2005

 

I write this from this holiest and hottest of lands.  It is the land of milk and honey, to which Moses led the Jews out of Egypt and the Sinai. Its the land upon which Christ walked, the land from which Muhammad ascended on his winged horse to heaven to commune with Allah, and the land which for the past 4,000 years or so has been the most sacred site of conflict, politics and hope that exists on this little planet. 

I think it appropriate that it’s such a hot, dry, crowded and relatively uncomfortable place (at least from my perspective).  Something about the way that the Sacred finds itself mired in the physical reality of this earth, this human race and all its troubles, is constantly visible here.

The days are blazingly hot here in Jerusalem (pronounced much more beautifully as "Ye-ru-sha-liem" in Hebrew), the people are wildly friendly, blunt, vivacious and passionate.  I have almost exclusively been in Jewish company since I arrived. I have found views towards the Palestinians and their situation range from sympathetic and pragmatic to wildly anti-Arab.  There is nothing close to a majority consensus on this topic, as far as I can tell.  

There is also a great deal of rather humorous animosity between the "backward, ignorant, religious fanatics" who populate the old cobblestone streets of Jerusalem, and the "soulless, egotistical, secular, lost Jews" who prefer the discothèques and urban life of the major coastal city of Tel Aviv.  I swear, it doesn't seem to matter how small a country is, or how much people share in common---folks always find a way to jab at one another.  So far, though, the jabbing seems to be in relatively good humor.  If I can say anything about this place so far, it’s that (at least as far as the Jews are concerned) there is a place and community for everyone, even the zaniest radical types.

Those prone to anxiety on my behalf would be happy to learn that I depart this very night, under cover of darkness, upon wings of steel, from this little geographical strip of Jewish-Arab confusion. And all the Jews I meet want to know when I will come back and decide to live here and settle and make Jewish babies, and I am stuck between pleasant evasiveness and less pleasant honesty. 
 

Where have I been, you say? Someplace much too hot for human beings is my answer.   I was just in the Sinai desert, the biblical landscape in which the Jews spent way, way, way too long wandering before they made it to the holy land of milk, honey and politico-religious conflict. 

The fact that this triangle of mountainous scorched earth, jammed between Saudi Arabia and Egypt and populated primarily by camels, prickly scrubs and indefatigable Bedouins, has become, in the past fifteen years, a premium vacation spot for Italian, Russian Israeli, Korean and Japanese tourists, is, in my thinking, a clear indication of the state of mental confusion from which much of the modern world suffers ....but, then, I was there in the Sinai too.  

I found there are reasons the hordes flock here to sweat and sunburn. First, I encountered a pristine, calm Red Sea, filled with coral reefs untouched since Moses and his people brushed past them, and thus ideal for those inclined to don oxygen tanks and dive into the blue.  Also, I enjoyed outposts of tourist comfort along the coast, proffering beachside indulgence at Egyptian prices. And, of course, there is a primal lure of Exoticism to places named "Sharm-al Sheikh", "Dahab" and "Nuwieba". 

Camels are everywhere...and just being around camels one can't help but feel exotic.  So it seems the miracle cocktail of bottled water, coral reefs and capitalism has put this place on many people's list of global tourism favorites.  Yet I felt, beneath the surface, beneath the constant sheen of sweat, ill at ease (or just ill for that matter--I got food poisoning the last two days).  What was wrong? 

In a bout of poeticism, I wrote in my journal: 

"...The Sinai was such a desolate and overwhelming landscape. The camels and the Bedouins seemed at home there, but it didn't make sense to me that they should.  The Dahab restaurant strip touting Caribbean food and piped-in Bob Marley favorites didn't line-up somehow with the ostensibly lush tropical setting.  Perhaps my sense of disconnect all came down to the most blaringly obvious reality of the place.  No Water.  Its absence made all life, all development, all commerce and semblance of normal human existence seem somehow artificial, transplanted and alien. 

“The Sinai felt like a place where the tremendous violent forces that shape matter on a grand scale were manifest in all their stern, uncaring beauty.  It was fantastical to gaze upon. Yet the desert was awe-inspiring, but not "enchanting" to me.  It did not invite me to explore it, as other landscapes have.  Unlike the jungle in Hawaii, which seemed inviting but became ominous and overpowering once one was within it, the desert's aura of foreboding was present constantly. I was not curious to test myself against it..."

A highlight of this segment of my trip was hiking up Mt. Sinai, or at least the mountain that most people claim is Mt. Sinai.  It is in the center of the scorched, rugged Sinai wedge and looms over a fortress-like monastery named Santa Katerina, established by Christian monastics in the 6th century A.D. This mountain has become another primary "point of interest," in the otherwise point-less landscape, and for good reason. 

I decided to make the recommended midnight ascent, so I might witness dawn from atop the mount Moses perhaps once used as meeting room with Y-hW-h.  It was, is, will forever be the middle of nowhere. Yet in this modern day it was a nowhere with hundreds of visitors, mostly organized into Italian, Russian and Korean tour groups, trudging through the dark with flashlights, stumbling on the rocky path, gasping at the rough ascent and, viewed from above, forming a sparkling trail of phosphorescent, plankton-like pilgrimage zigzagging up from the desert floor. 

It was a moonless night and the stars were in full force.  The path had been made wide to accommodate the tremendous amount of nightly traffic this place now receives, and materializing out of the dark every few hundred meters, Bedouins holding the reigns to their most profitable beast of burden, offered in clipped tones, "Camel, cheap, Camel".  Many tour groups rode the Camels, who walk with a slow, deliberate, kerplunking sway, and I often found myself gingerly weaving between the creatures long-legs and narrowly avoiding being nipped by protuberant, whiskery camel lips. 

Despite my usual distaste for "mass appeal" type experience, it was a more surreal night for all the people, and for the extensive Bedouin entrepreneurialism.  Appearing suddenly around a cliff-corner, a little, well-lit Bedouin tent offered the weary pilgrim a 2 a.m. break for tea, hookah and snickers, naturally at exorbitant prices.  You could see these occasional beacons of Bedouin business sparkling on the ridgeline above you and, in the otherwise utter darkness, guess the route of ascent by them.  

It was only 7 kilometers to the top. But with all the stumbling, it felt a truly grueling ascent.  In the last kilometer the main path joined with a stone staircase, constructed at a date unknown to me, by a penitent monk. Here one suddenly had the feeling, as surrounding earth dropped away, of ascending into the stars.  I had passed most of the crowd, and found myself nearly alone, nearing the peak in silence and starlight.  I stopped at the last Bedouin outpost where I accepted a thimbleful of expensive, bad coffee from the tent keeper. 

They asked me if others were coming...I told them not to worry.  I sat inside the carpeted tent as Frank Sinatra came crooning over the radio.  The young Bedouin asked the usual questions with the usual apparent friendliness and openness that is difficult to interpret or trust in such a commercial situation. I asked what time it was.  He told me 3:45 a.m…. two hours till the sky would begin to lighten. Chatting, I offered that I was surprised how difficult a hike it was. He looked at me for a second with confusion and then offhandedly replied, "Oh, yes...sure," and looked away.  It came to me; he likely walked up the mountain twice daily....   

On the top I found a hidden ledge slightly removed and lower than the central pinnacle.  I bundled up in an oily, smelly camel blanket I had stumbled upon, wedged myself into the rock and looking at the stars, fell asleep (sort of).

I awoke still wet with cold sweat from the hike, to dawn light and Korean hymn-singing. Standing up, I discovered my little secret ledge was now surrounded on all sides by groups of Christian Korean pilgrims praising Creation in their own unique, melodic way.  If I hadn't had needed to pee so badly, it would have been quite beautiful.  Finally managing to find the privacy I needed, I returned to the scene just in time to watch all the Koreans clapping enthusiastically as the first red-gold glimmer of desert sun crested the mountain horizon, revealing endless razors of rocky escarpment stretching in all directions.  It was a truly festive atmosphere.  Italians were yelling at each other, Korean preachers were giving sermons to their respective groups, and Bedouin children were everywhere trying to sell stuffed camel dolls and polished Sinai stones.  

The mountain top carnival lasted for precisely two minutes after the sun had fully crested the desert surface. And then everyone, en masse, began a harried descent back down the sacred Mount. Being exposed at high-altitude to the desert sun did not appeal to most, I suppose.  The descent through the desert landscape was beautiful, though not nearly as surreal as the stumbling, starlit ascent had been.  At dawn, everything in the desert is precise and clear, and just waiting to get way to freaking hot.  I ran down the mountain....

Then I returned to tourist-laden Dahab and got sick and learned/remembered that when you have food poisoning, nothing but physical pain and the need to find a bathroom is real.  And then I made it back across the desert border to Israel, where Jews are not nearly as friendly as Arabs when they try to sell you things. 

Now I am in Jerusalem, the holy city, for one last day and it is cloudy for the first time in six weeks and that is a blessing.  I am eager for Virginia thunderstorms. 

G-d, I love rain....