We drove across in a narrow, winding valley toward the West Bank. Having only arrived merely six hours earlier at 2am, I was surprisingly awake. The excitement of being in a completely new country, and the adrenaline rushing from the sights and things never before seen, and waiting to be seen, drained away the sleepiness.
The skyline of modern Tel Aviv faded behind us, and vast fields gradually opened up around us.
Not the usual kind of green grass fields familiar to the Netherlands, as the ground was more arid, and the vegetation sparse. And the more we drove eastward, the drier, and therefore less green and grown the land would become. Along the roads were tall big billboards, but they were covered with black cloth, shielding whatever sign of capitalism lurked beneath. The locals had protested the erection of advertising billboards along Israel's highways, as they complained that valuable open spaces and beauty were being taken away from these signs, which formed an eyesore. A court ruling found in favour of an environmentalist group, and hence the Knesset (parliament) will be waiting to see what law can be passed regarding these now covered billboards.
For the first time, I saw date trees tower over the land, grown in neatly cultivated rows and columns, looking like palm trees, only with much bushier treetops. Somehow, this tropical looking tree reminded me of Asia, but then again the strange combination of pines, olive groves, and eucalyptuses and tall needle-like cypresses crowded in the same land. Of the latter, Israeli children are brought up with stories of these dark, thin and versatile trees that stand so tall and so strong, and that bend and swagger with the wind, yet do not fall. It is a symbolic metaphor for the spirit and strong will of a people that has throughout history endured much persecution and resistance to their existence, yet have continued to stand tall and not falter or fall.
The road soon wound up and around hills of the Judean Mountains, and as we neared Jerusalem, more and more the tops of those hills were covered with neatly zoned houses overlooking the land below. We skirted around Jerusalem, in search of the road that would bring us deeper into the desert beyond the mountains. Instead, the mistaken road led us deeper and deeper into the Orthodox territory of the Holy City.
Soon, men with huge hats and clad in dark, long clothes walked on the roads around us. They were Hasidic Jews, originating from Eastern Europe, and believed to be the sect that most clings onto the traditions of the Tora and most conservative of all, with regards to values of family, work and the status of women. They had long payots ('sides') hanging around their ears below their fur hats, and even in the 25C+ heat, they wore thick, long jackets that covered till beneath their knees. Driving carefully, we avoided the groups of men, with the women and girls trailing behind, who wandered the roads as if there were no traffic lights. To them, that day was the start of Pesach, which commemorates the exodus of Jews from Egypt, and the freeing of the Jewish people from slavery, and is commonly considered one of the, if not most, sacred holiday in the Jewish calendar. One "Pinguins Jew", as some refer to them because of the way they dress, closed in on us and started to shout. Apparently he was offended that we were driving through their part of town, and perhaps even by the fact that my friend was uncovered and scantily dressed in a very revealing top. Thank goodness they did not start to spit or throw rocks at us, as some have been reported to do at trespassers.
The position of these Orthodox Jews is contradictory. On the one hand, they view themselves as the most representative and embodying of the State which is the Jewish Homeland. Yet, their religious devotion prohibits, and acts as an excuse, for them to be exempted from military service, which all Israeli men and women must complete upon reaching the age of majority, and which lasts around 3 years. The devotion, and at times, extremism, of the Orthodox Jews can be said to be on par with Muslim extremists, as some would not even flinch to kill to defend their faith (witness the assasination of Yitzhak Rabin in 1995).
Moments later, we found our way out of "the hood", and breathed a sigh of relief as the landscape around us gradually became desert. Beyond the Judean Mountains lay the Judean Desert, parts of which form the lowest point on Earth, falling to a depth of some 400m below sea level. This unique landscape consists of a series of steppes and hills that is layer upon layer of rock and limestone that has accumulated over the millennia due to tectonic shifts and subsiding water levels. Most well-known is the remnant of a great big lake that is now commonly referred to as the Dead Sea, which would later surprise me with its hidden secrets.
Land spread before us, like a suddenly spread open sheet of light brown, sweltering and swooning in the heat and in the distance. The car raced downhill, past signs carved into the limestone rocks that indicated we were moving rapidly further and further below the sea level. Never in my whole life have I seen a desert, and there and then, I was surrounded by the aridness and barreness of it all. The stuff of documentaries, of awe-inspiring still photographs, and now it was all before my eyes. Deep ravines, barren hills like columns next to one another stretching for as far as the eye could see, toward the Dead Sea in the distance. Cactuses, dry shrubs and metal shacks of nomad Bedouines dotted the landscape, together with wandering goats, and the occasional camel and its master that waited on the roadside like a taxi waiting to be hailed.
Eventually, we reached the shoreline of the legendary Dead Sea. The salt content of the Dead Sea is concentrated, so dense, that rocks of pure salt form at the bottom of what in actual fact is a lake. But the water is dwindling, and fast, due to overuse of the water that flows into the Dead Sea from the River Jordan. This means, some hundred years ago, when the British were there, the water levels have been dropping by 1m per year. The difference is clearly visible, as all along the road that winds along the coast of the Dead Sea are signs that warn visitors of the danger of swimming and of falling into fragile salty flats that treacherously hide deadly ravines that fall tens of metres into the earth are today far, far away from where the shoreline is. By the way the water is evaporating, and leaving behind large tracts of land and salt layers, the entire Dead Sea phenomenon may disappear within the next decade or so. Which is why the World Bank is very supportive of an initiative to link the Dead Sea and Red Sea together, so that water levels in the latter can be replenished, slowly, and also maintain the natural salt contents which it has.
First, we stopped at the Ein Gedi oasis, which was literally an oasis in the middle of the desert. Amid the barren, dry and dusty landscape, was a sudden and unexpected patch of green, of date plantations and of green grass. The reason for this was a water source that sprang from the earth, and gave life to an (aptly) named "Wadi David" (Arabic for a riverbed that is usually a place of human settlement). There, a small creek flowed, giving life to the plantations below, and also to life to a Kibbutz nearby.
At first, hiking upstream toward the source of the creek was a disappointment, not just because of how small the creek was, but also by the frail streak of water that was David's Fall. Then, we ventured higher and higher up the mountain, trekking in the blaring heat of the desert sun, at times with me wondering whether I would just faint with the little water I had taken with me, and finished even before we were half way up the mountain. The landscape was again the same arid and barrenness defining of a desert, with the exception that close by the streak of flowing, shallow water, a few shrubs and trees grew. Ibexes (mountain wild goats) and a rock hyrax (cony) accompanied us along the way.
But then, as we neared the source of the river, and as we got further from the hordes of tourists and children, we found peace, and coolness, in inviting ponds of clear water. There were pools here and there, some the size of a jacuzzi out in the open sun, others tucked away behind giant boulders, with its beauty and serenity well hidden from sight. We climbed down a rock face, and splashed around a pool of still water with a constant stream of water falling from the cliff above. The water was cool, and I was refreshed, not just by the water I was submerged in, but also by the sweet tasting and uncontaminated water that I could just drink from all around me. Uncontaminated, that is, if no wild animal had urinated in it further up stream. I swam in the pool, glad I made the trip and extra effort up the mountain, and rewarded with such a heavenly experience, shared in my memories and with two great friends.
We travelled onward, in search of a place with few people to park ourselves in the waters of the Dead Sea before the sun set. But before that we swung by a mystical fortress called Masada, which to Jewish people is the site of a ritual suicide in the face of an invading Roman legionthat embodies the spirit of defiance and courage of the Jewish nation. Today, the ruins of this ancient fort is where recruits of the Israeli Defence Forces complete their basic training with the words "Masada shall never fall again". Unfortunately, the gates of the ruins fell that day when we arrived, and I could only admire the row of Israeli flags flying in the wind of dying light, and admire the fortress perched atop the impressive mountain above. I could only imagine, and that enough was awe-striking, the events and the histories that took place in this sanctified fortress.
I carefully walked into the water, wary of the sharp salt rocks beneath my feet that seemed to cut. My friends had eased themselves into the 'sofa' of sea water, and were leisurely floating on the surface. But I was a little hesitant, and a lot curious. I walked deeper into the water, crouched, and leaned back. I burst out laughing, as I floated up on the surface, salty water splashing around me. I tasted some water, and it was the most salty substance I had ever put into my mouth. I quickly spat it out, and burst out laughing again, at this strange and unexplainable sensation of floating on water, of defying science as I had known it. Until this moment, floating like an inflated dingy on the calm, calm surface of the Dead Sea. I peddled my feet, and stroked my arms, but it was hard to move around. Water seeped into my eyes, and it burned them like acid, and I had to quickly wash them clean with showers on the beach. Other tourists floated around me, and even big ones did not sink, but just floated away on the surface. I tried to "jump" in the water, but whatever I did, I just bopped up and down like a buoy at sea. An excited boy out at sea.
Then I stated to feel... feel the cuts, bruises, wounds and scratches all over my body, even in places I did not know I had injured myself before. The salt clenched to my body, cleansing it with the magical healing powers that it is famed for, but at the same time, also teasing my skin in slight, tingling pain. The scratch from my cat, the scrape on my knee from hours earlier, and the little wound from stubbing my toe on the hike up the mountain. I felt it all, but at the same time, felt the water disinfect every crack and wound. I collected some salt rocks, wishing to bring them home to my mum to share with her this miraculous healing water. In the distance, a small stretch of land protruded out of the water, the surface of which glistened white in the setting dusk sun. The temperature dropped rapidly, but with my body half submerged in the water, I could still feel the warm of day stored in the molecules of water and salt that surrounded me.
Night fell, and the full moon rose. The moonlight cast a long ray of light across the surface of the Dead Sea, as gradually towns and villages on the other side of shore lit up, revealing how close Jordan lay beyond these waters.
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