Day 84, From an Israeli Prison, Part 4, Where I Out Ronald Ronald

Yes, you read the title correctly:  Where I Out Ronald Ronald.

I shall explain.  My father's name was Ronald S. Vaughn, as is mine.  He is denoted by Sr., me, Jr.  After I became an adult the junior became superfluous and was dropped.

My father was something of an adventurer and a better story teller, which made his stories  seem all the more exciting and entertaining.  He came from a line of such men and I have tried to follow in his footsteps.  Perhaps if he had kept me away from some of his stories I would have been a little less influenced by it all, a little more settled, a little more normal.  I don't blame him for his influence on me, I thank him.  Without his influence I would have ever had the life of adventure I have enjoyed.

All sons grow up in the shadow of their father.  Sons slave under the expectation of filling their father's shoes, of carrying on the family tradition, of carrying on the family name, even the family buiness or occupation.  Think about why it is that sons carry the family surname for life, a name that often denotes the family station or business.  Daughters marry away, while sons stay Smiths, Coopers, Blacks, Johnsons, etc. My father's shadow was too tall and wide for me to hope to surpass, but there are times I have my moment in the sun.

One story I heard my father tell was his attempt to visit the Allenby Bridge over the Jordan River in the 1980s.  He was turned away by the Israeli military a mile from the crossing despite his best efforts.  I can't say why, but I have always been wanting to try my hand at getting to the Allenby Bridge.  I wanted to out Ronald Ronald.

General George Allenby, WWI Commander of British Expiditioniary Forces, Middle East, charged with protecting the Suez Canal and attacking the Turkish Empire in the Middle East.  In the movie "Laurence of Arabia" he remarks, when told of a 20,000 gold guinea Turkish bounty for Laurence, he says "I wonder if they would offer that much for me?".  He knew that generals were a dime a dozen, but leaders were worth their weight in gold.  I'll come back to Laurence in a latter post.

Understand that the Allenby Bridge is literally almost nothing.  Originally a wooden bridge, then a metal military tank bridge, recently replaced by a concrete structure.  It is the southernmost crossing of slow, shallow Jordan River.  A child could easily wade across.  The bridge is meant for vehicles and it gets little traffic, mostly some commercial trade and Palistinian family members seperated by the border.

I approach the military checkpoint a mile from the bridge in my tiny rental car.  The oupost and a few vehicles look lost in the middle of the nothingness.  It takes a few minutes to explain my purpose to the person who translates my request to the boss.  After my story is told, told again, relayed to points unknown I am told the inevitable NO, you can't.  I head to my car and hang around.  The quiet, the empty horizon, the lack of traffic are both calming and irritating.  After a few minutes I am told I can't hang around and I start for my car.  Have I come so far just to get nowhere?

I have to tell you, I did not simply ask to see the bridge.  That would have been lame and pointless, a wasted effort, a fool's errand.  I know I am asking the unusual, even the illegal, but mostly I see my request as harmless.   Other than wasting the time of people who are really just wasting their time anyway, am I asking for so much?  My purpose may seem flimsy, but it is important that I try.  And try well.  No haphazard effort allowed so far from home.

Some times its not what you ask for, it's how you ask.  And sometimes providence shines on the desperate.  I always like to say "God must love fools.  They are so entertaining.". Perhaps it is my time to entertain that deity.

I do not ask to see a bridge.  I do not ask to see the Allenby Bridge.  I do not ask to see the unfulfilled dreams of my father finally met by his aging son, a pilgrimage in father's name.  I do not ask to see the one thing in Israel named for Allenby (other than a street in Tel Aviv), the man who was, in some small way, a contributor to the founding of Israel.  I do not ask to see the bridge named for the man who mentored my great-grandfather during his time at Eton.

Of course not.  But I do spin a tale, woven with facts, history and more imagination than required for a papal nuncio.  I am the prodigal son returned in the memory of a father's quest before him.  There are vague memories and vaguer references to family relics and history that bind me to Allenby and he to me.

I tell the tale in a somber but easy manner.  If you listen closely you can hear the march of Allenby's army up into Jerusalem and then Damascus.  If you close your eyes my words will transport you back 100 years to the desert campaigns of the Great War.  It is not so hard to hear what you must, that I am Allenby himself, come to see his monument to his leadership, his mark on the world.

Well that's a bit too much.  But I have come too far to not make my best pitch.  Family references?  Check!  Emotional ties?  Check!  Historical events?  Check!  Would you feel good if you said yes?  Double check!  All fish will not bite on all bait, so you have to use a variety of lures.  I have done my best and failed.

Chastened and a bit self a entertained I stand by my car and take in the bleakness of this place.  It has a beauty for the visitor that the resident will never know.  After a few minutes the guard tells me even my current position is not allowed and I must go.  I start the car, turn around and head out of the parking lot when...

read note in the next blog entry.

Day 83, From an Israeli Prison, Part 3

From the border with Lebanon I head for the Golan Heights.  The morning view is of snow capped Mt. Hebron, a place where skiing is possible.  I stop to tour an ancient fort built by the Crusaders to control the trade route to Damascus.  It's just another reminder of the series is of conquerers who have held this land.  The Israelis have held the the Golan Heights for 49 years, a mere moment by the standards of this place.

The Golan Heights is mostly agricultural land with small villages on a large plateau. It is damp and cool relative to the desert floor below on all sides.  Beside the roads are many memorials to the soldiers lost in the wars, mostly the Yom Kippur War in 1973.  One of the memorials shows the remains of an aluminum troop carrier supplied by the U.S.  I also see several tank and artillery depots from the road.  Iam too engrossed to remember to take photos.

It is common to see hitch hikers in Israel, some of them armed soldiers.  I reroute my trip to take several down the heights to a doctor's appointment. I end up in Tiberius for the night.

 The next day I follow a border fence 20 feet tall made of welded rebar so tight you couldn't put your finger between the rebar lattice work.  A duplicate fence protects the inside fence about a foot away.  The installation is topped with immense amounts of razor wire, cameras and other electronics.  I follow the road inside the fence to abandoned observation post.

Just inside the fence are the modernly developed hot springs Tiberius is famous for.  Roman generals and pro counsuls relaxed here over 2,000 years ago. The nascent Jordan River flows by a few yards away through the high reeds.