Sandstorm! There is perhaps nothing worse, or more excruciatingly annoying, than having road dirt and gritty particles collecting on your teeth. Nevertheless, such was the windy way as I left the city limits of southern Jerusalem, heading for Bethlehem. The road was littered with cracked pebbles and dry, dusty well-trodden Israeli soil. The rains had withheld themselves from the Middle East for many months, and the whipping dust made us pay for the lack of water. All I could think of was my morning shower, like, why did I even take one? The sweat line along my forehead was forming dust cakes, and my parched mouth regretted that I hadn’t finished all of my orange juice at breakfast. I couldn’t seem to form enough spittle to eliminate the mud clods that were forming in my throat. Breathing through my nose had almost become impossible as the passages were filling and closing shut, and the measly rag I had hastily tossed around my face didn’t seem to offer the filtering that I had expected of it. The sun was high overhead beating down on the road and its travelers. Inwardly I scolded myself for not getting on the road sooner, or even simply waiting for later in the day when the sun was lower in the west. Nevertheless, I was miserable, and just wanted to get to a Bethlehem hotel, re-shower and start my day over again.

      The never-ending cavalcade of sand grit was conspiring to blast off the outer layer of my forehead, and with the wind howling past my ears, I hardly looked up as I walked. But in all that external violence swirling around me, I could sense that a fellow journeyman was nearing me from behind. Westerners are always told to be on alert when alone in the Middle East. Moreover, weather conditions didn’t alter the danger or the warning. If someone was coming up on me, I had better be on guard, despite the conditions.

      “Are you going to Bethlehem?” came the voice from the nearing stranger, speaking at a volume level just slightly louder than the surrounding howl of the wind.

      I pretended that I hadn’t heard him, and kept my head down, looking forward, and clutched my laptop. I was not going to allow my computer to get stolen by some highway hooligan. I thought that I had left Jerusalem by myself. I hadn’t noticed anyone else on the road with me at all. Then again with all the swirling dust that suddenly found itself airborne, anyone could have entered the road undetected. I felt that I had carefully paced myself from other fools like me trying to get to Bethlehem in a windstorm. Yet somehow this man has caught up to me.

      “Say,” came the voice again, it had grown louder, indicating that he was coming up on my left side. I threw a slight glance over my shoulder, being careful not to turn my face and its covering totally sideways to the cross-cutting wind, so that it wouldn’t catch an edge and rip the wrap off my head.

      “Are you headed for Bethlehem?” he repeated. Now he was along my left flank, and looking directly at my face. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the blinding sand. I found it interesting that he didn’t even have a wrap around his face, as was called for by the conditions. Amazingly, the wind had diminished to a slight breeze and afforded us an opportunity to speak without having to yell.

      “Yes,” I responded in a hesitant tone. Being on my guard, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to greet him with a pleasant “good-day” nor offer any friendly expression on my face until I was able to establish who he was, and what his intentions were. “I am headed to Bethlehem, who’s asking?” came my interrogative tone.

      “My name is Eshek. I’m also headed for Bethlehem. Want some company? You can’t travel alone on these roads, too much evil walks these same paths.” I found myself looking directly into his Middle-Eastern dark eyes. It was difficult to break their hold on me. He, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be from the area. His skin was dark complexioned and his irises were a deep, dark brown, bordering on black. His clothing was certainly cultural. However, curiously, he spoke in marvelously clear English. There was no telltale heavy Hebrew or Arab accent. He had my interest, but I didn’t let on to him that he had. Remaining aloof and nondescript, I responded,

      “Eshek is your name? Where are you from? Why are you headed to Bethlehem?” I wanted a little more information before I acceded to a travel companion.

      “Yes, Eshek is my name, I’m from Jerusalem and I have business in Bethlehem. Who are you, where are you from and why are you headed to Bethlehem? Like you, I would like to know more about who I am traveling with.” He responded with a tone of sarcasm. I suppose my tone of voice betrayed my thoughts, he knew what I was thinking and what the intent of the questions were. It softened me a bit that he, too, was not sure who he was traveling with, but not enough for me to lower my guard.

      “My name is Steve Stanton. I’m a journalist for the World Observer Gazette. I’m headed to Bethlehem on business also.” I felt I owed him that much, but not a word more. “If you feel that you want to tag along for your security, that’s fine with me, however, I am not a conversationalist, and have many things going through my mind, so with all due respect, do not expect conversation from me.”

      “Mr. Stanton,” Eshek spoke in a softer, quieter tone. “I have no desire to share my life’s story with you, but if I can feel assured that you are not a highwayman, and that your intent is to reach Bethlehem as safely as I, and that you are not out to rob me along the way, then we can travel together in safety, do you at least agree with that?” I discovered that we weren’t having to yell over the howl any longer. Taking advantage of the break, I lowered the scarf from around my nose and mouth and marveled that the wind had faded off to a gentle breeze almost as quickly as it churned up to a gale force. The confounded weather in this area of the world was so fickle. Eshek chose to wear his scarf around his shoulders, but I didn’t really care, because I really didn’t care. That was his choice, and as far as I was concerned, I was still alone, even though I could hear the crunching of pebbles beneath his feet along the path now more distinctly.

      We traveled in silence for about three hundred more yards when Eshek broke the silence,

      “Mr. Stanton, may I call you Steve? What are you writing about today, Steve? Does it have to do with Bethlehem?” I found Eshek being a bit too friendly for two strangers who had just met on a road, and I took offense to his presumption that I would allow him to call me by my first name without my permission.

      “Eshek, I will call you Eshek because that is the only choice you have given me, I do not wish to discuss neither my business nor my writing assignments with you. If you wish to pick up a copy of the publication next week, you can read about it.” I realized that that sounded harsh, but I wanted him to get the point that I was not interested in talking with him.

      “Furthermore, Mr. Eshek, it is imperative that I spend time with my thoughts right now.” I found myself in a modest explanatory mode, almost as if it were against my will. Something was causing me to say more than I usually would, and I felt that whatever