The clapped-out old bus careering crabwise on a chassis distorted by many collisions roared down the unmade road to the little Arab village amid clouds of dust and diesel fumes, and screeched to a standstill just before the village square. On board, sacks of produce, bundles of chickens tethered by their legs and the odd goat and passenger lurched forwards as the bus came to a violent halt.

Two figures in particular were also violently woken from half-sleep, and grabbing their hand luggage, made their way to the front of the vehicle past the various obstacles now scattered across the floor, observed as they did so by wizened faces under ancient keffiyehs, or eyes peering through naqibs of various dark hues.

As the Sage and the Westerner stood by the roadside looking forlornly at this latest staging-post in their adventures, the bus roared off. Waves of heat hit them from the village square in the late afternoon sunshine. The square itself consisted of shops bespeaking a rural peasant economy, and the odd kafeinon where elderly men sipped tea from small glasses, or noisily played backgammon on intricately carved boards. At such a gathering place the pair sat down and ordered tea. Sullen, suspicious eyes stared at them from adjacent tables.

“So this is our inconspicuous entry into the land,” remarked the Westerner sardonically. “A pity you had not realised beforehand that the biblical account does not state exactly where and how Abraham made entry.”

“Patience!” inveighed the Sage, unrolling his ancient scroll on the table before them. “Any topographical map clearly shows that there is only one viable route south-west from Damascus, with pasture and watering sufficient for the large herds which Abraham had bow now acquired.”

“Precisely!” muttered the Westerner. “Down the Bekaa Valley along the river Litani, where we are as likely to end up hostages in the tradition of Waite, Keenan and McCarthy as enter Canaan. I can already feel the memoirs and publishing deals coming on. Besides, this is rampant Hezbollah country. We are sitting ducks, dressed like a couple of conspirators at the Guy Fawkes plot.”

To confirm his thoughts, a poster, one of many in the square, of Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah لسيد حسن نصرالله, spiritual leader of Hezbollah in Lebanon, beamed down at them from a nearby lamp-post, as if he was already welcoming them to some darkened cellar of East Beirut for prolonged interment.

“The route is quite clear,” said the Sage, perusing the chart. “Between the Way of the King to the East, and the Via Maris to the West, Abraham broke across country to enter the land, forging a trail down to Shechem before setting up his tent between Bethel and Ai. He could only have gained access via the Bekaa, avoiding the precipitous cliffs of the Golan on the one side, and the Hermon on the other.”

“And which resort of ill-fame will be graced by our presence tonight?” asked the Westerner, observing the decline of the sun behind the buildings on the far side of the square.

“Follow me!” said the Sage, gathering his belongings, and eyeing a run-down hostel in a dark corner of the square, a blistered bill-board proclaiming in peeling paint over its entrance: ‘Ali’s High Class Kebab Restaurant and Hotel’. With considerable misgivings, the Westerner followed the elderly man, who made his way, with lurching gait and clattering of sticks, in that direction.