Bethlehem or bust

Look at a map and you’ll see that the most direct route from Nazareth to Bethlehem is about 90 km straight south, but some believe that Mary and Joseph would likely have gone east to the Jordan Valley, before travelling south. This route would have been less mountainous and safer, as it would bypass Samaria, which was often at odds with the Jews. After reaching the ancient town of Jericho, whose history dates back 10,000 years, they would have turned west for the last stretch to Bethlehem.

We learned that a group of Belgians would be joining us for the first three days, so after a bit of a disorganized start, our guide, Nadal, led the 14 of us into a farmer’s field for the start of our eight day journey to Bethlehem. We walked past fields brimming with onions, through groves of olive trees, and up hillsides blanketed with wild flowers. We crossed paths with two shepherds and their herd of sheep.

While our walk to Bethlehem isn't following the exact route that Mary and Joseph would have travelled, I still felt as if I were following in their footsteps; minus the donkey, of course.

We stopped for lunch under a stand of trees on a hillock near the village of Al Mughayer. Not long after arriving, a taxi arrived with the ingredients for our meal-- bread, humus, some sliced meat, pickles, and a white cheese-like substance that is squeezed out of bag into a coil. Fine the first few times, but it would get a little tired after a few days of eating the same for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Over lunch, Nadal pointed in an easterly direction and told us that Israel’s security barrier was not far away.

“Maybe we should go there for an adventure,” someone in our group jokingly said.

“There is no adventure in Palestine,” Nadal responded curtly.

It was a sharp reminder that the conditions in Palestine aren’t simply some sideshow to be gawked at. The conflict between Israel and the Palestinians has raged on for more than 60 years, and has exacted a terrible toll on both sides, but more so for the Palestinians.

With our bellies full, we found a path that cut through a valley. Passing one village perched high on a hill, a large group of young boys saw us. “Hello…hello…welcome…welcome,” we could hear them call out, as they clamored down the steep hillside to greet us. We exchanged greetings, shook hands, and posed for pictures. When we moved on our group swelled, as the boys ran after us for another kilometer or two. We left one path for another and waved goodbye to the boys. They waved back and ran back to their village.

After climbing one more hill, we descended through a grove of olive trees, some of which were more than a 1,000 years old.

“This all looks very biblical,” John said, taking in the scene that unfolded before us. “Well, of course it is.”

Almost 20 kilometres after setting our in the morning, we entered the town of Zababdeh, a predominantly Christian town, where by law the mayor must be a Christian. Someone commented that they thought we were the military. What a rag tag militia that would have been. They probably thought that because Ronald was wearing his camouflage pants, and walking out in front, as he always does.

John and I had a discussion, well actually I forced him into the discussion by suggesting that it seemed a little exclusive that the mayor had to be of a specific religious persuasion. Couldn’t an Atheist or Muslim, or Buddhist do just as good a job as a Christian?

“Most of the people in the village are Christian, so they would want to vote one of their own in,” John offered.

Still, I was bemused that religion need be a requirement for the mayor’s job. That’s when John said, “In this part of the world, you have three choices [Christianity, Judaism, and Islam], pick one.”