frances
lai
blown a
wayfarer
WAHAT AL-BATHAN
September 19
Hitting upwards of 35 C in mid-September, the invitation to a poolside BBQ was unquestionably alluring to us London folk, oh so susceptible to the indiscriminate heat. Yes, I realize that I hail from California, the Golden State of warmth and sunshine, but spending three years in chipper London fog may have affected my harmony with extreme summer climates a bit.
A jovial compatriot of ours from An-Najah happily took the reigns in generously organizing the event. His father a butcher, we were supplied with choice meats that were handsomely seasoned, accompanied by other Palestinian BBQ provisions, and everyone pitched in to cover the cost of food, transport, and entry.
We arrived to Wahat al-Bathan, what I could only describe as a pool park. Not at all like a water park where slides and wave pools can be found, instead this pleasure garden housed two large pools separated by gender and a few shallow ones for wading or dipping toes. The shallow pools were scattered in and around the picnic areas sheathed by ample tree cover, serving as a retreat for families where mothers could survey their children playing and tend to the afternoon meal, all the while profiting from the abundant shade.
The experts in the art of Palestinian BBQ let not a single minute escape in preparing the feast once we staked our picnic area. Bags of raw meat were immediately exhumed from their cool quarters and volunteers were requested to assemble the carnal clumps into recognizable barbeque formats. I enthusiastically assumed the role of amateur BBQ photographer. It may be because I’m easily sucked into a warp when gazing at food, but I really think that my nifty little sidekick is pretty good at rendering comestibles in an eye-catching and appetizing way, even when raw.
Light. Flame. Smoke. Increasingly surging smoke that gnaws at the edges of your eyes and assaults the membranes of your larynx. In anticipation of the bounty that enduring these smoking coals will bring, we began to equip the tables with all necessary feasting paraphernalia: newspaper table covers, disposable plates and cutlery, lots of soda, and an array of salads (though dishes that are considered salads here I would just call dips or sauces).
Subsisting on a meager student’s budget, the opportunity to eat your fill of meat is infrequent. My diet here is mainly comprised of bread and a lot of the same vegetables in different configurations; two weeks on and the total sum of meat I’ve eaten is probably equivalent to a single serving at home. With an appetite diminished from my days of gluttony in the West, I reached satiation after little more than a piece of Arab bread, or khubz, and all the fixings. That’s not to say it wasn’t scrumptious; I savored every last mouthful, and the custom of accompanying meat fresh off the grill with labn, unstrained yogurt, is a newfound favorite of mine that I will surely be importing home.
Some of the girls went for a swim in the segregated pool, where they were obliged to buy and wear swim caps. Thus, we were presented with yet another peculiar social convention, and we amused ourselves in trying to guess its purpose or origins. I thought maybe it was a health and cleanliness issue, and swim caps would prevent loose strands from ending up in unsightly places. However, upon reflection of the priority given to health and cleanliness in Palestinian society, I erupted in a poorly restrained guffaw. One of my schoolmates surmised that the swim cap requirement must correspond to the socially perceived notion that a woman brandishing wet locks in public promulgates her promiscuity in one of the most immodest manners conceivable. In such a conservative society, female modesty takes you farther than intelligence or thinking for yourself ever could.
Not too much could be said of the rest of the afternoon and evening. Unfortunately, our taxi bus had been scheduled to pick us up well after nightfall, when all the other picnickers had long gone and about seven hours after I was ready to go. That’s a key aspect of life here that somehow never gets mentioned in any of the briefing material: waiting around occupies most of the day. Sometimes you don’t even know what you’re waiting around for, or if it’ll ever come. My time in Palestine will definitely teach me something about patience. We attempted to fill the interval with games, but luckily one of the guys brought a percussion instrument and provided us with rhythms and chants instead to drown the wait.
