In 1997, I spent six months as a volunteer on Kibbutz Kfar Blum in northern Israel. What began as a structured gap-year decision—work, routine, and cultural exposure—quickly evolved into something much broader. The kibbutz became my base, but travel became the real education.
With only about 360 shekels a month, travel was not planned in the traditional sense. It was improvised, often last-minute, and shaped by whoever was available at the time. Movement depended on hitchhiking, walking, shared taxis, and occasional buses. It was not about comfort—it was about access.
What follows is not a single journey, but a sequence of
movements—across Israel and into Egypt—shaped by people, place, and
circumstance.
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| On the Mt of Olives - 1998 |
🇮🇱 Northern Base & Local Movement: Kiryat Shmona
Kibbutz Kfar Blum sits in the Upper Galilee, near the Jordan
River, a region known for its agriculture and proximity to Israel’s northern
borders. For six months, this was home. But just five kilometres away was
Kiryat Shmona, a town that became part of our routine.
Founded in 1950, Kiryat Shmona developed as a settlement for
Jewish immigrants and sits near the Lebanese border, giving it both strategic
and historical significance. For us, it was where we went for
supplies—especially alcohol.
Getting there became a ritual. Some days we walked along the
roadside, the distance settling into our legs. Other days we hitchhiked,
standing with our thumbs out, watching cars approach. There was always a moment
of uncertainty before one slowed down. When it did, everything moved
quickly—bags lifted, doors opened, a quick nod, and suddenly you were inside,
adjusting your backpack as the car pulled away.
We didn’t explore Kiryat Shmona as tourists. We used it.
Cheap Russian vodka—about six shekels a bottle—was our standard purchase.
There was a bar in the town square where we often ended up.
The interior was worn, the air thick with cigarette smoke and stale beer. One
afternoon, sitting there with others from the kibbutz, “Hey Jude” came on. At
first, it played quietly in the background. Then someone started singing.
Another voice joined. Within moments, most of the room was singing along. No
one led it. It simply spread. For a few minutes, the space felt
unified—strangers sharing something simple.
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| Kiryat Shmona town square |
🚴 The Northern Edge: Metula
With Frederika, I cycled north to Metula, Israel’s
northernmost town, positioned directly along the Lebanese border.
The road climbed gradually, and as we moved further north,
traffic disappeared. Long stretches passed with no cars at all—just the sound
of tyres against the road and steady breathing.
Metula’s location makes it unique. It overlooks southern
Lebanon and has long been shaped by border tensions. At the border, everything
felt still—fences, watchpoints, flags marking the divide.
I stood between the Israeli and Lebanese flags while Frederika took a photo. No one spoke. The air was quiet, the landscape unmoving. It was one of the few moments where stillness itself became the experience.
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| Frederike - en route to Metula |
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| Metula - Israel/Lebanon border 1997 |
🌊 Inland Travel: Tiberias
With Paul, Ada, and Brynhilde, I travelled to Tiberias,
hitchhiking most of the way. We stood along the roadside for stretches at a
time, backpacks resting against our legs, watching cars pass until one slowed.
When it did, everything moved quickly—bags lifted, doors opened, a brief
greeting, and we were back on the road, adjusting to the pace of someone else’s
drive.
Tiberias lies in the Galilee region, on the western shore of
the Sea of Galilee (also known as Lake Kinneret), Israel’s main freshwater lake
and one of the lowest freshwater bodies in the world. The city itself dates
back to ancient times and has long been an important centre in Jewish history,
while the surrounding Galilee region is widely known for its agricultural
landscape and deep religious significance.
By the time we arrived, the change in climate was
noticeable. Compared to the Upper Galilee, the air in Tiberias felt warmer and
heavier. Walking along the promenade, the heat seemed to settle around you, and
the sunlight reflecting off the water was strong enough that you had to look
away after a few seconds. The lake stretched out wide and calm, with low hills
rising on the far side.
We spent time walking along the shoreline, stopping occasionally for shawarmas wrapped in paper—quick, filling, but difficult to eat cleanly, with sauce and oil dripping if you weren’t careful. We stood or sat wherever there was space, eating and watching the water, with small boats moving slowly in the distance.
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| Paul, Ada, Brynhilde, and Kate on the road outside the kibbutz planning our trip to Tiberias |
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| Paul, Ada, Brynhilde and Kate - Tiberias waterfront at the Sea of Galilee |
🚴 Sea of Galilee Circuit with Dominik Otto: Endurance, History, and Incident
Later, I returned to the region with Dominik Otto, this time
not hitchhiking but cycling—covering far more ground and engaging the landscape
in a completely different way. Dominik, originally from East Germany, had a
distinct presence—blonde hair styled in a punk fashion, something that made him
stand out immediately in the Israeli context.
We cycled around and through large parts of the Sea of
Galilee region, moving not only along the shoreline but also slightly inland at
various points, depending on the route and terrain. The Sea of Galilee, also
known as Lake Kinneret, is Israel’s primary freshwater reservoir and one of the
most historically and religiously significant lakes in the world. Sitting more
than 200 metres below sea level, it forms a central geographic and cultural
landmark in the Galilee region.
The ride itself was long and steady. It didn’t begin with
intensity—it built gradually. At first, the movement felt manageable, almost
effortless. But over time, the repetition set in—pedal, breathe, adjust. The
road curved along sections of the lake, offering wide, open views of the water,
then shifted inland, where the perspective changed—fields, low hills, and
stretches where the lake disappeared from view entirely before reappearing
again.
We passed through and near several historically significant
sites without always stopping for long, but their presence was clear. The
region around the Sea of Galilee is deeply tied to Biblical history. Places
like Capernaum—once a centre of Jesus’ ministry—contain the remains of ancient
synagogues and dwellings. Magdala, traditionally associated with Mary
Magdalene, lies along the western shore.
We also passed near the Mount of Beatitudes, believed to be
the site of the Sermon on the Mount. The area sits elevated above the lake,
offering a wide, peaceful view across the water—completely different in tone
from the physical effort of cycling.
Further along the shoreline lies Tabgha, associated with the
feeding of the 5,000 and the Church of the Primacy of Saint Peter. This site is
traditionally linked to several key Biblical events—the miraculous catch of
fish, the shared meal of bread and fish, and the moment where Peter is
reinstated and instructed to “feed my sheep.” Even without stopping in depth,
the historical and religious weight of these locations was present in the
environment.
At one point, we stopped at what is commonly referred to as
Peter’s Landing Place. The water there was calm and clear. After hours of
cycling, we went in. The temperature of the water was ideal—not cold, not warm,
just balanced. Stepping in, you could feel the tension in the body release
almost immediately. We stayed there for a while, floating and cooling down
before continuing.
Not all moments of that trip were calm.
At one stage, while hitchhiking during part of the journey,
we experienced something more tense. A car approached—a Mercedes—and instead of
slowing down, it accelerated toward us. It felt deliberate. We moved quickly
off the road as it passed close by. There was no contact, but the intent was
clear.
Dominik stood out. His appearance—blonde, distinctly
German—and the historical context were not separate from that moment. Given the
history of the Holocaust and the atrocities committed against Jewish people,
the reaction, while aggressive, was not entirely incomprehensible within that
context. It didn’t require explanation at the time. It was simply part of the
reality of being there.
We continued after that. No discussion, just movement again.
By the end of the ride, the physical strain had settled
fully into the body—legs heavy, shoulders tight, hands slightly numb from
gripping the handlebars. But the movement had remained consistent from start to
finish.
That journey with Dominik combined several elements at once—physical endurance, historical landscape, moments of stillness, and moments of tension—all experienced through continuous movement around one of the most significant regions in Israel.
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| Dominik Otto - at the Sea of Galilee on our bike trip |
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| View over the Sea of Galilee (1997), from the hills near the Mount of Beatitudes |
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| Terrace of the Church of the Beatitudes (1997), overlooking the Sea of Galilee — a peaceful hillside setting traditionally associated with the Sermon on the Mount. |
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| At the shoreline of Tabgha (1997), near the Church of the Primacy of Saint Peter— traditionally identified as the place where Jesus appeared to His disciples after the resurrection and restored Peter beside the waters of the Sea of Galilee. |
🌊 Haifa, Mount Carmel
& Akko: Elevation, Coastline, and Crusader History
One particular trip that stood apart from the others was a
journey Paul and I undertook together to Haifa. Unlike the more improvised
group trips, this one had a clearer destination. One of Paul’s professor’s
fathers lived there, on Mount Carmel, and we went to stay with him for a night.
Haifa itself is one of Israel’s major port cities, built
along the slopes of Mount Carmel and stretching down toward the Mediterranean
coast. The city is known for its industrial port—one of the largest and most
important in the country—handling cargo ships, oil tankers, and international
trade. But from above, none of that felt industrial. It felt expansive.
We reached Mount Carmel using the Carmelit, the underground
funicular railway system that connects the lower city to the top of the
mountain. The Carmelit is unique—it is Israel’s only subway system of its kind,
running along the slope of Mount Carmel from downtown (Paris Square) up to the
Carmel Center (Gan Ha’Em), with a small number of stations linking the
elevation change. The movement itself was different from anything else we had
experienced—descending underground, then rising steadily through the mountain
rather than climbing it physically.
Paul’s host met us and accompanied us. I remember standing
with him at the Carmelit station—there’s a photo of that moment, posed together
near the entrance, marking the transition from travel into someone’s personal
space.
That night on Mount Carmel stood out as one of the more
memorable moments of the entire trip. From the elevation, the view opened
completely. Below us, Haifa Bay stretched out, with the port clearly
visible—cargo ships and tankers positioned across the water. The lights from
the port and the city spread out across the bay, forming a continuous pattern
that extended into the distance.
Looking west, the Mediterranean Sea opened out—dark, vast,
and uninterrupted. On clear lines of sight, you could trace the coastline
stretching south toward Tel Aviv. Across the bay, the outline of Acre (Akko)
was visible, its position marking another layer of history along the coast.
We spent the night there, overlooking everything below. It
was quiet, elevated, and still—completely different from the density of
Jerusalem or the isolation of the desert. The experience felt both calm and
expansive at the same time.
The next day, our host accompanied us back down using the
Carmelit again. The descent felt just as distinct as the ascent—moving through
the mountain rather than across it, returning from elevation back into the
structure of the city.
During that same trip with Paul, we also visited Acre
(Akko), located along the Mediterranean coast north of Haifa.
Akko is one of the oldest continuously inhabited port cities
in the world, with settlement dating back to the Phoenician period. Over time,
it passed through multiple civilisations—Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Crusader, and
Ottoman—each leaving physical layers behind.
The present Old City is defined by its Ottoman-era
structure, with fortified walls, narrow streets, mosques, khans
(caravanserais), and bathhouses. But beneath and within that structure lie the
remains of the Crusader city, dating from 1104 to 1291, when Akko served as the
capital of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem after the fall of Jerusalem
itself.
What makes Akko unique is that much of the Crusader city
still exists—both above and below the current street level. Walking through it,
you are effectively moving through multiple layers of history at once. Vaulted
halls, underground passages, and stone structures remain largely intact,
providing a clear sense of how the medieval city was organised.
Paul and I moved through the Old City on foot, following the
narrow streets and passing through these spaces without a fixed route. The
walls, the stone surfaces, and the enclosed feeling created a different kind of
movement from anywhere else we had been.
The contrast between Haifa and Akko stood out.
Haifa—elevated, modern, expansive, looking outward. Akko—contained, layered,
historical, looking inward through time.
Together, the two locations formed a single
experience—coastline, elevation, and history—shared in movement, without
structure, but clearly defined in memory.
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| At a station of the Carmelit in Haifa (1997), one of the world’s smallest underground systems, connecting the lower city to the heights of Mount Carmel. |
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| At the entrance to the Old City of Akko (1997),walking along the fortified walls of one of the best-preserved Crusader and Ottoman port cities on the Mediterranean. |
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| Inside the Crusader halls of the Old City of Acre (1997), where vaulted stone arches once formed part of a medieval port city that served as the capital of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem. |
⛪ Bethlehem: Birthplace Traditions
With Paul, I travelled south from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, a
short journey but one with strong historical and religious significance.
We visited the Church of the Nativity, traditionally
recognised as the birthplace of Jesus Christ. Originally built in the 4th
century under Emperor Constantine and later rebuilt in the 6th century, it is
one of the oldest continuously operating churches in the world. The site is
primarily administered by the Greek Orthodox Church, alongside other
denominations under a long-standing shared arrangement.
Entry is through the low “Door of Humility,” requiring you
to bend down before entering. Inside, the structure is dimly lit, with ancient
columns and visible layers of Byzantine and later construction.
Beneath the church lies the Grotto of the Nativity, where a
silver star marks the traditional location of Jesus’s birth. Movement through
the space is slow due to its size, with visitors pausing briefly before
continuing.
Outside, Bethlehem functioned as an active town, with
everyday life continuing around one of Christianity’s most important sites.
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| Street scene in Bethlehem (1997), near the Church of the Nativity— one of the oldest Christian sites in the world and a focal point for pilgrims for over 1,500 years. |
🕌 Jerusalem & the Judean Desert: Movement Through History
With Grant and Laurette, I travelled to the Old City of
Jerusalem, and for that stay Rick and Anton were also with us. We based
ourselves in the well-known Tabasco Youth Hostel—now known as the Hebron
Hostel—located in the Muslim Quarter. The building itself dated back to the
Mameluke period (1260–1516 A.D.), meaning that even the accommodation formed
part of the historical structure of the city.
The hostel was positioned along Souk Khan el-Zeit, one of
the main north–south arteries of the Old City, connecting Damascus Gate to the
central religious areas. Its location placed us within immediate walking
distance of key sites: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was about a minute
away, while the Western Wall and Temple Mount complex were roughly five minutes
on foot.
Jerusalem’s Old City is enclosed by Ottoman walls built
under Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent in the 16th century. Within less than one
square kilometre, it is divided into Muslim, Christian, Jewish, and Armenian
quarters. Despite its small size, it contains religious sites of central
importance to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, layered over more than three
millennia of continuous history.
Movement through the Old City is shaped by its medieval
layout—narrow stone passageways, uneven paving, and continuous foot traffic.
These routes follow ancient patterns, often built on top of earlier Roman and
Byzantine streets. You don’t move independently—you adjust constantly to the
flow around you.
The souk formed the central movement corridor. Markets in
this area have operated for centuries, linking trade routes across the city.
Vendors sold spices, textiles, food, and household goods. Shawarma rotated on
vertical spits, falafel fried in bubbling oil, and trays of baklava reflected
the light behind glass counters. The smells—spices, coffee, cooked meat—were
constant and overlapping.
At one point, I stopped in the middle of the walkway without planning to. I stood still for a few seconds, watching the movement instead of being part of it. People adjusted around me instinctively—stepping slightly aside, continuing forward. No one stopped. The flow absorbed the pause and continued.
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| With Rick, Anton, Grant and Laurette - Inside the common room of the Hebron Hostel (then Tabasco Youth Hostel), Jerusalem (1997) |
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| Damascus Gate (1997), the busiest entrance to Jerusalem’s Old City, where centuries of history meet the daily movement of people entering the markets and streets beyond. |
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| Jaffa Gate entrance to the Old City of Jerusalem (1997) |
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| Rooftop View over Jerusalem’s Old City (1997) |
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| Standing at Lions’ Gate (St. Stephen’s Gate), on the eastern side of Jerusalem’s Old City near the Mount of Olives (1998) |
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| Just inside Jaffa Gate (1998), looking toward the Citadel Youth Hostel— one of the main backpacker hubs in Jerusalem’s Old City and a key entry point into the Christian Quarter. |
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| Market street inside Damascus Gate (1998), along Souk Khan el-Zeit (Arabic: سوق خان الزيت) in Jerusalem’s Muslim Quarter—where daily trade, movement, and local life unfold along one of the Old City’s oldest commercial routes. |
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| Stepped market passage near the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem’s Old City (1998)—a narrow, vaulted corridor lined with shops selling olive wood carvings and Christian articles along one of the city’s historic pilgrimage routes. |
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| Covered market passage along Souk Khan el-Zeit (سوق خان الزيت), inside Jerusalem’s Old City (1998) |
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| Religious souvenir stall in Jerusalem’s Old City (1998), near the Via Dolorosa— displaying woven textiles and Biblical scenes for pilgrims passing through the Christian Quarter. |
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| View over the Christian Quarter of Jerusalem’s Old City (1998), with the tower of the Church of the Redeemer rising above a dense cluster of domes and stone buildings, including the nearby Church of the Holy Sepulchre embedded within the surrounding architecture. |
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| View from the Old City toward the Mount of Olives (1998), across the Kidron Valley— showing the transition from ancient walls to the densely built eastern neighbourhoods of Jerusalem |
✝️ Religious Sites — Historical Context and Spatial Contrast
While Rick and Anton were part of our stay in Jerusalem,
they did not join us for the religious exploration of the Old City and
surrounding sites. Those moments were shared with Grant and Laurette.
We walked sections of the Via Dolorosa, a route formalised
during the Byzantine and Crusader periods. It marks the traditional path Jesus
is believed to have taken carrying the cross, divided into 14 Stations of the
Cross. The route runs directly through the Muslim Quarter and remains
integrated into daily commercial activity rather than separated from it.
At the Western Wall, we encountered the last remaining
section of the retaining wall of the Second Temple complex, originally expanded
by Herod the Great in the first century BCE. The Temple itself was destroyed by
the Romans in 70 CE during the Siege of Jerusalem. The Western Wall remains the
holiest accessible site in Judaism, as it is the closest point to the former
Temple Mount platform.
The large limestone blocks, some weighing several tons, are
part of the original Herodian construction. The plaza in front of the wall is a
modern development, created after 1967 to accommodate worshippers.
At the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, we entered a structure
originally commissioned by Emperor Constantine in the 4th century CE. It is
traditionally identified—particularly by Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic
traditions—as the site of Jesus’s crucifixion (Golgotha), burial, and
resurrection.
However, there is historical debate regarding this
identification. The Gospel accounts indicate that Jesus was crucified outside
the city walls. While the Church of the Holy Sepulchre lies within the
present-day Old City, these walls were constructed in the 16th century, and the
city boundaries at the time of the crucifixion were different.
Some Protestant traditions therefore associate these events
with the Garden Tomb, located outside the Damascus Gate. This site features a
rock-cut tomb consistent with burial practices of the period and aligns more
closely with the interpretation of a location outside the ancient city walls.
Within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Golgotha is located
as an elevated section marking the crucifixion site, while the Tomb of Jesus is
enclosed within a structure known as the Edicule. The church has undergone
multiple reconstructions over centuries due to destruction and restoration,
resulting in a complex architectural layout shared by several Christian
denominations.
The interior is dimly lit, with worn stone floors shaped by
continuous use over centuries. Movement through the structure is slow,
constrained by narrow passageways and the density of visitors.
Outside the church, the contrast is immediate.
Right at the foot of Golgotha and close to Damascus Gate,
there is a busy Arab bus station. Buses arrive and depart continuously. People
move through quickly, conversations at normal volume, daily routines continuing
without interruption.
Within a very short distance, the environment shifts from a
site of major religious significance to an active transport hub. There is no
transition space between the two—both exist simultaneously within the same
urban structure.
We also visited the Garden of Gethsemane, located just
outside the eastern walls of the Old City. The site contains ancient olive
trees and is traditionally associated with the events preceding the arrest of
Jesus.
Nearby, the Garden Tomb provides what I consider to be the
more accurate location associated with the crucifixion and burial of Jesus.
While the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is traditionally
recognised—particularly by Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic traditions—as
the site of these events, this identification is debated and, in my view,
highly unlikely.
The Garden Tomb is located outside the Damascus Gate,
aligning more closely with the Biblical accounts that describe the crucifixion
taking place outside the city walls. The site is set within an open garden and
features a rock-cut tomb consistent with burial practices of the First Temple
period.
In contrast to the enclosed and heavily structured environment of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Garden Tomb is open, quieter, and more consistent with the geographical and historical descriptions of the time.
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| View from the Old City toward the Mount of Olives (1997),overlooking the Garden of Gethsemane, with the golden domes of the Church of Mary Magdalene rising through the trees. |
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| Plaque in the Garden of Gethsemane (1997), marking the place where Jesus prayed before his arrest, with the words from Matthew 26 reminding visitors to “watch and pray.” |
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| Rock face north of Damascus Gate (1997), part of the formation often associated with Golgotha— a site many regard as the most plausible location of the crucifixion, adjacent to the Garden Tomb. |
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| North of Damascus Gate (1997), near what is often regarded as themost plausible location of the crucifixion and burial—linked to Golgotha and the Garden Tomb. |
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| The Garden Tomb (1998), a rock-cut burial site north of Damascus Gate, often regarded as the most plausible location of the burial described in the Gospels. The door bore the words: “He is not here; for He is risen.” |
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| The Western Wall (1998), the last remaining structure of the Second Temple complex, with the Dome of the Rock rising above—capturing the layered religious history of Jerusalem in a single frame. |
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| Close-up of prayer at the Western Wall (1998), where ancient Herodian stones continue to serve as a place of daily worship, with written prayers placed into the cracks of the wall. |
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| Herod's Gate (1998), a quieter northern entrance to the Old City leading into the Muslim Quarter, built during the Ottoman period under Suleiman the Magnificent. |
🏜️ Masada & the Dead Sea
On a separate trip, Rick and Anton joined us—along with
Grant and Laurette—for a journey south to Masada and Ein Gedi.
Masada is a fortified plateau rising approximately 450
metres above the Dead Sea. It was developed extensively by Herod the Great
between 37 and 31 BCE as a royal refuge, complete with palaces, storage
facilities, and defensive walls.
During the First Jewish–Roman War, Jewish rebels occupied
the fortress. Roman forces laid siege and constructed a massive earthen ramp on
the western side to breach the walls. This ramp remains one of the
best-preserved Roman siege structures in the world. Historical accounts,
particularly by the historian Josephus, describe how the defenders chose death
rather than capture when defeat became inevitable.
We started the ascent early in the morning, before sunrise,
taking the Snake Path along the eastern ridge. The climb rose steeply in a
series of tight switchbacks. Within minutes, the effort settled into the
body—legs tightening, breathing becoming more controlled. No one spoke much.
Each of us moved at our own pace, focusing on the ground ahead.
At certain points, we stopped briefly—hands resting on
knees, catching breath, then continuing. The light began to shift gradually as
we climbed, from darkness to a faint grey, then slowly warming as the sun
approached the horizon.
Reaching the summit, the landscape opened completely. The
remains of Herodian structures—walls, storage areas, and palace
foundations—were spread across the plateau. From that height, the view extended
in every direction across the Judean Desert, with the Dead Sea visible below,
flat and reflective.
For a few moments, we stood there without speaking, looking
out across the open space.
The descent followed the same path, but the heat had already
begun to rise, making the return feel more exposed. By the time we reached the
base, the physical effort had fully settled into the body—legs heavy, movement
slower, but steady.
After descending, we travelled to Ein Gedi, a freshwater
oasis along the western shore of the Dead Sea.
The Dead Sea lies more than 430 metres below sea level and
is one of the saltiest bodies of water in the world, with salinity levels
exceeding 30%. This high mineral concentration prevents the human body from
sinking.
Rick, Grant, and I went into the water together. The first
sensation was immediate—buoyancy. As soon as I leaned back, my body lifted
without effort. Instinctively, I tried to adjust my balance, but the density of
the water held me in place. Rick and Grant were going through the same
adjustment nearby—small movements at first, then settling into it.
Once you stopped resisting, there was nothing to do. You
simply floated.
There was no need to swim, no effort required to stay above
the surface. The body remained stable, supported completely by the water. We
stayed there for a while, lying back, arms slightly out, letting the water
carry us.
After exiting, a layer of mineral residue remained on the skin—slightly rough and oily. We rinsed off under the freshwater showers nearby, the salt taking time to wash away completely.
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| Masada (1998), rising starkly from the Judean Desert above the Dead Sea— a natural fortress later fortified by King Herod and remembered for its final stand during the Roman siege. |
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| Summit of Masada (1997), overlooking the vast Judean Desert—remains of Herod’s fortress where history, isolation, and endurance converge. |
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| Beach at Ein Gedi (1997), where the stark Judean Desert meets the still, mineral-rich waters of the Dead Sea. |
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| Floating in the Dead Sea at Ein Gedi (1997), held effortlessly on the surface — weightless in the lowest place on earth. |
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| A solitary cross in the Judean Desert (1997), where silence, heat, and faith meet in the wilderness. |
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| Grazing goats in a wadi of the Judean Desert (1998), where life persists in narrow bands of green amid rock and dust. |
🌴 Southbound Journey: Tel Aviv to Eilat
With Franck, Romy, and Kelly, I travelled south in Franck’s
red Peugeot. The plan was ambitious—to eventually leave Israel and make our way
toward France by road. It wasn’t fully mapped out, but it was enough to start
moving.
We stopped first in Tel Aviv, a city that felt open and
modern compared to Jerusalem. Founded in 1909, Tel Aviv is Israel’s main
economic and cultural centre, and the difference was immediate. The streets
were wider, the buildings more contemporary, and the pace less compressed.
After the density of Jerusalem, Tel Aviv felt easier to move through. We stayed
in a youth hostel, walked through parts of the city in the evening, and ate
out—simple food, but a break from the tighter spaces we had been in before.
From there, we continued south, passing through Beersheba,
often referred to as the gateway to the Negev. Beyond Beersheba, the landscape
opened up. Vegetation thinned out, colours shifted to browns and dusty yellows,
and the road stretched out ahead with fewer signs of habitation.
Not long after entering the Negev Desert, we stopped near
dusk. The light had softened, the heat easing slightly. We stepped out of the
car and stood in the open space, surrounded by quiet. There were no buildings,
no passing traffic—just the desert stretching in every direction. Franck and I
took photos of each other at the same time, standing a few metres apart, each
with a camera raised. It was still the era of film photography. I had a small,
cheap Kodak camera—basic, no preview, no second chances. You took the shot,
wound the film, and hoped it worked.
We stood there a little longer, taking in the stillness,
then got back into the car and continued south.
The road through the Negev felt long and uninterrupted. The
landscape remained exposed, with low desert hills and wide open space.
Conversation came and went, sometimes replaced by silence, each of us watching
the road ahead.
Eventually, we reached Eilat, located at Israel’s
southernmost point along the Red Sea, where the country meets Egypt and Jordan.
Eilat is known as a resort city, and the setting reflected that—desert
mountains surrounding a narrow strip of coastline, with the sea forming a
clear, calm boundary.
The heat was immediate and constant. It didn’t just come
from above—it rose from the ground and reflected off everything around you.
Even standing still, you felt it pressing in. Movement slowed naturally. You
didn’t walk far unless you had to.
We stayed in a basic youth hostel—the Corral Hostel—not far
from the beach. The room was simple: a few beds, minimal furnishings, and heat
that lingered even after sunset. At night, windows stayed open to let in
whatever air moved through, though it never felt entirely cool. You slept
lightly, waking occasionally, aware of the temperature even in the early hours.
Most of our time in Eilat was spent around the beach. The
water was clear, and once you stepped in, the contrast with the heat was
immediate. We moved between the water and shaded areas, not doing much else.
There wasn’t a structured plan—just time passing between small activities.
One afternoon, we bought food from a supermarket—bread,
spreads, something to drink—and walked down to the shoreline. We sat there
eating, facing the water. There wasn’t much conversation. The sea moved
steadily, small waves breaking near where we sat. Across the water, the
mountains of Jordan were visible, faint but constant.
At times, we walked along the beachfront, passing small
shops and cafés, but never staying long. The heat dictated everything—how far
you walked, how long you stayed outside, when you moved back toward shade or
water.
It was in Eilat that the direction of the journey changed.
The plan to continue toward France began to lose clarity. It
wasn’t a single moment—it developed gradually. Conversations about routes
became uncertain. Timelines shifted. Small inconsistencies started to stand out
more clearly.
At one point, sitting together—me, Romy, and Kelly—we spoke
about it directly. What had seemed straightforward at the beginning no longer
felt stable.
The decision to stop wasn’t dramatic.
We chose not to continue.
We parted ways there in Eilat.
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| Franck, I, Paul, and Romy, before the start of our Southern Road Trip - Kibbutz Kfar Blum 1997 |
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| Franck, Romy and Kelly at a pit stop, somewhere ..... |
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| Tel Aviv street scenery |
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| Franck in the Negev Desert (1997), capturing a moment in the vast, open silence of southern Israel. |
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| Picnic stop near the lagoon in Eilat (1997), where the desert meets the blue waters of the Red Sea. |
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| Corals Hostel (אכסניית אלמוגים), Eilat (1997)—our base at the southern edge of Israel, where desert travel gave way to rest, noise, and the rhythm of people passing through. |
🏜️ Sinai
& Dahab — Fully Expanded, Factual Version
From Eilat, I crossed into Egypt and travelled alone through the
Sinai Peninsula. The journey took several hours in an ageing 1970s Peugeot
taxi. The car had clearly been in use for a long time—worn seats, a slightly
loose suspension, and a steady engine sound that never really changed. That
kind of vehicle was typical in Egypt. Cars were kept running, repaired
repeatedly, and used for years rather than replaced.
Once we left the border area behind, the landscape opened up
almost immediately. The road stretched forward in long, straight sections,
cutting through desert with very little variation. Sand, rock, and low ridges
dominated the view. There were long periods where no other vehicles passed, and
no buildings were visible. Travelling alone made the silence more noticeable.
The driver said very little, focused on the road, and most of the time was
spent watching the landscape pass without interruption.
At one point, we stopped at a roadside tea stall. It was not a
formal stop—just a small, simple setup in the middle of the desert. A local
woman served tea, moving slowly and without urgency. I stepped out of the car
and stood there with a small glass of hot, sweet tea in my hand. There was
nothing else around—no passing traffic, no nearby settlement, no background
noise apart from the wind. The ground still held the heat of the day, and you
could feel it rising through your shoes. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was
complete—just a quiet, still moment in the middle of a long journey. After a
few minutes, we got back into the Peugeot and continued.
The drive continued in the same pattern—long stretches of road,
minimal conversation, and the constant movement forward. Eventually, the
landscape began to shift slightly as we approached the coastal area, and I
arrived in Dahab, on the Gulf of Aqaba along the Red Sea.
Dahab at that time was still relatively undeveloped. It had
originally been a Bedouin fishing village and had gradually become a place
where backpackers and travel hippies gathered. It didn’t feel structured or
organised in the way cities did. There was no strong separation between
accommodation, eating areas, and the beach. Everything was close together and
loosely connected.
When I arrived, I met up with other volunteers from the kibbutz
who had travelled there separately—Rick, Anton, Paulie, Billy, and John. There
was no fixed plan for meeting. You arrived and found people you knew. The
dynamic from the kibbutz carried over easily. People came and went at different
times, but there was always a familiar group around.
It was also in Dahab that I met a Scottish traveller named Paul.
He was backpacking around the world, moving from place to place and taking on
odd jobs to sustain himself. At the time I met him, he had already travelled
around the world twice. He spoke about it in a straightforward way, without
exaggeration or emphasis. It wasn’t presented as something exceptional—just the
way he lived. He would stay in one place for a while, work, move on, and repeat
the process.
Accommodation in Dahab was basic. The rooms had thin mattresses,
minimal furniture, and no air conditioning. Sand was everywhere—it collected on
the floor and never really left. At night, the heat stayed in the room, and
windows were kept open to allow some airflow. Even then, it remained warm, and
sleep was often light and interrupted. You were aware of the temperature and
the environment even while resting.
Most of the time was spent near the water. There was no structured
daily routine. You moved between the room, the beachfront, and places to sit
without planning anything in advance. Food was simple and inexpensive, usually
eaten near the water, sitting on basic chairs or low seating.
The Red Sea defined the experience. The water was exceptionally
clear, and from the surface you could see straight down. Swimming, floating,
and snorkelling were the main activities. When snorkelling, the visibility made
it easy to observe coral formations and fish moving below. The colours were
distinct and stood out clearly against the blue water.
On one occasion, I went snorkelling while I was high. The
experience felt noticeably different. The colours appeared more vivid, and the
movement underwater seemed slower and more defined. Fish and coral stood out
more sharply, and the sense of depth felt more pronounced. It wasn’t something
planned or analysed at the time, but it was a distinct variation from the
normal experience in the water.
During the day, some of the volunteers would sit together for long
periods near the beach, sometimes talking, sometimes not. There was no pressure
to do anything. Time passed without structure. Movement was minimal, and
activities were limited to basic routines—swimming, eating, resting.
Evenings followed a similar pattern. People gathered in small
groups near the beach or outside the rooms. There was no clear start or end to
the evening. It developed gradually and ended the same way.
Compared to the effort required to get there—the long taxi
journey, the desert crossing—Dahab was a place where everything slowed down.
You stayed in one area, did very little, and remained there until it was time
to move again.
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| Beachfront café in Dahab (1997), where cushions replaced chairs and time slowed to the rhythm of the Red Sea. |
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| Beach dive camp near Dahab (1997), where tanks came off pickup trucks and the day unfolded under palm-frond shelters along the Gulf of Aqaba. |
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|
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| Swimming in the Red Sea at Dahab (1997), where the desert meets the water along the quiet edge of the Gulf of Aqaba. |
🏙️ Cairo
& the Nile River
In Cairo, everything moved. After Dahab, the shift was immediate.
The city was dense, noisy, and constantly in motion. Cairo is one of the
largest cities in Africa and sits along the Nile River, which has sustained
Egyptian civilisation for thousands of years. But on the streets, there was no
sense of history in a quiet or reflective way—it was all movement, pressure,
and noise.
Traffic flowed continuously. Cars, buses, taxis—many of them older
models like the 1970s Peugeots—moved forward without clear gaps. Crossing the
road meant stepping into that flow and adjusting your pace as vehicles moved
around you. There was no real pause. You watched, judged the speed, and stepped
forward. Drivers adjusted slightly, but never fully stopped. The sound of
hooters was constant, and the air carried heat, dust, and exhaust fumes.
I wasn’t always alone during this part of the journey. There were
other travellers and backpackers moving through the same routes—some from
Dahab, some new faces along the way. Travel at that stage was fluid. You met
people, spent time together for part of a journey, then moved on again.
Accommodation in Cairo was basic. Cheap hotel rooms, minimal
comfort, just enough to rest. I remember one overnight minibus trip during this
period—long, cramped, and uncomfortable. Sleep came in short bursts. At one
point, another backpacker offered me his shoulder so I could rest my head for a
while. It wasn’t something discussed—it just happened, the kind of small
adjustment people made during those long journeys.
While in Cairo, I visited local perfume shops and bought pure
sandalwood essence for 50 Egyptian pounds. It was a small detail, but it stood
out—something specific to the place, different from anything I would have
bought elsewhere.
From Cairo, I travelled to the Giza Pyramid Complex. The pyramids
are located just outside the city, on the edge of the desert, where the urban
environment gives way to open space. The complex includes the Great Pyramid of
Khufu, along with the pyramids of Khafre and Menkaure, built over 4,500 years
ago during Egypt’s Old Kingdom period.
Standing there, the scale was difficult to process. You know they
are large, but the size only becomes clear when you are physically next to
them. The stone blocks, the height, the way they dominate the landscape—it
doesn’t fully register immediately. They had been standing there for thousands
of years, unchanged, while everything else moved around them.
Nearby, I also saw the Great Sphinx of Giza, positioned facing the
desert. Like the pyramids, it existed outside of the movement of the
city—fixed, unmoving.
Back in Cairo, the contrast continued. The Nile River flowed
through the city—wide, steady, and controlled. While traffic pushed forward in
every direction, the river moved slowly and consistently, cutting through the
centre of everything without urgency.
I also remember eating at a McDonald’s in Cairo. It stood out
because it felt completely familiar in the middle of everything else that was
not. The city itself combined different layers—ancient history, modern
infrastructure, heavy traffic, and constant movement. I also became aware that
Cairo had Africa’s only metro system at the time, adding another layer of
structure beneath the surface chaos.
What stood out most was the contrast. On the streets, everything
moved continuously—noise, traffic, heat, people. At the pyramids and along the
Nile, movement slowed or stopped completely.
Both existed at the same time, in the same place.
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| Downtown Cairo from my hotel window (1997), where traffic, time, and history moved together through the same crowded streets. |
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| Standing before the Great Pyramid of Giza on the Giza Plateau (1997), where scale, time, and human effort converge beyond comprehension. |
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| Camels waiting at the base of the Great Pyramid of Giza on the Giza Plateau (1997), where everyday life continues alongside one of the oldest structures on earth. |
🚆 Southern Egypt: Aswan, Luxor & the Suez Canal — With Grant, Laurette & Kate
From Cairo, I travelled south toward Upper Egypt on my own,
following the same pattern—long-distance transport, extended hours, and basic
conditions. The journey took time, and by the time I reached Aswan, the heat
was immediately noticeable. Temperatures were extremely high—around 56°C—and it
affected everything. Movement slowed, and even short distances required effort.
Grant and Laurette were already there when I arrived, but they had
gone to see the Aswan High Dam, completed in 1970 to control flooding of the
Nile River and to generate hydroelectric power. I met up with them later that
day once they returned. From that point, we travelled together, along with
Kate.
We spent time walking through the town of Aswan, moving slowly due
to the heat. The environment felt different from Cairo—smaller, quieter, but
more intense in terms of temperature. The Nile was central to the setting, wide
and steady, cutting through the landscape while everything else adjusted around
it.
From Aswan, we travelled north to Luxor, following the Nile. Luxor
stands on the site of ancient Thebes, once the capital of Egypt during the New
Kingdom period, and is known for its large concentration of temples and
historical structures.
We spent a few days there, moving between sites. The scale of the
temples stood out—massive columns, carved stone walls, and open courtyards. The
heat reflected off the stone surfaces, and there was very little shade, so
movement was steady but measured. You walked, stopped briefly, then continued.
There wasn’t much conversation while moving through these spaces. Each person
took in the surroundings at their own pace.
After Luxor, we began the return journey north. That part of the
trip was long and physically demanding—overnight taxis, limited rest, and
extended travel hours. At one stage, we crossed the Suez Canal by night ferry.
The canal, which connects the Mediterranean Sea to the Red Sea, is one of the
most important shipping routes in the world. Crossing it at night added to the
sense of distance travelled, even though the crossing itself was quiet and
uneventful.
Eventually, we made our way back to Israel and returned to the
kibbutz.
We arrived exhausted. Dust covered our clothes, and the travel had
settled into our bodies. Everything felt heavier. The kibbutz was quieter than
expected. While we had been away, the Purim celebration had already taken
place. We had missed it.
After the intensity and movement of Egypt, the return felt
subdued.
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| The Nile River near Luxor (1997), where a narrow band of life follows the water through an otherwise unforgiving landscape. |
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| Riverboats on the Nile River near Luxor (1997), where traditional feluccas drift beside modern cruise ships on the same ancient waterway. |
🕯️ Yad
Vashem museum
At Yad Vashem, the atmosphere shifted again.
I visited the museum twice during my stay in Israel. Each time,
the experience was the same—quiet, heavy, and difficult to move through
quickly. Yad Vashem, established in 1953 on Jerusalem’s Mount of Remembrance,
is Israel’s official memorial to the victims of the Holocaust, and the scale of
it is immediately apparent. It is not a single building, but a large campus
with indoor galleries and outdoor memorial spaces, all connected by pathways
that guide you through the site.
Inside the museum, what stood out most were the personal items.
Displays of suitcases, glasses, and everyday possessions filled certain
sections. These were not symbolic objects—they were real items that had
belonged to individuals. Seeing them grouped together made the scale of what
had happened more tangible. It wasn’t abstract. It was physical.
Outside, there were specific exhibits that remained clear in my
memory. One was an original cattle car, used to transport Jews to concentration
and extermination camps. It stood on a raised structure that extended outward
and stopped abruptly, overlooking the forest below. The positioning of it made
the point without explanation—the journey had no continuation.
Another was a White Bus, part of the Swedish Red Cross rescue
mission led by Count Folke Bernadotte in 1945. These buses had been painted
white with red crosses to avoid being attacked and were used to transport
prisoners out of camps toward safety. Seeing it there placed it within the same
space as everything else, but representing a different part of the
history—rescue rather than destruction.
Outside along the Avenue of the Righteous Among the Nations, I
came across the tree dedicated to Oskar Schindler. Schindler had personally
planted this tree in 1962, and he was one of the first individuals to be
honoured there. His story was already known, but standing in front of the tree
was different from reading about it. It marked a specific action by a specific
person in the middle of everything else that had taken place.
I sat there near the tree for a while without moving.
There was no conversation, no need to continue immediately. After
moving through the exhibits—through the objects, the images, and the spaces—the
only response was to stop.
That remained the strongest part of the visit.
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| Swedish Red Cross rescue bus at Yad Vashem (1997), representing the “White Buses” mission that saved thousands of lives during the final months of World War II. |
