Settlements and road blocks

                                             An Israeli road block outside Nablus

Fifteen minutes cycling from Nablus and a barrier erected by the IDF is before us. This has been erected to disrupt Palestinian traffic flow between the major cities of Nablus and Qualquilya. It is also here so that armed police can monitor who uses the roads nearest to the settlements littering the landscape. Stone blocks and rubble make the road impassable to vehicles. Our laready over laden support van, must go perilously down a bracken strewn verge then attempt to climb an even steeper incline to the road on the other side. Our cyclists, steer their way through the obstruction. From this point on, until the suburbs of Nablus, Alex will ride in the van for safety. This is Jewish bandit country, not even children are safe on the roads or in the fields here.

The olive grove that the van must detour into, is sheltering a Palestinian farming family. In the mid morning heat, they share bread and water, sheltered by the trees, whose fruit has been their income for generations. 

No sooner have the Q boys and our team crossed the obstruction point, an Israeli police car winds its way down the twisting road towards us. A collective breath is silently held. 100 m ahead is a left hand turn into a settlement, the signs are once again in three languages; Hebrew, English and finally Arabic. The police give us the once over and drive away. It has been a short but steep climb, the cyclists pause in order to close ranks, if one person is somehow left it could be dangerous for them here. Suddenly a grey car turns towards the settlement road on our left. The driver has the curls of a settler, he takes an instant dislike to the dark skinned, local boys. Leans out of his window and demands 'where are you from? What are you doing here?' All the boys speak enough Hebrew to understand and respond. Palestinian children are used to being interrogated in that language, it's just daily life for them. Their body language is alert, but not aggressive. They are watching our for one another. They must not react with even a raised voice no matter what the settler says to them, to do so will mean arrest in minutes. And what that leads to I have no space here to write. But it ain't good.

'Qualquilya' repeats the settler 'Qualquilya.' He drives ten metres then stops, leans out of the car and stares back at their line. Another ten metres and he begins to do a u-turn. Trouble.

It is not uncommon for young Palestinians to be attacked by adult settlers, driven off the roads, stoned, verbally abused. I am filming, from the van as the settler heads back towards the boys he spots the van, sees 'white' faces and the camera and stops. Settlers hate video cameras. He drives away doubtless to inform his comrades of our presence. 

Meanwhile, Alex is curled up at my feet, she refuses to get up. We have been in Palestine nearly a week and she has been met with love and friendship until now. Until the settlements.

The next Arab village is Funduk, a donkey cart, the first I have seen trundles past us. Funduk is a farming shanty village that is surrounded by 13 settlements. Sheep, hot and stained, clanging bells, sweep amongst us. It is time for a mid morning pause. We stop and eat fresh dates from crates, handed out by the boys from Qualquilya. We are in a garden centre whose Arcacia trees drip brown seed pods, called Haroub. A dry, crunchy version of peas that donkeys and goats go mad for. 

Hamsa, 18, plays Arabic pop on his mobile phone ( a better phone than mine by a long chalk). Three bikes are damaged and undergo repairs by the road side. Brakes are coming unhinged on the bumpy downhill slopes. Lord knows how many punctures we have had so far. Most of them having happened to Simon, from London, whose bike has given him nothing but grief since Amman. The Q captain and men from Peace Cycle exchange skills and equipment freely until the job is done in double time.

The winding countryside is behind us for now. What lies ahead into Qualquilya is a wide, nearly new motorway, a shared on this, used by both local Palestinians, settlers, Israeli police and soldiers. Quamre Shalom, is a vast settlement on our left (I need to check the exact name as I've lost my map, but will amend any fault soon). We are in a new world of barbed, wire, watchtowers, or razor wire and electric fences. The cycling is blissfully flat or gently downhill, it's the happiest section we slower riders have enjoyed. Pity about the looming concentration camps that Jewish settlers have chosen to cage themself into. It really strikes me forcefully being out in the open right next to them how strange it is that anyone seeking 'security' or 'freedom' much less 'peace' should choose to live on stolen land in armed cages. We are monitored by cameras, as we glide pass the mile on mile of fences seperating the 'them' from the 'us' of this scarred land. Cars beep us, some in salute to our Peace cycle dayglo vests, some irritated at our being on the road at all. At the Nablus checkpoint we use, two bored young soldiers lull, talking into their mobile phones. They are, it seems, not on high alert for so called 'terror' attacks. So why are they here at all I wonder?

Yousef, the lead cyclists has us all pull over to the sandy side of the road. Hamed, one of the Q boys comes over to me and stamps his foot, back erect, beaming smile in place 'Now Qualquilya' he says 'Welcome Home.'

Having had very low expectations of what this city, entirely circled by Israel's Apartheid wall, would look like, I am pleasantly gob smacked, by the prettiness of Qualquilya. 

But for for all its loveliness and suburban investment Qualquilya is dying, being strangled by the wall. It's population peaked at over 150,000 a decade ago. It is now less than half that despite a booming birth rate. 

More later got to go.