Sat. June 13
Rivers are wonderful places to encounter people. Something about all that rolling water makes them mellow, weightless, inclined to joy. After five days of disciplined research and writing, I am experiencing my first weekend in Israel. Several kayak-and-rafting operations dot the upper Jordan River, north of the Sea of Galilee, near the Golan Heights. Wars have raged in this area for years as the Syrians and Lebanese have wrangled for turf. But the river is indifferent to all of that: the water, cool and clear, flows over oval gold pebbles and peace reigns. The river measures 1 to 3 feet deep in most places: 90 feet across. Thick reeds and bamboo-like bushes hug the coastline like those cushioned inflatable tubes used in bowling alleys to help children not cry over gutter balls. The water is swift here – those who leave their rafts are surprised at the current’s tow. Life-jackets are mandatory.
Rivers are wonderful places to encounter people. Something about all that rolling water makes them mellow, weightless, inclined to joy. After five days of disciplined research and writing, I am experiencing my first weekend in Israel. Several kayak-and-rafting operations dot the upper Jordan River, north of the Sea of Galilee, near the Golan Heights. Wars have raged in this area for years as the Syrians and Lebanese have wrangled for turf. But the river is indifferent to all of that: the water, cool and clear, flows over oval gold pebbles and peace reigns. The river measures 1 to 3 feet deep in most places: 90 feet across. Thick reeds and bamboo-like bushes hug the coastline like those cushioned inflatable tubes used in bowling alleys to help children not cry over gutter balls. The water is swift here – those who leave their rafts are surprised at the current’s tow. Life-jackets are mandatory.
The variety of people on a Saturday on this popular stretch of water is simultaneously fuzzy (families singing and smiling as they row) and fearsome (rowdy groups of male Israelis in their early 20s trying to one-up each other with paddle fights and beer.) Occasionally the bushes open up on either side, and tents adorn the landscape with barbeque pits and visible hookahs. About 20% of the people I see are Arab/ Muslim – the women endure the 88 degree day in tight head wraps and long sleeves under their life vests. The rest are locals, more casually dressed, all speaking Hebrew. My friend and I are conspicuous here – but no one seems to mind that two Americans have joined in for the day’s fun. We make a game out of taking turns singing river songs; it’s funny, you know, how many there are. We sing Proud Mary, Old Man River, and River of Dreams. Then it’s Michael Row Your Boat Ashore, Moon River…by the time Row Row Row Your Boat is all we can think of, the game is done. (Later on I will Google “river songs” and be amazed there are over 100 titles – many of which I love, like Styx’ Boat on a River and Talking Heads’ Take Me to the River.)
Literally hundreds of people, all bumping into one another, smile perpetually as they make this trek. I wonder how much they must all look forward to this, how many of these children will remember this as a fondest childhood memory – rolling down the Jordan with Daddy in the front and Mommy in the back, drinking lemonade. Occasionally my red kayak accidentally steers into their rafts, but there are only smiles and assistance as we disentangle ourselves from each other and the landscape, me speaking my one Hebrew word, “Todah”, to thank them for being kind. The river is having its way with all of us, you see, so no one takes anything personally. We are united but we are each distinct. I am wearing a one-piece swimsuit with yoga-Capri pants for modesty, a lavender life-jacket, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. If there were an award for being the whitest, least tan person on the river today, I am sure I’d win the title. I am possibly the whitest woman in all of Israel; I see no other blondes and feel like an alabaster albino next to all the lovely olive-skinned natives with their long glossy dark hair. My SPF is 50, say no more. But I am me and they are them and it honestly doesn’t matter at all what any of us looks like. After spending the past two years in Los Angeles, this is blessed relief.
At least half a dozen men on the river today look like Jesus – you know: the goatee, long hair, brooding eyes vibe. One of them speaks to me as I am docked on the right side by some rocks near a deep swimming hole. He is about 30, and has a massive dog with him that seems to be a cross between a golden retriever and a Saint Bernard. He sees me smile as I reach towards the rocks to pet the dog. He smiles down and says in perfect English, “His name is Noah.” Okay, so I’m thinking this is really cool, a Jesus-guy just introduced me to his Bible-named dog. I pet Noah, who is by now quite stinky in his wet fur coat and happy panting from swimming in the current like the big sweet baby that he is. It all seems quasi-spiritual until I look up at the rocks and see ”Jesus” light a Winston cigarette and crack open a Lowenbrau. So much for the messiah-thing, but this was still a super-nice man with real kindness in his eyes.
My friend and I have been paddling for almost two hours. It is a surprisingly long stretch of river, and I begin to observe that no matter what we do, the kayak is still floating downstream and will continue to do so until the very bottom port, where the raft-employees will fish us out on the banks. I think about life and realize that although it is a hackneyed metaphor, I cannot help thinking that life is a river, too. In life, I have always been the type of person who paddles with intention: I’m the map-girl, the strategy-girl, the one who works up a sweat trying to cross invisible (and possibly non-existent) finish lines. But I am noticing something as I float down the Jordan River on this sunny Saturday in June. The current is carrying me along – something unseen but real propels me even when I don’t steer. Sure, I might hit a few more braches on the borders if I simply coast, maybe I’ll be spun backwards by the unknowable subsurface currents. But my exertion is entirely my choice. There is no way for me not to move forward, one way or another.
I reach a shallow, rocky place that for several minutes seems suspended in time. No other rafts come through, probably because just north of here a deep swimming hole and nearby U2 blasting on a boom box has captured my fellow floating pilgrims. I look at the water, and at my kayak. Then I look at the sky – where a huge cumulus cloud is framed by bright blue. It looks like the profile of a baby elephant facing downstream. I unbuckle my life vest, remove my sunglasses and hat, and climb out of the kayak.
The water is colder than I expected but that feels great after almost two hours of wrangling tides with my red plastic paddle. I find the deepest pool of water in the area. I take a deep breath, and fall backwards, looking up at the baby elephant. Bono sings, not so far away, about world peace. A raft of stranger-friends floats past. For a moment, just a moment, I am adrift.
You know what? I kind of like it.
At least half a dozen men on the river today look like Jesus – you know: the goatee, long hair, brooding eyes vibe. One of them speaks to me as I am docked on the right side by some rocks near a deep swimming hole. He is about 30, and has a massive dog with him that seems to be a cross between a golden retriever and a Saint Bernard. He sees me smile as I reach towards the rocks to pet the dog. He smiles down and says in perfect English, “His name is Noah.” Okay, so I’m thinking this is really cool, a Jesus-guy just introduced me to his Bible-named dog. I pet Noah, who is by now quite stinky in his wet fur coat and happy panting from swimming in the current like the big sweet baby that he is. It all seems quasi-spiritual until I look up at the rocks and see ”Jesus” light a Winston cigarette and crack open a Lowenbrau. So much for the messiah-thing, but this was still a super-nice man with real kindness in his eyes.
My friend and I have been paddling for almost two hours. It is a surprisingly long stretch of river, and I begin to observe that no matter what we do, the kayak is still floating downstream and will continue to do so until the very bottom port, where the raft-employees will fish us out on the banks. I think about life and realize that although it is a hackneyed metaphor, I cannot help thinking that life is a river, too. In life, I have always been the type of person who paddles with intention: I’m the map-girl, the strategy-girl, the one who works up a sweat trying to cross invisible (and possibly non-existent) finish lines. But I am noticing something as I float down the Jordan River on this sunny Saturday in June. The current is carrying me along – something unseen but real propels me even when I don’t steer. Sure, I might hit a few more braches on the borders if I simply coast, maybe I’ll be spun backwards by the unknowable subsurface currents. But my exertion is entirely my choice. There is no way for me not to move forward, one way or another.
I reach a shallow, rocky place that for several minutes seems suspended in time. No other rafts come through, probably because just north of here a deep swimming hole and nearby U2 blasting on a boom box has captured my fellow floating pilgrims. I look at the water, and at my kayak. Then I look at the sky – where a huge cumulus cloud is framed by bright blue. It looks like the profile of a baby elephant facing downstream. I unbuckle my life vest, remove my sunglasses and hat, and climb out of the kayak.
The water is colder than I expected but that feels great after almost two hours of wrangling tides with my red plastic paddle. I find the deepest pool of water in the area. I take a deep breath, and fall backwards, looking up at the baby elephant. Bono sings, not so far away, about world peace. A raft of stranger-friends floats past. For a moment, just a moment, I am adrift.
You know what? I kind of like it.
