May 7, 1986

Busing Out All Over

 A tourist’s-eye view of a bus trip to Masada

 Living in a tourist attraction, like Jerusalem, I have observed both native and tourists, and it has struck me that there must be a biological link between the two species. Their behavior patterns are remarkably interdependent.

    They coexist rather harmoniously. The native feeds off a green substance secreted from a leathery pouch of the tourist who, almost as if in exchange, forages for sustenance and services within the nesting grounds of the other.

    They even look alike.

    My assignment was simple: to track down a covey of tourists, mingle in their midst and determine: what are they doing here?

    Finding them was not difficult: I just telephoned United Tours and obliquely reserved a seat aboard a bus to Masada. I sheathed a pencil and, in the name of science, went forth.

    The bus pulled away with 19 tourists, two natives and another two natives posing as tourists (myself and Aliza my photographer). I saw no harm in identifying myself to the guide.

    “I’m Carol, your guide, and the man behind the wheel is Shlomo. And this gentleman is a journalist with the local newspaper. He’s coming along to do a story on us!” My cover blown, I flashed a smile and quickly proffered around a bag of garinim.

    The group was overwhelmingly American. There were also three Canadians, two Argentinians and one English tourist. About half were Jews (all Ashkenazi), none religious, no smokers, neatly spread out in age bracket from early 20s to mid-70s. Pleasant, all of them. Not a single kvetch, the bane of most tour groups.

    Wherever we went, they soaked in the local color. Blocked on the way out of Jerusalem by a car parked haphazardly on Rehov Mamilla, we were saved by a Lone Stranger who appeared out of nowhere to help Shlomo maneuver through, expertly hand-signaling a little to the left, a little to the right, until, with a shrug of his shoulders, our hero decided it couldn’t be done, and walked away. Shlomo reversed the big bus for two blocks, using only one swear word. “Oops,” Carol giggled, and apologized, and the deft driver was applauded.

    Out of the city, the local color consisted mostly of roadside shepherds, the occasional Beduin tent and some hardy hikers. “Hey, look! A camel!”

    Carol’s monologue told the tale of Masada, historically and archeologically. Her group this morning was intelligent and cooperatively fascinated by the neurotic King Herod, the enigmatic Josephus, the besieged Jews. They were especially intrigued by the daredevil Israeli drivers overtaking each other. From time to time Carol interjected to tell us about the scenery.

    “She’s a very good guide,” said Johanna Stucker, a 52-year-old Torontonian. Stucker’s interest in Masada starkly contrasted the perceptions of the Great Rock that others on the tour brought along. The aura of self-sacrifice – the legendary mass suicide – attracts most visitors to Masada.

    “I’m interested mostly in the paleolithic, neolithic and Early Bronze Age eras, and the transition between the periods.” Carol’s knowledge was also tested by lesser experts who had watched the Masada TV series.

    “Most Americans didn’t know about Masada until they saw the series on TV,” explained Mary Klainer. Her companion, Carolyn Peterson, added, “I didn’t know what it was until yesterday.” Two young nurses from Phoenix, they came to Israel for a week to “decompress” after spending a year doing relief work in Ethiopia. “We couldn’t go from the poorest country in the world to the richest in one step, so we thought of stopping off in Israel. I think we need more than a week to ‘do’ Israel properly, though.” Indeed.

    Johanna, on the other hand, had always wanted to visit Israel, encouraged by her Jewish friends. She studied Hebrew in order to study the Old Testament in its own language, for scholarly rather than religious purposes. “I’m very impressed with Rashi,” she said. I was quite impressed with Johanna when I pointed out the symbol of the Tourism Ministry, and she understood its symbolism. “The meraglim, the spies, toured Eretz Yisrael and brought back to Moses a great bunch of grapes.” Past and present.

    Shirley Humphrey kept to herself. Armed with a professional-looking camera with one of those enormous lenses affixed to it, she maintained a record of all she saw, either on film or in a notepad. “I prefer to think of myself as a traveler, not a tourist,” said the Californian. I made a note of that in my own pad: 18 tourists, one traveler.

    Shirley had been to the West Bank in 1959, when it was still occupied by Jordan. She worked on a dig at Petra for two months, and plans to return to Israel to participate on a dig here too.

    Even in an air-conditioned bus, the desert makes one think of water. Or, if you’re from Calgary, ice, as in ice hockey. “Did we beat Winnipeg? Playoffs, you know.”

    “The Maccabees, fighting off Helenization ...” Carol needed some feedback. “Hey – did you know there are leopards in this area?” “Gee!” “No kidding!” “Do they bite?”

    “... so Herod needed a place as a sanctuary...”

    A Playboy bunny tattoo adorned the forearm of Mr. Calgary. At the front of the bus, another, much older, forearm, bore a tattoo, of numbers. Masada meant very different things to each of them.

    The retirees from Florida came to Israel to meet their new grandchild. If the month-old tyke grows up to be like his grandad, he’ll be tall and dashing, with plenty of wit and bright blue eyes.

 

WHY DID you come to Masada?

    “I’m a sucker for heroics.”

    “Heroics? Or stupidity, depending on how you look at it. I like paradoxes.”

    “I saw it on TV.”

    “I first heard of it after the Jonestown Massacre. They kept bringing up Masada as a comparison.”

    Haydee Ghenadenik, a non-Jewish Argentinian: “I didn’t know anything about Masada. I just knew I had to come see it.” Her husband George, a Jew of Byelorussian stock, came to check out his roots.

    “There it is! Look!” Majestic, mythical Masada. Looming 450 meters above the sea – but only 50 meters above sea level. Getting there at the crack of mid-morning, we thought we’d beat the crowds. Forty busloads figured the same thing. We were going to have to wait in line for the cable car.

    No one likes to wait for a cable car. You don’t want to think of it for too long, that flimsy box, like a spider on a sticky strand suspended from ... from where?!

    Waiting in line was just what I needed to ask questions, make notes, eavesdrop and observe.

    The lunchtime queue at the UN must be something like this. Except for an utter lack of Arabs, they were all here, herded together by their respective, harried guides. Italians, all wearing blue-and-white hats; Norwegians in green hats; orange-topped Americans (“Orange Jews!”); and Scandinavians, young, sultry, hatless – and a lot more-less too. Everyone noticed them. There were mottled old Germans that only Jews noticed, and irritatingly prominent, a group of raucous Israeli teenagers.

    Our own group became better acquainted while waiting. There was a lot of anticipation of what there would be to see atop Masada. “Like the Pueblo,” said Patricia Harvey, from out Tennessee way. “It looks more massive than on TV.” “There should still be a lot. I read Yadin’s book.” Haydee the laydee from Argentina didn’t think so. “Just desert and rocks, certainly nothing relating to that time. I’d be surprised if anything is still standing.” Boy, was she surprised.

    What took the Romans years to achieve we did in two minutes.

    Carol took her little brigade through the ruins, her wealth of knowledge competing with that of other, louder guides who strayed too close to us.

    Being there, right upon Masada, had an intangible effect on everyone. No longer just a tourist attraction, Masada inspired a hallowed sanctity. Carol read from Josephus’s The Jewish War. We listened intently. One of the Phoenix nurses whispered to the other, “Did she talk about the suicide thing yet?” That was what most of them had come to hear, to feel, to sense. Our guide talked about the suicide. A perceptible chill pervaded the heat. The Masada Experience.

    After that, even lunch was an anticlimax. A dip – or rather a bob – in the Dead Sea at Ein Bokek refreshed the few who tried it, and then it was on to Ein Gedi for a quick look-see. We were rewarded by the appearance of a stately ibex with magnificent horns, on a rise of land alongside the road. Our bus stopped. A fearsome piece of hardware thrust out of a window, Shirley’s camera, and the great beast swung away, tossing his antlered head back in elegant arrogance.

    A final stop in Nahal Arugot persuaded the socks off our steaming feet for a dip in the cool waters cascading over white rocks.

    “What a country.”