Stopping the Nonstop: Kibbutz Ramat Rachel

 Back in Cairo, after having experienced the wonders of Luxor and the Valley of the Kings, Tom and Jim had originally planned to push north to Turkey and begin the overland journey to India. They should have been excited. They weren’t. They were exhausted.

When they returned overseas nearly two months earlier, each had traveled solo before meeting again in Cairo. Jim backpacked around Europe and Israel. Tom spent most of those weeks exploring the upcountry of West Africa with his Peace Corps friends and then out to the open plains of East Africa. They both had kept a frenetic pace. And after two hot and dusty weeks in Egypt, they felt burned out. They needed a break.

There was another consideration. The monsoon season in India was approaching, and they weren’t particularly eager to charge headlong into the next leg of the journey simply because that was what Overlanders were supposed to do.

Neither can say for sure who first suggested it, but one of them floated the idea of going back to Israel to work on a kibbutz. Growing up, they’d heard very little about the kibbutzim movement. Jim remembered reading that General Moshe Daya—then most recently of the Six-Day War fame—was born on a kibbutz (Kibbutz Degania Alef, near the Sea of Galilee). Tom, during his visit at the end of the first journey, had heard from fellow travelers that while the work was typically boring, people from all over the world volunteered. They liked the idea of staying in one place for a while instead of constantly running to see the next historical site or catching the next crowded train.

Tom was attracted to the idea of the kibbutz as a communal experiment, where people of different generations live and work together. It seemed to offer a kind of back-to-basics existence, a deliberate step away from the money-and-career-centered life waiting for them back home. Jim liked the idea of spending more time in Israel and exploring some of the areas he had not yet visited. He also wouldn’t object to meeting and working side-by-side with a nice-looking young kibbutznikit.

They flew to Tel Aviv and made a beeline to the office responsible for registering and assigning international volunteers to kibbutzim. Once there, they were offered two possibilities: factory work in a manufacturing kibbutz farther north or an agricultural kibbutz near Jerusalem. The choice wasn't difficult. They would be working outdoors. They’d be a short bus ride away from Jerusalem. Later that afternoon, they took a bus to Jerusalem, then transferred to Egged Bus Line No. 8. At the end of the line was Kibbutz Ramat Rachel.

Within an hour, they had been introduced to several members of the kibbutz and shown their accommodations. The volunteer quarters were simple, single-story buildings, with two rooms on either side of communal showers and toilets. 

The volunteer "dorm" that was home to Tom and Jim for three (maybe four) months.

Tom noted that their room was a bit larger than a Notre Dame dorm room; all it needed were some Fightin’ Irish posters. There was a bunk bed and a free-standing single bed. Underneath that bed was a backpack.

“Looks like we’ve got a roommate,” Jim said.

A few minutes later, they met him. His name was Hideaki, a Japanese traveler who spoke very little English. Nevertheless, the boys learned that Hideaki had studied intensely at the University of Tokyo and had performed publicly as a pianist. He had come to Israel for much the same reasons they had: he wanted to do something different. He didn’t want to conform to the strict expectations of Japanese society. As they talked, Hideaki would stop them, pull out a tiny notebook and pen from his back pocket, and ask them to define a word that he didn’t understand. He was determined to learn both English and Hebrew before returning to Japan. The three of them became fast friends.

A Different Kind of Travel

For Tom, the change was dramatic. Only recently he had been immersed in Africa, with all its chaos and unpredictability. Now he found himself in a settled community on the outskirts of one of the world's and history’s most famous cities.

He had mixed feelings about the transition. In his journal, he wrote about how sad he was to leave Africa, describing it as chaotic but somehow wholesome and real. Too much civilization, he thought, could make a person appreciate order while simultaneously longing for the disorder of places that still seemed to be in their infancy.

Still, the kibbutz offered something Africa didn’t. A routine.

The work would be menial, Tom knew, but he intended to find some sense of worth in it. They would have to get up early, but working in an orchard was something neither had experienced before. There was also the attraction of simplicity. Tom wrote about his affection for the back-to-basics philosophy of Henry David Thoreau and the notion that having little could actually mean having more.

And there was another important feature of Ramat Rachel: A swimming pool. After months of traveling, the idea of finishing a day's work and jumping into a kibbutz swimming pool seemed almost luxurious.

Jim was less interested in getting back to basics than he was in getting down to business, the business being picking peaches, apples, and plums. The work itself wasn’t the lure. He was eager to meet his co-workers, both the volunteers and the permanent members of the kibbutz. In a way, he was switching roles with Tom. Tom was always the one eager to meet and greet, while Jim typically held back. Something about Israel struck a deep chord with Jim.

He and Tom would meet another permanent member at 4:30 the next morning, when a man awakened them by banging an Uzi against the steel frame of the bunk bed.

It was time to hit the orchard.

***

That was Then. Click on the video for the Overlanders Now reflections below for more on their decision to detour to Israel. 

Comments? C'mon, tell us what you think. We'd love to hear from you!

Book Break With the Overlanders

We interrupt this blog for the first in a series of brief "Book Break With the Overlanders," in which we discuss Jim's new novel, Extenuating Circumstances. Check it out!

Luxor and the Valley of the Kings

 The pyramids were not enough.

Their horseback rides around the Great Pyramids of Giza and the Step Pyramid of Saqqara had only whetted their appetites. Tom and Jim set their sights farther south, toward ancient Thebes—modern Luxor—and the Valley of the Kings.

Although they were both experienced hitchhikers by now, the unrelenting sun, scorching heat,

and healthy concern about hitchhiking in a country so different from any they had traveled in persuaded the boys to opt for a train. They also opted for seats in the air-conditioned first-class compartment instead of the crowded and—as evidenced by all the open windows—unair-conditioned second-class cars. At $7 a seat, this decision was a definite budget-buster. But any concern dissipated quickly when they were shown to their comfortable seats and, even before the train left the station, a generous serving of chicken and rice was placed in front of them. They exchanged astonished glances. The portions were enormous, and the aroma alone made the splurge seem worthwhile.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the window beside Jim’s seat. On the platform, a group of young boys stood with their hands clasped as if in prayer, shouting words he could not hear. Some gestured for him to lower the window. One of the boys had a stump for a hand, another was missing a nose. He and Tom now realized that they were looking at a group of lepers, the first time either of them had seen the ravages of this horrible disease. They sat frozen, forks in hands. To start eating in front of these poor boys felt wrong. Even after a porter on the platform chased them away, it wasn’t until the train pulled out of the station that they took their first forkfuls.  

Tom read from his trusty guidebook that Herodotus called Egypt "the gift of the Nile." From the train window it was easy to see why. The fertile green ribbon carved by the river was surprisingly narrow in parts, with desert pressing in on both sides. For thousands of years, the Nile's annual flooding transformed this strip of land into one of the great cradles of civilization.

The boys sat back and took in the view. Men guided oxen through the fields behind wooden plows. Water was still lifted by hand. Mud-brick homes baked beneath the sun. Donkeys pulled wagons toward market while graceful dhows drifted across the river. Women dressed in flowing black robes worked in the fields as men lingered over tea outside village cafés. Tom scribbled in his journal:

"Timelessness. Slower life, so rich and meaningful. People doing these same things for centuries. Such simple activity, yet so powerful."

Jim's fuzzy shot of The Nile and its Ribbon of Green, taken from a ridge near the Valley of the Kings

The ride was so comfortable that they were almost disappointed to reach Luxor. But the disappointment didn’t last long. Located on the site of Ancient Thebes—capital of the Egyptian Empire for nearly a thousand years—Luxor was everything Cairo wasn't. Smaller, calmer, and infinitely more manageable. Outside the station, a boy of about 10 emerged from the tangle of bicycles, battered taxis, donkey carts, and horse-drawn carriages and handed Tom a hotel card while citing its virtues using, they guessed, all the English the boy knew: Clean very clean, cheap very cheap, come with me, sir, you like. His sales pitch worked partly because, according to Jim, the kid was the absolute personification of Oliver Twist. Or maybe the Artful Dodger.

The town came alive as the sun went down and the worst of the day’s heat eased. The energy could be felt in the smoky kebab stands, the tiny shops that crowded against each other, the cafes filled with (primarily) men playing board games while sipping tea, and the families that strolled through it all at a relaxed pace. Many younger Egyptians wore loose, pajama-like clothing perfectly suited for the relentless summer temperatures. Combined with the unpaved streets, horse carts, and warm hospitality, Luxor possessed the relaxed energy of a frontier town.

The next day, the boys made their way to Amun-Re at Karnak, which elicited from Tom several impressions of Ed McMahon introducing Johnny Carson as “Karnak the Magnificent.” But what was truly magnificent was what the next several hours brought, starting with the Avenue of Ram-headed Sphinxes, then on to the Great Hypostyle Hall and its 134 towering columns, many nearly seventy feet high, supporting what had once been one of the greatest religious structures on the planet. Even after four thousand years, traces of brilliant paint and finely carved hieroglyphics could be seen. Standing beneath those colossal columns, the Overlanders found themselves marveling at what the ancient Egyptians had accomplished four millennia earlier. Every wall, every carving, every massive block of stone had been shaped by hand. No power tools. No cranes. No heavy equipment.

Temple at Karnak

The afternoon heat was sapping their energy, so they decided to see if they’d get kicked off the verandah of the glamorous Luxor Hotel on account of their decidedly unglamorous backpacker attire. They were relieved to be welcomed graciously and spent several hours under a gently turning ceiling fan, sipping lemonade, and watching feluccas sail by on the Nile.

Feluccas on the Nile

The goal for the next day was to cross the Nile and visit the Valley of the Kings to pay their respects at the tombs of a couple of ancient-Egypt rock stars, Tutankhamun and Ramesses II. Another young entrepreneur ferried them across the river in a tiny, uncomfortably rickety boat, where we met a man who offered to take them to their destination via donkey.

“Best way,” the man said. “You never forget.”

He was right.

After riding through some carefully cultivated fields, the trio and their donkeys started the long, slow climb up into the Thebian Hills. The trail grew narrower and narrower as the donkeys navigated increasingly steep desert ridges. Jim looked down at one point and felt his stomach plummet when he saw how close his ass (both of them) were to the edge of the ridge.

Jim risked life and limb by taking this shot, atop a smarter ass than he, on a trail high above the Temple of Hatshepset

Fortunately, the donkey was calm and sure-footed. When not weighing the odds of a misstep sending them into eternity, Tom and Jim had plenty of time to appreciate the silence, acclimate to the heat, and marvel at the fact that kings, queens, and travelers of every description had traveled this route for thousands of years.

Tom with guide, the Nile in the background.

By the time they dismounted at the entrance to the Valley of the Kings, however, the only thing on their minds was not finding the tombs of the pharaohs but finding an ice-cold Coca-Cola.

Only after quenching their thirst, courtesy of a man with a picnic cooler that seemed way out of place, did they begin descending into the tombs. In each of the ones they visited, steep stairways took them underground into narrow passageways lined with remarkably preserved paintings and hieroglyphics. They passed by numerous empty rooms before finally reaching the burial chamber, which typically featured a massive stone sarcophagus within brilliantly colored walls depicting gods, kings, and the promise of eternal life. Tom wondered how Howard Carter must have felt when he discovered the intact tomb of Tutankhamun in 1922—not all that long ago, given the enormous span of history.

Entrance to Tutankhamun's tomb

After the tombs, Tom and Jim visited the nearby Temple of Queen Hatshepsut at Deir el-Bahari. Rising in graceful terraces against towering limestone cliffs, its clean geometric lines contrasted dramatically with the hidden tombs carved into the surrounding mountains. 

The Mortuary Temple of Hatshepsut

Colossi of Memnon

Their final stop in the Valley was the Colossi of Memnon, two enormous, 40-foot-high statues of a seated Amenhotep III, who had been watching over the Nile Valley for more than three thousand years. Ancient visitors claimed the statues sang at sunrise after an earthquake cracked one of them. Tom and Jim heard no music that day, but they were delighted to discover graffiti left centuries earlier by none other than the Roman emperors Hadrian and Septimius Severus.

Evening was approaching, so it was time to get back on the donkeys, reverse their route back to the eastern bank of the Nile and to Cairo for the next leg of their journey. This time, though, instead of splurging (again) on first-class train tickets, they purchased second-class tickets. Jim reasoned that because the 10-12-hour ride would be at night, the heat would not be so oppressive.

He was wrong.

The carriage overflowed with passengers. Hawkers squeezed through impenetrable crowds selling tea, biscuits, and chocolate. With no seats available, Tom and Jim spent much of the night on the grimy floor near the toilets while curious Egyptians looked on with amused expressions. Few Western travelers ventured into second-class unreserved compartments. At one point, needing fresh air, Jim opened one of the wide doors and sat there gulping in air. After a while, someone would close it and yell something at Jim that Jim, of course, didn’t understand. He would open the door again, someone else would close it again, and again yell something at Jim. Jim preferred the reprimand to the suffocating heat and stench.

It was one of the most difficult but also memorable train rides they had taken thus far. Looking back on it now, they remember how the moon was reflected on the Nile, and the families gathered around small fires all along the river, and the strange satisfaction that comes from surviving something miserable while you're young enough to think it's an adventure. And little did they know there’d be an even more stressful ride. This one in an entirely different desert.

Dawn brought Cairo. The boys eagerly jumped off the train, and soon thereafter headed to the airport. Somewhere along the line, probably over beer at the Cairo Hilton or lemonade on the Hotel Luxor’s verandah, the Overlanders decided to visit another ancient land: Israel.

###

Jim, exhausted but happy to be off that train and back in Cairo

***

That was Then. Click on the video for the Overlanders Now reflections on Luxor and the Valley of the Kings.

Comments? C'mon, tell us what you think. We'd love to hear from you!

Reunited (in Cairo) And It Feels So Good

Before setting out on their next round of backpacking, this one across the Middle East and Asia, Jim and Tom had arranged to meet in Cairo on June 2, 1979. During the months traveling apart—Jim in Europe and Israel, Tom in Africa—the two had no way to communicate with each other should something come up that would delay or even cancel the planned reunion.

Although the Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty had been signed in March of that year, direct flights from Tel Aviv to Cairo were not yet available for most travelers. So Jim, who was in Israel as June approached, flew first to Athens, then over to Cairo, landing a day earlier than the planned reunion. He arrived in the afternoon, checked into a hotel, and spent the rest of the day getting lost in the hot, dusty, and crowded streets and alleys. The next day, he checked out of the hotel because another night would have been a budget-buster. He headed back out to the airport, hoping that he or his friend hadn’t somehow mixed up the date of their planned reunion. Fortunately, neither had. Jim was tremendously relieved when he saw the familiar orange backpack bobbing up and down above the heads of the disembarking passengers, and Tom was equally reassured when he heard a familiar voice call out, “Binks!” After months of traveling solo, they were reunited and, as Peaches and Herb (Boomer alert!) might have sung, it felt good.

Meeting the (Unofficial) Ambassador of Cairo

Characteristically, Tom had chatted up some fellow passengers on his flight and became fast friends with Tom and Annie, a couple from Australia. They had read about cheap lodging at a place called the Golden Hotel and invited Tom and Jim along. Located in the heart of Cairo, the hostel offered rooms with two single beds, a squatter toilet, and a shower—rather luxurious for $3 a night. Its owner’s name was Faris, a delightfully eccentric Christian Coptic and former real estate lawyer. Faris was 76 years old, completely bald, sported a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses, and a pencil mustache. He had retired from lawyering 10 years previously and obviously relished his new vocation as ambassador to backpackers and budget travelers. He spoke excellent English —accompanied by energetic hand gestures—and insisted on helping Tom and Jim plan their own walking tour of the city. 

First to the Mosque of Sultan Husan. Built in the mid 14^th century, it remains a vibrant symbol of the Islamic religion and, for the boys, a great introduction to Islamic art and architecture with its inside central courtyard, impressive mihrab (a semicircular niche set into the qibla wall of a mosque, indicating the precise direction of the Kaaba in Mecca, which Muslims face during daily prayers), and striking minarets.  

Mihrab (prayer niche), Mosque of Sultan Hassan

Onto the Khan el-Khalili Bazaar area, a myriad of shops and owners enticing you to buy goods ranging from exquisite gold creations and exotic spices to T-shirts and traditional Egyptian apparel. It was a great introduction to the idea that everything has a price and haggling is mandatory. Case in point: Tom, having already experienced the confusing maze of Cairo’s streets and alleyways, asked a shop owner for directions to their next destination. The shop owner insisted that Tom buy “only ten” of his tchokes before helping. After Tom forked over a few dozen piastres, the shop owner said, “Go out door and turn right.” That was it.

The pay-to-play destination Tom inquired about was the Egyptian Museum, home of mummified Pharaohs from 3000-1000 BC, including perhaps the most famous of them all, Tutankhamen. Unfortunately, most of the Boy King’s treasures were on tour in America,  yet the famed Golden Mask was somewhere in the musty museum. Tom channeled Howard Carter, who in 1922 discovered Tutankhamen’s burial vault, and searched for the Golden Mask. After turning several corners, he had an inkling about the next one. Sure enough, he turned another corner and found himself staring right into the eyes of the Golden Mask!

Horsing Around the Pyramids

Tom and Jim were surprised to find that the Great Pyramids of Giza, Wonders of the World, were not to be found in some remote desert location but right on the edge of the ever-expanding city limits of Cairo. 

They ventured into the Great Pyramid of Cheops, following the tour guide through the cool (temperature and general awesomeness) secret corridors and tunnels (mostly bent over) to the inner sanctum, the room of the sarcophagus, where hopefully, after mummification, Cheops would continue his afterlife journey to the gods.

After leaving the Great Pyramid, the boys were gazing out at the other pyramids, bodies and eyes adjusting to the sudden heat of the blazing sun, when a young entrepreneur approached. "You rent horse for one hour, you see everything!"  This was not in the day’s plan or budget, but it was an opportunity too good to pass up. Jim, whose family at one time owned a couple of horses, hopped on the saddle and took off at full gallop. Tom, holding on for dear life, caught up to him when Jim stopped to take in the sight of the pyramids and vast desert before them.

Tom (foreground) and Jim outside the Great Pyramid of Cheops

In the distance was the Step Pyramid at Saqqara, designed by the legendary architect Imhotep in the 27^th century BC. “Let’s do it,” Jim said, and once again took off at full gallop. Tom felt more comfortable with each passing minute in the saddle, and soon caught up. When they reached the pyramid, they sat on their horses for a while, taking in the view and enjoying the absolute stillness of the desert. It seemed that both were speechless over the fact that they were in the very cradle of civilization, on horses no less! They exchanged can-you-believe-this looks, then started laughing at being in another world they never thought they’d see.

Tom (in foreground, again!) and Jim near the Step Pyramid at Saqqara

Domers in the Desert

Back in Cairo, it was now late afternoon. The hour had not diminished the scorching heat, and the streets seemed impossibly crowded and noisy after the quiet of the desert. The boys were parched. The extreme heat and thirst sapped their budgetary discipline. They needed air conditioning and something cool to drink. The lounge at the Cairo Hilton offered both. Surprisingly, given their dusty clothes and overall scraggly appearance, they were seated. As they sipped on Heinekens, Jim noticed a gentleman in a business suit, seated at the bar with another man, staring at him. Eventually, he walked over and pointed at Jim’s t-shirt. “You went to Notre Dame? Me, too!”

It was not the first time Jim’s t-shirt would attract attention. On this day, it brought them another beer. Later, in Tehran, it might have saved Jim’s life.

It was now nearing sunset. Faris had recommended they take in the Sound and Light show at the Great Pyramids and Sphinx. Since Faris’s suggestions had proven excellent thus far, the boys finished their beers and headed back to the pyramids. There, a guide offered to take them away from the crowd gathering to an isolated spot with “the best view.” Skeptical at first, the boys eventually agreed to the guide’s fee and were led to a spot that did, as promised, offer a spectacular view. He also offered them some hash, which the boys declined (at least, that’s what they’re saying for the record). The guide stomped off just as a voice boomed as if from the heavens: “I am Ramses, Pharaoh of the Egyptians!" 

The open desert to one side, crowded Cairo on the other, the Pyramids, the Sphinx, the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer, and the voice of Ramses thundering across the heavens. Who needed hash to fully experience, as Tom liked to say, another moment of nirvana?

***

That was Then. Click on the video for the Overlanders Now reflections on Cairo.

Comments? C'mon, tell us what you think. We'd love to hear from you!

Jim's Solo Trek Across Europe to Cairo

by James King

Even before I landed in New York, broke and jobless, I knew I would go back for more travel; more specifically, overland travel. But I’d need money, and I’d need to complete what I left Europe to do—write a novel. I couldn’t have been luckier on both counts. 

Jim's crazy wandering across Europe to Cairo

First, one of my university professors, Elizabeth Christman, offered to mentor me through the novel-writing process. She was a remarkable woman. Originally from St. Louis, she was an agent at a major New York literary agency for many years. Then, at age 55, she started teaching at the University of Notre Dame. I took one of her courses, Writing for Publication. She couldn’t have been more supportive and encouraging of my writing. When I called from Ohio to tell her of my determination to write a novel, she suggested that I get a job in South Bend so that we could meet in person instead of over the phone.

Fortunately, one of the jobs I had in Ohio to earn enough to afford the first trip was as a prep cook in a steak restaurant chain called The Boar’s Head. It so happened that there was also a Boar’s Head in South Bend. I visited my former boss at the North Olmsted (OH) Boar’s Head, and he was kind enough to call the manager in South Bend. He gave me a glowing and entirely undeserved recommendation. 

I don’t recall where I stayed those first few days in South Bend, but I quickly found a tiny studio apartment not far from the restaurant, the University, and Ms. Christman’s apartment. I couldn’t afford a car, so I bought a bike to get to work and Ms. Christman’s place. At the restaurant, I moved out of the kitchen and onto the floor as a waiter, where the money from tips was more than what I would have earned as a prep cook. Many of the other employees were Notre Dame undergrads or graduate students, and we all got along well. Maybe too well? After work, we’d often meet in the lounge for a drink or two or more, and then go somewhere else for more beers, hot dogs, and laughs. Too often, I found myself biking unsteadily back to my apartment as dawn broke.

In the meantime, Ms. Christman (it took me a long time to honor her request to call her Liz), mentored me as promised and, after several do-overs, helped me get my first full-length manuscript ready to send out to publishers. She even offered to—and did—act as a sort of agent by sending it out to publishers while I traveled. She never stopped telling me that she knew, just knew, that one day I’d be asking her to sign a copy of one of my novels. It still breaks my heart that she passed away before that could happen.

By the time I completed my novel (spoiler: it was never published—the first of several) and despite all the money I had blown on late-night beers and bad food, I had saved enough to head back to Europe and, eventually, the Middle East and Asia. Tom and I had been in touch to map out our journey. As Tom noted in the previous post, he wanted to explore parts of Africa, while I wanted to revisit parts of Europe and explore some countries we didn’t visit. We decided to meet up in Cairo, Egypt.

At last, departure day came. I took Air Icelandic to Luxembourg. From there, I revisited Amsterdam, Munich, Venice, Paris, and Nice. Then over to Spain, with a stop in Lourdes, France, which struck me as an interesting mix of tacky and transcendent. Despite my intention to spend more time in Spain, I ditched those plans in San Sebastian, on the Bay of Biscay. Time was starting to drag. I was not and am not an extrovert, which can make for pleasant solo travel but also very lonely travel at times. The weather was cold and rainy, which always affects one’s perspective of a place, and my perspective was getting gloomier by the day. I decided to move on, making my way back across Western Europe to sunnier skies.

On the first trip over, heavy seas prevented Tom and me from visiting Corfu, Greece. I decided to try again, and this time I made it. On the train to Brindisi, Italy, to catch the ferry, I met two women from California, Ann and Dawn, and we traveled together for the next week or so. Corfu was breathtaking. We rented bikes to explore the island. At night, these two extroverts were always up for dancing. Me, less so, but I tagged along. One night, Ann started a dance that she assured us was Greek. It involved kissing someone at random whenever the music paused. From the startled looks of the Greek recipients of her and Dawn’s touristy affections, this “kissing dance” was a myth. Fortunately, they realized this before the looks of surprise turned to interest.

In Athens, I said goodbye to my new friends, although we would later reunite when I lived in San Francisco. They went home to Northern California, and I flew to Israel. 

After a day or two in Tel Aviv, I spent nearly a month hitchhiking around the country, from Tiberius and the Sea of Galilee in the north to Dahab and the Red Sea in the south. 

My first glimpse of Kinneret--The Sea of Galilee

    As always, the memory of place is brought back to life by the people I met: The farmer who picked up a hitchhiking me, Uzi on the dash of his tractor, as he made his way to a kibbutz near Kinneret; the schoolboys who engaged me in kicking a soccer ball around a street in Nazareth--still one of my favorite photos, which I keep framed on my desk;

My Nazarene soccer pals

Yeah, me, a year or two ago.

the boys' school teacher, who invited me into his home for lunch in return for sending him a Parker fountain pen when I returned to the States; the young Texan I met in a Jerusalem hostel who liked to walk the stony streets of Jerusalem’s Old City in a Stetson and duster (and who promised that the South would rise again, with disastrous results for Yankees like me); the couple, Ed and Mareet, who I met on a bus in the Negev Desert as we made our way to Dahab (then under Israeli control but returned to Egypt in 1982), where we slept on the beach, under the stars, and discovered by tire tracks in the morning that we had barely escaped being run over by a jeep on patrol. 

    

Sleeping under the stars in Dahab

And then back to the Old City of Jerusalem. I just could not get enough of it. I visited the Western Wall so often that a rabbi approached me one day and asked, in broken English, if I was Jewish. When I told him I wasn’t, he shook his head and insisted I was. After some back and forth, we came to the agreement that we, and everyone in this sacred space, were brothers.

The Western Wall, 1979

Two young shepherds, watching and waiting to see how long it would be before someone would stop and pick up this hitchhiker.

A market in Bethlehem

Soon it was time to fly to Cairo to meet up with Tom. I arrived a day before the agreed-upon meet-up date and wandered around Cairo, killing time, not really taking in much. The next day, I took a bus back to the airport, wondering whether Tom had decided to stay in Africa or had mixed up the dates. There was no way to know.  The various possibilities, all negative, nagged me until I saw, among a crowd of people heading toward customs, a familiar orange backpack bobbing up and down. It was Binks, and it was good to be back together after so many weeks of traveling alone. We shook hands (this was 1979; males didn’t hug each other back then) and in no time at all fell into our pattern of traveling together, splitting when we got on each other’s nerves, and then reuniting.

As we left the Cairo airport, Tom raised his fist and yelled at the top of his voice, “The boys are back!”

(Not sure that actually happened, but it was definitely something Binks would do. And it makes for a nice Hollywood ending to this post.)

***

That was Then. Click on the video for Tom's interview with Jim about his Now reflections on his solo trek to Cairo.

Next Post/Video: Down the Nile: Luxor and the Valley of the Kings.

Comments? Don't be shy. Tell us what you think. We'd love to hear from you!

Into Africa

by Thomas P. Bingle 

Toledo was quite comfortable for me and the time home, 11 months, went smoothly and quickly.  Jim and I reconnected and discovered that neither of us had gotten rid of the travel bug.  So we started planning another Joint Adventure! This expedition involved one of the most challenging explorations of the backpacking world: the Overland Journey from Istanbul to Kathmandu. We decided that our rendezvous point would be in Cairo, Egypt.

Cairo was a natural meeting point as Jim was looking first to return to Europe and then to explore the Pyramids and venture along the Nile prior to Istanbul. I, on the other hand, felt I could journey my way through Africa by visiting two friends who embarked on two-year stints with the Peace Corps in western Africa.  Both Carl in Sierra Leone and Steve in Ghana had already been in their fascinating roles for some time and were excited about someone visiting them.     

 As the plane took off, I was full of apprehension, taking another BIG STEP, away from security and stability, to venture into the unknown, Africa! Yet, with the world of travel, there always seems to be some help, as my seatmate as we crossed the Atlantic was a Dutch girl crushed by a relationship crisis on her way back home.   Through our conversation, we lifted each other's spirits and confidence so that we both could face the unknown once on land!

Tom and Richard, Sierra Leone

To help my entry into Africa, I was hoping Carl could be at the airport, he could not make it, and after walking on the tarmac from the airplane to the airport, I got my first taste of the friendliness I would experience in Africa when Richard, a young man in Baggage Claim, with his kindness helped me through the chaotic Customs without any expectation of a tip.   In addition to a grateful Thank You, I only mentioned I would hope to see him upon my departure! 

The nighttime transfer into Freetown, Sierra Leone, was full of new scenes with children playing along the side of the road, mud huts, no streetlights, and mothers breastfeeding.  To make the arrival into Africa even more dramatic, you had to take a ferry to enter Freetown, so named as it was one of the first cities in Africa to welcome Freed Slaves, and so with the wind in my face on the top deck, a beer in hand, 110% humidity, and talking with locals, I entered Africa, land of the earliest humans, phenomenal nature and a world that few backpackers visit! 

I met Carl the next morning, and by walking the streets of Freetown, he introduced me to a dominant aspect of financial, cultural, and social life of Africa: The Market!!!  The Capital City featured fabulous markets selling nearly every type of vegetable and items from hairpieces to harmonicas!!! 

The next day, we were on a Mammy Wagon, an open-air mini truck replete with unpadded wooden benches, careless drivers, a great African cast of mothers with their market goods, men returning from the diamond fields, and school children all cramped in.  Our destination was the upcountry home of Carl, the small village of Sumbuya, a land of no electricity, bars, restaurants, or billboards.  His home was on one level, with a living room, storeroom, and bedroom, kitchen, and latrine out back.  From here, Carl would hop on his Honda 50 motorbike and visit 5-6 villages a day.  In the evening, we enjoyed visiting with neighbors on his porch lit only by a lantern.  A nightly ritual was the sound of the BBC radio providing an update on the outside world before getting some sleep, unless the African rains pounded on his zinc roofing! 

Mammy Wagon

What was fascinating was the role that both Carl and Steve were living while working for the Peace Corps. Situated up in the country, they were involved in establishing Health Committees in the villages by introducing elementary Western health care ways to the vital indigenous healers, local herbalists, and fetish priests of the region, who were very respected in the countryside.  As the African populations accept each health care system as viable, the goal was to have each tradition complement each other  As Carl noted, “one of the most unique Peace Corps programs, as there was great potential with its goals to solve being basic ones.” If only to stem the high rate, 50%, of infant mortality in Sierra Leone, but also at this time 50% of the world's population did not have access to a medical doctor.  I noticed that both Carl and Steve were respected in their villages.

Carl and Steve, were instrumental in another vital local function: securing well-diggers to increase the number of freshwater wells. Highly respected in the village, the well-digger amazed me in the way they could keep a perfect circle for nearly 40 feet underground. As Carl would go to brush his teeth or cook some vegetables out back, he would pass a recently dug well.

Tom's friend, Carl (l), and the village well-digger.

After two weeks with Carl in Sierra Leone, where due to reliable rains, there seemed an abundance of food sources and a lower population, I boarded a flight from Freetown, where I met up again, as hoped, with the friendly Richard, to Accra, Ghana.  Quite a difference between the calm of Sierra Leone and the hectic, dynamic, intense, and populated world of Ghana. Several negative sights on the ride in from the Accra airport revealed more evident problems with pollution, poverty, and sanitation. 

After Accra, we went up to Steve’s house in the small area of Techiman, Ghana, which was similar to Carl's Sumbuya but with a little more creature comforts.  Again, friendliness was experienced everywhere, as when walking in his village, it seemed that you were returning hellos to everyone, and if you ever said a word or phrase in Twi, which Steve often did, the local language, you were celebrated!!!

Techiman and the surrounding area were enthused with Steve's meetings focusing on the coordination of Western medical techniques with the health care of the indigenous traditional healers in an attempt to create a collegial, cooperative link. One day, Steve and I went to nearly 10 traditional healers to discuss their daily lives of helping to heal many different situations involving medical ailments, but also daily life predicaments. Fetishes, which are inanimate objects that followers believed to be capable of supernatural powers, were present in all shrines. On several visits we were fortunate to witness the traditional healer or fetish priest presenting the potential healing power and the revealing element of fetishes mixed in with some modern medical wisdom!

Ghana, not to be outdone, has one of the largest markets in all of Africa, as Steve mentioned that there are up to 10,000 vendors at the Kumasi Market. What a world, so many vendors selling the same items, but still all making a living. A vital world for the women of Africa, as the daily time allows for socialization, so precious for their livelihood, as in the upcountry throughout Africa, the woman is the backbone of the culture, family, and values from early morning to late evening!!!  Thieves are not welcome!

I truly enjoyed and was honored for the perspective that Carl and Steve provided about the strength of these West African cultures, as seeing the upcountry in depth was very unusual for travelers. These lands and peoples were bombarded back then with an onslaught of Western and Modern thinking, ways, and values.  There was a tension in all countries over how to incorporate these movements without losing or discarding the respected and entrenched African traditions and cultures.  Carl and Steve respected the native traditions and cultures, which helped them to move people closer to modern medical and adaptable insights.

Tom's friend Steve, Peace Corps volunteer. Ghana

Steve and I hitchhiked back down to Accra and then, on a whim, climbed a nearby mountain for a final moment together in Ghana.

Then it was onto East Africa, last stop before Cairo, via a wonderful flight pattern to Lagos, Nigeria, Yaoundé, Cameroon, to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, and eventually Nairobi, Kenya!

It was quite a contrast to West Africa, as Kenya presented a land of modern skyscrapers, fancy restaurants, working systems, and a National Game Park just fifteen minutes away. 

Kenya presented a chance to experience the amazing wildlife and diverse landscape for a budget, short-term (four-day) safari!!  Loaded into one minivan, three other German backpackers and I headed out, expecting that we would encounter face-to-face, man-eating beasts!  The views were outstanding as Mount Kilimanjaro never disappeared, and the abundance of birds made you a Birder, no matter what!!

It seemed like the true residents of Tsavo and Amboseli National Parks, however, headed indoors, and I felt like I was a caged animal in the mini-van.  I thought I almost heard the one tattered lion, the three elephants and one hippo whisper to one another, saying: "New Model of Toyota: Not Bad!" 

Also, on the safari, we met the famous locals, the Masai of Kenya, and very impressive in their lands, but I did stop in my tracks when hearing that visiting their rustic village would cost was $25US per person. Seemed a bit commercialized out in the Bush, but could fully understand their motives!

Could not help myself, as for a final stop out to the Indian Ocean communities of Mombasa, Malindi, and Lamu, I hitchhiked by pounding the back of my left hand into the palm of my right hand, and a lorry picked me up. A true mixture of nationalities out on the Indian Ocean, with Indians from India imported by the British Empire to run shops, businesses, and railroads, along with Muslims who have been trading for nearly two millennia from the Middle East due to the favorable trade winds, and finally, the African Kenyans living their lives.

In all, a great introduction to a different world, and I felt so blessed to experience Africa through various lenses. But in all lands, there seemed to be one characteristic that surfaced always: Friendliness!  

Onto Cairo, to meet back up with Jim.  Back in the States, we had planned on the date and time we would meet up at the airport.  But in the world of backpacking, plans can change for any number of reasons.  What would I do if Jim weren’t there?

***

That was Then. Click on the video for Jim's interview with Tom about his Now reflections on his journey into Africa.

Next Post/Video: Tom interviews Jim about what happened between Paris and Cairo.

Comments? Don't be shy. Tell us what you think. We'd love to hear from you!

Jim's Not-as-Excellent-as-Tom's Post-Paris Adventure

Overlanders Note: Paris was the last European city Tom and Jim explored together. By then, time was running out on their Eurail passes, and they parted ways—Jim back to England and then home to the States, Tom to Germany to find work and continue traveling. Although they didn’t know it at the time, they would reunite nearly a year later for a lengthy trek across the Middle East and Asia. In the previous post, "Tom's Excellent Post-Paris Adventure," Tom described what he did once Jim left. In this post, Jim tells his side of the story.
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Jim’s Not-as-Excellent-as-Tom’s Post-Paris Adventure
By James King

Tom Bingle (Binks, to me) had decided to stay in Europe and take a chance on finding work in Germany. I chose instead to spend Christmas with my oldest brother, Rick, and his family, stationed in England, before heading home to pursue a writing career.

Before I even got to Paris’s Gare du Nord, however, I was questioning my decision. On the train and the ferry across the channel, I wrote in my journal a masterpiece of uncertainty and self-doubt. What was my hurry? Why not at least try for a job abroad, as Binks was about to do? How many opportunities like this come along in life? Why not just turn around, head to Garmisch, reunite somehow (no cell phones in 1977) with Binks, and continue the journey?

Then again, why postpone getting on with “real life” and doing what I most wanted to do? More and more, the idea of writing a novel, or at least trying, occupied my thoughts. Wasn’t the decision I made in Torremolinos—to do what I was about to do—the right one? What if I went home, set up my idealized writer’s garret, and then realized I had nothing to say? A novelist? Who was I kidding? Wouldn’t Bavaria be better than a blank page?

Hamlet had nothing on me.

Journal entry after leaving Paris for England... and then home... already second-guessing my decision.

I let my indecision and nearly empty wallet carry me on to England. Reuniting with Rick, Sheryl, and their two young sons, Kevin and Colin, was a welcome relief from two months of constant travel. No thumbing through Let’s Go for hostel and restaurant recommendations (Sheryl is an excellent cook and baker). And the clipped British accent of five-year-old Kevin and three-year-old Colin was a constant delight.

But first, USAF Captain (eventually Colonel) King took me to the base barbershop. I thought my long hair looked appropriately cool and backpack-y, but there was no way Rick was going to take me into the officer’s club looking like I’d gotten lost on the way to Woodstock.

Rick and Sheryl were generous with their time and their friends. I attended several parties with them, and one extremely early morning, I got up to go pheasant hunting with Rick and a couple of his Air Force buddies. I’m quite sure that within two minutes of meeting me, as we drank pre-dawn coffee and downed a few donuts, they sized me up as Rick’s nerdy, non-hunter little brother. Nonetheless, they let me tag along, carrying a shotgun, which led me to wonder about the decision-making capabilities of these fine officers.

Christmas in England felt Dickensian with its “Father Christmas” instead of Santa and its “Happy Christmas” instead of Merry. As we celebrated, I wondered if Binks had secured a job. Sure enough, he called later that evening to say that he’d landed a job as a dishwasher. I told him I was happy for him while kicking myself for not doing the same.

But the die was cast. After a few more days with the Kings of England, I caught a flight out of Gatwick to JFK, scheduled to land around 9 pm.

Ending of a journal entry over the Atlantic, in which I tried to cram all the highlights of the trip before I forget them.

I made my way to Times Square, which was as tawdry as I’d left it, and over to the Port Authority, where I bought a bus ticket for the overnight ride. While waiting for departure, I was approached by a woman in her 50s who told me she could see I was a fine young man and wanted to include me in a “confidential” deal with her and her niece—nowhere to be seen—for not a lot of money. She reeked of alcohol and vomit, and when I told her I was broke, she loudly suggested I perform a physically impossible act upon myself.

Welcome home.

Finally, the long ride aboard a Greyhound bus from NYC to CLE. The glory days of bus travel, with men in suits and women sporting fancy hats, were long gone. The ride was fairly smooth but unending. I couldn’t sleep and, judging from the toxic output from others in those pre-no-smoking days, not many others could, either.  My seatmate, an older man who frequently apologized for his gassiness, got off in Buffalo. A few hours later, I stumbled off the bus at the Greyhound station on Chester Avenue in downtown Cleveland.

I was almost home to Lakewood, but already planning to leave again.

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That was Then. Click on the video for Tom's interview with Jim about his Now reflections on his Not-As-Excellent-as-Tom's Post-Paris Adventure.

Comments? Don't be shy. Tell us what you think. We'd love to hear from you!