Fear and Connection

Transportation in general is interesting here. The traffic is unpredictable, the roads are uneven, and street names are basically obsolete. So, when I take a taxi anywhere I describe a landmark and hope that the driver understood what I said as he takes off up some treacherously steep, unbelievably narrow path.

Last Sunday I asked the taxi driver to take me to the “Alexander Hotel on Manger Street.” (The church we were going to is near there) I thought I was giving wonderfully specific directions. I knew the street; I remembered the name of the hotel. How could we possibly get lost? Well he took me to Manger Square. Super different. It’s a tourist attraction. I guess bringing me with my blonde hair and extremely foreign accent to Manger Square made logical sense. I tried to explain to the driver that this was not where I wanted to go and he simply goes “OH!!! Alexandra Hotel! Yes yes I know.” Well the sign above the hotel does say Alexander, but I guess that’s not what people call it. Basically I quickly realized that getting anywhere in this city is chaotic and unpredictable.

This week I had bus duty. Given my experience so far with transportation, I was a little wary of the idea of bus duty. How does the driver know where every student on the bus lives—there aren’t addresses? How far do they all live? How late is it going to be before I get to go home and eat? I thought these were all very valid questions. I soon realized that the bus driver didn’t know where everyone lived, but Insha’Allah he will figure it all out and remember after the first few days. And even though all of the students lived within Beit Sahour—the area that the school is located in—the entire bus route took over an hour. My stomach was roaring by the time I got home.

One of the little girls hopped on the bus I was on and plopped down next to her friend. They were giggling and talking to me for a few minutes. Next thing I know, the bus is pulling out of the parking lot and we are on our way. We begin our winding journey through the streets of Beit Sahour and are promptly stopped by what seems like a traffic jam. It was a checkpoint at the top of the extremely steep hill we were stopped on. So the bus—a manual vehicle—struggled up the hill and lurched around a truck and a few cars as we neared the top of the mountain. As we passed the checkpoint and continued our journey the bus driver waved and greeted many people walking and sitting outside along the road.

After a few minutes, I looked across the aisle and noticed one of the little girls was sobbing. She had huge tears rolling down here cheeks. The piece of pita bread that had been in her mouth dropped to the floor as she cried.I quickly tried to comfort her and ask her what happened. Her little friend, who speaks better English than even some of the oldest children at school, turned to me and said “Miss, she’s on the wrong bus!” There are two buses at school. She hopped on the wrong one and was now completely distraught. The bus driver figured this out and was calling the other bus driver to find a place to meet. This was an ordeal in itself. There really aren’t addresses here so I have no idea how the buses found each other. But, miraculously the other bus pulled up behind us after only 10 or 15 minutes and the little girl with a tear-stained face ran to the correct bus. The rest of the route went smoothly. Somehow we stumbled upon every students home and delivered the children to their waiting mothers. We had to backtrack a few times, and wake a few children up as we pulled up to their homes, but eventually it was my turn to be dropped off. I ran into the house, grateful that the bus successfully made it over every perilously  steep hill, avoided every crazy rut, eased over the obnoxiously large speed bumps, and arrived safely at the grocery store by my house.

While ignoring street names, meandering through back alleys and narrow roads, and memorizing landmarks to remember how to get somewhere all seem like very inefficient practices, I like to think they reflect how relational this culture is. Instead of rattling off a house number and street name, you have to describe whose house you live next to or whose store is on the same block as you. You are forced to see your surroundings, to look outside of yourself. This is a very foreign custom for us individualistic Americans. I am learning to embrace it.

I love describing where I live or where I want to go to a taxi driver because it always turns into a conversation. He has to ask clarifying questions, my knowledge is tested and often fails, but it forces me to learn quickly. I have to pay attention. Noticing people and places becomes crucial. It forces me outside of the comfortable habit of tunnel vision that I have grown so accustomed to.

Honestly, this whole premise of talking to each other, seeing each other, and being aware of your surroundings seems to be in stark contrast to the walled culture I have experienced here. The juxtaposition of division between groups and forced familiarity is very difficult to understand. It is a strange and fascinating dance between the fear of anything other and a deep desire for connection.