GO MEDITERRANEAN: Michael Parsonsgets a chance to see the Holy Land during a cruise from Cyprus that stops off in Israel
IN THE LITTLE town of Bethlehem there will be plenty of room at the inn this Christmas. Tourism has plummeted in areas of the Holy Land under the control of the Palestinian Authority. Locals say the biggest drop has been from Ireland and the US. Walid, a Christian Arab tour guide, recalls when he used to have groups of Irish a few times a day. Not any more. At the Herodion souvenir shop, on Manger Street, the anxious sales staff proffer hand-carved olive-wood cribs and mother-of-pearl rosary beads while its owner, Costandi Canavati, says: "We are in a very bad situation due to the lack of tourists."
For the first time in history the Holy Land is physically divided. The Palestinian West Bank of the River Jordan is enclosed by the Israeli "security barrier", a 600km internal border comprising a mix of concrete wall and fencing that resembles a combination of the Berlin Wall and Belfast's "peace lines". Getting through the Checkpoint Charlie-style entry points requires planning, patience and determination.
Both the Palestinians and Israelis want Irish pilgrims - and tourists - to return. If you'd like to visit the biblical sights but don't fancy flying to Israel, you have an alternative: go by sea from Cyprus. You can combine a traditional beach holiday on the eastern-Mediterranean island with a mini-cruise to the Holy Land, involving two nights at sea and a day's sightseeing in Jerusalem and Bethlehem.
Limassol, an old port city on the south coast of Cyprus, was once a staging post for European crusaders en route to liberate the Holy Land from Islamic occupiers. Today it is one of the Mediterranean's busiest resorts. Almost 1,000 years ago the English king Richard the Lionheart disembarked here and tasted grapes that he pronounced "very good". The chuffed islanders misheard the compliment and named the vine "Veriko" in his honour. The grape variety retains the name.
We board the MS Sapphire destined for the Israeli port of Haifa. Cabins - even the superior sort - are basic but spotless, with ample storage, serviceable small bathrooms with shower, and surprisingly comfortable beds. Outdoor seating overlooks a swimming pool filled with brackish water the colour of absinthe. Nobody ventures in. Smoking is permitted pretty much everywhere except the restaurant, to the evident satisfaction of the mostly Russian passengers.
Below deck are a gym and a library with well-thumbed paperbacks by Maeve Binchy and Cecelia Ahern. We're under the capable command of Capt Dikeos Fokas and Greek officers dressed in Daz-white uniforms, shoulders reassuringly dusted with copious quantities of gold braid. HMS Pinafore meets Homer's Odyssey.
This is an informal cruise, so pre-dinner drinks are taken on deck as the ship slides into one of the world's oldest and most fabled shipping routes. Then it's down to a single-sitting dinner of the bland international type.
Later the Marco Polo lounge fills to the gills for a floor show that could be a dress rehearsal for the Moldovan song contest. Dancing girls wear Sinbad costumes and singers murder Sinatra in Slavic accents.
In the bowels of the vessel, posters for an unexpectedly spacious and comfortable cinema display unintentionally grim humour. Tonight's film will be Hurricane. But, mercifully, the sea remains calm.
At dawn the lights twinkle in Haifa, Israel's principal port and third largest city, which is built on a series of rolling hills collectively known as Mount Carmel. The Promised Land. What a sight this must have been for exhausted Jews arriving from Europe after the horrors of the Holocaust.
On the quayside this morning we walk past tour buses from the Nazarene Express coach company and speed down Yitzhak Rabin Highway towards Jerusalem in an air-conditioned, leather-upholstered German people-carrier, passing kibbutz villages, long stretches of golden beach and precious farmland. Sixty per cent of Israel is desert, so every square centimetre of fertile soil is assiduously cultivated. There are cotton fields, banana and orange groves and endless hectares of plastic tunnels shielding crops of soft fruits and vegetables. Freshwater fish farms have developed a hugely lucrative sideline exporting koi to Japan. But the Land of Milk and Honey has also become a country of silicon chips and high tech.
Our Jewish guide, Roni, is passionately proud of his country's achievements - and idiosyncrasies - commenting: "Israel is a weird country. We have six satellites in space, but you can still see people riding donkeys."
We are crossing a landscape once traversed by the ancient world's great trading routes, which linked Cairo to Damascus, Jaffa to Petra and beyond to Mesopotamia and Asia. At a service station, armed guards, their waists slung with pistols, sit at the entrances to both cafe and shop. A policeman cradling a machine gun sits sunning himself on the terrasse while motorists fill up. The Palestinian area is visible behind the meandering security barrier on the other side of the motorway. Questioned about it, Roni explains: "It doesn't look good for the image of Israel in the world, but terrorism has dropped by 100 per cent. So which is best?"
The road ascends into the Judean Hills, and to reach the summit of the Mount of Olives is to survey one of the most extraordinary and thrilling vistas on earth. "This," says Roni, "is where faith begins." He points out the sacred places, and both Old and New Testaments come alive. There Abraham built his alter. Here Jesus wept. Below is the Garden of Gethsemane, where He was betrayed and arrested. Across Kidron Valley is the epicentre for three of the world's most powerful religions.
The hillside is covered by a huge, sprawling cemetery. Jews aspire to be buried on these slopes, where they believe that the Messiah will one day appear and bring the dead back to life. The golden Dome of the Rock, one of Islam's holiest shrines, shimmers on the horizon. We travel down the vertiginous Palm Sunday Road, passing Polish pilgrims and a hawker with merchandise piled on the back of an ass. He's flogging toy camels and wooden figurines of Christ carrying the Cross.
We enter the old city through Jaffa Gate. Signs advise modest dress. Men should not wear shorts; women should cover their shoulders, knees and heads. In front of the Wailing Wall a tremendous hubbub is rising from the vast plaza thronged with Jewish worshippers - some dressed in the strict Orthodox manner, others in more relaxed, informal mode. The air is filled with the sounds of prayer and chanting, laughter and weeping.
Many in the pulsing crowd approach the wall to push scraps of paper, on which they've written prayers or petitions, into crevices between huge blocks of stone. Bar mitzvah parties are in full flow as families celebrate a son's initiation into religious adulthood. Passers-by are offered gifts of cake and sweets.
On into the Arab quarter and its jumbled warren of crowded streets and alleys. Tiny cafes display jugs of freshly pressed pomegranate juice, and shops offer "half-price" souvenirs. In the midst of merchandise such as Winnie the Pooh stickers and "Calvin Klein" socks, it is a shock to spot a street sign in this souk bearing the immortal words "Via Dolorosa". The Way of the Cross. The location of all fourteen Stations is marked by a stone plaque and a tiny church. Opposite the Fifth Station, "Simon of Cyrene Carries the Cross", you can buy a Sony memory stick or a box of sandalwood incense sticks from House of Perfume and Amber. And across from the spot where "Veronica wipes Jesus's face with her veil" is the premises of "Jelly Ibrahim - Silversmith". At the Seventh Station, where Jesus fell for the second time, you can stop and pray at the little shrine or pop into Ali Baba's Internet Cafe. God and Mammon inextricably entwined.
The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is reputedly built on the spot where Jesus was crucified, buried and resurrected. A tour group wearing yellow Sunway baseball caps surrounds the sacred marble slab on which His body was laid. There's a manageable, snappily moving queue to see the altar built above the Rock of Calvary, its cruel grey-white stone exposed.
An Armenian priest in a side chapel is doing a roaring trade in candles. Beaming Greek Orthodox clerics, sprouting bushy AC/DC beards, pose for photographs with visitors outside the Chapel of the Resurrection.
Bethlehem is 10km away through the Jerusalem suburbs. Roni drops us at the security checkpoint. Israelis are not allowed to enter the Palestinian area. We pass through a concrete-and-steel maze and emerge into a different world. This is the original location for the greatest story ever told. The authors used language of astonishing succinctness and elegance. Here is St Luke's description of the Nativity: "And she brought forth her first-born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn."
The Church of the Nativity is built on the site of the stable. Forget the grandeur and opulence of Rome: this is a building of utter simplicity. It sorely needs some sprucing up. Some of the painted walls are scratched with graffiti.
While Greek Orthodox priests conduct a service the small group of visitors and pilgrims waits in line to descend to the basement, supposedly the site of the original stable. A Palestinian policemen in smart navy uniform keeps watch.
We are allowed down in pairs. The atmosphere is stuffy and slightly claustrophobic, the air heady with incense. On the ground a silver star marks the spot where Mary is believed to have placed the infant in the manger. The faithful kneel in awe; some bend forward and kiss the ground.
Outside, in the Shepherds' Fields, the flocks have long gone. And there isn't a wide-eyed dumb ox in sight. The parched, scrubby soil now sprouts dispiriting apartment blocks. It's a long way from the cutesy world of Anglo-Saxon Christmas cards and carols. Across the square a muezzin lets rip with a blood-curdling cry to afternoon prayer. One God, two worlds.
As we leave Bethlehem, dusty Palestinian construction workers lucky enough to have permits to enter Israel for the daily slog are trudging homewards through the security barrier.
Back aboard ship the Russians are holding a karaoke night and belting out patriotic songs of the motherland. It's not going to be a silent night.
Go there
*Michael Parsons was a guest on a cruise organised by Louis Cruise Lines (www.louiscruises.com).
*For more about visiting Cyprus, see www.visitcyprus. com or call 01-6629269.
*You can ask travel agent to add a mini cruise to the Holy Land to a package holiday or other trip to Cyprus.