Extreme Rambling: Walking Israel's Separation Barrier. For Fun. by Mark Thomas

Author:Mark Thomas [Thomas, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781407030708
Publisher: Ebury Publishing
Published: 2011-04-14T05:00:00+00:00

*

I rejoin Phil and realise the walk is over. Not just this section of it; the entire ramble ends here.

The small corporal approaches. ‘Two of you come with me. One will wait here.’

‘Why is one of us to stay?’

‘There is room for two of you in the vehicle: one waits with my men and we will come back for them after taking the other two to the checkpoint.’

‘I’ll wait,’ volunteers Phil.

‘You OK with that?’

‘Yeah, but wait for me there, right?’ says Phil.

‘Yeah, of course,’ I say and am led to the armoured car.

The heater has warmed the Hummer, but the floor in the back has a puddle of water in which my feet sit, and my seat has broken one side having loosened itself from its frame. On a shelf behind me, a rifle lies unattended and within reach, its availability a reminder of our total lack of control in this car.

‘Seat belt,’ says the corporal, insisting I strap into the wobbling chair. The air momentarily smells of cigarette smoke as the driver only partially exhales out of the window, then the Hummer accelerates onto the road and I sit in the wobbling chair jiggling around like a dashboard toy.

Zohar looks up with a glum face and says, ‘See, we did get a lift.’

Dumped at the checkpoint and ordered to wait until the corporal returns with Phil, a revelation occurs to me. Putting my hand in my coat pocket I find my mobile phone and instantly remember that Nava, our Israeli fixer, had said, ‘If you get into trouble, you call me straight away.’

Scurrying to one side, keeping out of sight, my fingers jab at the keypad of my phone. ‘Nava,’ I whisper when she answers, ‘it’s Mark. Sorry to call you on a Friday night.’

Instantly she says, ‘Where are you and what has happened?’

‘I have fucked up really badly …’ I start to tell the tale.

After listening Nava replies, ‘I don’t know if I can do anything. It’s Friday night, and people will be difficult to reach. But pass the phone to the guy you were walking with; I need him to find out some information.’

‘Zohar?’

‘If that’s his name, yes.’

While Zohar speaks to Nava, Phil returns bedraggled, his coat clinging wetly to his rakish frame.

‘You OK?’

Phil nods. ‘What now?’

‘Don’t know. Wait for the police to pick us up, I suppose. But I think we’re in jail for the weekend.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s Friday. No one is going to process us before Sunday morning. But if we are charged and it goes to court … a fine? Jail? Deportation? I don’t know.’

Zohar returns, handing me the phone. Overhearing my last comment, he says, ‘Let’s see.’

While we wait, the sun sets. Shabbat has arrived and traffic into the checkpoint has all but stopped. Lights are on in the inspection booth, and the corporal has arrived with a pizza tray to general applause. I feel numb with resignation. This is how the ramble will finish: watching conscripts eat pizza. I am certain we will be

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