It’s after 4 in the morning and it’s still as dark as midnight. We’re in the car, stopped, facing a roadblock of rocks and rubble cutting off our way out of the West Bank town of Jericho. It’s silent and we’re thinking about how to get out of there. Suddenly I hear a creak and a snap, and when I look over there’s a man in my side view mirror approaching the car.
Let me back up. When Sarah and I had begun making our rough plans for this around-the-country drive, one of the first elements we had to decide on was how we were going to approach the West Bank: visit it, drive through it, or avoid it entirely. Pre-trip research had revealed a spectrum of experiences and advice. Some travelers had driven through it without any problems, and some said that you shouldn’t stop, even for gas. Some travelers said stopping is safe enough but you definitely wouldn’t want to spend the night. The State Department warns Americans of terrorism and kidnapping. Also, unlike in the rest of Israel, there is very little English spoken in the West Bank so if you don’t know Arabic you’re probably out of luck. (Reminder: I don’t speak Arabic. Neither does Sarah.)
We decided to drive through the West Bank but at a time at which there would be virtually no danger of being forced to spend the night. Avoiding the area entirely would have been a big pain in terms of sticking to our itinerary, as to get from the Sea of Galilee to Eilat we could either drive straight down the Jordan border through the West Bank desert and along the shore of the Dead Sea, or we could essentially double back the way we had come through the northwest and Tel Aviv, and drive right by our ultimate destination, Jerusalem. The West Bank just made sense. Besides, what could happen?
When we first arrived in Tel Aviv and went to the rental car desk, I asked the girl working there to clarify the rental agreement terms. They said we could not drive into other countries. The West Bank isn’t really a separate country, so how does that count? She shook her head and said no, no. She pulled out a map of Israel and said to look at the areas in pink: Bethlehem, Jericho, they were all Palestinian cities. She said that if we went there and something went wrong with the car that the company would not come help us as it would in the green, Israeli parts of the country. She made it clear that she thought driving into the West Bank was not a good idea, and she was not just reciting the company line.
We figured it couldn’t really be all that bad and that we’d take our chances.
Masada is a site in the West Bank. It is the ruins of a settlement of Jewish rebels who lived on the top of a mountain to escape their oppressors. Aside from the ruins, the summit offers hikers amazing views of the vast desert down below, including a spectacular sunrise. Catching that sunrise is why we left Jerusalem so early that morning.
Getting from where we were staying to the highway that would take us south to Masada should have been easy. As it happens, signage is Jerusalem is not the best, not to mention not in English most of the time. Further, at this point we did not have a map of Jerusalem (a questionable decision, I know – alas). We finally got out of the city going in the right direction and on the right road. We knew we wanted to head towards Jericho because Jericho was south, and south was the right way. Easy enough.
So on the highway we see two signs, one for Jericho and one for a different city that seemed to be the wrong direction. We didn’t check the Israel map we had, and no, I don’t know why. I think it’s because it had taken us so long to get pointed the right way initially that by this point directional frustration had set in and we thought we finally knew what we were doing and darn it if we didn’t. So I turned off for Jericho, which I took to mean I was getting on the road to Jericho but I could just pass it and continue on to Masada.
What actually happened was that I had just taken the highway exit to drive into the city, but I’m not sure of that yet. I think it’s just a checkpoint for entering the West Bank. At this point it’s around 4am and pitch black outside. There are very few if any lights on the road and there certainly aren’t any other cars. Before I know it, we’re approaching the checkpoint, or “barrier,” as they’re called on the signs. I cannot make a U-turn. The car has very obviously Israeli yellow license plates.
I pull up to the guard station with two men in military fatigues holding large machine guns standing outside, and one walks up to my window with his weapon resting on his hip. He says something in Arabic. I respond with an English “Hello.”
He cocks his head to the side and asks, “Nationality?”
“American.”
“Really? You want go to Jericho?” He’s genuinely surprised. Why would an American be crossing the border into Jericho at 4 in the morning? Good question, guy.
Rather than explaining that we’re trying to get to Masada to go hiking, I just say “Yes, really, American, yes.”
“Passport.”
So I turn and begin going through my backpack to look for my passport, trying to remember who exactly it is I contact if a Palestinian border guard decides to make my passport a keepsake, the embassy or the consulate? I hand it to him. He studies it for several seconds, looks at me, and back at the passport. His buddy comes over to see what’s going on. The first guy leans over and asks Sarah if she’s American too. Yes, she says. He hands me my passport and steps back.
“Welcome.” Again, genuine. Now I’m the one who’s surprised.
So we drive through the checkpoint. It’s not until this moment that I realize that we will very soon be in the dark city itself and that we were not simply on a highway going towards it. The guard seemed benign enough but I figured at that point it was best to pretend we had a real purpose, that we knew what we were doing, and just find another way back to the highway. I thought that turning around and exiting through that same checkpoint not 5 minutes after we had entered, especially after confirming to the guard that we wanted to go to Jericho, might not play well in suspicious minds. The highway was a big one and there had to be more than just that one way to get to it.
One the very first things we passed was a USAID site. A good sign, I thought. Also, one in every few signs had English transliteration. There were some touristy things in Jericho, after all – how hard could this be?
By the way, we did not have a map.
With that in mind, I knew that with every turn we took down another dark, windy road we were getting further and further away from the highway and more and more lost. I knew that, really. I just kept thinking that it was the wisest decision to refrain from going back through that checkpoint so soon and that we’d figure it out one way or another. Just keep driving.
Well, that we did. We drove and drove and drove, never finding a way out. We passed Palestinian Authority vehicles and we passed men walking the pre-dawn streets. We passed restaurants, stores, and desolate neighborhoods. Then we passed it all again. And again. I couldn’t find either the first checkpoint or another way out. It was still dark as night.
Suddenly Sarah pulls out her guidebook; she’s realized that it has a very crappy map of a couple of the historical sites in Jericho and the map has the names of a couple of the major streets. We decide that the best way out is by an old palace in the northeast corner of the city. We begin to look for signs for the palace.
We still haven’t seen any signs for the highway. More men are appearing on the streets and an increasing number seem to be noticing this car with Israeli plates that is driving apparently aimlessly around their city. Soon it will be light enough to see that two young white people are in the front, and I wonder what these guys will think. I don’t think we saw any women.
Once we get to near where the palace should be, I start making turns based solely on relative direction; I just keep trying to head northeast and hoping for the best. This somewhat desperate line of thinking takes us through some large construction projects and by a large compound, the high walls of which are decorated with Palestinian flags and razor wire, as well as a red flag I’m not familiar with. It’s hard to decide if we’re going the right way because we keep switching between paved streets and dirt roads, and when you’re in a ten thousand year old city, what does that mean? Do they pave near new stuff or over the old stuff? Near the highway? Is it a new highway exit? Do the dirt roads mean we’re heading away from the highway or are they just there because this is obviously a construction area? What was that red flag on the razor wire compound, anyway?
Suddenly we can see the highway. I can see a car on it! That has to be it, we just need to find the right piece of road to take us there. A couple turns later and we must be heading right for it. Holy crap, I think we did it. There it is, the on-ramp for the highway! We did it! We navigated our way out of a city in the middle of the night without a decent map, with only a few signs in English, and I didn’t have to forfeit my passport to a guy with a machine gun!
I bear right at a makeshift intersection and point the car towards the on-ramp. The lights illuminate the road and I slam on the brakes.
A huge rubble pile, some large rocks, a barrier. The on-ramp is blocked. We can see the highway but we can’t get out. Apparently the Israeli army sometimes does this to Palestinian towns. Sort of a way of saying “You don’t want to give us Jericho? You think you can take care of it without us? Here, deal with this.”
I utter something along the lines of “You must be joking.”
So we’re sitting there, still in the blackness, able to see only the roadblock and the highway beyond it. I turn the car off because I figured the three of us, including the car, could rest for a minute before going back to the center of the city to figure this out. It is dead quiet. We’re still basically right in the middle of many construction sites and they are all empty at this hour. We are nowhere near anything residential. We are not talking, just sitting.
Suddenly I hear some sounds behind us and I check the mirror and I see a man approaching the car from behind. I didn’t see him driving up and I have no idea where he came from. My window is open. I put my hand on the key, ready to hightail it out of there.
I hear a quiet grinding noise as he approaches. I realize he’s on a bicycle and he’s slowly making his way towards the car. He passes my window.
“Good morning!” he says, cheerful as can be.
Flabbergasted, I say good morning to him.
He slowly pedals past the car and heads right for the roadblock. There is a very narrow dirt ramp on the right side of the roadblock. He pedals up and over and disappears.
This was not our first experience in the West Bank. We had driven through it to get to Eilat from Tiberias, as I described earlier. That drive had been entirely in the daylight and we didn’t really stop much the whole way. Nothing eventful happened but during that drive we were still a little bit under the spell of the unknown and even the very remote possibility of danger. Nothing had happened to enhance or disprove that feeling so I think we still had it when we drove around Jericho that morning, not to mention the added element of the dark, being lost, and the interaction with the checkpoint guard. As we drove around and around Jericho the intrigue began to fade little by little.
The guy on the bicycle was the climax for me. When I saw and heard and felt him approaching I imagined a dozen different scenarios of what could happen and I honestly did have my hand on the ignition in anticipation of one of the bad scenarios becoming reality. For a split second I was afraid that this guy was going to confirm the fears of the girl at the car rental desk, of the State Department, of the travelers whose stories I had read online.
But really he did the opposite. He put me more at ease than any personal account or reassurance of a safe journey through the West Bank could have. I’m a little ashamed to say I needed that but it turns out I did, and I hadn’t even realized it before I got it. When I turned the car around and we headed back to the city center I was afraid of nothing (other than taking so long to find our way out that it would mess up the entire day’s itinerary). The West Bank became just another place with all the usual dangers of a third world place that happens to have semi-regular conflict. I know that probably sounds strange but it’s true.
We eventually found our way back to the checkpoint we had entered through, waved at the guards, and got back on the highway. We stopped at a gas station for coffee and some very fresh and surprisingly good chocolate croissants, and watched the sun rise there. Then we drove on to Masada.
Let me back up. When Sarah and I had begun making our rough plans for this around-the-country drive, one of the first elements we had to decide on was how we were going to approach the West Bank: visit it, drive through it, or avoid it entirely. Pre-trip research had revealed a spectrum of experiences and advice. Some travelers had driven through it without any problems, and some said that you shouldn’t stop, even for gas. Some travelers said stopping is safe enough but you definitely wouldn’t want to spend the night. The State Department warns Americans of terrorism and kidnapping. Also, unlike in the rest of Israel, there is very little English spoken in the West Bank so if you don’t know Arabic you’re probably out of luck. (Reminder: I don’t speak Arabic. Neither does Sarah.)
We decided to drive through the West Bank but at a time at which there would be virtually no danger of being forced to spend the night. Avoiding the area entirely would have been a big pain in terms of sticking to our itinerary, as to get from the Sea of Galilee to Eilat we could either drive straight down the Jordan border through the West Bank desert and along the shore of the Dead Sea, or we could essentially double back the way we had come through the northwest and Tel Aviv, and drive right by our ultimate destination, Jerusalem. The West Bank just made sense. Besides, what could happen?
When we first arrived in Tel Aviv and went to the rental car desk, I asked the girl working there to clarify the rental agreement terms. They said we could not drive into other countries. The West Bank isn’t really a separate country, so how does that count? She shook her head and said no, no. She pulled out a map of Israel and said to look at the areas in pink: Bethlehem, Jericho, they were all Palestinian cities. She said that if we went there and something went wrong with the car that the company would not come help us as it would in the green, Israeli parts of the country. She made it clear that she thought driving into the West Bank was not a good idea, and she was not just reciting the company line.
We figured it couldn’t really be all that bad and that we’d take our chances.
Masada is a site in the West Bank. It is the ruins of a settlement of Jewish rebels who lived on the top of a mountain to escape their oppressors. Aside from the ruins, the summit offers hikers amazing views of the vast desert down below, including a spectacular sunrise. Catching that sunrise is why we left Jerusalem so early that morning.
Getting from where we were staying to the highway that would take us south to Masada should have been easy. As it happens, signage is Jerusalem is not the best, not to mention not in English most of the time. Further, at this point we did not have a map of Jerusalem (a questionable decision, I know – alas). We finally got out of the city going in the right direction and on the right road. We knew we wanted to head towards Jericho because Jericho was south, and south was the right way. Easy enough.
So on the highway we see two signs, one for Jericho and one for a different city that seemed to be the wrong direction. We didn’t check the Israel map we had, and no, I don’t know why. I think it’s because it had taken us so long to get pointed the right way initially that by this point directional frustration had set in and we thought we finally knew what we were doing and darn it if we didn’t. So I turned off for Jericho, which I took to mean I was getting on the road to Jericho but I could just pass it and continue on to Masada.
What actually happened was that I had just taken the highway exit to drive into the city, but I’m not sure of that yet. I think it’s just a checkpoint for entering the West Bank. At this point it’s around 4am and pitch black outside. There are very few if any lights on the road and there certainly aren’t any other cars. Before I know it, we’re approaching the checkpoint, or “barrier,” as they’re called on the signs. I cannot make a U-turn. The car has very obviously Israeli yellow license plates.
I pull up to the guard station with two men in military fatigues holding large machine guns standing outside, and one walks up to my window with his weapon resting on his hip. He says something in Arabic. I respond with an English “Hello.”
He cocks his head to the side and asks, “Nationality?”
“American.”
“Really? You want go to Jericho?” He’s genuinely surprised. Why would an American be crossing the border into Jericho at 4 in the morning? Good question, guy.
Rather than explaining that we’re trying to get to Masada to go hiking, I just say “Yes, really, American, yes.”
“Passport.”
So I turn and begin going through my backpack to look for my passport, trying to remember who exactly it is I contact if a Palestinian border guard decides to make my passport a keepsake, the embassy or the consulate? I hand it to him. He studies it for several seconds, looks at me, and back at the passport. His buddy comes over to see what’s going on. The first guy leans over and asks Sarah if she’s American too. Yes, she says. He hands me my passport and steps back.
“Welcome.” Again, genuine. Now I’m the one who’s surprised.
So we drive through the checkpoint. It’s not until this moment that I realize that we will very soon be in the dark city itself and that we were not simply on a highway going towards it. The guard seemed benign enough but I figured at that point it was best to pretend we had a real purpose, that we knew what we were doing, and just find another way back to the highway. I thought that turning around and exiting through that same checkpoint not 5 minutes after we had entered, especially after confirming to the guard that we wanted to go to Jericho, might not play well in suspicious minds. The highway was a big one and there had to be more than just that one way to get to it.
One the very first things we passed was a USAID site. A good sign, I thought. Also, one in every few signs had English transliteration. There were some touristy things in Jericho, after all – how hard could this be?
By the way, we did not have a map.
With that in mind, I knew that with every turn we took down another dark, windy road we were getting further and further away from the highway and more and more lost. I knew that, really. I just kept thinking that it was the wisest decision to refrain from going back through that checkpoint so soon and that we’d figure it out one way or another. Just keep driving.
Well, that we did. We drove and drove and drove, never finding a way out. We passed Palestinian Authority vehicles and we passed men walking the pre-dawn streets. We passed restaurants, stores, and desolate neighborhoods. Then we passed it all again. And again. I couldn’t find either the first checkpoint or another way out. It was still dark as night.
Suddenly Sarah pulls out her guidebook; she’s realized that it has a very crappy map of a couple of the historical sites in Jericho and the map has the names of a couple of the major streets. We decide that the best way out is by an old palace in the northeast corner of the city. We begin to look for signs for the palace.
We still haven’t seen any signs for the highway. More men are appearing on the streets and an increasing number seem to be noticing this car with Israeli plates that is driving apparently aimlessly around their city. Soon it will be light enough to see that two young white people are in the front, and I wonder what these guys will think. I don’t think we saw any women.
Once we get to near where the palace should be, I start making turns based solely on relative direction; I just keep trying to head northeast and hoping for the best. This somewhat desperate line of thinking takes us through some large construction projects and by a large compound, the high walls of which are decorated with Palestinian flags and razor wire, as well as a red flag I’m not familiar with. It’s hard to decide if we’re going the right way because we keep switching between paved streets and dirt roads, and when you’re in a ten thousand year old city, what does that mean? Do they pave near new stuff or over the old stuff? Near the highway? Is it a new highway exit? Do the dirt roads mean we’re heading away from the highway or are they just there because this is obviously a construction area? What was that red flag on the razor wire compound, anyway?
Suddenly we can see the highway. I can see a car on it! That has to be it, we just need to find the right piece of road to take us there. A couple turns later and we must be heading right for it. Holy crap, I think we did it. There it is, the on-ramp for the highway! We did it! We navigated our way out of a city in the middle of the night without a decent map, with only a few signs in English, and I didn’t have to forfeit my passport to a guy with a machine gun!
I bear right at a makeshift intersection and point the car towards the on-ramp. The lights illuminate the road and I slam on the brakes.
A huge rubble pile, some large rocks, a barrier. The on-ramp is blocked. We can see the highway but we can’t get out. Apparently the Israeli army sometimes does this to Palestinian towns. Sort of a way of saying “You don’t want to give us Jericho? You think you can take care of it without us? Here, deal with this.”
I utter something along the lines of “You must be joking.”
So we’re sitting there, still in the blackness, able to see only the roadblock and the highway beyond it. I turn the car off because I figured the three of us, including the car, could rest for a minute before going back to the center of the city to figure this out. It is dead quiet. We’re still basically right in the middle of many construction sites and they are all empty at this hour. We are nowhere near anything residential. We are not talking, just sitting.
Suddenly I hear some sounds behind us and I check the mirror and I see a man approaching the car from behind. I didn’t see him driving up and I have no idea where he came from. My window is open. I put my hand on the key, ready to hightail it out of there.
I hear a quiet grinding noise as he approaches. I realize he’s on a bicycle and he’s slowly making his way towards the car. He passes my window.
“Good morning!” he says, cheerful as can be.
Flabbergasted, I say good morning to him.
He slowly pedals past the car and heads right for the roadblock. There is a very narrow dirt ramp on the right side of the roadblock. He pedals up and over and disappears.
This was not our first experience in the West Bank. We had driven through it to get to Eilat from Tiberias, as I described earlier. That drive had been entirely in the daylight and we didn’t really stop much the whole way. Nothing eventful happened but during that drive we were still a little bit under the spell of the unknown and even the very remote possibility of danger. Nothing had happened to enhance or disprove that feeling so I think we still had it when we drove around Jericho that morning, not to mention the added element of the dark, being lost, and the interaction with the checkpoint guard. As we drove around and around Jericho the intrigue began to fade little by little.
The guy on the bicycle was the climax for me. When I saw and heard and felt him approaching I imagined a dozen different scenarios of what could happen and I honestly did have my hand on the ignition in anticipation of one of the bad scenarios becoming reality. For a split second I was afraid that this guy was going to confirm the fears of the girl at the car rental desk, of the State Department, of the travelers whose stories I had read online.
But really he did the opposite. He put me more at ease than any personal account or reassurance of a safe journey through the West Bank could have. I’m a little ashamed to say I needed that but it turns out I did, and I hadn’t even realized it before I got it. When I turned the car around and we headed back to the city center I was afraid of nothing (other than taking so long to find our way out that it would mess up the entire day’s itinerary). The West Bank became just another place with all the usual dangers of a third world place that happens to have semi-regular conflict. I know that probably sounds strange but it’s true.
We eventually found our way back to the checkpoint we had entered through, waved at the guards, and got back on the highway. We stopped at a gas station for coffee and some very fresh and surprisingly good chocolate croissants, and watched the sun rise there. Then we drove on to Masada.
