Oh little town…

*Posted late to avoid awkward airport security questions*

We took a bus from outside Damascus Gate the short distance from Jerusalem to Bethlehem. We hardly noticed as we passed the semi-permeable checkpoint into Palestine, however soon after, the smooth asphalt road became bumpy and in need of repair. Shiny shops transmuted into haphazard market stalls, and signs modulated from Hebrew to Arabic.

We walked through the bustling souq, between trays heavily-laden with ripe strawberries, and smoking barbecues topped with charred kebabs. As we walked down the street, a man named Saif offered us fresh felafel, coffee, and a tour of the surrounding area. We accepted, happy to give some shekels to the local economy.

Saif drove us for an hour through roads alternately controlled by Israel, the Palestinian Authority, or ‘both’. We passed a checkpoint which Saif explained sometimes closed for up to six hours for no reason (which moderately alarmed us), before finally arriving in Jericho. We took a swinging cable car (the longest below sea-level in the world) up to the Mount of Temptation, where Jesus allegedly refused to be tempted by the devil after his forty-day fast in the desert. From the top of the mountain we had a panoramic view of Jericho, the Dead Sea and the sprawling desert. The sun’s heat intensified as we gazed out at the hazy horizon, so we took shelter in the cool monastery before making our way back down.

From there, Saif drove us to a tree which a short tax collector is said to have climbed to see/listen to Jesus, and was subsequently inspired to assume a charitable life. We then visited Banksy’s graffiti and the wall separating Israel and Palestine. In the current political climate, visiting the wall was an incredibly humbling experience. I was filled with a heavy sense of oppression and confinement, despite the fact that I’m lucky enough to be able to move freely. I began to realise how much I take my freedom for granted, and gained an insight into the bleak reality of the people who don’t have access to such rights.

We made our way back to Manger Square, where we visited the Church of Nativity. Accompanied by about three tour groups, we were jostled, elbowed and squeezed into a low cave. A silver star on the floor marked the place of Jesus’s birth, and a few steps away was the place where the manger was said to have stood. The shoving slightly detracted from the sanctity, but also minimised the heavy solemnity that we had associated with the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Gasping for air, we emerged and had a rest in the square. There we were approached by two sisters aged 13 and 16, who told us of their dreams to travel, to study, and to become a genetic engineer and a doctor respectively. Listening to their optimism was both heart-warming and tragic, as we later reflected on whether there would be any way for them to reach their potential under current conditions.

We took the bus back to Jerusalem, where we had dinner in a hipster restaurant tucked down a back street. Our comfort and enjoyment was tinged with echoes of sadness as we thought about what we’d seen. Having the opportunity to talk to Saif offered an invaluable insight into life in the West Bank, and his frustration, anger, and hopelessness articulated the impossibility of the situation more acutely than any news report.

Bobbing along…

We spent an evening trying to work out the logistics of visiting Ein Gedi, Masada and the Dead Sea in one day via public transport. After a couple of hours we concluded that it couldn’t be done, at least not without military clock-watching, so we signed up for a tour.

We met the mini bus from the lobby of a fancy hotel, full of elderly Americans regaling tales of their intrepid adventures to each other. Fortunately, none of them were on our bus. Our first stop was the Jordan River, where Jesus is said to have been baptised by John. The river was a peaceful oasis in an arid landscape, bordered by wire fences and minefields. We spent ten blissful minutes quietly contemplating the fluvial border with Jordan, before jumping back on the bus and driving to Ein Gedi.

Ein Gedi is a nature reserve famed for its wildlife and natural waterfalls. Its fame attracts a number of visitors, including troops of baying schoolchildren. Rather than try to ascend higher and higher up the trail, at a pace set by the slowest child, we stopped about halfway up and enjoyed a smaller pool. The clear water felt cool and refreshing between our toes, and along with the merciful breeze, did much to revive us.

Our next stop was the ancient fortress of Masada, where rebels held off against Roman invasion, and chose to kill every person in the compound and commit suicide rather than suffer defeat. The foundations of watchtowers, bathouses and the tannery were spread over a substantial area, giving some idea of the scale of the attack. The views out to the haze of the Dead Sea were spectacular; it’s hard to take this cinematic landscape for granted.

Our final stop was the one we were most excited about. It hadn’t quite sunk in (hahahah) that we were about to visit the lowest place in earth: the Dead Sea. Upon arrival, we slathered warm goopy mud all over our skin, waiting until it tightened and cracked before washing it off with fresh water. Meanwhile, we had a little float, the salt content of the water making us buoyant, and occasionally forcing us to do an involuntary pencil roll. If we rubbed our hands together underwater, they felt slick and oily. Every sensation inspired novelty, however after a time we had to return to the bus, and to Jerusalem.

We touristed hard, and not in the manner to which we have become accustomed. We’re quite happy to find things ourselves, use public transport, and dicatate our own schedule, however for the sake of expediency (and for the sake of our dogmatic refusal to miss anything), the tour was hugely beneficial. Whilst some of the other tourists had expected to be guided, lectured, and photographed at designated points, we were quite happy to explore the sites in the time slots available, safe in the knowledge that we could get home.

Upon our return, we caught a bus back to Tel Aviv – the final stop of our trip. Upon emerging victorious from our battle with the traffic, we grabbed a sabich (aubergine filled pita) and went to sleep.

Our final days in Israel were spent eating delicious shakshuka and salads aplenty, exploring the old town of Jaffa, and basking in the sun at the beach. We also infiltrated an Irish pub on St Patrick’s Day to watch the rugby, but that’s a story in its own right.

Our time here has been one of immense contrast in terms of history, society and culture. This is even reflected in the landscape, which is both breathtakingly beautiful, and terrifyingly hostile. The people we’ve met here have been hospitable and kind, but despite this I have felt very ‘other’. There’s no ostensible reason for this (apart from security treatment at the airport), but if anything, this has made the whole experience more interesting. Alex and Ricardo have been an absolute breeze to travel with, and I’m immensely grateful to them for letting me tag along. We’ve had experiences and made memories that I’m sure will stick with us for years to come; and I can’t wait to bring them up at (in)opportune moments in the future.

And did those feet in ancient times…

We spent twelve hours travelling back from Wadi Musa – first to Tel Aviv where we picked up Alex’s bags from a friend, and then on to Jerusalem. Our Air Bnb was situated in a quiet residential oasis a couple of minutes from the famous Mahane Yehuda market. After some confusion we followed some elusive stairs up to our apartment and crashed in to sleep.

The following morning we walked down to the old city, through the New Gate (constructed in 1887). The atmosphere within the city walls was one of subdued quiet; the traffic from outside muffled by the thick bleached stone. We weaved through the narrow streets past vendors of clothes, fresh juice and religious paraphernalia; our heads becoming heavy with the musky incense draped in the air.

Suddenly, the labyrinthine streets of the souq opened out into a sun-drenched plaza, where the Western Wall stood. Separated into men and women, Jewish worshippers fanned around the sheer face of the ancient structure. Many people sat or stood reading the Torah, gently rocking back and forth on their heels. Others pressed up close to the wall, where the gentle hum of prayers lapped at the base of the wall in soft waves.

We then followed the Via Dolorosa from the Lion’s Gate, visiting the ten stations that comprised Jesus’s final journey as he bore the cross. I’m not a Christian, but even so the act of tracing this path felt extremely solemn and poignant, and made the horrific nature of Jesus’s suffering more carnal, human and real.

We retraced our steps to Temple Mount/ Al-Haram ash-Sharif, where after waiting in line for about 45 minutes we were permitted to enter the third holiest site in Islam. After donning some additional layers at the request of the guard (not withstanding Alex’s long smart blue trousers and my purposefully-sleeved t-shirt), we entered the site. After a small grumble at the sight of tour groups dressed far less modestly than ourselves, we began to approach one of the monumental hearts of Jerusalem.

The sumptuous gold roof of the Dome of the Rock glinted in the midday sun, and along with the ornate blue tiles of its walls, mirrored the endless sky above it. We stepped down from the expansive square to the lower level where Muslim families shared picnics in the shade. We used the hour allotted to us to enjoy the peace of our vantage point, before descending back into the streaming streets below.

Our next stop was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre: the place where it is believed that Jesus was crucified, died and was resurrected. We squeezed into the entrance, where pilgrims knelt to touch the Stone of Unction, marking the place where Jesus’s body was annointed before burial. We then ascended a flight of stairs and passed through the Franciscan and Greek Orthodox naves of the Chapel of Calvary, where Jesus was stripped of his clothes and nailed to the cross. Pilgrims knelt to touch the Rock of Calvary, marking the spot where Jesus died.

We visited the Chapel of Adam and the Chapel of St Helena (where legend states three crosses were found) before taking a quiet moment of reflection in the Church of the Apparition and walking past the Tomb of the Holy Sepulchre.

A silence had descended on our trio as we visited these sites, imbued with the significance of the thousands of pilgrims that had visited before us. The chapels themselves were crowded, noisy, and occasionally quite glitzy, but their significance wasn’t lost despite the absence of grave formality often associated with holy sites.

We left the Old City and visited the Garden of Gethsemane to the West, where Jesus was betrayed by Judas. Some of the gnarled olive trees have been dated to biblical times, and so whether or not this was the actual site of events, the garden felt like a means of experiencing an ancient time. In the late afternoon sun we climbed the steep route to the Mount of Olives. We watched the sun set over the ancient city, listening to the crescendo of blaring car horns mingling with tolling church bells and the melismatic call to prayer.

Visiting the Old City of Jerusalem has been an intense, reflective and somber experience. The city retains much of its ancient significance, but in a way that has been modernised and cultivated for tourism. The churches and chapels that mark holy sites make it difficult to imagine what the atmosphere was like millennia ago, but instead they have created a supplementary layer of reverence for the Holy City. Judaism, Islam and Christianity are all present, but separate. Rather than a fusion, the city represents a collision of culture, history and belief, unlike anywhere else in the world.