But for all their exoticism, the Samaritans have serious problems in terms of survival. During the Roman era, their numbers topped a million, with Samaritan communities spread as far afield as Egypt and Syria. But violent rebellions, bloody persecutions and subsequent forced conversions to Christianity and Islam over the centuries meant that their numbers dwindled to such an extent that by the early 20th century there were fewer than 150 Samaritans left.

The population recovered somewhat during the British mandate of Palestine and the subsequent establishment of Israel. The second President of Israel, Yitzhak Ben-Zvi, encouraged the Samaritans to marry Jewish women, and at the same time tried to persuade the Samaritans to integrate themselves into Israeli society. Together with the then leader of the Samaritan community Yefet Tsedaka, Ben-Zvi established a new Samaritan settlement in Holon, on the outskirts of Tel Aviv.

But this did not make the problems go away. Today the community suffers from a wide range of genetic illnesses and birth defects, ranging from muteness and blindness to mental handicaps, because of intermarriage over the centuries.
Today's Samaritans are looking for fresh outside intervention — but few could have predicted that this would come from quite so far away.

While the ailing traveller met the Good Samaritan on a dusty and perilous road between Jerusalem and Jericho more than 2,000 years ago, Natasha met her Samaritan husband in cyberspace.

"I met my husband online through a mutual friend," she tells me, sitting shyly next to her father-in-law, whom — after more than a year of living in the West Bank — she now calls "Papa".

Visually, this "father and daughter" duo could not be more different. Natasha is dressed in casual leggings and a T-shirt, fanning herself in the midday Middle Eastern heat, while her father-in-law, Yousef Cohen, wears a golden pinstriped tunic covering him from neck to foot, his head crowned with a white turban. He looks as if he has walked straight out of a biblical illustration, the embodiment of a priest on his way to the holy temple.

There was nothing mystical, however, about the courtship between Natasha and Yousef's son. "My friend showed my future husband photographs of me, we started exchanging messages and then fell in love," Natasha says, smiling.

The couple married in a civil ceremony in Ukraine, and about a year later had a festive Samaritan-style marriage in the West Bank, attended by her mother and some of her friends from home.

Natasha's story is a typical illustration of what is a wider trend in the Samaritan community. But why bring brides from so far away?

On this Yousef is emphatic: "If we're already going to marry outside the Samaritan community, then let's bring beauty into the community!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up and gesturing to his good-looking daughter-in-law.

On hearing this, a Spanish tourist visiting the community for the first time looks mildly offended. "But what about Spanish women? They're beautiful too," he argues.

"Yes, but they're rich," replies Yousef. The Samaritan brides "come from places like Ukraine, where a lot of people don't even have toilets. And when they come here, they discover America!"

Natasha listens to this commentary silently, appearing unruffled. Asked about her previous life, she reveals little nostalgia for her homeland. She says she worked as a policewoman in a small town and lived with her mother as an only child. She tells me that she loves her new life despite initial difficulties.