So I found the bus station and started spouting out 'Nablus', which was easy enough, and welcomed into a rather sad looking orange minibus; quite a change from the clean and new double level buses that ply the pavement in Israel, these little third-worlding things certainly looked aging. A gang of kids kept on bugging me to buy gum, despite the continuous attempts of the men lounging about to shoo them away. Finally a kid opened up his pullover shirt to reveal a large glossy sticker on the front of his chest, sporting two AK-47s crossed like an X and arabic written over them. The symbol of the Al-Aqsa Brigade. he was a young recruit.

Eventually we roared out of Jenin and south onto Highway 90, into potholed roads and around large chunks of debris. At an intersection we slowed down - ahead was an Israeli APC, with the soldiers lounging about on the roof. The driver sighed as we approached, and the soldier motioned for him to turn around. I wondered if I would be able to reach Nablus at all today - the road was blocked? No way in?

My internet time was well spent as I had read that the suicide bombing occured, and the perpetrators were identified as having been from Nablus. Apparently the town was off limits as of right now, with a complete media blackout. It was my assumption, then, that it would not be possible to reach the town, however I was determined to try anyway.

And so was the driver. He backed up perhaps 100 metres, turned right into a muddy farm field, drove for 100 more metres, then turned left again, and hit pavement 50 metres later. You don't need to obey the Israeli roadblocks; you simply need to drive around them. He slowed down constantly to chat with other drivers; on occasion they would chat on their cell phones in Arabic, although I knew that they were discussing routes. We weaved into a hillside town, up a steep embankment, and then the driver slowed again to chat with another minibus driver.

He sighed, backed up, and turned right. By now we were being followed by a steady trail of service taxis and minibuses, and bounced along dirt roads through the rugged hills of Palestine. Through small villages and farm fields we went, through the pastoral Arabian scenery. These places seemed relatively untouched by any modern life, or Israeli intervention. Yet we did go through one tiny village where all half-dozen of its buildings had been collapsed in on themselves, presumably by the Israelis. The method of their destruction looked familiar, with the outer walls destroyed to allow the heavy concrete roof to land on top. It looked exactly like the destruction used in another town which I had suspected was not perpetrated by the Israelis, but perhaps by its real owner, Syria. After that moment there was no doubt in my mind of who was indeed responsible for the destruction of Quneitra.

Perhaps two hours later, as the sun was approaching the western hills again, we arrived at a town which I had my doubts was Nablus. Indeed it was not; but the driver pointed at a man with a donkey and kept on saying "Nablus!", which didn't make me feel any better. I can walk faster than a donkey, and look less stupid doing it. Luckily I was eased out of that situation as a minibus driver whipped beside me, ushered me to hop in, and drove me 50 metres to a dead end road. Or so I thought. Children surrounded me with buckets of refreshments, people stood everywhere, minibuses cluttered beside a mound of dirt. The driver pointed in a direction - a path into some low trees.






Along this path I walked, but certainly not alone; a large number of Palestinians were walking the same path, chattering on their cellphones or carrying bags of goods, and it was difficult to get lost. All I received from these people were greetings and gestures of which way to walk, and through the hills and across a farm road I marched. Over dirt mounds and against the backdrop of a dying sun, on the other side of the hill, I wandered down a steep slope and to a roadside. I waved down a taxi, and said 'hotel'.

Ah, so here was Nablus. The hotel was quite comfortable, mid-range and clean, at 100 shekels per night. So Nablus is indeed closed, yet this does not stop the Palestinians. When the roadblocks come, the drivers use different routes, off-road routes, and get their passengers as close to the destination as possible.
I was chatting with the Hotelier in bad english and hand gestures; the sun was setting, but I was still curious and wanted to wander through the streets in the evening. "Curfew... Israeli?" I kept asking, pointing to my watch."
"It doesn't matter," he implied, waving his hand. I'm not sure if there was a curfew, or not, although that night I heard no indication of it. Either way, he seemed unconcerned. As did all of the people out on the street at dusk.


The crowds were bustling; garbage was stacked in mounds along the roadside, the shops were teeming with people as they sold all manner of goods. Sweets shops dotted the nameless stores that are so common in these poor cities, and cars were jostling for any inch of room amongst crowds of passersby. I wandered up a street and into an old cobbled area of town, where a dozen young boys started grabbing me and shouting. "Money, Money, Money!" they chanted in unison, forcing me to laugh and clap my hands. The only english word they knew. Stuck in these dull towns, I was perhaps the most interesting thing they saw that day. The dank underpasses of a medieval town were perfect for their soccer games, although some suspicion appeared on the faces of other Palestinian people in the same area.
The shops had closed, and even if there was no curfew, I was hard pressed to find anything to do after dusk. I walked past a trio of what looked to be Japanese backpackers - so this town is not shut off at all. The roads are just closed. Is this the case? So to what extent is a 'media blackout' in effect, anyway?

Nablus to Jerusalem



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