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.

Travel Series: Importance of Travel

During the late nineties, and not long before I met and married my beloved, whenever I visited my parents for Sunday lunch, I was frequently asked:

If you had a chance, where would you prefer to live, Australia or California? 

To which I would reply, I'm not sure. Each is different.

Indeed they are. I guess such talk had much to do with the longest non-stop flight I had ever taken: The cross-Pacific route from Sydney to Los Angeles, which made it into the Guinness Book of Records for being the world's longest continuous commercial flight. Thirteen hours in the sky altogether, taking off from Sydney at 17.30 hours and landing in LA at 13.30 hours on the same day. There is something unique about crossing the International Date Line which has made me wonder about the imaginations those early marine navigators might have had.

The Sydney-Los Angeles flight is no longer featured in The Guinness Book of Records. That had been replaced with the New York-Johannesburg flight, and I believe the London-Sydney or even to Aukland will hold the honour in the future - if it doesn't already.

My life's shortest flight was back-to-back with my longest. It was a thirty-minute hop from Los Angeles to San Diego, which I was willing to pay extra by using the LAX airport as the interchange, rather than making a long and tiring journey across the city to the Greyhound Bus terminal on East 7th Street. At least, when arriving at this semi-tropical city, there was no Passport Control, and I found myself out on the street on a hot day after collecting my rucksack from the tiny luggage carousel.

But to answer my parent's question, Australia or California? After experiencing recent health problems between my wife and myself, the answer to that would be more obvious: Australia, as I have heard stories of British tourists in the past having to sell their homes to pay for healthcare in the USA, after failing to take up a Health Insurance policy for foreign visitors.

In addition, off the coast of Queensland lies the Great Barrier Reef, which is a marine biologist's paradise. But this part of the world, especially around the Cairns area, is subject to Summer monsoons whilst southern California enjoys a balmier year-round climate. Although just off the coast of La Jolla, just north of San Diego, there is a small diving area. However, it's the enormous Great Barrier Reef which is one of the Wonders of the natural world, and such remains unbeatable. However, North America needn't feel missed out. It boasts at least two Natural Wonders: Niagara Falls and Salt Lake, both I visited in 1977, and the Grand Canyon, visited in 1978 and 1995 respectively.

And yes, health. I learned that there is an Australian version of the NHS, although without health insurance, as a foreign visitor, had anything happened, I would have had to pay for care, due to not being a citizen. The same applies here in the UK for all foreign tourists. Hence, whenever I leave the UK, I was always covered.

Here I will ask: When and how did it all begin? As a boy, I was sent out by Mum on my own on shopping errands. A good opportunity to learn about buying and selling from a young age and to realise, according to her, that nothing in this world is free. But such trips aroused curiosity when it comes to checking out certain places, and I was still 9-10 years old when I was able to find my own way from Pimlico to South Kensington on foot, while I was fully intrigued by the dinosaur remains displayed at the Natural History Museum.

Those were the days of innocence. There was nothing amiss about a boy walking along the street alone. I knew the Highway Code well enough. Despite a much thinner traffic density on the roads, I was aware of the dangers and my parents realised this. As for paedophile, a source of concern for many parents at present, this actual word did not exist back in the early 1960s, nevertheless, Mum always warned me before each trip not to talk to strangers. And that was all.

Dad owned a Collins World Atlas, which was far more in my hands than his. Each country was shown in a different colour from the others, with the emphasis on the British Empire, since these colonies always appeared in red. This colour-coding helped me learn which country was part of the Empire and which weren't. Furthermore, the headmaster of our primary school had a daughter (or a niece) who was sailing around the world. He gave our class a lecture on her experience. This was followed by dishing out a world map in three separate sheets, and our task was to tape these sheets together in the right order. Although very simple, apparently, I was the only one who got it right, thanks to Dad's atlas, and I was commended by the headmaster.

Furthermore, he put my work up on display in the school hall, to be seen by everyone. My interest in Travel became established from that point on. This climaxed in the Round the World trip, completed in 1997, some 35 years after showing the completed map to the headmaster.*

As I sat as a sole occupant of a row of four seats inside a sealed bottle suspended some 39,000 feet 11,900 metres in the air by a pair of wings, I thought about how fortunate I was, as the plane was on a firm course to Singapore from London. There are, I believe, reasons why I was on board that airline in the first place, one or two, psychological. True, I wanted to see the world while I had the opportunity. But this particular trip had its beginnings from a talk I had with an Australian bricklayer in our shared dormitory while I was staying at a backpacker's hostel in downtown San Diego two years earlier in 1995. After sharing with me some details about his home country, I've developed a keenness to visit this island continent for myself.

The timing couldn't be more perfect. Around 1995, a deal was made between British Airways and Qantas Airways to help repatriate Aussies living in the UK back to their homeland. However, this also provided a golden opportunity for us British nationals to fly halfway around the world for a very cheap price - in the hundreds of pounds rather than the usual thousands.

Night view of Merlion, Singapore, taken 1997.

Another psychological reason was that while most of my generation were married with children, I was still single, and that had endured into my late forties. Furthermore, church life was centred mainly on the family, and "men's meetings" usually delivered talks about the ins and outs of marriage and the family, and there was also a "singles group" which, oddly enough, was categorised as separate from the "adults." So, grown-up single people aren't adults? Not so edifying, especially from back in the Spring of 1972, then aged 19, my girlfriend terminated our year-long relationship. I had no other female companion until I met my present wife towards the end of 1998. Such a long time as an adult singleton - over 26 years - provided opportunities to partake in many interesting activities, including travel.

What a shock I once received when, not that long after leaving school, I saw an ex-classmate with his wife and pushing a pram - while I was still living with my parents. Indeed, the early seventies was an era when it was apparent that the average age for marriage was barely out of the teens, and being "left on the shelf" is the fertile ground for developing an inferiority complex, a feeling of personal failure. Especially if I didn't do that well at school, and others around me have graduated, paired up, and married. Travel provides a wonderful antidote to low self-esteem.

During my time as a single member of a church fellowship, Christians who were slightly younger than me, but had graduated, landed good jobs and found wives, had that tendency to patronise whenever in conversation. This might have been exacerbated by the awareness of my vocal accent which gives the impression of low intelligence, even if a psychologist who analysed my IQ in 2005 had given me an above-average rating.

I have found that travel has given a boost to my self-esteem, which was further heightened by our marriage. However, it seems that the purpose of the soul is to find complete fulfilment in loving someone else, fulfilling their lives and making them feel loved, worthy and happy. At the same time, knowing that you are loved, respected and thought worthy by your nearest and dearest is, I think, the strongest antidote for low self-esteem.

But I didn't marry until I was 47 years old. In the meantime, I found travel to be a morale booster and an antidote against the feeling and awareness of low self-esteem. Travel comes in all kinds, and some are suited to one type more than others. For example, I have found that young, middle-class Christians are drawn towards group travel, such as Oak Hall, a Christian travel agency dealing with escorted tours overseas. Much to my surprise, over the years, I have found that Oak Hall to be very popular among graduate Christian singles, and it's still popular now. This gives me the impression that Christians shun independent backpacking as if such activity is associated with the hippy movement.

Far from it. Backpacking carries responsibilities, including careful budgeting and avoiding unnecessary expense. For example, avoid eating at a posh restaurant and staying at a 5-star hotel, where a hostel with shared dormitories and equipped with a member's kitchen will work wonders on the budget. Like this, I was able to add an extra two weeks on the 1997 Round-the-World trip, extending it from the original eight weeks to ten weeks, when I saw that my funds were being spent more slowly than originally calculated. Even afterwards, I returned home with some change.

Also, something is exhilarating in find a hotel or hostel under your own steam and asking for a room or bed after arriving at a new destination. And then deciding how long you want to stay at that location without anyone telling you that time is up and we all need to move on, usually on a rigid and inflexible schedule.

Also with people, fellow backpackers. Like the time I was in the small member's kitchen at a Singapore hostel. A tall, muscular Dutchman and I got talking, sharing our travel experiences. He flew out to Singapore for a few days, and he was due to fly back home. I told him of my plans to fly onward to Australia in a few days after arriving from London. The next morning he acted with a degree of hostility and ordered me to look after an item of his while he was in the bathroom. Feeling rebutted, I just walked out of the room, onto the street. Who was he to order me about? Oh well, that's travel.

Esplanade at Port Douglas, Queensland, 1997.

Or after arriving at Arlie Beach Backpacker's in Queensland, the setting off point for the Whitsunday Islands. A staff member and I played table tennis one warm evening. He won. I lost. Then he tells me that this was the first game he ever played. Yes, I was gutted! Or the time when, at Coffs Harbour Hostel in New South Wales, I was thrashed at the pool table by an aggressive young female who seems to take delight in humiliating men. Lesson to learn: stay away from competitive sports! Or the one evening at Byron Bay Hostel, also in NSW. Here, I was sitting on the sofa of the lounge and I got talking to this young lady sitting next to me. Then this chap arrives, and sitting on the other side of her from me, he began to dominate the conversation with every effort to shut me out. He succeeded. I just walked off and made my way to the beach to gaze at the southern starry sky, leaving those two to it.

I guess that's what travel is all about - an adventure. But to have mountains, you also need valleys. Downers as well as uppers. But in all, it's all a great, self esteem-enhancing experience.

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*For greater detail of this fascinating experience, click here.

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...