Enjoyment, Disaster, Reminiscences

I would consider myself fortunate to have been born in the early 1950's. Yes, rather fortunate indeed. One of the Baby Boomers, that generation who had to endure a childhood growing up in a culture where "you are seen but not heard", educated at a Secondary Modern school, sometimes referred to as the "Academic Trash Bin" by the more snobby Grammar school pupils and maybe their staff as well. And those were the days when many a male teacher and staff member had a cane in his desk drawer, ready to be whacked across the palm of anyone singled out for misbehaviour - an offence even small enough as talking whilst walking through the corridor to get to the classroom from morning assembly.

Having failed the eleven-plus, my destination to get my hands dirty in a vocational, non-academic factory job was already predetermined even before my first day at secondary school. And their predetermination came to fruition in 1968 when I joined a local all-male family-owned furniture-making factory, where my very first task was to sweep the workshop floor. But I ought to be thankful for one small matter. That is, unlike most other school-leavers with me, I did not have to make tea for the entire workforce. However, on just one morning during that five-year stint, I was told to make the teas. Innocently enough, I poured almost a third of an entire Brooke Bond packet of tea leaves into this very large industrial aluminium teapot, much to the shock of the governors, who always made the other boys use no more than half a teaspoon, which is even less than I use to make a single cup at home. It was no surprise that I was not allowed near the kettle again, although I can honestly plead, hand-on-heart, that there was no malicious intent. Thank goodness for the later invention of tea-bags!

As I see it, these initial five years of my working life as a dogsbody has never been considered harmful, bur rather beneficial in the process of adolescence, that stage in life slotted in between childhood kindergarten and an adult adapting to the brutality of the real world. And if a constant stream of swear-words and the most low-level smut contributed towards this way of growing up, so be it. At least I never had to be under this modern-day "helicopter parenting" when even unsupervised playground activities are now considered "risky". Like the case I read in today's newspaper, in which the staff at one school in Surrey have petitioned for a century-old Sweet Chestnut tree located in the schoolyard to be cut down because, "during Autumn the fallen leaves can be rather slippery". Oh dear! Elf 'n' Safety off its rocker again.

As a result of this start to life, more than once I was looked upon as "brave" - just because I had, and still have - an itch for lone independent travel, which is something I have always enjoyed immensely. A dream indeed fulfilled. Yet, how could I ever forget, for example, when preparing to hike the Grand Canyon in 1995, the "dire warnings" I received from my well-educated and well-meaning church friends, all still unmarried, about rattlesnakes, coyotes, and other forms of wildlife which can pose a threat to my well-being whilst in the desert. I replied that if I was to think this way, I might as well stay at home, even feeling too timid to step out of the front door. At least throughout my childhood living, when Mum sent me out on my own to buy one or two items of grocery, I had never developed agoraphobia.

And independent travel opened my eyes to the this big, beautiful world outside the coastline of the UK. And this is not about package hotels on the Spanish Costa, but the need to bed-hunt as I travelled from one destination to the next, particularly throughout the 1970's. Back then I wasn't aware of hostels until 1985 - traditional youth hostels that is, as backpacker's hostels were of a later development. Instead, when it came to looking for a hotel, mine was always the case of "off the street" instead of pre-booking. That is, to walk into a hotel, approach the reception desk and ask whether there is a room available. I started this towards the end of my teenage years here in the UK, but from 1973 onward, I had no trouble with overseas off-the-street bed-hunting whilst travelling through Italy, Israel, Canada and the USA. Especially across North America in 1977 and 1978 when the first thing I did after stepping off the Greyhound bus was to look for a nearby hotel, walk in and ask if there was a vacant room. And in every case I was offered a room with no qualms. 

Also to note that I stayed clear of luxury five-star establishments. Instead, with such a limited budget for every trip, I always went for one to two-star, which is a basic bedroom with shared bathroom facilities. Back in the seventies, some of these hotels, such as in Salt Lake City, San Francisco, Vancouver, Winnipeg, and Los Angeles, the hotel I chose to stay in was within view of the Greyhound Bus terminal, therefore making bed-hunting so straightforward. Like the morning in 1978 when I exited the bus terminal in downtown Los Angeles to see the imposing Hotel Cecil directly across the street. (However, if you consult Google Earth for verification, you will see big changes having taken place over the years. For example, although Hotel Cecil in downtown LA is still there, opposite where the bus station once stood, the site is now a car park, the bus station having moved to East 7th Street, I believe, to save on site rental.) 

By the nineties I have gotten fully used to hosteling. With former traditional HI youth hostels metamorphosing into backpackers accommodation in order to remain in business, I had no trouble with off-the-street bed-hunting whilst in Israel, the USA, Singapore and Australia. Oh yes, there was just one occasion after stepping off the train at Katoomba Station in New South Wales. The hostel of my choice had turned me away with an apology and an explanation that all the beds were taken by a group of students who had just arrived for field work at the nearby Blue Mountains National Park. So I had to walk around town to find an unaffiliated private hostel, and sure enough, when one appeared, I was offered a bed upon entry.

   

All this reminiscence on hotels and hostels and how easy it was to get a room for the night or for several nights. And so was I in for one heck of a rude shock on Easter Monday! This what happened. A good friend, Andrew by name, a doctor and geneticist to boot, accompanied us for a day trip to London to visit the Natural History Museum in South Kensington. The train journey was uneventful, not suffering any problems or delays, and we arrived at the museum in good time. We had a fantastic afternoon there. I allowed Andrew to wheelchair Alex slowly through the galleries while I sauntered behind to study the exhibits on display.   

Marine Gallery, Natural History Museum, taken April 2, 2018

It was when we were on our way to Earls Court Underground station that Alex began to suffer back pain of great intensity, leaving me in a panic and Andrew bewildered. Right opposite the station entrance, Alex slipped out of her wheelchair and squirmed on the sidewalk, attracting some spectators. It was then that no other option but to call for an emergency ambulance.

I must have had a bad phone signal. Because the Ambulance Controller kept asking me to spell the name of the station we were at:

"Earls Court Station. E-A-R-L-S  C-O-U-R-T," I said.

"Can you repeat that?"

"E-A-R-L-S  C-O-U-R-T," I shouted above the din of traffic.

"I didn't quite get it. Can you spell it out again?"

"E!---A!---R!---L!---S!    C!---O!---U!---R!---T!"

"There may be up to two hours before the ambulance arrives. I'm so so sorry, but we're very busy."

!!!TWO HOURS???

"I'm very sorry."

However, one of the bystanders also phoned the Ambulance Control Centre soon after getting through myself. About fifteen minutes later, whilst helplessly watching my wife squirm in agony, and could only give her some useless reassurance and comfort, the welcoming wail of the ambulance siren could be heard through the din of traffic down the busy street. When the vehicle momentary appeared then disappeared behind a bus, I went to the middle of the street to wave the driver's attention.

It took a while for the crew to settle Alex in. With an oxygen mask and a good dose of morphine, Alex began to settle as the ambulance made the short journey to Chelsea & Westminster Hospital. There she was detained for several hours on a course of morphine and Diazepam. At the start of this period of time I dismissed Andrew from the hospital A&E ward, allowing him to return home by himself.

By 23.30 hours Alex, who was feeling a lot better except from a mild ache, was ready for discharge. All I had in mind is to find a hotel for the rest of the night before boarding the train homeward the next day. Reminiscing on the past, I felt assured that, being the end of the holiday weekend, there should be plenty of empty rooms awaiting occupancy. As I wheeled my wife out of the hospital into the dark deserted street, I felt under compulsion to turn back into the A&E Reception. Two staff members were behind the screen, a middle-aged Englishman and beside him, a younger Mediterranean or Asian-looking fellow. As I spoke to the older gentleman about whether there are any hotels nearby, he just shook his head without saying anything. But the younger fellow immediately left his seat and approached us, asking whether we have booked a hotel via the Internet.

"No I didn't, because I have no present access to the Internet. Surely there must be plenty of unoccupied rooms." I reasoned.

Then the young fellow explained: Not a single hotel in London would accept us without an Internet booking. Do I have a mobile phone or tablet? When I explained that my mobile isn't connected, he then offered to book a hotel room for us, using his own mobile phone. Or else we are left to wander the streets of London all night. After a couple of moments searching, the young man suggested a Travelodge about seven minutes away by taxi. When I accepted his suggestion, he made the booking for us via his tablet and I had to pay there and then. Then we waited for the arrival of the taxi, which he also booked, which then took us to the hotel.

Alex at A&E, shortly before discharge.

All this goes to show how stuck in the past I have always been. Believing in the easy and casual life I have always known, how was it ever possible that heightened security has made living without technology virtually impossible? It is a very sad situation - the need for Internet booking before arriving at a hotel in the middle of the night. Oh, how I long for the good old days of the seventies!

And how is my perception of God throughout all this? It is very tempting to think God loves some people much more than others! For example, it looks to all the world that most Christians I know personally are in good health, middle class, financially secure, are in good jobs, able to raise ideal families, and can have anything they want. Basking in God's love. As for us, although we were looking forward for a Eurostar trip to Marseilles on the south coast of France later this year, I have decided that because we live on a constant knife-edge, it's now considered way too risky to make the trip. The chance of Alex going down in severe pain whilst overseas would be catastrophic, believe me!

Why does the Lord allow all these things to happen? And why us? Why was it Alex, my beloved wife, who was squirming on the sidewalk outside the station, among a high city population of reasonably healthy individuals? There are more questions than answers. But this I determine: My faith and loyalty to God will never fail. I will always trust him and his wisdom. I am thankful that if Alex is destined to have a "downer" as I call it, then I am thankful that it occurred on the street next to a known landmark rather than on board a train where the pull of the emergency cord would have disrupted the entire line from Waterloo to Reading.

Or what, for that matter, had she gone down with severe pain whilst on board the Eurostar halfway between London St Pancras and Marseilles St Charles? Yes, what then? Indeed, the situation would have been much worse. True enough, the London incident was bad enough, but who knows, it might have just saved us from impending catastrophe with a five-digit hospital bill to follow.

The Wisdom of Sun Seekers...

One particular day in an English town of Gotham, a group of men were rejoicing when they erected a fence around a bush on which on one of its branches a cuckoo was perched.

"Now you can sing for us!" 

But the bird took off and flew away without a single note sung.

"Oh dear. We did not make the fence high enough."

The official who witnessed the incident rebuked them with the words:

"You fools! Don't you realise that the bird would fly away no matter how high the fence is?"

"Dear me! We never thought about that!"

The official walked further along, and eventually came to a brook where twelve men had spent the day fishing. As some were wading into the water, they decided upon a head-count to ensure nobody had drowned. But as one counted all the others, he did not count himself, and therefore numbered eleven only. The passing official asked if there was a problem. 

"Yes there is! Twelve of us came here this morning, but there are only eleven of us now. One of us must have drowned!"

Then the official instructed, "Do another head-count."

Each of the men counted the others except himself, and each time the number came up to eleven.

"What will you give me to find your missing brother?"

"An agreed sum of money."

The official snapped his whip across the shoulders of each man present whilst counting each one until the full twelve was reached.

"There is your missing brother."

Oh thank you sir! Thank you for finding our missing brother!"

The next day the official came across a trader who was on his way to the market, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with round blocks of cheese. One of the cheeses fell off the barrow and began to roll down the hill.

"Well I wonder! Why should I carry you all the way to the market if you can make your own way there?"

 The official then watched the man empty the barrow of the cheeses, and each one rolled down the hill, one at one direction, another at another direction until they were all out of sight, whilst others made their way towards the bushes where they came to rest. Feeling optimistic, he then declared to the official,

"These cheeses have certainly gone far. I guess they know where to find the market by themselves."

He then called out:

I'll see you all at the market!

But as he arrived at the market, he saw no sign of any of his merchandise. He spent the rest of the day there looking for his cheese blocks, strolling along the rows of stalls in the hope of meeting his stock, and even asking other stallholders whether they have seen any of his cheese come this way, but as far as the officials were aware, this fellow never saw his cheeses again.

So all the officials, who were scattered around the town, returned to King John, and told him everything they had seen and heard, for there were several other foolish acts which took place in Gotham which were witnessed by all of them. The king was indeed amused by it all.

Much fiction has been made about King John, son of King Henry II of England. King John reigned for seven years between April 1199 until his death in 1216. These stories were based on real history. One of his historic campaigns was to raise revenue to fund his efforts to reclaim the French province of Normandy after Philip II's invasion of the land in 1204. One way to raise such funds was through heavy taxation of his subjects. And that is where the above three stories of the men of Gotham fits in. King John, hated by many, was to pass through Gotham in order to reach Nottingham, a few miles to the north. By checking Google Maps, Gotham does exist in real life. It is a small town south of Nottingham, and a road from the south passes through on the way north to the city.

And so when the citizens of Gotham heard that their king was to pass through their town, they were immediately alarmed. Their fear that any financial security they had enjoyed was under threat of taxation, and therefore they cut down trees to lay across the road, forming an adequate barrier blocking the monarch's progress. Angry, he returned to London while his ambassadors remained in Gotham to both assess their tax potential and to have the blockade dismantled. And while such assessments were made, these officials came across such foolishness among the town's residents. They reported the matter to the king, who in turn laughed and promised not to disturb a town of fools.

Their ploy had worked. Rather than being foolish, instead they were at their height of wisdom. Their incomes remained safe from the heavy tax burden King John had levied on the rest of the nation.

Wind forward over eight hundred years and at present there seem to be another apparent act of foolishness which was reported nationwide through the media. That is in a story of a hotel by the Atlantic Ocean. Indeed, as I write, the first weekend of August - and in the midst of the holiday season - little wonder that I have heard of this time of the year being "the silly season". A story appeared in a national newspaper this week of how all the guests in a hotel all got up early each morning to reserve their sunbeds by the poolside by throwing their towels on them before filing into the restaurant for breakfast. Hotel Servatur Waikiki in Gran Canaria opens its doors for access of the pool precisely at 8.00 every morning. In readiness of this opening, a crowd of mainly British sun-seekers are waiting. As soon as the doors are open, it is a literal stampede to the better located sunbeds for reservation before breakfast. A towel is thrown on a chosen sunbed, and its owner returns to the hotel until later. A whole stampede - not of cattle - but of grown-up humans! 

They give a wise word of wisdom. First, if these sunbeds are left free until mid-morning, they would find them all taken by their rival German tourists. Secondly, because the UK have such drab Summers, there was a national medical report about a threat of low levels of Vitamin D, a vital health sustainer mainly sourced from sunshine. Although I have not come across any cases of rickets, nevertheless, to have a lack of Vitamin D is certainly not nice to health, and could even lead to cancer and cardiac problems, as well as weak bone structure and muscle pain. And so, blessed with such information, sun-seekers desperate for that much-need sunshine ensure that they get it, stampede notwithstanding! After all, two weeks of sunshine out of fifty-two weeks of the year of constantly miserable British weather is a must-have. And therefore I tend to wonder how many times such scenarios are repeated in sunshine spots, especially around the Mediterranean as well as at the Canary Islands.

The Hotel Servatur Waikiki has five hundred beds, according to the media, and there are only 150 sunbeds. Indeed for the need of a pre-breakfast stampede. What a contrast, for example, to the hotel where Alex and I spent our tenth wedding anniversary in the Greek island of Rhodes. I recall the first morning after our arrival when we decided to visit the poolside. We were the only two people there. The few sunbeds which were around the poolside were all vacant. Having the entire swimming pool to ourselves at eight in the morning was a dream-come-true - before mid-morning, which by then the area was crowded with British tourists. 

But then, that's not the point. Pardon me if I seem to lack wisdom here, but if sunbathing to boost Vitamin D is so crucial, then I cannot work out why such a need for a sunbed is so necessary if there is a beach so close by. And I wouldn't be at all surprised if there are more sunbeds awaiting hire - Wait! That's it! Sunbeds awaiting hire. That means paying extra for a day's use of the sunbed. That was how it was like in Greece. The entire beach lined with sunbeds which has to be paid for. We Brits don't like that. An all-inclusive holiday should mean exactly that - every facility already paid for. No surcharges. No extras. Yet we went to a Greek island three times: twice to Rhodes and once to Kos, and if I recall, we only used the beach sunbed twice - once in Rhodes at a resort of Lindos, some miles away from our hotel, and once at Kos. Generally, sunbeds are far from a necessity whilst away from home. A short walk along the beach and there is always a suitable spot somewhere to lay down the towel. And some of these spots are among rocks which adds a touch of drama to the scenery, as well as greater chance of avoiding sand lodging between our toes, which is often why I find sandy beaches irritating.

Then again, the idea of spending the whole day on a sunbed, whether at our hotel or at the beach, has never been my thing. Maybe once in a while, but certainly not every day. There are far more fulfilling ways to spend a vacation than just sunbathing. That is to check out the environment we found ourselves in. A bit of exploring, sightseeing - even if it means standing in a crowded bus or train. To walk through an archaeological site, to admire the tropical or Mediterranean flora making up a beautiful garden, to hike a trail passing through spectacular environment - whether its a waterfall cascading through a rain forest, admiring a mountain range, snorkelling over a coral reef, or hiking through a desert populated with cactus - or craning my neck inside a beautiful cathedral. And there is always room for fun - swimming in the sea or pool, a ride on a roller-coaster, enjoying some nightlife without the need for alcoholic intoxication. Such life-enriching activities to be enjoyed without the need to stampede for a hotel sunbed.  

Cairns, Australia 1997 - on a ferry to the Great Barrier Reef

And perhaps that was why before I married, package hotel holidays were anathema to me. Back in those days I would have shunned such hotels for the backpacker's hostel, a double bedroom for a dormitory bunk-bed, ranger-led tours for a map or guidebook, and a luxury coach for a hiking trail. From single-destination trips to go-as-you-please independent multiple-stop itineraries. Even after we married, trips abroad was far more to do with sightseeing than chasing a sunbed. To sum up: a fulfilling trip while still soaking in the sun. And an album of interesting, memory-enhancing photos.

And all this has made me ask: I wonder what Jesus Christ would have said or done had he found himself surrounded by a crowd of people about to stampede to the poolside, all in a rush to grab a sunbed? Interesting point. Coming to think of it, I wonder how he would have made out with the people of Gotham during the start of the Thirteenth Century? Would he had commended them for their shrewdness? Or exhorted them to pay their burdening taxes to an egocentric king? Or would he have made a comparison between the wisdom shown by these Thirteenth Century men of Gotham with the present horde of sun-seekers out to grab a sunbed?

I guess I already know what to do in this present-day situation. Stay in bed until it's time to file down for breakfast. Then shower and have breakfast before planning where to go for the day. As for the sunbeds, leave us out. Let them have them. They are welcome to them. While they stampede, we head off to the bus stop or railway station.

Vagabond!

Sitting at the cafeteria at Coral Reef Water World, close to my home, I was at a state of half-slumber after a gym workout and sauna session. Then I suddenly perked up, as if someone had tapped me on the back of the head.
In sauntered one off-duty staff member, who made his way to the buffet to queue up with the other customers for some refreshments.
This bodybuilder actually worked in the kitchen of the very buffet he was waiting at. In a few years he could have a superb, Truly-Ripped physique, if he steers his weight training gym workouts in the right direction alongside a proper, high protein diet.
My emotion started to rise. As I put out my hand to reach his, he took it, and I held it tightly. After a short conversation, all I could say was,
I've been to Santa Monica as well.
For instead of the characteristic blue uniform which distinguishes every Coral Reef staff from the public, he sauntered in wearing a black tee shirt with the lettering blazing across his chest:
SANTA MONICA.

Santa Monica

Why the emotion? Because seeing his tee shirt image brought back memories of this Californian resort which is actually a district of Los Angeles.
There were questions I would have wanted to ask this guy. Did he go as a backpacker? If so, did he stay at the superb H.I. Santa Monica Backpackers Hostel on 2nd Street, close to the famous pier? The same place where I stayed in 1995 and 1997? Did he stroll though 3rd Street Parade, a traffic-free avenue with bushes trimmed to look like Dinosaurs proudly showing off to the crowds? And did he wander through the excellent indoor shopping mall with a wide choice of attractive eateries? And did he stroll to the end of the pier to watch the sunset while the gulls encircle the air above, and then occasionally perch on one of the safety barrier posts, along with a pelican on another? How I would have loved to hear his stories.
But the more I got to know this fellow, the less convinced that he had ever set foot on the Californian coastline. As many of these working men, as opposed to gap-year students, he would have much preferred to fly out for a break in such places as Iberia with a group of mates to what really amount to a glorified boozing session. And the tee-shirt? Either somebody else brought it back as a present, or it was bought at a fashion boutique in the West End or even at a nearby town of Reading.
And that's what seem to be the experience I have seen of Britons traveling overseas. In groups. And booze, plenty of it. I'm not talking about escorted tours here. Rather, I'm referring to an informal group of mates flying out to have a good time. In a group, each feels safe in the company of others. Whether someone falls ill, or drank too much and is sick on the sidewalk, or has picked up a bug from the hotel pool, or suffered a bout of diarrhea, or for that matter had his wallet or bank cards pick-pocketed, in a group there is that assuring feeling that with such support, a crisis overseas is minimal and one can ride it much better in company.
It is very different to what I call travel.
When I say travel, I mean TRAVEL!
One term I came across while browsing an American website, was the word vagabond. It simply means to travel aimlessly, without too much planning, or even no planning at all. It describes a lone backpacker. A lone backpacker is vulnerable to anything that goes amiss. There is no support from others. Just a piece of paper called an insurance policy making him believe that he has peace of mind.
If you click on this page, December 2010, one of my articles, on being single, describes some of my experiences as a "vagabond", along with a later article, Jerusalem which detail some extraordinary experiences as a lone backpacker in the Middle East.
But this sort of travel does carry risks which are not felt so badly by those who travel in a group, whether escorted or informal. These are my experiences:
1976 - Catching a bug while in Israel. I was down with a fever for three days in bed at a home of an Arab family who offered hospitality.
1981 - Having all my travelers cheques pick-pocketed while standing in a packed train on route to Florence from Pisa. When I arrived at Florence, I came across this pensione, a hotel with shared, dormitory-style bedrooms. There was a bed available and I took it. Later that day I noticed all my money gone, and it could not have happened on the worse moment, Friday evening, after all the banks closed for the weekend. So instead of "living it up" in this artistic city, I spent more than an hour feeling very foolish at a police waiting room to register the loss, a necessity before I would be eligible for a refund from the bank.

Florence, Italy

When I told the hotel proprietor of my plight, she was kind enough to give me a panettino for prima colazione, at a hotel which don't normally serve breakfast to its guests, and she gave me a few lire to buy something to eat during the day. Such was a weekend which I had absolutely nothing to live on until the Monday, when I had the bank refund, after which together with the hotel tariff, I had to pay for the bread and repay the loan. Was I pleased to board the train for Viareggio, a random stop on the west coast of Italy.
1995 - I would think that booking a hostel in New York City would have been easy-peasy. After all, it was September, the kids were back at school, the students had returned home. So after being told over the phone that there were no places left, after arriving in New York, I went from one hostel to another, until I came across this seedy hotel on 8th Avenue and West 52nd Street. I had already knew of this hotel, I had spent a night there soon after landing at J.F.K. Airport that evening in 1978, after a good search around.
As before, I looked out across the avenue at a deli, closed for the night, as I was unable to sleep at one in the morning. Outside, a group of young Afro-Caribbeans were having a brawl, their loud voices carried through the street. In my room, the floor was populated with cockroaches scurrying across and under the bed.
Yet I was happy. Another adventure as a vagabond was about to begin, including sleeping at the Huckleberry Hostel in the suburb of St Louis, Missouri, where there were dead 'roaches in the food pigeonholes and a live mouse scurrying across the kitchen. And yet I made friends with someone who gave me a spare Greyhound map of the USA.
It was that same hostel which had toilet cubicles fronted by those Old West Saloon double swing doors. So the embarrassment I felt answering a call of nature and risking having other people looking straight in!!! Door-less loo cubicles I also came across in the San Diego area. Maybe the discomfort I felt in using them shows that I'm very British after all.
And the year 2000. That's when Alex, my wife and I decided to celebrate our first wedding anniversary by doing perhaps the last backpacking holiday in Israel. She was 18 weeks pregnant with our first daughter Rosina when we touched down at Lod Airport. Two days later, we began to make a bus journey from Tiberias to Haifa, then on to our hotel in Ishfya, some miles away on top of the Mt Carmel ridge, which separated the port of Haifa from the Mediterranean coastline.

My wife at Eilat, Israel

What I didn't realise as we arrived at the bus depot in Haifa was that the Rosh HaShannah or the Jewish New Year was about to start, and with just about the whole of Israel shutting down, the city was like a ghost town. The only form of transport still running were taxis.
As if to echo Florence of 1981, we were absolutely penny-less. But this time not as a victim of a pickpocket, but from my own lack of foresight to visit a bank while we still had the chance. Stuck with a wedge of useless travel cheques, Alex and I made our way across the city, and began the long ascent up the stairs passing through narrow alleyways as we slowly made it to the summit of Mount Carmel, allowing us a terrific view of the coastline below us. But with heavy rucksacks and an unborn child to boot, we made our way along the road which was meant to take us to Ishfya, eventually.
When we realised we still had a long way to go, we sat on a roadside bench, my face in my hands, in despair. Not so much for myself, since I had spent many nights away from home under the stars. But I was concerned for my wife and her condition.
Soon a taxi pulled up in front of us and the driver leaned out and asked in English where we want to go.
"To Stella Carmel in Ishfya! But we have no money on us whatsoever!"
"Get in!" The driver ordered as he got out to open the trunk to accommodate our luggage.
Inside the car, the driver actually gave us ten shekels! He then explained that he pastored a church nearby, and could not pass by two stranded travelers without lending a hand.
Backpacking. There is something about it which no group travel can match.
There are highlights in the experience, like from the bottom of the Grand Canyon in Arizona, after a day's hiking, looking up at the magnificent display of stars in the clear night sky, seeing thousands of stars I was never able to see from above the UK! Or likewise in Australia, looking up at the Southern Cross, directly overhead. And snorkeling above the corals of the Great Barrier Reef. But the most astonishing moment was in 1997, when the Greyhound bus I was on took a service stop between Townsville and Cannonvale, on the East Australian Pacific Highway linking Cairns with Brisbane and Sydney. As I sat alone at a table at the cafeteria, another bus pulled in for the same reason, and its passengers lined up at the buffet counter. Presently, while meditating, a voice calls out:
"FRANK!"
I looked up. I was alone, over 10,000 miles from home. Nobody knew me here. As such, I did not recognise the stranger standing right next to me.
"Yes, I'm Frank, but who are you?"
"You don't remember? I gave you the spare map of the USA in St Louise two years ago. Remember? That dingy hostel?
Yes, I remember that well. Backpacking - or Vagabond. With all its high points, it is an unforgettable experience.
But it's coping with the low points which turns travel into a real, true-to-life adventure.
Oh well, I guess it's off to the boozer...