Nappy rash is possibly the worst thing I experienced as a baby. Not that I have any conscious memories of it, but there's an experience I had as a baby in Israel's Dead Sea that planted itself so firmly in my brain that I still instinctively shy away from salt water. There's this hint of a memory of a burning sensation, connected to being immersed in water. My mom told me I'd screamed and cried when I went 'swimming' in the Dead Sea at the age of one, while suffering from nappy rash. Twenty years later, I wanted a do-over. No screaming, no crying, just peaceful floating in the Dead Sea. I got my do-over in June, but... it was nothing like I'd imagined.

My big day started with a quick visit to the citadel of Masada. I wanted to climb the path to the citadel like my dad and cousin had done 20 years earlier, but my tour guide vetoed this plan. Because of this and the way he'd acted in Jerusalem, I was starting to suspect that he wasn't a big fan of adventures that had nothing to do with the Bible. My suspicions were confirmed when we spent ages talking about biblical events that took place at Ein Gedi (all I remember is that some king's father-in-law took a dump in a cave, sorry) and only got 20 minutes to take pictures and swim near the waterfall. Since the Dead Sea has no ties to any big biblical events as far as I know, me and the friends I'd made on this trip feared we'd get only a few minutes to enjoy this iconic place. Sadly, we turned out to be right.

After a short, very short visit to the place where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found, we finally took the bus down to the banks of the Dead Sea. It was late in the afternoon already and with every cute and Instagrammable beach we passed, I got a little more frustrated. It wasn't like we had all the much time left in our day and I wanted to jump into that stingy salty water sooner rather than later.
Finally, the bus stopped at Kalia Beach, the very last beach on the western bank of the Dead Sea. It didn't look quite as cute and Instagrammable as most of the beaches we'd passed, but I didn't want to judge right away. The most important thing for me at that moment was getting my bikini on asap. Changing turned into quite the struggle though: first I had to walk past and through a few souvenir shops full of products with Dead Sea salt to get to a changing room. The changing room itself was a nightmare for a prudish, insecure and skinny girl like me. In one gigantic room without any cubicles, surrounded by loads of women, most of them middle-aged or older, in various states of undress, I struggled to get my bikini on while keeping as much of myself covered as possible.
My bikini wasn't cooperating at all. The temperature in the changing room was well above 30 degrees Celsius and the humidity high enough to support marine life. Every piece of fabric that came close to my skin got stuck like I was some kind of sweaty magnet. A few minutes that felt like a few hours later, I sprinted out of the changing room. As expected, we'd only gotten 60 minutes to spend on this beach and I'd wasted an awfully big amount of that time on getting changed.

My friends were already waiting for me on the beach and we quickly walked in the opposite direction of the rest of our tour group. We passed the Lowest Bar in the World, then finally saw the entire beach. It looked nothing like the Dead Sea beach I knew from the pictures of our 1997 family vacation. Kalia Beach was filled with cheap plastic lawn chairs and parasols that'd seen better days. It was also pretty crowded, so we made our way to the far end of the beach, where there were still some empty chairs left. We slipped and slid all the way, not getting much grip on the brown mud. There was a weird, slimy sheen over everything, making me feel like I was on a beach shortly after an oil tanker had crashed into it. I felt dirty. Disgusting.
'Now I know how birds feel in oil spills,' I said out loud, sticking to that allegory.
'It's certainly not the prettiest beach a tour guide could have taken us to.' Truer words were not spoken that day. 200 meters to our left, a chainlink fence marked the border with Jordan. All around us, everything was covered in a thin layer of brown, slimy water and salt. To the right, I could see a prettier, cleaner beach behind a small patch of reeds and other plants. I wasn't too happy with the whole situation, but decided to try and enjoy the whole experience anyway.


After I dumped my stuff on one of the many slimy lawn chairs, I kicked off my flipflops and tried to make a run for the water. Within five seconds I ran back, crying for my flipflops (and secretly, in my mind, I was crying for my mom). The muddy shore burnt my feet, making me feel like I was walking through fire. I took my flipflops with me as far as I could, though everything in this environment becomes slippery within seconds and as a result, I spent quite a few moments with my heels, toes or the sides of my feet touching the scorching mud.

Leaving my beloved Havaianas on the bank was difficult. Half of the planet seems to have the same black pair I have, and since I saw quite a few get picked up by other tourists by mistake in my time in Thailand, I hoped I'd see them back by the end of the day. My mind was filled with small worries like this one. It was quite stressful. How much time did I have left? What if I'd slip and fall? What if I'd accidentally swallow a mouthful of Dead Sea water? That could kill me, my buzzkill of a tour guide had said multiple times.
Carefully, I stepped into the water, trying to remain steady on my feet. On top of my conscious worries, the instinct born out of burning nappy rash making my previous visit to the Dead Sea a living hell. Of course, the moment I realized that, I slipped and fell...

I'M GOING TO DIE.
I'll swallow water and die.
That's all I could think as my legs gave way and my upper body splashed into the Dead Sea. I took a deep breath, braced myself for the moment my head would break through the surface. It didn't happen. My hands found solid ground, as did my knees. I let out an almost hysterical laugh, then waded further into the water. It didn't burn at all, though there was a slightly unpleasant tingle, which made rubbing mud and water all over me like some tourists do sound very unappealing.
When the water was up to my thighs, I leaned back and let myself float away. It actually worked, even though I usually sink within seconds of entering any body of water. I was tense though, afraid of swallowing water, annoyed by the shabbiness of Kalia Beach, rushed because of the lack of time we had at this unique place. I paddled around for a while, unable to fully enjoy it. I smiled for the camera as my friends took pictures, but wished I was on one of the fancier beaches.
Then, for no particular reason, I decided to let it all go. I leaned back further, until the salty water filled my ears. The noise of dozens of tourists disappeared. I looked up at the cloudless sky and saw the moon. I smiled. For the first time in months, maybe even years, I was at peace.


Despite the beauty of that moment, I wasn't fully able to shake my disappointment off when I left the water. But my Havaianas were still where I left them, so that was a plus. I sat down on one of the lawn chairs and slipped off right away. There was a slimy sheen on my skin. I'd gone from oil spill bird to slippery slug. I took a sip from the can of lukewarm coke I'd gotten at the KFC in Bethlehem the day before. Before I could finish it, or even take any good pictures for this blog post, I had to rush back to the bus. I was happy that I didn't end up crying like I did on my 1997 visit, but also a little frustrated that I hadn't gotten the time to relax and enjoy the Dead Sea on my own terms (read: take decent pictures and write on the beach). And so my visit became a paradox: a disappointment, but a satisfying one.