“Nu” I asked Zohar, the middle-aged woman, whom I often see behind the reception desk at my current home, the Old Jaffa Hostel “Are you the boss here?”
She laughed.
“The boss” she answered, gesturing towards the ceiling with both hands “is upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” I parroted. I was slightly baffled; while there is a great rooftop at the top of the building, and a bunch of mattresses for more adventurous travellers to sleep on, that’s about it.
“I meant, up there” she corrected herself, annoyed at my dumbness, and then I clicked: I realized which Boss she was talking about.
“But” added Zohar after a moment, as if chewing on thought that wouldn’t go away “the real boss is here” she thumped her chest “the boss up there doesn’t always help, I’m not convinced. But your heart knows and will tell you, if you listen well.”
Both Zohar and her daughter are, like many Israelis, tough and a little abrasive on the outside. Like an eggshell with spikes, perhaps?
“Have a look at the map yourself, it’s all there. Don’t be lazy!” Zohar snapped at me on my first day at the hostel, after hearing me inquire timidly whether “there is a chance-that perhaps-she might happen to know-where the post office was”.
But once you crack that eggshell, there is bounty of pudding and sweetness in there. After over a week of me being here, we are very friendly.
And I love this bloody place.
Even though the noise outside (the flea market, people shouting at each other at different times of day and night) annoys the shit out of me, and at night (oh at night) ravenous mosquitos feast on my dermal tissues like there is no tomorrow.
I love the rustic rooms full of old photos, and I love the fact that there is enough other half-residents and half-tourists like me stationing here; queer, socially awkward nerdy types, sexual outlaws or undefined kinds of misfits – which makes me feel right at home. There is of course a steady stream of young, 95% American backpackers passing through, clogging the lounge with their ipads, iphones and whatnot. They are sweet, but they barely register on my film screen, if you know what I mean? They don’t seem to notice me either. Somewhat, somehow, I’ve moved to the more invisible middle-aged group, and how did that happen and when? So, while the young lasses don their super cool dancing-queen outfits to go out partying for the whole night, I chat with Zik the cleaner in broken Hebrew.
“Enough of this studying” he’d tease me “If you want to learn Hebrew, you’ve got to speak with people!”
“What was that? Sorry, I didn’t understand” I’d say in return.
By the way, I haven’t said my last word with regards to the glamorous party-land yet. The raucous gate-crasher Smilla will be back one day in her wildest glory. Just sayin’
In the meantime, the quaint rooftop of the Old Jaffa Hostel it is. Me and outsiders, out-sidering together awkwardly. Then the magnificent “Allah Akbars” (Muslim call for prayer) rip from the three neighbouring mosques in a thwarted attempt at unison, and the whole mess dissolves for a minute. The clear voices of these unseen muezzins seem to cradle my heart; I long for these moments. The other day these spiritual chants went on for an exceptionally long time, and I was ecstatic.
But not everyone was.
“Fuuuck Allah! Fuuuck Allah! Fuuuuuuuck Allah!!!” an anguished voice floated over the roofs, competing, albeit unsuccessfully with those of the imams.
“La illaha illa Allah!” responded the muezzins.
“Fuuuuck Allah” the voice grew more desperate and raspy as it diminished in power.
“Allahu Ekber” continued the muslim singers, unfazed.
To that there was no response. Undoubtedly the infidel lost his sinful voice.
Noone should fuck with Allah, you see.
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