Day 97, In an Israeli Prison, part 8

After Elat I head up the eastern border of Israel to Dead Sea, Jericho and Masada.  Dead Sea, lowest point on earth.  Good hotels are booked, bad hotels are really bad.  I end up spending two nights in the West Bank town of Jericho at a five star hotel for only $100/night.  The hotel is just inside the boundry betweeen the West Bank and pre-1967 Israel.  The border checkpoint is maintained but lightly manned.

My first night I walk towards the center of Jericho.  I stop at the first small eatery I see.  I am immediately surrounded by a small gang of Palistinian males in their late teens and early 20s.  We talk about everthing and anything they desire.  When I tell them I am going to  Masada the next day they say they aren't allowed to enter the area.  I invite them to come with me and they say they will, but as I expected they are no shows the next day.  Their parents probably talked them out of it.

I feel sorry for them and their situation.  High unemployment, limited education, poor local governance, restricted travel and limited social opportunities (they can't date if they don't have a job, religious customs).  They act five years younger than their chronological age.  No wonder some fall prey to the extremist groups or take impossible chances to act out thier frustration.  They are victims of history and circumstances that seem insurmountable.

Masada was a summer home to King Herod.  Jewish rebels later used it as a fort, where they held out against Roman forces for two years at the end of the Macabee revolt.  When their defeat was emminent almost a thousand people carried out a suicide pact rather than becoming Roman slaves.  If America has Valley Forge, Israel has Masada.  It is a part of the national character and stands as an unspoken threat to Israel's neighbors.  Israel is widely recognized as posessing nuclear weapons, which elevates what is known as the "Masada Complex" to a whole new level.  If Israel falls, expect bad news.  VERY bad news.

 Mosaic floor from the time of King Herrod.

Cable car to Masada, Dead Sea in the background.  Views from the top are worth the trip.

One of the water cisterns on Masada.  Rain water was collected and supplimented by mule hauled water from the valley.

Ruins at Masada.

Another view from Masada.

Young couple I gave a ride near the Dead Sea.  Hitchhiking actually works in Israel as a mode of transportation.  Safe for all involved.  Hitchers ask for a ride by standing near the road by a bus stop.   There's a great bus network in Israel as well, but I am too old and set in my ways to do either.

After Masada I head back to Jerusalem yet again.  A few days later I escape the so called 'Israeli Prison' I've been labeling my time in Israel. Israel is small, really small.  Israel is bordered by four countries of varying stability and hostility.  Israel  also faces attacks by groups encoraged by other, non-border states.  It is a relatively stable coutry in an unstable neighborhood.  Israel has the goal of being a Jewish state. Israel faces the challenge of managing its complicated relationships with non-Jews in Israel proper and the West Bank and Gaza.  Israel's Jewish status faces unique demograpic problems and internal disputes that limit its internally acceptable choices.  

One way Israel has tried to manage these issues is to errect fences along its borders and between conflicting groups.  The fences are of varying strength and effectiveness, and they have proven useful in some cases.  Israelis generally do not trade goods or people with its neighbors bec ause the borders are almost totally closed.  Ask an Israeli in Tel Aviv where he has traveled outside the country and the answer is usually Europe, Asia or America, but never Jordan, Egypt or Lebanon.  In an interconnected, hyper-trade oriented world this is unsustainable.    

This the 'Israeli Prison' that Israel has created for itself.  The fences keep the baddies (and many others) out, but it also keeps the Israelis in.  And inside the Israeli prison is a Palistinian prison on the West Bank, another in Gaza.  Isolation isn't good for individuals, and its never good for nations.  It just can't last.

Fences are not forever.  The old fences the British left behind in 1949 and the Israeli fences of 1967 can be seen and are just relics.  There were even fences around Masada, and walls around Jericho. Both failed and are mostly gone.  

I dont pretend to have the answer to this complicated problem.  The Palistinians I talked to just want the Israelis to go away, basically to the 1967 borders, but some want them gone from the Middle East entirely.  To this the Israelis say where can we go?  You Arabs have a dozen countries to go to if you want a place that speaks your language, follows your religion.  We Jews have no place to go.  The Israeliis have their overwhelming military power, the Palistinians have varrying degrees of support around the world.

I planned to visit Israel for a week, I stayed for a month.  Absolutely no regrets about that decision.  Its one of the most interesting and easy places I have ever visited.  It was perfect except for the high prices and the $125 of parking tickets I managed to accumulate.  

I make my escape via an overnight flight to Moscow with a connecting flight to St. Petersburg.  The flight attendants are thowback to the 60s when looks were used in hiring decisions.  Their uniforms still carry the hammer and scicle on the sleeves.  I hope for a real Russian airplane, like a Tupulov, but instead get an Airbus connecting to a Boeing.  Capitalism has reached the former socialist regime. 

I arrive more exhausted than I ha planned.  It is brutally cold outside.  Snow covers everything.  I am definitely underdressed.  A new adventure awaits.

Day 93, A Brief Escape

After a few days in Jerusalem I rent another car and drive to Tel Aviv to pick up my passport and visa at the Russsian Embassy.  All goes well and I pay my last five dollar parking fee and hit the road heading south.  This may be a good time to explain about driving in Israel.

First, just calling it driving is a misnomer.  The proper term should be stock car racing.  Every road in the little country is populated by wanna be NASCAR drivers.  Every driver is in a big rush to deliver a baby or stop some criminal enterprise.  Only some holistic reason could explain the total disregard for speed limits and safety.  If you leave two car lengths between you and the car in front of you on the highway, in five seconds three cars will try to claim that space.  Space is hard to find and should be filled immediately.  Its a rule of the road.

Horns are used liberally and in a set kind of a code.  When at a traffic light, just before it goes green the yellow light comes on, signalling alll racers to get ready.  If you don't start moving when the light first turns green the cars behind you will gladly remind you of your error with horns beeping.  In the city cab drivers use their horns as a form of advertising, reminding pedistrians that the cab is available.  This takes a bit of getting used to.

Police run with their flashing top bar lights on all the time, parked or moving.  So why have the at all.  The law requires everyone to use heir headlights during the six months surrounding the new year.  Noone knows why those dates are so magical.  Renting a car is incredibly cheap, less than ten dollars a day.  But CDW is required no matter how much you protest ("its the law in Israel.") at a cost of around $15/day.  Gas costs about $6/gallon.

When I tell people I am driving to Elat they ask me why.  Its an easy four hour drive that most Israelis never make.  One person says I must like driving.

I end up driving into Elat at night.  The view iof Elat and Aquaba, Jordon 2,000 feet below is magical.

Elat is a beach town, like so many beach towns in the states.  It is the southernmost point in Israel, a ten mile wide access to the Red Sea wedged betwen Jordan Egypt.  Looking acros the Gulf of Aquaba at the Jordan side you can clearly see what Jordanians call "The Freedom Flag", whicxh celebrtates the town as thge starting point of the Arab Rebellion during WWI.

During my time in Elat I spend a lot of moeny for a private day trip and tour of Petra.  Recents rule changes make it impossible for me to just go to the town of Petra myself and see the ruins there.  A professional service arrages everything, likley my my most expensive day of the trip.  On thhe way we pass by an area where the movie "Laurence of Arabia" was filmed.

The famous Treasury building in Petra.  It was actually a burial tomb, but named The Treasury because of its appearance.

This the view you would have seen if you were in a caravan when Petra was a trading town on the Silk Road.

On the way back the guide and I discuss poitics.  He pointa out that while corruption is endemic and unpunished in Jordan and other arab countries, two Israeli presidnts face criminal penalties for mishandling campaign funds.  He is a loyal Jordanian, but he admires the workings of the Israeli government.  Interesting stuff.

Day 87, From an Israeli Prison, Part 6

After the Allenby Bridge  I head back to Jerusalem to hang out while my visa to Russia is processed.  Of course I spend my time walking around the new and old parts of the city.

One day I manage to hit the limited times when the area around the Al Axa Mosque iss open to non-muslims.  This is the mosque that is called the Dome of the Rock, a site held sacred by three religions.  Jews are religiously restrictd fom the area, until the Temple of Soloman is rebuilt.  That didn't stop an Israeli gunman from attacking the mosque a few years ago.

The area of the mosque is  mmediately next to the Wailing Wall, but on a higher elevaton.  As a tourist I must access the mosque area via a walkway that goes over the women's side of the Wailing Wall.  One could easily throw a rock from one to the other.

The area around the mosque is quite open and airy compared to the rest of the Old City.  There are several groups of religios study groups around the gardens.  Only muslims are allowed inside the mosque, so of course I have to try.  I am about 30% successful, which is to say I am turned away at the door without violence.  My successs at the Allenby Bridge has made me a bit too sure of myself.  If I had done some studying before I tried I might have made it.


This photo shows how Jerusalem is a city of hills, hills and more hills.  Look closely and you'll see the national bird of Israel: the construction crane.  They are active and can be found almost any where.  In my travels I saw very few single family homes, as most people live in apartments.

Two photos of the Dome of the Rock, said to be the place where Abraham was prepared to sacrifice his son, and where Mohamad rose to heaven after he died.

 This shot shows the walkway that leads up to the area of the Dome of the Rock.  It is open to tourists from 8 to 10:30 a.m.  The entire Arab Quarter is closed off to outsiders on Friday and Saturday.

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.