and circling the lies and providing alternatives. Simple, ingenious.) At each station we were hauled onto another tro-tro which ended up not to be going the entire way, and the process would start again. 10 hours later, we arrived. Hot, sweaty, confused and exhausted, I forgot my worried as soon as I looked up out the taxi’s dusty window at what we called ‘the lake’. Lake Bosumtwi, a massive circular body of water, surrounded by the most deliciously lush vegetation, and used by individual men on thin rafts for catching fish. The weekend was equally delicious; we swam for miles, talked for days, missioned to far out and terribly disappointing places, and laughed about the journey once safe in our lair. It was a good adventure, and hard to leave.

This weekend was not very similar. On Saturday I thought it time to explore alone. Solitude is a crazy organ in my life. I lived with it happily in the land of Israel and felt the pain it brings on my first night here alone, but perhaps I am missing it again. I feel like I’m married to 3 men, one cook, and a house on Avocado street. I got up to the main road, accomplished my errands, but felt the pull of coming back home, or atleast the centrifugal force of not having any clear objective, anywhere else to go, and came home. We spent the day reading, it was lovely. Today however we did a lot. Woke up early tro-tro’d along the coast, went for a visit to Kwame Nkruma’s mausoleum, where we saw pictures of the former Ghanaian revolutionary president with Kennedy, Castro, Selassie, and the British Queen. We then missioned around the town trying to find “Helena’s”, a little food-place behind an informal settlement and infront of the sea. I watched both waves and the people washing in their yards. A self-claimed tour guide picked up my friend the Canadian and before we could pull him away we were ALL swept into a tour of the “Palace of Jamestown” where I yelled at for walking into the wrong courtyard (I’d hoped to lose the ‘tour’) and scolded for shaking hands wrong (I didn’t use both hands) with the chiefs who anyways looked disgruntled to be forced into shaking my grubby hands.

But before I leave with Nkrumah’s words "we face neither East nor West; we face forward” I will tell you that its not all bad. My highlights of the week included sitting on the beach with the most beautiful Rasta man, who actually said things like ‘wan-luv mahn’ and taught me Twi and Ga (the languages of the region). He is so happy here, Ghana is his Zion and he would like to live no place else. Also great was sitting with wine and fresh fruit on our stoep (or terr-ass as the Canadian would say) with my housemates bonding and getting to know each other, getting deeper and deeper into our cores before drifting into sleepiness.

First day of volunteering tomorrow- Hopefully work here will bring me the joy that work in Israel did. Because I am struggling to not miss the freedom to spontaneously go to any city, and the busyness of my life, and the adventures to the north, south, east and west …and the people I adventured with.

Alot of Godot in Ghana

Dear Day 3

Today was the first day we did work. Our orientation, which I’ve been waiting for for a while now, finnaly happened, although this was after a good 3 hour waiting on our part, and then another hour or so postponement on the Directors part, as I had fallen asleep from the waiting. There’s a lot of Godot in Ghana…

We were eventually, but briskly summonsed to the office, a sunlight room on the other side of the house, equipped with office chairs, desks, a fan and nothing else. The plan is to move to bigger premises because this office is too easy to break into apparently. The security in this country amuses me, because we are always to ensure that we lock the gate after someone has left, and at night we have to lock our bedroom door too, but when someone doesn’t have a key etc they are just supposed to jump the wall… As a South African from barbed wire culture I cannot get my head around this system…

The work we’re to do seems to involve creating a human rights website, so right now we’re doing all the research to eventually have a human rights library both physically and online. Its really interesting although research isn’t my forte. Apparently we will also do things like field trips to all sorts of Human Rights places, like to a free-lawyers firm, to the witch compound (this one freaked me out too, turns out women who could be witches are imprisoned for their evil doings, like if their husbands die), to the courts etc. It all sounds incredibly interesting if I could even stomach it, but luckily I probably have a long wait before it happens, so I can acculturate a bit.

We spent the afternoon doing research. We didn’t eat lunch, or move, or anything. The beginning stages of getting into a lifestyle that belongs to someone else are always somewhat awkward. Eventually at 3.30 our director came back to the office-room and said that when we felt like it we should go out to find some lunch. We immediately agreed. At our request he took us to your average Ghanaian restaurant, and left us there. It was fantastic, cool, low seating, chilled. The meal (including drinks) came to 2Cedi’s each (about 10Rand, or 1.4dollars). It was legit however. First we ordered at the bar counter where huge tubs of all of the dishes sat. Then we sat down and someone bought us over bowls of water and clean towels, and we soaped our hands and dried them. Clean and ready. Instantly our food was bought, 2 mounds of dough called Banku, and a bowl of Groundnut Soup. The Aim of the game is to break of a piece of Banku, dip it in the Groundnut soup, and devour. Fantastically filling, amazing flavours, (not yet used to them but I’m sure I soon will be). And although it’s sticky enough to get stuck on your fingers (kind of like matza-balls, less sticky than pap, but a similar idea) you can always wash your hands with your personal water bowl after the meal. Also, coke in glass bottles was a childhood luxury.

The next little adventure of the day was when our new routine of daily walks took us to the teeniest bookshop, almost like a tuckshop, or corner spaza, a self-standing building amongst fruit stores, hidden behind the tro-tro (intercity kumbi taxi’s). It was a tiny utopia. After an hour or so browsing (this involved moving shelves, standing on chairs, un-pilling and re-pilling books, to see all that was on offer in the teeny tiny space) I left with Waiting for Godot (I couldn’t not) and Brave new World. My friend got a book entirely on Existentialist Philosophy. See the pattern?

And then we bought toilet paper, and a bag of water sachets, 15kl worth. We carried it home on our heads, only to find that in our absence, the Director had restocked the fridge with another billion or so of these sachets.

It’s night time now. The mosquitoes here, don’t play by the rules.

The Local Police Station but very Little Else

Ghana Day 2

We didn’t hear from our director today and after breakfast and chilling all morning(watching TV with the girl who also uses the house during the day, and seems to do the cooking. She’s my age and has a passion for soap operas), we decided to go for a walk.

This time we went in the other direction and I got to take some photos…  Every second sign had some sort of religious connotation. God’s Grace Hair Design or Son of God Tire Repairs. We tried out Ghanaian delights, similar to vetkoek and purchased water in a bag when thirst got the better of us. I got another coconut. 2 hours later we returned to Avocado street but were stopped along the way by a man who greeted us, and identified us with the organisation. He told us our director was at the police station and that he had gone by the house to try to find us to tell us but we were out. He said he was going to go and bail him out. Turned out he had been in jail since last night because of a traffic violation. We went the rest of the way home, only to find a car and two men knocking on our gate. The young woman who works at our house let them, and we followed shortly after. They had also come about the fact that our guy was in jail, and they told us that the other man who was going to bail him out was busy and had to go and they needed us to either come in the car with them to go talk to him at the police station or to lend them the money to bail him out. At this stage I got a bit angry, I mean I hardly know the guy, and surely he has friends or family who he would usually turn to in these situation, we’re here for him and his program and so far we haven’t even been told what kind of work we will be doing or when we will start. And so I refused to go with them although my friend is far more trusting and willing, although he is a large male, which probably does make a person less suspicious. Anyways eventually the other girl agreed to go and talk to him and see what he wants, but she returned pretty quickly saying that someone else had called and said that they were gonna bail him out. And so we waited, for a good 4 hours. He has just come home, he’s alright, and he fixed the internet so I can post this. He said that I looked like I wanted to say something and I was like, no nothing. And then I was like ‘well, its just pretty hectic you know, walking down the street and someone coming and saying that you’ve  just been arrested.’ ‘But its fine now, it weas just pretty hectic you know’

He agrees that its fine now, tells me he’s fixed the internet, and asks me to lock up behind him as always. And so departs the only person we really know in Ghana, once again.

Tentative Footsteps on the Hot Ghana Soil

Ghana Day1

Reawakening with a cold shower. Perspective widening too. In Ghana you don’t need hot showers anyways because the weather is so hot. Getting a good nights sleep(this first in ages) also tends to help.

Spent the day doing nothing, but in between that I exchanged my dollars for Cedis, purchased a Ghanain sim card (which is yet to work) and bought a coconut from the side of the street. You can chose your texture preference, I chose hard and my director chose soft. The coconut man cuts your coconut open at the top in a small circle (the circumference identical to that of the circle you make with your finger and your thumb in a display of ‘superb’). From that you stand and gulp down the coconut juice of your chosen coconut, along with all the other customers standing around the coconut man gulping down their juice. I could tell I was inexperienced because my director man gulped his before I had even started. The next step is to hand back your coconut to the coconut expert, who expertly slices them open in a series of quick chops and hands you back your fruit to eat. He cut mine out of the skin for me, and popped it in a little plastic, which I devoured once I got home.

Home is the place I’m going to be living for 2 months. The Volunteer House on Avocado Street. It is already feeling more homely now that its not just me here, and we cleaned the place up abit.

The highlight of the day was when my childhood friend arrived. I was just falling asleep when my director came in to tell me he was here. There was much hugging and smiling. I was happy. And then it was my turn to give him the tour of the house,(that’s how I know that its my home now). And then… a little bit more of doing nothing.

We went for a walk however, and got to begin to catchup on what our gap years had been, since we’d last seen each other. We walked and talked until it got dark and we couldn’t find out house, or even our street. However after much asking around, we finally found it, and hollered at the gate until the lady who works here let us it.

We had another meal, I got to experience Yams for the first time, and fish. It was very filling.

And then, a little bit more of just chilling, writing, talking, falling closer and closer to that state of mind we call sleep.

…My homie woke me and I peeled myself off the couch I had been dissolving into. Bed time. Night 2 in Ghana.

After all, its Accra

Here I am, sitting on the floor at the airport, waiting to board. Its become one of the places most familiar to me in fact, as all airports seem to look pretty much the same - strip away the layers of commerce.

Ghana, is still hasn’t hit me that its actually happening. I feel a nervousness, maybe even a fear, different to what I felt going to Israel. Here its more of a safetly thing,- going home and spending time in the bosom of family and friend support structure provided an opportunity for all to fullfill their duties of Warning me about the Unknown Evils that could strike:

At the moment I’m leaving under the certainty that;

I will be forgotten at the airport,

And if not- and I am infact picked up as arranged, I will surely be human-traffiked,

Or raped

And if, in the unlikely event that I do get to my intended location, I will be exploited as a volunteer worker, by an organisation that farms volunteers for their money.

Or, if I do do the intended meaningfull work, I will have nothing to eat, other than meat

And if I do find vegetables, I will probably get ill from eating them, unless I boil them into a liquid emulsion. And maybe even then.

Here I am, arrived in Ghana. Its 1am here,I'm sitting on my bed under my canopy of mosquito net, a little out of breath (i had to jump up and down to hang it).I'm in the volunteer house in Avocado Street. It’s a relatively big house, with many communal spaces, but I’m quite alone.
I might actually belonely. Being back home un-weaned me from being used to lonesome existence and I’ve quite forgotten how it feels. Also because I’m in a country to which I’ve never been before. Also because out of all the people I’ve met (the immigration official at passport control, the police officer outside the airport, and the director of the organisation I’m working for) 2 have tried to get bribes from me. Everyone is very friendly, but its nerve racking as it’s hard to tell what I’m supposed to pay for and what’s a bribe. Also, I did have some expectations of finding more people in this organisation. Right now its seems to just be the director, and...me.
The Director (who also seems to be the volunteer coordinator, and program manager) is truly lovely, and helpful and kind. So that’s something to count my blessings about. Because considering that I was fetched at the airport by someone I didn’t know, and taken to a house in a city I know nothing about, and met no one along the way, things could have been a lot scarier. But Ghana is warm, and the vibes are good ones, and I’m a little disappointed in myself for letting my South African mentality get the better of me and scare me a bit.

I look forward to meeting up with my childhood friend tomorrow. I’m actually really excited for it. And to see Accra by daylight. I’m comfortable, and excited for what is to come.

The humidity drips off the windows, the tap water is undrinkable, I have wireless internet in my room, although you cannot put toilet paper in the toilet. I have a fan on in my room, the door seems to be locked from the outside, there are both burglar bars and mosquite wires on the windows. I have cupboard space for myself, and the shower looks quite nice.

This week is going to go slowly, work is only due to start later on in the week. the other volunteers are arrving this weekend. By then this will be my home, and I can show them around.

Akwaaba

Drag, Desert, and Drinks in Israel

A country smaller than the Kruger Park. Here are my musings from various intervals within the last few weeks drinks  in Israel...

Thursday night became what is know noted in my history as my Lesbian High School Musical Experience.  The new lesbo from work, who has been keeping our friendly pose at a distance decided to take us with her to a lesbo-party after discovering that I hadn’t done any of the sort, despite that Tel Aviv is the homosexual capital of the middle east. It ended up being my BrazzilainAmerican (fag hag here), the Brittish woman(the real homo) mysister( we sent her home to sleep soon after we left though) the Swiss boy (the homophobe it turns out) and I.

After find out that the entrance fee to the club was 60Shek we went to the little bar down the road instead. But sorrow now, for finally I found that They Existed. They were Real, and There. I had wondered where the Gay Tel Aviv reputation came from, but now, I could really see. About time too as I was leaving the next week…

The above mentioned little bar down the road was by no means a downgrade from the homo experience of the night. It involved a drag show, drag queens and kings alike. We were initially a little uncomfortable, before falling completely into the swing of things and laughing and crying along. The drag king was exceptional, and it was great because we recognised her from our usual Liberal Coffe Shop, but the main Drag Queen took the spotlight of our night, first by flirting with our Swiss homophobe (not sure if he noticed though?) and thereafter by apologizing into the microphone “sorry honey, are we boring you to sleep?”… all the audience, and us,  turn around- to my sister who was snoring away, beer aside, eyes closed, who woke with a start. (it was at this point that we sent her off home. She’d had a long day)

The party was over and we moved off the lesbian street, to one of the lovely alternative corner alley bars in the ‘hood. At this point it got a little awkward due to the complaining of the Swiss boy, but we cheered ourselves up by stealing beer glasses, by simply walking out the bar with them, out and away. Next we were creeped on by some hetrosexual creeper who was drugged enough to be nauseatingly suggestive to the ladies coming out of the lesbo-alley. Fool

And finally we went back to the club from the beginning.  I watched the thousands of lesbians milling in and out, in awe and amazement. Such a diverse array of people, who’d stayed hidden for so long. Meanwhile, next to me but a world apart, my friends argued homophobia, acceptance, tolerance, misconceptions and prejudgement with the Swiss homophobic boy. We drank our beer. I then left them to it, and marched into the club, past the bouncers, past the door, and into the fluorescent lit space, popular music blasting, my soundtrack to my lesbian high school musical experience.

And then we went, home to sleep. (home being my usual friends’ place in tel aviv  <she has told me since that I am her favourite roommate!! Ahh, the burdenous blessing of homelessness!>

And Friday, did we finally sit and chill, take a break? Not us, we went camping in the South.  Our last time together, the 4 of us avid explorers. The same group who had pulled through the disastrous trip to the North, and we were sadly bemused that not a thing went wrong on our last trip of the season. However, we did sing, and we did hike (hardly) and we did pee in the dessert, one last time.

Moving. And Truly Moved. I am surrounded by a bubble of love, and light. Not to sound wanky or anything.

I have just received a phone call from someone with whom I’ve done minor work over my time here. But he called and said thank you for what I’ve done (although we worked together) and called to say bye. I love the littlest of people in my life who gradually change it.

Last night I had a bye bye partjie from my Israelis. Again I was moved. At first I was a little upset because I had wanted my last weekend here to be camping with them in the desert in the south, singing and praying and laughing and cuddling. And as Israelis seem to do, at the last minute they all bailed on me. And so it was with a sour taste in my mouth that I went to my farewell dinner, after a 2 day camping trip (without them) and a 2hour sleep in the back of a car waiting for my Israeli to sort out things at the airport.

But obviously the time has since come for me to feel a little terrible about being bitter. And to try to comprehend how my friends waited up till 1:30am in restaurant called Roza to come together one last time with me.  We didn’t get to talk much, as the restaurant kept trying to kick us out to close down, but again I am filled with love, and the oncommings of nostalgia to be leaving them.

However, I have begun to realise that I have drunken my fill of Milk and Honey now. If there is a time to leave, this is it. I would love to stay another 2 months with my NGO, and take it where I want it to go, but as for the land I have learned and listened and fought and accepted and questioned and tried and continued and laughed and sniffled and walked and climbed and watched the sun set, and climbed mountains, and slipped down steps, and turned around and around. And its good to leave before I become too much of something I am not. Just incase.

My weekend was bursting with fullness. Even though often I wanted to go home and sleep. Or bath maybe. But, as always, I put personal hygiene aside in the place of adventures.

This weekend I got back to the office to find out that refugees in the neighbourhood had been attacked by their neighbours with Molotov Cocktails. And then the demonstration on racism and xenophobia ended violent from all ends. And then I found out that my colleague, one of the purest and nicest men I know had been jailed and deported when returning to the country without a proper visa, from a conference around. And he isn’t even a refugee. He’s an American.

But there are also the champions. We made so many friends in the desert this weekend. We woke some travellers up from their rest in the shade, and the provided us with council, direction(s) and coffee on their little gas stove. And at the camping grounds, we were not only given food, (including olive oil, nuts, and tuna) from a fantastic group who were leaving and wanted to share, but were offered to share the fire of a couple who came for the night with nothing but a guitar and fire.

Monday was my last day at work. The day I trained my replacement. It was somewhat fulfilling and I was a little smug, because who was my replacement, but the man who had undermined my job these past few months. My boss. Because his boss, asked him to take over my duties once I left.

That Night I had my byebye party from my work friends. We met at the most amazing Georgian restaurant/bar and bonded and loved and laughed at each other in ways that people who love each other can. And then we went to a Dutch party as it was Queens Day of course. And just as it was time to go, I ran into my colleague, the receptionist who had come to the party late… And we couldn’t not go for one drink with him because he is certainly one of the most incredible people in the world, something that became clear over drinks as we talked about love, purpose, those little things. It was just me my French friend and my Receptionist friend, but we talked for hours. Sleep time was at 3am. And Wakey Up Time the next morning was no later than 6am.

Tuesday was the promised Field Trip with my Aunty Cousin who I’ve been staying with. To be honest I was a little apathetic about it, but it turned out to be a really lovely day, and my twin bunked classes for a day to be my moral support. All in all we had a really good time, looking at the Roman Cities, Ancient Caves, and Artist Villages, so much amazingness, and I had thought I had seen all there was to see in this country. That afternoon, sleep did not come until 12:00am because I busted visits to all my remaining family in Jerusalem to bid my farewells. To be honest, I spent most of that day on public transport in various forms, and I still had no place to spend the night. (I had gotten a phone call from my sister who said; are you looking for somewhere to stay tonight, because you cant sleep here. Turned out I had been busted for staying there on her ID the last time.. I think my south african’s program leaders are going to have a party on the day I leave)

My Israeli who counselled with me in SA came to the rescue as she always does, causing me to increase in appreciation for those willing to share their homes/lives/food with me in an exponential way. However, she did only get home at midnight which is why I spent the remaining part of the night, saying farewell to all the other people I knew in Jerusalem. Now it was really time to go

The next day, Wednesday, was a fantastic final shopping trip, to stock up on my Hippy Pants supply before I could face joburg. After a good 3 pairs of pants I snuck back to work. Keep in mind that I had been out all week, and done a whole load of shopping. I also wanted to change before going out that night, and so I was searching through my bag when my boss walked in, somewhat high. I was like “I told you I lived here..” which was my usual refrain when people asked why I was working so late in the office. Har de ha.

Anyways the office that day was crazy. There was practically no one there, no one on reception, no clients, some of the doors were still loked, and the phone kept ringing. Over all my farewells people had kept saying, “the office will fall apart without you, how will we survive” etc etc and so this was like walking into an existential crisis. Also an egotistical crisis. I’ve now been gone for a good 2 weeks, and they are thriving. But it was touching/hella scary nonetheless.

And so after work the plan was to meet up with my ex lover for coffee, the one who broke my heart {see post: unaccompanied minor down Rothschild street}. Nevertheless, we met up on Rothschild Street, and chatted. And it was the best closing ritual that I could have sought. Looking back I wondered where our similarities lay, and how I allowed myself to get into it all. We talked, but not deeply. I wonder whether we will speak again as friends or whether that chapter is a closed case.  

And that left me for my final night out in Jewville. My plan was to meet up with all my most favourite people and go to the undercover, hidden alleyway bar. It was so hidden that we couldn’t find it, and when we did it wasn’t open. It almost looked like it didn’t exist. And so we went to a snazzy restuarantbar next door, and were joined by the others who were coming along. And ofcourse we talked about refugee issues, and politics, and sex, and foreign policy, and education, and love. And so I realised where it was that I belonged. And I couldn’t leave them. So I called my family and told them that I wouldn’t be coming home that night, and set off with many of the people I love; my favourite 40year old Frenchie, one of the most inspiring woman I’ve ever met, my other, younger frenchie, my favourite American, and my new favourite Sudanese guy, who refers to Sudan as China to the confusion of new people entering the conversation…  This time Radio, the undercover bar was open, and my friends took one look at me, trailing my hobo set of plastic bags, backpacks etc and each grabbed a bag before taking out their own IDs as a cover up for mine (it was the 25+ club). And we danced and drunk and laughed and kissed goodbye, and that was it. My last night in the Holy Land.

The Sun Still Sets East in the Northern Hemisphere

Part two took a long time in comming, but it was worth the wait. Begining Saturday morning we set out for Wadi Kelt, a hike up the wadi('dry' river/water body) in East Jerusalem, again Palastinian teritory and seemingly dangerous to Israelis. I thought it was pretty dangerous but only because I didnt have hiking shoes (what we call adventure boots) or enough water and am prone to falling (off cliffs, in this case). It started dramatically, where all the Well-Made-Plans flopped, and by the time we met up with our other party (our friends, and our friends friends) they were irritable and angry that we had fucked with their plans (to arrive at the wadi a good three hours earlier, without our group of snivelly teenagers <thats me and my peeps>). I, a strong and independant travelor graciously offered to travel in the car with the second group (the friends' friends (who will now be reffered to as FFs)) got out of the car minutes later bawling my eyes out and refusing to come along on this trip which I had somewhat planned in the first place. The FF's had spent the car ride bitching about how we'de ruined their trip, and I was stuck in their back seat with no witty answers. However, after a bit of diplomacy on behalf of the others, and an obligatory half hour ride to the Site, all was soon forgotten and we set off for the adventure. It involved strenous trekking in the most beautiful of desert landscape. I have fallen for the desert entirely. It is grounding in ways that the sea (my first love) hasnt even though of. And so we climbed, and pulled, and we drank (water every 15 minutes!)  and we breathed the dusty air into our panting lungs. The highlight <although not at the time> was the part where, after jumping and taking our shoes on and off we discovered that the trail led to a river between cliffs, and we had to emerge ourselves completely in water. Us normal-highted individuals were luckily enough to be accompanied by tall manly-men who could walk through (water over their their heads!) but be able to lift all our bags above their heads accross the deepest bits!). My sister had valiently kept her shoes dry the entire way through, but when she took over the bag, she pushed me over and I fell into shallow water, dropping her adventure boots...We were with real hikers (the FF's ofcourse) and so I became that person who slowed the process down. See my Desert-Hiking virginty was being taken, and let me tell, I have had no Experience whatsoever. I tripped and stumbled and begged for coffee breaks, I had the wrong shoes, the wrong backpack, and too little water. I felt like that kid who gets chosen last for the soccer team. However, towards the end of the 6 hour hike, I had figured out the System, and I was no longer lagging, and my feet had forgotten to hurt. Spirtual highlights incuded peeing in front of a thousand goats, and in a cave where the Monks had walked, and on a mountain with acres of the most spectacular view ahead... 6pm and we were dropped in Jerusalem, tired, satisfied ready for some coffee and shower. I ended up with nowhere to go but my Israeli friends bonfire party, another hour walk away and so it was midnight when I finnaly was able to pee in an actual lavatory...

The beginning of the week went pretty normally. Working hard, meals in Yavne, the average cycle of the working world. Things were crazy, but in unremarkable ways. My weekly meeting with a Shelter management volunteer brough about a plan for the long term vision of the organisation. It was just the two of us, me and this Israeli volunteer but we sat and wrote, and created and discussed. It was slow work, because we could hardly understand each other due to the language barrier, but after each google translate+ MS Word synonyms+guessing session, we bought much inspiration to each other. Planning a long term system is fun (especially as I'm not gonna be around to implement it...)

Tuesday after work we went to a Sudanese restaurant, where one of our translators works. We were taken by one of our Sudanese friends, but she left to go to a meeting and so we were given pita with our meal because the chef assumed we wouldnt like the legit indjura-type bread. After the others rushed off to their various appointments, me and the homie from the UK went out for coffee (well, beer) and talked about life, and love, and politics untill we were kicked out the bar and sent home.

Wednesday work ended early, and after a little coffee at our favourite spot (which we call 'the liberal cafe' or sometimes 'the lesbo cafe') we readied ourselves to walk to the Yom Ha Zikaron party. Israeli Indapendance Day, probably the biggest holiday in that little country. The nation went ape-shit with Blue and white and confetti, and paint, and glowsticks, and blow up gadgets, and music and dancing and much beer. And Fireworks! I went with my Brazillian American (the one who is present in practically all of these adventures) and my Frenchie, to a rooftop party near Rabin Square. We could see a 360degree view of all the fireworks of the city, I felt pretty existential and thus got drunk enough to speak fluent Zulu. It was fantastic to meet up with other people from my NGO. It makes one feel as if they belong, to go to a party and be one of the types who recognise people, kiss them on the cheek, be recognised in return. Its like, this is where we are and we're here to stay (even if it was only for another week in my case..). We walked to the street party, but before we got there we felt we needed to sleep. I crash, as always at my AmericanBrazilian's student lodging near my beloved bus station. I recall a political argument about refugees with a Mexican Jew before heading to sleep.

Thursday like in South Africa on Heritage Day, in Israel on Independance Day they have a braai, although they call it a mangal in Hebrew. After rock-climbing for the last time I chilled with my sister in the house of my crazy russian who's room we sometimes rent before going off to join my NGO homies (with our supply of vegetarian alternatives) for their Beach-braai. It was was first awkward, and then truly beautiful to just sit, and chill at the sea. The time came for the day to end, and me and my three incredible colleagues stood with out feet in the water, watching the sun set. Unified, yet each in their own little world...