Taybe Beer, a story of success and challanges

Taybeh is the only Palestinian Beer so far. It carries the name of the village it is produced in, "Taybeh" near Ramallah. Although, it is a successful project, yet it faces several local and foreign challenges. This clip has been made for free, IMEMC did not charge anything from Taybeh to do it, however, we thought that people deserve to know that Palestinians like any other nation, plan for their future and try to develope their economy despite of the hardships.

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Time travel runs counter to the laws of physics, however much renegade scientists or plain madmen will time and again claim to the contrary. Of course Einstein knew this as well and, were he alive today, his surprise to find an Oktoberfest in the month of September would be hard to overstate.
The crux of his shock however, more than the oxymoronic timing, might in stead be the location of the event.

This is not Bavaria. We're in a small village called Taybeh, a stone's throw north of Ramallah. Here, an eponymous brewery was set up in the middle of the nineties by two Palestinian brothers, returning from the United States in the optimistic wake of Oslo. Since then, among connoisseurs and casual drinkers alike, their brew has gained an unshakable reputation. It's on sale, bottled or draft, in most of the bars and restaurants of Ramallah, Bethlehem, and East-Jerusalem. Select places as far West as Belgium offer it, perhaps logically since the latter country's hop, together with local spring water, is what gives Taybeh beer its distinguished taste.

For a number of years now, the village of Taybeh has hosted this ode to song, traditional Palestinian debke dancing, 'oud play, and of course the flow of fermented malt. Lots of it. Ten shekels for a half-liter pint. Get your Taybeh. This year, because of impending Ramadan, the festival is pushed forward by a month. Einstein arches an eyebrow, then lowers it again to indicate that he's satisfied with the explanation. He quickly crosses out a few equations and folds away his notes.
My friends and I assemble late noon-ish in a loose succession of cars, a convoy only by the grace of our mobile phones. The frantic to and fro, "where the hell are you guys?" wrong turns, and unrequited forks in the road renders one thirsty. By the parched skin of our teeth we arrive, finally, and head for the geisers.

"Light or dark?" asks one of the volunteers, as he sets my cup to one of the spouts. Before I manage to pay he challenges me to a chugging contest, which I disgracefully lose. I'm Belgian for crying out loud. In the shadow of defeat I roam the festival grounds for more innocuous means of entertainment.
On stage a host of artists pass the revue, observed with approving nods and sporadic applause by a wide demographic slice, from infants to adults to the occasional tottering patriarch. There's an indoor fair for local products; not just beer, but natural bee honey, crafts and um,... donuts.

A camel sits at the entrance, ready to entertain children and those, I imagine, who lose chugging contests. I steer well clear of the languid beast, chewing away as it does on whatever it is camels chew. Something of a mocking grin weighs down its heavy lashes.
I have another beer, which I decide to drink on my own terms, and listen to some of the hippety hoppety brought by a trio called DAM. Everybody raps nowadays. Palestinians have discovered rhyme over beats big time. That, and cold beer. Nothing loosens the tongue like a cold beer.
A fifth Taybeh transports me to a day when I actually won chugging contests. Drunken reveries can be quite convincing sometimes. Einstein has another look at his notes. Perhaps those laws of physics need a refill.