Graff’ glance

Another Banksy…near Qalandia terminal, outside Ramallah

Bob Marley and the Diplomats

We, that is me and three other South Africans, went to the South African Representative Office to the Palestinian National Authority today in Ramallah. I met the ambassador, and we do call him an ambassador there as the South African government recognizes a Palestinian state, which means we are indeed dealing with a country and not a territory. I am somewhat proud of this fact even though their ideals and stance and support for a two-state solution, although so very politically correct is somewhat defunct. But they are there and they help and they do their diplomatic work and they drive pretty cool cars.

We sat and drank proper filter coffee in a lovely air-conditioned room and spoke of the situation in Palestine, surprisingly in a good general agreement, and we didn’t talk about home that much, although we did raise the immigrant issue and the growing problem in Johannesburg and Pretoria, both population wise and crime wise.

So now they know we are here in this strange land and we signed the documents in case of an emergency and then we wanted to go. Their offices are a little way outside of the centre of Ramallah, too far to walk anyway, so we needed a lift back. We asked if they could call a taxi but as far as good fortune goes one of their drivers was on his way to Jerusalem in one of those pretty cool cars. And here comes the point of the whole story. I drove in a diplomatic car and liked it. When there was traffic in the way, we had sirens. When there was a slow car, we had good horsepower to overtake. We had diplomatic plates and we had Bob Marley on the sound system – “Oh woman don’t cry”.

Nice. But it made me think. How go the lyrics? In this great future, you can’t forget your past.

Perhaps I am in the wrong line of work.

Graff’ glance

Just outside Qalandia checkpoint, not far from Ramallah.

Not like home

So I lost my cell phone today. I know I left it in the service taxi somewhere between Ramallah and Azzun. I took it out of my jacket and put it into my left sweater pocket and remember thinking, don’t let it fall out. My sweater pockets are shallow. It fell out. And after I had paid the driver, run over the freeway, dodged a military vehicle, jumped into a car with a local and got out in Jayyous, where I live, I realized my cell phone was missing. Now, of course, my first thought was damn, and then the mind races for a few moments while you think of how you can get it back, but within a minute the facts add up, and you know it’s gone. At least I would know that back home in South Africa; lose a cell phone there and you would have a better chance of ending the Israeli occupation by Friday. But this is Palestine. I tried to call. Twice there was no answer. It’s gone I thought. The finder will use all the credits and then simply buy a new sim card.

I told my colleagues and they suggested I call our regular taxi driver. These guys chat to each other all the time. Perhaps he knows something. So I did, and within a couple minutes the cell phone was answered, the situation explained, and a plan made. I got my cell phone back. Neither language, distance nor simple greed could get in the way of a complete stranger driving back to Jayyous to deliver my cell phone to me. I didn’t even tip him. That’s a Palestinian for you.