Palestinian walk

WE TOOK a leaf out of Raja Shehadah's Palestinian Walks book I gave DJ for his birthday by going on our own Palestinian walk today. Into Wadi Qelt, a valley that stretches east across the Judean desert to Jericho.

At least, I thought it was a Palestinian walk: the valley lies beyond the separation barrier, the vast concrete scar that stands sentry along Israel's perception of its West Bank border, and is the other side of an Israeli-manned checkpoint when it comes to re-entry. And yet an Israeli settlement - all smart houses, incongruous trees, and bougainvillea - overlooks the valley, which lies within an Israeli-controlled national park. "Welcome" said the sign, but the barbed wire ringed gate sent out its own message. As did our fellow hikers: where I had chosen to strap a baby to my chest, they'd opted for a gun. And not just any gun: MK 17s, or "battle rifles" according to Google.

Not that we paused to stare, opting instead to cross the stream that splits the desert valley and head up the hill the other side. The excitement of spotting the black-and-white paint dabs that marked the path was enough to lure Louis upwards, and the view across to Jordan, reward enough for reaching the top. Raf, meanwhile, was happy enough snoozing the trip away in what was his first Ergo sling outing - quite a moment, given how many hours/days/weeks he'll end up spending in said sling.

Back down and we found fig trees, palms, pampas grass and even eucalyptus (planted by the British forestry department back when we ran the show) lining the spring, which was invitingly cool for a paddle. And yes, more armed hikers, which begged the question of why there was a sign forbidding shooting. Unless it's a given that errant Palestinians are fair game. Certainly that's the impression the settlers give, arming themselves whenever they leave home, even to pop to the shops.

To an outsider, the trip summed up the complexities of the thwarted peace process. From the ambiguities over who controls which parcel of land, to the hostilities between the people that share it, the only thing that's easy to understand is the current stalemate.

Visit Palestine

At Hisham's Palace; note the flag

IT WAS Raf's third; and - embarrassingly - Louis's ninth, the UK excluded. I'm talking countries, or I would be if things hadn't gone so awry in 1948. We had wheels, serious jeep wheels, and felt we should see more of the state they call Israel than just the view from Tel Aviv's golden sand into the Med.

And so, instead of turning left to the beach, we turned right to East Jerusalem, and beyond. To Jericho, to be precise, which is thought to be the world's oldest continuously inhabited city. Or one of them, although given it lies in the middle of a rocky desert, and didn't seem to have a whole lot going for it beyond masses of bananas and an over-priced cable car, I struggled to see why. More pertinently, it's in the West Bank, making it part of the Palestinian Territories, or, for kiddie country tally purposes, Palestine.

It certainly felt like another state: we might not have needed our passports, but we did pass through a Palestinian-controlled checkpoint. Israeli number plates (yellow, as oppose to Palestinian green) meant we got stopped, but saying we came from England saw us waved through. Not that they'd have stopped anyone with our liberal credentials. I mean, Robert Fisk is a colleague! Once through, the striking red, black, white, and green of the Palestinian flag hung from every possible vantage point. Per capita, it's a close call who waves more: Israelis or Palestinians.

Louis was under strict instructions not to repeat the faux pas he made on our first weekend: shouting "I love Israel" while sitting at an East Jerusalem cafe. (To be fair, he was reading it from his new mini Jerusalem jigsaw we'd bought at the Garden Tomb's gift shop. In the interest of BBC impartiality I'd hoped to find its Palestinian equal but all we came home with was a - free - camel.) DJ attempted to explain why affirming his affection for Israel would go down quite so badly, but short of deploying the Steamies vs. Diesels Thomas the Tank analogy I'm still working up, I'm not convinced Louis got it. And why should he, when even after my crash course in Middle Eastern politics I'm still struggling.

It sounds basic, but I found the lack of Hebrew on signposts striking. Especially when Arabic is liberally scattered throughout Israel, even if in the case of place names, it apparently just translates the Hebrew equivalent, rather than using the Arabic version of a town: so, Acre, for the northern coastal crusader town, and not Akko, as it's known in Arabic. Everywhere was also vastly more poor, albeit not quite on the scale of Gaza, which DJ likened to Dar-es-Salam after his trip there last week. Everywhere, that is, apart from the isolated pockets where the US has splashed its cash in a futile attempt to dull its pro-Israeli bias. Thus the site of Hisham's Palace, an archeological gem from the 7th century, had been newly tarted up with US money; as had the odd road.

The only tourists were religious ones: it was one in, one out to the cave atop the Mount of Temptation, where Jesus is reputed to have invented willpower, defying the Devil's attempts to make him break his 40-day fast. Fun as the cable car ride was up there, I fear we got more of a kick out of the political tourism than the religious stuff. That said, Bethlehem is also in the West Bank, so I guess we'll get another chance to combine the two.

The Outsider

"Olden times cars"

Jerusalem March: as snapped by a 3yo

IT'S BEEN an odd week in Jerusalem. The never-ending Sukkot holiday - there are still two days left, and even then Shabbat looms on Friday night - has turned the city into one big party yet I've been left feeling my ticket got lost in the post.

It's mainly the Jewishness, which all the Sukkot-related customs has underlined since the festival began almost a week ago. It's impossible to step outside and not be reminded about the many ways I don't belong. And I'm not talking about one of the orthodox areas; even the local playgrounds, rich in expats, only serve to underline my outsider status simply because my reasons for being here differ so much from everyone else's. Take the American grandma who deigned to chat to me: her family come every year for Sukkot because her three sons all attended "yeshivas" (religious schools) in Jerusalem.

The influx of tens of thousands of Americans has exacerbated the weirdness: in the city centre, it's more common to hear a Yankee accent than someone speaking Hebrew. What with the vast American presence and Sukkot trappings - the shelters, the orthodox dress code, the constant visits to the temple, palm leaves and lemons in hand - I swear the city resembles a living theme park. Or one of those living history museums that the Americans are so good at, like the one in Plymouth, MA, where the Pilgrim fathers wander round in full 17th century garb. It's an usual town where men in giant busbys and satin frock coats outnumber those in jeans and trainers. By some degree.

The prisoner swap has added to the undercurrent of bizarre. It isn't often the Israelis and Palestinians have cause for concurrent celebrations but this is one of them.

Despite so much going on around us, it's been hard to find something to join in with. But I thought I'd managed today. The Jerusalem March is a day-long affair that starts with various groups hiking different routes around the city and culminates with the roads in the centre shutting down for a parade. We skipped the hike - I figured I walk most of the city most days anyway - but turned out for the parade, which kicked off a couple of streets from our flat outside the YMCA. It started well: two 1940s Army jeeps, several "olden times" cars, including one "just like the speedy car" he lost the day before (oops), three rubbish trucks (oh, the joy!), two fire engines, and a mini flotilla of motorbikes.

The marching soldiers weren't bad, although luckily Louis isn't the type to get excited by the guns. But then things went downhill. The parade's theme was something about welcoming foreign tourists - presumably to fleece them by charging through the nose for everything - so the procession comprised various different nationality OAPs waving their country's flag and banners praising God while tapping tambourines and shouting how much they love Israel. (Mini point of interest: massive Finnish contingent, small German one.) No wonder Louis wanted to retreat to the Y playground. I'm looking forward to everything getting back to normal, whatever that is, next week.

The flak jacket workout

A sukkah

Rugalech in the sukkah

YOU'D THINK with all the hills, not to mention a baby to lug round and a loaded buggy to push (either with shopping, or Louis, or both), Jerusalem would be the perfect place to shed the post-natal pounds. But that would be to overlook the vast array of baked Israeli delicacies. So far, Louis's top pick is the rugelach: a sort of smaller, sweeter sibling to to the pain au chocolate, which he scoffed today in a sukkah. Finally. Their preponderance around town make chores a breeze, especially in the market where they only cost 1 NIS (barely 20p). The downside has to be their calorific punch. But I'm figuring that if things get desperate I can always add a spot of resistance training to my daily workouts by borrowing Daddy J's flak jacket. Weighing in at 10 kilos-plus, it could provide a totally new kind of new Mum exercise regime. Forget the Haredim guide to parenting (and you will want to after listening to this piece DJ did for the Today programme with Kevin Connolly about groups of ultra-orthodox Jews hurling abuse, and worse, at young girls at a school just outside Jerusalem), I'm thinking the flak jacket Jerusalem workout could be my ticket finally to cash in on the lucrative new parent market.

Sukkot and Christmas

The Sukkah at the Gilat Shalit vigil

AT THE risk of offending two faiths in one swoop, I've decided Sukkot feels a lot like Christmas. The emphasis is on eating and drinking and the sukkah decorations - the paper chains and gaudy metallic garlands adorning the temporary shelters that have popped up in every available bit of outdoor space - are just like the ones festooning homes throughout December. The sukkah itself, with its palm frond thatched roof and flimsy walls, might have its roots firmly in the Old Testament but is distinctly Bethlehem stable if you ask me. Then there's the "lulav" - those palm fronds: all the talk here has been of crop fails and escalating prices because the post-Arab Spring Egyptians have refused to meet demand (handily fitting neatly into the Israeli isolation story Daddy J is working on in Istanbul for Today as I type). All very reminiscent of Christmas tree price hike stories (seriously, I swear we paid £60 for ours last year), even if Britain hasn't fallen out with Norway.

Everyone in their Sukkot best for the Temple today reminded me of the few trips I have made to church on the 25th, with people dressed up in their new outfits. The one glaring difference is I've never seen the streets of London congested with people spilling out of church the way that Jerusalem's city centre was today after late morning prayers. Again, I was astounded at the high proportion of Americans: the airlines must have cleaned up with ticket prices last week. And walking through town, on our way to the park, the air reverberated with the noise of people clinking dish upon dish out to their sukkah (as instructed by Moses, meals have to be taken in the sukkah for the duration of Sukkot). I half expected to hear the Queen start talking after they'd done eating.

Once in the park, Gan Sacher, the city's largest and just up the hill from the Knesset, the vibe was distinctly secular, with groups of Russians competing to out-shashlik each other with their BBQs. Until, that is, a group of proselytising Haredim turned up, lulav and etrogs in hand. One by one, they went round all the picnickers around us, making them do the Sukkot thing of waving the lulav around. Funnily enough, they gave us a miss. Which means we still need to seek out one of the many sukkot erected by the city's Kosher restaurants: Louis is desperate to join in somehow so I've promised we'll find a falafel or such like to eat under the palm fronds. Either that or perhaps we can pick some up half price and build that indoor camp after all.