This wasn’t exactly how I expected the day to start. Not that I was complaining, it all just seemed somewhat surreal.

 We were on our way to Masada, legendary Herodian fortress on the edge of the Dead Sea. A day trip from Jerusalem. I’d asked our tour guide to try and find someone else to come along and share the costs. He had succeeded in finding a fourth person, a elderly American complete with kippah on his head and tzitzis (prayer tassels) hanging from his waist. Let’s call him Manny.

 Manny professed his devoutness by requesting a diversion to an extraordinary place set deep in the Judean Hills. Well actually, the address was Jerusalem, and we hadn’t travelled far from the city, but to all intents and purposes it was a few old shacks in the middle of a sandy, deserted nowhereland.

 

Incredibly I’d heard of the bizarre goings-on at this place. Don’t ask me how. Must have been a documentary on television some eons ago. At any rate actually coming face-to-face with it was like some sort of weird dream. Let me explain. It’s all to do with something mentioned in the Hebrew Bible and Talmudic writings of the ancients: some sort of royal blue colour favoured by the aristocracy and high priesthood and any well-heeled devotee who could afford to have a blue tassel woven into his tzitzis. The writings referred to this blue as ‘techeiles’.  It was known to have been manufactured from some sort of sea creature called a chilazon, described as a snail. However, the exact source of the dye was lost when the Jews were driven out of Israel in the first century CE. The significance of it, however, stayed fresh across the centuries. Even the blue of the Israeli flag is said to symbolise it.

Why a whole battery of twentieth century scientists and professors should decide to devote their careers to rediscovering this ‘techeiles’ defies the imagination. It’s one of those peculiar foibles of the human mind. The only thing I can say in defence of such a pursuit, is that any intellectual enquiry or research may throw up something useful – in this case possibly more useful than simply a formula for a religiously-motivated colour. Whether it has or not I don’t know, but our visit to the huts in the desert was certainly fascinating. First we watched a film (bizarre – watching a film in a scruffy little room on a tatty screen in a dusty shack). It showed how scientists had traced the source of the blue dye to a sea snail Murex trunculus. It extolled the virtues of the dye, which comes from  gland in the snail and, unlike vegetable dyes, does not, apparently, fade. However, unless it is exposed to the sun’s heat it remains purple. This discovery was, apparently, of great significance. Pat and I winced as the film showed a poor snail being bashed by a hammer. Give me woad any time.

We inspected the snails in their aquaria (very uninspiring creatures – looked like rocks) and watched the young assistant winding the techeiles tassels into Manny’s tzitzis.

It was certainly a most odd and oddly-entertaining start to the day. You can read more about it here www.tekhelet.com

 

 We wound down to sea level (marked by a stone plaque and a tourist-targeting camel)

 Next stop, after a spectacular drive winding through the Judean Hills, was a viewpoint from which we could only gasp at the sight of St George’s Monastery clinging to the cliffside of Wadi Qelt. The earliest parts dating from 6^th century but mainly reconstructed in 1901, it is home to Greek Orthodox monks. A new road apparently makes access to it easier, but has caused contention as it was built by the Israelis across the West Bank. The monks are philosophical - to quote journalist Matt Beynon Rees: The people who travel the new road are more important than the authority that built it. If only the politicians could adopt this view…

We descended to 423 meters below sea level to reach the Dead Sea. Not dead yet, but if the countries of the region keep diverting Jordan River water from it, it will inevitably disappear. Alarming sink holes are appearing and plans to replenish it with desalinated Red Sea water seem spurious to say the least. Near the oasis of Ein Gedi (where I bathed almost 50 years ago) we left the West Bank and rejoined Israel.

The scenery here is spectacular, layer upon layer of sandy slopes that look as nothing could live in them. But these are not true desert and I spotted a couple of ibex confirming that there is, indeed, life in them there hills.

Soon we reached the phenomenal hill-fortress of Masada built around 30 BCE by Herod the Great. In the year 70 CE a group of Jewish zealots fled to the fortress from Jerusalem after the destruction of the Second Temple. What happened next is steeped in myth, since the only account is from one Josephus, a Jewish soldier  in the Roman army. He appears to have been a dubious character with his own agenda, so his account must be taken with a dose of  scepticism. According to Josephus, when the Roman Army laid siege to Masada and finally broke into the fortress in 73 CE by means of a massive ramp and a battering ram, all they found, as the consequence of a suicide pact,  were the corpses of the 960 men, women and children who had taken refuge there.  There is, however, no archaeological evidence for this at present.

 

Whatever the truth may be, Masada is an evocative and stunning place, and until the capture of the old city of Jerusalem, acted as a kind of symbol for the State of Israel. We took the cable car to the top and wandered around the ruins, accompanied by a strong wind and flocks of Tristram’s Grackles, a kind of starling with flashy chestnut wings.

 

Back down at base camp I was somewhat bemused to discover a McDonalds. Is nothing sacred? Even more bemused to discover Manny heading towards us tucking into a beefburger. They told me it was kosher, he muttered evasively. Yeah, pull the other one…

We spent an idyllic afternoon lounging in a pool built over a hot sulphuric spring, laden with ‘healing’ minerals. It was certainly hot and it felt divine. Could have stayed there all evening, but our guide had other plans. ‘How do you fancy dinner in Jericho?’ he asked.

Now Jericho would not have been the first place to enter my head as a venue for a leisurely evening’s sojourn. It lies in the totally Palestinian-administered Area A of the West Bank and has attracted violence and political unrest during the years following the Second Intifada (Palestinian Uprising) after 2001. However, not wanting to appear chicken, we found ourselves greeting the suggestion with a great deal more enthusiasm than deep-down, I at least, felt.

A last look at the setting sun’s glow on the Jordanian hills across the water and we headed off, skirting the cliffs of Qumran, where the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered in the mid-twentieth century.

 

By the time we reached Jericho it was dark. We parked on the town square, which was crowded with vehicles and shoppers. As we walked to the restaurant on the corner, we were practically dragged into yet another bakery by the delighted owner, keen to show off his pitta-making prowess to rare visitors from the west.

 

The restaurant owner greeted our guide with copious hugs. We trooped upstairs and out onto the balcony overlooking the square.

Here we were treated to another feast of Arabian delights – wonderful mezzes, piles of pitta and meat or fish. There were only two fish left but since I don’t eat lamb, I managed to lay claim to one of them. Manny opted for the lamb, though he could have had the other fish. It’s halal, he muttered unconvincingly. Hm. Is that the same as kosher? Probably yes to us ordinary folk but methinks Manny’s rabbi would disagree. Manny’s eating habits somehow didn’t sit well with his quest for techeiles. But each to his own…

 

Afterwards we walked around the pretty square and I was once more dragged into a shop – this time a greengrocer, who practically strong-armed me into buying half a kilo of dates. They didn’t look a patch on the succulent ones I’d seen on Carmel Market in Tel Aviv, but they tasted good.

We drove back to Jerusalem with no problems, just waved through the border by an Israeli guard.  It had, to put it mildly,  been a day to remember.

Tel Aviv:

It was something of an eye-opener to find out that Jerusalem has 763,800 inhabitants but Tel Aviv only has 404,400. Jerusalem, for all its charisma, seemed to me to be so much more provincial that sexy, vibrant Tel Aviv with its designer shops, designer houses and designer eateries and sleeperies. One of the smartest streets is the broad Boulevard Rothschild, lined with Bauhaus buildings and restaurants, and with a central, tree-lined walkway. We  got to know it well, as we were staying nearby.  Here and there we encountered small groups of black African men, leaning against railings, drawing on a fag, simply standing around. These were, apparently, refugees from Dafur in Sudan. They’d come via Egypt, crossing the border illegally into Israel, just as other refugees cross from France into the UK.  Like Britain, Israel is regarded as the promised land for these desperate people. Here’s what Naomi Scheinerman has to say in the Jewish Virtual Library.

The Hotline for Migrant Workers says 17,000 African refugees have entered Israel via the Egyptian border since 2006, including 5,000 Sudanese migrants, 3,000 of whom were Christians who settled in Israel. Currently about 1,200 Darfuris live in Israel with about 500 in Tel Aviv and the rest primarily working on kibbutzim in the South and in hotels in Eilat. Those who found lives in on kibbutzim and in hotels in Eilat find themselves happier than those in Tel Aviv, where jobs are scarce and living conditions harsh. A rundown bomb shelter across from the central bus station in Tel Aviv has become a home for many Africans until they can find work or proper housing. After granting refugees asylum, the Israeli government’s efforts to help the integration of Africans into society was minimal. Instead, Israeli charities, churches, synagogues, legal and medial aid organizations, and the Tel Aviv municipality lend a large hand.

The southern end of Boulevard Rothschild leads to Neve Tzedek, one of the first developed parts of the city. There’s also a craft market near here on Fridays and if you keep walking you’ll end up at Carmel Market, whose narrow alleyways buzz with shops of all sorts, from fruit and vegetable stalls, to clothes to cheap souvenirs (much cheaper than the craft market and the posh boutiques in Neve Tzedek but possibly all made in China).

Beyond, you can head for the beach – windy and wild in December, but with a great view of Tel Aviv’s skyscrapers to the north and the old Arab port of Jaffa to the south. Here, on the empty, windswept promenade, Pat, my travelling companion, and I were all alone. Who else ventures out to the beach in the bleak mid winter?

 

Cue for a surreal experience. A couple materialised out of the darkening gloom of the afternoon. We stared at one another for an uncomprehending moment to make sure no-one was hallucinating. No mistake. There with her husband stood a friend from  Haslemere – an ex-colleague from the Language Department at Glebelands.

 Once we’d stopped screaming we all headed into Jaffa together. In no time we  were chatting away as if there had been nothing extraordinary about our meeting.

Jaffa has become something of an artists’ quarter, beautifully restored, perhaps a little too clinical. It’s still very picturesque but to me Jaffa will always mean oranges. Jaffas were the mainstay of my childhood winter fruit fix. Sadly the orchards have dwindled as water becomes an issue and manufacturing takes over.

 

Something unusual – at least in the eyes of anyone we mentioned it to in Israel: one day we took a taxi and headed north towards Netanya and then east towards the West Bank border. Our destination: a moshav called Gan Yoshiya (a moshav is an agricultural cooperative similar to a kibbutz, but less communal…)

 In this unlikely place a young couple (she British, he Israeli) run a sanctuary for mistreated donkeys. It’s called ‘Safe Haven for Donkeys in the Holyland’. Pat had promised her daughter, who works with horses, to look them up, and so we did.  Donkeys are regarded as expendable commodities in communities worldwide where they constitute the labour force, to be used and abused till they drop. English Lucy and her husband devote their lives to rescuing these maligned and gentle animals from cruelty, ignorance and abandonment. You can check them out on their website here  Most, but not all of their rescued charges seem to have come from the West Bank, including from around Qalqilya, a politically sensitive town on the West Bank border,  ‘the darkest place I have come across’ is how Lucy, in her newsletter,  describes this Hamas-led, volatile town, almost surrounded by the Israeli-built wall. Here Safe Haven has set up an fortnightly clinic and a rest haven for mistreated donkeys.

 At Gan Yoshiya, we were warmly welcomed and given a tour of the premises and the then 159 donkeys and some horses residing there (now, no doubt there are still more, since new donkeys appear to arrive daily). Some of the sights were shocking: Burnie the donkey who had been set alight by a group of boys three years previously – now he looks healthy and happy:  except that there is no fur on a large part of his body, just tight, burnt skin. Several donkeys had lost limbs. We were amazed that they managed so well on three legs. There were new borns too.

 

The charity is funded solely on donations. Land is a huge problem since this maltreatment of donkeys appears to be a never-ending story. As always the British are rallying round, Say what you like of us, we are a charitable nation, not least when it comes to alleviating the suffering of animals. Like CUPA, the charity in India I support, Safe Haven is keen to educate the owners to look after their animals. 

The taxi driver (through an interpreter at the Donkey Sanctuary) offered to take us to a kibbutz to see a bakery. Why not? We thought. Could be interesting. The kibbutz, Yad Hanna, is even nearer the West Bank border. Actually I’m not sure whether the place still qualifies as a kibbutz – Wikipedia calls it ‘a former kibbutz’ but what do they know? Whatever – it was a desolate place with quantities of run-down huts and some large warehouse-type buildings. It was to one of these that we were headed. The driver ushered us inside this unpromising-looking place – and sure enough, it did indeed house a full-blown bakery. What was more, the owner spoke some English and explained that it was a Yemenite bakery and the taxi driver was her brother. We were introduced to her daughters, both of whom worked there, and then taken for a full-blown tour of the place with demonstrations of the dough-kneader, the bun-cutter and other mechanised wonders. Then we were seated in a little run-down office and fed on Melawach, a kind of delicious fried layered flatbread and a dead ringer for parathas.

 

All Jews who live in Israel are Zionists and believe in the state of Israel, right? Wrong. Hereby hangs another paradoxical tale. There are pockets of ultra-orthodox Jews, notably those living in a 19^th century quarter of Jerusalem called Mea Shearim, who not only disapprove of the state, but regard it as anathema to all they believe in. Put simply: it is only with the coming of the Messiah that Israel will once again come into existence. Those who took it into their own hands to recreate the state of Israel committed a crime against the Almighty. There are plenty of signs to this effect in Mea Sherim, some of which are too offensive for me to post, but here’s one that reads: ‘Jerusalem is the capital of undivided Palestine’.

 

Mea Shearim is a shabby area, reminding me of AM Forster’s expression in  ‘A Passage to India.’ ‘The very wood seems made of mud…’  

 

Taking note of the billboards prominently displayed at the entry points to the area I had qualms about walking into it but our tour guide said it would be fine. Still, I felt intrusive.

 

I avoided photographing the inhabitants in their 18^th century-style garments from the shtetls of Eastern Europe. The men, bearded with flying sideburns and enormous fur shtreimel hats, long black or striped coats,  identical shoes on each foot (no left or right) , the women in long sleeves, high necklines, calf-length skirts over thick dark stockings, the heads of the married women undoubtedly shaven, then maybe covered with a wig (sheitel) and an all-enveloping head-scarf. Our guide tried to take a picture down a typical street and four schoolgirls turned away and faced the wall.

Some people in Israel are more afraid of a population-explosion from the ultra-orthodox than they are of  the Palestinian question. Now there’s food for thought.