Archive for May, 2009
How I ended up in Israel. And stayed… Part 4
Continuing on with my tale of woe and joy of how I ended up in Israel…tales of a non-Jewish potential Kibbutz volunteer who falls in love with Tel Aviv, dodges Scud missiles, lives and works illegally for years on end, gets besotted by one Israeli girl despite the best attempts of a legendary Jewish mother, but ends up marrying and divorcing another… and then marrying yet another to join suburbia and the hi-tech revolution, while becoming the seemingly respectable owner of an English school.
In case you missed them, Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.
Part 4: Setting foot in the Holy Land!
Once I’d sent that letter to my boss in England, informing him that I’d not be coming back, I knew that I’d be heading for Israel, and for some time. I really don’t know why, because thinking about it, with the threat of a certain Saddam Hussein looming large in the region, it didn’t make much sense: it seemed that the Israel I had been expecting to visit via tales from travellers I’d met along the way and from books I’d read, would be very different as a result. The flood of tourists coming in the opposite direction were also perhaps telling me something similar, but I just wasn’t listening.
And there I was, on the boat to Israel. Alone again but excited, looking forward to seeing another new country. The boat ride itself was a quick overnighter, and it was another starry night for me as I slept on the deck with a few other hardy souls. Included among those were a group of Israelis, the girls among them attracting my immediate attention, especially their long, wavy locks, their olive skin and their pure vivaciousness. I should have jumped overboard right then, it would have saved me a lot of future strife…
As dawn broke on the boat, it wasn’t long before I could spot the shore of Israel (and the port city of Haifa) in the distance. The Israeli crew were very excited about seeing their homeland loom on the horizon and they even broke into song. I couldn’t understand a word of course, as far as I knew it was all in Arabic, but their happiness was pretty infectious.
As I passed through immigration I got talking to a couple of Israeli girls who’d been on the boat, and who suggested I catch the train with them down to Tel Aviv. Who was I to turn down to such an irresistible offer? But in another of those life-changing moments, a fellow Brit then came up to me and started asking me where I was headed. When I replied that I was going to Tel Aviv, he whipped out a small photo book and started pitching me the hostel featured in the album – the then legendary Purple House. And I quickly agreed to join up with him and his hostel owner, who had a beaten up old minibus in the car park ready to take me and a few other travellers they nabbed down to Tel Aviv. I never knew what happened to those two Israeli girls, but I’m sure they survived without me.
The drive down to Tel Aviv was pretty uneventful, just taking in the sights as we sped down the Haifa-Tel Aviv highway. It wasn’t until we reached Tel Aviv that it got interesting - it was just so different from what I expected. Tall, modern buildings were almost everywhere, while the main shopping streets (we drove down Dizengoff and Ben Yehuda streets) seemed to shout “America!” to me. And where were the camels and keffiyehs? This just wasn’t like anything the BBC had painted…
After signing in with Mark, the Londoner on reception with whom I was destined to drink many a beer with over the coming months, settling into the Purple House hostel was, well, a doddle. Its location was probably the best in Tel Aviv at 4 Trumpeldor Street, just metres away from the Mediterranean, and despite the looming crisis with Saddam, there was a stable core of travellers who didn’t seem too bothered about Scuds, gas marks and general impending doom – that soon changed of course, but that particular September morning everything was fine and dandy in touristville Tel Aviv.
Anyway, within half an hour of arriving in Tel Aviv I was already on the beach. Thankfully it was September, so the beach was devoid of schoolkids and families, there were a few tourists and Israelis about but the beach was almost all mine! The guy who had nabbed me at Haifa Port, Greg, had joined me on the beach and was busy pointing out some of the various sights and landmarks, including a couple of Israeli girls that he’d recently befriended. They were both cute, and after being introduced, Greg seemed to have one of them eating out of his hands, although her friend seemed indifferent and just wanted to dive under the waves. Little did I know it then, but this girl was destined to be the reason I stayed so long in the Holy Land…
So, with somewhere to stay for a while, the sun still shining on me (my hair at this point was almost bleached blond – people thought I was from Sweden!) and a future girlfriend unknowingly in the works, life was looking good. Plans to go to the kibbutz offices just 100 metres down the road, where they would hopefully find me a kibbutz to volunteer on, were postponed for a bit as I settled into Tel Aviv much quicker and much easier than I had expected.
I think part of the reason I postponed the kibbutz idea – I ultimately didn’t head for a kibbutz, something to this day I’m still a little sad about - was that I was a perfect fit for the tourist life in Tel Aviv. As I quickly realised, perhaps for the first time on my travels, part of any travelling experience is meeting new people and befriending those that cross your path for anything from a few hours to a few weeks. I think I fell in love big-time with Tel Aviv because of the amount of friends I quickly made, mainly tourists from the Purple House hostel.
I could list a whole number of people here that flitted in and out of my hostel days, but will just squeeze a few greats into a paragraph…like my first roommates, Vanessa the Australian and gay American Dave, who was a great laugh and almost convinced me to join him at the Jaffa hostel he soon moved to. And then came new roommates Mandy (UK) and Billy (South Africa), and Mandy’s Israeli boyfriend Haim (who she later took to England and got married to) who ended up staying in the hostel most nights, who became “My Brother” (Israeli guys love using this term!). We’d often sip a late-night beer on the balcony, the moon shimmering on the Mediterranean Sea just across the road as he’d tell me dramatic Israeli army stories of saving comrades under fire from terrorists. There was also the gorgeous Lisa, also from the UK, who I shared many a beery moment with, including my first visit to the Old City of Jerusalem. And then there was Helen, Andy, Peter, Michael, Tread, and Sarah (all from the UK), and….I think you get the picture.
And while I was working hard (washing dishes, making toasted sandwiches etc, all for top, top money – I think the going rate was 5 shekels an hour) and befriending a whole bunch of international bums tourists, my heart was falling hard for that girl I’d met on the beach within my first hour or so of arriving in Israel. Her name was Ofira, and winning her over was a mission in itself, as the clock seemed to be ticking what with Saddam getting ever closer to delivering on his threats and Ofira, who’d just turned 18, about to get called up to the Israeli army.
But fall in love we did, those early days spent sat on the beach just across the road from the hostel from dawn til dusk, her teaching me the very finest Hebrew swear words, me playing her the finer moments of The Clash on my Walkman. Ofira soon became a big part of my life in Israel very quickly and we were nearly always together, oblivious to the world news and the very real threats aimed at the Holy Land. For the first time on my travels I had absolutely no idea where I was headed – plans I’d made to return to Europe vanished into thin air as together we dived under wild, thunderous waves, and headed for another sunset on the breakers that protect Tel Aviv’s beaches…
But as love was blooming in Tel Aviv, a certain Mr Hussein from down Baghdad way was about to do his best to give us a very bumpy ride…
Next up - Ofira vanquishes Saddam!
Shavuot in the Galilee
On Friday I drove up north to moshav Sarona, a farming village on the road to the Sea of Galilee. We went up there to visit some of my wife’s family and to celebrate Shavuot, which is usually celebrated in some style on moshavs and kibbutzes throughout Israel. In fact, I doubt you’ll even know it’s Shavuot if you’re in the city (apart from the cheesecake overflow and general food orgy perhaps giving it away), but I can heartily recommend checking out a local kibbutz or moshav if you really want the ultimate Shavuot experience.
In short, tractors get decked up and real men get to drive them, cows and horses get to show off their manoeuvrability (with cowboy wannabees astride), and local residents get to wear white while, er, wowing us with their singing talent. On moshav Sarona it wasn’t any different, except for the amazing views as a backdrop and the kite festival at the end, which totally blew me and my son away. OK, probably me more than my son.
Some pics:
Picture of the Week III
This time we have a young guy called ofirabe, who has some great shots in his collection, some a little extreme, but some very nice shots of bands and other great stuff. I don’t have a lot to say about him because even the link on his Flickr profile is dead, but hey, it’s the pictures we’re interested in, right? I love this shot, the guy just looks like a complete killer. And that has to be Rothschild Street in Tel Aviv, right?
Cheapest ever flights to Tel Aviv?
This last week (starting on 21st May to be precise) saw the first flights from Jet2.com landing in Tel Aviv. And boy, these are probably the cheapest flights to Tel Aviv from the UK you’re ever going to find. I did a quick search for Tel Aviv flights (return) in September and October and they worked out at just over $300, including taxes. That’s quite a price, I think you’ll agree. Peak summer season prices are a little higher, working out on average at around $450, but that’s still pretty cheap.
Jet2.com offer the only direct flights from the north of England to Tel Aviv and they look like they might just be on to a winner, especially in the current economic climate. Can’t fault the words of the Jet2.com Managing Director, Ian Doubtfire:
“The inaugural flight to Tel Aviv marks and emphasises the commitment Jet2.com has to explore a variety of new markets and countries. Tel Aviv is a thriving and cosmopolitan beach city that makes an exciting holiday destination. As the only direct route from the North, we are in an unrivalled position to offer both the lowest ever fares and fastest service into Israel. Tel Aviv is an extremely popular destination and we are confident there will be a huge demand for this service.”
They’re so confident about this new Manchester-Tel Aviv route that they’ve increased the number of flights from weekly to twice weekly during Christmas/New Year and Easter/Passover next year.
As is usual with all these cheap airlines you get what you pay for, and I’m sure the prices will have an impact on the service provided. But if you’re prepared to put up with a few hours of lacklustre service and save a few hundred $$$ this could be the flight for you. And if any of you have experience of a flight with Jet2.com (especially flights to Tel Aviv), please let us know, we’d love to report back here with good and/or bad reviews.
Israel to banish the sexiness?
The Pope’s recent visit to the Holy Land has apparently convinced the new Tourism Minister Stas Misezhnikov that good, old Christian values are the way forward, leaving no room for the poster girls such as Bar Refaeli, that have, er, inspired millions to visit the Holy Land. The Minister seems to think that Israel’s quality lies in its amazing tourist attractions, rather than its beaches and bikinis, and had this to say:
“Former tourism ministers were mistaken when they tried to market Israel as a vacation spot for those seeking attractive beaches and girls. Ministers who focused on pictures of or with models thought it would bring tourists to Israel. But their mistake was that our neighbors also have attractive women and beaches and we can’t compete with them in terms of prices of vacation packages.
What Israel needs to do is focus on what it has that others don’t have, or in other words: the Holy Land. Israel is holy to Judaism, Christianity and Islam, and the focus of the tourism ministry today is to promote Israel as such.”
Without question, Israel has some amazing Holy sites that attract millions of tourists every year. These will always pull in the visitors. I’m just not sure you can take Israel’s other natural beauties such as Bar Refaeli out of the equation and I don’t think they harm the perception of the Holy Land as a great tourist destination. Surely any decent, respectable tourist, even if tempted in by the scantily-clad models used in adverts, is a good thing, especially in tough economic times?
Don’t worry Bar, if Stas won’t have you, we’ll gladly have you as our poster girl. Just don’t tell the wife.
Picture of the Week II
This week it’s a great shot from Fishy. A young guy from Arad, down in the south of Israel, he’s got some great pics in his collection. This one caught my immediate attention, I love sun behind cloud shots. And in Israel, especially during the spring and autumn with a few more clouds around, you can get some real nice shots. What do you think?
How I ended up in Israel. And stayed… Part 3
Continuing on with my tale of woe and joy of how I ended up in Israel…tales of a non-Jewish potential Kibbutz volunteer who falls in love with Tel Aviv, dodges Scud missiles, lives and works illegally for years on end, gets besotted by one Israeli girl despite the best attempts of a legendary Jewish mother, but ends up marrying and divorcing another… and then marrying yet another to join suburbia and the hi-tech revolution, while becoming the seemingly respectable owner of an English school.
In case you missed it, here’s Part 1 and Part 2.
Part 3: Cyprus, a quick taste of paradise before hitting the Holy Land!
After a quick 6 weeks over in Crete, Greece, I knew it was time to move on. The intention had never been to stay too long in one place, and I’d kind of had enough, working my arse off in the sweaty, tourist trap of Agios Nickolaos while my flatmate Justin seemed to be getting way too full of himself after landing a cushy bartending gig. One of the easiest decisions in my life, buying that ferry ticket to Cyprus.
Lining up in the queue to board the ferry to Cyprus, which I just about managed to miss being the last person to board, I couldn’t help but get excited. Another new place to visit, I just had a good feeling about Cyprus. And within a few hours I’d teamed up with another 3 Brits, also on their way to Cyprus and eventually Israel. We slept rough on the deck of the ferry, swapped jokes and tales, and supped on a couple of beers, as the ferry churned through the Mediterranean waves and a million stars lit up the night sky, a still vivid memory.
Upon arriving in Cyprus, we headed for a cheap restaurant near the port. After scoffing down a delicious meal, accompanied by copious amounts of beer (is there any alternative when you’re British?), we managed to get the owner of the restaurant to let us sleep on the roof of the restaurant for a couple of nights. To be honest, I was completely unprepared for sleeping rough, I had no sleeping bag or rollup mattress, and to this day I think I can still feel the cold, hard concrete floor. But I can remember listening to Jesus Jones and The Clash on my Walkman and watching shooting stars falling through the night sky, and thinking that I could get used to this life…
One of the guys soon decided to go his own way, leaving 3 of us, me, Dean and Mark. We soon settled on hiking up the road to a small village by the sea which, with the enticing name of Coral Bay, had caught our fancy. It didn’t disappoint. And after a refreshing dip in the Med, it wasn’t long before we’d found a place for the night, a brand new camping site which actually became our home for the next 6 weeks (I ended up swapping tents with Mark and Dean every single night as I didn’t have a tent of my own).
After asking around, we managed to get some work lined up, picking grapes for a couple of Cypriot farmers up in the hills. In fact, it turned out that we were actually hauling the huge baskets of grapes from the pickers to the waiting lorry, not picking the grapes ourselves. But we proved ourselves as a hard-working threesome, and were soon hired by another couple of farmers, as the grape-picking season really kicked in.
The work itself was hard, hot, and sweaty, but a great experience. We soon got sick of the sight of the inevitable basket of freebie grapes at the end of a shift, and rather than eat them, we’d toss them around at each other or stick them up our noses. One thing I remember about the grape-picking: the old Cypriot women in their sun protection gear, which meant an old hat and an oversized cotton dress, laughing at us; we couldn’t understand a word, and they had probably never met an English speaker, but it was all good fun.
Working with the locals opened up a whole number of interesting experiences and encounters, but none more so than meeting up with Stavros. Stavros was one of those old Greek-Cypriot guys, a head full of white hair, a bushy white moustache, full of life and tales, despite some ropey English. His rickety old jeep and three huge Great Danes that always seemed to accompany him are what I most remember about him, as well as his cute little house on the top of a hill, overlooking the Mediterranean. Nice little paradise he had there, I wonder if he’s still up there…
Thanks to Stavros, me, Mark and Dean probably got a view of Cyprus that regular tourists would never read up on in their guide books. He took us to deserted beaches frequented only by seasonal turtles, beaches without lifeguards screaming at you and not a discarded coke can in sight: beaches that entertained a wild, roaring Mediterranean Sea, as three young Brits jumped over the smaller incoming waves and headlong into the real biggies. He took us to isolated cliffs where we could jump off into the turqiouse sea. He took us to amazing hilltop viewpoints, looking out over Cyprus. And he also cooked a mean meal, complete with delicacies such as bull’s testicles (eewwww), with a balcony view over the Mediterranean from his hilltop abode. No question about it, Stavros was a top geezer.
As time moved on, and the owners of the campsite got more and more pissed with us (we’d managed to block every single toilet in the campsite – and we were the only campers that I ever saw there in the six weeks, so a little tricky blaming somebody else), I was beginning to think that this was the time to move on to Israel. News reports weren’t that inspiring, as it looked like the Mother of all Battles was about to kick off, but a war wasn’t about to shake the feeling that I should see Israel.
So, one day I sat down and wrote a letter to my boss in England, who had agreed to keep my job open for 3 months or so. With no regrets, I informed him that I wouldn’t be coming back right now and thanked him for his time and trouble. What was remarkable was the speedy reply I got back, just before I left Cyprus, recommending me to steer clear of Israel as it looked like some serious shit was about to hit the fan. But that wasn’t really going to dissuade me, was it? I’d already made up my mind, the magnetic force of the Holy Land was pulling even harder those last few days in Cyprus…
Mark and Dean had decided to stay on a little longer in Cyprus, they weren’t convinced that Israel was the safest place to visit, and anyway, had another freed up toilet to block. In a final moment of glory and friendship, we rented out a jeep, and drove around the island. It was a great little trip, we ended up sleeping rough in places like a cemetery in the Troodos mountains, and a deserted beach near Pathos, complete with a cheap bottle of brandy and an invisible karaoke machine.
And in a final night of drunken bliss, we partied at empty discos in Paphos, boogied to crappy 80s house music, and tried chatting up the local waitresses. I said goodbye to the boys, and left early (I had an early bus to catch to get to the ferry), brushing off a creepy, gay taxi driver, who wanted a whole lot more than just a friendly chat on the drive back to the campsite. I remember hiding somewhere because he was a scary shit and the campsite was deserted, but Mark and Dean soon turned up and we all had a laugh. I slept a great sleep.
Next morning, I looked in on a snoring Mark and Dean, bid farewell to the dusty campsite, and headed for the bus. The sun shone brightly, the birds were singing, and here I was, finally on my way to the Holy Land. Yesssss.
Next up: Landing in Israel
Picture of the Week
A new feature on the blog, Pic of the Week. It’s going to be one pic taken from the hordes of amazing images out there on the Web, and is, of course, going to be related to Israel in some way.
To kick things off, there’s only one image for me this week…beautifully taken by Yaniv Ben Simon, it is of course Depeche Mode live in Israel. What do you think?
