The
other day, in order to get from Jerusalem in Jericho, Emily, Megan,
and I had a cab called from the hotel we were staying. Because it was
Friday, we were having some trouble finding a cab, but the hotel
receptionist found us someone who would drive us (and it appeared
worked at least some as a cabbie, even if his car was not a cab). So
we climbed into his nondescript 1990-something toyota corolla and
headed for Jericho.
Our
driver knew little English, and spent most of the first 15 minutes of
the drive alternating between phone calls on the two cell phones he
had (one personal, I think, and the other work related). But as the
drive continued, I was shocked by what I experienced as his
passenger.
For
one, our driver was nervous and possibly a bit scared. Every time we
passed by a police officer on the side of the road, or came near the
entrance to a settlement, he visibly tensed and slowed down to well
under the speed limit. At one point, as we passed a traffic camera,
he pointed over at it and mimicked a camera's shutter sound, letting
me know why he had slowed down so much. I
tried to ask if he was worried about the speed limit or something
else, but the language barrier prevented much of a conversation.
When
we reached Vered Jericho (yes, a settlement, which we unfortunately
didn't know when we booked the hostel) he pulled up to the gate as an
armed guard came out to the car. Our driver quickly started
explaining the situation as best he could, and even called our hostel
owner on the phone (which he passed to the guard) to shed some light
on the situation. The guard took our driver's ID (which I assumed to
be Jerusalemite) and examined it thoroughly before handing it back.
When he looked over at me in the passenger seat, he said, “United
States?” When I said “Yes,” he said, “California?” I've
gotten a lot of folks assuming I'm from California when I tell them
I'm from the United States (apparently I fit the beach bum vibe), so
I laughed, and said, “No, but close.” Instead of waiting for me
to even provide my passport as he'd asked, he laughed and after a bit
more conversation with our driver, opened up the gate and let us
through.
Finally,
when our driver pulled up at the hostel, he had to stay and wait for
the hostel owner to provide proof that he had in fact brought us to
the hostel. After receiving a couple business cards to show to the
armed guard, our cabbie
left us to return to Jerusalem.
The
whole experience made my skin crawl. When we'd booked the hostel, we
didn't know it was on a settlement. After we found out, we'd decided
that we'd stay one night there, cancel the second night, and make a
new plan, but we also were curious as to what it might be like to
stay in a hostel on a settlement. The way our driver was fearful on
the road, the way he was treated with suspicion at the settlement
gate in a position we put him in...it wasn't right. And our treatment
as Americans, given more freedom in our cab driver's country than he
was--it
makes you wonder what kind of democracy this really is.
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