Hitching to Nuweiba, Israel

Negev Desert

I hitched from Eilat to Nuweiba, a bedouin settlement 250 km south of Eilat in the Negev Desert. I left early from the hostel as I didn't want to be wandering alone in the desert if it took too long to get a ride.  

But for the scorpions, spiders and Bedouins, it's a dry, empty terrain in the Negev, overseen by endless blue sky. I felt joy out there alone with not a care in the world and basking on a large rock and squinting at the sparkling Gulf of Aqaba in the distance, I waited for a ride. With few cars going by I thought I'd have a wait. But not for long.    

A white pick-up truck with three young Palestinian dudes in western clothes pulled over. One hopped out of the back and smiling, held the door open for me. 'Welcome,' he said. I peered in and said hello to the other two and with no weird murder vibes emanating from the truck, I threw my bag onto the seat and hopped aboard. 

But just as we were pulling away, there was a sharp rap on the front passenger window and a gnome, a grizzled, unshaven man from whom a 4-year-old could steal his lollipop and rattle, peered into the windown man from whom a 4-year old could steal his lollipop and rattle, peered into the window. He  jerked open the door and without a 'howdy doody' or 'can I have a ride' scrambled into the front seat and slammed the door.  He stared forward and said nothing. The boys turned to me. Together? I shrugged. 'I don't know the guy.'  He appeared out of nowhere and I mean nowhere because when I was waiting for a ride there was nothing out there but the road, the brush, the mountains, the rocks and if you were scared of being alone, your dying screams across the Gulf of Aqaba. We shrugged and pulled out again and the boys stumbled around in the truck with their butchered English and I responded, but the little grizzle remained silent, leading me to believe that as well as being mute, he might have been deaf, too.

The guys finally turned in at a gravel road and pointed up a dirt road, asking if I'd like to have chai in their village and meet their family, but I declined. I needed to get going and I wasn't about to wrestle with my tent stakes and have a fencing match at the end of that road. You never know. The gnome jumped out from the front seat and strode off and I waved goodbye as the lads drove off in a cloud of dust. But in the time it took me to dig out my hat, drink some water, straighten out my bag and throw it over my shoulder, the trickster had disappeared. Where did he go? I stood looking around, gobsmacked with his disappearance. There was nothing in front of me, nor behind. Who was he? Where was he? And I asked myself that question all the way down to Nuweiba because I never saw him again.

I arrived at a worn wooden sign carved with NUWEIBA and trudged down the dusty road towards the Gulf. It was a military camp of sorts and by the amount of good-looking men lolling around with rifles, I knew I'd made the right choice to come down. Security forces. A fellow with a sunburn from the fires of hell was on the road and introduced himself as Myers from Chicago. A few travellers were camping out by the shore. Why didn't I come down and join them?  I said sure, 'as long as I don't have to watch you do anymore sunbathing.'  And that was it for the place, other than the Bedouin village beyond the dunes, which Myers pointed out and warned we had to watch for them, 'cause they 'come around at night and steal people's shit.' 

When I saw the beach it didn't occur to me I'd be sleeping on the beach, but that's travelling off the beaten path, you never know what's going to be there, especially when you have no plan. And there was no one there but us - Greta from Denmark, Kerry from Australia, Peter from Switzerland, Kenny from New York, Myers from Chicago and Ouzi from Israel. It was a lazy five days.

We swam, chatted, lounged and napped, sunbathed, scoured wood for fire, walked the beach and climbed the dunes overlooking the Bedouin camp and their goats and sheep.The Israeli security forces never mingled with the Bedouins or with us. 

At night, on a small kiln, Bedouin women prepared pita, hummus, chicken and mutton from a little kiosk in a gazebo set up close the the gulf. Bedouin children with runny noses and tangled hair ran around shrieking and begging for shekels. At night, the others spread their sleeping bags around the campfire, but I had a little orange pup tent which I set up a little ways off. For protection from the wind off the Gulf, I aimed the tent door at the dunes.  

It was a full moon that week and one night after our talk died down, we curled up and went to sleep around the dying embers of the fire. Hours later, all was silent with everyone asleep when suddenly I woke and sat up and looked straight out the door of my tent to the windswept dunes beyond. Yet it wasn't the dunes I was looking into, but the penetrating eyes of a Bedouin in his traditional robes holding the flap of my tent open, crouched, watching me sleep. I knew he'd been there for a while. Without time for fear, I politely asked him. 'Can I help you?' in a loud enough voice to wake the others. There was a rustling and stirring from the sleeping bags. And as quietly as he had coe, the fellow slowly rose to his feet, turned around and drifted back up towards the dunes, his galabiya and kufiya fluttering behind hi in the desert breeze. 

'Wha was that?' said Kenny.  'What's going on? Who was that?' He was up on his elbows as Kerry sat up and rubbed the sand out of her eyes. They all got out of their sleeping bags and check their bags and clothing.

'I think he was checking us out, to make sure we were asleep,' I said. 'I don't know how I woke up. He sure didn't make any noise.' 

'Good thing you did.' But I knew why I woke up. It's my sixth sense. We stood at the ashes of the fire pit and watched as the ghostly figure disappeared over the dunes back to his tiny village. 

 

 

  

 

Hitchhiking Israel - 1978

Dome of the Rock, Israel 1978

After hitchhiking through France, Italy, and Greece with Mary Lynne and then Turkey with Rachel and Christine, I took a bus back to Greece because I couldn't fly to Israel from Turkey. Politics. Unfortunately, none of these pictures are mine because my camera fell apart in Greece and I never got another one. I don't know why, but picture-taking wasn't important to me. 

Tel Aviv Promenade

After buying a return flight from Athens for $125, I flew into Tel Aviv along with a planeload of pilgrims, religious heinies from all over the world who were coming to see all the sacred sites in Israel and pray in The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, or leave a message at the Wailing Wall. I was in conversation with one young fellow from the States, traveling with a church group from Illinois; he expressed surprise I would come alone, suspicious of my singular brand of Christianity.  Didn't Jesus wander alone? I asked him.



There wasn't much security in those days at the airport - the carefree days -  a few questions, a passport check and a quick brush through customs where I met three other fellow travelers standing in line - Irish Mart, German Peter and American Paulo. We converged that night to stroll on the windy promenade alongside the Mediterranean and ponder our itinerary.

Via Dolorosa Jersalem

I was off to Jerusalem by bus the next morning. While driving through the barren desert, the bus driver suddenly stopped and we had to clear out because of an abandoned package on the front dash of the bus. Bomb scare. It belonged to the Israeli soldier who had been standing next to me, his rifle butt a little too close to my shoulder. So we all climbed back on the bus and carried on. An American transplant sitting beside me said it was a common occurrence.
The Old City of Jerusalem is amazing - textiles, trinkets, jewelry, foods in all the shops and kiosks and so much to see within the old walls, including the Via Dolorosa, the supposed route Jesus took to his crucifixion. I wonder how they know that was the route, but, to quote Tennyson: Ours is not to wonder why, ours but to do and die. 

Church of the Holy Sepulchre

I was walking around inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, checking out Jesus's crib, when I was buttonholed by an Arab fellow, Ghazi, a gangly 15-year-old with wiry hair that stood straight out from his head. He wanted to show me around the works, show me what I would miss because I was a tourist, but I wasn't interested. He persisted until I gave in. His English was good and after a little tour, he took me back to the Armenian quarters of Old Jerusalem where he showed me around. I was staying at the Jerusalem hostel with a German woman, Teeny, directing the show. I asked her if it was safe to hitchhike in Israel because I wanted to go that route. She said, 'I've hitchhiked up and down this country three times and it's safe.'  I took that as my answer from God as to my favorite mode of travel. Hitchhiking.  

Shops in the Old City

The next night at sunset, I walked on top of the wall around the Old City with Ghazi, stopping to talk with a few of his Arab friends as it became dark. They were a little older, I couldn't see their faces. One of them suddenly came from behind and shoved me and I fell into the fellow in front of me, who then shoved me backwards into another fellow, who then shoved me forward into another until I finally got my balance, screaming at them to stop and 'Back off! I'm leaving!'  I took off down some stone steps, with Ghazi running behind me apologizing, but I told him to scram because I heard him laughing, too. 

Church of the Nativity

There wasn't much to see in Bethlehem except the Church of the Nativity where Jesus was born, the oldest 'site' in the world where Christian services are still held. Built in 325 A.D., this amazing building is located in Palestine.

Sea of Galilee

After a few days checking out the Old City and seeing all the sites, I hitchhiked to Tiberius on the Sea of Galilee, or, as it's also known, Lake Kinneret.
I bunked in at an empty youth hostel right on the waterfront with a West German couple and another fellow who'd just escaped from East Germany; he only spoke Russian and German. Avi, an Israeli and dead ringer for Wolfman, on leave from the army, was a giant of a man with dark-rimmed glasses, a huge black beard and dark, unruly hair. He was jovial, talkative and looked after me with breakfast. I wasn't sure that he wasn't taking care of the place what with all the interest he took in everyone. The view from the hostel was amazing.

Golan Heights circa 1978

The next day the German couple said they were going to drive up to the Golan Heights and would I like to come. Of course, and the East German fellow was coming along as well. Driving through the war zone, with only us on the road, was like nothing I'd ever seen, a dead zone strewn with blown-up artillery, tanks, burnt-out jeeps and military equipment. We had to drive around craters, underground bomb shelters and massive rocks that blocked the road  until we reached the coiled barbed-wire fencing strung for miles through the neutral zone to Syria.

David's Falls

From Tiberius, I traveled to the Ein Gede reserve and went to David's Falls. Beautiful swimming and hiking and there I met Eli and a few other Israeli lads. I stayed at the hostel at the Dead Sea, which was interesting. A passel of Israeli soldiers were there and when I asked why they were seated on the edge of a cliff, they pointed across the water. 'Jordan,' they said. 'Terrorists come from across the water and attack the hostel!'

Dead Sea

The next morning I swam in the Dead Sea and you can hardly swim you bob up and down so much for the salinity. There were hardly any visitors there in 1978, it wasn't the tourist jam it is now, with none of the attractions that surround the area now. But the lake is receding and the hotels built by the shore are now a distance from the shoreline. The Ein Gede reserve is spectacular with hiking trails and swimming holes. 

Masada gondola

 I was going to hitchhike down to Eilat but there were no cars on the road. A holiday! But Eitan, an American Israeli, picked me up on his way to work as a gondola operator at Masada, a fortification on the eastern edge of the Judean Desert. I went with him to work. It's well worth the visit with a breathtaking panorama of the valley and the Dead Sea.

Masada

 If you do anything in Israel, go to Masada. You're at the top of the world there. It's a well-preserved ancient site. I stayed there for an hour or two but it was just too hot! At the end of the day, I went back to Eitan's house in Arad with another couple of hitchhikers, where he regaled us with stories about life in Israel, and played romantic songs on his guitar. I should never have left, but then, who would want to live in Arad? 

Masada

After saying goodbye to Max and Cornelius, Eitan and I went to have breakfast. I fell in love with him for a minute, his sweet face waving goodbye and thoughts of the lovely guitar he had played the night before. Perhaps I'll go back and see him........but not now!  I was off to Eilat.
The rides were easy and no bad luck. Every driver was friendly, but I was in the middle of nowhere and no one knew where I was. Travel used to be like that, before the days of 24-hour social media. When you were away, you were truly a-w-a-y, disconnected from the world.

Eilat, circa 1978

Eilat, in 1978, on the Gulf of Aqaba, was a small fishing town across from Aqaba, Jordan. Little did I know at the time that many years later I would live and work in Aqaba. It's a beautiful spot, but Eilat wasn't much and I stayed in a horrible little cement bunker with a German girl who insisted on turning the air conditioning down to minus twenty until I thought I'd turn into a popsicle. We argued over the damn thing, even though we couldn't understand each other, until I took my jeans and rammed them into an air conditioner big enough to cool down an American air craft carrier.

Coral World Underwater Observatory, Eilat

The Coral World Underwater Observatory was well worth the visit. Box fish, surgeon fish (yellow and purple), stone fish, lion fish (red and white with hordes of fins), lemon butterfly fish (like a lemon pie), pipe fish (red and white stripes). I've never seen so much beauty.

Negev Desert

Finally, my last stop - Nuweiba, a little Bedouin settlement 250 km south into the Negev Desert. I left early morning in order to arrive during the day because although it's only one and a half hours from Eilat, who knows how many cars would be on the road beside a dry, barren terrain and the occasional Bedouin with his camel. The highway snaked alongside the Red Sea and I sang songs as I waited for a ride. Gazing at the deep blue sea and the open road in front of me, I felt free, like I didn't have a care in the world. And I didn't. Everything would be good, I knew it. 

A white pick-up truck with three Palestinian boys in their twenties pulled on to the gravel. One hopped out of the back and held the door open for me to get in, but just as were pulling out there was a sharp rap on the front window and a man jerked open the door and scrambled into the truck. The boys looked at me and I shrugged. 'I don't know who he is.'  I never set eyes on him; he appeared out of nowhere and I mean nowhere because there was nothing out there but dry brush, sea and road. We communicated of sorts in butchered English but the stranger remained mute, staring out the window. I asked where he was from but he ignored me.  

The guys were turning up a gravel road and asked me if I'd like to have tea back at their village, but I said no, thanks, I needed to get going.  The stranger and I got out of the truck and I waved goodby. But in the time it took me to dig out my hat and put it on, drink some water, straighten out my bag and throw it over my shoulder, the old cur was gone. Into thin air.