175. Playboy

175.

The highway to Amman reminds me old Route 66 in Arizona except for the co-ed gangs of workers repairing the road by hand. The girls wear long skirts of bright red, purple and green satin and laugh as they pass baskets of pebbles to each other. The hard work in the hot sun hasn’t broken their high spirits!

At the border the Jordan customs policeman spots a copy of Playboy magazine I picked up somewhere in my stuff. “Why do you carry this?” he asks. I really don’t know why I carry the stupid rag, but improvise: “Because I like beautiful things.”

He feels this kind of literature will corrupt his countryman's morals, so he confiscates it and tucks it under his ammunition belt for safekeeping.

...

174. Damascus, Syria

174.

Damascus, Syria:

The taxi driver drops me in the heart of the city.

Uniformed soldiers, beige and olive camouflaged trucks and jeeps swarm in the street.

World War Three may have started and it looks like I am right in the middle of it, but the clerk in the bank where I change some money says that I should not be alarmed; this is “business as usual”, he says, in Damascus.

Damascus is too exciting for me though, after the relative calm of Magic Valley, so I stay only one night and depart by bus in the morning to Amman, Jordan.

I have heard that it is possible to enter Israel from Jordan near Amman if you don’t have any visa stamps from Arab countries in your passport so I have been carefully getting my visas stamped on separate sheets that I can remove from my passport.

Obviously, I will come from an Arab country when I cross the border from Jordan, but there will be no Arab stamps in my passport and that is what counts. Absurd isn’t it? Well, I don’t make the rules and I would like to visit some of the usual touristic places in Israel.

...

173. Cat Wants Fish

173.

It’s Sunday. This must be a Christian enclave in Lebanon because village churches, which I have not seen, but must be scattered scattered along the canyon rim, all start ringing their bells. The sounds of the echoing bells blend into a single lovely chord; after the intimidating gunshot’s din, the soothing bell’s hum; Yin and Yang.

I break camp, pack and hike back up the canyon to the trail-head and to the little store. It is still very early but the store is already open. The proprietor offers me a cup of coffee and I watch with him two other old men and a cat as the village awakens.

Three beaming housewives escort a tiny girl dressed in black cap, cape and skirt into the store. One of the old men buys the child a piece of candy and gives her a hug.

I watch the spirits of these old men twinkle from eyes set deep in aging flesh. In a short lifetime this budding child will no doubt also be transformed into tired meat slouched in a rocking chair petting another generation’s child.

The black and white cat wants a fish from the ice-cream freezer.

I catch the little country-style carryall bus back to downtown Beirut where I find one of the taxis that carry passengers to Damascus. When the driver, wearing a yellow polka-dotted shirt, collects a car full of passengers, we depart Beirut and a few hours later drive into Damascus.

172. Hunters

172.

At midnight, rain begins to fall. My cave is not waterproof, so before I get too wet, I light a candle, pack up and hike through the dripping, shadowy trees up the zigzag path to a stone shelter I noticed earlier.

Under the shelter’s dry and cozy dome I spread my blanket and immediately fall asleep.

Very early next morning I am fixing coffee on a little campfire at the shelter when two hunters appear. They seem surprised to find me and I am surprised too because they are the first humans I have seen in the valley. They are soon banging away at birds in the olive trees. Soon five more city dudes in shooting togs arrive and start blasting away at the birds in the trees near the shelter.

I suppose maybe they are not just hunting, but trying to scare me away and they’ve sure got the firepower to do it!

I pack and scurry back down to my cave and the shooting soon stops.

...

171, Coincidences

171.

Magic Valley, Lebanon:

My campsite is still vacant and I spend a couple of days doing nothing much. But when I begin to explore my surroundings some more I discover that not only are there mysterious sealed caves in this valley but some of the house-sized stones have wooden ladders fixed to them so they can be scaled and used as look-outs; I note that the foliage between one big stone and “my” cave has been trimmed so that a clear view into “my” cave is afforded to anyone watching from the stone.

Hmmm.

I begin to think that my perfect “Magic Valley Camp” may be part of some larger design.

How did the Australian know about it anyway and why did his friend the dope farmer offer me a “job” picking up a fancy car for him in Europe—in fact, why did that attractive French girl meet me so conveniently in the Baalbek ruins and the taxi man drop me off at the “church”? And why were the thugs waiting at the village store to drive me the last few miles to the valley?

Man, among these worldly-wise, cynical, radio and telephone connected dopers and dealers, I am truly a “babe in the woods”; all innocent and newly hatched! Full-blown paranoia strikes!

...

170, Paranoid Journey

170.

With great relief, I hurry away from the strange "church".

The empty road passes under some huge overhanging trees and by now there is no light at all from the sky--but I can hear the pavement under my feet as I walk and if I get too near the shoulder of the road, I hear the crunch of gravel so, quickly and fearfully, I navigate the next couple of kilometers by “sonar”.

Finally the friendly electric lights of the tiny village store at the rim of the valley near my campsite appear—and the store is still open! I bought a soda from the store man when I left for Baalbek this morning and he seems happy to see me again. Three big men are with him. One of them invites me to come and rest at his home nearby. No, thanks. The other two, who look like movie gangsters, offer to drive me to the trailhead leading to my camp. They say it is a four-kilometer hike. I am bone-weary from this long day and have been so paranoid and frightened that nothing seems to matter anyway so I get into the back seat of their big, black American car. If they are out to get me, they could easily follow and snatch me off the highway, so what the hell…

We reach the end of the road and I get out of the car. The men wish me a pleasant stay and drive noiselessly away.

Too tired and freaked out to hike down the canyon path to my campsite or to experience any more “adventures”, I roll up in my blanket and crash where they dropped me--beside the road.

...

169. A Night Fright

169.

After a few restful days in camp I return to Baalbek by bus to see more of the Roman ruins.

In the ruins I bump into a pretty, young French woman who is staying at the guesthouse of the dope farmer. We spend an hour or two chatting. She is going back to Paris this evening--making a delivery, I assume--while I plan to return to my valley campsite.

It is dark when the bus from Baalbek to Beirut reaches the place where the country road turns off from the main highway and I get off the bus. A taxi immediately pulls up with three men inside. I tell the driver where I want to go and he agrees to take me. Along the way he drops his other passengers off and we continue alone. There is no other traffic moving on this country road.

After a long winding drive into the hills, I am beginning to think I have been kidnapped when he suddenly stops and says he will go no further. I think he is afraid of me! I pay and get out of the cab.

It is getting dark and the moon has not yet risen but soon another male pedestrian appears who speaks enough French to inform me that I might be able to get some help or transportation at a church just down the road. In the gathering gloom I walk to the “church” and knock at the huge wooden front door.

A female doorkeeper from a Charles Adams cartoon answers my knock and tells me in French that there is a priest inside who speaks English and who can help me. The place is no church however, but seems to be some sort of hospital or monastery. I follow the creepy woman down a long, white, high ceilinged passageway feeling more and more mistrustful.

The woman opens a door at the end of the hallway and right behind the door stands an officer in green uniform with polished brass and leather-holstered pistol. Wow! Now I am sure I have been kidnapped!

The officer welcomes me in a friendly way and says I may spend the night but I stammer that I really must be getting back to my camp. He says the camping place I seek is still a couple of kilometers up the road and that he and his friends will be glad to take me there in his jeep, but I have been edging closer to the entry door the whole time.

"Non, merci." and I hurry down the long hall, through the door and back out into the night.

...

168. Magic Valley Camp

168.

Magic Valley, Lebanon:

I gather twigs and make a small campfire while the daylight fades. I heat some canned beans and make some coffee. Flickering firelight peoples the rough cliff above me with faces and when some of them seem to scowl, I turn them to smiles.

The night is silent except for the low chuckling of the stream. The moon rises like a white searchlight and I gather some more firewood, then drift peacefully off to sleep on the clean sand.

~~~

Morning: Cowboy coffee (coffee grounds boiled in a can-full of water), bread and honey for breakfast.

It’s great to be alone and in the wild again.

I exercise, hopping from rock to rock in the riverbed.

I am much weaker than I was when I left Hawaii but I am determined to regain my strength and health.

I discover a nearby pool paved with smooth stones; perfect for bathing with a natural stone ledge a few steps away just right for reading and soaking up sunlight.

The natural limestone blocks tumbled into this canyon have the appearance of the building stones of a construction so ancient that they can no longer be identified as worked stones, but to me, it seems that some uncanny energy fills this valley. I explore a little of the more of my surroundings and discover other caves tantalizingly sealed with rock walls.

...

167. Canyon Camp

167.

Was that Japanese monk I met so long ago--who was finishing his earthprobe in Honolulu--ever offered this kind of a deal for a detour?

Probably so.

I suppose this is one of those temptations proposed to the traveler in every fairy tale journey—even though this yarn you are reading, I guarantee, is no fairy tale.

~~~~~~

The next day the Australian drives me to the campsite he told me about.

15 kilometers from Beirut, he turns off the main highway onto a paved country road that winds through the empty hills to the edge of a deep green canyon.

We park among some olive trees near a little roadside store and hike down a path to the canon bottom.

There is a shallow cave with a sandy floor beside a small stream almost hidden by trees. A perfect backpacker's camping place.

The Australian wishes me farewell and a good journey--and I am left alone.

...