Israelis
Tanzania
January 2019
They hop between hippie traveler villages, revel in thatch hut hostels and bounce to the beachfront nightlife of Goa. Flowing elephant print pants flop atop their trademark strapped foam sandals slopping through puddles of Bangkok. Laughter echoes off the myriad evening constellations overhead. Beer flows, weed smolders, and guitar strings vibrate beneath the guttural Hebrew tunes resounding from bonfires in lakeside Latin American villages.
Loose curls flutter in sea breezes and mountain gusts; unrazored beards bristle, both easily released from regimented order. Toned military muscles behind a newly inked tattoo fade with each seafront sunset. They're carefree because they can, for the first time in 2-3 years following obligatory army service. Hitchhiking and overland vans are their transport, working holidays or volunteering help stretch the money, and camping and hostels are their accommodation.
These are the twentysomething Israelis, famous for their outsized impact on the world's travel paths, bringing singing, card games, and shakshuka (a rich tomato stew topped with eggs) to corners of the world where less-inspired backpackers would otherwise settle for overplayed electropop, another conversation about the weather, and burgers; sometimes infamous for entitled groupthink, limited cultural curiosity for their actual location, or speaking Hebrew in circles that normally switch to English - increasingly the only language in tourism.
Though meaning “House of Peace,” Dar es Salaam lacks cohesion and optimism. Blaring horns stare silently at me for violating decorum with my habitual smirk. Empty grey towers, security gates, and disgruntled Swahili voices portray a city trudging toward dowdy seaport modernity, unsure whether it is still the capital (it’s supposed to be Dodoma to the west), unwelcoming to foreigners (it’s the main air and sea gateway to tourist haven Zanzibar), and unconcerned to remedy either. Yet it’s here, well away from the hummus highway where their chutzpah rescues me from the frowns.
This Israeli trio veered away from India, opting instead for a self-supported overland trek in a beastly land cruiser for six months throughout southern and eastern Africa. The tires rumble ominously over the terrain, flinging dust and gulping fuel as we exit the city. But behind the tinted glass, their faces shine with sweat and satisfaction. Old jokes still summon fresh giggles and they beam in unison when they purchase yet another juicy roadside pineapple - nanasi in Swahili - for 500 shillings (0.20 USD). After months on the road, they’re still at ease with one another - a rare feat for a traveling partnership for any period of time. It helps that everyone seems to have a primary duty, though they often trade off: Nir brings the mechanical moxy, Stav manages logistical and money matters, and Guy takes the wheel. And when I accept their impromptu offer to join for a few days, my serenity follows as their Israeli insight might have foretold. We aim to catch a rumored ferry from a seaport village, but the town’s name is the only information we have. Salaam.
I admire their breezy spirit. It's a joy equally energized by a scuba expedition after a bungee jump as an evening with beers and strumming the guitar. It's an instinctual urge for youthful adrenaline in an instant when home lies in generational international crossfire, a response to imposition of an everyday edgy fear. It's an answer to voyage afar after the requisite military service that most of them openly deplore. But it's not just a narrow slice that jetset with a backpack and ukelele: in Israeli circles, to go abroad for some months or years is a social obligation, too. In the US, you're weird if you do; in Israel, you're weird if you don't.
I forgive the immaturity of some of the others I’ve met along the road. They unwillingly exchanged youth for battle training, the safe cradle of university for camouflage. They ought to earn their age with some nights of beer and error. It spawns an odd unity through wandering dispersion, when regiment yields to rogue independence on which all reflect whenever the call to the homeland finally sounds. Only then does the future inspire university and career decisions - after spending international curiosity and enduring the dissonance of warlike preparation in the name of peace. When they open the books or the sales counter, they'll bring focus born from experience from here and there - and ragged bracelets, full diving logs, and grimy passports proving it. Some will, anyway. Others may only see their hair grow longer still and the diving certifications pile up in a corner of their parents’ home, assuming they return to see them. The diving papers, of course.