The Magical Mystery Tour

When I was 21 years old, I lived in Israel as a volunteer. After three months of intense Hebrew study and working on a kibbutz, I was sent up north to a small village near Tsfat. I was going to live with another American girl, Ellen. We were to teach English together at the English Center.

We had first visited our place a month earlier. It was a labyrinth of furniture so walking around was nearly impossible. Our house had served as a home for volunteers over the years. It looked like a squat. Our bathroom had a shower with no shower head, just a pipe sticking out of the wall. Spiders were encrusted into the frost of our tiny freezer that was big enough to hold two ice trays. Our fridge smelled like decomposing garbage and our kitchen cabinets were full of dirty red plastic dishes.

In our front yard which was overgrown with abnormally long dead grass, were old rusty bike remains, and if you dug in the sand at our front door, you could find huge black sleeping scorpions. But, we heard the people were friendly and inviting and we wanted to have a real Israeli experience with the people and the language, so we figured it was worth it and we’d make our house nice little by little.

I happened to arrive by bus one evening by myself. Ellen was to arrive a day or two later. I had a big duffle bag and a rolled-up carpet wrapped in plastic in hopes to make our dump feel more like a home. I knew no one so I was planning on finding another bus from Tsfat to my little village.

I tried to get some information but no one was around. So I sat in the bus depot waiting optimistically. Not long after I sat down, a balding stocky dark man around 30 years old approached me. He was slightly effeminate in his ways.

“Hello! You speak English?,” he asked.

“Yes,” I responded.

”No more buses tonight. Where you go?”

“No more buses? Are you sure? I’m going to Moshav Biria,” I replied.

“I drive tour bus. Waiting for next bus to bring my friend. I know Moshav Biria. I give you ride if you like.”

“Okay,” I said feeling lucky as I was sitting all alone and he probably was right about there being no more buses.

“Let’s go," he said waiting for me to get up and walk with him.

“What about your friend?” I asked

“It’s okay. I bring you and come back.”

“Are you sure? We can wait,” I said not quite sure if this was the best thing to do.

“Sure. Let’s go! I help you,” He heaved my heavy rug over his shoulder. I followed him to a white and red bus. We climbed in. I sort of knew the way, at least I recognized which direction to go. At a fork in the road where he should’ve turned right, he took a left.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To my place. I just need to check my messages and see if my friend called.”

I did not like this answer. He turned on the radio. A Phil Collins love song was on. “I love this song,” he smiled and began to sing out loud. “You like this song?” he asked.

I told him yes even though it made me feel like gagging. This was getting uncomfortable. Not long after, we parked in front of some nice apartment buildings. He turned the engine off and started to climb out.

“I’ll wait for you,“ I said trying to minimize my risks of sexual harassment, murder, rape, mugging, and kidnapping.

“Come. Come,” he beckoned, “only a minute.”

I began to gather my belongings before getting out of his bus.

“Leave. Leave. No worries. We come right back.”

I followed him up some stairs. I looked down at his parked bus to see if by chance he had arranged someone to come steal my things. What was I thinking? We went inside his apartment which was neat and clean and well decorated. Maybe he was gay and I had nothing to worry about.

“Sit. Sit,” he motioned to his couch. “I make you tea.” He put on the kettle then came into the living room to check his answering machine. He had no messages. “My friend will probably call soon. Then, I go get her.”

“Okay,” I said looking around and taking in his place, his things, any hint of craziness I might find though I had no idea what a murderer or rapist’s home might look like.

He brought some tea and chocolates to a low table by the couch. “I’m tour guide,” he said. Then he went to a chest of drawers and pulled open a drawer full of post cards. “Look,” he showed me all his thank you letters from past tourists.

I sat quietly drinking my tea and eating a few chocolates. I was starved from my long bus ride and hadn’t had dinner. I was hoping his phone would ring and we’d leave. He showed me card after card, smiling with nostalgia and feeling proud he was so loved.

“I also do massage at the spa,” he showed me a brochure of a hot springs spa. “I work there. Very nice.”

I looked at the brochure quietly.

“I give you massage. I’m very good.”

“No thanks,” I said.

“Yes. Yes. Just your head. You will like. Lots of nerves in our head. Need to get the energy out,” he came to sit next to me on the couch and the next thing I knew, I was semi-reclined, my back against his chest. I felt awkward in this almost sexual position and remember hoping he wouldn’t get an erection. Luckily, he never did as far as I could tell. This did relieve me to some extent.

He began using his knuckles to apply abrupt circular motions all over my head in a slightly painful manner. He did these tight little movements over and over. It felt like he was making tiny knots. Finally he stopped. He got up, left the room and seconds later came back holding a pair of red silky shorts in has hand, the kind Jane Fonda would’ve worn in the 70’s. “I do your legs. Put these on,” he said.

Was this a joke? I felt like laughing. “No thanks. I need to use your bathroom,” I said.

I went into his bathroom and when I looked in the mirror, I was terrified at what I saw. He had massaged my normally long curly hair into a giant afro. Frantically, I tried to smooth my hair down to no avail. I had to get out of there. He needed to take me home. But what if he refused? What if he wouldn’t let me go? Panic. I left the bathroom. “Take me home now,” I said.

“Okay. Okay,” he said not at all ruffled.

The first thing I did when we got in his bus was verify all my belongings were still there. Indeed they were right where I left them.

“I guess my friend not coming,” he said as we drove back, his radio turned up loudly.

Please get me home safely, I repeated in my head, bargaining with a higher power. The closer we got to my home, the more I began to panic about the situation…me with a stranger in a bus. I wouldn’t feel safe until I was in my dilapidated house with the doors locked. We finally arrived and I got out feeling blessed and relieved, “Thank you so much,” I said.

“Very welcome,” he smiled and drove away. I watched him and waited until I saw his bus far away before I walked inside my house. Two days later when my roommate Ellen arrived, I told her about my tour bus adventure. Several weeks later, she was walking to town when lo and behold, a red and white tour bus stopped alongside the road and the same fellow proposed to give her a ride.

“I know who you are,” she said to him supposedly giving him an evil look. After that, he promptly drove away.

A month or two afterward, she claimed to have seen his photo with a warning for a man posing to be a tour guide! Throughout our year in Moshav Biria, we would occasionally see him scouting the streets in his empty bus. Once in a while a group of army kids would get in and he’d bring them up the hill. I guess he was just a lonely guy. Maybe he was a pervert? Who knows what would have happened had I put on his red silky shorts…would he have made a pass at me or just massaged my legs or both? I’ll never know but he does deserve to go down as one of my Israeli adventures, my magical mystery tour bus man.