Six years ago, returning from the Mayan ruins in Tikal to where I lived in Guatemala, I stopped for the night at Finca Ixobel, a hotel popular with foreign travelers. At a nearby table in the dining room, a group of Israelis was talking loudly in Hebrew.
I began to converse with them in English about Israel and my experiences in Central America, not letting them know that I was Jewish or spoke Hebrew. They told me that they were from kibbutz Deganyah Aleph. When I told them I knew about their famous kibbutz (it’s the first one), they were thrilled.
Then, with trademark Israeli obliviousness to what others might consider rude, they began to talk about me in Hebrew. I was expecting a cynical remark about what a friar (the word roughly translates to “sucker”) this American was. But to my surprise they had only nice things to say about me.
During my stint in the Peace Corps in Guatemala, I frequently ran into adventurous young Israelis equipped with giant backpacks, wraparound shades, and a healthy dose of attitude. Most of them were fresh from mandatory military service and testing their newfound independence.
Young Israelis tend to travel in droves through South America on a route they call the gal (“the wave”). Starting off in Argentina or Chile in late November, they make their way north to Brazil for carnaval then move onto Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador and Colombia. The group at Finca Ixobel was representative of the more intrepid travelers, who veer away from the gal and head to Central America.
As the night wore on, the travelers at the other tables left, and we were left alone. One of the Israelis told a joke in Hebrew and I had to bite my lip not to laugh. Another played with a candle that was about to burn out. “We have a holiday called Hanukkah,” he told me instructively, “where we light candles to celebrate a miracle that happened thousands of years ago when a lamp that only had oil for one day burned for eight.” I bit my lip again.
A few weeks later, I celebrated Rosh Hashannah in Guatemala City. In the synagogue I met two Israeli girls—trekkers like the others. I asked them in Hebrew whether they had met any fellow Israelis traveling in Guatemala. It turned out they had come across the kibbutznikim from Deganyah Aleph. I laughed and confessed to them that I had met them as well, but had not told them that I spoke Hebrew. “Then it was you,” one of the girls exclaimed. “They said that one of the things that they had learned on their trip was that Americans are the dumbest people on earth, with the exception being one American guy they met at Finca Ixobel.”
Several years later, I spent some months in the heart of the gal—Campo Grande, Brazil—while researching my master’s thesis. A small city on the edge of the magnificent Pantanal wetlands, Campo Grande often serves as a resting place for thrill seekers and nature lovers.
One day, a Brazilian friend came to me with news that an Israeli had been severely injured. The Israeli had been snorkeling in the nearby town of Bonito when a tree fell on his head. Concerned, I stopped by the general hospital in Campo Grande to see if I could help. While my Brazilian friend was inquiring at reception, I spotted a middle-aged Israeli couple in the waiting area. I introduced myself in Hebrew, telling them I had heard about the accident and was wondering if I could be of assistance. They were relieved to have someone who could translate for them.
Their son was in a coma. I spent many hours at the hospital, keeping them company, translating, and offering advice. The parents didn’t know whether their son would pull out of the coma, and whether they should move him to a hospital in São Paolo or even back to Israel. Luckily, after a couple of weeks, his situation improved. He came out of his coma, and they all flew home.
Bolivia, where I currently live, is one of the most popular destinations for young Israelis. El Lobo, a restaurant and hotel in the capital city of La Paz, is even Israeli-owned. Weary Israeli travelers meet up there, slip off their gargantuan packs, and fill their stomachs with falafel or malawech. The waiters, native Bolivians, take orders in Hebrew and respond with a friendly “ain b’ayah, achi,” (Hebrew for “no problem, my brother”).
But relations between Israelis and their Latin American hosts are not always so friendly. In some places, tourist vendors refuse to serve Israelis. Following my service in the Peace Corps, I traveled through Colombia with an Israeli girl. We wanted to camp on a beautiful beach by the Caribbean, but Israelis were no longer welcome at the campsite. One too many Israelis had run off without paying the bill.
Even locals who have never met an Israeli will tell you Israelis are known for their pushiness. One Bolivian tour operator complained about their obsession with nickel-and-diming every price, demanding the rate that a friend paid over a year ago, even though prices have since been adjusted for inflation.
I have had varied experiences. Some of the best travelers I’ve met have been from Israel, particularly those who are a few years out of the army. They are open-minded and interested in experiencing the local culture, not just in “marking a v,” a term which Israeli travelers use for those riding the gal.
That said, some of the hordes of young Israelis, fresh out of the army, are among the worst travelers I have come across. This is understandable: After mandatory military service many young Israelis just want lenakot et ha-rosh (“to clear the head”), to relax with their friends and get away from the tension of living in Israel; they ride the gal in order to share a communal experience that is part of being an Israeli. Exploring the nuances of Latin American society is not a high priority. Perhaps that’s why a friend of mine once said, “Israelis are the only people I know that can travel the world and come back unchanged.”
