Travel Biography - Week 49.

A Day in Tel Aviv.

Having arrived in Tel Aviv into the night, I was glad to lay my head on a bed in a hostel dormitory. I had mixed feelings - one of sorrow that six hours of the holiday were severed due to a delay in the outgoing flight from London Gatwick to Tel Aviv Ben Gurion, and the other the anticipation of what's to come in the next two weeks. And that includes a visit to Silwan, east of Jerusalem, to see whether the Spihu family from 1976 was still around.

After wakening up, showered and dressed, I made my way to the dining room, where I enjoyed a Hebrew breakfast, consisting of some cheese, olives, flatbread, and yoghurt. Interestingly enough, coffee with milk wasn't Kosher, therefore, I had to drink it black. The hostel was affiliated with ILH or Israel Hostels, their equivalent of our Youth Hostels Association, or YHA. However, like on the European Continent, there was no duty.

A comparison - inside Hezekiah's Tunnel, 1976.

Exiting the Tunnel in 1993.

After checking out, I spent some time in Tel Aviv before boarding a bus to Jerusalem.  The weather was warm, and the sun shone. I had my rucksack hanging from my shoulders. This was different from the 1976 visit to Israel when I had a suitcase. It was during the 1980s that I was given an old Army rucksack by one of Tim's housemates. It served well for the years to come. I recall the last full day here in 1976. I spent that day on the beach. However, this time around, I was more interested in staying dry and checking out the city.

As I walked along through a quiet street, I saw ahead an Orthodox Jew struggling to lift a shopping trolley onto the kerb, after crossing the road with it. I approached him, and together, we lifted the trolley onto the sidewalk. He thanked me heartily, and I made off feeling exuberant. Somehow, I feel blessed just to be here in Israel and lending a hand to an Orthodox Jew in distress.

As I walked on, I came across a busy street market which was crowded with people. However, amid the crowd, there was a loud and threatening verbal disagreement between two middle-aged men, and their shouting at each other carried through the rows of stalls. No one else seemed to have been distracted, as if such disputes were pretty common here, a normal everyday occurrence. The altercation finally ended when the two men parted in opposite directions, with one still shouting at the other whilst the distance between the two increased. Indeed, it hardly took any time at all to realise that I was in a foreign country. I am yet to hear of such altercations in a typical English High Street during shopping hours!

On to Jerusalem.

My heart was in Jerusalem, Israel's capital since 1949. So, after a few hours spent in Tel Aviv, I boarded an Egged Bus to Jerusalem Bus Station from the terminal in Tel Aviv. As I sat by the window, I could see what appears to be the early stage of a railway construction project linking Jerusalem to Tel Aviv. After travelling across what the Bible called the Plains of Sharon, we started to ascend a series of hills, on which Jerusalem is built.

The bus Station was located on Jaffa Road. Back in 1993, the street was a normal traffic thoroughfare, but at present, according to Google Maps, the road is now closed to traffic and laid with tram tracks heading towards the Old City. I passed the Ron Hotel (now a hostel) where I spent the first night in Israel in 1976. I looked around. My first task after arriving in Jerusalem New Town was to look for a budget hotel. I then noticed what could be a suitable place to stay as I headed towards the Old City. I made a mental note of the hotel.

At last, I saw the wall of the Old City ahead with the Jaffa Gate in view. I crossed the main road to reach it and walked through. Almost immediately, I have noted some changes over the past 17 years. One of these changes was the modernisation of the souks, the narrow streets with many sections roofed over. They no longer had a central gutter where donkey's excrement was regularly flushed into. Instead, the outline of the central gutter could be seen within the new paving. Where donkeys once pulled truckloads of merchandise to the shops lining the souk, by 1993, narrow tractors, built specifically for the souks, pull the carts along, and the engine noise and pollution from these vehicles had spoiled, if not destroyed, the Middle Eastern spirit of the past centuries, including the 1970s.

Added to this was the change of music that was played out from the radio sets that appeared here and there. Gone was the traditional Arab singing that reverberated through those ancient streets and was still listened to as recently as 1976. Instead, by 1993, a Western-style beat vibrated the air within the souks.

One other feature that had changed was the monetary currency. In 1976, the currency was the Israel Pound, a throwback from the days when Palestine (as it was known then) was under the British Mandate. When the British withdrew their mandate on May 14th, 1948, thus giving rise to the birth of the sovereign State of Israel, the Pound was retained until February 24, 1980. From that day onwards, the Shekel became the permanent currency of Israel.

ILH Hostel, Tel Aviv.

Entrance to the New Swedish, Jerusalem.

New Swedish Interior. My bed is with a blue towel.

All this goes to show how wonderfully fortunate to have visited the Holy Land in 1976, and then to return 17 years later to see such changes. It was as if I was divinely sent there to absorb the ins and outs of the Holy Land, to learn of its changing culture and to see for myself the truth in the historicity of the Bible, in which Jerusalem, as a city, dominates.

However, some religious and cultural heritages remained. Such were the Islamic calls to prayer sounding from the minarets of mosques in and around the city. Not only do these calls sound through the city souks, but also echo through the Kidron Valley south of the city. One other custom was that a lone backpacker remain the ideal target of Arabic salesmen who persuades the visitor to be escorted around the historic sites for a fee. Since 1976, I have learnt to resist their advance without being rude. As one middle-aged gentleman protested, I have a wife and family to support. We too must eat. Feeling helpless, all I can do was hope all will be well with him. Not that he looked hungry. Rather, he appeared to be well-fed, clothed, and housed.

However, from one shop selling trinkets, including photographic film, the owner emerged and asked if I was looking for a hotel. When I said yes I was, he pointed down the souk and recommended the New Swedish Hostel, just a little further down the street and well within the Old City walls. I arrived at an insignificant doorway between the shops. Over it read New Swedish Hostel.

I entered, and I was faced with a flight of stairs leading up to reception. I was met by a young Arab who replied that a bed in one of the dormitories was available and there was no limit on how long I can stay. Indeed, this was one of many privately-owned hostels that weren't affiliated with any association, one of several I would come across in the years to come. I paid in advance for the entire two weeks, allowing me to check out on the morning of the day I take off for home. It was after I claimed my bed that I began to feel great again.

The dormitory was medieval built with a domed ceiling, giving the place an authentic historic look and a feeling of stepping back into history. Just two or three doors away there was a currency exchange centre. With a book of US Dollar Traveller's Cheques, I made frequent calls to the exchange throughout the holiday. As with other hostels I stayed in, this too had a guest kitchen which doubles up as a lounge. Opposite was the bathroom containing two shower cubicles and other conveniences. Also very convenient was a minimarket close to the exchange. It was here that I did my daily shopping for both breakfast and evening meals, and like all other times, I managed to store my groceries in a locker assigned to me for the whole stay.

Being such a small, compact hostel, there was only one cooking stove, therefore there were times when I had to wait my turn to use the stove. But once I got going, these times, when I cooked and ate my own meals, were also the times for social interactions with other backpackers from around the world, especially South Africa.

Experience has shown that these establishments were shunned by committed Christians. And that was a shame, as this was the right kind of environment to share different points of view, including why we were here in the Holy Land in the first place, and what we were doing here. Also, oddly enough, I can't seem to recall seeing any American backpackers there, either. There were some Europeans, including the Irish, Dutch, Scandinavian, and Austrian. And also from South Africa, and if I remember rightly, a couple of Brazilians too. But none of them confessed to being regular churchgoers. And I feel that through their absence, Christians in general were missing out. At least with me anyway, as an independent rather than part of a tour group, all I had to do was to listen carefully and I felt the land as if talking back to me. And it had a lot to teach me!

A busy Souk.

The same Souk at night - Creepy!

Back to Hezekiah's Tunnel after 17 years. 

One afternoon, I took a stroll to the Kidron Valley. I spoke to a group of young Arab men who were gathered near Gihon Spring and the entrance of Hezekiah's Tunnel. I asked whether they had known the Spihu family who lived around here, then explained that they were hospitable to me some years ago. Yes, one or two of them used to know the family. Abed was still around, selling street trinkets, but his younger brother, Ghanem, studied medicine before migrating to New York. Apparently, the parents had passed away, although this was not confirmed.*

They asked if was interested in a wade through the Tunnel. Despite already having waded through - in both directions - in 1976, I was given a lighted candle and allowed to walk in, straight from the street, as I did before. At that time the Tunnel was free to enter without any fees, but I had to pay for the candle. Now, at present, one has to buy a ticket for admission to the City of David Archaeological Site and Museum which include a walk through the Tunnel. Also, at present, the original Pool of Siloam is in the process of excavation and is earmarked to be refilled with water once the excavation is complete. Indeed, the tourist of tomorrow will visit a far more Biblically authentic site than I could have ever done in the past.

Back in 1993, I approached Gihon Spring and descended the ancient stone steps leading into the conduit. In 1976, the water flowing through was ankle-deep. This time, it reached just above my waist. As I walked in, a drought threatened to blow out the candle. I was wondering whether the air current was blowing through the entire length of the watercourse. Had the candle gone out whilst midway through, I would be stuck in absolute pitch darkness half-submerged in water and surrounded by solid rock in a very claustrophobic environment.

So I turned back to the lads at the Spring and explained the situation. One of them offered to accompany me, also with a lighted candle. I accepted his offer.

With me leading, we both went in. Further in, the drought suddenly stopped. Then I realised that I had passed the junction with Warren's Shaft, a well dug by the Canaanites hundreds of years before King Hezekiah's day, and the shaft used by King David's army to enter the fortified city of Salem, then defended by the Jebusites.

As we wade further in, the ceiling got lower until my chin wasn't far above the surface. My companion started to panic (to my surprise) and I had to reassure him. The two candles were carefully kept above the water during this section, and my head was turned to an angle in the tight space between the water and the solid rock ceiling.

Eventually, the ceiling rose to a far more comfortable height and stayed that way until the exit at the Pool of Siloam. However, just before the exit and in clear view of the daylight, the floor sunk, creating a sump. It was here that I swam out, fully clothed, with jubilance, knowing that it would not take long for the warm Middle East sunshine to dry me out.

After some photos, I made my way, dripping wet, back to the hostel in the Old City.

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*To read about my 1976 experience in Israel, go back to Weeks 5-8 of this Biography.

Next Week: First-hand experience of Jewish life and why the Dome of the Rock is a necessity.