Day 84, From an Israeli Prison, Part 5, Or Do I?

I have set the scene for you.  I have plead my case with all the skill I can muster at my age.  I have been spurned throughout, and I am headed out of he parking lot when I hear a noise.  A squeak.  A squeal.  A report.  A yell.   They alll sound the same from my tiny roller skate of a car.  I hear it again.  Definitely man made this time.  Definitely a yell.

I look back to see a person on the phone waving a hand.  I head back thinking I am about to scolded or fined for something I did or said.  Boy was I wrong!

Seems my story has circulated amongst the higher ups at the border crossing until it made it's way to the highest levels.  This is a sleepy, uneventful place, so apparently my pleas have made for entertaining  gossip to the office of the border crossing manager.  The boss.  The Big Boss.  I am told to wait for further news.  I am promised nothing, but I am hopeful for anything.   I wait among the guard staff, who's attitude has changed from official to friendly.  It is like night and day.  I have gone from pesky nusiance to welcomed guest.  I am hopeful.  I am told THE BIG BOSS is coming.  I imagine a gruff, wrinkled, cigar chewing, frowning hulk of a man come to look me over.  Probably to tell this idiot tourist to hit the road in no ucertain terms.  I wait. And wait.

Eventually a car pulls up from the direction of the border.  Everyone stands a bit taller, a bit more stern, and I am sitting among them, waiting.  Out of the car comes an atractive woman in her late 30s or early 40s.  Hr name is Shiela, she speaks English, and as heard my plight.  She offers to personally escort me to the Allenby Bridge.  Therer is still some minor paperwork to do, and then we start off in our respective cars after mine is inspected underneath by mirror.  For what I can only guess.  Stowaway midget mice?  Errant mustard seesds?

The road to the bridge is through a barren desert landscape, flat and almost plantless.  We soom arrive at group of smal buildings that process border crossers.  There are a couple of unmanned military towers.  I park my car and join Shiela in hers.  I start again on the story of Allenby, my father's unfinished quest and the family connection.  I realize from her questions that my father's unfinished journey was what struck a chord with her.  Maybe I added too much to the story for her requirements, but who knows what wa deeded to propell it to her attention?

We get to the bridge with me telling her the history of the place, which she knows nothing about.  The old wooden bridge is but 50 yards downstream, but the riverside brush obscures most of it.  We walk out on the bridge, I take a few photos and she drives me back to the car.  Turns out she is a little rustrated at hr job because she is technically a contractor, so she doesnt feel permanent.  And this may be as high as her career will go.  I consider asking her out to dinner but then she lights up a cigarette and that idea literally goes up in smoke.

I am torn about the idea that I outdid my father by getting to the Allenby Bridge.  The times are different now, Israel's peace with its neighbors seems more permanent these days, so I am not sure it was a fair test.  I also had my father's quest to use as a way of entry, but I am not sure if that is a cheat or not.  My father could have easily spun my yarn to make his attempt, just as I spun mine.  None of it has to be true, all of it could be true.  That is the essence of the tale.  It is nothing but smoke until you really see the fire, but how can there be smoke if ther is no fire?  And therein lies the rub, the bard would say.  

Did I out Ronald Ronald?  If I say yes, I might have done something unintentional to my memory of him.  If I say no, I might have done someting to my memories of myself.  I intended neither to start, but somehow I have ended up at a bridge in the middle of nowhere trying to figure out being effects my memories of my father.  And that was NOT the intent of my tale or the journey.

And so for now I shall leave the question open and unanswered, in a place where I am both happy and content.  You may decide otherwise, and that is your priviledge.  For that, be you listener or reader, is the one priviledge you enjoy of any tale: the final judgement.

Even after these photos the Allenby Bridge, you should wonder if this is all whole or spun cloth?  Is that REALLY the Allenby Bridge?  Is that REALLY Sheila, the big boss?  There are many stories behind these photos.  You have just been subjected to one of them.  With all that detail and some last minute doubt I may have, in some small way, out Ronalded Ronald after all.  And therein lies the tale!

Or maybe Neo you chose the wrong pill after all.

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.

Day 82, From an Israeli Prison, Part 2

After my stay in Tel Aviv I head north through Haifa up to the Lebanese border.  My interest in borders comes from my  interest in history and a lack of borders in my home country.  I am told the border with Lebanon is closed, which is true for me.  There is a functioning gate on both sides which is probably opened under extreme circumstances.  I follow the border east until I end up in a set of houses that look much like any suburban development in the states, except for the view of the high fences on the hill a few hundred feet away.

My prison looms ahead. The border was a warning, my interest in it beyond logic.  I should have headed for home, but I wasn't that smart.  Yet.  But as I found out later, I am teachable.  Slow to learn, but teachable.

At the rocky short by the border are these marmot-looking fuzzballs.  They know nothing about national boundaries.  Call them stateless, they don't care.

 Israeli gunboats on patrol near the border.

A closed tunnel for a road connecting Lebanon and Israel built by the British after WW1

Looking inside the tunnel. Secret Israeli weapons storage.

Day 70, From an Israeli Prison, Part 1

Time to catch up. Got to Israel on January 20th, caught a shuttle to a hotel in Jerusalem near the Old City.  For five days it was raining, windy and cold.  I braved the weather most days to walk around the Old City.  I am in awe of this place. Absolute awe.

First night I hear a brief burst of automatic gunfire.  I wonder what it means.

The Old City is about a square mile of walled in area navigated by narrow walkways and almost impassable streets.  The main avenues are so narrow and covered with awnings the sun almost never hits the limestone blocked streets.  These streets are thick with various vendors, most for tourists, others for locals.  99% of the shops are less han 10 feet wide, manned by a middle aged Arab male.  There are barber shops, cobblers and seamstresses cramed into tiny cubieholes.  Spices, shoes, butchers green grocers and eateres round out the vendors.

The busiest 'streets'' are almost impassable, choked by overflowing shop displays, kids on bikes and pedestrians.  At times it seems impossible to add one more person to the throng, then there is a call to prayer and things quickly thin out.  The young Hassidic teenagers almost trot on t eir way to the Western Wall as they pass through the Chriustian and Ethiopian Quarters.  And there's always a stray cat or two wandering around.   Always.

And the troops.  Or police.  You literally can not walk 100 yards without seeing a security detail of three or four soldiers or police.  They never travel alone, they also have automatic rifles on hand and they look barely old enough to shave (those that don't shave have the thin fuzz of the young).  They make you feel safe and afraid at the same time.  Safe because they are there, afraid because they are there for a reason.  They usually chat casually amongst themselves, but it is not uncommon to see them questionng an arab teenager.

Beyond the security this is a place of immense history.  Jesus, David, Abraham, Mohammed and a thousand others have been here.  Crusaders, Romans, Phoenicians, Ottomans, Philistines, Egyptians, Israelies and many others have controlled this tiny square of land.  Three of the world's major religions see parts of this place as sacred.  History has washed over this place, blood has flowed here, famous words were spoken here, and bullets and insults have been exchanged here.  And for literally thousands of years people have lived here.  People live here to this day, down narrow alleys and deadend walkways. The streets of ancient times are buried under years of rebuilding  and rubble but you can feel the strength of the place with every step.

I walk these crowded alleys daily absorbing the feel of this place in every glance. I have the random thought that I could live here and be entertained by a daily stroll through a timeless but ancient city.  I can almost tatse destiny and history on my toungue with every breath.  It overwhelms the senses, most of all one's sense of history.

Looking back, there were clues everywhere, but I saw nothing about myself in such a glorious place.  I was headed for an Israeli prison and I never saw it coming.  At least not yet.  I was blinded by my love of place.  I  should have known better.  Some lessons are harder to learn than others.

Walls of the Old City.  It is surrounded by modern Jerusalem.

The Western Wall oof Soloman's Temple, also called the Wailing Wall.

This was on a Sabbath evening of a new moon.  Biggest crowd I saw.

A more typical evening at the Western Wall. 

The dark spots on the wall are hardy shrubs.

Note the many bookstands at the ready for prayers.

Day 75: It's Complicated. Oh So Complicated.. From Russia With Love

This is a lesson I need to learn some times: there are some things best left to professionals. Examples include dentistry, fuel production, aircraft piloting, surgery, many home repairs, and (drum roll please):

Wait for it........

GETTING A TOURIST VISA TO VISIT RUSSIA!!!

What I should have done:  hired a professional visa handler to get my visa months before I left the states.

What I actually did:  made plans to go to Russia shortly before I left for Paris thinking I could easily get a visa in Paris. Waited to go the Russian Consulate until just before Christmas.  Web site says they are open, locked doors say they are closed.  Sign in Russian days come back after January 6.  Web site says visa takes ten days to process.  I am leaving Paris on January 12th.  Will try in another country.  Israel.

Go to capital of Israel, Jerusalem.  Discover that Russian consulates are in Tel Aviv and Haifa. On Monday take tram to near car rental agency.  Take cab due to torrential rains, get lost, find car agency on my own afoot.  Brand new employee takes 2 hours to finish car rental paperwork.  (She was hired for her looks, so I am fine).

Massive traffic jam causes me to enter Tel Aviv after dark.  Get hotel room, plan to visit consulate Tuesday.

On Tuesday I visit Russian consulate.  Closed for Russian holiday.  Pay $5 to park.  They are in a large office tower by the beach.

On Wednesday I visit Russian consulate at 2 p.m..  Basic instructions are: fill out on line form, we are open until noon.  Pay $5 to park.  I buy passport photos.   I learn how to operate an Israeli elevator.  Trust me, it's weird.

That night I fill out on line form as best as I logically can.  And can recall.  Last two employers, including name of boss, addresses and phone numbers from 23 years ago.  Military service from 40 years ago.  Marital status from 34 years ago.  Health history questions.  Countries visited questions.  Money questions.

To avoid problems with the visa application I try to make it easy for Russia to admit me.  To like me.  Even love me.  I am single (not divorced), I don't belong to ANY organizations (too many to list), I am in perfect health, I attended one university (not four), I was a peacetime infantry soldier (why worry them with references to WMDs?) and I plan to be in Russia for 3 days.

I also need an "invitation letter".  I make hotel reservations on line and email hotel in Moscow for letter.  Hotel emails me a form, I email back completed form.

Thursday morning and nothing from Moscow hotel.  Fortunately Israeli hotel desk clerk is Russian.  He calls Moscow hotel, they are confused by their own form.  He arranges for letter to arrive by 10 a.m.  It comes and I head off for consulate.

Arrive consulate and enter line at 11a.m.  Only six people in front of me.  At noon office closes.  There are only three people in front of me in line.  Pay $5 to park.  Give a college student a ride home.  Nice campus.

On Friday I arrive consulate at 9:30.  After an hour's wait diplomat reads my papers and asks questions.  Did I work at Penn State all of my life? (actually, that's the education section)  Why is my father's name the same as mine?(Jr./Sr. stuff not shown my passport so I excluded it).  Where is the last two employers' data? (can't recall it)

I was close.  Really close to being done until he reads the invitation letter from the Moscow hotel.  Multiple page form, seals of officialdom all over it.  On one page of the form I am Ronald, on another I am Ron.  I am told I need a corrected invitation letter. No way to fix it here.  Do not pass GO, do not collect $200.  Pay $5 to park.

Go back to Tel Aviv hotel.  Clerk calls Moscow hotel and they eventually send corrected invitation letter.  Too late to get back to consulate in time.

At this point some perfectly reasonable people would say to hell with Russia, etc. They would say no more of this junk, if its this hard to get in, how hard is it to get out?

In economics this becomes the sunk cost dilemma.  We tend to to not want to abandon the time and money spent on what may be a failure.  If we think we are close to being done after many attempts we are more likely to continue than after a few attempts.  We hate being called quitters.

So I spend the weekend in Tel Aviv so I can go the consulate on Monday.  It's a nice city and the food is good, so the time isn't wasted.

On Monday I am at the consulate by 9:30, third in line.  Different diplomat, younger.  We go over the same old qurstipns plus a few new ones.  No business in Russia?  Do you want you want to pay extra for expidited service? (no)  He looks on s computer screen, makes some notes, staples my papers together and sends me to this cash window to pay.

Oops.  Sign days visa costs 320 shekels.  I discover that's for locals.  Americans have to pay 640 shekels.  I am short and they pnlytake cash.  After a 30 minute trip I return from an ATM with more money.  Take receipt back to visa window.  More confusion because the cashier thought I paid more for expidited service.

In the end I am promised a visa in eight days.  They hold on to my passport, so no side trips to Jordan for now.  Me and my tiny rental car head north out of town, relieved and temporarily free of the Russian bear hug of paperwork.

Day 67, Turkish Taffy

Turkey has great food and lots of excitement.  One day President Urduwan (sp?) came by after a speech by the Blue Mosque.  Photos of the crowds and the Hagia Sophia.

 It actually snowed in Istanbul.  Very rare.

These small cats are everywhere.  They run wild all over the city.

Inside the Hagia Sophia.  Rebuilt several times after earthquakes, then converted to s mosque, then a museum.