‘AT LAST,’ I think, as a boulder hurtles towards me.

Go to Sicily and you expect to have a bag snatched by a passing scooter rider. On some pub night in Ireland you’re bound to consume one too many pints of Guinness and regret it in the morning. Try to use your French in Paris and you’d be disappointed if it wasn’t criticised at least once. I’d already been arrested in the Congo, so getting stoned in Palestine was clearly another rite of passage. And I was ready for it.