'What is a tholdier?' the Lozenge asked as we handed our passports to a khaki clad teenager with an M16 dangling from one shoulder, at the Israel/Jordan crossing last week. 'Well, it's someone who's paid to defend something, the way that you defend your toys from Rashimi sometimes.' I replied, taking care not to venture into the nature of defence and when it becomes attack - since both Israel and the Lozenge can quickly swap from one to another, more often than not, disproportionately. 'Hmm,' he said. 'But it is thad that Washimi isn't with us.'
We were en route to Jordan for me to do some more work on the documentary. The Glammy has returned to Amman after an unhappy time working for a family in Bahrain, so we booked her in to hang out with the Lozenge while I worked. We met her in Starbucks car park and the moment her golden Jeep rolled into sight, the Lozenge unpopped his seatbelt, hurled himself, parka jacket flapping and monkey backpack flying after him, into the folds of her large colourful cardigan. She dropped her LV handbag on the ground and swung him around shouting, 'I've missed you my rajooool (lad)'. And they sped off to rag around the city that used to be our home.
We met later that evening after I'd had a full day's work finalising the film, which is now being polished with the Jordanian editor friend, freeing me up to plan my next project…The Glammy had moved out of her room and given me her bed - complete with Ralph Lauren striped pyjamas and free access to her pot of Creme de la Mer; while she and the Lozenge slept in her sister's room. The flat was a fug of perfume and cigarette smoke contributed by the Glammy's Mum as she occupied the brown velour sofa watching World Heavyweight Championships. And the Lozenge snuggled into their room, a small blond head buried in purple pillow and duvet, in the purple walled room. Home from home it seemed to us, incongruously.
After more work for me, and more play for the Lozenge the following day, we wended our way back down the curling road in the darkness to the Dead Sea, our ears blocking and popping with the dip in pressure, and turned towards the King Hussein crossing and Allenby bridge. The Lozenge managed to hoodwink me into buying a plastic barbecue set complete with plastic tongs, sausages and little coals - (although he ripped it open on arrival in Jerusalem to discover with disappointment that someone had nicked the plastic chicken from the box). I was grateful for my four year old sidekick for having come on the working mission with me. His school has said he's too young to be in the class he's in, and there's no room in the one below. So he's having an extended holiday until September. He was good company and towed the line, so in a way the plastic barbecue was to assure him of that. And I am very much keeping in touch with my inner 4 year old at present due to more hours spent with him. Although I have had to significantly rearrange my working life I know I'll look back and feel grateful for all those extra hours together.
We needed to buy thank you presents for some of the lovely Palestinian staff at J's work who have helped us settle in, and as I put three bottles of Moet champagne onto the counter beside the placcy barbecue set, the Jordanian guard, complete with red and white Jordanian headgear, questioned how many of us there were travelling. 'Er…wahid wa nus' - (one and a half.) 'Then you can buy only one bottle.'
I explained, 'You must be able to understand that these are presents for Palestinians and I don't want to risk buying wine from an Israeli settlement the other side. 'Ta'eb.' Okay. He said, smiling, and waved me through with the 3 clanking bottles.
The other side, a whippet thin little sodldierlette, in skin tight jeans and huge boots, like an ant in Doc Martens with walkie talkie and gun hanging from her which further accentuated her tiny frame, shouted in a bored drawl, 'laydeeee! laydeee!' 'Hurry up. Go there. Do this,' filling the hall with much more of her graceless presence than her size should merit. The man at the customs had one of those faces you'd imagine on a guard on death row, and shouted at me: 'Why don't you have this Arabic car document in English. I can't read Arabic. You can't come into the country with this.' He was so rude I could feel my hackles rising. I had never had an issue with the car document before. He was just picking on me, like some people imported from Russia, who sit in a little plastic box checking documents all day, feel they can. And I'm not even Palestinian. He continued to shout: 'How do you expect me to read this. I don't speak Arabic. You can't come through into Israel with this. You need to get it translated.'
After a couple of hours, we made it through after another non-welcome to Israel. You get the feeling they'd really rather we didn't come in. Perhaps because we'll see things they'd rather keep hidden. Or maybe because, when it comes to groups of bullies and victims, its easier and safer to join the bullies.
We were en route to Jordan for me to do some more work on the documentary. The Glammy has returned to Amman after an unhappy time working for a family in Bahrain, so we booked her in to hang out with the Lozenge while I worked. We met her in Starbucks car park and the moment her golden Jeep rolled into sight, the Lozenge unpopped his seatbelt, hurled himself, parka jacket flapping and monkey backpack flying after him, into the folds of her large colourful cardigan. She dropped her LV handbag on the ground and swung him around shouting, 'I've missed you my rajooool (lad)'. And they sped off to rag around the city that used to be our home.
We met later that evening after I'd had a full day's work finalising the film, which is now being polished with the Jordanian editor friend, freeing me up to plan my next project…The Glammy had moved out of her room and given me her bed - complete with Ralph Lauren striped pyjamas and free access to her pot of Creme de la Mer; while she and the Lozenge slept in her sister's room. The flat was a fug of perfume and cigarette smoke contributed by the Glammy's Mum as she occupied the brown velour sofa watching World Heavyweight Championships. And the Lozenge snuggled into their room, a small blond head buried in purple pillow and duvet, in the purple walled room. Home from home it seemed to us, incongruously.
After more work for me, and more play for the Lozenge the following day, we wended our way back down the curling road in the darkness to the Dead Sea, our ears blocking and popping with the dip in pressure, and turned towards the King Hussein crossing and Allenby bridge. The Lozenge managed to hoodwink me into buying a plastic barbecue set complete with plastic tongs, sausages and little coals - (although he ripped it open on arrival in Jerusalem to discover with disappointment that someone had nicked the plastic chicken from the box). I was grateful for my four year old sidekick for having come on the working mission with me. His school has said he's too young to be in the class he's in, and there's no room in the one below. So he's having an extended holiday until September. He was good company and towed the line, so in a way the plastic barbecue was to assure him of that. And I am very much keeping in touch with my inner 4 year old at present due to more hours spent with him. Although I have had to significantly rearrange my working life I know I'll look back and feel grateful for all those extra hours together.
We needed to buy thank you presents for some of the lovely Palestinian staff at J's work who have helped us settle in, and as I put three bottles of Moet champagne onto the counter beside the placcy barbecue set, the Jordanian guard, complete with red and white Jordanian headgear, questioned how many of us there were travelling. 'Er…wahid wa nus' - (one and a half.) 'Then you can buy only one bottle.'
I explained, 'You must be able to understand that these are presents for Palestinians and I don't want to risk buying wine from an Israeli settlement the other side. 'Ta'eb.' Okay. He said, smiling, and waved me through with the 3 clanking bottles.
The other side, a whippet thin little sodldierlette, in skin tight jeans and huge boots, like an ant in Doc Martens with walkie talkie and gun hanging from her which further accentuated her tiny frame, shouted in a bored drawl, 'laydeeee! laydeee!' 'Hurry up. Go there. Do this,' filling the hall with much more of her graceless presence than her size should merit. The man at the customs had one of those faces you'd imagine on a guard on death row, and shouted at me: 'Why don't you have this Arabic car document in English. I can't read Arabic. You can't come into the country with this.' He was so rude I could feel my hackles rising. I had never had an issue with the car document before. He was just picking on me, like some people imported from Russia, who sit in a little plastic box checking documents all day, feel they can. And I'm not even Palestinian. He continued to shout: 'How do you expect me to read this. I don't speak Arabic. You can't come through into Israel with this. You need to get it translated.'
After a couple of hours, we made it through after another non-welcome to Israel. You get the feeling they'd really rather we didn't come in. Perhaps because we'll see things they'd rather keep hidden. Or maybe because, when it comes to groups of bullies and victims, its easier and safer to join the bullies.
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