Mary and Joseph probably made their way to Bethlehem on a donkey. I rode a bicycle. They had to travel about seventy miles from Nazareth, but my journey actually began just a few hundred yards from the ugly grey wall separating Jerusalem in Israel from Bethlehem in the West Bank. The wall is part of an extensive barrier built by the Israeli government surrounding the Palestinian territories. According to the Israelis its purpose is to keep terrorists out of Israel. Since it is built on their land, the Palestinians claim the main effect of the wall is to gobble up their olive orchards.
When I travel I like to use a bicycle to explore my surroundings. For the month of June I was participating in a seminar at Tantur Ecumenical Institute, situated on a hilltop overlooking the City of David and Jesus. During that time my sidekick was a cross bike loaned to me by the Institute. It took me up and down the many hills on the southern edge of Jerusalem and even into Bethlehem.
My first trip to Bethlehem began rather inauspiciously. While trying to inflate the front tire on a nice Trek I broke the Presta valve stem on the inner tube and had to switch to a Fuji Outland with Schrader valves. After inflating that bike’s tires as much as possible with a little hand pump, I rolled down the hill, went out the gate of the Institute and turned on to the road heading south to the checkpoint where young Israeli soldiers controlled entry into the West Bank. There were two types of checkpoints, one for pedestrians and another for motorists, which also included me on my bicycle. After being waved to the front of the line past tour buses and cars I had to show my passport to a stern young woman “manning” the guard booth and was soon on my way down a Bethlehem hill past a string of taxi cabs whose drivers would surely have pestered me to take a ride if I had been on foot.
Neither the guards nor taxi drivers saw very many people on bicycles. As one of the Palestinian desk clerks at Tantur explained, no self-respecting Palestinian adult would be caught on a bicycle. Somewhat wistfully he noted that in his culture bicycles were for children. I wondered if he really wished he could hop on a bicycle. It would surely make his journey to work through the check point a lot faster.
My goal on that particular day was the town of Beit Jala, just to the west of Bethlehem. Upon the advice of Jens, a Norwegian scholar whose respect I had gained after telling him I skied the Birkebeiner races in both his and my countries, I headed down and up very steep hills, first encountering the church where St. Nicholas is supposed to have visited and then stopping at a bakery for something sweet to eat. My legs got a good workout on the almost vertical hills, but eventually I made my way to a garden with an overview of the Bethlehem area. A friendly fellow working on his new home chatted with me and pointed out my goal, the Lutheran church, which also housed a home for boys from troubled families as well as a hotel. The trip to the church and back through Bethlehem to Tantur was a lot easier because it was mostly downhill. As I returned through the checkpoint, a congenial guard asked if I wanted a drink of water. He must have known the effect those hills and the hot sun could have on a person.
My next trip to Bethlehem was a bit more problematic. This time the guard didn’t want to let me pass through on a bicycle, but after talking to her superior on the phone she waved me through. That was only the beginning of my troubles because I noticed that the rear tire was getting low. Fortunately a sympathetic auto mechanic filled up my tire and sent me on the way with good wishes. But I still had problems. Eventually I was walking the bike through a strange part of town past a mosque, curious children and women hanging out their wash in the balconies. With the help of direction signs in Arabic, Hebrew and English I made my way back into the main part of Bethlehem and decided to stop at another bakery. Those Palestinian sweets do give a person energy.
This was my lucky decision. After a cup of coffee and a couple sweet rolls I explained to the two young men in the shop that I had a problem with my bike tire. Their English wasn’t very good and my Arabic was limited to Shukran (thank you), but after I showed them my flat tire they laboriously extracted an air compressor from a back room and filled the tire, only to discover that the valve leaked air. What to do? They had a solution! One fellow wrapped a piece of white tape around the stem, filled the tire, and then quickly screwed on the cap. It worked! My tire was good for the ride home. Perhaps these fellows were descendents of the compassionate inn keeper who had given Mary and Joseph a place to stay on that first Christmas Eve. The Golden Bakery will always have a place in my heart --- as well as my stomach.
All of my problems solved? Well, not quite. Eventually the tape wore out on my rear tire and I knew I had to find a more permanent solution. This necessitated another trip through the wall into Bethlehem on a Sunday morning to a repair shop operated by a Muslim whose holy day was Friday. After making my way through the crowded market I found the little shop operated by an older man in a white shirt. Another shop owner had given me a slip of paper written in Arabic, which gave the name of the bike shop and simply said, “Fix the bike.” After examining the inner tube the man confirmed that the problem was a leaky valve and he had the tool to make the adjustment. Now the leaky rear tire problem was truly solved, all for a cost of 4 shekels. I could then take my bike around the corner and happily attend worship at the Christmas Lutheran Church.
One more bicycle problem remained. I had to get the inner tube to the other bicycle replaced. One evening Sami, a helpful Palestinian math teacher who worked part-time at Tantur, took me back into Bethlehem to a bicycle store near Nativity Square. Unfortunately all this shop carred were children's bicycles. No Presta valves here! I knew I had to check in Jerusalem where one could find adults on bicyles. The only problem was that all the bicycle shop names and addresses listed on the website I found were in Hebrew. Once again a hlpful person came to my rescue, this time one of our lecturers who was flulent in both Hebrew and English. Thanks to her I had an English translation of three bike shop names and addresses.
The following afternoon I made my way down Jaffa Road in central Jerusalem, passed through an inspection station at the shopping center, and went searching for my first shop. It had moved to another location! On to number two.
The next day was Saturday, Sabbath in Israel, and a day when the traffic was significantly reduced because all shops were closed. Without the worry of getting around all of the cars and trucks on the main road I eventually found the second bike shop on my list and gained confidence to ride back and check on an inner tube the next day when the shop was open.
Once again I encountered friendly, helpful people. In fact one fellow was voluntarily filling in for his friend on vacation at a seaside resort and was able to adjust the brakes on my bike. His fellow mechanic, however, was an opinionated recent immigrant from the USA and ready to offer me all of his solutions to world problems. I wasn’t sure if I was in a bike shop or at the local chapter of a right wing political party. In between pieces of political advice the mechanic discovered that they did not have the proper size Presta inner tube, but he referred me to a third bike shop up the street. It took a bit of wandering around the round-abouts (traffic circles) in the Talpiot business district, but I eventually found a really nice, well equipped bike shop, and it did have one inner tube in my size. Hallelujah!
There was one other benefit from stopping at that shop. A grey-bearded mountain biker, overhearing my inquiry about less-trafficked trails in the Jerusalem area, offered to lead my friend Pat and me to the Promenade overlooking Jerusalem’s old city and the location of many twisting trails. He also recommended another series of trails leading to the city’s zoo.
With this advice and the confidence that we knew where we were going, the two of us were able to explore several areas in the southern part of Jerusalem, including the historic Ramat Rachel Kibbutz, but we never made it to the zoo. We peddled our bikes up the long hill from Tantur to the settlement of Gilo past massive apartment blocks, a shopping center and even a building housing the local ministry of the American evangelist John Hagee. Up on the top we could see a dirt road at the bottom of the valley surrounded by Gilo. This was supposed to lead us to the zoo, but even after trying numerous dirt tracks leading down the hill we could not reach the road. Ah well, we did enjoy spending time in Gilo Park at the tip of the plateau, with its many pine trees and beautiful vistas.
As the end of my time at Tantur approached I wanted to make one more trip into Bethlehem for a last look at Nativity Square and some shopping. Once again I made it through the check point and past the foreboding, prison-like walls, but as I was gliding down the street a car started to pull out in front of me. I applied my brakes, stopped, and somehow lost my balance, falling to the ground. Fortunately the driver also stopped. The only physical reminder from my fall was the scrapped palm of my right hand. I felt unnerved as I remembered the warning from a Palestinian lecturer that we did not want to experience West Bank medical care. After one final stop at a favorite souvenir shop to buy t shirts for my grandchildren I was looking forward to a warm shower back at my room.
However, I had one more challenge to face. As I approached the checkpoint a machine gun totting soldier shouted something at me in Hebrew. I stopped and then tentatively approached him. He yelled “halt” and I halted. Only when the fellow in the car next to me explained that the guard wanted me to lift up my shirt did I realize the young soldier wanted to make sure I didn’t have a bomb strapped around my midriff. Only after I turned full circle to show my front and back did he allow me to approach the checkpoint and display my passport. When I hopped back on my bike I rode as fast as I could up the hill to Tantur.
On my final evening in Israel I took a brief spin thorough the olive orchards surrounding Tantur. I could see Bethlehem in the distance, partly obscured by a wall separating the two peoples of the Holy Land. I hope the next time I try to visit Bethlehem there will be no wall.
