At 12.30 on the 14th July we arrived to Yoni's car, parked not far from Beit Govrin and said goodbye to the shvil for a summer break. Perhaps it wasn't a teary farewell, but after 3 months of no shvil, we were glad to get back to the shvil and equally glad that it had cooled enough to allow us to venture out into the Negev without being cooked.We were happy too, that Mark, who joined us for that leg in July, decided that he'd make it 2 in a row.
Even before we laid foot on the white-blue-orange path, we knew that this upcoming season was going to be the hardest and the most logistically demanding to date. We've dealt with hard and will deal with whatever difficulty the shvil will throw at us. Logistics will prove to be the difference between a successful or unsuccessful (perhaps successful = enjoyable) day's walking. For starters, we didn't want to muck around, wasting time leaving a car at one end, then ferrying back to the start. In addition, here in Negev Bedouin-land, there's no guarantee that the car you leave at the end will be there when you get there. Eli's Skoda taxi was the perfect solution. Cheaper and more efficient than replacing a stolen car, he met us in Arad at the appointed place and time and dropped us off at a point called Metsad Tamar, in the middle of no-where, with an instruction to meet us at another point in the middle of no-where 4 hours later.
Whilst as fascinating visiting a ruined Roman stronghold in the middle of the southern Judean desert may be, it was more important to us to avoid walking along 2 km of road after Matsad Tamar and ensuring that we arrived at the end point for Eli to pick us up before sundown. I would like to point out here that all our logistical planning almost came unstuck at the very beginning. While we were waiting 2 minutes in Arad for Eli to arrive, a mini-bus driver almost stole us from under Eli's nose. Luckily Eli somehow got wind that someone else was trying to steal his fare and rung me, warning me not to board anybody else's vehicle. I guess there are sheisters everywhere, even in sleepy little desert towns.
When we did get out of Eli's taxi 2 km after Matsad Tamar, we had the wide barren expanses of Bika'at Tzva'im waiting for us to cross. Translated into English, Bika'at Tzva'im means Deer Valley. Now there's a misnomer if ever there was one. Between Bedouin hunters and the desert conditions, a deer wouldn't last here more than 20 minutes. As for valley, if that includes a flat area 12 km in length (which we were about to walk through) and as wide as the eye and horizon allow, then let it be called a valley. But forget green pastures, babbling brooks and cotton tailed bambis out of Walt Disney's imagination. We came for and got desert. No animals of any sort, no trees and barely any other vegetation, just hard yellow earth. And it was beautiful. I'm not sure if I'm going to be saying that in 400 km time when we crawl into Eilat, but for now it was grand.
Of course there were some signs of certain animal activity, but purely of homo sapien in nature, including an 18 km long conveyor belt that brings potash up from the dead sea to be processed at a nearby production plant that we had to pass under.
A large multi-layered monolith loomed on the horizon towards the end of Bika'at Tzva'im. Standing un-eroded on the desert landscape, it looked like a miniature version of Metzada, which was about 20 km away. It even had a snake path leading up one side of it, which prompted us to theorise that this place may be of significant historical value. Perhaps the zealots of 2000 years ago used this hill to do a practice run before digging in on the more famous mountain on the shores of the Dead Sea. We will put this theory to the antiquities department and ask for a written report after thorough investigation. Who knows?
Our path led us beneath this mini-Metzada and the shade that it afforded convinced us to take our tea break here. Upon sitting down in the shadow of Metzada's little brother we noticed sea shells scattered on the ground. Was this evidence of Zealot currency or that millions of years ago this entire area was under water? More questions for the antiquities department to answer in their report.
Mark had been waiting for tea time all day. It had nothing to do with Garry's famous herb tea concoction but had everything to do with a special gift that his son Yuval bought him on a recent trip to Taiwan. Here we were, in the southern Judean Desert, about to feast on "Special Pineapple Biscuits", manufactured and packed on the far away island of Formosa. Mark's eyes were ablaze with pride. I took an eager bite, anticipating a taste sensation never yet experienced. I guess that's one way of describing it. The "Special Pineapple Biscuits" were dry lumps of dough that had the consistency and taste of the sand that we were sitting on filled with yellow jello. Always the diplomat, I mumbled something about not being hungry, returning the remaining 3/4 of the biscuit back into its wrapping whilst hoping that Mark wouldn't notice that I'd spat out what was in my mouth. Yoni was far less diplomatic, spitting out the dry pastry and yellow coloured "fruit" filling in a way that left no doubts about his opinion. Mark was admirable in his loyalty to his son and ate an entire biscuit, ignoring our warnings that there was no hospital in Arad to pump his stomach and no amount of tea or water would moisten the dry biscuit. A father's love knows no bounds.
Today our shvil experience didn't finish when we left the track. Tonight Arad was also going to supply us with some great shvil memories.
Finding suitable accommodation over the internet can have its pitfalls at the best of times. When you're interested in spending little or no money for a place who's sole function is to rest your head between walks and enable you to prepare sandwiches for the coming day, then there's all the more chance of something going wrong. So far we've stayed in some good places, some just ok places and at Har Amassah, which is in a league of its own when it comes to pits. Sometimes a place is so cheap that you're sure there's going to be a hidden catch and with this in mind I booked with some trepidation a night at Iru'ach Mikka. And sometimes (rarely) you scratch your head and wonder how such a good place can be that cheap. It was spotlessly clean, had a television in the lounge and we even got a bedroom each, thus sparing Yoni and Garry having to put up with my snoring. If we got transport right with Eli's taxi, then we got accommodation right with Mikka's flat. I don't know if it was good planning or dumb luck, but had Eli turned out to be Travis Bickle and Mikka's apartment had turned out to be the Best Little Whorehouse in Arad, then things may have been decidedly less merry.
Usually we're quite happy to be away from the news when we're shvilling but in this case the television was extremely useful in getting the run-down concerning Gaddafi's demise. It was quite surreal, sitting in an apartment in Arad, sipping red wine and watching looped grotesque videos of a lynched Mu'amar Gaddafi. After watching the same i-phone videos ten times and hearing the BBC trying to say the same thing in 20 different ways, we decide that it was time to breath in some Arad air.
Arad is a strange and in turn fascinating little desert town. It is an uncomfortable mix of Israelis, ultra religious Chasidai Gur, pale skinned Russians who look as if they'd be more at home in Siberia and Sudanese guest workers who clean the nearby Dead Sea hotels. A pre dinner walk around town got us into the Arad frame of mind.
In general, we try not to return to places that we have already been to so that we can always experience something new. The Muza pub is an exception to the rule. If it was in Tel Aviv it would be a great place, but to find it here in Arad only makes it all the better. And if our choice was between a 330 gram hamburger washed down with a couple of interesting beers, or the local Shewarma stall, coming back to the Muza was a no-brainer. If you're ever in Arad and take up my recommendation to visit the place, look for my red, white and black St.Kilda Saints aussie rules footy scarf that I presented to the owner, amongst the hundreds of other scarves of less significant teams, such as Barcelona, Manchester United, Boston Celtics and N.Y. Yankees that line the walls and ceiling.
The night was still young when we left the pub so we decided that since it was Simchat Torah, we'd get some religion and find out where the dancing with the Torah was taking place. It wasn't hard to find. Arad is not that big and all we had to do was follow the sounds of "moshiach, moshiach, moshiach" blasting out of a p.a. system. The scene was somewhat bizarre; all sorts of religious Jews, differing from each other by head dress, clothing and religiosity. One at a time, each synagogue in Arad was called to the stage to present and bless their Torah. A sort of Torah beauty pageant. "Give a warm blessing to the Ovrom Aveinu Gur Kollel and Synagogue" the m.c. would declare. The elderly rebbe would bless the torah and the gathered crowd below, to be replaced by Rabbi Amsalem of the Sons of Morocco Synagogue immediately after. And so it continued. Below the stage the believers were moving in ecstatic rhythm to the sounds of God's music blasting from the p.a. At the centre of the throng were a number of Torah scrolls, held up high for all to revere. Idol worship is forbidden in Judaism, right? There were also non-dancing believers merely soaking up the atmosphere. Intermingled amongst these less active believers were bemused Russians, not renowned for public expressions of emotion at the best of times, not knowing what to make of grown adults dancing in fervent rhapsody around a hand written rolled up parchment. The Sudanese guest workers skirted around the outside, perhaps looking for something to steal, perhaps deliberating whether Darfur wasn't a saner option. And then there were the 3 white Australians, soaking up a side of Israel not seen in their twenty-something years in the country. And there is the essence of Shvil Yisrael. Not just the beautiful scenery, the physical challenge and the 3 of us taking sanity breaks from home and family. It's about experiencing slices of this tiny but varied country that we can't do from our homes in the Galil.
Back at Mikka's apartment, after pre-dinner red wine and beer in the pub, it seemed only logical to down a nightcap of good vodka shots whilst re-watching the loops of Gaddafi's demise.
We'd started the day quietly at home with our families. By the time we went to bed we'd had a week's worth of adventures.
