It is not the volume of traffic, much less the issue of distance, that puts a pair of dents each day into the life of Mouse Hindi.I
It is the city of Jerusalem.
"There is no limit to the time it takes," says the 40-year-old Palestinian consulting engineer. "It could take two hours. It could take three hours. We don't know."
The round-faced husband and father of five is talking about the daily journey he makes from his home in Beit Sahour near Bethlehem to his office in Ramallah.
Both communities are located in the Palestinian territory known as the West Bank, and only a modest expanse of real estate divides them.
If he could make the trip in a fairly straight line, as used to be the case, Hindi would need to travel just 30 kilometres between his house and his place of work, a journey that would last about half an hour, depending on the traffic. But because of Israeli security concerns and other stern political verities, he cannot do that any more.
For Hindi, as for most Palestinians in the West Bank, getting from point A to point B in the land they call home has become an arduous and unpredictable ordeal.
On this route, between Bethlehem and Ramallah, there stands what has become a formidable obstacle, a topsy-turvy conglomeration of limestone buildings and human beings that is known in Arabic as Al-Quds, in Hebrew as Yerushalayim, and in English as Jerusalem.
For most West Bank Palestinians, the holy city is forbidden territory.
"People can come from anywhere in the world and go to Jerusalem," says Hindi, "but I cannot."
In order to travel from Bethlehem to Ramallah, or vice-versa, it is nowadays forbidden for most Palestinians to travel through Jerusalem, as once they could.
Instead, in compliance with Israeli security restrictions, they have to go around the city, and that is a much longer trip.
What's more, the journey is nowadays punctuated by three permanent checkpoints operated by Israeli authorities, in addition to temporary checkpoints that appear one day and disappear the next.
It's a good thing the scenery is so striking: a Middle Eastern collage of Bedouin Arab encampments scattered along the banks of ancient wadis, of pine groves clinging to broad stony hillsides, of slender minarets poking above limestone villages clustered, like so many sun-baked Lego bricks, upon the nearly treeless slopes of a storied land.
But even gorgeous vistas can grow tiresome over the course of time.
"Before, we could travel freely," says Hindi. "Now, we are going more than 180 degrees around Jerusalem." As a result, what was once a straightforward trek has become a circuitous journey that costs about $4.50 each way and extends more than 50 kilometres.
"I checked it in my car," says Hindi. But the Palestinian entrepreneur does not make the trip by car any longer. He travels by minibus, partly because he feels more secure having travelling companions close at hand. He confides that he once wound up in an Israeli prison after being arrested without explanation at the Jordanian border.
That was in 1997, and he was released after three months without ever being charged. Understandably, the experience has left him wary of travelling alone.
Right now, Hindi is ensconced in the rear seat of a yellow Ford diesel minibus piloted by 31-year-old Jihad Esmekha. The bus is pulling out of the central terminal in Ramallah, with six other passengers.
It is 8:45 on a weekday morning and, rather than going to work, Hindi is heading home after spending the night on a cot in his office, a familiar experience for him.
"Last night, I worked until 9:30," he explains. At that hour, there is no point in even trying to get from Ramallah to Bethlehem. "Unfortunately, there is no transportation."
Now, sporting 24 hours' worth of dark stubble, Hindi is heading home to Beit Sahour to freshen up before keeping a midday business appointment not far from his house, which he shares with his children and his Filipina wife, Rosemary, whom he met while studying for his engineering degree in Manila during the 1980s.
After departing Ramallah, the bus follows a succession of arteries before turning onto Highway 437, which meanders first south and then southeast. At the junction with Highway 1, the bus swings right and bears southwest, before peeling off onto Route 417 toward the town of Bethany. Here, the vehicle turns due south on to the first of a series of narrow, winding byways.
Already, the bus has passed through two Israeli checkpoints without a hitch. Only one remains, the oddly named "Container" checkpoint near the Arab village of Al-Sawahreh Al-Sharkia. (The checkpoint is so called because a local merchant once operated a business in a shipping container near this spot.) Here, there is a hold-up, but it lasts only 15 minutes or so.
During the slowdown, Hindi climbs out of the minibus to stroll alongside the vehicle as it creeps forward in a long queue. Meanwhile, he enjoys a morning cigarette in the blazing sunshine.
Beyond this checkpoint, the journey continues along the Valley of Fire Rd., an impossibly serpentine route that eventually winds past the town of Al-Ubeidiya and veers west toward Bethlehem.
Hindi is at last deposited near his home in Beit Sahour at precisely 10:05 a.m., following a journey that has lasted one hour and 20 minutes – a quick pace until you consider that, on a good day with little traffic, he used to be able to make the same trip in half an hour or so.
But he is pleased.
"This is my lucky day," he says.
And maybe it is.
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