Diamonds are for ever...

So, I'm in Ramat Gan this morning, looking for the Jordanian Embassy (more on that later), and this neat looking chap in a Tommy Hilfiger V-neck sweater and slacks sidles up to me.

'Where are you from?' he asks.

'England.' Yes, I know, not strictly speaking true - but I did have my English pasport in my pocket at the time...subliminal association, I suppose.

'So you must like football then. Which team do you follow?' Actually, this presumption is made about Nigerians all the time too, so nothing new there. So we start talking about Avraham Grant and Ben Sahar, and I'm waiting for the strangeness to happen. It always does - people do not come to talk to me on the street apropos of nothing...

'England is a nice place. One of us' - he jerks his head behind him, towards the diamond exchange - 'just moved there.'

It took me a minute to realise that he was talking about him. And there I was, thinking that he was talking about one of his mates.

Anyway, the conversation circles around for another minute or two, and I tell him that I have family in Nigeria. He brightens immediately. 'You have diamonds in Nigeria?'

I shake my head sadly. No diamonds. A bit of Gold. A lot of Oil, but that's been more trouble than it's been worth, frankly...

He puts his hand around my shoulders paternally, and begins to confide in me. Times are bad in the Diamond industry in Israel. India is undercutting the industrial diamond market. The South Africans are keeping everything in house. 'Guys are desperate for connections...'

I tell him, regretfully, that I have no connections in this area. Or in any other, frankly, but that's neither here nor there.

He shakes his head, and tells me not to worry. 'Keep your eyes open. You know people there' - gesticulating with his head, I suppose, in the general direction of Africa Central. 'There are people here who would pay you if you help them make connections anywhere in Africa.'

We exchange numbers and I bid him farewell. Things MUST be bad if he thinks I can set him up with his next hit. I mean, the only thing I know about diamonds is this

I'm guessing that this is not the shit he needs to hear from me. Never mind.

The Jordanian Embassy is refreshingly old school. The receptionist was smoking - I didn't think that one was allowed to do that stuff indoors anymore - and took my phone away from me before I was allowed to enter. I was a bit puzzled at first, but when he asked me if I had a camera, I figured out that it was a Security thing.

There were about thirty coupled portraits of the Kings Hussain and Abdullah. The decor was very 1970s Soviet waiting room - serge carpets and office chairs in abundance. The desk had a glass pane with holes cut out to speak and exchange documents. On the other hand, I got the visa in half an hour, so I shouldn't complain, should I?

So, I'm off for a trek in the Jordanian Desert at the end of the month. I don't do the great outdoors very well, though...wonder how I can wriggle out of it?

The Street

I've never really understood why foreign journalists in this part of the world are so obsessed with what the man on the street thinks about everything and anything.

Take this Annapolis thingymajig that's going on at the moment. Sky, BBC World, France 24 and the Chinese English News Network whose name I have forgotten have all done reports today with reporters strategically placed at intersections (possibly the same one) and jerking their heads backward epileptically whilst they intone solemnly that the word on the street is good/bad/dreadful.

The problem with this is that the Man on the Street probably knows better than to tell the Journalist on the Street what he thinks about anything. In any case, what the Man on the Street tells the Journalist on the Street will differ significantly from what he will tell his Mate in the Pub (this is known where I come from as Beer Palour Analysis - similar in function to Armchair Generals and Monday Morning Quaterbacks), and this in turn would differ from what he tells The Wife at Home (this is the Under the Thumb syndrome - all men suffer from it to some degree, and will tell their wives anything they want to hear in return for a little peace and quiet).

But then, I really don't know why journalists go touting for political opinion on the street when there is some much more interesting shit going on that actually gives one some idea about the country that one is in.

For example:

I'm walking home yesterday with my son, and we get into an argument about his socks.

(Note - it really isn't worth arguing with an 11 month old about keeping his socks on, particularly when he wants to eat them)

This woman walks up to us, passes us, then drifts back again...

'He's your son?' she asks (in Hebrew)

I nod.

'Baruch HaShem' (Blessed be His name - similar to 'Praise Be!')

I smile.

'Where are you from?'

I'm used to this line of questioning. Happens all the time. I tell her.

'Are you looking for work?'

'Huh?' My Hebrew, at best, is bad. I misunderstood her, and thought that she was telling me that she was looking for work. Why anyone would think I could help with that is beyond me.

'You know' (still in Hebrew) 'Cleaner...cleaning work...are you interested?'

The penny drops. I tell her, as nicely as I can, that I am not looking for work.

She looks crestfallen. 'Are you sure'

I nod slowly. 'Very sure.'

She returns her attention to my son. 'He's white!'

Now this is not, strictly speaking, true. My son is mixed race, or bi-racial, or whatever the socially acceptable description is this week for a child who happens to have two parents from different parts of the world. So He is not as dark as me. Neither is he as white as his mother. But mixed race kids are a rarity in Israel.

I nod, slowly. I start to edge away, but the wretched child picks this moment to throw off his socks triumphantly and on to the ground. I bend to pck them up.

'Where is his mother from?'

In any other country, in any other part of the world, I would consider this question bloody impertinent and forward. Here, I just answer. 'She's Israeli'

'Ahh'. She goes silent for a moment. 'And her parents?'

Now, this stumps me. Why on earth would she want to know where my wife's parents come from. I presume that she misunderstood me, and then I misunderstood he, and she was asking where the wife came from again.

'I said, she's Israeli.'

'No!' she snaps impatiently. 'Her parents! Yemenite, Moroccan, Algerian...'

Ah. I tell her that my wife's mother has Polish roots, and her father German.

She falls silent again. I start to edge away, the son's socks in my pockets. Then she starts again.

'Are you Jewish?'

I suppose it is not immediately obvious that I am NOT Jewish. Whilst I am not Kippa and Tefilim wearing, there are plenty of secular Jews from Ethiopia and so on. I give her benefit of the doubt. 'Nope'

'Why?' She now looks as if she is about to cry? Dear Jesus (actually, he may not be the right deity to call upon at the moment, but never mind...)

'I dunno. Ein Li Emmunah'. I have no Faith.

'But he (pointing at my sock munching son) he is, isn't he?' This is more a statement than a question.

Technically, I suppose he is Jewish, although I do think it would be nice if he had some say in it at some point in time in his life. But never mind. We Catholics are just the same.

'Yes, he is.'

'Baruch HaShem! Baruch Adonai!' She had finally fond something to be pleased about.

I bid my farewell and fled before she asked to check if he had done his Brit Miliah.

Now, haven't your learned more about this country than you would from a whole phlanx of head jerking BBC foreign correspondents? Thought so.

Next time, I'll tell you about the man who insisted on showing me a porn film in the street in the middle of the day...