Welcome to Israel

What a day it's been! What began with an innocent early morning shower has ended with a late night bagel in the centre of Tel Aviv. Where to begin...

I was glad to leave the noise, pollution and chaos of Cairo. Don't get me wrong. I think it's a fascinating place, only that it is somewhat difficult to appreciate when you're on your own and don't speak Arabic. It doesn't help that every shopowner, taxi driver, and other hangers-on try to squeeze as much money out of you as possible. Just changing my 100 Egyptian pound note into smaller notes led to a loss of 5 pounds. Perhaps it's merely that I look like the type who is easily fooled.

Cairo International Airport is fantastically chaotic. I counted no less than 15, yes FIFTEEN, individuals whose single job is to make sure you've got the appropriate stamp for departure. When I arrived at the Tel Aviv desk, there was a total absence of staff, apart, of course, from the handful who simply loitered around the place gathering dust. Eventually I asked an official where I could get my Sinai Air boarding pass, only to be told I had to queue up at an adjacent desk which had no identifying features. Ok, this I could do... One hour later, and I'm still waiting to be served. So I decide to take matters into my own hands and thrust my passport and ticket in front of the official. Finally success (despite the porter's repeated attempts to remove my luggage from the conveyor belt)!

By the time I had collected my boarding pass, convinced the fifth immigration official that I truly wasn't an Arab, could not speak Arabic, and yes, I was born in Australia, I was ready to collapse. But, of course, that would make things far too easy, now wouldn't it?

Eventually the airport bus arrived at Gate 2 to take us to the Sinai Air flight to Tel Aviv. Somewhat mesmerised by the very bass-driven Arab pop playing in the background (one of the speakers was right above my head), I climbed on knowing this, surely, was the final leg before I entered Israel.

The bus lurched foward from Gate 2, plowing slowly towards a clearing between two Egypt Air planes. After driving two and fro the two planes, it eventually stopped in front of the second one. Eagerly, I stepped off my seat until, almost instantenously, I noticed that neither plane was badged 'Air Sinai'. Was something wrong here? In simple language, the answer was yes, although perhaps prefixed with the phrase "fucking hell!". To add to the predicament, we were not allowed to leave the bus at once but had to wait as, individually, people were led out to a collection of luggage bags stacked on runway cars to point out their bags. The friggin' airport staff managed to mix everyone's luggage!!

After what appeared to be a life time, sanity was restored, along with my luggage, and my boarding pass, albeit now on board an Egypt Air plane. And thus did my little ordeal at Ben Gurion Airport Israel begin...

Ben Gurion Airport is marvelously clean. It literally gleans what with all the shiny metallic bathrooms and hallway fixtures. It's amazing what a 'little' American tax payer subsidy can do! Admiring this, my latest airport experience, I walked confidently towards the Immigration desk. Psychologically, I was prepared for the worst and felt pretty cocky. Maybe that guava juice on the Egypt Air flight (which actually tasted like guava!) did the trick?

I walked down the concourse towards one of several booths, not realising I had lined up in the Israeli citizen queue. It's okay, she said, and who was I to complain?

Hot Booth Chick: "Name?"
Me: "Iqbal Shah Khaldun" (um, the name written on my passport dickhead!)
HBC: "Purpose"
Me: "Tourism"

This insightful conversation continued for some time, until HBC eventually realised a) this dude looks really Arab, b) HBC had no idea where or what Calcutta (where my mother was born) is, and c) I was going to visit the West Bank (you dare not call it Palestine in front of people with chunky lapels and who have never excepted the 'concept' of Palestine). And with that, she left the booth, and pointed me towards a little corner on the side of the large Immigration hall, the type of corner you never notice when you file rapidly into a large room. I was soon to appreciate its dimensions in every subtle manner as I laundered around in it for the next seven and a half hours.

Waiting in that corner, I noticed several familiar themes. The other people in this corner waiting area were either Arab, Arab-looking, male, African American, activist-looking, Filipino, or Russian, but not necessarily in that order. The Russians and Filipinos were let off the quickest. Most of the Arab or Arab-looking detainees were kept for several minutes or hours. There was an unmistakeable system of discrimination at work.

I also got to appreciate how attractive Israeli females are. Perhaps all those nuclear weapons makes them grow nice and healthy? Sadly, I wasn't strip searched by any of them, although I was strip searched by two junior, male officials who quite clearly found the whole process amusing. After the search I was interviewed. In all I was interviewed three times, each time politely, about my familial and ethnic origins, where I was going to visit in Israel and Palestine, and where I work. Thankfully, I decided to keep one of my business cards in my wallet. For those who haven't seen it, it's very bright and shiny and has printed in large type the name of my employer.

And then, just like that, after three interviews and countless hours of waiting and twisting and turning in this crazy little corner, my interest in the cute Immigration girls well and truly satiated, I was allowed to leave... and suddenly realised that my luggage had probably been strolling around the baggage claim conveyor belt for the past 7 hours!

Surprisingly, I didn't really panic. I think the hours of waiting and trying to stay alert sort of drained me of any instantenous impulse, including anything even vaguely akin to surprise. Instead I went to the Lost and Found counter and tracked my bag, which was reunited with me after some thirty minutes whilst I waited for the girl at the counter to sort out the elderly couple in front of me.

And I was over the moon, and ready to jet, um to my hotel. I think it goes without saying that I don't want to see an airport for a while yet!

I found myself a table at the entrance of the aiport, gathering myself and my papers for the final leg of this initial journey in Israel. As I sat down counting my New Israeli Shekels, I heard a deep, Germanic laugh beside me. Turning around abruptly, I noticed a rather large, rather red, and very drunk orthodox Jewish man sitting on his own sipping some wine and toking a cigar. This, I thought to myself, must surely be the inspiration for another David Lynch film!

"What are you laughing at?" I queried.
"Oh, nothing... why not, come, sit, sit over here. Have some wine and I'll tell you."

Given the purpose of my visit is to speak to the locals, I felt obliged. Plus, frankly, by this stage I really felt like I could use a good drink! So I sat down with this fellow, sat down to hear him gargle on about something. All I could make out was something to do with guns, and the Negev Desert (the big vacant bit of Israel to the south bordering Egypt) and something on how 'peace' is overrated. Mind you, this understanding on my part wasn't that simple. It took a good ten minutes to weed that out of the confused mumble emanting from this gentleman's mouth. But as soon as I did, I immediately thought, man the last thing I want to do is to be caught listening to some dude talking about guns and Germany. Maybe someone deliberately planted him there to speak to me, to get me into a Kodak moment which the immigration officials could use to expel me? Contemplating this rather paranoid possibility, I abruptly uprooted myself from my seat, explaining to my new friend that I really had to go.

"But you've hardly touched your wine. At least finish your wine, stay another five minutes."

Okay, now I was really suspicious. Regardless, it was time to go...

The excitement of the night ended when my rather senile taxi driver, who spoke no English and almost had two accidents, dropped me at the wrong address. Gradually, the taxi did edge closer towards my hotel, thanks to some expert navigation over the mobile from some dude the driver rang up. And, thankfully, the hotel is great and centrally located.

I've never seen so many national flags in the one place. Instinct tells me the concentration of flags is built on a deep guilt complex, a sense on the part of the Jewish population that they have to prove that they belong to this place because, deep down, they know it's not their's.

It's only early days yet but I can see already why Tel Aviv is considered a party town. Shops are open 'til late, the young people are attractive. Unfortunately, I keep getting stairs in public places. I suppose a couple of day being treated like a member of a feared minority ain't so bad!