Two worlds
Pulling his finger out of his nose, the toddler turns around and notices that mom is still several steps behind, trying to manage the baby cart and her burka. He matter-of-factly goes back, and then runs forward again, the airport floor echoing with his pitter-patter. This brings out the best in him, and he does it again, for the pure delight of Sound. Meanwhile, the exit door is crowded with taxi drivers and tourism bus drivers trying to collect potential passengers. It's been a bad season, so they are more intense, even in their hawking and spitting. As we swirl away in a cloud of dust, our swarthy driver hides between dark glasses in spite of the cloudy day, giving an intentional aura of bravado, however corny. On the rocky slopes to our left someone has bothered to write "Komando" with white stones, large enough to be seen from the air. We whiz past farm houses crumbling next to tired olive trees dwarfed by the new, huge, glass, gaudy and contrasting storefronts with names like My Straight Arrow Furniture, The Soldier Nation Grocery Store, and My Own War Hero Electric Shop. Watermelon University slips by on the right in a maze of new palm trees, while we pass three cows huddled miserably together in the open back of an old truck. The sense of people comfortable to roll up their sleeves and pick a fight hovers against and almost sephia-like background of real farmer snapshots, tough, alone, in the field, or housewife covered head to toe, hands on her hips. We-Are-Above All-Others Taxi service passes us and the driver spits comfortably out the window, almost in threat to our shady driver. Naturally, we accelerate.
A fighter jet splits sound over our head at a stop light, but is invisible against the curtain of mimosa and palm and gone too soon to identify. No one even bothers to look up. It's too normal. Anyhow, our driver pulls to a sharp contemptuous stop moments later, dumps our bags, takes our cash without a word and careens away. The fact that he had to carry infidel that were heading towards a border crossing with his enemy is made only barely tolerable by our filthy luker.
As we near passport control, and the burkas and dark colors give way to shops selling ham and cheese and playing cheerful music, we notice that marketing is alive and well, complete with all it's sexuality. Even selling winter sweaters is provocative, somehow. Suddenly foreign women are everywhere. This region has the sad claim to fame of the highest trafficking per capita on the continent. It also becomes apparent that it is just as easy for the men from burka land to slip across the border to use the women being trafficked, as it is for those who rub shoulders with them at the grocery store. Moments later a skinny little Thai woman in extra high heels and tights comes up to the curb on her bike. Groceries hang from the handlebar, and the bike falls over when she tries to make it stand. Moving forward in the natural response of assistance I am struck by her courage, fully a quarter of a world away. Her quick movements to collect her fallen wares carries no self-pity or self-centeredness. Before I can reach her a local couple have been to help, and laughing together, the bike is soon standing, and the grocery collected neatly. They continue the conversation, like fellow university students comparing notes. Meanwhile, three men with dirty eyes from across the border have scanned her head to foot, scowling.
The contrast and it's fruit in the two worlds is unmistakable. The couple and the Thai girl board the bus together, but not before I hear them learning that they share a neighborhood, and invite the girl to their Tuesday evening life group. "We have food and fun together, us neighbors." the wife says, "And you're welcome. We study the Bible, and find it helps us answer some of life's questions." "Oh, I would like that!" she responds with a smile, "I've heard about the Bible, but never seen one. Thank you, I'll come"