Tel-Aviv-Bus

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L L I ( I i v H L O U H D I II I IUI I
Carl Hoffman | Photography by Abba Richman
5:35 R.m.
It's Sunday, August 13th. I'm sitting in a big green,
oppressively over-air conditioned Egged commuter bus
rolling through the empty streets of Tel Aviv, headed
toward the Tachanat Mercazk Cbadasba, the New Cen­
tral Bus Station. Covering nearly 11 acres, it's reputed
to be the world's largest bus depot. When it opened its
doors in 1993, it was called "a white elephant," "an
urban planning disaster," "a gigantic concrete bunker"
and "the epicenter of urban blight," among other com­
pliments. It's a cavernous, multilevel colossus festooned
with escalators, ramps and stairways as far as the eye
can see. Seven floors hold more than 1,000 shops,
restaurants, stands and kiosks; God knows how many
small offices, a number of them empty and unrentable;
two synagogues that I know of, almost 30 escalators (of
which maybe 10 actually work); 13 passenger and
freight elevators—not to mention four levels of local
and intercity bus platforms. Originally designed in the
mid-1960s, its construction was delayed for more than
two decades by money shortages, neighborhood oppo­
sition, political battles and an endless cascade of law­
suits. The station represents a bygone era of urban
renewal at its worst.
Love is blind, however, and I happen to think that
the New Central Bus Station is beautiful. Perhaps no
place else in Israel offers as much to see, hear, smell,
taste and touch—and so many moods and sensations.
Here you have the whole of Israel under one vast roof.
5=53 n.m.
My bus from Raanana, a northern suburb of Tel Aviv,
claws its way up a long, winding ramp and drops off its
sleepy passengers at an entrance to the intercity bus
terminal on the sixth floor. I walk stiffly toward the end
of a short but slow-moving security line. Queuing with
me are two early-bird commuters; one mumbling old
lady schlepping a battered two-wheeled shopping cart;
three young soldiers—two boys, one girl—toting back­
packs and M-16s; an attractive young woman in very
short shorts and a tank-top that exposes two colorful
tattoos on a suntanned midriff; and an ultra-Orthodox
Chabadnik whose eyes are riveted on a small black
prayer book in his right hand as he resolutely denies
himself a glance at the stvmning girl. Instead, he rocks
back and forth in prayer, his left hand clenched in a
tight fist.
The security guard waves the three young soldiers
through; the rest of us wait patiently for our turn to
be searched. My two teenaged kids, Daniel in the army
and Rachel still in high school, are part of the "Age of
Terrorism" generation and cannot believe that it was
once possible to stroll casually up to a public place,
open the door and just go in. They cannot compre­
hend that one could do this at airports, shopping malls,
banks, schools, hospitals, libraries, post offices, cafes,
theaters—even government buildings. When we
moved to Israel in 1997, people simply walked into this
bus station without being frisked.
My musing ends abruptly as I reach the security guard.
About 20 years old, no doubt fresh out of the army,
she is reed-thin and stands around five feet tall. Her
long hair is in dreadlocks, numerous hoops and studs
adorn both ears, a gold nose-ring glints and sparkles
above her left nostril and a small tattooed cross shows
faintly in the very dark brown skin of her forehead.
Like most of the station's security guards these days,
she is Ethiopian. A few years back, these guards were
mostly Russian immigrants, but the Russians "moved
up," leaving many of their old jobs to be filled by the
more recent arrivals from Ethiopia. The guard opens
my backpack, pokes and prods, runs a scanner up and
down my body, motions me into the building with a
sullen jerk of her thumb. I smile at her and say in my
best, albeit American-accented Hebrew, "Yarn tov loch,
achat sheli" ("A good day to you, my sister"). She stares
at me wide-eyed for a moment, breaks into a dazzling
smile and replies, "Vgam lecba, motek!" ("And to you, too,
sweetheart").
Usually I race through here later in the morning on
my way to the office, so rarely do I see the sixth floor
intercity bus terminal so eerily empty. Today, however, I
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MOMENT
49
ly, and asks, "Vatah"("Aj\d you?"). "Saba­ ing dark-complected teenage boys strut
I'm hungry again, but am too lazy to go
ba!" ("Cool") I reply in Arabic, like an
by, their wiry arms wrapped around even
downstairs. Instead, I lummox over to the
Israeli teenager. The young man eyes the
tougher-looking dark-complected girls.
food court and watch in mute admiration
burgeoning streaks of gray in my hair and
Both genders are tattooed, hair-gelled
as a burly young worker, wearing a knit­
beard and smirks as if to say, "Act your
and body-pierced—their ears, eyebrows,
ted Itippah on his shaved head, proceeds
age, brother!"
noses and navels glitter with gold rings
to stuff a piece of pita bread with three
I take my Levantine monster and a
and shimmering small chains. Children
plump falafel balls, two huge ladles of
large Diet Coke to a nearby table and
and grandchildren of immigrants from
chopped salad vegetables, a dipper of
begin to eat. I wonder how many more
North Africa and the Middle East, they
tehina and another of red pepper hot
years I need to live in this country before
swarm out of buses from Jaffa, Bat Yam,
sauce, plus chopped onions, four pieces of
I figure out how to keep the bottom of
Holon, Lod and Ramie for a hot night of
sliced pickle, a handful of French fries and
the pita from splitting open and disgorg­
fun in Tel Aviv. Ethiopian teenage boys—
a flaming hot green chili pepper he slips in
ing its tasty contents all over my tray,
children of shepherds from Gondar and
while I am busy counting out money.
paper napkins and the table—not to men­
Kuwara who either were airlifted here or
"Mah matsav V ach shell?" ("What's up tion my shirt and lap.
walked through Sudan to get to Israel—
with my brother?"), I ask, in my best
congregate loudly in the food court, all
attempt at Hebrew hipness. "Baruch
dressed identically in baggy "gangsta"
Hashem, ani noshem" ("Thank God, I'm Two words describe the station's night
still breathing"), he replies good-natured­ shift: "young" and "frisky." Tough-look­
Hip-Hop clothes as seen on MTV.
Boisterous groups of well-fed, fair-
Commemorate
a lifetime of
g o o d w o r k or
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r e m a i n i n d e p e n d e n t a n d p r o m o t i n g c r i t i c a l t h i n k i n g — w h i c h is c r u c i a l t o t h e s u r v i v a l o f
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Any bequest—large or small—makes a difference.
Please call or (202) 363-6422
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O C T O B E R
2006
/
MOMENT
73
skinned teenagers arrive from upscale
iltHiUJ
himself a smile and tells me that I'm
Raanana, Herzliya, Ramat Hasharon and
The appearance of two young men walk­
probably not a terrorist scoping out the
North Tel Aviv with JanSport backpacks,
ing arm in arm—one with a Mohawk, the
place for a future attack, but one can't be
North Face camping gear and Nike hik­
other with some of his hair dyed into two
too careful. I put the camera back in my
ing shoes. They are bound for every point
blond stripes—reminds me that I have a
pocket, feeling foolish that a burly guy
of the compass, including the north.
small digital camera with me. I dig it out
with a walkie-talkie should have to
Katyusha rockets continue to fall, but
of my pocket and shoot two pictures
remind me of this.
buses continue to leave for Haifa,
before a young security guard material­
Nahariya, Kiryat Shemona and Safed.
izes from nowhere and tells me to stop.
Looking me up and down, he permits
Infected by the frenetic atmosphere, I get
up off my bench and make one last cir­
cuit. The whole wonderful,- dazzling
tableau reminds me of something, but I
cannot remember what. Then it hits me.
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The bus station and its teeming night
shift remind me of the surreal, apocalyp­
tic street scenes of "Western-societygone-mad" in the sci-fi '80s movie, Blade
Runner. I return to my bench to find it
occupied by a young Orthodox couple on
a date.
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Almost every specimen of humanity is
now in evidence—young and old; rich
ly religious and garishly secular, soldiers
and civilians, citizens and tourists, native
sabras and recent immigrants from Lon­
don, Paris and Teaneck, New Jersey.
Only one group is missing. Through­
out the day I have not seen any Arabs.
This is not surprising. In 2002, a female
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of the world's bus stations, this one clos­
es down for the night. Sort of. Some—
beggars, street people and even an
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guards are polite but firm as they usher
people out of the building. Unlike most
occasional backpacking tourist—manage
to find dark corners in seldom-trod places
to spread out for the night.
My own tired body instinctively staggers
out onto Levinsky Street and toward a taxi.
^29/year
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Sitting in front next to the driver—an Israeli
custom to which I am still adjusting—I
crane my neck for an elusive glimpse of the
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exterior of the New Central Bus Station.
Despite its almost biblical proportions,
there is virtually no angle from which you
can see it from a distance. Ringed closely on
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all sides by the crowded, poor neighbor­
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invisible until you are right up against it.
Even then, only a small sliver appears. Real­
izing that I have no idea what the entire
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O C T O B E R
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"I
building looks like from the outside I sleep­
ily make a mental note: Get rich, buy a hel­
icopter and fly over the bus station. ©
am going nowhere but here and have all day. I get
myself a nice hot, fresh-out-of-the-oven bagel, a
schmear of cream cheese and a cup of black coffee and
look for a hard iron bench to hunker down on. As I
consume my breakfast, young soldiers are pouring out
of buses, taxis and parents' cars in a hurry. Within min­
utes, the terminal has been enveloped by a wave of
olive green.
Israel, as every guidebook solemnly relates, is a small
country. It is, in fact, small enough for the young men
and women who fight wars in Gaza and Lebanon to
come home on the weekend, usually with enormous
duffel bags stuffed with dirty clothes for the warriors'
moms to tend to. On Sunday, the start of Israel's work
week, they're all due back—back to base, back to active
duty. On this particular Sunday, some are due back to war.
The soldiers are still arriving with no apparent end,
their usual numbers swollen by thousands of reservists
called up for a possible tour of Lebanon and an
exchange of greetings with Hezbollah, our neighbors
to the north. Unlike the regular soldiers, who are in
their late teens and early 20s, the reservists are all men,
some as old as 45, torn from families and jobs. As
always in this tense nation, everyone is either smoking
C T O B E R
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cigarettes, chewing gum or talking loudly on cell
phones. The sentence I make out most often is, "Ech?
ECWAni lo shamatiP' ("What? WHAT? I didn't hear
you!"). I take out my own phone and call my son, who
was inducted into the army last March and is now in
a tank corps on extended wartime duty "somewhere up
north." The recorded voice at the other end of the line
bids me to leave a message. At the sound of the beep,
I tell him that I love and miss him.
B:30 H.r
The wave of soldiers ebbs and merges with the rising
tide of morning commuters who rush in every direc­
tion. With the exception of a few teenagers and all the
tourists—who sport expensive-looking packs and hik­
ing boots—virtually everyone passing through the sta­
tion is "working class" or lower. Better-off" Israelis long
ago deserted the country's vast bus network. I vow to
someday spend a day observing Israel's high end by
staking out the departure lounge at Ben-Gurion Inter­
national Airport.
A boisterous group of elderly Ethiopians approach­
es. I hear them before they come into view. Such clus­
ters have become a particularly colorful fixture of the
station over the past 10 years. The old women wear
long dresses, cotton shawls and head turbans; the old
found on the bima of an Orthodox synagogue during
men, fedoras and sport jackets over their white cotton
weekday prayers. I drop a shekel (about 25 cents) in
robes. They wander from one bus platform to the next,
his tzedaka box, wishing the old man "mazal u'baruch"
shouting at one another in shrill voices. I think they
("luck and blessing"). He wishes me "harbeh bruit"
are trying to decipher the signboards.
("much health") in return.
The station resonates with the babble of Israeli
The ranks of beggars grew during the last four years
Hebrew, the accented Hebrew of the country's numer­
of recession, when massive unemployment and gov­
ous immigrants and visitors, and foreign languages—
ernment cutbacks to social programs plunged many
Russian, French, Spanish, English, Romanian, several
people at the bottom rungs from the lower-middle
Philippine dialects, Nepalese, Sinhalese, Thai and
class into outright poverty. The stronger economy of
Tamil. Arabic too. Words like ahlan (hi), yalla (bye),
achia (excellent), and sababa (cool or, as we used to say, this past year has reabsorbed most of the newcomers,
once again leaving the station to its "regulars."
groovy) float through the air. The people speaking
these words are young Israelis under the age of 30, in
and out of uniform. Their already slang-ridden speech
has been further enriched by these Arabic infiltrations,
The station resonates with the babble of
to the dismay of linguistic purists.
The plethora of languages is exceeded only by the
variety of smells: hot dogs turning on a nearby kiosk's
rotating grill; floor disinfectant, heavily laden with
ammonia; an old lady's cheap perfume, a young man's
hair gel; pizza, coffee and freshly baked bread; scents
of soap; the sudden, overpowering blast of underarm
odor from a couple of backpackers. And overlying it
all—like a moldy old bedspread that never gets
washed—is the unabated haze of cigarette smoke. I
consider stepping outside onto a bus platform for a
breath of fresh air, then remember the heat and exhaust
fumes and decide to stay inside. At least it's somewhat
air conditioned in here.
The various morning rushes have ended, revealing a
sector of Israeli society heretofore obscured by the
crowds. The sixth floor intercity bus terminal is now a
quiet haven for an assortment of panhandlers. Some
are what might be called "working beggars," who come
to the station every morning as though they were
going to a job, and move through the surging crowds
to ask for charity. Others—alcoholic, drug-addicted or
mentally ill—appear too far gone to ask anyone for
anything. They simply shuffle from trash can to trash
can, scavenging for food to eat, cigarette butts to smoke
and half-empty bottles of soft drinks to finish off on
the spot.
Israeli Hebrew, the accented Hebrew of
the country's numerous immigrants and
visitors, and foreign languages—Russ­
ian, French, Spanish, English, Romanian,
several Philippine dialects, Nepalese,
Sinhalese, Thai and Tamil. Arabic too.
Words like ah/an (hi), yalla (bye), achla
(excellent), and sababa (cool or, as we
used to say, groovy) float through the
air. The people speaking these words
are young Israelis under the age of 30,
in and out of uniform. Their already
slang-ridden speech has been further
enriched by these Arabic infiltrations, to
the dismay of linguistic purists.
Of the "workers," I am especially fond of two old
men. One, in a threadbare tNveed cap and suit, "sells"
The men's rooms here are remarkably clean. They
small packets of women's cosmetics; the other, in a
could hardly be otherwise, as each is under the stern,
black velvet yarmulke and a faded striped shirt, offers
blessings ("Rejuah sblema, siata tavcT). The blessing-sell­watchful command of a uniformed bathroom "main­
er walks around with a tzedaka box like those usually tenance engineer"—always female, always Russian—
O C T O B E R
2006
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MOMENT
51
As always, the Russian matron stands in
the middle of "her" men's room, lurking
amid the stalls and urinals. Invariably
large and intimidating, these women
clutch their mops like weapons and
of deadly-looking "camping knives" makes me slightly
nervous. There are music stands blaring different
American hip-hop songs, all barking the word "fuck"
over and over. The boys are entranced, but I escape
into a corridor lined with beauty salons and tattoo par­
lors. The salons are filled with Filipino women, the
parlors with young Israelis. Finally, I emerge at a famil­
iar line of bakeries selling stale pastry and take an esca­
lator up one floor to Sbarro's, where I feast on anchovy
pizza and Diet Coke.
rarely shy from critiquing the fine points
of patrons' bathroom etiquette.
armed with rubber gloves, bucket and mop. I insert a
shekel into a coin box by the entrance and mutter a
silent prayer of thanks as it successfully causes the
turnstile to move and admit me. Sometimes this works,
sometimes it doesn't. As always, the Russian matron
stands in the middle of "her" men's room, lurking amid
the stalls and urinals. Invariably large and intimidat­
ing, these women clutch their mops like weapons and
rarely shy from critiquing the fine points of patrons'
bathroom etiquette. The unfortunate objects of such
attention wither under the unforgiving glares. I leave
without incident, thinking that men's room mainte­
nance at the New Central Bus Station appears to be
one job that the Russians have not yet handed down
to others. At Ben-Gurion Airport, the men's bathrooms
are now watched over by Ethiopian women.
A food court on the sixth floor is home to a bunch of
stands selling the classic Israeli lunch of pita bread
stuffed with either falafel or shmvarma (strips of roast
meat that are traditionally lamb but are turkey here).
Today, however, I am in search of something Ameri­
can. That means finding a working escalator and
descending into the very bowels of the bus station.
I get off on the third floor, make a wrong turn and
immediately get lost. I follow a dark corridor lined
with Asian grocery stores, travel agencies, dating serv­
ices and employment companies—all packed with
mostly female Filipino workers. After walking awk­
wardly down a steep ramp, I find myself in a crowd­
ed, claustrophobic casbah of stands selling cheap
clothes, factory-second shoes and slightly damaged
housewares. A group of teenage boys ogling a display
52
O C T O B E R
2 0 0 6
Back on the sixth floor, I return to my strategically sit­
uated iron bench, resume my stakeout and quickly fall
asleep.
?:QS p.m.
My eyes open just as three large religious families
climb off a bus from Haifa. The young mothers are
trying to control some 16 kids—none older than five.
The young fathers bend and reach into the bus's lug­
gage compartment to unload suitcases, boxes, baby car­
riages, strollers, foldable cribs, large stuffed animals and
a tricycle.
Thousands of families like these have been fleeing
the north of Israel this past month to escape Hezbol­
lah's Katyusha rockets. All of them can look forward to
being received and cared for by an Israel I have never
seen before. It is a unified Israel, mobilized for war and
determined to keep up a proper "home front" while
our soldiers battle Hezbollah. Northerners are being
taken into families' homes throughout the center and
south—luggage, pets and all. Community bulletin
boards and email lists are full of doctors, dentists, psy­
chiatrists and lawyers offering northerners their serv­
ices for free. There are also free camps and day care,
free spa visits, free food, free clothes and free anything
else that people have to offer.
3:35 P . m .
Young Filipino women and men begin to cluster at
every bus departure platform on the sixth floor. Care­
givers for elderly, sick and handicapped Israelis, these
mostly Catholic guest workers have filled the jobs held
by Arabs before the intifada. Most are allowed one day
off a week, from Saturday evening to Sunday. Here, at
the intercity departure area, they are savoring the last
hours of free time, gossiping with friends in their native
tongues—Tagalog, Cebuano, Ilocano and Kapampangan—before boarding buses for another week of hard
work. Two diminutive women perch themselves on a
Logically one might expect the afternoon rush hour
bench near mine and begin to converse. They would
to look like the morning rush in reverse, but the mass
never suspect that I speak Tagalog, which I learned
exodus from Tel Aviv bears several striking differences.
while living in the Philippines and from my wife, a FilFor one, there are hardly any soldiers. For another, the
ipina who has converted to Judaism and is now devout­
ly Orthodox. "Magkano ang sweldo mo dyan sa trabahocommuters who charged through here this morning
looking clean and crisp are shuffling back exhausted.
vio?" ("How much is your salary there at your job?")
Few seem to be in any rush. Some stop at kiosks to
asks one woman. The other shrugs her shoulders and
buy ice cream or iced drinks. Others glance at the
replies, "Ay naku! Mababa lang! Bago long ako dito kasi."
screaming war headlines of Israel's major daily news­
("Agh! It's low! I'm still new here").
papers—Maariv, Yediot Ahronot and Haaretz—and gri­
On Saturday nights, the Filipinos own this place.
mace before walking away without buying one. Some
One can wander through the lower floors and see
stand while waiting for their buses; others plunk
nothing but young Filipinos, moving joyfully around a
themselves down onto benches. Absolutely no one
"Little Manila" of Filipino shops, grocery stores, trav­
talks. Israelis, thunderously gregarious among friends,
el agencies, Internet cafes, restaurants, nightclubs and
rarely strike up conversations with people they don't
discos. Many of these enterprises are owned by resi­
know. I've spent much of the last nine years wonder­
dent Filipinos—mostly women married to Israelis.
ing why.
Generally, the Israelis who walk by smile indulgently;
I doubt most of them know that the Philippines took
in more than 1,000 Jews during the Holocaust and has
been a good friend to Israel.
Confined on page 73