Journey to the East Chapter 5
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Monday 14 July, Jerusalem (El Quds).
Normally I would take these accounts of religious happenings cum grano salis, but in order
to enter into the spirit of the thing, and add to
the enjoyment of visiting the sites I decided to suspend belief for a little
while.
I tried to recall what I had read about the city, and
who had been here, and then which Irishmen did I know who had made
the trip overland?
In the eighth century Saint Cathal (Cataldo) came here
before settling in Taranto, Italy. A thousand
years later Buck Whaley won a wager of ten thousand guineas in Dublin by
coming here and playing handball against the city walls. I remembered a library book I had
once read about William Butler and his wife
Elizabeth Over coffee with my companions we went over the events of the previous day. My first impression of the "Holy Land" (what I had seen of it from the bus and taxi) was a barren, rocky wilderness. Hardly a tree or bush to break the parched landscape, baking under the heat of the unforgiving son. Wasn't there a prophecy (along with lots of other curses and smitings, etc.): "Thy sky shall be brass and thy land shall be iron"? On all sides the colourless rocky outcrops stretching into the distance "lonely as fear can make them". Overall, the overpowering shimmering heat. What was there here to fight over? Luckily enough the others had equipped themselves well with reading matter for this trip, with maps and guidebooks, so I had no shortage of reference material. The city is called El Quds (the holy) in Arabic and Yerushalaim in Hebrew. After an eventful history stretching back to the dawn of civilization the Moslems had occupied the city for several hundred years until the Crusaders arrived in 1099, annihilating the existing Jewish and Moslem population. Saledin evicted them in 1187, then came the Kharismians, Mamelukes, Circassians and Turks. Bob was reading "O, Jerusalem", and took a real turn against the British. The British had taken over after the Turks in 1918, made a hash of things, and got out while the going was good (1948), leaving the inhabitants to their fate. Now, after a short break of several thousand years, the Jews are back. But for how long? We gathered our stuff together and went out into the bright sunshine to get our bearings. The nearby Damascus Gate was supposedly the most beautiful in the city, dating from the 16th century. It became one of the centres of modern Jerusalem. Although this was the Arab quarter there appeared to be quite a mixture of types, Jews, Europeans, Americans and more mysterious types whose origins I couldn't guess at (they were probably Australians!).
I was just a tiny bit nervous--only 10 days earlier a terrorist bomb in Zion Square had killed 13 civilians. As we explored, the prevailing political policy, probably accelerated after the 1967 war, became evident. The skyline was dominated by new ugly-looking Jewish settlements, surrounding the city like the old Crusader castles. Once again it had become a fortress city, holding antagonistic neighbours at bay. Judging by the shops and restaurants we looked into, everything looked more expensive than in the countries recently visited, so I decided to change a travellers cheque. I went into a bank, handed over the cheque for five pounds and, surprise, surprise, got double the rate, ie, ten pounds worth of Israeli currency. I didn't know what was going on, but I RAN out of that bank fast in case they discovered their mistake. I could now afford to splash out a bit.
We put on little feet-coverings to enter the dome. Almost the whole of the building is taken up by the venerable rock, es Sakhra, which is raised several feet above the level of the floor. Above is a gracious ceiling, covered with inscriptions to Allah. Buck explained the historical significance. On this hill (Mount Moriah), the biblical David had built an altar in atonement for something that he did, and afterwards his son Solomon built a temple on the spot, around 1000 BC. Solomon's Temple was a reproduction of the Tabernacle--a court, open to the sky, and a tent divided into 2 compartments. The Holy of Holies was in the centre, and contained a golden table, on which was placed the Ark of the Covenant. The High Priest alone could enter the Holy of Holies once a year. After the ravages of wars and time had worn the original down, Herod, the King of the Jews, rebuilt it magnificently using 10,000 workmen just before the birth of Jesus. After a Jewish revolt the Roman general Titus besieged and captured Jerusalem in 70 AD, destroying the Temple in the process. Thus it was claimed that the biblical prophecy that not a "stone upon a stone" would remain was fulfilled--although the "prophecy" was written after the event! In any case, the Ark was lost. I later read that some archaologists were hoping to find the remains of the ark by excavating parts of Jerusalem (and enraging the Muslims in the process, because their buildings were being damaged). On the other hand, the Ethiopian Orthodox Church claims that the ark ended up in their country, stolen from Jerusalem by the natural son of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, and transported to Ethiopia, where it remains to this day. Muslim legend has it that one night the Prophet Mohammed on his white steed El Burak ("lightning") ascended from this rock into heaven. A faint impression upon the rock was the hand-print of the Angel Gabriel (with whom Mohammed appears to have had a special relationship), who held the rock in place.
The picture on the right shows the Dome seen from the church of Dominus Flevit. We emerged from the cool half-light of the dome into blinding sunshine, and continued our explorations. South of the dome is the Al-Aqsa mosque. Al-Aqsa ("the distant") is so called because it is the most distant holy place from Mecca that the prophet Mohammed visited on El Burak. I was told that this contains 2 columns through which the faithful must pass to get to Paradise--these were barred after a rather corpulent visitor get stuck between them and expired. After leaving the Haram we headed due west towards the Holy Sepulchre area. Starting from the site of Pontius Pilate's house we walked along the Via Dolorosa, a steep and winding street (the Way of the Cross) to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The picture on the left shows the third station. Two stone cupolas and a Romanesque belfry crowned the dark and incense-filled rooms. The church is built over the hilltop on which the last events of Jesus Christ's life are presumed to have taken place. There are actually at least 3 churches here: the Holy Sepulchre, Calvary, and the Cross. The right side belongs traditionally to the Roman church, the center to the Greeks, the back bit to the Armenians, and so on. About two dozen Christian denominations do their thing here, but the poor old Protestants don't seem to get a look in. In the olden days the Turks, who ruled this area, had to station a contingent of armed troops here to prevent the Christians from massacring each other. As there were queues of visitors everywhere, we didn't have time to take in everything, but saw what we could. Buck told me that the site of the crucifixion, Golgotha (the place of the skull), was so called because Adam's skull was found there. Isn't it amazing how some people will believe anything? Back in the sunshine again, we felt that after paying our tribute to the world's largest religions, we should now give the Jews a turn. Not far away we came to a facade of huge uneven stone blocks. These, the remnants of Solomon's temple, were the Wailing Wall, the spiritual centre of Judaism. Stuck into the cracks and crevices of the great stone blocks were hundreds of scraps of paper, petitions to the Lord. Orthodox Jewish men, women and children bobbed up and down to the rhythmic singsong of their prayers, a weird sight. Later we headed back to the Old City to eat and see how Bob was getting on. He was feeling better, but in no mood to eat, so Buck stayed with Bob while I went exploring, taking in the huge range of characters that seem to make themselves at home here. I couldn't help thinking that zealots, patriots and fanatics of all kinds seem to find a natural home in the Middle East, and Israel was no exception. Israel claimed in 1967 to have united the city, but but there's probably no city in the world more deeply divided, politically, socially, culturally. No one trusts anybody, even the Jews are split into as many multiple sects and political groups as the Arabs--religious against secular, Sephardim are against Ashkenazim, olim (immigrants) against sabras (native-born Israelis). I was approached several times by young orthodox Jews who wanted to know all about me and whether I was Jewish or Christian. I don't know what their angle was... Tuesday 15 July, Jerusalem (El Quds).
An important requisite in India would be an international student card, which I didn't
possess, so I thought it was time to try to obtain one.
First I had to find the student
office, which issues the cards. This wasn't too difficult, but once there it was very difficult to get the attention of anyone working there.
It was a great disadvantage not being able to speak Hebrew--they seem to serve
Hebrew speakers first,
no matter who else they're dealing with. When they finally got to me
I told them I had lost my international student card and needed a new
one. I showed them my student card from a language school that I had
gone to in London. They were a bit suspicious.
But I guess it wasn't all that
bad, because I received my ISTC student card there (with British
nationality!). I also asked about working on a kibbutz, and was told I
would have to go to Haifa and register, and then I would have to go where
I was sent--I couldn't just pick a kibbutz to go to.
This was no use--I could have ended up anywhere!
I knew that some of the Kibbutzim were to be avoided, the small ones in
particular, where there would be only a handful of volunteers, very few
amenities and no crack. I decided to take my chances and go straight
to the Ashdot Ja'akov Kibbutz and just act dumb--if they threw me out I could then head
for Haifa.
Afterwards I explored the Arab quarter and then went to Mount Zion. The Jews were in
conflict with the Christians about parts of this area, which
was a hill to the southwest. David made it his capital, and it became
known as the city of David. A tower built by Herod is now called the
Tower of David. In fact there's so many places named after
him that he'll probably end up like Mozart in Salzburg, the city's
main tourist attraction.
Then back to the hotel to rest and decide what to do. Should I stay
longer in this fascinating city--there was enough in and around here to
keep me occupied for some time? But I thought not. I had to stick to my
course and the main objective was India.
Wednesday 16
July, Jerusalem/Ashdot Ya'achov.
After Bet Shean it became more fertile as we were entering
the Jordan valley. More military installations became visible. Many
soldiers. I alighted before Tiberias at a sign-post for Ashdot Ya'acov.
A tree-lined avenue led to the kibbutz buildings. It was so unbelievably hot, like
walking into a sauna!
I asked a fat, typical-looking young Jew where to go. He took me to
a stout elderly woman, Malka, who spoke English with a German accent (Malka means "queen" in Hebrew).
He told me that she was in charge of the volunteers.
She invited me into her little wooden store. Clothes, forms, equipment,
papers, books, stacked neatly on shelves and in cubby holes.
Malka asked
me what I wanted and I explained that I wanted to be a volunteer and stay
for about six weeks. Then she wanted to see my papers from Haifa. I told
her I didn't have any. She said I'd have to go to Haifa to collect them,
and that might take a couple of weeks. I told her I couldn't manage that,
that I wouldn't be able to hang around that long without income. When she
asked what country I came from, and I said Ireland, she muttered "Why didn't
you say that in the first place?"
I told her I had met Phil and Anne. She remembered
them, and told me that Anne's twin sister was still on the kibbutz.
Small talk for a few minutes, then she gave me tea and biscuits, which
were really welcome. She asked for my passport, I signed one or two
forms, and that was it. Much easier than I'd imagined. I got some work
clothes, a hat, and 2 aerogrammes, and then she told me I'd be staying
with 2 Irish guys.
She brought me to my room, and there I met John Mooney, from
Limerick, and Tim Bliss, from Bray, Co. Wicklow. John had been on the
kibbutz since February. Malka seemed quite fond of him--he was a good
worker, she said.
Tim had been on the kibbutz about a week. Two doors up were Linda, from
Belfast, and Judith, whose parents came from Belfast. Some Swiss,
Dutch and Americans were there as well. All in all a nice relaxed
atmosphere, friendly crowd. I pumped John for information on the
kibbutz, and he filled me in.
I stayed on the kibbutz until 18 August. I could have written
a book about the place (and in fact someone had!), but a summary of our time there can be
found here Monday 18
August, Ashdot Ya'achov/Jerusalem.
I rose early to get ready. My only shirt had gone missing from the
laundry, so I had to go looking for it--Malka had been supposed to
search for it the previous day, so first we had to find Malka. By the
time we found her she told us the shirt had been lost. She gave me two
replacement shirts, I got my gear together and left at 10:30.
The hitching wasn't good. Got a lift from Chaim to Bet Shean, but
there were several others, including a girl, hitching on this small
road, and none of them seemed to be making much progress. I gave up and
took a bus which brought me to Damascus Gate. Booked in at the Columbia
Hotel. At reception I was asked whether I would mind sharing a room,
as there was one bed
available in a room with two Austrians. I didn't mind, and anyway it was cheaper.
As soon as I opened the door I was hit by a mass of
hash fumes. The room was full of smoke, coming from two young blond
guys sitting at the table.
They introduced themselves, Austrian, and could speak English. They had just
come up from Meubla, where they'd scored the dope. One of them kept a
lump of it in his cigarette packet. We had a smoke together while I
told them about life on the kibbutz. They were on holiday, planning on
travelling
around Israel, but didn't have any fixed destination. I remembered
thinking that they were a bit careless about smoking so
publicly--possession of hash was a crime in Israel, and while one might
get away with smoking it in outlying areas, in the cities the police
were more strict.
It was after 12:00 by the time I got back to the hotel, only to find
it locked! I rang the bell, knocked on windows, walked all around to
look for another entrance. In vain. The hotel was in a courtyard,
some distance from the locked front door of the building. There was
nothing for it but to bed down on a bench for the night under the city
walls, near Solomon's
Gate. It got cold and the bench was uncomfortable, so I got practically
no sleep. I felt very much, as the poet Rachel wrote, "alone in a vast land".
Tuesday 19
August, Jerusalem/Amman.
Cold and tired, I returned to the hotel as soon as it opened at 6:00 AM,
gave the poor guy at the reception desk a harsh telling off,
and went straight to my room. The Austrians were
asleep, the table littered with the remnants of last night's smoking. I
went straight to bed.
I was awoken by voices in the room. I glanced at my watch--it was
9:00 AM. I presumed the visitors were friends of the Austrians, until I
heard one of the newcomers say something like "...and the three of you
will have to stay in prison awaiting trial." I pricked up my ears at
this and pushed my head through the covers. The Austrians were seated
at the table, their cigarettes and skins in front of them,
exactly as they had been on my arrival the previous
evening. Standing facing them were two youngish police officers. I
asked sleepily what was going on, and one of the Austrians explained.
The Austrians had just risen and got dressed, when the police entered,
just a few moments before. They had asked him if he smoked hash, he
said no, then they picked
up the cigarette packet on the table, looked inside and saw the 5
grammes. They were explaining the Austrians their rights, and what they
were in for.
One of the police told me to get up and come with them. I asked what
for, and he said possession of drugs. I protested that I had nothing to
do with the Austrians, that I had just ended up in this room by chance.
The Austrians backed me up, confirming that I knew nothing about their
stash. The police searched me and my bag, then told me I was OK. They
led the two depressed-looking Austrians out of the room. I felt very
sorry for them--two nice young guys here on a care-free holiday and this
happens.
I was a bit shook up by this, and a few minutes later just got my
gear together and left. Took a taxi to the border. Then the usual
delays at the border crossing, just as we had when we were coming from
the previous direction.
As I was going to change money on the Jordan
side I saw a bus readying to leave and jumped on it, hoping they
wouldn't look for a ticket before we got to Amman, and then I would ride
my luck. They didn't, but the bus went only to the outskirts of the
city, not the centre. I went into a dark little shop to ask whether
there was any place around there that I could change money, but the
owner said I would have to go into the centre, but that his brother
would take me. I explained that I had no Jordan money, and he said I
wouldn't have to pay. He sat me down and gave me bread and soup while
he phoned his brother, who arrived shortly afterwards and drove me
straight to the hostel. Now THAT's what I call Bedouin hospitality!
I left to look for food and found some cheap places to eat down near
the food-market. Almost had some trouble later that night back at the
hostel. There were more people assigned to the room than there were
beds, and I had inadvertently taken someone else's bed. I was tired out from
not having slept the night before, and not in a humour to negotiate.
I wouldn't
budge, on the principle that I'd payed for a bed, and that's what I was
taking. Things seemed to have sorted themselves out eventually.
Earlier in the evening I had had a chat with an interesting English/Austrian girl who had
travelled through Afghanistan and India a year or two earlier.
She had gory tales of Westerners being bumped off
in Afghanistan, which sounded similar to other warnings
I had received so far. One group of four Westerners were found
decapitated in their jeep, others were robbed and stabbed to death.
She said Eastern Turkey was dangerous as well, with armed bands attacking
trucks, sometimes forcing them off the road, then killing the driver and
looting the truck. I didn't know how true this was--my guide-book,
written by an unrepentant extreme hippy, who obviously lived on a different plane of existence,
blithely glossed over danger of all sorts on the road. You don't even need money, he wrote, hadn't Gurdjieff travelled all over Asia without a penny in his pocket? Well, as I had found out on the Kibbutz, and later in Afghanistan, when they meet up of an evening, travellers exchange these kinds of tales, sometimes trying to outdo each other in gruesome details. Some tales then
end up as urban legends or ghost stories, like that of the motorist who gave a lift to a strangely quiet hitch-hiker, only to find out later that the guy had died years before. To tell the truth, the more dangerous the destination, the greater the attraction--hadn't I hitch-hiked around Northern Ireland at the height of the "Troubles"?
I also talked to a Dutch chap who had spent some time travelling down
Syria and around Jordan, visiting places frequented by Lawrence of
Arabia, among others. He said the hitching was good on the main roads,
and advised me to visit Petra "the rose-red city, half as old as time",
and Jerash, the wonderfully preserved Graeco-Roman city. Not this time,
I thought, as much as I would have liked to do it--I had to keep
my mind set on my main destination. I was quite happy with my progress so
far, 11 weeks out of London, and with still enough money to reach India
at least (I didn't think too hard on how I was going to get back home!).
I later came across a song, sung by Christ Moore, called "The Trip to
Jerusalem". The lyrics can be found
here.
O Jerusalem, the choice of Allah of all his lands!
In it are the
chosen of his servants. From it the earth was stretched forth and from
it shall it be rolled up like a scroll.
The dew which descends upon Jerusalem is a remedy from every sickness
because it is from the gardens of Paradise.
The Hadith, the sayings of the prophet Mohammed.
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So here I was in Jerusalem, unexpectedly, which made it all the better.
After waking up I lay in bed luxuriating in that thought, and feeling
quite excited. Other than what we had learned in religious instruction
at school I knew relatively little about this historical city, one of the greatest
and oldest in the world.
Here had lived the prophet David, Solomon had brought
it to its heights of glory, Abraham had spoken directly with God, Jesus
had been crucified, Mohammed had ascended into Heaven, it had endured 25 fierce
sieges and countless massacres. What hadn't happened here wasn't worth talking
about!
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