All Entries in the "My story" Category

How I ended up in the Holy Land. And Stayed…Part 6

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, Part 3, Part 4 and Part 5.

Part 6: Settling in!

So, Ofira and I survived the trauma of a full-scale war, and also the separation during her basic training in the Israeli army. Love was blooming, but that was it, there were to be no more Scuds for us, no more gas-masks, and no more mad dashing to a sealed room. It had been a great adventure those last few weeks in Israel, quite possibly the scariest few weeks of my life, but the adventure suddenly cooled as the Gulf War came to an end. Adrenalin-wise, just what the hell could top those last weeks?

Well, my life was never dull in those days and it wasn’t long before another threat from Iraq surfaced, in the form of a young Israeli girl called Miri (her parents were from Iraq). Just as the Scuds moved out of the limelight, Miri turned up one afternoon in the Purple House hostel. Full of fire was young Miri, and desperate to get her hands on a tourist, at whatever cost (I later found out she’d dated a number of MTV ”celebs” in an attempt to get herself a ticket out of the country). We got chatting and it wasn’t long before she had me hook, line and sinker (a great cleavage always did know how to catch my attention)…

I’m still not sure how she did it, but within a couple of days she’d even managed to convince me to go down to Eilat with her (I blame the cleavage). Ofira and I had handily had a big row and I hadn’t spoken to her for a couple of days, so there I was, on the bus down south to Eilat. After behaving like naughty little schoolkids at the back of the bus for the complete 5 hr journey, she’d sunk her claws into me.

But then on arrival in Eilat, it suddenly all changed, and just why I’ll never know. She immediately hooked up with this “friend” of hers (I actually knew him from the hostel), and they seemed just way too friendlyto me. So, no mucking around from me, I told her where to go and just got straight back on the bus to Tel Aviv. Another Iraqi threat vanquished…but this one had left me feeling a bit of an idiot! Travelling back on that bus helped clear my mind though – I wanted Ofira back.

At this point in time, perhaps I should introduce Ofira’s mother. I’d already started getting acquainted with her even before the Gulf War. Nothing intentional on my part, her mother had simply dug in deep from day one and her persistence had begun to take effect. During the nervy first days of the Gulf War she’d often called the hostel to ask how I was doing and had managed to convince me that she was on “my side”. I had never even met her, but she’d even helped initiate that first visit to Ofira’s house, so I felt she wasn’t all that bad…

Her calls became more frequent, and even when I attempted to call Ofira at home (ha! no mobile phones in those days!) her Mum would do her best to keep me on the line, giving it the ultimate ”friendly local” act. I hadn’t wanted to get too involved with her parents, but her charm offensive soon wore away at my defences. Really, if an Oscar could be given to the most two-faced, conniving cow, Ofira’s mother would be delivering her acceptance speech right now…It was only very much later (years!) that I realised what she was actually up to. My jaw dropped when I found out and discovered what she’d done behind my back…maybe yours will too when I tell all…

Anyway, oblivious to Ofira’s mother’s evil and cunning long-term plan, I had called Ofira from Eilat to tell her I was on my way back home, only to catch her mother. With what was probably the biggest mistake ever made by the male species, I mentioned that I’d come to Eilat with another girl as I had felt that Ofira and I were over. What followed was a barrage of hissing and snarling that demanded that I should tell Ofira it was all over. A sign of things to come, but I wasn’t giving up on my cute little Israeli girlfriend just yet.

Upon arriving back in Tel Aviv, Ofira and I soon made up and before long, I started visiting Ofira’s house much more. Her mother seemed to have forgotten all about my trip to Eilat, at least for now. I was convinced it was my charm that had won her over and got me into her good books again, little did I know it was festering away in her, primed to explode in the future.

Those visits to Ofira’s house were soon stretching into long stays. There were many nights when I never made it back to the hostel; I’d sit drinking beer and pickled herrings (oh yes) with Ofira’s father late at night, as we watched football on TV or he’d try to teach me some Hebrew as Ofira slept in her bed. I’d usually end up sleeping over on the sofa. Out of respect and fear – her father was a taxi driver with a thunderous temper – I never had the guts to sneak into her room when he was around.

Most mornings I’d bus back into Tel Aviv, sometimes with Ofira, as I headed back to the hostel and the few friends that remained there. The hostel itself had become a different place to the one I’d previously loved and I no longer felt a connection with the place or people (as tourists slowly started returning to Israel). Things just seemed too touristy, and after spending some six months in Israel, a “tourist” was something I no longer felt was me. Nothing had that “fresh” feel to it anymore. I’d seen a lot of the country, even been through a war, and it just wasn’t the same. The novelty had begun to wear off somewhat, a sure sign that I was about to sink into “going native” mode.

So, as my funds began to dry up, I had no choice but to look for some part-time work. I hadn’t any intention of leaving Israel just yet but I was no longer a tourist, neither officially (my tourist visa had run out after 3 months and I was now no longer legit) nor mentally. And before long there I was, cleaning apartments here, washing dishes for 5 shekels an hour there, making toasties over here…but still, most importantly, managing to squeeze in some serious beach time.

The Purple House hostel’s days as a backpacker hotspot soon came to an end, and due to financial reasons (it took a looong time before the tourists really started to return in numbers) was soon rented out to Romanians and other Eastern Europeans. The end of an era, and a sad day when the signs eventually came down. But by then I was hardly ever there and the people that I had befriended during those magical but scary Gulf War days, had mostly moved on too.

Some good memories went with the Purple House, as I mentioned before. Some great people from all around the world who flitted in and out of your life, but the pictures remain for ever. And then there were the neighbours, such as Zalman Soshie, a legendary Tel Aviv transsexual who would often chat with me and Ofira on the street outside the hostel. Zalman lived across the road from the hostel and would often shout out “Hello!” as I walked in after a hard night’s drinking or washing dishes. There was also Tzion, who had a little sandwich shop just round the corner from the hostel, which was the place for a great tuna baguette and a chat with a mate. And who could forget the sex-mad Tio, a walking sexual harassment case whose mission in life was to start with as many girls as he could. As he put it, “If I start with 100, there’s a good chance one of them will like me”.

I kept in touch with 3 or 4 of the guys that I’d spent many a beer drinking session with, including Mark the barman and my old mate Pete, who soon opened up a hostel of his own just down the road and which meant I was forced to regularly visit Tel Aviv. It was a hard life in those days!

So it continued through the next few months of 1991, me working here and there for a few shekels, kipping at Ofira’s place and occasionally meeting up with one or two of the lads from the Purple House days.

And then one late summer evening, the phone rang…

Next up: An unexpected return to Britain!

June 30, 2009 | Ashley | Comments 3

How I ended up in the Holy Land. And stayed… Part 5

In case you missed them; Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.

Part 5: Ofira vanquishes Saddam!

As the summer wound down and those long sunny days sat on the beach slowly petered out, the world’s attention on the Middle Eastern region was getting ever more focused, what with George Bush’s January ultimatum to Saddam getting nearer and nearer. But despite the danger that seemed right on my doorstep (and soon was!), I was falling for Ofira and probably had my head in the clouds at that point (or more possibly, up my arse).

The tourists I’d befriended at the Purple House hostel, and generally throughout the whole of Israel, had started to leave quite a bit before January. Don’t ask me why, but despite the pleas of both my mother and Ofira, who herself was just about to be called up to the Israeli army for her national service, I wanted to stay. It wasn’t until I went to a gas mask pickup point on Shenkin Street, probably sometime in late December/early January, that I realised that the situation was getting very serious and that I should perhaps start wearing clean underwear.

The threat seemed very real then of course, but there was something very camaraderie about the hostel and the hardcore group that remained there – we were probably about 15 tourists/migrant workers left come ultimatum time. Don’t get me wrong, I was scared, but I wasn’t running. I had become attached to something, but I wasn’t about to join the queues at the airport. I had been having the time of my life up to this point and I wasn’t about to let go. Looking back, it’s fairly obvious I wanted the adventure to continue and that if I got on a plane, that would be the end of it. I knew there was more…

And then, all of a sudden, there was a war on. All that scaremongering hadn’t been just silly posturing, that silly old git Saddam really was throwing Scud missiles at Israel. I had been fairly oblivious to it all (that’s what an Israeli woman will do to you!) up to that point, that first night of Scuds on January 18th 1991, but once the allied coalition had struck, the whole of Tel Aviv came to a standstill, anticipating some kind of attack from Saddam. Of course, the big fear was chemical weapons, but fortunately, that was just a bit too far to go, even for crazy old Saddam.

I’ll never forget that first night of Scuds, especially the boom as those Scuds landed in some distant part of Tel Aviv and feeling the pure fear and adrenalin that was pumping through my body. As dawn broke, one memory sticks clearly in my mind: sitting in the bar with Mark the barman and polishing off a crate of beer (20 beers..) while simultaneously infusing each other with bravado. We were both scared, but it was our immediate way with dealing with it…and it worked, apart from the hangover!

Another memory that still holds strong is my trek to the local ‘corner-shop’ down in Allenby Street (at this time, NOBODY was open except for the legendary sleaze shops that served the local prostitutes and their clients on the corner of Allenby and HaYarkon streets) to buy some munchies. After making my purchase, the haunting wail of the sirens suddenly punctuated the night air. I just ran for it, never so scared in all my life. My vulnerability hit home to me as my heart, and legs, raced. What if a chemical warhead landed (I had left my gas mask at the hostel)? Would I make it back to the hostel in time? … In short, I made it back OK, donned my gas mask, herded myself into the sealed room with the others and sat and waited for the ‘boom’ of a Scud hit.

They were scary days, those first few days of the Gulf War. I have so many memories; like the siren impersonators in the hostel who made everybody a nervous wreck as they mimicked the wail through the stairwell of the hostel so that the whole building heard. Or myself, Andy and Nigel playing cards during those nervy nights then running to the beach upon hearing the sirens (sure beat waiting for a “boom” to land on your head). I also remember my Mum calling me at the hostel, tearfully begging me to get the hell out of Tel Aviv. I soon did, heading up to the Golan to visit my mate Peter (still in Israel today, he’ll be featured in a couple more episodes!) on a moshav. I remember drinking lots of beer, milking calves, and long, dark nights watching lots of Midnight Caller. It was also very surreal hearing the tinny sirens of the moshav and watching the Scuds fly overhead on their way to Tel Aviv.

And where was Ofira during all these action-packed days? Well, she had been drafted just before the War kicked off, and the Israel army were looking after her during her basic training days. I was pretty sure they had a bunker or two to hide in, so was less worried about her. I didn’t get to see much of her during those first 3 weeks or so, but she always called me when she could, despite her attachment to a “special” unit and her signed declarations that she didn’t know any foreigners…

One night during the Gulf War we did actually get together and ended up in her home town (Petah Tikva) for the first time. Her mother, a legendary Jewish mother-in-law soon to feature in upcoming episodes, actually instigated this visit, the reasons for which I later found out why (she tried to encourage us to be together because she wanted to split us up…don’t worry, all will be revealed in the next episode or two!). We actually went to watch some TV across the road from her house at her uncle’s place because she was a little scared of her father’s possible reaction to my visit. But then, yes, you guessed it, sirennnnnnn! We raced back to her building and I got to meet Ofira’s father for the first time, in the bomb shelter, with gas masks on, fear blazing away in our eyes – probably more so in my eyes as he stared in my direction from behind his mask…

As we all know, Saddam couldn’t last the pace and the War was soon over. Despite some hair-raising experiences, my bond with Israel had tightened. However, things were about to change, as the Gulf War survivors in the hostel soon went their way and Tel Aviv moreorless returned to normal. And within a few days I had moved in, unofficially, with Ofira, and her family, and was just about to become a more permanent fixture in the Holy Land. Bye bye tourist. Hello illegal worker!

Next up: Settling in!

June 09, 2009 | Ashley | Comments 9

How I ended up in Israel. And stayed… Part 4

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!

May 31, 2009 | Ashley | Comments 8

How I ended up in Israel. And stayed… Part 3

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

May 17, 2009 | Ashley | Comments 8

How I ended up in Israel. And stayed… Part 2

In case you missed it, here’s Part 1.

Part 2: The road to Israel

So there I was, on the train up to London after saying farewell to my parents. It hadn’t been too emotional a goodbye, I believe only my father came to the train station with me and with a few wise words sent me off on my way. I can’t remember my Mum being there or saying anything special, I was probably buzzing from excitement to take too much in anyway.

Trundling along and watching the trees whizz past, I was obviously excited. This was it, my step out into the big wide world. And with some sunny days ahead, that was the clincher! All I had with me was my bag packed with a few clothes and essentials. I was determined to travel light and not have too many home comforts tagging along with me; I could always pick up anything I really needed along the way. I was probably a little optimistically expecting to be in trunks and flip-flops 24/7…

And what was the plan? Well, upon arrival at London I was going to walk down the road to the coach station to jump on board my “magic bus”. Then it was a three day drive through Europe to end up in Athens. I wanted to go island-hopping from there and then head to Israel for a couple of months. I kind of knew Israel was my furthest destination point eastwards: after a couple of months volunteering on a kibbutz it was a planned flight back to Denmark where I had my old pal Louise waiting for me. I actually believed I’d end up in Denmark, with some Scandinavian beer and blond goddesses my target. I’d even been brushing up on my Danish slang, just to impress.

The magic bus ride was a laugh. Me and my fellow magicians didn’t really get to see much of Europe as we spent most of the time on motorways, but because the bus was half full we could at least spread out over the seats available: those first few hours it was every man for himself in an effort to find the most comfortable spot to sleep. I connected with a few people on board the bus, most of whom were young travellers like myself, looking for adventure. And sun. Aren’t us Brits just a wee bit predictable?

In one of those moments when you have options laid out for you and you have to make a snap decision, I decided on arrival at Athens to head for the island of Crete with a guy called Justin. Instead of taking a ferry to Rhodes with a gorgeous English girl I’d befriended. I still have no idea why I came to that decision. In future weeks I remember thinking that I should go and try and find her, but come on, who was I kidding? She could have been anywhere and it was time for my adventure to continue…perhaps in a parallel universe we found each other and frolicked in the waves on some deserted beach as the sun glistened off our bronzed bodies. Get outta here!

I stayed on Crete for about 6 weeks in total and I never did go island hopping. I managed to find jobs to keep my savings relatively intact and also shared a couple of apartments with Justin to keep the costs fairly low. My main job was at a bottling factory, delivering bottles of coke and beer to all the tourist restaurants on the island. A hot, sweaty job, made even more difficult by the fact that I used to see so many tourists having a ball and getting drunk while I would be hauling in these heavy crates of drink. Not so much fun.

But Crete did have its moments. Like the time I discovered ouzo for the first time, at this tiny village cafe up in the hills, with the locals looking on and me struggling to be understood in an English-free part of the island. Or the time the factory boss’ daughter took me for a ride in her luxury car and later showed me a good little bar to drink in. Or the time I ended up in a bar with hundreds of English football fans as England successfully took on Cameroon in the 1990 World Cup quarter-finals.

But I soon knew it was time to move on. It was like Israel was tugging away at my subconscious, an invisible hand gently pulling me across the Meditteranean. I wasn’t there yet, but I still had time – the 3 months my boss back in England had given me was ticking away, but I knew I’d end up in the Holy Land, somehow. Whether I’d make it back to England anytime soon was another matter…

Next up: As Saddam Hussein moves closer to Kuwait, Ashley gets closer to Israel…

May 07, 2009 | Ashley | Comments 12

How I ended up in Israel. And stayed… Part 1

My tale of woe and joy begs to be told, and I seem to be telling it a lot lately…so here it is, the uncensored version, the bits that I can remember, even the bits that I’d rather forget. All for your reading pleasure. Yes indeed. Where else can you get to hear 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. Oh crikey, I missed out loads!

Where else you gonna get all this, eh, where?!

Part 1: The seeds are sown

To be absolutely honest, Israel was never really my intended target. In fact, it was initially never even on the radar. OK, I’d made the decision to bail out on the mighty Blighty some time in 1989, and I knew I just had to spend some time in the sun, but Israel was not even on my list of places to visit.

I knew I had to escape sunny Britain!

The exotic shores of the south of France were my first goal – and the Linguaphone cassette course in French that I devoured while walking the dog and while on the train home from my boring 9-5 office job can vouch for that. I also had a hankering to return to my place of birth, and where I’d spent the first five years of my life, Hong Kong, while Australia and the promise of sunny climes down under also really tickled my fancy.

The interest in Israel probably started with a documentary type film that was shown on the BBC around the time I’d started thinking about leaving Britain. The film was a behind the scenes look at life on a Kibbutz and pictures of sunny skies, date and palm trees, and volunteers living it up grabbed my attention. The Kibbutz and the idealism dear to every Kibbutz probably also attracted me a little, but I was more interested in getting out of rainy Britain at any cost. If a Kibbutz was willing to take me on as a volunteer and simultaneously show me a good time, then so be it.

I started reading up about volunteering on a Kibbutz and the programs available, but the clincher for me was when an ex-girlfriend dropped me a line from a Kibbutz she was staying on in Israel. She let me know how much fun she was having and also told me that she saw herself staying there for many years (when I eventually did make it over to Israel a few months later, she’d already returned to the UK).

So, with my mind getting more and more set on an adventure, I decided to quit my job in around April-May 1990. I’d got enough cash saved up over the previous 6 months, done more than enough research and daydreaming about life on the road, and had decided that the time was right. I just had to tell my boss and my family…

My family was actually the easy part: I’d told them on numerous occasions that I was heading off some time soon. My old man was on my side and thought it was good to get it out of my system, while my Mum wasn’t quite so sure. But she’s a Mum and it’s her job to worry, right? It was my accountant boss I was more worried about as they’d paid for some courses for me to take and actually thought I was a decent potential accountant. But me, a bloody accountant? Get outta here!

In the end, breaking it to him wasn’t at all bad. He bought my story that I was going to be away for 3 months, even though deep down I knew that 3 months just wasn’t going to be enough. But I kept telling myself that the 3 month limit was a safety net just in case things didn’t work out for me. And my boss even offered to keep my job open for me, so I really had nothing to lose.

So there I was, one sunny morning, with a fresh new haircut that meant a tearful goodbye to my floppy fringe, stood in line at the National Express offices (bus/coach services throughout the UK) in Eastbourne. With some excitement I purchased my “Magic Bus” ticket from London to Athens. A 3 day ride through Europe, ending up in sunny Greece. What more could a pastey-white British lad in search of the sun ask for?

Coming soon: Part 2, The Journey to Israel

May 01, 2009 | Ashley | Comments 17