Seeker

by Rita Pomade

  We spent a few days gorging on fresh salads, browsing the shops and people watching in small street cafés. Then we lifted anchor and the three of us sailed north to Haifa. It was closer to Jerusalem, a city we wanted to explore before leaving.

  We arrived in Haifa to what appeared to be a huge celebration and discovered we were the honoured guests. In 1984 there weren’t many yachts that entered its port, and we were received like royalty. The Israelis, who lined the dock, besieged us with every manner of question, from who we were, to why we were doing this, to the measurement and cost of the yacht.

  Our dream became their dream, and they expressed interest in wishing they could make such a journey. One couple planned to do it. They pushed themselves forward, and a short, solid-built young man introduced himself. “Hello,” he said. “I am Bebe. This is my wife, Ilana. We’re also going to sail — as far as Martinique. That is our dream.”

  Bebe and Ilana led us to the steel-hulled yacht they had been building over the years and introduced us to their four beautiful young daughters who were going to sail with them — all still in grade school.

  “We’re almost ready to sail,” Bebe said.

  “We’ll meet you in Cyprus,” Bernard replied.

  “I look forward to seeing you there,” I said, but I didn’t think I’d see them again. I couldn’t believe they’d undertake this adventure with four young daughters on board.

  In spite of our tumultuous welcome, Haifa was more subdued than Tel Aviv. It was grittier and had none of the buzz. I was surprised that in such a small country there could be so much contrast from one part to another. Israel was a mosaic of many disparate parts, socially and emotionally — a cauldron of tension and anger, feistiness and compassion.

  A striking difference between the two cities was the cultural divide. Tel Aviv felt Western. Haifa was still a Middle Eastern city where Muslims, Druze, Christians and Jews lived together in an easy let-live harmony. Though few of the Baha’i faith live there, Mount Carmel in the centre of Haifa is home to the Baha’i World Centre. The Bab, the founder of the faith, is buried in a gold domed shrine on the mountain, and his followers have planted elegant gardens laid-out in terraces around his shrine.

  They’ve also built houses on the property that are architecturally imposing, including the stately house of justice. Through their efforts they transformed what had been a barren mountainside into an oasis of colour and ordered calm. It cheered up Haifa’s otherwise drab look. The gardens, since our visit, have been extended into nineteen terraces up the slope of the mountain and are maintained by six hundred Baha’i volunteers and one hundred full time gardeners. I can only imagine how splendid they must be now, for even in their smaller design, they were a vision that stays with me.

  The adrenaline of so many new sights and the energy of the people kept us buoyed up, but we couldn’t sustain the momentum. After leaving Egypt, we had been on a roller coaster of high energy followed by longer periods of lethargy. At first, we thought it was a question of recuperating from the stress of our experiences in Egypt, but we kept getting weaker. We finally had ourselves checked out at a hospital and discovered we had picked up worms in Egypt. Knowing I had live creatures laying eggs in my intestines turned me into a wobbling mass of Jello.

  I was glad this parasite was well-known in Israel, and the cure was a quick one two punch; first to kill off the parents and then to catch the babies before they hatched. After the first dose of medication, we started to feel better, but I refused to look in the toilet for weeks after. I couldn’t bear the thought of coming face to face with one of my visitors.

  As soon as the medication took effect, the three of us set out to explore more of Israel. Bernard was still paranoid about leaving the yacht for any period of time, so we stuck to day visits. Fortunately, Israel is so small we could go anywhere within a day.

  Our first visit was to the old section of Jerusalem, squeezed inside thick, ancient stone walls. After entering through one of its eight gates, we strolled the Arab sector with its bustling merchants, got lost in its labyrinth of messy alleyways and colourful souks, and found our way to the quiet Armenian sector. We then back-tracked through the Arab sector to the Christian quarter to walk the stations of the cross that ended in a visit to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Christ was said to have died, been buried, and rose from the dead. We eventually arrived at our final destination — the clean, relatively new Jewish quarter rebuilt after its destruction by the Jordanians in 1948. I couldn’t believe how much history was inside these walls, an area no more than a square kilometre that can be walked in an afternoon.

  We spent another day visiting the area around the Wailing Wall where we caught a glimpse of the Temple Mount with the beautifully built Dome of the Rock and the Al Aqsa Mosque, both sites sacred to the Muslim community. We weren’t allowed to enter them, but had no problem visiting the Wailing Wall, the last remnant of the second temple, so long as our heads were covered and we walked backwards upon leaving.

  The wall, the holiest of Jewish sites, was in constant activity with the ultra religious, mostly men, praying and swaying in long black coats, their heads covered with stiff, broad-rimmed black hats, their faces bearded and framed by long side curls. The less religious of the orthodox wore normal street clothes but covered themselves with prayer shawls. Chinks in the wall held bits of paper on which prayers were written. I found a small piece of paper in my handbag and wrote my own, which I carefully folded and inserted into a tiny crevice that I found among the ancient stones:

  Please God, let Bernard’s good will towards me continue.

  Please exorcise whatever that demon is within him that is pushing him further away from me and the world around him.

  One day, we visited Ein Gedi, a desert oasis that’s a national park where wild animals, natural to the habitat, roam. The ruins of Masada are located in Ein Gedi, and we hiked up to the top. We learned that this had been Herod’s fortified palace taken by the Sicarii, an ultra religious Jewish sect. The Romans stormed the fortress to reclaim it, but the Sicarii committed mass suicide rather than surrender. I believe this story carries a powerful message for the Israelis.

  The day before Jonah left for England, we visited The Church of the Nativity on Manger Square in Bethlehem. In 1984 Bethlehem was under the jurisdiction of Israel and was a quiet town with a mixed Moslem/Christian population. I noted that, wherever we went in this ancient land, its history revolved around birth, death, and resurrection, whether by supernatural means or human will. Its history from its first recorded time to the present day has been one of strife. Every site and centre we visited was a reminder of the intense energies at play in this area. The epochs change, the architecture changes, the alliances change, but the story is always the same. It brought to mind Escher’s drawing of stairways that lead in many directions but go nowhere.

  When Jonah’s brief visit came to an end. I gave him the last of his things that had remained on the yacht — a small bamboo stool and plaster statue of the God of Wealth, both purchased in Taipei and still with him, and a collection of books that he’d carted all the way from Montreal when our journey commenced. It symbolized the last time we’d ever live together, and was a heartbreaking moment for me.

  “Goodbye, sweetie,” I said. “I promise I’ll make it to your graduation from no matter where we are.”

  He still had his senior year at Middlebury to do, and I hoped we’d have the Santa Rita sold by then, so I’d have the money for plane fare. If not, I’d do whatever was necessary to make the trip. As I watched him go, I was taken aback at how much it hurt. I felt the loss in every part of my body but knew it was good that he felt secure enough to forge his own road.

  Bernard wasn’t with me to say good-bye. He stayed behind on the Santa Rita while Jonah and I lugged Jonah’s books to the airport. Jonah seemed all right with it, or at least he didn’t show disappointment or annoyance. I think he was looking forward to getting back to Oxford. I wasn’t all right wit
h it, and more than a little annoyed. I decided not to make it an issue with Bernard because I didn’t want to spoil the memory of the wonderful days we had together. But he had started to drink again, and that made me uneasy.

  Bernard and I took one last trip before leaving Israel — this time to the Dead Sea. When we left Hurgada, he accidentally tipped over a kettle of boiling water that scorched one of my legs around the ankle and Achilles heel. I had huge water blisters that I didn’t want to burst for fear of infection, but they weren’t disappearing.

  “Maybe a soak in the Dead Sea would help,” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “With all that salt, it’ll hurt.”

  “Maybe not. It’s a closed wound.”

  He kept insisting. I knew his insistence was a peace offering. The accident had been the result of nervous agitation during one of his sulking periods. Bernard could not apologize. This was code. I could accept it or not without our ever discussing the real issue of why I was a scapegoat for his frustrations.

  “Okay,” I said, which meant that for the moment all was forgiven.

  I took my bathing suit with me in case I wanted to give it a try. I did. I figured if it hurt, I’d get out fast. The water remained shallow no matter how far out I went. The tepid water and lack of depth felt like a sticky mud puddle. Finally, I let go of my resistance and lay on my back as I saw others doing, amazed at how buoyant I was. It was impossible to sink. Most people who’ve floated in the Dead Sea have found the sensation pleasant. I found it disconcerting. It didn’t seem right that without effort I could lie on top of the water. I also didn’t like the density of the water mixed with mud.

  Much as I tried, I couldn’t get settled, but I was determined to stay for the sake of my blisters. About fifteen minutes later, I got out expecting no change. But in that short period of time, the bloat of my blisters had started to subside. If a few minutes could do so much for my blisters, I fantasized what it could do for my whole body. I regretted I hadn’t stayed longer, but felt no urge to return.

  On shore, Bernard met me with a huge bag of the sweetest and most succulent cherries I had ever eaten. We sat on a bench, tucked into each other’s folds, and savoured the fruit. I felt cherished and loved. I recall that moment with a bittersweet sharpness because the situation changed a few days later.

  Looking back, what I most remember about Israel are the Baha’i gardens in Haifa and the juicy sweetness of those succulent red cherries I ate near the shore of the Dead Sea. And I’m reminded it’s the senses that carry the deepest memories, not history or stories or the edifices built during a certain period. It’s in our visceral centre that our truth lies, not in what’s fed to our brain. Perhaps that is why Israel with its thousands of years of history did not engage me as I had thought it would. But the small sensual pleasures of the country are still with me.

  Israel revived us. We indulged in the country’s sun-ripened fruit and fresh vegetables like insatiable rabbits. We showered luxuriously in the private homes of generous and outgoing people, and slept a great deal without the threat of pirates or gun-happy harbour masters. Towards the end of our visit, we felt a renewed vigour and looked forward to setting sail for Cyprus, Larnaca being our port of entry.

  Chapter 25

  THE PLAN IS NOT TO GET ANYWHERE

  Summer 1984: Cyprus

  All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter into another.

  — ANATOLE FRANCE

  Thirty to thirty-five knot winds on our bow all the way from Israel to Cyprus meant constantly tacking while trying to brace ourselves against a turbulent sea. But because the crossing was done in a single night, I arrived in Larnaca in high spirits. I looked forward to sharing “war stories” with yachties who had sailed through the Suez Canal before us. We knew a number of them were moored in Larnaca, trying to rest up before moving on.

  Soon after we docked, Bernard and I went in search of two couples we had met earlier in our sailing adventure and found them together on one of the yachts, along with another couple we didn’t know. Over some finger food and local wine that was surprisingly good, they took turns sharing the woes of their journey up the Red Sea.

  “The satellite system got clogged with sand,” one of the couples told us. “We couldn’t see anything. We didn’t know where we were.”

  “Strong winds blew us off course. We were blinded by sand,” the other said.

  “We got stuck on a sand bar, but managed to break loose,” piped up the pregnant half of the yachtie couple we didn’t know. “We were afraid to go ashore and ask for help in case they’d confiscate the yacht on some trumped-up charge.” She then went on to relate an incident that happened to one of their sailing buddies. “They ran aground and had to be towed into port. The fee to reclaim their yacht was so high they couldn’t pay it. They were forced to leave Egypt without their boat.”

  We were surprised to discover that the two couples we had met earlier were now parents. While we talked, they passed the babies from one to another, and the mothers casually nursed whenever the babies fretted. I marvelled at the ingenuity of these freewheeling couples who, without any forethought, suddenly found themselves parents. Instead of giving up their adventure, they took it in stride and made do with whatever they had at hand.

  Makeshift strollers were constructed from plastic storage containers onto which they wired small wheels. I saw them pulling their offspring along the pier by ropes tied to holes in the containers. Their ingenuity was impressive, but I was curious as to what they’d do as the children grew older. I wouldn’t want the responsibility of a rambunctious two-year-old or an independent-minded three-year-old on a fast-moving yacht.

  I was fascinated that the three women became pregnant while in the grip of terror at sea. It reminded me of stories I’d heard about London during the Blitz when Nazi bombers were overhead. People in the bomb shelters mated like rabbits, so the rumour goes. And I wondered if there wasn’t a genetic component built into our DNA to propagate life under dire circumstances, as I now knew of two children and a third on the way who wouldn’t have been conceived if not for the vagaries of the Red Sea.

  If there was such a gene, I didn’t have it. The last thing I thought about during that harrowing Red Sea passage was having sex. My focus was on survival — my survival — not the species. The bulk of my energy went into coping. I was sure it was the same for a retired teacher we met by chance along the pier. He told us he had been diagnosed with having had two strokes while on the Red Sea. His yacht was to be his retirement home. I wondered if he still felt that way.

  A few yachties we met in the harbour, who like us, had travelled the old spice route across the Indian Ocean and through the Bab el-Mandeb Strait, had t-shirts printed that read: BEEN THERE. DONE THAT. I understood the meaning behind the slogan. We were tired of assimilating the “exotic.” We’d seen so much in so few years that we’d reached saturation. It was like going to a museum where after a while you become weary and your eyes glaze over. The senses become over stimulated, and everything starts to lose value. I needed to stay put for a while to give my wanderlust a rest.

  Life along the pier was one big party. The tension between the Turks and Greeks who’d split Cyprus in two under a fragile truce didn’t concern the yachties in the least. I remember writing to my friend in Belgium: “I’ve changed my diet to gallons of wine. It’s so cheap here. And I’m gorging on cheese — both items the price of gold in the East.”

  Our healthy regime in Israel drifted into a dim memory. At first, I thought it was a release from the tension of traversing the Red Sea that put everyone in a festive mood. I soon discovered it was a way of life among yachties in Europe. The plan was not to get anywhere. Very few talked about heading to the next port. No one spoke of seeing the world. The idea was to hang out in the Mediterranean, and frankly, it wasn’t a bad place to be.

  The exce
ptions were our new Israeli friends Bebe and Ilana, who had left Israel for Larnaca a few days after us. I had been wrong about his ever making the voyage. Bebe held on to his dream of making it as far as Martinique with his wife and four daughters. Within the next two years, the family made it to Martinique and back. The dream held, but the marriage didn’t, not uncommon among sailing families.

  Ilana was a bundle of energy, and she often invited me in the evening to troll the local stands to gorge on souvlakis, a local favourite made with pieces of grilled pork wrapped in pita bread and topped with a yogurt dressing. She told me she wasn’t kosher but didn’t eat pig. “Pigs aren’t allowed on Israeli soil,” she said. “The one pig farm there is on raised wooden planks so that the pigs don’t touch the land.”

  One evening Ilana, Bebe, Bernard and I went for a bite. “Meze is good,” Bebe announced. “We order that.”

  “That’s a mixed grill,” Bernard said. “I thought you didn’t eat pork.”

  “We eat pork,” Ilana replied. “The only meat we don’t eat is pig.”

  “Pork comes from the pig,” Bernard explained.

  “No, no, no,” the two insisted. “Pork is not pig!”

  Bebe may not have known cuts of meat, but he was right about the meze. Dish after dish arrived at our table that could titillate any palate. Spread before us were small plates of olives, tzatziki, hummus, fried eggplant, grilled meats and grilled halloumi cheese, a specialty of Cyprus made with goat and sheep milk. Among the assortment of meats was marinated pork and what looked like fried pork sausages.

  “That’s pig,” Bernard said pointing to the two dishes.

  “No,” Bebe said. “Pork.”

  Bernard tried again. “Pork comes from pig.”