Purim and Petra

PURIM IN ISRAEL WAS AMAZING.

For those who don't know about Purim, you might want to look it up before you read this, because I don't have time to explain anything about it except that you are actually supposed to party.

Took the bus to Jerusalem, where Purim comes one day late, a technicality no one seems to be able to explain the cause of. Finally in a warmer environment, Tzefat was actually pretty chilly. Booked into a hostel, went to see Yonah, hadn't seen her in years. Then bought some facepaint and turned myself into... something. For lack of a costume. 

We found our way to the old city of Jerusalem, looking for the ominous-sounding King David's Tomb, in the City of David. We got there just in time to look around and paint a few more faces before the Magillah reading. What an experience... wandering around a maze of arches and candles, orthodox men yelling and booing while they read the Purim story, echoes and shadows and stars from the patios. 

More people filter in, some of the costumes are really entertaining. There is a lot more room for creative costumes when the theme isn't overshadowed by the "dark spirit" theme of Hallowe'en. And then the live band starts, reggae and funk and wine and beer out under the stars in the entrance of this old sacred space. All in the name of Hashem. Beautiful.

It was a bit of a drag, I admit it, when they put up a screen at the back and suggested the women go dance there, but I got over it when they only asked once with a smile and I realized most of the people there didn't care and wouldn't expect me to. At least those women who would rather observe their religion that way had the chance to do so. I think we all still had a great time. 

I didn't leave until after 3 am. Walking through Jerusalem, the streets are packed, the costumes vary in creativity but the antics are pretty entertaining. Justin and I stop for a hamburger at a fancy restaurant. After extreme cardio for about 6 hours straight, believe me, that was the best burger I've ever eaten, I swear.  Back at the hostel at 4:30.

And up at 6. Sun miraculously bright out the window. Somehow I don't feel tired - adrenaline, I guess. Pack up as fast as I can, rouse Dillon off the bottom bunk, and we're walking briskly through the bleary folks who still haven't gone to bed on our way to the bus. We make it on the bus with literally 60 seconds to spare; it starts driving away as we put our bags at our seats. 

Eilat is scorching. We cross the border into Jordan on foot and after a few hours, arrive into town where we realize it's Friday, Muslim day of rest, and the buses to Wadi Musa aren't running. We sit at the empty bus shelter, taking it all in. Someone asks if I can play a song. What else should I do? I open up the case, play some bluegrass, a crowd starts to gather, some people are clapping and drumming on the hardcase. 

And then a man with really good English asks us where we were trying to get to. Wadi Musa, Petra. "I'm on my way there, I live there". Of course. So, what else should we do? We talk about it for a minute, get in his car and go. You get a feeling for people so quickly. Ali is an amazing host, wonderful person, caring and gentle. We stayed on his balcony (literally) for two nights. The kindess he showed us is, apparently, normal bedouin hospitality, this catch phrase thrown around out here. And at this point, after experiencing similar generosity from about a dozen others out here in three days, I believe that it's probably common - but still, Ali has a caring side to him that is rare to find in anyone, and I feel so blessed to have found it. Bacha slacha... sieze the luck!

Tourist culture. Tourism destroys old cultures and firmly upholds the awkward imitation of the culture that replaces it. Petra and Wadi Musa are incredible places to be. And I feel this overwhelming sense of privilege as I look around me. Here I am, funny looking white chick in man's clothes, being yelled at by men and chased by children with postcards and totally ignored by any women who aren't trying to sell me something... the women I see, anyway, and that's not many. Usually they seem to be kept at home. And this is a really strange line to walk - making friends with some of the locals, the overly hospitable and generally carefree young men wandering around, seeing if you will buy something or sleep with them often, yes, but also genuinely welcoming ones who have all their needs met and just want to hang out and drink a cup of tea or smoke shisha, because that's just what you do with strangers. And those ones are the ones that are fun, when you get to hang out with them all day and see the immense desert from all of their favourite corners (if you can manage to scramble up the cliffsides behind them, that is. I feel so out of shape compared to them). But being this half-man, half-woman creature... does uncovered hair or bare ankles mean I have no values? Are you allowed to shake hands? Share tea? Dance? And these young men, growing up around tourists but still very engrained in their culture and life, used to the sight of white folks in white folk's clothes, introduced to some of the western ideas but not immersed in them, craving a woman who is more relaxed or allowed to go out with them and drink a beer or read intellectual books, but they are only restricted to the bedouin women taking care of their nieces and nephews, stuck in the house and quiet. I can imagine those young men feeling trapped by it... they all say they have had foreign girlfriends, but once those girls leave to continue their travels, the boys are left behind, too attached to their idyllic way of life in nature with no want for housing or food to give it up for the chance of a mate. This coming generation... it will see some changes, I'm sure. It's fascinating... cultures everywhere changing so quickly.