13. Rich Vacationer
The first article of Israeli Army code of regulations:
1.1. Never answer a question with another question.
Joke
It was the time of sweet leisure, partying with friends, and long hikes in the canyons. Beni and I were accompanied on our desert walks by Tepa and Sharik, two tiny shepherd cubs Beni'd had delivered from Georgia. The bird migration was at its peak. The entire sky was moving with flocks of cranes, storks, and countless songbirds. Bushes were full of calling cuckoos. The entire team from the Birdwatching Center camped near Hai Bar, waiting for the Levant Sparrowhawk Day.
Levant sparrowhawk is a small bird of prey. It mostly breeds in southwestern Russia, and winters in Africa. There are only a few thousand of those hawks in the world, and all of them migrate north through Arava valley in one or two spring days, usually in one huge flock. All visitors to the Center were shown a photo of such a flock, with many hundreds of birds in it, and asked to find a single Eurasian sparrowhawk in the picture. Most people managed to find it in an hour or two. The point of the joke was that there was no Eurasian sparrowhawk in the photo at all.
After watching the hawks pass by, Beni and I started to get our jeep ready for a big trip to northern Israel. His girlfriend Marina came to join us. Beni always had good taste. For me he invited Olga, a young Ukrainian girl from Jerusalem.
"She'd only arrived a year ago," he said. "Her parents are still in Kiev. The poor kid has to sleep with an old ugly Israeli to pay the bills. Try to be gentle with her, OK?"
I thought that a girl of Olga's looks could find something better than a 42 year-old shipyard owner. But she was "Russian", so she was automatically considered second-class despite having body of a model, face of a cover girl, and M.S. in applied physics. Being gentle with her wasn't much of an effort. She'd probably forgotten what could be expected from a male her age, and accepted my sexual enthusiasm with joyful wonder that I found a little bit embarrassing.
Anyway, we got in the jeep and drove North. Tiny patches of grass in the desert had already been bleached by the sun. Soon the salt-crusted shores of the Dead Sea appeared ahead. Dark blue water, rainbow-colored cliffs, inviting canyons... Will I ever see Arava again - that broad rift separating West from East, and the 21st century from the 14th?
We stopped at Ein Gedi, in a bowl-like canyon with a large waterfall, surrounded by lush vegetation. A cave behind the falls was once used as a shelter by young David, not yet a king. Later it housed Bar Kohba, leader of an uprising against the Romans known as The Second Judean War. For centuries he'd been considered a folk tale character rather than a historic person, but recently a bag of his letters was found in a dig in one of the area's caves. They can now be seen in one of Jerusalem's museums together with some of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Spelunking can sometimes get very interesting in Israel.
Every hill, every wadi there is a place of countless battles, biblical stories, guerilla wars. Perched high on a rocky cliff are the ruins of Masada, winter palace of Herod the Great. During the First Judean War, a Roman legion had spent three years trying to capture it. Eventually the Romans built a ramp all the way to the top. Nine hundred defenders of Masada committed suicide, choosing death over slavery.
Next day we were in Jericho, probably the world's oldest city. For miles and miles you travel through a land dotted with archaeological digs, old castles, battlesites, fortified monasteries and walled towns. Why did these valleys, inhospitable and barren, attract so many conquerors over the centuries? What was the point of this endless fighting over gray hills, crooked trees, dry grass and rocky plains? And how many more wars will roll over this tiny country, the chosen victim of three pervert religions?
The Jordan Valley was lined with small poplars and reeds. As we drove upstream, local people gave us mean looks: we were in the "territories". The only other visitors to the valley were busloads of Western pilgrims who'd come all the way to that shithole to be baptized at the exact same spot where John had allegedly baptized Jesus (as if anyone could know were it was).
That part of Palestine is generally known as The West Bank, but the Israelis call it by its original name, Shomron (Samaria). There are only a few hundred real Samaritans left in the world. It is a separate ethnic group: they still speak Aramaic, and have their own version of Judaism, based on a cult of sacred mountains.
Moving from one ancient city to another, we soon reached the areas of Mediterranean climate. From late February to early May, the northern part of Israel looks like an endless flowerbed. You can almost see the waves of aromatic ethers rising to the sky. We had dinner in Nazareth, a grim city filled with missions of various Christian denominations, all of them resembling either the worst examples of 19th century German architecture, or Stalin's high-rises. Then we climbed to the summit of Har Tavor, and spent the night among blooming cyclamens, in the oak forest surrounding one of the oldest Christian monasteries ever built.
Next morning we woke up to a beautiful sound mix. Bells ringing in the monastery, calls for prayer rising from Natserat Illit, an Arab town nearby, and crashing noise of colliding tortoiseshells: the mating season of local tortoises was at its peak. Soon we crossed Hula Valley - another birdwatcher's paradise; its reedbeds inhabited by pelicans, herons, kingfishers, even jungle cats. The road passed through Kiriat Shimona, at the time the favorite place for Hesbolla's target practice, and climbed to the summit of Mount Hermon in the Golan Heights, the only place in Israel where downhill skiing was sometimes possible. The view was great: mountain ridges of Anti-Lebanon to the north, Bekaa Valley to the west, blue bowl of Lake Kineret in the Galilean Mountains to the south, and a cloud of smog over Damascus to the east.
"Why do you try so hard to avoid the draft?" asked Beni. "It's not as bad as the Soviet Army, you know. I myself only had to undergo the annual month-long training. But I have a friend named Vasily who used to serve on the Heights. In his unit everybody was "Russian"; only one guy was an Israeli. Every time they were taking shower, they would make fun of his circumcised penis. He had to ask for a transfer. Just think of it - three years of free food!"
"No, thanks. I can't survive staying in one place for three years. Besides, I can't waste so much time. I'm already 24, not much left. And I don't fit well into organized structures."
That was true. Once I had to spend a month as a cadet at a military airfield. I tried to cause as little trouble as possible, but somehow found myself involved in every single accident or mishap, like Yossarian in Catch 22. Officers there couldn't wait to get rid of me. I would probably be good at guerilla fighting, but regular troops - no way!
We dropped Marina off in Tsfat - poor girl happened to live in that ancient hilltop town, capital of kabbalists, mystics, rogue theologists, and other nutcases. After checking out a Crusader fort in Akko, we drove up Mount Carmel to visit Beni's friends in a small Druz village, and his other friends in a local Nature Reserve, also called Hai Bar (it worked on reintroducing bezoar ibex and Persian fallow deer to Northern Israel).
Olga lived in Jerusalem, so for the last part of the trip there were only four of us left in the jeep: Beni, I, Tepa and Sharik. Sharik kept trying to chew on an alligator tail, our souvenir from a crocodile farm (Beni had friends even there). I now know that tail is the best part, especially if barbecued in oil.
I wanted to visit my old Bedouin friend Hassan and his beautiful daughter, but their tent wasn't on its usual place in a canyon near Hebron. They'd probably moved to upland pastures for the spring. We rolled from Negev Plateau down to Arava, and turned South.
As we were drinking tea in a roadside cafe in the middle of the desert, Beni waved his hand towards the barbed wire fence parallel to the highway.
"Two kilometers further south is the place where they cross the border to get to Petra," he said.
I nodded, and tried to remember the place well. I knew that next time I'd have to be there at night.
Petra, the famous lost city of the Nabateans, is only seventy kilometers from the Israel/Jordan border. But at the time there was no legal way for anyone with Russian or Israeli passport to cross that border. The only possible way to see that wonder was to sneak under the wire and walk the entire distance. Back in the 1980-s, a hike to Petra was considered the ultimate challenge among the soldiers of various special operations units. There was even a song about it, called The Red Rock, later banned in Israel. It was said that during the early years, one attempt out of five had been successful. Then the rate fell to one out of ten, because local Bedouins liked challenge, too. They also liked the bounty paid to them by the Jordanian government for each "Israeli spy" caught. In 1989, the Arabs caught six people in one month, raped them, then tortured to death. After that, according to Beni, there were no more attempts.
Being a professional in that field, I didn't consider it particularly difficult to sneak past a bunch of goat shepherds and walk less than a hundred miles during warm nights. But it was still a challenge too good to ignore. I didn't say anything, just got a map from the glove box to see what the route would be like. Unfortunately, its coverage area didn't include Petra itself.
Beni pretended not to notice, and kept driving. But after we switched and I took the wheel, he suddenly said:
"What, tired of life? I shouldn't have mentioned it!"
"Why? I have a Russian passport, and don't look Jewish. Even if I get caught..."
"You think the Bedouins can read? Do you know what they'll do to you? I think you shared the apartment with Dima the Gay for too long..."
I hit the breaks so hard that he almost hit the windshield.
"Come on, Doctor," he continued, "I know you. If you decided to do something stupid, you'll do it no matter how stupid it is. How will you go, with water or dry?"
"Dry."
"Hmm! Well, if you ever come back, your nickname would be Emeritus Professor."
There are two ways of trekking in the desert. If you go with water, you have to take enough to compensate all water loss from your body. The amount depends on temperature, humidity, wind, and, most of all, on your body's adaptation to desert conditions. Usually it's five to seven liters per day. Water means safety, but it is heavy, and drinking it makes you weak.
The second method can only be used for shorter trips, and only if you tolerate heat really well and know what you are doing. You drink a lot for a day or two before the hike, but don't carry any water at all. That way your can cover twice more distance in the first two days, but you risk dying if you don't get to some water source at the end of the third day or the morning after that.
Two days later, I got off the bus at kilometer marker 476. I felt ready to kill any Bedouin who'd happen to get in the way: my Israeli passport still hadn't arrived. But I didn't need it at the moment. I was carrying a Russian one, and a 100-ruble note (I couldn't take shekels and didn't have dollars). I hoped to be able to convince the Jordanians that I was a Sunni Muslim myself if need be. All you have to know to do it is the magic formula, La ilaha illa llah, wa Muhammad rasulu llah (No god but Allah, and Mohammed is god's prophet). It's good to be an atheist! But, having no Israeli documents with me, I could easily get in trouble if caught by any Israeli patrol. In addition to the passport and money, I had a small flashlight, a pocket knife, and a hand-drawn copy of the map.
I had to cross the fence soon after sunset, when it was dark already, but the sand was still warm. Otherwise I would be too easy to spot for border guards with their infrared binoculars. Late at night these devices allow you to see a gazelle or a human more than two miles away.
I found a place where the sand had been blown out from under the fence, then followed an old wolf trail for a while to avoid stepping on a landmine. There was another highway on the Jordanian side, but it was empty. It was a perfect night for spies and hikers: the moon was to rise well after midnight, and there were even a few clouds in the sky.
By the time the moon showed up, I'd already crossed the Arava and the foothills, and entered the labyrinth of mountain canyons. At sunrise I was far enough from the border to be able to walk in the open during the day. After a long climb I got out of the canyons, onto the crest of the ridge, and finally could look around.
To the West, wrinkled slopes of Negev were rising from flat yellow Arava. It was very interesting to see the rift from the other side. Far to the East I could barely see a thin gray line, King Daud Highway. I couldn't go directly to Petra: it wasn't on my map, and would take days to find in the sea of wadis. So I decided to hike to the highway and follow it to the city.
I spent the afternoon sleeping under a boulder, walked all night, and reached the highway at dawn. Soon a tourist bus showed up from the North. I raised my hand.
"A salaam aleikum, habibi!" shouted the driver, opening the door. "Deutschland?"
"Wa aleikum salaam! La, Russland."
He didn't seem to understand, but didn't repeat the question.
"Akaba, habibi?"
"Petra."
"OK!" he laughed. A few minutes later we stopped at a turnoff signed Petra 17 km.
"Shukran jazilan," I said, stepping out of the bus.
"La shukran, habibi! Mani!"
I gave him the 100-ruble note. He looked it over and tried to say something, but I was already on my way.
Petra was worth the effort. I spent a few hours there, among tourists and vending machines filled with Coke. I had no money left. Then I slept in a nearby wadi until late afternoon, and walked west. Soon I climbed to a rolling lava plateau between two volcanoes. It was gently sloping down towards Arava, and was very nice to walk on. At five in the morning it ended with a tall cliff. I could see the headlights of passing cars on both Arava highways below.
I picked a nice wadi and started the descent to the bottom of the rift. Suddenly I smelt smoke, then horses. Behind a sharp turn of the canyon I saw three saddled horses, and a pile of smoldering embers with three Bedouins lying around it. As I was watching them from behind a rock, one of them sat up, took a radio out of his pocket, and said something into it. Apparently, they served as border guards there.
I didn't want to climb all the way back to the plateau to look for another canyon. I had only one hour of darkness left. They seemed to be sleeping, but it would be too risky to just walk by. If any one of them opened his eyes, I'd be instantly shot.
I crawled to the horses, picked the best one (unfortunately, all three were white), untied it, jumped in the saddle, said "Yalla, habibi!" and tried to gallop past the campfire. But the stallion couldn't get to speed fast enough in soft sand. Before I made the next turn of the wadi, the Bedouins were already on their feet.
Cursing in all languages, I made it out of the canyon, crossed the highway, and followed the wire fence, looking for a place to get through. The Bedouins were shooting their rifles, but I could hear that they were shooting in the air, probably to avoid harming the horse. It was a good Arab stallion - the distance between us was increasing. Suddenly I saw a deep ravine ahead, and hardly managed to stop. Getting off the horse, I noticed a Soviet-made F-1 hand grenade attached to the saddle, and grabbed it before jumping in the ravine.
The bottom part of the wadi was also blocked by wire, but I hit a slope with my knife, and the sand slid down a bit. I took off my T-shirt and squeezed through the narrow opening. The barbs left a few deep cuts on my chest and belly, but I was back in Israel. Then I heard the horses above. The Bedouins stopped, and I could hear them dismount. Will they try to follow? Should I wait for them behind a turn and throw the grenade under their feet?
I knew it would be much more safe to get rid of the Jordanians instead of risking being shot in the back. But I didn't want to kill someone unless I absolutely had to. I knew that all my Israeli friends, except Beni, would've never understood me if I let the Bedouins live, but I did it anyway. I removed the fuse, dropped the grenade, and went away.
Only when I got to the road did I realize that I was seriously dehydrated. I tried hitchhiking, but passing drivers paid no attention. I almost wished I still had the grenade. After about an hour I was picked up by a tourist bus. The driver looked me over, and began to whistle The Red Rock. But I couldn't talk even if I wanted to.
Beni met me at his porch with a 5-liter canister of grape juice. I took a shower, fell on a bed, and shut down.
All that adventure was totally unnecessary. Less than a year later the border was open. Now anyone can take a bus from Eilat to Petra. But I am glad I walked the walk.
I woke up six hours later, drank another canister of juice Beni had put by my bed, and crawled to a mirror. My unshaved face was darker than a Bedouin's. I turned on my electric razor, and Beni looked in.
"Still alive?" he asked.
"Did the passport arrive?"
"No."
"Did the ostriches hatch?" We'd been awaiting the hatching of the year's first ostrich chicks.
"Yes, eight."
"Let's go have a look!"
"Later. The guests are coming."
"Who?"
"Marina, your Olga with a friend, David and my friends from Tel Aviv Zoo."
I signed. Poor Olga! Traveling all the way from Jerusalem to see me - and I'm too exhausted to do anything.
"You have another hour to sleep," giggled Beni. "Eat some sour cream, it helps. Wait, we don't have sour cream. Try some yogurt."
David arrived in his new white Niva. Since he'd bought the car, his social status changed dramatically. Toni Ring stopped giving him lectures about discipline every time he was late to work. All David had to say was "I had to fix the brakes" or "the spark plugs needed work". But his move up the ladder had its price. He had to spend most of the next six months under his car, fixing countless problems. Don't buy Russian cars!
Beni's friends from Tel Aviv brought with them an Italian guy, who said he was planning to study Russian.
"What's the Russian for noodles?" he asked.
"Spaghetti," we answered.
"Bread?"
"Pizza."
"Onion?"
"Cippolino."
We would keep making fun of him, but at that moment the girls arrived. Olga's friend Zoya looked very much like her, but was a brunette.
"This is Vladimir," Olga told her quietly, "The guy I told you about."
Zoya looked at me as if I was a gorilla in a zoo.
"What did you tell her about me?" I asked Olga.
"Well, I told her how good you are at... you know," she blushed. "Zoya asked me if I could share. I couldn't say no. She's gone without for three months."
"Are you crazy? I can hardly stand. A threesome would kill me."
"Don't worry, we understand. We don't mind. You are the first "Russian" to get to Petra. We are so proud of you!"
They dragged me to another room, put me on a bed, and took turns raping me mercilessly. At first I tried to participate, but then gave up and relaxed. After midnight my poor penis was reacting only to the most persistent stimulation, but the girls just wouldn't leave me alone. They both loved oral sex. Every time I got out of semi-coma and looked down, I could see either a blond or a dark head moving up and down over my lower belly. I think the other girl was holding my hands.
When I opened my eyes, it was almost noon. I drank more juice, played with the girls a bit, and walked them to the bus stop. Olga gave me a piece of paper with a phone number.
"I have a friend in Moscow. Her name is Veronica. I told her about you, and promised that you'd call."
It was a sad scene. Olga even cried a little. And many Israelis still believe that circumcision makes you a better lover!
Back in Moscow, I called Veronica once. She was a pretty little redhead, but for some reason we stopped seeing each other after a week or two.
After all guests had left, Beni and I went for a walk in the desert. We were sitting with Tepa and Sharik under an acacia tree, watching the sunset. A hundred meters from us, a large black-and-white male ostrich was proudly guarding a gang of tiny striped chicks. Flocks of migrating sandpipers could be heard calling from high in the sky.
"Why wouldn't you marry Marina?" I asked.
"You see," he said after a minute of silence, "I am from Georgia. I was raised in a family where a man is a man and a woman is a woman. Marina is from Moscow. I can't stand the idea of being married and still having to do the dishes."
"You know who you are? Male chauvinist."
"May be I am," he agreed solemnly. "By the way, I met your Anka in Eilat yesterday. She looked sad. May be she cries too much."
I wasn't sure he wasn't kidding, so I didn't say anything.
"She told Levi she would probably consider marrying him if he'd buy her a house."
"She's smart, my Anka! What did he say?"
"He's trying to get his father to do it."
Later Beni wrote me that Levi did buy a house. Anka got all the paperwork from him, and he never saw her again. She sold the place, and soon her family moved to the States.
I expected something like that to happen. But I didn't want her to be upset
about me leaving, and asked Beni to give her my farewell note next time he happens
to be in Eilat.
Don't be sad,
you are too strong and clever,
We don't know
what the future will bring.
Happy moments
will not last forever,
Only winter
can get us a spring.
We'll remember
it all, and you know,
Fifty years
might pass or just one,
But in times
of bad luck, rain, and snow,
They'll be with
us - ten weeks full of fun.