The Bridge At Cahors, France

This Medieval Bridge at Cahors, France (just south of the Dordogne Valley on the main north/south motorway to Carcassone and The Languedoc Region of southern France) was the dividing line between "English France," and French soil during the Hundred Years War. Its three massive stone towers and fortified gateways kept the two armies apart -- except after hours, when festive-minded soldiers from either side would sneak across the river in rowboats, wine and feast and carouse together, and return to their respective sides of the river with "fair warning" just in time for renewed hostilities at daybreak.


Sunday, August 31, 2014

JERUSALEM – A LONG DESIRED PASSION FINALLY REQUITED


It is fitting I should be entering Israel on June 7th.  This is the anniversary of the Six-Day War of 1967, when the still teenaged nation of Israel – with enemies from five nations pressing on her borders preparing for an attack – made a successful pre-emptive air strike against her assembled enemies which preserved the Jewish nation for future generations.

I remember reading accounts of this battle, and marveling at the odds overcome by the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) when so heavily outnumbered.  It reinforced for me one of the maxims of military history: “It is not the size of the dog in the fight, it is the size of the fight in the dog that matters.”

That was one of the motivating factors for me to do my senior thesis at Pomona College on the creation of Israel as a state.  Like any good psychologist candidate in training, it is necessary for me to reveal my prejudices in advance.  Mine favor Israel.  Though, I would love to safely have access to Palestine in full and get a perspective on what Palestinians believe is the root and continued justification for conflicts with Israel.

Since taking over all of the Sinai Peninsula (and giving it back as a result of a peace agreement with Egypt in 1979) and the West Bank of the Jordan River (under Palestinian dominion but Israeli military control) and the Golan Heights of what used to be Syria (probably never to be relinquished without a verifiable peace due to its strategic value as high ground looking over all of the Northern Galilee), Israel has gained a reputation carefully cultivated by Arab apologists of being a bully.  My own assessment is that this is akin to labeling David a thug and treating Goliath like a victim.

It simply defies all known logic for a people defending their homes and way of life, surrounded by enemies who refuse to make peace and whose declared purpose is the eradication of their race and their nation, to acquiesce to claims of victimhood or international cries of “foul.”

What nation or nations among that band of coiled hypocrites nesting at the United Nations, would allow a neighbor country to lob rockets into their farms, send zealots armed with suicide vests into crowded cafes, and dig tunnels underneath their school houses and children’s bedrooms for the purpose of kidnap and murder?  Those peace loving and international law abiding Russians?  (If this is your illusion, see the latest developments in Georgia and Chechnya and The Crimea in Ukraine).

None.  That is right.  None!  Including all those wealthy, primarily white, guilt ridden, smug and safe (as a result of hiding behind the US manned and paid for NATO military umbrella) northern Europeans who castigate Israel for overreacting to Palestinian … “provocations.”  Which among them, I ask, would tolerate suicide bombers or increasingly sophisticated rockets or tunnels dug beneath their borders?

Israel has a track record of trading land for peace or vacating conquered territories once military stabilization has taken place (Lebanon, Gaza Strip, Sinai Peninsula, West Bank).  Yet the extremist Islamic entities Hamas and Fatah and Hezbollah (among others) have famously declared that there will be no land for peace, they do not recognize Israel’s right to exist, and it is their sworn duty to eradicate Jews and Israel.  Any Palestinian or Arab leader who dares to oppose these beliefs and seriously engages with Israel to discuss a lasting peace soon finds himself the target of an assassination effort.

A famous quote which has yet to be questioned in any serious manner remains valid today and colors my thinking as I travel through Israel:  “If the Palestinians put down their arms tomorrow, there will be peace.  If the Israelis put down their arms, there will be no more Israel.”

My crossing into Israel is an interesting experience.  It begins with a long drive from Aqaba into Eilat, along what is clearly heavily monitored ground.  I am aware the Israelis have many unseen assets protecting their borders (including satellite, video, sound, infrared, pressure plate, and laser detection technologies in addition to human observers and military patrols).   My entry was somewhat prolonged due to the amount of electronic gear I carry, but very courteous and polite.

Once upon Israeli soil, I encounter the usual problems with taxis.  It seems no matter what the nationality or religion, taxi drivers delight in obfuscation, mixed messages, incomplete rate quotations, and differences of awareness to fleece their clients.  I do not believe I have ever seen a bigger whiner in any public conveyance for hire than my first Israeli taxi driver, simply because I questioned his modus operandi and rate basis.

From Eilat, it is a five hour bus journey to Jerusalem, past the Negev Desert and the Dead Sea.  Seventy kilometers to the north is the Gaza strip at the edge of the Mediterranean Sea – a Palestinian rocket launching pad and powder keg waiting to erupt just days after my departure.  I observe many salt ponds along the way.  I also have time to contemplate just how Israel manages to secure such a lengthy and largely indefensible boundary when the desert lands involved are so completely inhospitable.

Approaching Jerusalem – The Holy City -- after passing the West Bank cities of Jericho, Ramalla and Bethlehem I get my first look at the large and winding security wall erected by the Israelis to protect themselves from West Bank militant incursions (at this juncture, Israel is only 15 miles wide, and nearly indefensible in the event of a major conflict between modern armies).  Though not exactly a similar barrier, it reminds me of the Berlin Wall in reverse.  It is intended to keep trouble out, rather than a captive population in.

Jerusalem is one of the oldest cities in the world, with the most ancient part of the city being settled in the 4th Millenium BC.   It is considered holy to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.  Both Israelis and Palestinians claim Jerusalem as their capital, though neither claim is recognized in diplomatic circles internationally. During its long history, Jerusalem has been destroyed at least twice, besieged over 20 times, attacked over 50 times, and captured and recaptured over 40 times.

Its picturesque golden stone walls which today define “The Old City” were built under Suleiman The Magnificent in 1538.  Today those walls partition the one square kilometer  Old City into four traditional quarters—known as the Armenian, Christian, Jewish, and Muslim Quarters.  Modern Jerusalem has grown far beyond the walled boundaries of the Old City, named as a UNESCO World Heritage site since 1981.
In 2011, Greater Jerusalem had a population of 801,000.  Despite having the smallest quarter Jews comprised 62% of the populace, Muslims 35%, and Christians around 2%.

My reservations have been made at the Panorama Hotel in Arab East Jerusalem, on the Hill of Gethsemane looking directly into the floodlit Islamic Holy Place of the Al-Aqsa Mosque and Dome of The Rock.  Both are just inside the illuminated angles of the Old City walls adjoining the Dung Gate.  It is a compelling, memorable, timeless scene.

My first daylight charge is through the Dung Gate to the Old City.  Israeli security is tight but not annoying.  A primary stop is made at “The Wailing Wall” or Western Wall -- all that remains of the 2nd Jewish Temple after the Romans razed it in 70 AD following a Jewish revolt.  As such the 538 BC constructed place of worship is the most sacred structure of the Jewish people.  This is the suggested site where Abraham – a patriarch of both Judaism and Islam – came to sacrifice his son Isaac.

The Biblical prophet Isiah called the temple a “House for All Nations.”   Today people of all faiths (including Muslims) come to the wall to see, feel, pray, sing, wedge notes in the cracks of its thin sandstone fissures, and chant requests to a universal God.  Interestingly, the wall was denied to Jews after occupation by Jordanian troops following the Israeli War of Independence in 1948 until its capture by Israel in 1967.

In a broader sense, the 500 meter whitewashed Wailing Wall – having witnessed war and peace, destruction and revival, love and hate, hope and fear – stands as a sentinel to time and acts as a bulwark for the heritage of Jews, Christians and Muslims alike.  It is a unification place and symbol of unity for Jews especially.  It is said locally that “The Divine Presence Has Never Departed From The Western Wall.”

A logical followup was the Islamic Dome of the Mount, located by ramp just uphill from the Wailing Wall and situated on the ancient platform which once was the base for Solomon’s  1st Temple.  I can squeeze off a few photos from a distance, but am otherwise not allowed access due to wearing cargo shorts.  A pair of plaid oversized knickers to attain the proper pant leg length is offered, but I am unwilling to pay $25 for these illustrious threads and forego the visit.  Luckily, I have seen many mosques (and mosque interiors) in Cairo.

A side turn is taken departing the courtyard of the Dome of The Mount/Al-Aqsa Mosque (built roughly 691 AD), directly into the narrow hallways and arched tunnels of the Jewish and Armenian Quarters in The Old City. There is an endless variety of goods available here (not the type of merchandise one exactly seeks out or expects to find in Wal-Mart). Not all of them were religious or iconic in nature.

The offerings included leather goods, jewelry, art, spices, shoes, clever t-shirts, candy,  drinks, precious stones, and silverwork galore.  The variety of pitches employed by the gracious merchants in both quadrants keeps me fascinated and progressing slowly for hours.  All were conversational and lacked the hands-on pushiness found in most bazaars.

There is no plan.  It is delightful to just wander – left, right, straight ahead, and randomly proceed at will … like an ADHD child pursuing “bright shiny things.”  Occasionally there are descents also, stairwells where you literally walk back into history and the underpinnings of early Jewish wall and temple remnants preceding the time of Christ.

Once on the Old City perimeter, I encounter the Jaffa Gate.  This has traditionally been the Old City’s main entrance.  From here, it is possible to ascend steep stone steps and circumnavigate the city from high above via a rampart catwalk.  It is not continuous.  You walk halfway around, come to a high steel lattice barrier, and must return through the Via Dolorosa (The Way of Sorrows, the 14-Station Path of Christ to his crucifixion).  Along the way, I am able to visit The Zion Gate, Dung Gate, and Lion’s Gate.

Passing in meandering fashion through the Arab and Christian Quarters of The Old City makes one feel wonderfully alive.  It bustles with locals, tourists, tea and coffee merchants, relics (which of course included a couple attempts to hawk a piece of “The True Cross”), pilgrimage wear, and countless tour guide offers.  Arabs, Jews, Christians and foreigners mingle without rancor.  It is a scene of tranquil agreeability.

By accident, I cross paths with the Church of The Holy Sepulchre – sacred to Christians as the triumvirate scene of the crucifixion site, burial place, and point of ascension to heaven of Jesus of Nazareth.  I am emotionally grabbed by the extent of passion revealed in the actions of believers as they sobbed, knelt, bowed, prayed, clutched and laid on hands at being in the holiest of holy places connected with their Savior.

It is also a point at which one must carefully weigh, is it important just whether this was exactly the place in which all three events took place?  Perhaps only historians and authors worry about that sort of thing.  The Faithful clearly do not.  Ten years of Bible study taught me that Golgotha (“The Place of Skulls,” or crucifixion hill, was outside the Old City Gates, and well removed from the borrowed tomb of Joseph of Arimathea where Christ was laid to rest.  The point at which Christ ascended to heaven (or rose again, as Christians say) – is  anybody’s guess if not literal belief.  Neatly packaging the three, need not offend the purist.

Beyond the colorful spice and jewelry stalls of the Christian Quarter, the Jaffa Gate is regained.  This time the northern half of the rampart walk gets my afternoon attention.  Repeated ascents and descents of The Old City’s crenellated stone walls provide transit of the New Gate, the schoolyards and restaurants of three different faiths, the imposing Damascus Gate, and Herod’s Gate before descending eventually back to the courtyard of the Dome of the Rock.  Once again, this Arab administered area is off limits to non-Muslims except for very limited hours and only with the proper clothing.

My evening sadly ends in anger.  Passing through the Christian, Muslim and Jewish cemeteries of the Kidron Valley in order to view the ancient Absalom Tomb (allegedly the tomb of King David’s rebellious son), I am confronted by angry Arab teenagers.  At first they just block my passage from a walled gate.  Then they flail their arms and yell loudly.  Once I am close enough they suddenly throw rocks.  The attack is serious.  They pop up, whiz a few rocks, retreat, and are replaced by other popups a few yards distant.  I am forced to gather a handful of rocks and return fire in order to eventually make my way up the hill to my hotel.


The apologetic front desk personnel back at the Panorama Hotel explain that the kids have probably mistaken me for an Israeli.  Sad commentary in itself.  For over the next week, I learn that the Arabs (even those who are Israeli citizens) appreciate Israeli rights and benefits but have a great animus for the Israelis in general.  The Israelis do not have this same disaffection for Arabs.

Friday, August 29, 2014


JORDAN – DEATH THREATS IN THE WADI RUM


The crossing from Nuweiba in the Sinai Peninsula to Aqaba is in itself quite smooth.  There is immediate trouble upon arrival in Jordan, however.  Visas are not necessary for arrival at this port town, but travelers must carry stamped transit papers.  Yet you can’t get the papers without a Visa!  It is your classic Catch 22 situation.  They are not prepared for Americans coming in from Nuweiba.  Most arrive for single-day round-trip jaunts to the ruins of Petra via the Egyptian port of Taba – a much shorter trip.

I am taken “with prejudice” by the police, forced to leave my pack and suitcase in an open parking lot out of my direct sight, and accompany them to the processing center.  None of them speak English.  But they do know how to say: “Papers?”  I point out a visa is not needed.  The proclamation falls on deaf ears.  We go around and round in circles.  After half an hour, an apologetic English speaking Police Lieutenant arrives, cuts through the paperwork, and personally walks me out to the taxi stand for a ride into town.

The lurking taxi drivers are no better than their immigration counterparts.  They do a vertical scan assessment of me, conclude as an American traveler I am well suited for their customary fleecing, and immediately quote double the normal rates for the 12 kilometer  ride into town.  We argue.  I emphasize the normal rates (from talking to locals on the ferry in advance).  They stall and offer fanciful explanations for their charges.  This quickly grows tiresome.  There are better ways to spend valuable time than negotiating with these cocky charlatans.

A couple of policemen are nearby.  My walk to their hut is as purposeful, obvious and attention getting as I can manage.  Much deliberate pointing and gesturing at the extortionist drivers is acted out.  The police call them over.  They know the standard rates, and demand an explanation for these lurid markups.  A trip at normal rates is more or less commanded on the spot.  But not without lingering resentment.

For some reason, Jordan – or at least the city of Aqaba – is feeling feisty relative to its economic prowess.  The folks at Yafko Hotel want $60 for a room.  It goes without saying this is not a rate which can be sustained for 137 days.  It is out of the question.  I am encouraged to use the lobby computer to seek alternatives.  To the credit of Tamer and Rami at the front desk, they make calls to seek hotels with better rates. A good sized room with full amenities is found at the congenial Moon Beach Hotel for only $35.

Often during this journey I am asked what I miss the most from home?  The answers are easy.  My sons.  My soccer team.  “The Economist.”  Crisp bacon (only meat that in itself makes up a “food group”).  Artichokes.  Asparagus.  Avocados.  Real salad dressing.  And salmon.  This first night in Jordan, I am relieved to sup at The Ocean Restaurant, one of the finest dining stops encountered along a five-month trail.  The salmon rocked.

There are no must-see stops on my Jordan list save one.  That is the famous carved rock canyon of Petra, famous from the Steven Spielberg movie “Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade.”  I have also been advised locally to take in the desert wonderland of Wadi Rum, located about 40 kilometers east of Aqaba (and stay in a Bedouin camp if time allows).  Arrangements are made through the hotel to visit both on an extended day tour. 

The two hour and fifteen minute drive skirts the Israeli-Jordanian border along a line paralleling the Dead Sea.  The highway is of surprising quality, with two broad lanes to each side so that lorries and tourist buses can by bypassed with ease.  The route is very scenic, punctuated with broken mountain mesas, bone-dry desert slopes, isolated scrub brush, and multi-hued colorful rock sedimentation.  It reminds me of Sedona, Arizona.

Petra was first populated by the Nabataeans, an ancient tribe emigrating from Arabia that came under the influence of Roman and Greek cultures through engagement in the caravan trade business.  By this means, they became masters of the region’s trade activity, dealing in frankincense, myrrh, spices, silks, ivory, and animal hides.

The Nabataeans grew an empire extending deep back into Arabia but through careful diplomacy managed not to compete with the Greeks or Romans in preserving their independence.  Eventually this kingdom was annexed to the Roman Empire in 106 AD.  Petra and the Nabataean civilization managed to flourish for many more years, until trade route shifts and lessened demand for its specialties diminished.  Petra was eventually abandoned and then lost to the west after the 14th century.  It was rediscovered by Swiss traveler Johann Burckhardt in 1812.

You can see Petra coming from miles away approaching from the south, on winding roads descending to its red rose, rust and chocolate ravines.  A veritable bazaar of tourist huts and food stalls awaits visitors at the mouth of the canyon’s gated entry.  In the distance you see steep bouldered slopes, craggy mountain tops, towering cliffs, tombs, theatres, and stairways.  Man and nature conspire in conferring a mythical aura to the site.

From the entry Petra’s enchantment begins with a one kilometer approach via narrow gorge (called As-Siq), bookended with walls up to 80 meters high directing visitors down to the key feature of the site – Al-Khazneh, or “The Treasury.”  Along the way are richly layered geological formations, multi-colored rocks, agricultural terraces, water channels, small dams, and prayer niches carved into the rock.  The high-walled and shaded twisting pathway inbound is mindful of The Narrows at Zion National Park in Utah.

The Treasury at 30 meters wide and 43 meters high is the clear highlight of Petra.  Like the Eiffel Tower in Paris or the Tower Bridge in London, it is iconic in its identification with Jordan.  Its columned and deeply etched façade was made famous as the retreat in the Indiana Jones movie where the Holy Grail and Cup of Christ are guarded.  It is Hellenistic Greek in design.  The Treasury was carved in the 1st Century BC as a tomb for an as yet unidentified Nabataean King.

Petra really requires two to three days to get an adequate look.  Hustling still requires a full dawn-to-dusk effort.  I did not enjoy this luxury.  Nevertheless, you get a fair representation of all this site has to offer with a four-hour self-guided tour taken on the double-quick.  This is possible because each tomb interior soon begins to look much like its predecessors -- what differs is the carvings, lighting, setting, and exterior.

Highlights of Petra include the Qasr al-Bint, the primary surviving temple due to its avoidance of flood and earthquake damage … The Ad-Deir Monastery, with 800 stone-cut stairs directing the visitor to its lofty mountain perch … the open air Roman Amphitheatre (flattery being part of the Nabataean pacification effort with the Romans) which could seat 7000 and is cut into solid rock in one of Petra’s many bowls …The Urn Tomb, largest of the Royal Tombs with its 17 x 19 meter primary chamber … The Sextius Florentinus Tomb, dedicated to the Roman Governor of Arabia who nevertheless wished to be buried in Petra … The awe inspiring Great Temple of Petra, modeled after The Temple of Jupiter in Rome … and the  marble paved Colonnaded Street, flanked by shops and public buildings while reminding visitors of the Appian Way in Rome.

Not enough florid prose can really be shined on Petra.  Some archeologists have ranked this UNESCO World Heritage Site (1985) as the 8th Wonder of The Ancient World.  Its magnificence can not really be matched at any other carved rock location in the world.  It remains unique in almost every aspect, offering succor to the historian, anthropologist, archeologist, geologist, architect and naturalist.  If this awe inspring attraction is not on your Bucket List, you have serious discernment issues.

The heralded walls, peaks and petroglyphs of Wadi Rum are conveniently on the return to Aqaba from Petra.  It is however, not your standard driving destination.  The terrain requires a 4WD vehicle, with tires that can be inflated or deflated to fit the sand conditions of its varied terrain.  My driver, Selah, says he knows such a driver with such a vehicle who will provide a good price.  They are old friends from high school.

We arrive in the habitable part of Wadi Rum just outside the Visitor Center.  I am immediately amused to see camels raiding a trash dumpster in the parking lot there.  The village of Wadi Rum itself consists of several hundred Bedouin inhabitants with black goat-hair tents and concrete houses and sand buggies or four wheel vehicles.  There are segregated schools, one each for boys and another for girls, and a few shops.

I am introduced to yet another Mohammed as my new driver.  We have approximately three hours before sunset to make the rounds and see as much of the famous valley as possible.  Mohammed sports a huge smile, and is quick to get into friendly exchanges and back slapping mode.  He tells me how much he likes Americans.  Rather than waiting at the Visitor Center for us Saleh decides to go along for the ride.

We first ride out to see a number of stone-lined irrigation ditches, fed for hundreds of years by 17 natural springs in the stony rubble pile of one of the numerous rock faces that make Wadi Rum appear from a distance like Zion National Park in Utah.  Its huge reddish, rose colored, and white pitted rock faces dominating the skyline.  A short walk from there leads us to the site of well preserved ancient rock carved petroglyphs just out of reach on a nearby series of boulders.

These petroglyphs are located in Khaz'ali Canyon in Wadi Rum.  They depict humans and antelopes and a number of undecipherable hieroglyphic symbols dating back to Thamudic pre-Arabic times (4th century BC to 3rd century AD).  Mohammed is anxious to depart for a customary tea ceremony, so there is little time to linger.

He parks his vehicle, and lets me off near a small stream which begins and ends inside a deep wall fissure between two giant rock faces.  I thought there might be some explanation attendant with what I was seeing and perhaps even its significance.  Mohammed instead elects to stay in his Land Rover to smoke.

When I return, he takes me to an oversized black and gold Bedouin commercial tent 100 meters distant.  Further introductions are made to a group of his friends.  We perform the usual greetings and salutations.  Tea is poured.  Once again, I am told how much Americans are appreciated in these parts.  Mohammed disappears.  More tea is offered.  It is difficult to refuse.  My three hours is winding down rapidly.  Where is Mohammed?

After four cups of tea, my driver finally returns.  I am a little played out by now.  He insists on having another smoke before departing.  “Have some more tea,” he suggests.  Finally we are off.  And after ten minutes, stop again.  “This is your place,” he says, and grins widely.  “This is where Orenz came through the desert to Aqaba.”   He then makes a sweeping movement with his hand to illustrate a broad desert crossroads of two intersecting valleys behind us.

It takes me a moment to catch up.  I understand him to mean that Lawrence.  T.E. Lawrence. The famous junior British military officer better known as Lawrence of Arabia.  Leader of the Arab Revolt of 1917-1918 that wrested control of Palestine, Jordan and Arabia from the Ottoman Turks during WW I and helping to turn the tide of war in the mideast toward the British.

It is further explained that the desert plain upon which I stand is the famous terrain from which Lawrence, leading armed Bedouins on camelback, attacked Aqaba from its desert back door – an approach thought to be suicidal in military terms – earning the young officer a reputation for turning the impossible into regular fetes of military “can do.”  I learn seconds later the film “Lawrence of Arabia” was filmed in 1961 on this same ground.  I take in the entire scene with great delight.  I have always been a fan of both my namesake the officer, and the movie.

We depart once again.  I ask Mohammed to speed up, and cover more ground if possible.  But ten minutes later we stop once again.  This time he must pray.  I momentarily grit my teeth and bide my tongue.  When he returns, I intone: “No more stopping.  We are not making enough progress.  I’m paying for three hours of tour, and we’ve only been on the road a total of 45 minutes.  There is much more to see here and I’m viewing way too little of it.”

Mohammed is taken back by this.  He pauses.  “No, you have paid for only three stops (a topic we never discussed, since his friend Saleh made all arrangements).  To see more you would have to take time for the full-day tour.  We can’t do that tonight.  You can return perhaps tomorrow.  You have seen the major highlights, the things most people want to see in Wadi Rum.”

“No, Mohammed, we never put a limit on stops.  In fact, I don’t want to stop.  Just keep going.  We drive without stopping any more until close to dusk, and then return.  I want my full three hours worth.”  At this juncture he stopped.  His eyes blazed, and he started cursing.

“I never liked you from the start,” he hissed.  “You are too demanding.  I have already made more stops for you than I do for any other tourists.  If you want more, you pay more.”

“You don’t seem to understand,” I deliberated.  “I don’t want you to stop at all!  I want you to keep moving.  I want to see all there is to see until it nearly gets dark.  I didn’t come here to watch you smoke, pray, and drink tea.  If you don’t keep driving, I’m not going to pay you in full.”

Mohammed turned toward me and took his hand off the wheel.  The vehicle came to a complete halt.  He turned off the key.  “You have nothing to bargain with, Yankee,” he sneered.  “I will just leave you off in the desert.  I will just leave you right here.”  And with that Saleh threw up his hands, imploring both of us to stop.  “This isn’t supposed to be happening!” he pleaded.

By now I was outraged.  I am supposed to see what I want to see and for the driving time I am paying for.  Not what this driver I don’t even know wants me to see.  “Fine,” I said.  “Go ahead and drop me off here.  I’ll just walk back to the village.  Then I won’t pay you a thing.”  Mohammed turned toward me, daggers in his eyes, carefully considering his options.  “Please … please … let us just work this out,” Saleh begged.

No, you’re right.  I won’t drop you off.  I think I will just kill you right here.”  And then Mohammed stopped, letting the flashing darkness of his eyes finish his speech.  Saleh put his hands to his temples and rocked back and forth in his seat.  “Oh God no!” he repeated, over and over.  “This isn’t the way it is supposed to be.”

I prepared to hop out of the vehicle, confident I could find my way back to the village and that he would not be able to run me over on the return trip.  Mohammed jumped on his cell phone and made a quick call in Arabic.  We continued at a standoff.  I felt temporarily safer at close range in the vehicle.  Especially knowing Saleh was still inside.

Minutes later, another Land Rover pulled up.  Two male passengers alighted from the Cruiser, and walked in a semi-circle as if to close in behind me from opposite directions.  I could not tell if they were armed.  Saleh begged Mohammed to work something out, refusing to take his hands off his friend’s shoulders.  “Please … please … please!” he begged once again.

As the two additional riders moved in closer, Mohammed turned to me with great confidence.  “So, Yankee, how do you think we should end this?” he demanded.  I answered slowly, and as devoid of anger as I could muster at the moment.  “I’m not sure.  I really don’t want to see any more of Wadi Rum any longer.  Why don’t you just take me straight back to the village now.  No more tour.  I’ll pay you in advance.  We’ll be done with it then.”

Saleh was sobbing.  He was useless now.  The two newly arrived friends circled in a little closer, checking Mohammed’s grasp of the situation, if not making sure he at least was not threatened.  Mohammed thought my offer over for a minute, and said: “You pay me now.  You pay me in full.  And you pay the park taxes (a new twist).  We go now.”

I slowly counted out the money and paid in full, making sure Saleh got his hands on the Jordanian dinars exchanged and had adequate time to count before passing them on.  We rode back to the village in silence.  Saleh kept babbling optimistic happy talk, as if tongue flapping equated to resolution. 

Any consideration of further time in Jordan ended at the village parking lot, and the safe return to Saleh’s car.  I didn’t know who was lurking nearby, or might follow, so I loudly wished Mohammed well, proclaiming “Perhaps we had a misunderstanding.”  But upon my return to Aqaba, the situation was immediately reported to the Jordanian Police with the help of Yafko Hotel employees Tamer and Rami.  I insisted Saleh corroborate my story and provide Mohammed’s full name and contact information, before he got paid.


After that, I related spurious options about next heading out for the Saudi border, or to a Bedouin camp, or to the Jordanian side of the Dead Sea, or up to the Jordanian capitol of Amman … all the while knowing I would be hastily leaving directly for Israel first thing in the morning.  

Thursday, August 28, 2014

 LAST OF EGYPT -- SHARM, DAHAB, ST. CATHERINE’S AND MT. SINAI


Sharm el Sheikh (simply called “Sharm” to regular visitors) is located at the southern tip of Egypt’s Sinai Peninsula, parting the Strait of Tiran and the Gulf of Aqaba.  In the same way Mexico’s Caribbean resort of Cancun appears to be a sawed off piece of US tourist coastline that has simply been floated further south, Sharm feels out of place.

The city of 35,000 is really more Baja Peninsula in character and Mexican than it is Egyptian.  This includes its whitewashed architecture, its cuisine, and its mode of dress.  Casual is the operative word when referring to Sharm.  That and “packaged holiday.”  There are more Russians here at any given moment than in Red Square on May Day.

Sharm was a sleepy fishing village for years, until it was developed by the Israelis after taking over the Sinai following its capture from the Egyptians during the 1956 Suez War.  It was relinquished to Egypt the following year, and recaptured by Israel anew following the 1967 Seven-Day War.  Egypt has had permanent possession since 1982 after a peace agreement with Israel was signed in 1979.

The Egyptians have developed the flat local desert landscape into a resort magnet and governing administrative hub known for its nightlife, fishing, windsurfing, parasailing, golf, snorkeling, and scuba diving.

Terrorism attacks in 2005 depressed the tourist industry temporarily, when Muslim Brotherhood sympathizers killed 88 people and wounded 200 others.  Somewhat quizzically, most of those murdered were Egyptian.  Access to the area is very controlled now, and presently Sharm is considered one of the safest areas for travel in all of Egypt.

I was here for the scuba diving.  Sharm is legendary among certificated divers for its wall dives, coral reefs, sunken wrecks, and colorful fish.  I particularly wanted to see The Thistlegorm, a British cargo vessel sunk in 1941 by German aircraft while waiting to queue up with other transports for the long run to North Africa via the Suez Canal.  It rests in close to 100 feet of water about a two hour ride from Sharm by boat.

The ordinance dropped by two Luftwaffe bombers returning to Crete landed amidship in her ammunition locker, ripping the stern section off the cargo bays and folding some of the deck back on itself. The ship went down rapidly and yet somehow bottomed out upright.

The Thistlegorm was first explored by Jacques Cousteau (inventor of modern scuba equipment) in the fifties. Since then it has become one of the best wreck dives in the world. The holds are open and easily accessed.  They magically display a full range of military cargo that includes trucks, motorbikes, plane wings and engines, trains and tenders, ammunition, and an assortment of armored vehicles.

The wreck is exposed to strong tidal currents and difficult surface winds, which can make descent inadvisable at times. These conditions and the depth of the wreck allow access only for experienced divers.  I was unable to visit, because of being on a tight schedule for Sharm and boats departing for the location only every other day.  Since I had not dived for three+ years, a time-robbing checkout dive was required of me that ruined any chance of experiencing this superb site or any other wreck due to their depth.

Instead I dove at Ras Mohammed National Park, at the extreme southern tip of the Sinai and forming the headlands of Sharm el Sheikh.  The park was established as a marine sanctuary soon after Egypt regained control of the peninsula, for the protection of fish and terrestrial life (dynamite and large nets at one time were accepted means of fishing).  Halting the spread of urban sprawl encroaching from the fast developing city only 8 kilometers away was a secondary consideration.

I was attracted to the site due to its reputation for being the home of over 1000 species of fish, and over 220 varieties of coral.  As might be expected, I found the coral to be not quite as colorful as advertised in diving rags.  The fish however were plentiful and very vibrant.  I enjoyed my two-tank afternoon at Ras Mohammed with first a wall dive, and then a reef dive.  Both were quite satisfying, if not in line with tourist board promos.

Dahab, a little more than an hour along the coast road headed north, is more laid-back than condo and time-share oriented Sharm.  It started as a sleepy Bedouin fishing village and has evolved very little from there.  Today it is a backpacker type burgh where you can easily obtain your own alcohol or weed, frolic with hippie squatters, dine without cost considerations (though many tony dining spots directly on the waterfront are poised to bleed your wallet quickly), snorkel at will, or traipse out to the desert --on camel or horse if you wish -- for both day and overnight trips.

This tightly clustered but geometrically ordered hamlet is really at its best for its just-plain-fun shopping.  A mixed lineup of markets and stalls (a disproportionate number of them being dive shops) with exceedingly well-mannered vendors line the main street on the way north to the primary scuba dive sites.  They offer casual finger food with specialty crab and fish and shrimp dishes, sandals, beach clothing, handicrafts, shells, and jewelry for every budget.  Amusingly, virtually every store offers tours and tickets as a sideline, no matter how far removed their primary business is from the tourist trade.

I am introduced to my local handler, Jimmy.  He has been assigned to me by the incredibly efficient Mostafa Hashed back in Cairo – my Egypt organizer sans peer.  Jimmy is adroit at marketing.  His business card simply says “Jimmy Dohab.”  Everybody in town knows him.  We stop along the street on the way to dinner, stopping every fifty feet for him to chat up another local.  Instead of being annoyed, I revel in his personality, and his connections.  Like Mostafa, he is marvelously efficient.

Jimmy is used to operating a fleet of businesses, operating multiple vehicles, and handling hundreds of tourists at a time.  That is not possible in present-day Egypt.  Perhaps President Sisi will inspire enough belief in the new Egypt and her security improvements that visitors will return to their pre-2011 levels, prior to the Egyptian revolution.  For now, he operates on 10% of his normal income.  I am impressed he does so with a grateful heart.

Jimmy is sufficiently engaging that I invite him to dine with me at a local shop he has recommended.  It is one of a handful of restaurants in Dohab where you pick your newly caught seafood from ice trays on the display floor, have them grilled in the back kitchen, then run upstairs to you still fresh.  My selection includes red snapper and six huge scampi. Cool cross breezes and a view of the Gulf of Aqaba encourage relaxed dining.

Like every other Egyptian I have talked with in the previous two weeks, Jimmy is very optimistic about President Sisi.  He puts complete faith in his promises for an improved future for Egypt.  For virtually all who speak to the situation this starts with diminishment of the Muslim Brotherhood and the return of international confidence in Egypt as a tourist destination.  Like most, he remains mystified why the Islamicists have no regard for their country, and would deliberately engage in activities (both legal and terror related) that chase off foreign investment and visitors and jobs.

Jimmy sets up a pair of dives for me about ten kilometers north of town at spots known internationally as The Canyon and The Blue Hole.  The Blue Hole has a reputation as being the “world’s most dangerous dive site” – aka “The Divers’ Cemetery.”  Usually this is not a place to scuba for one who has not dived in over three years, save for the previous day.  I never dive without a divemaster however – even when employing the buddy system – and feel quite safe.

The Blue Hole is an underwater sinkhole close to 130 meters deep. There is a slit opening around six meters deep known as "the saddle" which funnels the blue hole out to sea near the surface, and provides access to dive walls outside the hole.  Another 25 meter long slit known as “the arch” connects the hole to the open sea at a much deeper level.  Its highest point is at a depth of 56 meters – well below maximum allowed depth for recreational divers.  One can already see the temptation, and the problem.

Since records have been kept, Egyptian authorities admit to 40 deaths at the site.  Local divers report the number is over twice that.   All but one of those deaths has been male, leading one female dive guide to observe "the most dangerous substance in the Blue Hole is testosterone,” referring to a male proclivity to occasionally respond foolishly to extreme challenges.
  
The problem begins as divers elect to gain the open sea at the danger level arch instead of the near surface level saddle.  Visibility is dim.  At times precious air is wasted just finding the arch opening.  If it is missed, continued descent to greater depths can easily be fatal. If divers find it, the arch can be misleading -- clear Red Sea water makes it appear smaller and closer than it really is.  Extra effort is expended on the mirage.

Current also pushes in to the arch tunnel from the open sea, slowing divers in their crossing.  Most are probably not specialty certified nor do they have the proper equipment for such depths.  There are no reference points as the arch descends toward the open sea, leading to disorientation.  This, combined with extreme depth is a very bad combination all told.

Luckily my divemaster is a prudent man.  We do not attempt the arch or go anywhere near it.  I bask amidst the saddle exit, wall diving outside, and multiple hues of layered blue at various depths both inside and outside the hole.  The most fun comes from watching heavily weighted free divers descend without air deep beyond my vision into the blue hole depths, then rapidly ascend in a sport crazier than any other I know.

Mt. Sinai and its rocky desert approaches has always been known as the domain of monks, mystics, madmen, ascetics, prophets, lepers, and now terrorists.  The south-central Sinai mountain is known of course worldwide as the site described in The Torah and The Bible where Moses received The Ten Commandments from God in the form of stone tablets.

The excellent quality inbound road from Dohab takes two hours, starting a bit short of midnight.  Multiple security checkpoints along the way scrutinize our faces, our passports, and our bags.  Arrival at the peak departure point parking lot takes place without incident.  A brief orientation is provided by our excellent English speaking guide.  Once again, his name is Mohammed.

Starting close to 2 AM, a group of ten of us follows Mohammed uphill over a rocky trail strewn with ribs of rock, shallow trenches, and camel dung.  We have flashlights.  He does not.  He has made over 100 ascents of the mountain, and knows his way in the dark.  The trail is very mindful of the hiker’s path leading to the summit massif of Mt. Whitney in California – highest point in the continental United States.  In daylight hours later, the summit rocks and escarpment prove to be eerily similar as well.

Along the way about every 20 minutes are relief huts, offering cookies, candy, chocolate, soft drinks, the proverbial Arab tea in one of its concoctions ... and blankets.  The trail is very uneven.  Not much looking ahead is attempted, though the lights of each successive rest hut above beckon reassuringly.  Luckily, the trail is not lengthy.  It is six kilometers to the top.  We have made good time, and arrive 90 minutes before sunrise.

Time enough to hunker down in a cave on a crumpled chaise lounge cushion, wrapped by a rented blanket twenty feet from the summit temple.  I awake from my nap just in time to catch the sunrise, peeking in over the horizon from Saudi Arabia.  Once again, there are more Russians here than can be found in Pentagon utility tunnels.  I am the only American present.

There is nothing spectacular about the sunrise.  Or the assorted gathering of 100 witnesses.  It is really an experience that allows you to say “I was there, part of that tradition going back 1000 years before the time of Christ.  I’ve joined a good fraternity.”  Another check marked off somebody’s Bucket List.  The descent is still hell on the knees.

Waiting at the bottom just short of our parking lot is St. Catherine’s Monastery --  otherwise known as “Sacred Monastery of The God-Trodden Mt. Sinai.”  The compound is one of the most continuously occupied monasteries on earth, tracing its roots back to 330 AD when the Roman Empress Helena ordered a chapel built beside what was believed to be the burning bush from which God spoke to Moses.

It was later expanded into a fortified monastery somewhere between 548 and 565.  Today approximately twenty Greek Orthodox Monks remain in residence at the monastery.  Throughout its storied history, the monastery has been a pilgrimage destination for Christians taking advantage of military escort available from Crusaders, among others.

The site is sacred to both Christians and Muslims and has been selected by UNESCO as a World Heritage Site.  According to oral tradition, Catherine of Alexandria was a Christian martyr sentenced to death on the racking wheel. When this failed to kill her, she was beheaded. Legend says angels then took her remains to Mount Sinai, where monks from the Sinai Monastery are said to have found them around the year 800.

There are many attractions at the Monastery.  These include paintings, an ancient religious manuscript collection second only to that of the Vatican (in multiple languages), icons, a mysterious protected well, magical bone fragments, and something as obscure as the world’s oldest surviving roof truss.

The real star, however, is clearly The Burning Bush.  As a famous religious symbol the  bush represents many things to different faiths.  Jews, Christians and eventually Muslims came to see it in turn as a representation of God's divine energy, sacred light, revelation, knowledge, and a searing symbol of purity, love and cleansing. From a human standpoint, it also represents Moses' reverence and respect before God’s divine presence.

There are theories that the Burning Bush as witnessed by Moses, may have been a more permanent flame from another source that was merely proximate to the bush, may have been Mt. Sinai itself (which appears to be burning in certain lighting conditions), or resulted from flammable odors given off by seedpods and flowers of the local plant dictamnus.

Under certain conditions, when a match is introduced, odors from this plant ignite spontaneously in flame but quickly extinguish themselves from rapidly diminished fuel.  Some even go so far as to suggest Moses was under the influence of hallucinogens when encountering what has passed down in history as The Burning Bush.

I do not contemplate the mystery for long.  A two hour ride remains to the Sinai port town of Nuweiba, and from there another hour and one-half ridiculously priced ($80 US) ferry ride to the Jordanian port of Aqaba.  Traveling freestyle has its demands, even if it is spontaneous and opportunistic in nature.

Overall, I have found these Egyptians to be almost too helpful at times.  They have a tendency to not listen well, and to frequently interrupt.  They can be a bit pushy at first, mentioning tips just a little too often in an admittedly very tip dependent society.  But they defer quickly to a desire to be left alone and not hounded by vendors.  They are very respectful people.


I found them delightfully friendly, warm, hospitable, generous, open to other cultures and dress modes, talkative, helpful, and quite curious regarding the United States.  This is an area I very much look forward to returning to at some stage.  The people (and not the antiquities) is the reason I rate Egypt among my five most favored countries on this journey.