The Dead Sea Is, in Fact, Dead

Our trip to the Dead Sea was full of life, letdowns, nudity, and—you guessed it—a bus ride

Nov 25, 2022

I’m here to confirm that the Dead Sea is actually dead. Well, dying, as NPR correspondent Daniel Estrin put it.1

Yes, it’s dead in the literal sense—the salinity of the lake is so high that it is devoid of life, aside from some microbes and algae that need very little to be sustained.2 It is also shrinking, its shoreline retracting due to the over-mining of the lake’s salt and clay, and it’s slowly turning from a natural wonder into a natural dumping ground, courtesy of the visitors’ who don’t take their trash with them when they leave.

We journey to the Dead Sea on none other than a bus. (We basically spent all of our time in Israel on a bus, in one way or another.) Our ride there promised the most barren of scenery, and the desert certainly delivered. Diversity in natural colors and materials dwindled as we drove until all we saw were brown and rock. That said, there was some variation—in the shades of brown and in the nuances of the geological formations and layers, only detectable by a keen and interested eye.

Aside from an Israeli checkpoint and a road-side coffee/concessions stand that felt like something out of Breaking Bad, there was nothing. We were literally dropped off on the side of the highway. (Reader, you know this is not the first time). Beyond the guard rail, in the middle of all the solidity of the landscape, was a vast sum of liquid that seemed to cling to itself, as if to fight off the sun’s efforts to evaporate it. The craters, crevices, and walls of rock themselves looked jarred to be in the presence of something bluer than the sky—a blue so blue it looked like the dyed water in the concrete ponds at a mini golf course. It almost looked fake, like someone photoshopped a lake on the moon. After blinking a handful of times, I assured myself it wasn’t a desert mirage. Nevertheless, the lake’s mystique clung to itself like the sweat on my skin.

As we started our descent, suspicious of sinkholes, and thus treading careful not to step on any cracks, we moved like entranced magpies towards the pools of green and white that beckoned us with their sparkle. In truth, these pools were probably less special than they looked; in all likelihood, these salt-encrusted large puddles were now only visible because of the receding shore lines, and the water that filed them was just ground and rain water. To us, though, it looked as if the Earth’s rock had been cracked open to reveal a radioactive liquid that protected the thousands of white salt clusters below. We stared into their depths in awe.

We inched closer, knees bent to brace ourselves against the incline of the unstable, rocky slope. What looked like a still body of water suddenly revealed itself to actually be in motion the closer we approached. It was a windy day, and the wind animated the water to the point I questioned if the lake were actually alive in some small way. The water lapped at the shore, licking the salt shards that jutted out on the shoreline. The rocks, too, rolled and rippled, cracked and caved.

From above, the sea had not only looked immobile but also untouched and utopian. But as we descended to sea level, the dystopian touch of human hands became apparent. A pile of amber glass refracted the sunlight beating down. String slithered up like snakes caught in chicken wire. Broken bottles, torn plastic, soiled mattresses, and abandoned shacks that looked to be built by either a bunch of crackhead kids or inexperienced contestants on Survivor became as numerous as the salt crystals themselves. There was also a giant backhoe, reminiscent of the toy one my brother once played with in our sandbox. The salty air had eaten away at its metal, leaving rusty marks all up and down its body and trunk. It was as if someone were sent to excavate, and the land had won, its clay claws still holding the metal beast in victory.

Over a land bridge of clay we walked until the makeshift structures multiplied and palm trees of various kinds started to crop up. A torn red, white, and green flag blew in the wind. Blaring techno base started to bum; people with bums out holding beers bumped to the groove. What was once a local spot had, apparently, morphed into a hippy-drug commune of sorts. We backtracked to find our own patch of unspoiled clay and sand, but it was slim pickings. Trash stared up at us everywhere we looked. On a clay shelf of sorts, close to the water’s edge, we finally laid our towels down and changed into our swimwear, ready to explore the salty waters.

Now, I know there are resorts along the Dead Sea. I’ve seen the Instagram pictures of girls slathered in the sought-after black clay, smiling ear to ear, and then floating on their backs as if the water is thrusting them upwards. But we went off the beaten path, to the supposed local sanctuary, away from the tourists and crowds. Maybe this was a mistake. In truth, I feel we were just unlucky. The once hidden, local paradise was found out, and it had been plundered.

I felt let down, disgusted by human laziness. How hard is it to carry your trash with you until you reach a trash receptacle?! (The Japanese do it all the time!) But I refused to let the tarnished appearance of the shore stop me from baptizing myself in the wondrous waters. We were at the Dead Sea for crying out loud—one of the natural anomalies of the world! I would go in.

For some reason, my mind assumed there would be sand to greet my feet as I waded into the water. What I felt instead were soft, supple pockets of clay that sucked at my toes, then ankles, and—before I knew it—calves. The longer I stood there, the further I sank. With each breath of breeze, the waves receded just enough to reveal rows of salt shards that hid beneath the water like the lake’s secret teeth. The lake was naturally boobytrapped. Pyramids, trapezoids, squares, pentagons, and arrows of salt along with blocks of clay deposits as large as boulders covered every inch on and around the lake’s floor.

While Alexa bravely waded out and then crawled on her hands with her legs tug-boated behind her, Brooks and I tentatively stayed calf-deep. I grabbed globs of gray clay and massaged it into my thighs, trying to ignore the sting of the salt in my fresh shin wound—the one the 27 Bus back to Ora had given me the day before when it jerked forward like the Knight Bus3 and my foot had just missed the necessary step to safely make it into a seat in time. When we finally made our way back to our towels, Brooks and Alexa emerged looking like they’d just played with a group of kittens. How people get far enough out to float—as I saw two young men doing—without any cuts or scrapes is beyond me.

Aside from the getting in part, there was the issue of washing off all the salt. If you keep it on your body, the chance of you getting burned by that desert sun goes up. I, being as white and reflective as snow, wasn’t going to take that chance. The large water bottles we bought before boarding the bus—turns out, they were partially for drinking, mostly for washing.

After an impromptu nap, Brooks and I arose on drool-stained and clay encrusted beach towels. We all packed up, feeling a bit letdown by the trash but satiated by the experience and the pita, pickles and hummus we’d packed up and ate for our picnic lunch. Our feet, still smeared with clay, were stuffed into clay-caked sneakers and sandals. And so began our trudge back up the desert cliff. Nothing like feeling a bit grimy and hot as you walk up a desert incline on a hot day.

Little did we know, the bus ride back would be less comfortable than the walk back up. We’d be packed elbow to elbow like gefilte fish in a jar, with people standing in the aisles and sitting on the entrance stairs, all of us stuck in rush hour traffic with bladders ready to burst. (At one point, the bus driver would literally plow through the cars crowding an intersection like a bulldozer.) I would sit in an aisle seat next to a plump, Hasidic Jewish gentleman holding a newspaper; he’d be asleep when we boarded and remain that way through all the honking and yelling. And there would be an adorable five-year-old French boy standing in the aisle next to me, wringing his father’s hand and repeating “La toilette, la toilette!” When he was told there was none, he’d inevitably collapse into the lap of the Jewish woman sitting across the aisle from me. His head would rest but for a second, creasing her embroidered dress, while she pat his head.

“La toilette,” he’d scream, announcing the start of his shtick all over again.

“Moi aussi, mon ami,” I’d say. “Moi aussi.”

Yes, the walk back was the least of our worries that day. With each break I took during our ascent of that desert highway cliff, I turned around to see the rest of the nude beach-goers become one with the desert landscape. As I caught my breath, I witnessed the Dead Sea regain its illusion of pristine tranquility and stillness that only distance afforded it. Once my feet touched pavement again, I turned around one last time and there it was—that miraculously saturated blue against the sandy enclaves. Dead or not, it still remains wondrous, simply for existing.

For more photos that coincide with this piece, visit my Instagram @yo_marge.

Have you been to the Dead Sea? If so, share your experience in the comments.

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