The Vendor

The Vendor

Afula bus station isn’t the most prestigious bus station in the country. Some might call it retro some might be more honest and call it bloody ugly, but whatever your feelings and architectural eye, you can still catch buses to all over Israel so its serves its purpose.

All bus stations in Israel (the old ones anyway), I think by law, must contain certain characteristics and characters. The ticket booth must be just a little too high to see the teller, get your ticket and retrieve any change before it falls to the street. The bus station must smell of fumes and falafel. Speaking of falafel there must be a least one independent falafel seller. There must be a group of at least 10 male soldiers sitting on a bench to fit two and another 10 sleeping under it. There must be at least two Arabs selling Jeans out of a plastic bag, a group of spiky haired pre-teens smoking, a gaggle of females soldiers, two beggars, two street peddlers selling bootlaces and string, one man collecting shekels outside the toilets and a hardedi family with 14 kids who are hopelessly lost. There must be one Habad rabbi asking if you would like to put on teffilin, two policemen, one security guard, one rubbish collector and 500 taxi drivers lurking around the exit.

Afula is no exception. A glimpse of all that is great in Israeli society, well maybe not.

I forgot one other character, the guy who sells telephone cards. But in Afula he was selling telephone tokens, you know asimonim, the special telephone tokens with the holes in. Now I know enough about business to know that since all phones use cards, asimonim aren’t exactly a growth business. But that’s where I was wrong.

So I walked over to the guy, sitting on the ground in his rags, smelling of anything but rose petals, and mentioned that none of the phones in the bust station use tokens and that maybe selling cards would be a better idea.

“Mind your own business”, he snapped. Fair enough I thought, I shouldn’t have interfered.

So I stood there watching him, wondering what on earth he hoped to achieve by sitting on the ground hoping to sell out of date tokens.

A little while later a group of school kids gathered round him, each one waving money in his face. Then another person and then another. OK, I thought, so I just learned a lesson in business. I went back over to him and apologized for my comments. I told him it actually was a clever business.

“Business”, he laughed (the laugh of a man that’s smoked 100 cigarettes a day since he was 5) “this isn’t business its nostalgia. I’m not in it for money. For 30 years I have sold asimonim, now they don’t use them anymore, I have over 1000 left in my store. All my life I sold them why should I stop now?”

Nostalgia, I thought. How sad. There he sits all day, a sad and downtrodden human being, ignored by the State, by his family, with no friends. This is all he has, a dream of a former life he refuses to let go.

Then for an instant I was 15 on holiday, walking through a bus station, I see an asimon vender, buy three and then thread them on a chain around my kneck.

I looked down at him, “I’ll have three please.”

The Sale

What could be simpler than buying a car. Well in Bet Shemesh I would say quantum physics, nuclear fission, mating pandas and honest politicians.

So here’s the story; The guy I bought the car off, bought it when he was a tourist for cash. He paid the tax and had an official white piece of paper proving that he was who he was, had done what he had done and all was kosher, kushti, safe, above board, transparent and most of all followed all the government regulations.

We agreed a price, shook hands and proceeded to the post office where they were supposed to stamp another piece of paper and we would sign, pay and run off into the sunset, he would take a cab and I would take my nearly new car.

Of course that’s no how it happened. The post office said that because he bought the car when he was a tourist we needed to go to the licensing office, which by the way was closed until tomorrow.

The next day.

With a price already agreed, hands shaken, we proceeded to licensing office where hopefully they would stamp another piece of paper and we would sign, pay and run off into the sunset, he would take a cab and I would take my nearly new car.

We waited patiently in line. We reached the front only for the very helpful young women to announce that she was only dealing with driving licenses at this point. “Why?” we asked, “because I am” she replied.

We waited patiently in line. We reached the front again. She asked to see our driving licenses. “They are ok”, she said rather irritanted. “We know” we replied, “we are here to transfer ownership of a car.” “But I told” she barked “only driving licenses.” “But there is nobody else here.” “Yes’, she practically shouted “but the computer is down so I cant help you.” “Why didn’t you mention this 45 minutes ago”. She saw red. “There is a sign on the door!”

We went to the door and there on floor in illegible scrawl was a notice that the computer was being repaired, come back tomorrow.

The next day.

With a price already agreed, hands shaken, we proceeded to licensing office where they would stamp another piece of paper and we would sign, pay and run off into the sunset, he would take a cab and I would take my nearly new car.

We could feel her scowl before we even entered the office. We reached the front of the line and explained why we are here and what we wanted.

“Why didn’t you do this at the post office?” she snapped. “Because they wouldn’t let us”. “Give me your ID cards.” “I don’t have one” said the seller, I am a tourist.” “Then you cant sell your car.” “But I have brought my passport and the bill of purchase.” She huffed and snorted. She looked at the passport, “that’s not you she shouted”, “yes it is”, the seller retorted, “but the numbers different she shouted”, “but I have this white piece of paper check”. Then absolute silence. Pay me this, go to the post office pay that then bring back this paper stamped.

“Do we both have to come back?” I asked cautiously, “no just one of you.” “Are you sure?” “Yes I am sure now go I am very busy.”

We ran to the post office, stamped, paid and signed, then I dropped him off and returned to the licensing office. Presented papers receipts etc. “Where is the other guy?” she snapped. “You told me only one of us has to come back.” “No I didn’t, get him, he has to sign here and pay this so I can stamp that.”

Three days, 80 kilometers of round trips, 5 hours of waiting in post offices and government offices, 6 stamps, some money and signatures and I have my new car.

My friend called me from the UK and told me he also bought a second hand car. It took him 15 minutes to do the transfer. I thought at that second maybe life would be better in the UK.

But who am I kidding?