CHAPTER 37 - ISRAEL

- this file has been spell checked but should be re-read

-top

Exchange rate 4.03 shekels to US$1

Th 2/24/2000 - Jerusalem, Israel (cont'd)

At the Jordanian border I paid a departure tax of JD4 and asked the official if it was possible not to stamp my passport. Here is an issue with traveling to Israel. Since the Jewish state was founded with the aid of England and the United Nationals in 1948, effectively displacing resident Arabs, Iran and all Arab countries save Jordan and Egypt officially do not recognize the existent of Israel. A traveler will be denied entrance to these countries when holding a passport bearing any evidence of a visit to Israel.

In the transit lounge I sat across a small table from a small, meek, middle aged man with one earring and eventually started small talk with Tom Krift, the Field Office Director for Save The Children Federation in Jerusalem. Tom has worked for the non-profit for sixteen years. He has degrees in international diplomacy and has worked in countless countries around the world and must be a store of fascinating and enlightening stories. Tom has resided in Jerusalem for a year and has now made the border crossing five times.

Tom had waited an hour and a half before the coach (JD1.5), my third ride, left the station to cross a the kilometer long noman's land. In the neutral territory is a bridge that the Jordanian's call King Hussein Bridge and the Israeli's call Allenby Bridge, either way it's the official border, the line demarcated by the Jordan River. Both the bridge and river were far from exciting affairs, the bridge is a few bus lengths long, the river is often only a trickle.

Israel! We were met immediately after the bridge at a gate by two camouflaged soldiers with M16's, one with mid length bushy hair and mirrored razor sunglasses. Just beyond the border gate we disembarked, retrieved our luggage that was x-rayed, and answered questions posed to us by young conscripted soldiers, both male and female, carrying sidearms. Tom offered a lift in a taxi arranged through his company and we had a nice ride crossing the West Bank with the driver while discussing the politics of Israel and Palestine, focusing on the mixed Israel and Palestini governed West Bank and the restricted citizenship of the Palestinians.

Tom was friendly, good to me. He offered a ride that covered most of my distance to the Old City, dropped me near a "servie" (service taxi) stop, and even spotted me three shekals for the servie since I hadn't yet converted currency.

I lugged my load through Damascus Gate into the magical Old City of Jerusalem and down Suqkhan Az-Zeit, pushing through a long, narrow market constipated with tourists. My first stop for lodging, the New Hashimi Hostel, was perhaps the best choice - I was amazed. The interior has four floors open to a skylight wrapped with balconies and columns brightly painted in crimson and peach. It amazingly, it was very clean. The reception desk and lounge area were equally spotless. I thought the ten bed dorm room would be ridiculous, but big dorms are typical of Jerusalem - some are far larger. I threw my pack on an upper bunk, chatted with a few youngsters (the average age of the room would increase dramatically at night when all beds were full) and set off for an ATM machine. I planned chores also, most importantly an airline ticket from Tel Aviv to London and selling my camera equipment.

With a free map in hand I continued navigating the suq (market). Jerusalem is packed with narrow alleys, steps, twists and turns, markets, and tourists in search of the plethora of religious sites and sights. I was denied at the central ATM, then I checked out Petra Hotel for cheap flights and as an alternative for lodging. Later I also looked at the hotels Al Arab and Tabasco, all more vibey and much more run down, some at a greater cost. At the Petra Hotel I was quoted a price of US$146 for a one way flight, the twitchy deskman suggested I search the New City on Jaffa Road.

Then I was lost in the maze of narrow alleys. There were many churches and mosques and synagogues that would be good landmarks, but only a few made it on my tourist map and I couldn't find them either.

Damn! The New City! I wandered from the Old City into my first taste of western style society in five weeks - since Cape Town. Most striking were the women, many were descended from non-Arab peoples and unlike Arab women who are normally covered head to tow in unflattering garb, these females wore long hair, makeup, tight jeans and even leather pants. Gorgeous! Luckily I didn't walk in front of a car or truck. But there were also many other eye opening and shocking signs of western culture - massive retail with name brands, international cuisine, alcohol, cigars, bagels, people properly using crosswalks, and couples showing affection. With affection I mean mixed couples, but seeing two dark, young, scruffy, male soldiers in fatigues carrying M16's across their backs kissing check to check was very funny looking. The whole western scene in the New City was amazing. Not that it was my first choice had I had a choice of where to be, although I also drooled over pastries and other food. It was such a contrast to the rest of Arabia.

It was late in the afternoon and too cool. With the sun setting, most travel agents were closed. Wearing just a T-shirt and fleece wasn't enough - I could see my breath.

Israel is very expensive compared to every other Middle Eastern countries, some say it's close to American prices. Back near Hashimi I found a great shwarma shop with a variety of salad additions for IS12, other menu items in the cheap restaurant started at IS25. There I ran into two New Zealand girls living in London that were on the Petra to Amman bus. They kept me company while we discussed the sights of Jerusalem and Israel.

When I reached Jordan, there was a long discussion on which continent the country belonged to. Now I've read that Israel is in Asia, therefore Jordan must also be.

Fr 2/25/2000 - Jerusalem, Israel

It seems everyone has had a piece of Jerusalem, she's like the village bicycle. The holiest of holy places has been under the handhold of the Jebusites, Israelites, Babylonians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Moslems, Crusaders, Mamelukes, Turks, British, Jordanians, and since 1967's Six Day War, the Israelis. Jerusalem's a city that Christians, Jews, and Muslim's hold as centerpiece to their religions. Jesus was crucified and rose here, the Koran is the first five books of the Old Testament, and Mohammed ascended to heaven from here. The robust walled Old City is divided into quarters - Christian, Muslim, Armenian, and Jewish.

For each of the three religions - Christian, Muslim, and Jewish - there exist respective pillars in Jerusalem for each. Jesus was crucified, buried, and resurrected on the sight of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The Dome of the Rock, a huge and ornate mosque resides where God tested Abrahams faith by ordering him to sacrifice his son, and at the same spot Mohammed ascended to heaven, Islam's third most holy site. The only remnant left of the Jew's ancient and most holy Second Temple is the Wailing Wall.

But, religiously, there are many sights to see, and Jerusalem is a vibrancy of old city of life and character, irrespective of the hordes of tourists and the dependence upon them.

I had lightly stirred to snoring through the night, all in all, it was okay with nine roommates. When I hit that apex in early morning, when my mind can no longer ignore my bladder, I slipped off the top bunk, dressed and walked up to the roof for views, mostly a mass of messy rooftops with antennas with guy wires and satellite dishes. Many churches and convents and mosques stuck up through the old shambles, but nothing good enough from here for a piece of celluloid. One floor down I found the tearoom with large windows facing east to the Dome of Rock and Mount Olive beyond. After typing for three hours while being shanghaied for a cup of tea costing four shelas, I set off for my first full day's romp through the most religiously significant city in the world.

I left the Old City through the bustling Damascus Gate, walked to Jaffa Road and into the New City to harass various travel agents about a cheap ticket to London. They were all roughly consistent - US$200 plus $13 departure fee on a charter to Gatewick. That wasn't pleasant enough, I'll wait for a last minute through the hostels in the Old City.

The next chores were buying film (IS26/Fuji 100ASA slide) and looking for a used camera shop to take my equipment. I've done that before, a few times, selling used equipment about a year old for the same as my NYC purchase price. Well, that was in Cape Town, and even though I knew camera equipment is expensive in Israel, it isn't so high that my camera gear is a bargain used at new NYC prices. It looks like a camera shop would sell my kit for my cost, so they would offer less, but it's all mute - all used camera equipment is on consignment. The shop owners invest their money elsewhere rather than tie it up with used equipment, instead they let the used camera owner tie up his shekels. Damn! Maybe London will work better.

While walking through the New City I thrilled again at the first world stores and restaurants and foods. But the following amazed me, something I had been looking forward to seeing - at the foot of a pedestrian mall stood four teenage soldiers, two girls and two boys. The stood and talked like four friends in downtown Newport, except they wore green camouflaged suits, black boots, and had M16's slung over their shoulders. Passerby's were oblivious to the gun slinging militia in their midst, part of lif in Israel. It's part of life in many countries, but the youth and casualness makes the scene boggling. All males are constricted for three years at age eighteen, females for a year and a half. It works well since Israel is always at near military alert and therefore needs soldiers at borders and airports, at tourist sights and retail areas, and everyplace in between.

Back in the Old City, I finally started my tourist romp and with good timing. Via Dolorosa, "Way of Sorrow", is the route of Jesus' last walk, where he was sentenced, took the cross, and was forced to his crucifixion. On Friday afternoons Franciscan Fathers, dressed in brown robes and white sashes, lead a procession along this route, stopping at each of fourteen stations, spots of significance according to the Bible.

First Station - Condemned to death

Second - Jesus takes up the cross

Third - Jesus falls under the cross, first time

Forth - Meets His mother

Fifth - Simon is forced to carry the cross

Sixth - Jesus's face wiped by Veronica

Seventh - Jesus falls under the cross, second time

Eight - He comforts the women of Jerusalem

Ninth - Jesus falls under the cross, third time

Tenth - He is taken of garments

Eleventh - Jesus is nailed to the cross

Twelfth - He dies on the cross

Thirteenth - Taken from the cross

Fourteenth - Laid in His tomb

It was a great introduction to Jerusalem. Each station was marked differently - by a Roman column, an archway, or doorway, later within the Basilica. The fathers walked quickly between stations, often singing in deep, enchanting holy voices. At each station a reading concerning the sight was spoken first in Italian then in English. As the fathers moved along the following crowds grew, by station nine, outside a Greek monastery, I was engulfed and too far removed from hearing the reading. Soon we were inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre Basilica and throngs had taken up the walk. Inside a Greek altar stands at the location the crosses of Jesus and two thieves were erected. Afterward He was placed on the Stone of Annointment nearby and laid to rest in his tomb, also within the church. By this time, during a short service, I had to fight through the crowds, I wanted to move freely, I had to nearly run to the Wailing Wall.

With my free handy map I crossed the Old City, passing too many vendors asking for my attention, by mosques and churches, and through slow moving throngs of tourists and workers finished for the day. As I neared the wall, different Jews (according to dress and sect) also raced. I'm not up on who's who, but assume the orthodox were tall men in long black coats and either high black hats or round brown fur doughnuts. Most were stoic, except for the younger ones, and many heads were shaved except for long curling hair falling in front of the ears (peyot).

In front of the high and broad stone wall is the large Wailing Wall Plaza. Before the wall is a barrier preventing further entry by tourists and the area at the wall base is divided sectioned by gender with the men having seventy-five percent of the real estate - chauvinism hard at work. The worshippers numbered close to two hundred, the onlookers even more. Because the Jewish women dress western-like ad unremarkably, I stood and focused on the larger left side where Hasidic males and other sects dressed much more interestingly. The Jews placed folded prayers into cracks in the wall and prayed - by either standing head against the wall or more curiously by repeatedly rocking quickly in half bows toward the wall. Although it seemed all so simple, the tourists were captivated as if watching another boring cricket game, anticipating the one-minute of excitement amidst the repetitive hours. I also was captivated though. There were many thoughts and sights consider - Herod built the wall in 20BC - the oldest remnant of holy Jewish construction, the dress of the Jews was interesting, and the crowds of tourists covered the globe. Entering the plaza requires a security check - metal detector and bag check - and on different points around the plaza were stationed armed soldiers. Above and to the right waved the Israeli flag and in contrast the huge Muslim dome, Dome of the Rock, sat haughtily behind the wall. Catholic nuns and people from many other faiths wandered as part of the crowd. It was all so, so, so mixed up. Within sight were not just a rainbow of religions, but the foundries of three dominant Western religions. In other, less meaningful contexts maybe not so unusual, but Jerusalem is a focal point of forced acceptance of varying beliefs, not always peaceful, hence the militia at the plaza.

Dinner was nearly a repeat of last night. Just out the door and left from Hashimi is a small restaurant serving shwarmas. As I was ordering I caught a girl staring, and then waving - this was the girl I photographed in the doorway of the Urn Tomb in Petra. I sat with the couple from Belgium for dinner and had a good chat about traveling - in particular Nepal - our homes, and Israel.

Sa 2/26/2000 - Jerusalem, Israel

At 730am the narrow alleys of Jerusalem were quiet, most stores closed behind heavy iron doors and big locks, so I was able to walk quickly through to Stephen's Gate on the east wall. Down the cobbled road from the gate is Jericho Road and across is Mary's Tomb adjacent to the Church of All Nations on Mount of Olives. I huffed a road up the Mount and since one particular church stands out from the Old City, one with a tall square spire with large open windows exposing bells, I headed for it (Russian Tower aka Russian Church, aka Church of the Ascension). I searched for it's gate unsuccessfully and was instead confronted by large ranks of children on their way to school. I suppose I could have asked directions, but the hour was early, people were moving slowly and mostly ignoring me, so I didn't intrude.

To the south on the Mount of Olives is the viewpoint for the Old City, my original morning's quest. I walked along a small level road near the top of the hill toward the Seven Arches Hotel. The view opens above a huge Muslim cemetery reaching down to Jericho Road and forming the first half of a small valley. Across Jericho Road the cemetery continues and ascends to the city walls. The striking Muslim mosque, Dome of the Rock, with an outstanding gilded dome and tiled walls, dominates the Old City panorama from here. Behind the mosque are many spires and countless rooftops. The great stone walls of the Old City stood tauntingly across the eastern edge and marched diagonally in jags up the hill on the south side. The view is unquestionably impressive.

On the return walk, I bordered a high wall along the northern edge of the cemetery and found Dominus Fleuit's gates open and welcoming visitors. I was greeted by a priest and yard worker, then strolled the tranquil gardens for close-up view of the awesome Russian Orthodox Church of Mary Magdalene with distinctive Russian onion design, similar to the Kremlin.

My second dorm at Hashimi was bad news, no window or air, and a small, difficult bathroom that was filthy. I made an offer to a man at the front desk - get me back into the big door in room 214 or I was moving. Noone left 214 so I moved to Lutheran Hospice which has a very good reputation for being clean and orderly (IS30/dorm). The registration was touch and go. I was told to read a policy sheet, the first line said, "Age Limit: 35 years ", I lied, wrote into the register a birth year of "1964", and was glad that I wasn't asked to produce my passport.

Lutheran Hospice is very nice, an old stone building converted to hostel and hotel, but the atmosphere is sterile and there is no comparable views. Ive been into Petra House and Al Arab a few times, they're both more run down but with much more atmosphere. You just can't win. Room 214 my be the best bet for IS20.

The Old City was now busy with merchants taunting the crowds of tourists, Damascus Gate was a hustle of locals buying an selling produce and their staples. It is possible to walk the ramparts of Jerusalem's wall, and for IS14 I was one of the few to do so. Of the walls eight gates two are open for ascending to the ramparts. Omitting the gate inside Al-Haram Ash-Sharif, the large Muslim compound, all can be descended. I had purchased my ticket at Damascus Gate and walked clockwise in search of descent views for photos. I was discouraged though, this section passed through the Muslim quarter, there were no religious buildings, only the ratty backs of houses. At Stephens Gate I descended and walking through the quiet Muslim Quarter's back alleys (Saturday?), again ascended at Damascus Gate. This section I thought for sure would be more interesting but was only slightly rewarded.

I watched above a small Muslim school playground on top of a roof below the wall, about fifty boys playing kill the one with the ball, screaming with fun. They were relentless pushing, hitting, and kicking one another to obtain the basketball sized ball, then running like mad until put down. Two robed female teacher also played along, laughing and wanting part of the ball as much as the boys, but far less mobile. They didn't hesitate to swing at the chaps when accosted or when breaking some other invisible infraction.

The square inside Jaffa Gate also provided some good views of people shuffling and vendors selling bagels and other quick foods. The best view was of the outside of the Western Wall, south end. It was just a good photo, the wall trudging away from the gate with the strength of the centuries of men who built and re-built the wall, a brawny mass of attractive stone.

The ramparts trail is broken at Jaffa Gate, so I descended and passed the Citadel before ascending. The Citadel, also called Tower of David, probably provides better views than the ramparts and also contains a museum, but then costs IS38. From Jaffa Gate wall follows south through the Armenian Quarter, at the southwest corner is Dormition Church with an impressive graveyard, then marches east past Zion Gate to Dung Gate where the ramparts walk ends in the Jewish Quarter.

Since the Wailing Wall was nearby I passed through, it was quiet compared to Friday before sunset, then through the market on Bab Al;-Sil Sileh. Back at Lutheran Hospice I hung in the social area near the kitchen and typed while being lightly and happily disturbed by fellow backpackers.

I ate alone, not a bother, again on Suqkhan Az-Zeit near Hashimi, a huge half-chicken meal for IS25.

Su 2/27/2000 - Jerusalem, Israel

Sunday in the holy city.

I was out at 730am and one of the first non-Muslims inside the grounds of the Dome of the Rock in Al-Haram Ash-Sharif (Temple Mount). The "rock" in the Dome of the Rock is the place of Mohammed's ascension into heaven. This mosque is beautiful, it's octagonal in shape, the outside walls are tiled, the huge dome is gilded, and columned entranced is enchanting. At one entrance two boys played when they should have been harassing people like me for money, which they did once I caught them. I had photographed them at the entrance and again beneath a high gateway with the amazing building behind.

Since I was in the holy City and Sunday being Sunday, I looked for a mass in English but without much forethought and therefore landed at the chapel of the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer. It's a German Christian church although masses are held in Arabic and English. To my surprise the service was an hour and a half long. My feet and legs didn't grow sore like the one hour childhood Catholic massed I endured (and avoided), probably for all the walking and hiking lately. The service was presided by the Rt. Rev. Krister Stendahl, former Bishop of Stockholm, a frequent silver haired visitor to the church with a good sense of humor. The chapel interior was austere, but I was intrigued by it's history having been built by the Crusader Knights of St. John in the 12th century - perhaps this enchantment helped with the duration of the service. Of the hymns sung, one in particular was attractive for it's romantic worldliness called "Spirit Spirit of Gentleness".

January and February are the rainiest months in Jerusalem. I sped through the wet and the crowds as much as possible in running errands about the Old City. I checked in at Petra Hostel for air ticket information without new news, and called around the New City with similar results, then checked Al Arab with the same unsatisfying outcome. Now I'm getting worried. After hitting email, a daily happening, I returned to the hostel to type, only slightly warmer than running in the miserable rain outside.

Casey cooked simple pasta with bottled sauce for dinner, fine with me, actually an old favorite back home. We sat and socialized for the night with others in the combination kitchen and sitting area. In the lower room a big gang of German social workers played drinking games with wine, smoked shisha, and echoed their voices through the stone common area, a bit annoying but who can blame people for amusing themselves?

Mo 2/28/2000 - Jerusalem, Israel

In the morning I stood for forty-five minutes at the bottom inside of the colorful Damascus Gate, bustling with Arab street vendors. I stood with my back against a wall and facing directly into the square, between a young man attempting to sell bunches of mint stems and a man successfully selling very large, shiny, colorful bras to overweight women. A set of busy stairs spread before me leading to the gate. On each side were stalls - bread, clothing, commodities, and in the center three women sat on plastic crates with vegetables at their feet. To the left, before the stairs, was a bagel cart with a large ornate silver container of saklab. People of many persuasions either hurried or strolled through, none aware or caring of my presence - the tall dude in a long blue coat, between the bra salesman and the mint man. Observing the stream of people was easy, mellow entertainment. Orthodox Jews, Muslims, travelers - they all filtered through. Many Arabs and Jews dressed western-like in jeans and button down shirts - not so colorful. Some Arabs wore a headdress and an old suit - half oriental and half western - while other Arabs and Jews respectively dressed traditionally in headdresses and flowing robes, and black overcoats and tall black hats. When the sun was securely behind thickening clouds, I split, the sky cast a heavy ultraviolet blue shadow over the street scene. I grabbed a saklab (IS5) and walked out the gate.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is traditionally known as the location of Jesus' crucifixion, burial, and resurrection, but a group in England over 100 years ago secured a piece of land a few hundred meters from Damscus Gate that closely matched descriptions of these scenes in the Bible. The place is called the Garden Tomb. No particular denomination claims the Garden Tomb is the correct place and therefore that the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is a fake. The British association claims the spirit of the event is what counts. The Garden Tomb is a highly manicured garden in middle of ugly city. Behind the garden, now part of a bus station, is the hill of skulls as mentioned in the good book. Within the grounds is the tomb also described in the book and a handful of donation boxes spread about.

Today is Monday, and my traveling plan was not coming together. The idea was to spend one week in London with my Mom's family, including a weekend, then arrive Newport before Saturday, March 11th - the St. Patrick's Day Parade. The pre-parade party would be a great way to say, "Hi, I'm back!" to most of the Newport clan. Well, it's Monday and I'm still without a ticket to London this week. I held out for economic last minute deals, especially hoping on an Irish guy named Eric who advertises in the Tourist and Backpacker Magazine ("Wait until 4pm two days before you want to leave..."), but fearful of being empty handed I searched my other options without much joy.

I bought an airline ticket at an ISSTA agent (5 Yoel Salomon St., New City) in the New City, a load off the mind and an unexpected dent in the pocket - $241 including departure tax. Israeli departure tax is a curiosity. The cost varies with different departure points. From Ben Gurion International Airport (between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv) the departure tax is $13, exiting the country via Allenby (King Hussien) Bridge is 140 shekels ($35), and through Eliat something different still ($14.50).

Nearby the center of New City (Zion Square) is a neighborhood named Me'a She'arim, known as a "ghetto". That term was intriguing, and beyond the neighborhood was the Great Synagogue. Although Me'a She'arim wasn't near a ghetto in my book, the area was of character and very orthodox Jewish, quite a contrast to the Old City and worth a look. The synagogue, like most, was hidden and I walked past without realization.

In return for Casey's pasta dinner last night, my treat was schwarmas at Al Nasa on Al-Wad at the Damascus Gate side of Hishimi. The Schwarmas were great and I had Casey hooked. For IS9 a small pita was cut and choked with grilled lamb, then we stuffed with our choices from a salad bar, like humus, mixed salad, and spicy sauce.

Back at the Lutheran Hospice, we sat in a lower cave like room with two of the gang of German social workers still left behind, Johnny and Catherine. They were both well acquainted with the curiosities of religions in Jerusalem and explained some of the quagmire. Most interesting was the Jewish shabbat, their holy weekday of Saturday (Muslim's take Friday, Jews Saturday, and Christians Sunday). The strictest of Jewish sects, the Hasidim (there are many sects), abstain from manual labor as prescribed in the Torah and it's 613 commandments. They forego writing and using money, and light candles in advance (lighting fire is forbidden but passing fire on is not), tear toilet tissue in advance, and program elevators to automatically stop and start at each floor (no fingers allowed). Because they are allowed to carry items (babies, wood, books, etc) only within their own homes on the shabbat, they've extended the concept of home to include the whole city of Jerusalem with a fine wire running around the city's perimeter. Strange.

Tu 2/29/2000 - En Gedi, Dead Sea (lowest place on earth)

My mind woke to the issue at hand. Now that I have secured my plane travel, I was without strong reason to stay in the holy city and I now could venture a short way to explore any of many interesting destinations. On a must see list of Israeli, Jerusalem comes first and second is Masada, a very special high place were the term "zealot" originated. Masada is adjacent to the Dead Sea which is the lowest point on earth (-401m) and contains an extraordinary amount of salt - hence it's name. On the Dead Sea at En Gedi is a nature reserve noted for hiking. Well, this was my choice of ideas - stay in Jerusalem - there's plenty I haven't seen - or get away from the busy city and stay in the oasis of En Gedi for a couple of days. I was lazy, staying would require so little work, but the thought of a sixth day in the city didn't appeal. I was first up in the dorm, first to have eaten, and then out the door.

Since Lutheran Hospice doesn't store baggage, I dropped my big pack and the Craig's wedding gift next door at Citadel Hospice. The Citadel doesn't compare in quality and efficiency with the Lutheran and I wondered why anyone would choose it. When I inquired for help, a lazy and fat man refused to rise from his night's slumber on a couch at the seedy and small reception area. He first asked 20 sheklels for two days storage, I hesitated and he dropped to 15. I agreed even though Petra Hostel only a few minutes further along was 5 shekels a day to close the subject of finding storage. I lugged my overweight bag up three flights of tight and narrow stairs then return to the still prostrate man to place two coins in his hand as he reached from the couch.

Outside Jaffa Gate to the right I soon caught the number 20 bus to Central Bus Station (IS4.70). It passed along Jaffa Road, through Zion Square, and arrived within ten minutes. Per promise, the Central Bus Station was covered with army personnel, pimpily youth in green carrying M16 weapons. Again I was astonished at cute little girls dressed as war ready soldiers. Remember the WWII phrase, "I love a man in uniform!" - here's a different twist.

En Gedi on the Dead Sea is about an hour's drive. I settled in comfortably, taking two spaces for my daypack and me, and tolerated a small, old, wrinkled lady in the next seat forward who constantly fidgeted with the long window shade that covered three rows of seats. She wanted it down, then up. Then two old big Jewish men with white beards, glasses, and big black hats wanted it up, she wanted it down. Many young women in Israel dress to kill, provocatively in our terms, with tight everything leaving little to the imagination, but the imagination drooling nonetheless. One with long bleached locks, the red-blonde color that results from bleaching black hair, and with extreme fit black stretch pants and very tight shirt carrying buxom boobs paraded up and down the isle with a cell phone, trying to find reception.

Leaving the city behind, the landscape turned to dry Middle Eastern desert. I caught a sign reading, "Sea Level" halfway along the ride. Jerusalem is at 809 meters, thus cold, and the Dead Sea is at minus 401 meters, the lowest place on earth. Cool! Or, warmer with a difference of 1210 meters, at least I hoped.

I read "A Pray for Owen Meany", by John Irving, trying not to listen to a conversation from the seat behind between a guy with an obvious American accent and an Argentinian. When the American turned the conversation to En Gedi - where to get off the bus and where to stay - I tuned in and then became part of the conversation.

Dan, from Chicago, was on a similar route through En Gedi and Masada as myself. He had a bad guide book, ":Let's Go", but better than my being empty handed. At the public beach we found an information center, hoofed back ten minutes along the road to the International Hostel and signed up for two bunks at a cost of US$16.50 each, possibly the

highest expense ever on this trip for lodging. We were warned about a large group of students on field trip and staying in the hostel.

Nearby, just below the hostel, are two reserves, Nahal David ad Nahal Arugot (IS18), popular walking areas in two wadis (canyons). Hearing positive quips of the reserve led me to assume the walks were close to not-to-be-missed, but I found differently, especially when inundated with hundreds of school children. The wadis were of loose sand and stones, different typs of sandstone chucks, a constant color of light brown everywhere. Most impressive was sheer cliffs rising from the valleys, 600 meters high.

Dan and I started in the northern wadi, Wadi David, with too many high school aged kids, loud and boisterous. The walk paralleled a small river, passing short falls, large sections of fallen rock shelf, and rock hyrax (dassies) - those cute fat rodents, closest cousin to the elephant.

In crossing over a hill to the second wadi, there is a couple of ruins, a temple and a flour mill powered by water. The Judean Desert is very dry, En Gedi is an oasis fed by aquifers whose source is the highlands to the west, where Jerusalem lays. The water finds a horizontal course underground ending at the sunken rift valley of the Dead Sea as springs.

The second wadi, Wadi Arugot, is longer with points of interest such as Hidden Waterfalls, Upper Pools, and Giant Fall. Unfortunately, the distance hum of children turned to unsettling chaos at times. The hike would be better ten fold on a different day. Otherwise, we could have hiked straight up to the plateaus on lesser used paths. Besides the exercise and ruins and few falls, highlights were the hyrax many places and a herd of ibex seen in Wadi Arugot.

Hiking En Gedi was one of the three objectives of the trip. Next on the check list was dipping in the Dead Sea, an activity I considered kitsch - until I tried it. The En Gedi public beach is across the seacoast road from xxx Wadi. Dan and I walked through a very orderly date palm plantation, along the road, through a large empty parking lot, and between the decent facilities of the beach. A dip in the land lent itself to the beach. Large, bright, permanent umbrellas filled the dip, and closer to the water was the beach.

The Dead Sea was long thought of as a evil of nature, a sea alone without any life, dead. But man never leaves a resource untouched. On the southern sea is a seventy year old potash plant started by the Brits (bromide and magnesium are also harvested), and at En Gedi and along the Israeli stretch of the salty sea are resorts that boast the warm, sunny climate and therapeutic secrets of the sea.

On the beach border is a bright yellow sign describing practical do's and don'ts of a "swim" in the sea. The sign says to avoid cuts on the salt reef, do not submerge your head, do not to let water into your eyes, and if water is swallowed see a lifeguard immediately. The sign also describes the proper method of entering the sea - slowly, carefully, once thigh deep turn and sit. It sounded so ominous, but just beyond were many people floating and enjoying, even clowning, in the water.

The epitome of photographs of one floating is while reading a newspaper. I improvising with a free Jerusalem weekly and with Blacky on my head, a Danish girl snap my photo. The idea was to first get photos out of the way, then enjoy the sea. With such a high concentrate of salt, I feared for camera equipment, just placing my daypack on the beach (which I just - and finally - washed) turned chaulky white.

On average, the saline content in the Dead Sea is 32 percent, a normal ocean is less than 4 percent, the difference in buoyancy is remarkable. I goofed in the sea, it was like a strange carnival ride or science experiment. Without floating in fresh water my mouth and nose hasn't a chance to stay above - it's dependent on bodyfat - and even in an ocean the issue is the same. Here, without movement, I bobbed chest deep. All those days of watching overweight women in fresh water came back to me, finally I could float without effort. This was strange. Equally intriguing was the sensation of the sea forcing m to a neutral position, which is laying face up and butt down. If I tried to "stand" straight up, bobbing chest high, without resistance my feet would be quickly brought to the surface - not just quickly, but accelerated to the surface. For whichever side I floated on, I would then be turned to be butt down. Inconceivable you say? But twue! It was the strangest feeling.

While we hiked we heard a large boom echo through the land. There also noises of jets so I assumed the boom to be a break through the sonic barrier of ammunition explosion. While enjoying the sea a Fxxx jet fighter with twin tail rocketed at near eye level before us. I heard others talk of fighter exercises above while they were in the desert to enjoy the remote experience.

Dan and I checked into the hostel. It was crammed with Israeli kids, but fortunately the hostel was large and the high school children were in a different building. We shared a nice - for $16.50 it should be - five bunk room with two others We even splurged for dinner in the big cafeteria, a $8 buffet - chicken, salad, bread, a mass of food, complete with the echoing noise of hundreds of kids. For their curiosity, the kids were more of a welcome then nuisance, I wasn't really bothered by the crowd but more than a couple nights would be too much.

I had left Jerusalem to find solitude at an oasis, but instead found a tourist attraction at the wrong time - school field trip season. I suppose with more time - and a guidebook - I would have been able to find a remote Bedouin camp somewhere.

We 3/1/2000 - Jerusalem

Again, I was up before others in the room, showered, and sat on the room's small balcony to type and read and to watch clouds gathering over the Dead Sea and mountains for Jordan. The breakfast was a pigout, no quite the western breakfast foods I stupidly expected, instead hard boiled eggs, salads, fluorescent yogurts, also sweeten puffed wheat cereal and ot chocolate. It was a slaughter, the buffet hadn't a gnats ass chance against me. I rolled out satisfied and Dan and I rushed down to the bus stop for Masada at 8am.

The story of Masada is colorful and heroic. The fortress of Masada ("Stronghold in Hebrew") was built by King Herod (43BC) as a fallback resort. He built a strong fortress and luxurious palace, including arsenals, towers, lookouts, storehouses, a quarry, villa, bathhouses, pools and large cisterns. Seventy years later Masada was a Roman garrison. With the Romans advancing through the country, an ultra-orthodox group called the Zealots secured Masada as their stronghold to escape Roman persecution. The 1000 Zealots dug their heels in as a Romans army 10,000 strong laid seige on the isolated mountaintop 400 meters (1300 feet) above the Dead Sea. With well appointed systems, the Zealots held out for months while the Romans first built a huge earthen ramp to access the plateau, then using towers to meet the walls of the fortress. With the result inevitable, the Zealot people chose to kill themselves rather than be enslaved by the Romans.

A one time remote fortress amongst a harsh desert and inhospitable sea, now a new cable car whisks invalids to the mountaintop, an unfortunate scare on the otherwise original sandstone mountain. For another 18 shekels, Dan and I were privileged again to enjoy the nature of Israel. The snake path, the original path used thousands of years ago ld us to access the mountain's plateau in thirty minutes. The sights at op were numbered (in reverse) associated with the pamphlet we received. We checked out foundations of various buildings - storehouses, bathhouses, palaces, villas, and so forth. A few buildings retained sections of mosaic floors and painted walls. Imagine the liveliness of Masada in the time of King Herod - luxury atop a windswept desert mountaintop. It's an amazing story.

xxx - who led Zeaots

We made the 1150am bus to Jerusalem, sitting quietly, talking little. Rain started on the ride, coming down very hard, the first hard rain since Zambia. From the Jerusalem Central Bus Station I disembarked the bus at Zion Square, scanned the stores and walked on to the Old City.

As I walked in my only shoes, a pair of New Balance bought in Singapore, I realized the toes were worn through - rain attached fro the ankle and the toes - damn. When I reached Damascus Gate I was soaked through. I secured a bed at Hashimi (Rm 214, IS20) and watched and listened to the rain from inside.

I typed and read, then headed to nearby Tabasco, the "hottest spot in town" for 7-8pm happy hour, ordering curry chicken and rice (IS14). I sat with a British couple from Salisbury. They were up from Eliat for one day, their trip to Israel was only one week. They were good company, I felt like an outcast from my roommates at the adjacent table - ah, yes, I'm older. The couple enjoyed my company - I call it the "traveling couple syndrome". Often two people who travel together run out of things to say, but when a chance presents itself for other conversation, they gleefully jump in.

Back at the dorm, about 10 pm, I found one young guy was from Stellenbosch in the Cape Province. We talked for an hour about South Africa and Zimbabwe. It was nice to think again of my African home.

Th 3/2/2000 - Jerusalem

The morning call to pray in itself wasn't so disturbing, but I had fallen asleep during, and when I woke my thoughts were, "This has been going on for hours!" From that point I wrestled in my short bed, repeatedly looking at my watch and outside for sunlight and rain. At 6m I tried to prepare myself quietly, not to disturb the other nine, I showered and sat upstairs in the tearoom in a thick cloud of stale cigarette smoke from last night to type and read.

I had pointedly remembered that Tuesday and Thursday the Russian Church of Mary Magdalene was open, but I had the time wrong. At 8am I walked the hushed alleyways and through Lions Gate to the church on Mount of Olives. The huge green gate was closed, and then I learned the church opened for visitors at 10am.

Without a plan, I hoofed up the Mount to search for the gate to the Russian Tower (aka Russian Church, aka Church of the Ascension), where I failed the last time on the Mount of Olives. Again I was confronted by a huge green gate - closed. On the other side though, I heard voices and soon the door opened, a nun asked if I wished to enter, I said yes, and she replied not to pay te man at the gate, even if he asked. Wow! This self-proclaimed gate guard was a cross between a caveman and a medieval Monty Python spoof. He mocked what I said and I left him without looking back to walk through the grounds.

The monastery was soulless, still, in the rain and mist it presented a olden day charm. I stepped silently between pine trees and around stone buildings without descriptive signs. At the tall square tower is a small graveyard with white metal crosses marked in Russian. I only spent ten minutes investigating the grounds, peering through the mist at distance views, and trying the door on the tower (no luck).

For the second day I was soaked. I started wet from yesterday's clothes, now I was cold and wet. There's a sort of village center. In an Arab men's cafe I found a tea with mint stock and sugar. A 71 year old man with wrinkled fallen face, huge fat earlobes, cane, and overcoat entertained me with questions about prices in America of shirts and underwear, the price to travel round trip by air, and so on. He was born on Mount Olive, has five children and sixteen grandchildren. Retired since 65 years old, he was a cook in a tourist restaurant, now entertains himself by sitting with friends and drinking tea and playing backgammon and xxx. Somehow I asked what resulted in him saying that he's seen three wars here - against the British, Jordanians, and Israelis. After our conversation, I went nearby for a schwarma - lamb, onions, purple cabbage, pickles - all the vegetables I dislike, but the sandwich was great - especially for breakfast.

At the bottom of the hill I also found Mary's Tomb, Virgin Mother of the Son Jesus Christ. The building was good for a look - long stairs leading underground to a large cold stone room covered with electric and candle lit chandeliers. From the stairs and right is the tomb room, inside a rock protected behind glass.

Once again, back up the hill to the Russian Orthodox Church of Mary Magdalene (1888) - it was open! The outside of the church is very impressive, in comparison the inside is austere, but all told worth the effort and I was rewarded with a short conversation with a Siberian nun who spoke perfect American accented English. She explained that the Russian Czar Alexander III and his brothers in tribute built the church to their mother, whose patron saint was Mary Magdalene.

Outside, the British couple from last night and I stared back at one another, not sure of each others identity. I then joined them for a quick walk through the Garden of Gethsemane and into Mary's Tomb. They then ailed a cab and we rode around to Jaffa Gate so they could make their 11pm walking tour with Egged Tours.

For ten bucks I as tempted to join them. Hearing a guide explain for for quarters would have been great, especially with some background knowledge already, but instead I said goodbye and started a long walk in the drizzle to the Israeli National Museum.

With a wrong turn I found myself facing the most incredible YMCA building anywhere. Not just one building, but a series of serious stone structures and gardens looking more like a cross between a large government building and a church. Inside was equally impressive. I scored a postcard to send my brother who has spent many of hs days playing basketball or working out in YMCA's, then I was taken by a photography exhibit by a Hungarian, the subject Israel. Halfway through a grape skin wrinkled elderly lady with bright eyes and sure eyes addressed me in Hebrew ot German. I crouched beside her to smile and listen, I assumed she was lonely, left to stare out a window. She asked my name, placed her hand on my arm, and prayed to the Lord for my safe and healthy life. What a sweetie, but rather than continue the endless conservation I said goodbye and moved on through the photographs.

The Israeli Museum is a two or three day first class event, ut my time limit is two or three hours for any museum. The proclaimed highlight are the ever so famous Dead Sea Scrolls, the oldest manuscripts known to man according to sources other than the museum. The scrolls are housed subterranean in a building shaped like the top of a pottery container, similar to the shape of the earthenware jars the scrolls were found in. Only stranger in comparison is the interior, a cave like entrance to an elaborate spaceship like room. Around the perimeter in the dark building are a few of the 850 scrolls found over the period 1947 to 1956. The scrolls date from 3rd century BCE to 1st century CE and have names like Psalms Scroll, Temple Scroll, Isaiah Scroll, and the War of Children of Light Against the Children of Darkness Scroll. They're written in Greek, Aramaic, and Hebrew. Scroll subjects are divided into three categories: Biblical, Apocryphal, and Sectarian. The scrolls give detailed accounts of religion and domestic life of the Qumran.

I rode bus #9 to Zion Square, walked through the first world retail areas and restaurants, noting that this wold be my last time in te New City. At Jaffa Gate I waited for the promise of the sun to show once before sunset, it did, and I along with a few others photographed with the dramatic lighting.

Dinner was one again at Al Nassar - schwarma.

Fr 3/3/2000 - Jerusalem

Up and out at7am. Near Lion's Gate was a small bakery filled with people waiting and watching, and others just watching. There were racks and racks of the large sesame bagels, but the attention was on the oven. I asked for one, and waited until the next three were drawn from the clay oven on a long paddle. The fresh baked bread was amazing. I broke a piece for a woman begger I passed earlier then sat in El Ghazal Square and spread cheese triangle onto the warm sesame seed bread.

Today is Friday, the Muslim sabbath, and the day for serious prayer. Like the Jews getting heady about photographs at the Wailing Wall on Saturday, their shabbat, the Muslim were peculiarly nervous of my walking along a road through their cemetery along the eastern wall outside the Old City. Two older men with cameras walked ahead and from the top of Golden Gate, a maniacal man waved his arms and screamed, "Hello!", then ranted something in Arabic. His tone and gestures were comical, but rather than observing him, I returned to the City through Lion's Gate.

But! Later he wasn't there, so I walked along to the southern wall, past many Jews entering Dung Gate near the Wailing Wall and on to Zion Gate, the scene of intense fighting during the 1948 war (Jordan versus the Jews). Around the gate is a large circle of bullets holes.

Today, my last in Israel, I planned on seeing at least a couple of museums and a synagogue in the Jewish Quarter. These Jewish buildings aren't easily apparent, synagogues are non-descript and are easily passed. Otherwise I would have stumbled upon them previously in my wanderings, but I didn't so I set aside Friday, but Friday at noon the Jewish quarter starts to close down until Sunday.

So, I barely sneaked into the museum and photograph exhibit entitled "Last Ditch Battle of the Jewish Quarter", also called "One Last Day" in the Cardo. The titles refer to the last stand of the Jewish Quarter in 1948 before being overrun by the Jordanian Arab Army. The striking pictures, large detailed black and whites, were taken by a British photographer traveling with the advancing army.

The ruins of the Hurva Synagogue (1851-1948) was of some interest, especially considering my bad Friday timing to the Jewish Quarter. Whereas most synagogues are plain and nearly hidden, Hurva was the first splendid synagogue, a architectural rival to the neighboring churches and mosques. After the Jordanian occupations the synagogue was set ablaze and destroyed. Only stone foundations remain.

Most of the rest of the day was spent walking and searching and buying simple or silly presents for people back home. About 3pm I ventured for a second Friday afternoon at the Wailing Wall, meeting Sarah from Oz who also stays at Hashimi and Casey there.

Dinner was with Sarah and Nabeel at Tabasco's, my "last supper" so to say. Nabeel was raised in Oregon and upon returning stateside will utilize his international relations degree with a job in Washington, D.C. I found Nabeel and Sarah an interesting traveling couple for their drastic differences in style - Sarah ploughs through every traveling day like it's her last while Nabeel wants to go slow and easy. They met in Syria and are not partners. Nabeel, "She said straight out she wasn't one bit interested in me, so, I'm not interested in her." Nabeel threatens to visit Newport this summer, I would be glad to have him.

(Lodging in Jerusalem: Hashimi (rm 214) 628-2120, Lutheran 628-2120, Imperial 628-2261, Petra 628-6618, Tabasco 628-3461)

Sa 3/4/2000 - London, England

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger", Goodbye, Middle East!

It was to be a very rough day - up at 1am, showered, then waiting at Damascus gate at 145am for a 2am taxi 2am to arrive the airport by 3am. Urgh!

I was sad, no upset, better - pissed - to be leaving the vacation. I didn't want it to end, but here I was heading to London, no more touring, simply visiting my Mom's relatives and getting closer to home. The taxi trip was made more depressing by the Bostonian who sat next to me - he had a horrid American accent, a loud, grinding, nasal wind blowing garbage from his mouth. It was him, he made me angry, I simply was resistant to getting closer to home and further from my very long vacation. And my departure from the Middle East was to worsen.

Inside Ben Gurion Airport, the expanse of cold tile and metal was free from travelers, normally a sure sign of a quick pass through check-in and into the waiting lounge. My flight wasn't scheduled to depart for three hours.

A female airport attendant pointed the way through a movable black strap corridor for the Air Italia flight. Midway past the barrier and before the check-in counter was a series of unused squat black tables. A pimply girl with shiny, long, wavy trusses - her face was painful to see, her hair no so - and her cohort, a equally young man, with a pale, rodent like face and sandpaper height red hair, asked with a (sinister) smile that I follow. I placed as asked my bags on a table and begin an unusual test of patience.

The girl asked questions, many silly, for twenty minutes while her partner listened and nodded dumbly. The questions were "normal" to start - passport please, where did I stay, have I packed my own bags, did you come to the airport alone - then delved into more specific questions only important to the Jewish State - have I made friends in Israel (heaven forbid), where in Israel did I travel (don't ever say the West Bank!), did I ask to have my passport not stamped when entering the country?

"How long was you trip?"

"Where have you traveled?"

"Why?"

"Were you working?"

"Where did you get the money?"

"You had money and traveled?"

"Why did you ask that your passport not be stamped?"

"Have you been there?"

I explained where I bought my ticket and she asked if I had all my ticket receipts over the last sixteen months. Of course not! She asked if I had my ticket into Cairo, I showed her, and upon seeing a third ticket, asked for that one also (London to Boston). When asked where I bought my Cape Town to Cairo flight, I replied, "Sydney", but she saw in the cryptic type that the ticket was paid for in the U.S. and it was only issued in Sydney.

"How many bags did you travel with?"

I shrugged, Sometimes, one, two, three, four...

The questions were non-sensible. This girl winced and deepened her brow when an obvious question came to light, "Now you have three?"

I looked down at the counter, hesitated. "Yeees."

"Did you travel alone?"

Now alone?

How long in Israel?

Again I leaned forward, this time I glared, "Eight days is enough."

After twenty long minutes of circular questions and brief answers, Pimple Face happily announced my baggage would be examined. I was brought to check-in then followed the dynamic duo through the hall into a large room to a search and destroy table. There the duo donned plastic gloves and meticulously examined everything, leaving nothing untouched. They used a hand metal detector, felt every inch of every piece of cloth including Blacky, and brought many items to a backroom for further examination (backpack, sleeping pad, computer). Ah, the computer, this raised eyebrows. First found was the serial cable and since it was assumed I didn't carry a computer, eyes lit up The burnt hole in the screen - it made an unlikely pillow in French Polynesia - was also a curiosity as was the tape holding the backup battery door and covering the serial port whose door is lost.

I sat and observed from a few meters away, shaking my head at the mess being created and glad nothing too embarrassing was in the luggage. On second hand, that would have been interesting - a motorized phallic device or an Austin Power penis pump. I cute Mexican girl was brought behind closed curtains - a body search?, no she was out in minutes, then I was also frisked there. Forty minutes later I was awarded the mess. They did offer to repack my belongings, I looked at them ridiculously - what order would that be in, what would later be broken in baggage handling, and if I accepted their offer I would have to repack again later anyway. In an act of disgust, I flew bigger items into the air that landed beside my table to gain room and spend another forty minutes re-packing.

I wondered why I was chosen to be searched - because the airport was not busy when I arrived, my passport was filled with stamps, I looked like I would carry plastic explosives, I traveled through Arab countries, I said eight days was enough in Israel, I stared at her acne the girls acne too closely?

The four and a half-hour flight crossed two time zones on the Air Italia twin engine Airbus 321. It was calm and relaxing - half of the kelly green seats were empty and I slept against a window - compared to my upcoming second leg. I caught some Z's while the earth below slowly brightened. When I awoke, I saw ocean speeding by followed by brown mountainous islands with snowcaps (snow!). Immediately after the islands we crossed onto the Italian mainland. In northern Italy the plane descended through a cloud layer, but there was sun beneath, then another layer and more sun (I don't get it), this time lighting squares of farmlands.

The flight from Milan to London was indeed unlike the first flight. Having asked for a window seat I was given an emergency exit with a door that bulged into cabin space and annoyingly into my shoulder and without an actual window. The plane was filled with boisterous young people, a few of which were directly behind and constantly banging the seat backs. The plane had a constant loud hum of voices, as if half the people were continuously speaking at once.

-end

kippa - skullcaps

Magnum Bar IS10

-end