April 8, 2018

“HO-LEE shit. No way that just happened. No way.” These were the thoughts painfully scorching my brain, paralyzing me with panic such that I couldn’t even utter anything audibly to Yuval, on a rainy, dreary afternoon. “Yuval, where’s my bag?” my voice quivering. “I don’t know. Don’t you have it?” My worst traveling fears, confirmed. It was over before it started. My heart was pounding, audibly in my ear. It was deafening. How did this happen? I had taken a dozen busses in a dozen countries. I had never even lost a set of ear plugs. What got in my head, breaking my track record of flawless travel flow? Was it the driving rain that we pedaled through in order to reach the bus stop on the highway, cars whizzing by at 70MPH in a place where it isn’t supposed to rain? Was it that I was used to traveling alone? I swore I saw him grab my bag…but clearly he did not. Everything happened so fast and then it stopped. It didn’t matter. There was no blame nor time for answers or rationalization. The clock was ticking. “We have to stop the bus. I have to go back for my bag!” My voice now slightly more elevated. Everything that I had with me was in that bag –  my wallet, credit cards, passport, laptop, clothes…everything, left at the bus stop on the bench. Yuval politely pleaded with the bus driver to pull over, but the next stop was still 10 miles away and he could not stop prior. “I think it will be ok,” Yuval calmly stated in his broken Hebrew English accent. “Many times in Israel when a bag is left, people call 911 because they think it is a bomb.” I chuckled at that comment partially because it is such a foreign mentality to most of the western world, but mostly because of this mentality, I might actually get my bag back.  Because they think its a bomb, nobody will steal it.  “I have a friend in the CSI who works in the area. I will call him. I think it will be there.”

Two hours later (but actually only about 10 minutes), the bus driver arrived at the next stop on the highway and we got off. I was breathing now, sorta.  I think some of the color might have come back to my face, but my heart was still pounding. “Relax, dude. I think it will be fine.” I had already thought about what was in the bag and how I would replace everything. I sat on the bench, motionless, going through the steps, yet hoping for a miracle in this religious country. Minutes dragged on agonizingly. Yuval’s phone rang, and he smiled. Five minutes later, his friend arrived in his police vehicle with a very familiar backpack. Strangely enough, nobody had called the bomb squad, but at least I had my life back. We boarded the next bus and resumed our voyage to the Golan Heights.

The Golan Heights is a mountainous region in the northern most part of Israel. It is bordered by Syria and Lebanon, two countries that unfortunately Israel is not friendly with (translation: there is no open border crossing). The Golan Heights are claimed by both Israel and Syria and although they were annexed by Israel in 1981, the annexation is unrecognized by other nations. Due to this contested nature, much of the area is taken up by military zones and minefields left over from previous wars. In the Golan, it is stated that hikers or bikers should never deviate from marked trails, due to the danger of stumbling into minefields or firing areas. Despite this friction, it is an area of lush green beauty, full of streams, rugged landscapes and wildlife, and is especially beautiful in spring when wildflowers and tree blossoms are at their height.   Several mountains provide long-distance views into Syria, and ruins, both ancient and modern, (including many disused army bases) give a sense of its history.

Yuval is joining me for 3 days of my bike packing trip. He is new to bikepacking but not new to cycling and was eager try out his new gear. Three days prior, he invited me to ride with his regular Saturday morning mountain bike crew. It is a group of about 15 riders, from ages 40 up to one guy who is 75. This fellas name is Schlomo (Solomon in Hebrew). Schlomo looked every bit of 60, and rode with the strength of someone 20 years even younger than that. “Go ahead. I am old and don’t want to slow you down,” he would politely defer and then ride next to me on the climbs, casually talking. “I am crazy man,” he joked. “I’m good rider, but I’m afraid of falling at my age so I go slow. I don’t want to get hurt because I am going wind surfing next week.” Why do I love bikes? Silly question.

Yuval and I got off the bus in Majdal Shams at 5pm to a drizzling rain. I expected to look for a hotel and start fresh in the morning, but Yuval had other ideas. “Ready to go down?” he inquired. “Um…its 5pm and raining, in a place that you said never rains, so I guess I figured we would start tomorrow? How far do you think we can really get tonight? “ I inquired, in jest but mostly annoyed. I realized that he only had 3 days and didn’t want to waste time. I’m not used to being on a schedule, but I was very much enjoying his company, so downward we went, although I knew I would need to come back after we parted ways to fully experience the area.  We immediately picked up the Golan Trail system. It is prominently marked with 3 stripes on stones along the route to let you know you’re on the trail. We rolled out of Majdal Shams and found ourselves alone in a rocky and green mountainous landscape.

Gunshots cracked. To my left, through the cool, foggy mist, I saw soldiers running, crawling, and yelling, some diving behind rocks. “What the?!”  Don’t go to Israel, echoed those same voices in my mind again. What am I doing up here? I hadn’t read about any conflict on the news. Yuval looked back at me and saw the concern (not quite panic) in my eyes, and smiling, he said, “Military training. This brings back memories. All men and women serve 2 years in the military when they graduate high school.” Right, I knew that.

We continued downhill, the weather gradually improving. Syrian remnants of a prior civilization dot the landscape. A crumbled wall, an abandoned mosque. This was contested land, but make no mistake, we were in Israel and the Israelis had no intention of giving it up. All along the fence line, yellow signs clearly displayed the words, “DANGER. MINES!”, together with army posts perched atop strategic peaks notified me of wars in the past and places we should not be. There is something eerie and chilling when cycling through a war torn place, knowing its history of sacrifice.

For these 3 days, I resigned myself to being a tourist and letting Yuval play tour guide. This is of course his country and I had only a faint idea of how much it meant to him to be able to share it with me. We meandered our way through dense forests, lush green and rocky meadows, down from the Golan Heights to the shores of the Sea of Galilee, where we camped on our last night together. As we rolled out of the bustling town the following day, April, 10 at 10 a.m., sirens began to wail. It was a disaster siren, the kind you would hear if there was an earthquake, a storm…or war. Yuval put out his hand, indicating for me stop pedaling. “Holocaust Day,” he said solemnly. My body shuttered. Goosebumps blanketed every inch of me while a chill ran down my spine.   The entire town (and all of Israel) literally stopped. People got out of their cars and stood still for 2 minutes throughout the country.  The rest of the world was still spinning, but not in Israel. This was a time for the entire country to remember the 6 million lives lost in the Holocaust, and vow never again, and to never forget. I simply cannot imagine the terror that people of Jewish decent faced, just for being Jewish. This is the culture that I longed to experience. A sense of national heritage and pride stronger than anything I had ever seen. This was more than a bike ride.

Here is a quick clip posted online

Yuval continued to head west, and I hopped back on the same bus, back to the Golan Heights. I arrived once again in Majdal Shams.  This time the sun was shining on this mountainside town. There is actually a ski resort named Mt. Hermon which I cycled up to. It is the highest point in Israel at just over 5k feet. The top of the mountain is over 7k feet but that road is closed for military use only, because, at the top of the mountain, off the back side, is Syria.

That night, as I desperately cruised through Majdal Shams, intent to find a place to sleep for less than 300 sheckles (about $100), I stopped at a bike shop just before dark. I’ve learned that typically people in bike shops are helpful to guys on bikes. “Hotel in town? 300 sheckles is good price. Very inexpensive in Israel.” I had heard this a dozen times already. I guess it was just sticker shock after having traveled in India, Nepal, Tibet, and Thailand and rarely paid over $10. (Of course many of those hotels were barely worth $10 per night.) “It’s too much,” I whined back, really not wanting to spend $100 on a hotel. “I have idea. You need place to sleep? Hold on. I will call a friend.” Five minutes later, a man showed up, in his late 20’s. “How much you want to pay? 150 sheckles?” Anything less than 300 was a win for me. He took me to his apartment just around the corner. “I have the most reviews on AirBnB in Majdal Shams,” he boasted. However, when I was checking out AirBnB earlier that day, I didn’t see his posting, or any other for that matter. He opened the door to his 600 sf studio apartment, and for about $40, I had a place to sleep. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure this was not on AirBnb because there were still dishes in the sink, empty beer bottles on the counter, and the bed wasn’t made.  It seemed that he got a call and gave me his home for the night and went to sleep at a friend’s house.  That was truly a very trusting move to allow a stranger into your home with no background check or insurance policy.  However, I’ve slept in $10 rooms in India and this was definitely an upgrade.

The following morning, I woke up to a barrage of text messages and emails. “Are you ok?” was the common theme. The United States had launched a targeted missile strike in the early morning hours on Damascus, Syria, while I was asleep, literally 100 yards from the Syrian border, and at most 20 miles from Damascus. I opened up the news to confirm all the panicking emails and messages. I rolled out through town later that morning and life seemed the same as the day prior. The sun was shining on the gorgeous green mountainside. There was no smoke billowing up into the sky.  People were going about their day, drinking coffee, going to the market, or scurrying off to work. Living in the United States, its unfathomable think of war going on around us in Canada or Mexico. This is something that the residents of Israel live with every day. It’s so ingrained that they don’t even notice.  It’s like a traffic jam on the way to work.  It’s just life.

I continued out of town, following the Northern Road that parallels the border of now Lebanon, heading toward the village of Metula. It is a gorgeous, lightly traveled 2 lane paved road that “stitches” back and forth along the hillside. Prior to arriving in Metula, I stopped at the village of Gjarha which sits literally on the border of Lebanon and Israel. I was anxious to enter and catch a glimpse of Lebanese culture. The 4 guards brandishing automatic weapons at the gate, thought otherwise. “This is a split village. Half Arab. Half Jewish. Foreigners not allowed. You must go back the way you came.”   Not wanting to back track, I appealed for a compromise, “There is a secondary road heading west. Can I take this?” I pleaded.  “This is a military road that goes along the border. It would probably be ok but also could be snipers…but is probably ok.” What the hell was I thinking? In what world does , “…probably be ok but also could be snipers…but is probably ok.” sound like a good idea?  I looked on the map and saw that just to the south of this military road was the Israel National Trail and a nature preserve, so somehow that justified its safety. Off I went. Two kilometers down this dusty broken road, a fully armored Humvee came racing up the road toward me, a cloud of dust in its wake. My heart stopped. Was I someplace I was not supposed to be? I was told by the guard that this road was ok to cycle on? I didn’t cross a border by mistake. Shit!!! What am I doing here? Don’t go to Israel was going through my head on a loop.  I went through a dozen excuses and reasons to justify my existence here.  The vehicle barely slowed down, the helmeted driver and passengers waiving as it thundered by me. Seriously…what am I doing here?

Two hours later, I arrived in the small mountain village of Metula. I stopped in a local café for some water. Dried sweat formed a salty paste on my face. “Are you Jerry?” I heard from the man behind the counter. I read about you on Facebook on ‘Bikepacking Israel’. You posted that you were traveling through Israel by bike and looking for homestays. Someone responded to you. I will call him.” Ten minutes later, I was staying in the home of someone I had never met, and likely would never meet. A kind stranger had offered me his home while he was away and told me to stay as long as I needed.

Metula is a small village of only several thousand people. It is picturesque with its cush hotels, fancy cafes, set against a lush carpet of rolling green landscape. Spring is here and the streets are lined with freshly blooming flowers. Israeli flags on every corner flap in the warm breeze. It is a wealthy community. At the edge of town is a park where children play and families have picnics. There is laughter in the air.  Across the road is a wall. It separates Israel from Lebanon. Fully armored Humvees pass by almost routinely to the point where nobody even notices, intermittently drowning out the childhood laughter.  Soldiers walk around with machine guns like business people carry briefcases. Circling sounds of helicopters and aircraft are constant since the most recent bombing in Damascus. Nobody seems to think anything of it. No one even looks at them but rather look at me, curiously, as I photograph the military presence and they wonder what I’m doing? There is no indication or sign that there is any conflict here or any place near here. It looks like just some beautiful remote village in Europe. There are no doubt families that have been divided by this border both in Lebanon and Syria over the years. What do they think when they look across into Israel? Do they wonder why there is this conflict much the way that I do? I have read bits about the history of Israel and this region and I still don’t exactly know fully what it is all about. Do they even think about this friction anymore or because it  been going on for so many years, it does not even enter into their thought process? Evidently it is their normal, living next to country, separated by a wall, that they can never cross.  Families and relationships strung out across 2 countries.  Is this the path that America is choosing with our relations with Mexico? Growing up in Michigan, I cannot fathom the idea of being afraid of Canadians or not being able to travel back and forth freely.  It is such a foreign mentality. I was definitely apprehensive prior to coming to Israel. My friends, family, and the news media did nothing to assuage those fears, but I have been shown nothing but genuine kindness from every person that I’ve met.  In this region, regardless of their background (or government) I just want to believe…I have to believe…that people really are just people, trying to get by.  Trying to make a life.