Everything Closes on Shabbat

I landed in Israel after dark on Friday night, meaning I had arrived at the beginning of Shabbat. Much of the country closes down on Shabbat, including public transportation and many stores. This wasn’t a problem for me-my friend Scott was at the airport waiting to pick me up. But it was certainly a reminder that I had arrived in a country even more religious than the one I had temporarily left behind.

            Scott and I headed over to his friend’s Shabbat dinner, where a group of his Frisbee friends were still gathered. My family celebrated Shabbat when I was growing up, but it has been years since it was a normal part of my week. We had arrived too late for any of the religious part (if it even took place) but were just in time for post-dinner chilling and some wine. No complaints here. Scott is a big Ultimate Frisbee player and he and his friends had just finished working at a camp for Arab and Israeli kids to come together to play Ultimate. As far as I understand it, Ultimate is a self-refereed sport, and the idea is that conflict resolution on the playing field has the potential to expand to larger reconciliation between the two groups.

            The next few days were spent exploring Israel’s major cities, Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. Our first stop was the Jerusalem “shook” or market. The shook is an incredible hybrid of organized American stores and chaotic Cameroonian markets. All of the food is divided into small stores off a central pathway, and each store is distinct and organized. Shopkeepers are eager to draw potential customers towards their products, and don’t hesitate to use the outdoor space as additional display. We bought a kilogram of the best grapes I’ve eaten in the past two years, and I was happy as a clam. But the best was yet to come-we continued on and found a man selling cream cheese and smoked salmon. One of Scott’s friends had picked up a few dozen bagels on his way over, so we took our purchases and made a picnic breakfast in a nearby park. I could have left right after breakfast and the trip would have already been worth it.

            We spent that afternoon wandering around Jerusalem’s Old City. It was far too hot to be outside for too long; I was grateful to be making a return trip and thus free to pass on many of the “must-see” sights located in direct sunlight. We passed numerous tour groups struggling in the afternoon heat, including one decked out entirely in matching pagne (West African fabric, potentially the world’s least breathable material).

            Our search for a cooler spot took us to the stone church where Jesus allegedly ascended to heaven. My Birthright trip had (somehow) missed this particular site during my last visit, so this was a new landmark for me. And it was an incredible site to see-apparently multiple sects of Christianity had tried to claim the church as their own, but finally agreed to share it and each decorate their own small sections according to their own traditions. Some rooms are ornate and gilded, while others are more reserved and “traditional”. In a city (and country) typically thought of as home to Jews and Muslims, it was an important reminder of how many groups can claim the land for religious reasons.

The frisbee was the only thing we never left behind.

            Having gotten a short-term fill Jerusalem’s history, we headed to Tel Aviv the following day to appreciate the attractions of a more modern city. Between an afternoon on the Mediterranean beach, happy hour with mango margaritas, Japanese food on a outdoor patio, and a parking payment system so complicated you need a smartphone to navigate it, I was thoroughly reminded how wonderful life in a cosmopolitan city can be. 

            One of my goals for my time in Israel was to refresh my long-dormant SCUBA diving skills and get back underwater. Scott and I had both gotten certified in college, but he hadn’t been diving since our certification dives in that cold Minnesotan lake. He was game to strap on a tank again, so we signed up for a refresher dive course off the beach in Tel Aviv. When they learned how long it had been since we had been diving (nearly three years for me, five for Scott) and where we had gotten certified, the team at the dive shop had a hard time taking us seriously. But we both remembered our skills and were soon out in the water, where we saw a few schools of fish and even a seahorse!

            My cousin Amir and his family coincidentally live in a kibbutz just across the highway from  Scott and I spent an evening having a picnic with Amir and his family at the kibbutz’s community pool, and Scott and Amir discussed hosting a cross-community children’s event centered on Frisbee. More than just more than just a highway divides the two towns; they have history, language, and culture to overcome. But it sounds like some community integration programs have already begun, and there is definitely the potential for a bright future ahead.

the town where Scott lives. The two towns are no more that 15 minutes away from each other, but have wildly different feels to them. Amir’s kibbutz is home to Hebrew-speaking Jews and almost has the feel of a socialist commune; whereas the main language in Scott’s town is Arabic and the plethora of speed bumps do little to slow down the young people racing their cars through the streets.

            We spent the last part of the week taking a mini-road trip up to the northern part of the country. To break up the three-hour drive (Israel is so small!), we decided to stop in the city of Haifa to visit the Baha’i Gardens, of which I had never previously heard. But as soon as we entered (after passing the modesty dress code check) I was blown away. The gardens are set on the world headquarters of the Baha'i faith and include a 19-level terraced garden and shrine to the Bab, a Baha'i prophet. We inadvertently arrived just in time for the daily English-language tour and learned about the history of the Baha'i faith while enjoying the incredible view. It was fascinating, beautiful, and stiflingly hot. We also learned that although Israel is the homeland for the Baha'i faith (or perhaps because it is), its adherents are not allowed to make Israel their personal home.

The Baha'i faith values symmetry as part of beauty. I was
blown away!

            During my last two nights I had two very distinct reunions-first on my family’s kibbutz for Shabbat, then in Jerusalem with a couple of Cameroon RPCVs. On Shabbat we said the traditional prayers, ate my first challah (Jewish braided bread) in two years, and enjoyed time with some far-away family. But the next night was special in an entirely different way, when we met up with two Returned Volunteers currently living in Cameroon. I had overlapped with one of them, but the other was a Frisbee friend of Scott’s that I had never met-just another example of what a small world we live in. Just as we were about to order our pizzas, power went out in the entire neighborhood. The two of them swore that this was a rare occurrence in Jerusalem, but we all had a good laugh about it. We might have left Cameroon, but it was enough of a reminder that we’re never really in control. 

Mud and iPods Don't Mix

A few months ago I reached a point of incredible frustration with Cameroon. I can’t point my finger on exactly what caused it, but it was just a culmination of all of the various stressors that come with life here. I didn’t want to hear “white man” called at me when I walked down the street, I didn’t have the energy to bargain for fair prices in the market, and I certainly had no patience for dealing with my ridiculously high electricity bill (and the various neighbor skirmishes that accompanied it). At this point I was probably about four months from the end of my service; just long enough to feel distant but close enough that “early-terminating” my service seemed unnecessary. So I booked a vacation.

            One of my friends from college has been living in Israel for the past year, and I decided that visiting him would be the perfect break from the frustrations of life in Cameroon. And as wonderful as my Peace Corps friends are, there’s something nice about spending time with someone who has known you for longer than two years and outside the unique context of PC service.

            But before I can go to Israel, I have to get to the airport. And before I can get to the airport, I have to make my way to Douala, with a stopover in Yaoundé to pick up my passport and verify that I am officially cleared to leave the country. Back in America, I never lived further than an hour away from the nearest airport. Sometimes my flights back to college were even out of the local county airport, a brief 15-minute trip from my house. But here, the closest (operational) airport is a seven-hour bus ride from Bamenda, an entire day’s journey.

            I know I’ve written about travel misadventures in the past, but rarely have my trips started out on such shaky ground. This bus is barely five minutes out of the station before we have a breakdown. And so there we sit, just on the outskirts of Bamenda, while they first try to fix our bus and then admit defeat and send a new bus. In the meantime I get out of the bus for a second, only to slip into a medium-sized puddle of mud. My clothing is covered with rapidly drying mud, all of my fellow passengers are staring, and the bus hasn’t even left Bamenda yet. My desire to get out of the country is increasing by the second.

            But like always, we eventually make it down to Yaoundé. I arrive at the Peace Corps transit house in a bit of a daze, only to learn that our quarter of the city is going to be essentially blocked off the next day because the Nigerian president is in town for a meeting with President Paul Biya. So the next day I find myself walking to the nearest police station to get the various stamps and forms necessary to renew my entry/exit visa, due to the absence of taxis on our normally bustling road.

            My patience for Cameroonian bus travel temporarily at its limit, I decide to take the train to Douala. All of my prior Cameroonian train experiences have been quite pleasant, so I’m optimistic about what the next few hours will bring. And I’m not disappointed; the air aboard the car is pleasant and calm and most of the passengers have already taken their seats. In many ways I feel like I’ve stepped onto a Metro-North train bound for Manhattan-there is none of the discomfort or general ridiculousness that I’ve come to associate with Cameroonian travel. The kids across the aisle from me are even each playing on their own tablets, so I’m happy to pull out my iPod and block out the rest of the world.

            In my mind I’ve all but left Cameroon when I look up to see a dispute breaking out just next to me. Apparently the train station accidentally sold two tickets for the same seat, and the man who came to find his seat already taken is not pleased at all. He is dressed in traditional Muslim apparel, and is speaking a language that isn’t French or English, most likely Fulfulde, a local dialect spoken by Muslim groups. What language he is speaking doesn’t really matter to the woman currently occupying the disputed seat; she can’t understand him and just sees an angry older man screaming at her. The situation escalates when he strikes out at her; unfortunately I am sitting between the two of them and immediately lose whatever patience I had previously had. Luckily the train officials have gotten word of the problem and rush to help the man find a different seat after his friends pull him away. 

            Frustrating as the entire situation is, the interesting part comes next, when a younger companion of the man returns to apologize to my neighbor and I. He offers a few explanations for the man’s behavior, concluding with his lack of education. Cameroon is very much still a developing country, but I rarely find myself in situations that so visibly capture the range of progress that it is currently making. Here we are, immersed in our various personal entertainment systems and reading American tabloids, (I wasn’t even the one that brought them!) when an older man who wasn’t lucky enough to receive any kind of secondary education confronts us over an administrative error. 

A post-work parent/child lesson in my neighborhood-a rare sight worth admiring!