Travels In Israel, 1972, My Life On A Kibbutz Begins

I was assigned a simple room with a single bed, closet and double window in the ‘volunteers quarters’ next to the volunteer’s public restrooms and showers.

During the next few weeks, I slowly acclimated to my new surroundings, met two dozen volunteers from all over Europe, Australia, New Zealand and as far away as South Vietnam.

And as I learned a bit Hebrew, I adjusted to a new rhythm.

Up at 4:30 in the morning, my day started at 5 in the communal kitchen with Tzes, a Belgian woman in her mid 30s, who as a child lost her entire family in Auschwitz.

Sunday through Friday, the first thing Tzes and I did was prepare the self-service breakfast.

We made sure there were enough hard and soft boiled eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and assorted seasonal vegetables and fruits, plus yoghurt, olives, fish and fresh bread.

By 6am, Tzes and I started to prep and cook the hot lunch which had to be ready by 11:45 for the entire community of 400 men, women and children.

A Scorching Bus Ride To Tel Aviv

On a Thursday morning at the end of September, dressed in T-shirt, shorts and sandals, I took the day off to venture out of the kibbutz and travel by bus to the coastal city of Tel Aviv.

“Egged” was (and still is) the largest intercity bus company in Israel.

And in 1972, none of their vehicles were air-conditioned.

By 9am, even with windows wide open that offered a hot and dusty breeze, the sun’s intense heat poured down onto the metal roof of our bus.

Sitting next to a window, somewhere in the middle, after only two bus stops, I was quickly surrounded by Jewish immigrant women from North African and Middle Eastern countries.

As they boarded the bus, they held live chickens under one arm while carrying baskets filled with spices and all the ingredients needed to prepare for Friday evening when families came together to welcome the Sabbath with songs, rituals and  prayers over fresh bread and wine and enjoy a sumptuous dinner.

The mother tongues of these earthy, dark-skinned exotic women were from a cluster of Arabic languages and local slang. Their spoken Hebrew was guttural, classical, honest and ancient.

As we traveled through towns and villages, the bus driver was forced to slow down for donkey and horse driven carts steered by handsome, swarthy Yemenite Jewish men wearing their traditional garb.

And between these towns, where agriculturally based social communities existed, one could see acres upon acres of bursting cotton soaking up the sun before the harvest at summer’s end and hopefully before the first rain.

Manna From Heaven for the Thirsty Soul

Two hours later we arrived at the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station which turned out to be rows of buses parked parallel to the sidewalks alongside the rambling, bustling and noisy open-air market.

Unaccustomed to the intense Middle Eastern heat, I descended from the bus looking for a place where I could wash my hands and face. I easily found the Women’s Public Restrooms.

A primitive concrete structure, as I entered, it literally took my breath away.

I witnessed poor women of every dress and denomination washing themselves while their infants bathed in sinks and damp toilet paper lined the floor.

Feeling dizzy and light-headed from the stench of urine, I quickly left and walked along the streets paved with sand that led me to Allenby Street.

It was an oasis with delicious smells from food kiosks, cafes and restaurants and best of all, shade along the sidewalks lined with all sorts of shops.

On that day – and till this very day – my favorite Israeli thirst-quenching cold drink was and remains “Meetz Eshkoleeot.”

Translated, it literally means grapefruit juice. However, to be completely honest with you, I’ve never tasted even a hint of grapefruit.

But when one is thirsty, parched and hot, it is manna from heaven.

A Touch of Magic in A Bookstore On King George Street

As I continued walking along Allenby, I made a spontaneous decision to turn right onto King George Street and found myself standing in front of and staring at a used bookstore.

Books were haphazardly tossed against the dirty display windows.

With the door was wide open, I walked up two small steps and entered this strangely seductive shop.

I immediately noticed that in every corner and on every shelf and in every aisle, without rhyme or reason, books in dozens of different languages were randomly stacked high or stacked low.

By its own nature, without fan or breeze, the shop was unbearably hot and stuffy.

As I turned around to leave, as if by magic, destiny or pure luck, I touched a book that touched my life.

Approximately 23cm long by 15cm wide, a fat, faded and very worn turquoise-green, cloth-bound hardcover book with a circular golden design and no trace of a title, beckoned me.

I picked it up, thumbed through the flapping pages.

The book was all text that seemed to be broken up into small paragraphs.

There were no illustrations, except for one.

At that moment, little did I realize I was holding Edward McCurdy’s first edition of THE NOTEBOOKS OF LEONARDO DA VINCI.

That book would become my guide and traveling companion for the next 16 years.

TO BE CONTINUED….

It is a daunting task to write the very first article.  

Where to begin?

 Oscar Hammerstein whispered, “…start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.”

(lyrics from Do Re Me)

 I readily took his advice.