Gas stations are for wimps
Parents will be parents. Families worry as much as the cardiovascular system allows. Don’t ever let reality get in the way of fear. Blood pressure. Cholesterol. In many ways parenting is probably the most dangerous profession available to humans.
“It’s not like you see it on TV,” I implore.
“Yes, I’m sure it’s worse.”
“Oh, come on.” My eyes take a little hike in their sockets. “They even have bars, local brew on tap. You know what? Come and see for yourself. Come to Ramallah!”
Hence, by means of invitation, or dare, it came to pass that for a week I was to guide both my mum and sister in Palestine and Israel. Despite my Herculean efforts in elucidating which is which, why, since when, and where the hell are we now? -confusion never really ceded much to fact.
Serendipity had newly put me at the helm of a certain Fiat Uno, sun-bleached red, and feisty as ever. “Take every hilltop. Gas stations are for wimps.” A Chuck Norris of motorcars if you will.
It takes us from the airport to Ramallah, stalwartly, baying to demolish the one thousand meter climb on a hot fall day in 2005. “Easy cheesy,” Chuck says, but that engine temperature dial goes straight to the nuclear side of red. I’m almost grateful for the respite afforded by a monster traffic jam bogging us down in Jerusalem.
We take the easy checkpoint into Ramallah; the one round back, the so-called District Command Office or DCO, reserved for ambulances, diplomatic cars and internationals. Best not to shock and awe my peeps with the war-torn cachet of Qalandia at rush hour. It’s not hard to imagine a huddle of NASA geeks, scratching their heads over satellite imagery of the incongruous, all-devouring dust clouds. Not to mention the honking.
All’s well that ends well. That night we sit, nice and comfy, dining and drinking in Za’rour open-air restaurant. We get tipsy and it’s all good.
In the next few days I fire up ol’ Chuck and barrel it down to the sites. Churches left and right, a mosque, the Wailing Wall, Dead Sea, you name it. Betwixt the touristy stuff my mother bonds with Yasmine, my then landlady slash nigh-indestructible octogenarian, and together they talk about their respective experiences in nursing.
From the rearview mirror I glimpse a certain pallor when we roller-coaster down the precipice hills of the area. Mission accomplished. I’ve successfully supplanted my relative’s anxieties about Ramallah with a mere issue of road safety.
“Do you have to go so fast?”
“Mm,” I say, and focus my regard on the next ascent requiring all the momentum so generously bequeathed by gravity. Chuck grumbles something inaudible.
One day he has all of us sweating for real though.
The asphalt warren around Jerusalem holds many pitfalls for the inexperienced navigator. The settlement of Pisgat Ze’ev is one of them. A wrong turn will suck you right into its pull, the siren call of its verdant, coiling streets. Helped by a burning real estate market in East-Jerusalem, even Palestinians are lured in nowadays. Time may yet be on their side. Final status anyone?
(-clears throat) Anyway, perhaps this short diversion serves well to illustrate how, low on fuel that day, we can ill afford a physical detour into the politics of established facts. On the dash, a red eye blinks ominously. From blinking, it turns into a stare. Mr. Norris shrugs. “Who needs gasoline when you know karate?”
The passers-by don’t shrug. “Ramallah?” They recoil for a second, then point and wave north. “That way to Mordor.”
Mordor is where Chuck Norris has his morning swims, so before long we wheel it out of there, and arrive, by the skin of our combustible teeth, at the DCO. It’s ten minutes to seven, right before closing time.
“What are you doing here? The checkpoint’s closed. Go back.”
“But it’s not seven yet….”
The soldier’s eyebrows huddle up to compare notes on the issue. “What are you talking about? It’s almost eight.”
It’s that time again… I sigh as it dawns on me. Twice a year, Palestinians and Israelis switch to and from daylight saving time with a week’s lag in between.
“C’mon, my house is like five hundred meters away.” As is the petrol station. Ol’ Chuck here’s thirsty.
“No. Go back. It’s closed.”
We relent. Miraculously, the car backtracks the entire fifteen kilometers without a
hiccup. Gas stations, indeed, are for wimps.