"Ramat Yochanan" a Haifa Travel Page by NYTim

I walked off the boat, at the port of Haifa, early the next morning. It was May 15th, 1977. I had sailed four days. I was 27 years old.
The straps on my backpack sandpapered my sun scorched shoulders. Customs was in a huge shed, open on the sides, with a roof of green, translucent, corrugated plastic. My traveling companions and I, wanderers, junkies and other misfits, stood in a line.
My line moved slowly. The tourists who had paid for cabins, waited in a faster-moving line. The Israeli officials frightened me. They barked orders at everyone, not just those who traveled on the cheap. Screaming announcements, they snatched passports and barked in Hebrew at the timid travelers, “Regga, regga, bahoutsi.”
The personnel at the port seemed similar to those I had seen in grainy films of concentration camp Nazi’s. Missing were huge slavering dogs, straining at their leashes, barking furiously at the lines of people.
The sun was heating up the air under the roof. My skin was chafed. My feet were sore and I was in no mood for the incivility of the Israeli officials. My turn came.
“Passport!” the official snapped. “Why are you coming to Israel?”
“To work on a kibbutz.”
“Which kibbutz?”
“Ramat Yochanan.”
He looked at my passport and compared the pale black and white photograph to my flaking pink features. “Okay, he said. “Go over there and get your bags checked.”
Another line to wait in. My patience was fading. I was edgy, hungry, and angry. With a curt snap of his fingers, a customs official summoned me, and pointing his finger toward a table said, “Empty your pack.” I rolled my eyes, not a smart thing to do, and emptied the contents of my bag onto the flat surface.
“Are you carrying any illegal substances?” he asked,
“Nope”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I‘m sure.”
Not a smart thing to say. I must have looked the type to carry drugs. I had shoulder-length hair, a ten-day stubble and with my sun-burnt skin, looked akin to a lobster. After meticulously sorting and searching through my belongings, he picked up my tooth paste tube and began squeezing the contents on to a paper towel.
“Why are you emptying my toothpaste?” I said.
“This is a favorite place to hide drugs.”
“I don’t have drugs and I don’t use them.”
“You fit the profile so you will just have to deal with it”
“What’s the profile?”
“Shut up!”
“You’re going put the toothpaste back in the tube aren’t you?”
Not smart. He blew a whistle; two cops came over and pulled me behind a screen, similar to what one might find in a hospital. Behind the screen a man in a white coat and a military style, peaked hat said, “Take of your clothes then bend over as far as you can.” I did not protest. On my travels, cavity searches were the stuff of legends. And I knew that by keeping my mouth shut, my situation might improve. While the white coated Israeli -- wearing latex gloves -- explored my innards, the two who had escorted me there nonchalantly smoked. My Nazi imagery was reinforced.
Nothing was found inside my anus and after a stern lecture on respecting authority, I was allowed to dress and return to the baggage check. The clearly amused whistle-blowing customs official granted me an entry visa.
However, during my brief hiatus, my back pack had been disassembled. The aluminum tubes, and my belongings, were spread over the table. Left with the task of reconstructing the frame and the nylon container, I was about to protest or make some really sarcastic comment. But discretion became the greater part of valor and I kept my mouth shut -- for a change, a really smart thing to do.

The knapsack was bought more for its looks than its utility. I had often seen young people in London with bright bags on their backs. Many had suntans and wore bandannas around their necks and heads. They looked free and easy. This was an image I wanted to project. I fancied myself as a freewheeling adventurer, and I needed the world to see me that way too.
When I had shopped for my pack, I was astounded at the cost of the well-known brands, so I opted for a no name, look alike, bright red nylon pack. I started to rebuild my bag. After twenty minutes of fumbling with hooks, loops, rings and buckles -- scattered in with a few muttered curses -- I got the pack somewhat assembled and stuffed my clothes and the other sundry items into it.

I, of little sense, decided to walk to the bus station, located on the outskirts of Haifa, rather than wait for the bus to take me there. After all, it was only two miles. Not a smart thing to do. Off I marched under the blazing sun. The new sights and sounds camouflaged my discomfort. Haifa clings to the slopes of Mount Carmel. Cedar trees, with the bluish cast of their leaves shimmering in the morning light, stood like sentinels on the sun burnt hillsides.
The buildings, many with golden domes and pale brown walls, were foreign and mysterious. An Arab man, sitting in a cart pulled by a donkey, waved as he clattered past. I saw minarets, churches, temples and synagogues. The great religions of the world were well represented. This bamboozled me, as I was mentally prepared for a totally Jewish experience.
This was the first time I had walked any distance with the pack. My travels from London to Israel were completed via bus and boat. Until now, I had not carried the pack for more than a few hundred yards. My stupidity in buying a cheap one was repaid tenfold when straps began to rub more furiously than ever. I wore cheap sandals that like my pack, were bought more for looks than utility. My feet paid the same price as my shoulders for my silliness. I was thirsty, I ached -- as the pack rasped my shoulders -- and my feet were on fire when I finally hobbled into the bus station.
The bus station was cool and I was able to secure water and a sandwich, which made me feel better rather quickly. It seemed that everyone understood English, as I had no trouble ordering the food and drink. I sat on a cold concrete bench, took socks out of my pack and pulled them on to my feet. The sandals with socks may have damaged my preciously acquired image -- now I looked like an English tourist -- but comfort won out over style. I made a few inquiries, found the bus I wanted, clambered aboard, and paid my fare.