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!