Gunfire or celebration? And other fun games of international development

The vast majority of life is a choice between tears and laughter. I generally choose laughter, and especially when living here. You just have to. Plus, a lot of this stuff is actually quite funny.

Don't enjoy yourself too much. I've also added a few clutch ones from my time in Senegal and Morocco:

• Gunfire or celebration?

This is a great game to play when you hear random gun shots and just aren't quite sure if they signal the outbreak of civil war or the unison of a new married couple. It's even more fun in conflict zones, like the one I currently find myself in. My roommate and I played a slightly bug-eyed rendition of this very game last night!

• So how'd you get into the country?

This is a favorite amongst expats here-- the stories are generally quite colorful and everyone loves complaining about the airport. Some of my faves include telling the airport authorities about your Jewish boyfriend whose family wants you to see their homeland (mine), telling the airport authorities that your dad told you that your family might be Jewish and you wanted to come check it out to see (a friend's) and, my favorite of all time, telling the airport authorities that you're here to drink beer. Full stop (a friend of a friend's). It's also a great opportunity for peer to peer learning-- how else would I have known to switch my phone numbers from Palestinian to Israeli area codes before entering Ben Gurion??

• Let me try this passport...

It's not unusual at all here for people to carry various forms of ID the way teenage women in America carry various forms of lip gloss. I've seen friends pull four passports out of their blazer pockets without even batting an eyelid, fishing through for whichever country will be most pleasing to whatever security official we're about to encounter. Then there's the country ID, the residency permits, the visas...which becomes quite the shuffle when trying to enter say, Syria, where any sign of your feet ever touching the soil of Israel will get you a swift boot out the door. Even the gummy stuff on the back of your passport where you peeled off your Israeli security sticker will get you shown the exit. Now, that's when you use your second passport...

• Stop or no stop? Also known as, do I have enough white people in this car?

Checkpoints are a lot like trying to get a drink at the bar--it's all about looks. Show enough skin, be enough pale, have enough X chromosome and you're good to go. A group of dark looking men? You're never getting served...

• Qalandiya or Hizma?

When going from Ramallah to Jerusalem in private car or taxi, this is the ultimate and eternal debate, much like debating the merits of the express uptown then downtown local vs. local uptown in New York City. Often the result is a compromise...one cruises by Qalandiya, craning one's neck to check out the traffic situation, then if it looks bad, makes a sharp turn before committing and drives the extra time to Hizma, more out of the way but ultimately faster. Much like one hovers near the uptown express stairway while on the local track waiting to see which comes first...this metaphor could extend indefinitely, so I stop.

• Breastfeed or barfing?

This is a Moroccan specialty. When getting into a grand taxi in the back country, if ladies were getting in beside me, there was a 100% guarantee there would either be breastfeeding or barfing during the trip. Obviously a condition of breastfeeding wa sa baby, but there usually was at least one in the car. One time, my odds ran out and on either side of me was one lady breastfeeding, the other barfing. 4 hours of either intake or output. I lost the game big time that day.

• Will I see you later?

This game is a bit of a trick, because one quickly finds out in Ramallah the answer is 'yes'. There's 3 bars, a smattering more restaurants, and 1.5 'clubs'. What are you doing tonight? turns into what are we doing tonight? quite quickly.

• Who are you foreigner and why don't I know you already?

I saw some foreigners the other night I didn't know, a whole group of them sitting in a restaurant, and it almost offended me I didn't know them. Typical. See, the immediate reaction upon meeting new people is, 'how are you new to me?' The secondary reaction is 'why?' This happens in places that are very small, I've seen it before. The best part is talking about new people with people you already know-- who are they? what are they doing here? who do they hang out with? where do they live? I'm sure people talk about me like that...new blood is tough to mix with the old.

• My favorite game: change or no change?

This isn't played as much here, but in Senegal it was a national pastime. Going to the bank was dedicating yourself to a day of figuring out how to break those bills into acceptable units of smaller currency forms: aka, getting change. No one had it. People refused to give it to you. People would outright refuse sales if the money you offered them wasn't small enough--i would often spend a whole afternoon stalking from place to place trying to buy trinkets to break a $20. Finally, when someone was desperate enough to give away their hard-earned cash, I always felt an overwhelming surge of victory. Suckers.