Acre and the Border

 









Sunday 7th February


A few miles north of Haifa is Acre or Akko. We paused here to stand on the ancient fortifications, to wander among the narrow streets and the crusader ruins, where we imagined what it must have been like to be besieged for four years from 1189. Those same crusaders made themselves a handsome profit out of the spice trade for a while; no wonder they were in no hurry to get home to damp, grey England. They must have travelled a similar route to the one we are following for the return journey, through Athens and Italy. The atmosphere in Acre was not particularly friendly so we didn't linger.

We walked on to our RV at Rosh Hanikra. There is a feeling of apprehension now among us. 

'He did say 10pm didn't he? not 10am?'

'Yes, because he said 22.00 hours, so he was clear about it.'

'Will he come?'

'Will it be safe?'

None of us was particularly hungry. We spent a lot of the afternoon among the sea grottoes of Rosh Hanikra, travelling down the steep, white rock face in the cable car. Watching the turquoise sea lap and curl and foam among the rocks had a soothing effect but the site closes at 4 on a winter afternoon, which left us six long hours to kill. We found a secluded beach in a small inlet, made camp there and pecked half heartedly at our picnic.

By half past nine we were at the pick up point. Fortunately there was hardly any traffic but we kept well back to be as inconspicuous as possible. At ten exactly we heard a rumble of trucks and saw headlights. Even so, we waited until they stopped and familiar blue helmets got out.

'Get in, get in. Quickly,' Mikka's voice was urgent. We did, hauled unceremoniously into the dark interiors by the soldiers who sat by the tailgate. 

'Keep your heads down and keep quiet,' they growled.

The trucks turned around to head back to the border crossing. They stopped. We listened, breathless. Mikka's voice and another, just audible over the engine noise. A long pause which extended for an eternity into the blackness of the night. Finally, a shout of laughter, a truck door slammed and we were off, slowly rolling along what felt like ridges of concrete. Slowly, so slowly. At last the road surface altered to something smoother and we picked up speed.

When we stopped, and were bundled off the trucks, Mikka's head appeared from the passenger side of the lead truck.

'Go,' he hissed. 'get walking and put some distance between us. Whatever you do, don't say anything and don't come back.'

The trucks were gone through the barrack gates and we scurried away up the road, hearts thumping, not stopping until we found the beach on the far side of Tyre. Here we flopped onto the sand. 

What had just happened? None of us knew. We were just thankful it was over and enormously grateful to Mikka for his dramatic rescue.

'There is, of course,' remarked someone when we had calmed down and our appetites has come back. 'A possibility that he made it much more of a Scandi drama than it actually was, to amuse himself and his blue helmets.'

We will never know.

Monday 8th

Our ferry leaves from Tripoli (Lebanon) tonight. We have to be there by 8pm. The whole day stretches happily before us. Ba'albek is a minor detour so we will make time for the Temple of Bacchus.




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