Heinekens
Its cooling off outside and we’re starving.
While Rozalinda and I lounge by the shore for a bit longer, everyone else goes to wash off the sticky mud and change back into their clothes.
The Parking Lot
Haneen says we’ll eat in Jericho. He knows people and knows of a good place. We don’t doubt it. Out of all of the boys, Haneen seems to spend the most time on his two cellphones and have the most connections all over the West Bank. These relationships are the only way to negotiate life under the Occupation. Some would say its the only way to survive.
We drive to Jericho. This time I am riding in Haneen’s and Mohammed’s car. There is a new young soldier at the checkpoint. Haneen gathers our passports and submits them for another inspection. This one doesn’t go as smoothly as the last. He singles out Mohammed and says, “You can go in, but you can’t leave.” Its such a weird statement to hear. And why is it just Mohammed? As we drive through Mohammed says, “I should have sat in the middle.” I realize that by me sitting in the middle it made it worse for him because the soldiers see them first instead of the American girls. When we got in we should have maneuvered him into the middle. Getting through checkpoints is a mental game like chess. I can’t play chess. I’m calm and fine at checkpoints……but I never know what manipulative move I want to make to ease the ordeal for myself and especially my friends. What are the soldiers looking for? Which checkpoint will be “open” today? Should the guys act cool or benevolent? Should I act nice and flirtatious or keep my eyes focused down and avoid eye contact? There is probably no move I can make to ease the experience. Maybe its best just to detach and mumble through it. I’m not good at that.
Mohammed Scopes Out the First Restaurant
At 8pm, Jericho is stll eerily empty. Haneen pulls in across the street from a restaurant. Zuzu pulls in behind us with the top of his convertible down. Mohammed runs across the street to check out the place. On top of the restaurant are lights flashing Happy New Year. Ramadan? Rosh Hashanah? I don’t get it. But the place is lit like Christmas. Mohammed returns saying its open. A comment is made from us that its really bright inside.
The boys immediately change their plans. “No, not good enough then….Haneen knows somewhere else,” says Zuzu.
Haneen adds “this place has a big Ramadan feast.” We drive off.
We end up at a big, empty hotel. There is a security guard at the entrance who of course knows Haneen. We are guided to the back of the hotel and walk past a gigantic swimming pool with kids splashing around. I’m relieved there are people here somewhere. Then we walk into a huge tent with tables chairs, and a man playing the oud and singing. The tent is still empty but the boys say we’re early and it will fill up with people breaking the fast. They have a special menu for Ramadan.
Families start piling into the tent happy and laughing, but everyone is quiet at our table. I think we are tired and getting irritable because our blood sugar has plummeted. Today has been intellectually and emotionally exhausting. I am spent and feel a little awkward.
A new singer comes to the microphone with his oud. The speakers hiss and pop. Then he starts to play and sing. It sounds really weird. His voice is all croaky and I think he’s slightly off-key, and its not like I’m that familiar with the regional music so I don’t want to say anything.
Our food arrives and there is still this awkward silence between all of us with the singer crooning in the background. Finally Zuzu, Haneen, and Mohammed start laughing saying “He is terrible! Who is this guy?” We start giggling then I am laughing hysterically. I have crossed the threshold of emotional sanity where I just can’t absorb any more. There have been so many highs and lows today, moments of pure fright and then relief. I am done.
There is a birthday at the table to our right. The poppy version of the “Happy Birthday” song (which effectively incorporates the use of “Cha Cha-Cha)comes on and the off-key singer starts forcibly belting it out with the tape. Everyone is clapping and singing, Mohammed stands on his chair and begins singing and dancing. I am doubled over laughing with tears streaming down my cheeks.
The table shares their cake with the entire room. Mohammed is still singing the Cha-Cha Happy Birthday song. The day cannot get anymore full or bizarre. It is time to go home.
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