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