Running, swimming and floating


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Published: February 24th 2011
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The bus driver dumps me at the bus stop near Kibbutz Ein Gedi. Once again, I arrive with only vague directions to my host's place, so I proceed as usual and try to find somebody who lets me use their mobile phone. It's already past sunset, and there's not many people out and about, but I find a little supermarket that's still open. I ask the cashier if he knows Ofer, to which he replies: "Yeah, of course, he's my friend! Wait, I'll call him." That hasn't been the first time this has happened; random strangers miraculously always seem to know my hosts. Ofer tells me to meet up with him at the big tree in five minutes.

I walk out to the next best big tree I can find, but no Ofer. I walk to a different one, which is even bigger and more prominent than the first one. Still, nobody. An ancient-looking man in shorts and flip-flops, looking like a tree himself, asks me if I need help. He sports an epic beard and walks with a slight limp, supported by a cane. I tell him my story and he says he'll take me to Ofer's place. The kibbutz isn't big at all, but due to the dark, I find it hard to orientate myself. I ask the man how long he's lived there. "55 years", he says. "From the very start." His skin is bronzed naturally by living in a place that gets sun year-round. I can just picture him as a young, ambitious kibbutznik in the 1950s, theorizing and practising Socialism and the Dead Sea beach life at the same time. For some reason, I see him as a Charlton Heston-type hunk of a man, revered by the ladies and loathed by the Planet of the Apes-Palestinians.

When we finally bump into Ofer, both him and me thank the oldtimer for helping me out. We see him off into the pitch-black night. Ofer is a little taller than me and quite handsome, his kind smile and gentle eyes making up for the somewhat awkward-looking short haircut that inevitably succeeds long dreadlocks. He works as a freelance 'water therapist' in the Dead Sea area. Later he shows me a flyer advertising his craft. It shows him, still bedreadlocked, with an earnest look on his face, handling a big-bosomed fit chick clad in a skimpy bikini in the crystal-clear blue waters of a nearby hot spring. The girl does the dead woman's float, eyes shut, obviously enjoying herself, while Ofer has his hands on her lower back and thighs like a healer transcending time and space to open her inner knots and provide her with a vortex of infinite tantric pleasures. It is quite the effective ad, combining Ofer's good looks and the hot chick with a quasi-spiritual and a less-than-subtle sexual message. I can just picture the posh, sexually frustrated middle-aged ladies with sagging, leathery skin sitting in the lounge of their high-class spa hotel in Ein Gedi, their beholding Ofer's flyer sparking fantasies of rejuvenation and redefloration.

Ofer lives in a small appartment complex, sharing an outdoor seating area complete with hammocks and a big porch swing with his neighbours. Some people are sitting there, chatting and drinking beer, but their conversation stops when they see me and Ofer approaching. I take them to be locals and say 'Shalom', but once inside Ofer's place, I can hear them speak German. "What the hell? What are all those Germans doing here?" I ask him. "Oh, they're not all Germans, only two of them. The tall guy is from Austria, and two of the girls are from Switzerland." Well, that makes it a little less awful, at least. I really should have detected their accents, but the Swiss chicks speak deceptively good Hochdeutsch, and the dialect of the two other girls, which is Bavarian, is indistinguishable to me from the Austrian's, until I listen more closely.

Ofer excuses himself to do some work on his laptop, and the German-speakers invite me to have dinner with them. I learn that they are guests of Nir, who lives in the appartment next to Ofer's. They are a bit worried that they pissed off their host, as the Swiss girls decided to extend their stay and the Bavarian chicks brought the Austrian guy along without prior notice. When Nir joins us, he appears to be anything but. He's a 24-year old lifeguard, small, toned, tan, with shoulder-length brown curls that have been bleached blond by the sun. His teeth are shockingly white, a stark contrast to his bronzed skin, and he's constantly smiling, which may not only stem from the gorgeous place he lives and works in and the excellent climate, but also from his incessant ganja-smoking. He doesn't appear the least bit fazed by his guests' blatant indiscretion, which for others would have been cause enough to kick them out unceremoniously. Nir not only has the looks and characteristics of a genuine Israeli playboy. Later, Ofer tells me that he usually only hosts chicks. The other day two Mexican girls stayed with him, and apparently he nailed them both in successive nights, which caused a bit of confusion, but only amongst the Mexicans; Nir remained unperturbed.

As I only have less than a day for the Dead Sea, I get up very early the next morning and head down to the beach. I have to walk quite a bit past different beaches that look perfectly fine for swimming, were it not for the signs that warn hapless tourists to refrain from it. The reason for this ban is the recent appearance of large sinkholes, which have swallowed the odd tourist, never to spit them out again.

When I finally reach the official beach, I'm delighted to see that nobody else is there. Having realized that a dip in the Dead Sea is the ultimate Israeli cliché long ago (probably when I read that Asterix-comic book where Obelix jumps in and just bounces off the surface like a rock thrown in), the fact that I'm the only one present makes me feel less like a stupid tourist. So does my natural behaviour. I didn't bring a newspaper or a beer, and I don't have an onshore partner dutifully snapping away while I pose like an idiot for the camera, thinking how hilarious and unique the pictures will be. Unique is still the appropriate word for the whole experience. When I'm in the water, I float, of course, which takes maybe 10 seconds to get used to. I try to keep my arse under water, but it just keeps popping up to the surface like a bag filled with air. The excessive amount of salt in the water actually feels very pleasant and even strangely soothing on my skin; unlike other people, who might have more sensitive skin than me, I don't sense discomfort nor a burning feeling.

I enjoy myself for about 20 minutes swimming, doggy-paddling and rolling over like a crowdsurfer, then it's time for me to get out. I make good use of the free freshwater shower to rinse myself thoroughly, trying to stay out of the lifeguard's sight, lest he take offence at my exposed schlong. I forget to wash the boxershorts that I've been swimming in, and when I'm back at Ofer's, they are so salt-encrusted and stiff that you could knock somebody out with them.


***


After bidding farewell to Ofer, I hop on a bus to Masada. The name 'Masada' doesn't mean anything to most people outside Israel, but citizens of the country associate with it oppression, heroism, courage and tragedy. A plateau 450 metres above the Dead Sea level, Masada was fortified sometime in the 1st century BC, later used by Herod the Great as a refuge against his enemies and as a winter palace. Herod further strengthened the defences with a casemate wall and watchtowers, but also added two luxurious palaces with swimming pools and well-stocked storerooms. When the First Revolt of the Jews against the Romans broke out in AD 66, the plateau was conquered by a Jewish group called Zealots (also known as Sicarii or Jewish Rebels). It took the Romans four years to crush the rebellion and destroy Jerusalem. Masada remained the last rebel stronghold in Judaea, and the Romans laid siege to it in AD 74. The siege lasted several months and resulted in the mass suicide of the 960 besieged Zealots, who opted for taking their own lives over becoming slaves of the Roman Empire.

For modern-day Israelis, Masada is a symbol of the national psyche, which could also be described by the Cuban revolutionary slogan 'Patria o muerte'. In their case, 'Masada shall not fall again' has somewhat become an Israeli mantra, epitomizing the resolve and zeal of the modern Jewish state as well as the dubious us-vs.-them-mentality prevailing among a significant part of its population.

After paying the entrance fee and putting my backpack into a locker, I embark on the hike up the snake path. The mountain is teeming with noisy Israeli school children, who probably couldn't care less about the historic significance of this plateau, seeing that they are constantly shouting and screaming and littering and generally behaving like the prepubescent little shits that they are.

Q: Who are those strange creatures that feel the need to always wear a piece of garment with the name of their state, or the university they went to, or their national flag on it?
A: Exactly! People from "that country". The same people who deem it indispensable to convey messages on bumper stickers on their grotesquely oversized SUVs stating who they voted for in the last election, or what they think about 'fags', or what their God thinks about 'fags'.

Equally grotesquely oversized is the chick who wobbles down the path towards me. I wonder how she managed to survive the strenuous 45-minute hike up the mountain, but then I see the cable car swooshing past almost noiselessly, providing me with a comforting solution to this quandary. When she notices that she doesn't wear her University of ...,..-t-shirt, she has to improvise. "I'm the king of the mountain!" it yells, the rolls of her quintuple chin flapping excitedly. Her friends cheer and holler to reward her for her spontaneous outburst of odious obnoxiousness that served its purpose of making it crystal-clear to everybody within reach that she is from "that country" as well.

The scenery is truly spectacular. Barren and hostile, hot and dry even in winter, the salty Dead Sea barely visible under the haze, the sharp rocks of the plateau that looms above all of it; if I suspend disbelief for a second, I feel like having set foot on a different planet.

When I reach the top, I have to push my way through the tour groups blocking the path. I pass through the Western Gate and lay eyes on the summit ruins, which at first sight look like the usual agglomeration of seemingly random rubble that characterizes most archeological sites. However, the good signposting combined with the free pamphlet I got makes it easier for me to understand and imagine what life was like on top of this mountain. Luckily, most tour groups are crowding on the Northern side of the complex, where the most point of interest are, so I walk to the other side of the mountain top and return when they descend around noon for their lunch break.

The views from the top are simply stunning; the morning haze has cleared up a bit and the Dead Sea is visible as a layer of dark blue along the horizon. I can only imagine how hot it must get in summer in the merciless Judaean desert that surrounds Masada.

I spend a couple of hours on the summit, checking out Herod's Northern Palace, the Roman bathhouses and Jewish mikvehs (ritual bath), the storerooms, watchtowers, and the remains of the Byzantine church and the synagogue, which is one of the only preserved synagogues dating from the time of the Second Temple (destroyed in AD 70). I enjoy the feeling of being on top of a mountain in the middle of a desert and experiencing at the same time this important Jewish historic site, but ultimately, it doesn't touch me as much as if I were Israeli.


***


Since rest is for the weak, after descending the snake path and exiting the Masada tourist complex, I take the bus to Be'er Sheva, where I take another bus to Sde Boker. The only thing worth mentioning here is the nasty driver of the second bus; when I get on I say "Sde Boker", and he says something that sounds like "thirty-three", so I take it that he's saying I'm on the wrong bus, that number 33 is the one for Sde Boker. I look at him slightly confused, as I was sure this was the right bus, and he repeats what he said before, just more annoyed this time. "To Sde Boker?" I ask, aware that there's a long line behind me and that the driver's patience is wearing thin. He rolls his eyes in exasperation and furiously types in 14.50 on his cash box, so I quickly hand over the money, take my ticket and sit down, all red in the face. Later I find out that 14.50 in Hebrew is pronounced 'arba' esreh chamishim'.

I ask two guys sitting behind me to let me know when we arrive in Sde Boker, please, as I'm too scared to talk to the driver again.
"Are you going to the kibbutz or the midrasha?" one of them asks.
-"Um...the midrasha, I think...actually, what does midrasha mean?"
"It means college", the other one replies, looking slightly amused.
-"Alright, then it's definitely the midrasha. Could you please tell me when we're there?"
"Sure, no problem."

I get off at the midrasha and...lo and behold! It's dark and I have no idea where to go! There's a guy with long curls and an equally big backpack who got off the same bus. I look at him for a second, he looks at me, so I look away and walk a few metres. I stop and wait until he catches up with me, then I ask him: "Slikham, do you speak English?" Had I done my research, I would have realized that this is a dumb question to ask here. I'm already on the campus of Ben Gurion-University. There are 21 research and educational centres, including the Jacob Blaustein Institute for Desert Research, the David Ben-Gurion National Solar Energy Centre and the Interdisciplinary Education Centre. All courses are held in English, so I should have known that any random young person on campus would probably speak decent English. Still, it's polite to ask.

"Are you from ?" he asks me.
-"Yeah", I answer. "How did you know?"
"Oh, I'm on it as well, and not many tourists come to stay here."
-"That's cool. Um, maybe you know my host...his name is Assaf..."
"Yeah, sure I know Assaf, he's one of my best friends. He just lives around the corner from where I live. I can take you to his place."

Rescued once again by the kindness of a random stranger. His name is Heylal, and he studies at the Solar Energy centre. We walk and chat for a bit, until we arrive at Assaf's place, but nobody's there. Heylal remembers that Assaf's at yoga class tonight, so we walk there. When I enter, a chick in a black singlet and tights comes up to greet me. She introduces herself as Hadar, Assaf's girlfriend. "And where's Assaf?" I ask, to which she points at a guy who's busy doing a split-legged headstand against a pillar at the other end of the room. Now it's one thing to lay eyes on your host for the first time when he's doing a split-legged headstand, but when he's clad in a tight shirt and very skimpy running shorts, it's something else. Back on his feet, he joins us to say hello.

That night, Assaf cooks an excellent shakshuka, which we eat with pita, pickles and olives. We drink some Israeli beer with it, and herbal tea afterwards. We chat for an hour or so before I head straight to sleep, very exhausted from the long, exciting day I've had.


***


When I wake up, Assaf is busy preparing buckwheat pancakes. We eat them for breakfast together with tahina and an excellent, highly addictive date spread. The strong Turkish coffee that goes with it kickstarts my lazy cells and boosts my synapses. After taking a shower, I walk to the entrance of nearby Ein Avdat National Park. Assaf and Hadar stay put to work on some universitary assignments.

Before entering the National Park, I pay a visit to David and Paula Ben-Gurion's graves. The architect of Israeli independence, and its first prime minister, Ben-Gurion is surely rewarded well with the gorgeous view from a cliff-top overlooking the stunning Avdat plain. Or at least so are the visitors of his grave.

I hike down the path that leads me into a steadily opening ravine of soft white chalk rocks, poplar trees and desert shrubs. The silence is overwhelming and assuasive; I'm the only one there apart from a few hikers I see in the distance on top of the ravine. I fully take in the scenery, marvelling at every tree and rock and stream and ibex I see, enjoying the workout that goes with the hike.

It takes me around 45 minutes to reach the end of the ravine. The only way to continue is upwards now, and I climb to the top via several crude vertical iron ladders that would send chills down the spine of anyone suffering from vertigo. The view from the top is simply unreal; it's still hard to get my head around being in the desert overlooking this gorgeous, massive cañón. I have to sit down for a while to reflect and rejoice.

I continue on towards the ancient Nabatean city of Avdat. The way there takes me through a dry riverbed filled with whitewashed rocks amid the red and occasionally black sand. A strenuous 60 minute-hike later, I see the ruins on top of a hill and walk directly up towards it. I curse myself for having paid for the combined entrance ticket for the ruins at the National Park entrance already, as my little shortcut avoids the ticket booth.

Avdat was built in the 3rd century BC as a caravan stop on the Incense Route, which stretched from India to Rome. Albeit infinitely less famous than its sister Petra in present-day Jordan, Avdat is still a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and one that's entirely mine at this moment, while large numbers of stupid tourists are crowding in on Petra at the same time, having been thoroughly stripped of their cash before.

Unfortunately, as I find out later, Avdat was vandalized in October 2009, apparently by local Bedouin men, one of which used to be a guard there. They smashed hundreds of archeological artifacts, smeared the walls with paint, shattered columns with sledgehammers and damaged nearby orchards, water pipes and visitor's vehicles. One can only marvel at the motivation to wreak such havoc on something that has been there for more than two thousand years, built by nomads with whom the culprits share a similar culture and lifestyle. No statement of the arrested men has been made public so far.

Nonetheless, the site makes for an enjoyable visit, with its gates and arches and carvings being the most impressive feats. There's also the inevitable Roman bathhouse, an elaborate Byzantine winepress as well as two 4th-century churches and a striking burial cave.


***


I hitch a ride back to Sde Boker with two girls from the nearby kibbutz. Assaf is already preparing dinner, and to my delight, it's hummus with homemade pita. I'm amazed that he goes through all the trouble to provide me with such good food without asking anything in return. Plus, he's keen to hear stories from my travels and share some of his own. His energy is inexhaustible, he's always busy doing things, and he does them with a smile on his face. I wonder what I've done in my life to deserve such hospitality.

We eat the hummus and pita with an Israeli salad and pickles on the side, and I relish the food and enjoy the company of this cheerful Israeli couple who are living and studying at a unversity in the middle of the desert. Later Assaf and I watch a film on his laptop while Hadar is reading.

In the morning, after another gorgeous and filling breakfast, I say my goodbyes to Assaf and Hadar with a heavy heart. Assaf accompanies me to the gate, and when I tell him I'll be back and that he's always welcome at my place, it feels more sincere and likelier to happen than in other instances.







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24th February 2011

yarr
Hey Jens Great stories, I'm lapping them up. Keep 'em coming!

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