Buried Treasure and Granite Chipping Pleasures

Kibbutz Palmachim, Israel                                                                   28th August 1989

Taking a couple of weeks off from my Kibbutz in the north I headed south again to take part in an archaeological dig just a short distance from Kibbutz Palmachim, which is itself located about 15km south of Tel Aviv. This site allegedly, dated back to the bronze age and while in my misguided youth I had visions of my good self digging up jewel encrusted death masks, jewellery and coins galore, my only claim to fame was finding the fossilised remains of a 2000 year old mollusc dominated, compost heap and a few insignificant stones that turned out to be part of the foundation of some insignificant structure that was no doubt used for storage or for taking a dump in.
 

View from Kibbutz Palmachim's Dining Hall

Leaving my kibbutz was fraught with problems. The volunteer leader was not happy with my desire to depart (albeit for a short time) and I was subsequently made to feel like the proverbial leper. So, after trying to smooth things out and finally managing to procure a two week leave of absence, I left some of my stuff with Annette and set off for the site. Kibbutz Palmachim is beautiful, situated right on the coast with sandy beaches and an azure blue sea. The dig site was not so impressive, being situated upon an escarpment or was it the top of a quarry? After all these years, it is difficult to remember.
 

Palmachim Beach

On Monday morning we were introduced to the 'Professor' who was leading the dig and his emotionless, stony faced German assistant. Our job was quite simple. We were expected to dig and that was it. Prior to arriving on site I had found archaeology to be nothing less than fascinating, especially as I had just arrived back from what I considered to be the archaeological jewel of our small planet: Egypt.
 

The dig site....with Leon and Greg pretending to work....

As I explained in one of my other blogs, in my youth I used to spend many hours at the 12th century Prittlewell Priory in my home town of Southend-on-sea. The curator of the museum, a lovely guy named Bill, did everything he could to encourage us to take an interest in the history of our local area and frequently sent us out to look for archaeological goodies, probably to get us out from under his feet more than anything else. However, I really don't think he had really prepared himself for our enthusiastic approach to his encouragement and we often came back to the museum, loaded down with booty aplenty in hand. Most of it was rubbish, yet some of the items we found were from the monastery that had been demolished back in the 16th century. We proudly handed them over and as far as I am aware, a couple of the pieces of masonry that we discovered are still on display in the museum to this day.
 

Wider angle of the dig site

While I had now got used to 'living it up' in basic accommodation, nothing could of prepared me for our living conditions at Palmachim. Having had to part with a small sum of money to go on this dig, I was expecting at the very least, to be accommodated in a half comfy room located somewhere within the kibbutz. I was subsequently confronted with the reality of having to live in a tatty, old, 8 man army tent and sleep on the most uncomfortable bed I had ever had the misfortune of prostrating my person upon.
 

Luxury Accommodation....

I shared this 'luxury' abode with two other English guys, Greg and Leon who seemed to be as shell shocked as I was. Nevertheless, we were willing to retain our British, stiff upper lips and give things a go, especially being as we were all 'passionate' about archaeology and the hidden gems that were no doubt just waiting to be discovered by us. The first day of the dig set the precedent for what was to come. Given pick axes, shovels and curious, floppy buckets, we were detailed to chip away at soil that had previously been baked solid for thousands of years by the scorching hot, Israeli sun; a task which we found to our displeasure, was about as easy as excavating diamond encrusted granite! After 2 hours of pathetically bashing metal against rock, we swept up the few shards that we had managed to chip away, when suddenly a moment of clarity engulfed us and it was then that we knew that we were in for a long and hard two weeks.
 

Fawning Session in Progress

There was a clear, no nonsense hierarchy at the site. Those who had been there the longest were given the easier tasks such as digging in real soil and carefully extracting goodies from the earth with their little brushes and trowels. Not that these 'goodies' turned out to be of any real interest to us neanderthals who were still desperately clinging on to delusions of archaeological grandeur. Our work day was from 6-12pm and then we were expected to meet in the main tent at 4pm for a discussion on the day's dig. During this little gathering, the three of us sat and stared in dismay as the others chirped away, fawning most magnificently over the tiny shards of pottery or other unexplained objects that they had extracted from the soil. All we wanted was a cold beer, some decent food and a comfortable bed upon which we could rest our aching limbs.
 

One of many breaks...

By Wednesday, we had had enough and made a pact that come the weekend we would escape from this godforsaken place. The other two didn't even last that long and by Thursday, they had abandoned me to my fate......gits! On that particular day, my interest was somewhat restored after finding a cluster of fossilised mother of pearl shells that had no doubt been discarded by a 2nd century BC housewife. I was detailed to carefully expose my find further so that photos could be taken. However, the diamonds, emeralds and rubies were still not forthcoming and on Friday evening, longing for my friends back on the kibbutz and my basic, yet comfortable bed, I decided to make my escape. I phoned the kibbutz that evening asking to return a week early. This request was flatly rejected obviously out of spite, however, I was having none of it.
 

Palmachim Beach looking south

My Mission Impossible picture folder had mysteriously vanished, so it was left to me to devise a cunning plan of action. Being as it was Saturday, the bus services became rather infrequent and at times rather non existent, so, after eating my last supper in the kibbutz dining room I hitched a ride into Rishon le Zion where it would hopefully be much easier to procure the services of a bus to get me 'home'. My plan was simple, get back to Shamir and hide out for a week....... after all, what could be easier..........???

Kibbitz Shamir and Awful Beer

Kibbutz Shamir, Kiryat Shmona, Israel                                                    28th July 1989

Returning from Egypt, I headed north to the town of Kiryat Shmona which is nestled away in the Hula Valley, on the edge of the Golan Heights. Situated 12km east of this town, on the slopes of the Golan's, is Kibbutz Shamir.

On arriving I found myself surrounded by a bevy of blond, Scandinavian beauties, who seemed more curious as to whether I had any spare cigarettes rather than taking an interest in this.... err.... umm.... latest, towering if somewhat lean example of manhood who would be joining their ranks ...damn. Anyway, I found myself sharing a room with an Australian guy called Neil who was sublimely chilled out and a good laugh to boot. 

The Volunteers!!!

 The vast plethora of different nationalities on this kibbutz made for an interesting experience indeed. The Danish girls seemed to be constantly preoccupied with trying to pull the best looking Israeli bloke, the Swedes sat around giggling, smoking and drinking beer while singing songs about arms, angles, Skol beer and the only other English sounding word that I could decipher through all the hurdy gurdy, 'alcohol' and of course making all the associated rude noises. The Australians and New Zealanders (with the exception of Neil who hardly ever touched the stuff) seemed to be in a constantly pissed state of euphoria. Rolf, the only Swiss national who was an avid photographer was always banging on about 'making' a picture despite our futile attempts to correct him and of course the lovely, Anglophobe Andi who took great delight in constantly reminding us of how proud she was to be Scottish! The rest of us simply tried our best to fit in where we could.

Another Night in the Brewer's Droop...

 Again, the rooms were quite basic although Neil had made a concerted effort to make ours more homely by pinching some material from somewhere (you never asked) and having adorned the walls with several posters and newspaper cuttings. The volunteer area was positioned well away from the rest of the kibbutz for obvious reasons and we had a shop that sold a few yoghurts and beer, a club that sold nuts and beer and a volunteer run bar that sold....yes, you guessed it...beer. Our bar was suitably named 'The Brewers Droop' and all three were at our disposal most nights of the week (all dependant on whether anyone was sober enough to open them) except Friday after sunset which was the Sabbath. The only problem was that despite the availability of alcohol, the beer was actually vile. While I love Israeli food and drink, they simply don't have a clue how to make beer or any other alcoholic beverage come to that. Many evenings were spent knocking back the dire and repugnant Gold Star, Maccabee and the Israeli equivalent of Ouzo or Pernod, Arak! Ok, they were cheaper than chips, but suffer I did and I still have the liver sclerosis to prove it!

More Drinking...

 Central to the beer drinking escapades was the 'Beer Bong'. A great amount of kudos was earned if you could perform one without, stopping, spilling, vomiting or spraying beer out of your nose. A 1.5lt coke bottle had had its bottom removed and an 18 inch hose had been fitted to the top. Two 500ml Gold Stars were poured into the bottle and the whole lot had to be consumed in one go. Oh the stupid things we do in our youth!

Pernille Demonstrating a Beer Bong!

As far as that minor inconvenience, work was concerned, I was more or less promised a job in the workshop repairing vehicles and farm machinery, however, I found myself, yet again, being forced into the catering trade, being placed in the kibbutz dining room. My sole task was to clean the floor with a machine which did make me wonder whether I would have been better off back in the UK, trimming plastic from injection moulded bumpers.....well, at least I would be getting paid for it! I consoled myself by listening to my Def Leppard and Survivor cassettes on a constant loop while working which made the monotony somewhat easier to deal with.

The Volunteer Area....Well away from the rest of the Kibbutz....

 That said, I decided to bitch, complain and make a general fuss about my work assignment and I eventually found myself being moved out to the cotton fields which was much more fun. What could be more exciting than having agricultural sprinklers explode in your face while trying to dismantle or move them, (it helps of you disconnect them from the main supply first) the rolling up of 1km long drip irrigation hoses (made easier by wrapping it round one of the Danish girls until she couldn't stand any more and finishing the last 700m or so by laying her down and rolling her along the ground) and the joys of having to spend half the day traipsing across muddy fields with 30kg of mud firmly attached to each boot?

Basic Accommodation

Admittedly, I had to get up much earlier, but that meant an earlier finish too, most of us having completed our work day by 12pm. One morning though, we had to wait. Being very close to the border, pathetic, pea brained, Islamic militants had been known to fly over from Lebanon using hang gliders in the hope of carrying out yet another atrocity in their imbecilic, hate filled attempts to kill or maim whoever they could. On this particular day a glider had been spotted in one of the fields so as a precaution, the Israelis went down and gave it a good hosing down with machine gun fire, before they would allow us anywhere near. The flying coward had already vanished, but we still thought it was great stuff! Afternoons were usually spent sleeping, drinking or venturing into Qiryat Shemona. The only problem was the bus service that only ran until 6pm. If you missed the last bus you would have to walk, 12km, uphill in the dark and that is not an easy or pleasant task, especially when you are half pickled!

View across the Hula Valley

 As far as the Swedes were concerned, I took a bit of a shine to one of them. I've never been great at chatting up girls but on one night in particular, I took my chances and did my best Don Juan DeMarco impression. After almost two hours of what must have sounded like nothing less than incoherent rambling to Annette, I was left with a back full of thorns for my troubles after having inadvertently positioned myself against some vicious horticultural specimen, which took great delight in impaling me with its spiky defences for getting too close. The things we do for love ehh....

Kibbutz Fields

I was fortunate enough to partake in another trip organised by a kibbutz. On the first day we were taken to Akhzivland run by the rather eccentric Eli Avivi. Like Sealand off of the coast of the UK, this tiny state has declared its independence from its host country. Despite this fact, the Israelis tolerate and even promote visits to this tiny, self proclaimed, 'sovereign nation'. Eli informed us that within Akhzivland he was officially permitted to carry out marriages and being rather hammered that night I ended up marrying Neil, my Swedish girlfriend Annette and at least one other whose name I have now forgotten. Needless to say, I was in no fit state to consummate my marriages......and all I can say is thank God for that! I've never really thought of myself as a serial bigamist, however, knowing my luck, the UN will no doubt, one day recognise Akhzivland and then I will be well and truly buggered!!!

The house on the hill was at one time in Syria!

The second day of our trip was less enjoyable, well, for everybody else but myself it was. While my swimming skills are on par with a 250lb block of lead, I love nothing more than to be out on the open sea. At birth, someone, somewhere gifted me with an iron constitution where wind, sea and surf are concerned and I relished the thought of going out on a boat into the Mediterranean where we would eat, drink and make merry afloat upon Poseidon's watery realm. Well, that was the idea until the wind decided to pick up that is. Consequently, people started dropping like flies. Within minutes, the wonderful sounds of song, laughter and joviality turned into the rather less appealing sounds of moaning, retching and projectile vomiting. Not wanting to see so much food go to waste I decided to do by bit for the environment by thrusting boiled eggs and smoked fish under the noses of my now not so enthused compatriots. Needless to say, my attempts to encourage my companions to dine heartily were summarily met with nothing but 
contempt, disdain and yet more vomiting. Oh well, at least I can say that I tried!

Another view

Pinching stuff for our rooms at Shamir was a slightly more complicated affair than it was at Gevim. Of course, when you nick stuff, it is done in the spirit of the kibbutz ideal, i.e nothing is removed from the kibbutz and what we were doing was merely distributing our ill gotten gains among those who were most needy, this usually being ourselves. The kibbutzniks tended to be more switched on to our dastardly exploits and on more than one occasion, we reluctantly had to go down the route of barter and trade which did leave a rather bitter taste in our mouths.

Out on the waves...

Further attempts to decorate our room were made. I decided to sacrifice a couple of Street Machine magazines that I had now read 2,365 times; not that I could do much with the pictures as sticky tape or fasteners of any kind were rather thin on the ground. Luckily, I managed to 'procure' (don't ask!) a box of drawing pins and set about covering my side of the room with automotive porn.

Post Barf Swim

Tape would have been better as the internal walls of our hut were made from thin board which rejected any attempt to push pins into it quicker than a Syrian border guard would have rejected anyone with an Israeli stamp in their passport! Concerned by the fact that these pins might find their way into my bed, I moved it away from the wall. The same night, I got into bed, only to roll over and feel a sharp stabbing pain in my arm, however, pins don't stab you and then move and at that point I leaped out of bed and shook Neil from his slumber. He naturally wondered what all the fuss was about and I proceeded to show him my arm which was rapidly starting to swell up. Search we did, under the bed, under the cover and on the floor, but nothing. I was just about to retire again when Neil lifted my pillow to reveal a big, black scorpion waggling its tail threateningly in the air. Neil took me to the factory which was open around the clock and I was subsequently driven into the hospital in Qiryat Shemona, just in case I should have any adverse reaction to the poison. Where scorpions are concerned, the Israelis say 'the bigger the better'. It's the small, yellow or white scorpions that are the most dangerous and while not lethal, they can cause problems to people with certain health defects. Anyway, as they say, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger!

John Overboard

I went back to work the next day, none the worse for my experience. On the same day a large group of Dutch volunteers arrived bolstering our numbers further and due to their open, friendly dispositions and their ability to sink a few like the proverbial trooper, they were soon accepted into the volunteer inner sanctum. The same unfortunately couldn't be said for another group of individuals who arrived a week later. We were stunned and shocked by the news that we would have to assimilate into our ranks a group of eight Germans! Horrified by the prospect, we decided that we would arrange a welcome that they would never forget and which would hopefully encourage them to depart again as quickly as they had arrived.

Yasser 'Neil' Arafat

On the day of their arrival, Mette our Danish volunteer area coordinator was detailed by the kibbutz volunteer leader to prepare the rooms for their arrival before going to bed as they wouldn't be arriving until around 3am. Needless to say that the vast majority of us were more than willing to assist her. The beds were tied together and given a good soaking, the windows were sealed shut, the doors were pulled from their hinges and all light bulbs were removed. Any furniture with the exception of the the beds was summarily confiscated and to top it all off, Steve and Kelvin our resident New Zealanders went on amphibian patrol, seeking out anything of a slimy nature to place under the covers.

The hours ticked by and it wasn't long until we heard the minibus arrive. The new arrivals were dropped at their destination and were left to their own devices. Ten minutes later we were rewarded for our efforts when we heard two shrieks of horror ring out into the night. Satisfied, we retired to our rooms and settled down for the night.
We were totally unprepared for what happened next. Expecting to be confronted by towering Aryans of pure Germanic stock, we instead found ourselves face to face with several, pasty white, bespectacled youths some of who looked like they were about to burst into tears. I don't think there was a single one among us who didn't feel pity for them and felt slightly ashamed of what we had done. Needless to say, we all received a major rollocking from the volunteer leader.

It was just after this incident that I decided to take a two week break from kibbutz life and try my luck at an archaeological dig (see separate entry). Things didn't go to plan and just over a week later I found myself sneaking back onto the kibbutz, where I proceeded to hide out in the volunteer area, hoping that our all seeing, omnipresent volunteer leader Ami did not become wise to my presence. Some of the other volunteers sneaked food back from the dining hall for me, but after only 24 hours I had been rumbled, dobbed in no doubt by someone who had taken exception to my egg wafting shenanigans on the boat trip, or one of the bloody Germans!

I was summarily ordered to report to the office where I was met by Ami who gave me a rather severe dressing down. He told me that I would have to leave the kibbutz for a week as there was no work for me, so I grabbed my rucksack and headed for Jerusalem (see separate entry) I returned a week later whereupon my presence was immediately requested yet again at the kibbutz office. Annette, who had hidden me in her room had also been summoned for her part in the deception. She was immediately told that she was being expelled from the kibbutz while I was given the choice to stay and behave myself or go with her. Being that I was facing an imminent 3rd strike anyway, I obviously chose the later course of action. So, we packed our bags, said our goodbyes to the rest of the dismayed volunteers and left the next day for Tel Aviv where we hoped to find another kibbutz that hadn't heard stories of our exploits.

In the Presence of Kings

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