This is weird. I mean truly, absolutely, undenialble weird. Strange. Unclear. Unnatural. Unbeleivable. There is no sense or reality to what I remember. Or at leat what I THINK I remember.
I am in a bed, a single bed. My packed lugagge is at one end of the room. A few items out of the bags are nearby. I check the tiny bathroom and it is void of clues. It is very quiet. I look outside and see a blank white snowscape, faint and featureless but for a small stand of birch trees nearby. I smell a faint whiff of smoke, maybe a wood fire. I listen closely and I hear two young people laughing then talking in Russian. I find what loks to be a hotel room key, the name in Cyrlic and undecipherable. For now I don't know the time or place of my existence. It is frightening and a bit exhilerating at the same moment.
I start to remember things. I remember people asking me who I am, where I am going, why am I going there, and where is my coat. Many people, and they all ask where is my coat. It is cold there they say, where is my coat? They say it it English and Russian, a thousand times over, where is my coat? I don't have a coat. I don't want a coat. I need a coat. I appreciate their concern but it worries me a little. I wonder what they know that I dont know. Will I die without a coat? Is a coat a legal requirement where I am going?
I remember other people asking me about my papers. They ask for papers I never needed before, never had before and never will have. I remember thinking that it is midnight and without papers I will be sleeping outside in the cold. I remember that the people's concern for my being coatless was right. I remember wishing that I had a coat. Or wishing there was coat store that was open at midnight on a Saturday.
Saturday! I remember it was midnight on a Saturday. I turn on the computer tablet and see that it is now Tuesday. Where did the last two days go? Or three, depending on which side of Saturday was that midnight I remember.
Ther's a pile of papers on the dresser. There should be a clue there. Yes! A plane ticket! Or part of one, from Moscow to Krasnoyarsk to Kyzyl. The first leg out of Moscow is used, but the second leg to Kyzyzl is intact. I was supposed to be on that plane three days ago according to the ticket, but apparently I didnt make it. What happened? I just can't recall, no matter how hard I try. The clouds in my head will lift at their own speed and I unable to rush the process forward.
There is a noise to my left, a big noise, which I soon recognize as a jet taking off. I open the window and find that I know where I am, at a hotel next to the Krasnoyarsk airport. In a minute it is quiet again. Now, instead of the peace of the solitude and quiet, I am starting to hate it. I need clues, not emptiness.
Remember when I said it was a bit exhilerating a few minutes ago? That feeling is totally gone, replaced by a large dose of dread and a fast growing feeling of fear, with panic running a speedy third place. If there is a finish line, panic will surely win, unless I can get my act together and figure this all out.
I notice that I am extremely stiff and sore, more than I have felt in many years. I feel a little beat up but I see no bruises. Everything hurts, from my toes to my nose. I go to the bathroom mirror to check if I am bearing any physical clues to my pain, but I see nothing. But wait a second! Yes, absoutely, for sure. Unbelieveable. I've had a haircut. Remarkable! I look just like my passport photos, even though I haven't had a haircut in five months. At least, that I can remember.
I am starting to hate that word, remember, mostly because I DON'T remember! It's infuriating me more than scaring me. Why can't I remember! I might have shouted out that last part. I don't care if I did or who hears it. I just WANT TO REMMBER!
There's that word again. Remember. I try and sure enough a litle bit comes back to me. I remember staying at this hotel a few days ago. I remember hauling my baagge down the snowy walkway and across the icy road that leads to the airport building. I remember the truck on the road, both of use slipping and sliding trying to avoid one another. It all plays out in slow motion, like two olympic skaters on the rink, apart but destined to be joined together on the ice while crowd watches. I can almost see myself in the crowd, but now it more like a NASCAR event crowd awaiting the inevitable crash, again in slow motion. The roar of the crowd in anticipaton is deafening. I am not sure if I should join in on the spectical or not.
There is another plane tickt on the table, for a trip from Krasnoyarsk to Beijing. It leaves in an hour. I need to catch that plane, to say goodbye to Russia and continue my journey around the world. I need to shower, shave and pack. I can tell I haven't shaved for a few days, maybe another clue. I finish getting ready in haste, and I find an empty vodka bottle under the bed. Given the volume of dust bunnies that reside there it may have been there a day or a year. I have no time to look further. I am off to Beijing as fast as my feet and the snow will carry me.
Perhaps more details of te past few days will come to me. Believe me, I want those to come back to memory more than any of you. I'll work hard on it an keep you posted
OK. I know some of you wanted closure. An Ending. A surmise, success or failure? The blog is titled Kyzyl or Bust, and neither is guaranteed. For now I don't have an answer. For that I apologize.
I warned you that this episode might be dangerous for your mental health. A cliffhanger indeed!
Even I, the central (and mostly sole) character in this blog am anxious to see how it turns out. And so doth the tale unfold before us, not as we like, but as it will.
Stay tuned!
Monday, March 14, 2016
Sunday, March 13, 2016
Day 120, Back in the USSR, Boys! You don't know how lucky you are boys...
Another cheap flight back to Moscow, then a train plus a subway ride to an Ibis hotel near Moscow University, two subway stops from Red Square. Moscow is the big time in Russia and it shows. Lots of new high rise office buildings, hotels, apartment buildings and shops everywhere. Lots of halted construction projects as well. The economy is linked to energy and energy prices are down.
But the women are,as pretty as St. Petersburg's, the food is great and I am starting to figure things out. By the second day I can navigate the subway system without a map. I start to figure out some of cyrlic alphabet by reading well known signs. An "n" in cyrilic is an "i" in Latin, etc. I am also getting used to the melody of the Russian language. And I start to hear repeated words, but I don't know what they mean.
Besides Red Square visits, I tried one time to find a winter coat. Winter is tailing off and the shops I have visited before were too small to have a real selection. The hotel staff looks up "Russia's largest military store" on the web and I am off to find it. What a comedy of errors.
First, the address I have is wrong and incomplete. I have 49 Arbat Street, but its really 17 Arbat Street. Actually, 17 Old Arbat Street. Second, although I am told otherwise by several people I ask at the metro, Arbat just starts arbitrarily a half mile from the metro. So I walk until the street I am on becomes Arbat Street. Simple, right?
Two miles later I pass #39, thinking its only a mile or so to #49 (numbers go by very slowly). The crowd I was walking in earlier is gone, I am the only pedestrian around. I cross a busy intersection and head across the Moscow River in a howling wind. A thousand knives would have been more gentle. I get to the other side, walk yet another mile until I discover Arbat Street has been replaced by some name I can't spell or pronounce. So back across the river and up the hill I go.
By now it is dark. After a while I see a large Marriott Hotel across Arbat Street. It is at half a mile to a pedestrian crossing, so I decide to jaywalk. This is no small choice as Arbat Street has eight lanes of heavy, fast moving traffic. It probably takes me five minutes to wait for the right moment to run across, but it feels like an hour. Think about crossing the DC beltway for a similar adventure. Not my favorite moment in Russia.
The front desk at the Marriott sets me straight (and warms me up) and I set off for "Old" Arbat Street, which is now a pedestrian only shopping street. American brands pop up a lot, but I am surprised to see a Shake Shack here, a relatively new brand back home.
I find the military store upstairs from a watch store. It is about the size of a one car garage. While I don't find a desirable coat, I do pick up a gift for home. I had to walk halfway out of the shop to get a fair price. I probably only overpaid 100%, but it wasn't that expensive anyway.
One note about Moscow is how clean it is, especially the subway. If there a lone piece of trash on the subway platform people stare at it like it was a tap dancing rodent, although no one picks it up. I guess that's someone else's job.
I forget to tell the story of "Spitfire Girl" in my entry about Leningrad. Remind and I'll tell you in person. She was and is my heroine while in Leningrad.
OK. So a longer blog and more pictures, but hey it's Moscow for goodness sakes. BTW, its as safe and friendly as any place I have been. Everyone I asked for directions was extremely kind and courteous, and mostly non-English speaking.
WARNING: the next blog entry from Krasnoyarsk may be hazardous to your mental health! Read with CAUTION!!
Inside a Moscow subway station. Very clean, reliable cheap. Built in 1930s.
The subway system is very deep underground so the escalators are very long. There is person monitoring the escalator on a tiny booth at each end. What a boring job! The escalators were always working, not at all like the ones in the DC Metro stations.
The old G.U.M. department store. It was called the workers paradise during the USSR days when it was the largest store on the world. Now it is an upscale mall
But the women are,as pretty as St. Petersburg's, the food is great and I am starting to figure things out. By the second day I can navigate the subway system without a map. I start to figure out some of cyrlic alphabet by reading well known signs. An "n" in cyrilic is an "i" in Latin, etc. I am also getting used to the melody of the Russian language. And I start to hear repeated words, but I don't know what they mean.
Besides Red Square visits, I tried one time to find a winter coat. Winter is tailing off and the shops I have visited before were too small to have a real selection. The hotel staff looks up "Russia's largest military store" on the web and I am off to find it. What a comedy of errors.
First, the address I have is wrong and incomplete. I have 49 Arbat Street, but its really 17 Arbat Street. Actually, 17 Old Arbat Street. Second, although I am told otherwise by several people I ask at the metro, Arbat just starts arbitrarily a half mile from the metro. So I walk until the street I am on becomes Arbat Street. Simple, right?
Two miles later I pass #39, thinking its only a mile or so to #49 (numbers go by very slowly). The crowd I was walking in earlier is gone, I am the only pedestrian around. I cross a busy intersection and head across the Moscow River in a howling wind. A thousand knives would have been more gentle. I get to the other side, walk yet another mile until I discover Arbat Street has been replaced by some name I can't spell or pronounce. So back across the river and up the hill I go.
By now it is dark. After a while I see a large Marriott Hotel across Arbat Street. It is at half a mile to a pedestrian crossing, so I decide to jaywalk. This is no small choice as Arbat Street has eight lanes of heavy, fast moving traffic. It probably takes me five minutes to wait for the right moment to run across, but it feels like an hour. Think about crossing the DC beltway for a similar adventure. Not my favorite moment in Russia.
The front desk at the Marriott sets me straight (and warms me up) and I set off for "Old" Arbat Street, which is now a pedestrian only shopping street. American brands pop up a lot, but I am surprised to see a Shake Shack here, a relatively new brand back home.
I find the military store upstairs from a watch store. It is about the size of a one car garage. While I don't find a desirable coat, I do pick up a gift for home. I had to walk halfway out of the shop to get a fair price. I probably only overpaid 100%, but it wasn't that expensive anyway.
One note about Moscow is how clean it is, especially the subway. If there a lone piece of trash on the subway platform people stare at it like it was a tap dancing rodent, although no one picks it up. I guess that's someone else's job.
I forget to tell the story of "Spitfire Girl" in my entry about Leningrad. Remind and I'll tell you in person. She was and is my heroine while in Leningrad.
OK. So a longer blog and more pictures, but hey it's Moscow for goodness sakes. BTW, its as safe and friendly as any place I have been. Everyone I asked for directions was extremely kind and courteous, and mostly non-English speaking.
WARNING: the next blog entry from Krasnoyarsk may be hazardous to your mental health! Read with CAUTION!!
Inside a Moscow subway station. Very clean, reliable cheap. Built in 1930s.
The subway system is very deep underground so the escalators are very long. There is person monitoring the escalator on a tiny booth at each end. What a boring job! The escalators were always working, not at all like the ones in the DC Metro stations.
St. Basile's Cathedral on Red Square.
Another church on the square.
Kremlin buildings and wall. The Kremlin was originally built as a fortress.
Eternal flame monument to the Russian war dead in the Great Patriotic War. I made the mistake of sitting nearby. Definitely not allowed!!!
Oh yea, there's a Burger King in another mall near the metro station.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
Day 102: Nine Days in Leningrad
Leningrad is what I learned in school, but Saint Petersburg is its name today. Most Russians just say Petersburg. The luggage tag says 'LEN". Some things never change.
The airport is eriely quiet when I arrive. I get some cash at an ATM and book a taxi at the cab counter. Turns out I have a hired a black Mercedes sedan for $20.00. It's a 45 minbute ride into the city, so the ride feels cheap. I see policemen waving down mototists for spot checks. I have heard this is a common bribery collection technique.
I am staying at a Marriott that is impecable and only costs about $50 a night. The in house bar has good food and a better piano player. I had tipped the car driver and now the piano player. Their reaction was as if I had cured cancer. I guess tips are rare in Russia.
I become adicted to cabs in Leningrad because they are cheap and the sidewalks are mostly covered with slick ice. The wind howls at times, the sun never shines through the grey clouds and the temps never vary more than a degree or two from freezing. It is VERY slick walking. My knee doesn't like the unsure footing.
I visit the Hermitage area a few times, and make two attempts to get into the Leningrad Great Patrioic War Museum before I am successful. I learn to navigate the subway system and some streets around the hotel. The wether limits me to about three miles of walking a day.
I like Leningrda for its Georgian architecture, which is almost the universal style here. It gives the city a Parisian feel. There is a complex canal system that goes everywhere. Its not Venice, but its halfway there.
I am very impressed by the beauty of the Rusian women. They put Paris to shame. I never knew what slavic peoples are supposed to look like, but this looks as much like Europeans as any place I have ever been in Europe. Maybe its the fact that everyone is bundled up. I have to say that certain leaders of the 20th century were just plain wrong.
Since I am covering nine days at one time I have more than the normal number of photos. I hope you can understand indulge me.
The airport is eriely quiet when I arrive. I get some cash at an ATM and book a taxi at the cab counter. Turns out I have a hired a black Mercedes sedan for $20.00. It's a 45 minbute ride into the city, so the ride feels cheap. I see policemen waving down mototists for spot checks. I have heard this is a common bribery collection technique.
I am staying at a Marriott that is impecable and only costs about $50 a night. The in house bar has good food and a better piano player. I had tipped the car driver and now the piano player. Their reaction was as if I had cured cancer. I guess tips are rare in Russia.
I become adicted to cabs in Leningrad because they are cheap and the sidewalks are mostly covered with slick ice. The wind howls at times, the sun never shines through the grey clouds and the temps never vary more than a degree or two from freezing. It is VERY slick walking. My knee doesn't like the unsure footing.
I visit the Hermitage area a few times, and make two attempts to get into the Leningrad Great Patrioic War Museum before I am successful. I learn to navigate the subway system and some streets around the hotel. The wether limits me to about three miles of walking a day.
I like Leningrda for its Georgian architecture, which is almost the universal style here. It gives the city a Parisian feel. There is a complex canal system that goes everywhere. Its not Venice, but its halfway there.
I am very impressed by the beauty of the Rusian women. They put Paris to shame. I never knew what slavic peoples are supposed to look like, but this looks as much like Europeans as any place I have ever been in Europe. Maybe its the fact that everyone is bundled up. I have to say that certain leaders of the 20th century were just plain wrong.
Since I am covering nine days at one time I have more than the normal number of photos. I hope you can understand indulge me.
Two guys ice fishing on the large river that leads to the Baltic Sea
This guy was checking the ice for safety. His partner drove around in an air boat.
Inside the Hermitage. Good stuiff, very ornate. Amazing parquet floors.
Outside of the Hermitage. As big as Versailles.
A good example of common Leningrad Buildings. Limited skyline.
Inside the Leningrad Museum of the Great Patriotic War. Strictly out of the 1950s and 60s. Some of the diplay cards were typed on a manual typewritter. But worth it for me.
Poster fom the war. The museum never mentions that about one million people died of starvation, in part because Stalin refused to evacuate civilians from the city. The DOES point out that the secret police did an excellenent job of controlling unfounded rumors, catching defeatists and punishing those engaged in unsocial paractices (they specifically mention eating the dead.)
School kids on an outing. The museum is in pretty sad shape now, but I'll bet it was a mandatory school day for the young in the past.
I had a heck of a time finding a place to do laundry in Leningrad. There is a bar/laundromat that is not open (but is rumored to have hosted the Rolling Stones and others), but I enetually found this place. The operator was very understanding, honest and hospitable. No English, but she did my laundry for about four dollars. And she even offerred me coffee or tea while I waited. She did all the work, including the folding.
After y time in Leningrad I start working my way towards Kyzyl, via Moscow.
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
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.
Or maybe Neo you chose the wrong pill after all.
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.
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