Travel Biography - Week 48.

To Recap - From 1976 to 1993.

The photos here are from the Recap.

Before I continue with this Biography, I would like to briefly recap the places I visited since I alighted from the aeroplane at Gatwick Airport in 1978, after the flight home from New York.

That homeward flight brought an end to the long-haul era that characterised that decade. Starting with Israel in 1976, I then backpacked both Canada and the USA a year later in 1977, and then around the USA again in 1978. The film camera I took with me on the first American trip suffered shutter failure. Therefore, soon after arriving in the Canadian city of Toronto, I bought an inexpensive Instamatic 110 for convenience.

At the Star of Bethlehem, 1976.

At Calgary, Canada, 1977.

In 1978, I took this camera with me when my second journey around the States included a visit to the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River in Arizona. This became one of my life's greatest travelling moments when I was unexpectedly offered a bed at Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the Inner Gorge, close to the River itself, which unfortunately, couldn't be seen from the Village perched on the South Rim.

But having hiked to the Ranch and spent the night there, I took several photos of the River and its surroundings around five in the morning, at dawn before the sun rose. However, I was very disappointed with the results after the film was developed after arriving home. Those of the river were underexposed, thus, without a filter, turning the cliffs and buttes in the frame from the various reddish hues seen by the eye to a featureless black.

At the Grand Canyon, 1978.

The disappointment I felt made me determined to repeat the hike into the Canyon someday in the future. But with the loss of my full-time job as a machinist at the British Aircraft Corporation Works in Surrey, I knew that my dream to finish the photographic task in the Arizonian desert had to be suspended, at least for some years.

The 1980s ushered me into self-employment, which I held down for the next 35 years until retirement in 2015 (then aged 63) due to declining health. It was during this period that a tighter, more restricting budget also limited my travels to Europe, including Italy and as far south as Sicily, and then just within the United Kingdom. However, up to and including 1985, I have always travelled overseas on my own, as this suited me. Then, between 1986 to 1992, I found myself sharing the experience with first a group of close friends - Tim Kingcott, Gareth Philips, Keith White, and Paul Hunt. These consisted of one-week holidays spent riding a bicycle around Holland, Belgium, and Germany. Also, it was Tim who introduced me to hostelling during the Spring of 1985, a move that would have an effect on future travel.

Lake Como, 1981.

The Active Crater of Mt Etna, 1982.

Bikes in Belgium, 1987

A further tightening of the budget kept me within the United Kingdom, and in my home country, I enjoyed the experience of riding a bicycle with Gareth from John O'Groats to Lands End in 1990. A year later in 1991, I took my first solo holiday since 1985, when I cycled from Weymouth to Dover, then hopped over to France for the day before boarding a train for home. Then, in 1992, Gareth and I left our bikes locked away at home and boarded a National Express coach for a two-week hiking holiday in the Lake District in Cumbria.

Then, in October 1992, after a bust-up with a window cleaning customer and a personal friend as well, and while I was feeling very low and defeated, I had what might have been a supernatural vision whilst up on the ladder. In my mind's eye, I saw myself standing on the Mount of Olives, east of Jerusalem, looking over the city and praying over it. From that moment, everything changed. I knew that in the following year, I would once again walk along the sacred ground seventeen years after my first visit in 1976.

Just to pause to say that the suspension of my friendship with my customer was temporary. Within a couple of years after that incident, I was cycling through a residential street nearby when we saw each other while he was on foot. It was he who greeted me cheerfully, like a long-lost friend, and in a way, I was. We chatted along for quite a while. After that, we made commitments to remain in touch, including visiting each other's homes fairly frequently - although I never cleaned his windows again. 

Gareth repairs a puncture, End-to-End, 1990.

The Lead up to Take Off, 1993.

I recall my 1976 trip to Israel, how I stayed at the home of an Arab family and how I became familiar with the Middle Eastern way of life, which was so different from the West. But back then, I knew nothing about backpacker hostels. By 1993, I was already familiar with them. Indeed, I was wondering if such facilities existed in the Middle East, particularly in Israel, and how easy or difficult it might be to access them.

It's worth noting that my cycling friend Gareth has been to Israel either in the late 1980s or even in 1991. But he went as part of a Christian escorted tour group. I wanted to travel independently, as I have always done since I boarded a train to Italy in 1973.

I checked for any hostels in Israel, especially in or around Jerusalem. There were several. So, having gotten their addresses, I wrote, asking whether they would accommodate me after I arrive from the UK. I received no response from any of them. It looked as if I would be bed-hunting after arrival. That was not unusual.

But why was I concerned? Wasn't off-the-street bed hunting normal for me? Maybe, after hearing about Middle East conflicts and unrest, I felt apprehensive. Should I have taken an escorted tour like Gareth had? No. I could never keep behind an escort, even though I would have stayed in luxury hotels and shielded from any potential dangers. Facing up to the realities of a foreign country - any country really - and learning to cope is what travel is all about.

However, I was curious whether the Spihu family was still around in 1993. What had become of Ghanem and Abed? And their parents who opened their door to Eastern hospitality back in 1976? I was keen to return to Silwan to see how this Arab residential district is getting on. And would I have access to Hezekiah's Tunnel at the Spring of Gihon? Memories, memories...

At the Pinnacles, Swanage, 1991.

The Journey Begins - with a Hitch.

The day came for me to make my way to Gatwick Airport. I felt excited yet apprehensive as I approached the check-in desk. I was flying with Monarch, a charter airline that specialises in flights from the UK to Middle-Eastern destinations. Sadly, the airline collapsed and ceased operating in October 2017. For all passengers to Tel Aviv, I was directed to the check-in desk that was separate from the main check-in. It was after I had checked in and mingled among some Orthodox Jews, that I overheard the conversation between two staff members that our plane was grounded due to a technical fault, and there could be a six-hour wait.

I felt my heart drop. Stuck in the airport lounge for six hours, watching other passengers arrive and then leave for their departure gates while all that time, looking at the word Delayed next to our flight number on the overhead departures board.

I must admit to my restless pacing around the airport lounge. In turn, there was a group of Orthodox Jews resting at one of the rows of seats, all of them looking unperturbed. Presently, some of them had fallen asleep. This was to be my first flight since alighting at the same airport way back in 1978 after a transatlantic flight from New York. After waiting for 15 years for another opportunity to take to the air, all I felt was frustration, along with a fear that later that day I could find myself turning the key in my own front door lock after being sent home by the airport and told to remain in contact. All this while I was thinking that all who knew me were imagining my flight already halfway towards Tel Aviv.

On the summit of Scafell Pike, 1992.

But I wasn't told to go back home. Instead, I was told to wait in the lounge. By enquiring further to a member of our flight staff, I was told that a tube carrying lubrication oil to one of the components had ruptured, and a new one is to replace it. It looked to be a simple repair job. But why a six-hour delay for what looks like a twenty-minute job? Her answer to that was that all spare parts were stored at Heathrow, and this had to be collected and brought back to Gatwick. Not to mention tons of paperwork. Such as my state of mind when feeling panicky. I need someone to talk to me. 

I slumped on an empty seat. Why couldn't I be like this group of Orthodox Jews? Some were fast asleep, the rest reading or looking relaxed as if their faith in God had covered all their anxieties and fears. This has set a thinking pattern. Why wasn't I like them? Am I that immature? Yet, I knew what I would have done if I saw someone really panicked or showed signs of distress. I would have approached to give him comfort and strength and to encourage him to relax, for all will be well in the end. We'll be on board our flight soon. This kind of encouragement or edifying, I partially learned whilst a Hospital Radio presenter in the early eighties. Having face-to-face contact with patients confined to their ward beds and showing some positivity worked wonders on their recovery, hence fulfilling the real purpose of hospital radio.

It was evening when we were at last called to the boarding gate. We should have taken off at lunchtime. But I felt relieved as I sat in the centre aisle of the plane. Yet the feeling of frustration began to build as the plane remained unmoved for apparent ages. Due to late boarding, the captain missed his take-off slot, and another had to be arranged. Hence the wait.

Only when the plane soared into the air that at last, the holiday proper had begun.

Stock Photo.

Four hours after take-off from London Gatwick, the bright street lights of Tel Aviv suddenly appeared from the pitch darkness that hung over the Eastern Mediterranean. The city was only a few hundred metres below us, indicating imminent landing at Ben Gurion Airport. It was night, and I wondered whether there was any suitable accommodation to spend the rest of the night before making my way to Jerusalem the following day. 

There was no problem, no cause for any delay when I passed through passport control and had an Israeli visa stamped inside. After collecting my rucksack, I made my way to the hotel booking desk at another part of the airport arrivals terminal. To my surprise, it was manned, and someone in front was assigned a room in a city hotel. Then it was my turn.

I asked him whether there were any hostels in Tel Aviv, and his reply was there were, and he can arrange a bed for me at an ILH hostel in Tel Aviv (equivalent to YHA). I jumped at the opportunity. In next to no time, a bed was reserved for me at a particular hostel, the name I told the taxi driver to take me there.

It was late into the night by the time I arrived and checked in. The hostel wasn't full, yet I was assigned a bed in one of the dormitories with all the other beds taken. I climbed into bed, feeling sorry that a small portion of the planned holiday was severed, but the rest was still ahead - all full two weeks of it.

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Next Week: On to Jerusalem.