Chapter 6 — Gap Year (Part 1): Life, Work, and Travel on a Kibbutz in Israel

First Flight Abroad: Leaving Home for the Unknown

My gap year began with a heavy backpack, a sleeping bag strapped tightly to it, and a one-way ticket out of South Africa.

The night before I left was spent packing and repacking, opening the same compartments repeatedly, checking everything more than once—passport, ticket, contact details—making sure nothing had been overlooked. The backpack was already heavy, and the sleeping bag made it bulkier, shifting slightly each time I lifted it onto my shoulders. I remember standing still for a moment in my room, not moving, just looking at everything around me—the bed, the desk, the familiar layout—aware that when I returned, it would not feel the same. There was no fear in me. Only a steady sense of anticipation. I had never been overseas before, and everything about the journey felt like stepping into something undefined. That night, I dreamt of being abroad—walking through unfamiliar streets, hearing languages I couldn’t understand. When I woke up, the feeling stayed with me, not as confusion, but as readiness.

At the airport, the goodbye compressed into something shorter than expected. My parents were there, waiting, but the timing collapsed under the weight of the El Al security process. Nearly three hours passed in queues, inspections, and questioning. By the time I came through, boarding had already begun. There was no time to stand and talk properly, no space to slow the moment down. We hugged quickly—tight, but brief. I remember my mother holding on just slightly longer before letting go. Words came in fragments rather than full sentences—“Take care,” “Phone when you can,” “We love you.” Then it was over. I picked up my bag, turned once to look back, and saw them still standing there, watching. Then I had to move.

The security process unfolded in a methodical, almost clinical way. Everything was unpacked—clothes shaken loose, compartments opened one by one, my sleeping bag unrolled across the inspection table. Toiletries were examined individually. At one point, a security agent took my toothpaste, opened it, and squeezed it out completely onto a flat surface, pressing it slowly as if confirming something invisible. I stood there watching, not protesting, not questioning, just observing the thoroughness of it. The questioning followed the same pattern—steady, controlled, and precise. Each answer led to another question, each question narrowing slightly. There was no aggression in it, just persistence.

By the time I boarded the plane, the energy had shifted. The urgency of preparation was gone, replaced by stillness. The cabin felt enclosed and unfamiliar—the low hum of engines constant, the air slightly recycled, the movement contained within narrow rows. People settled into their seats, adjusting bags, fastening belts, speaking in languages I didn’t recognise. I sat down, placed my hands on my knees, and for the first time, there was nothing left to do. No more checking, no more moving, no more preparing. Just waiting.

That’s where I met Gerrit. He was younger, about twenty, and hadn’t been to university. He was open and easy to talk to, and there was a loose connection—his mother worked with my aunt—which made the interaction feel less random. We spoke casually, not about anything particularly significant, but enough to establish something simple: we were both leaving something familiar behind, stepping into something undefined. There was a quiet understanding in that.

As the plane began to move, the engines building in intensity, the moment finally shifted from preparation to departure.I was simply moving through it—one place, one moment, one group at a time—adjusting as I went, without fully realising what was being formed in the process.

On the Lebanese-Israeli border, Metula - 1997

First Steps in a New World: Arrival & Adjustment

When we landed in Tel Aviv on March 1st of 1997, it was late winter. The air wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm either—just mild, carrying a different quality that I couldn’t immediately define. We stepped onto the tarmac, and I paused for a moment, not because anyone told me to, but because everything around me demanded attention at once. The light felt sharper than what I was used to, almost flatter but brighter at the same time. The engines hummed behind us, steady and mechanical. There was a mix of smells—fuel, something faintly salty, something unfamiliar that didn’t register fully. I stood there with one hand gripping the strap of my backpack, not moving, just taking it in. Then someone behind me said, “Keep moving,” and I stepped forward.

We took photos quickly—the plane behind us, the first physical evidence that we had arrived somewhere else. I adjusted the weight of my backpack slightly, the straps pressing into my shoulders, the sleeping bag shifting against my back. It was a small movement, but it grounded me in the moment. The feeling of arrival didn’t last long. Practical reality took over almost immediately.

Inside the airport, everything tightened again—queues, movement, instructions. Signs in Hebrew, announcements unfamiliar, people moving with purpose. We followed the flow, watching others, adjusting as we went. From there, we made our way to the kibbutz volunteer office in Tel Aviv. The walk felt longer than it probably was. The backpack pressed down more with each step, the straps digging slightly into my shoulders. The weight of everything I was carrying became more noticeable.

Amanda’s preparation helped. I knew what to expect, and that removed uncertainty. Inside the office, the process was straightforward—documents handed over, a few questions, and then the assignment: Kibbutz Kfar Blum, Upper Galilee.

Outside, Gerrit took another photo—me standing with my backpack, a marina behind me. I shifted slightly so the boats were visible in the background. That image captured the moment clearly: movement, independence, and the beginning of something that hadn’t yet taken shape.

Tel Aviv itself felt immediate and alive. Hebrew was spoken everywhere—fast, expressive, continuous. Traffic moved aggressively, taxis cutting into small gaps without hesitation. The smell of shawarma and falafel drifted through the air from street vendors. I noticed the mix of people straight away—modern Jews, Orthodox Jews, Arabs, Palestinians—each moving through the same space with different rhythms.

One moment stayed with me. On the bus, young Jewish women in military uniform sat casually, automatic rifles resting against their shoulders or across their laps. They spoke to each other, adjusted their bags, laughed. The presence of the weapons didn’t change their behaviour. It was part of the environment.

Even something as simple as crossing the road required adjustment. Traffic flowed on the right. My instinct was to look the wrong way. The first time I stepped forward, a car passed closer than expected. I stopped, stepped back, recalibrated. The next time, I paused longer, forcing myself to look correctly before moving. Something basic had to be relearned.

Gerrit in Tel Aviv upon our arrival - 1 March 1997

At the Bus station in Kiryat Shmona - 1 March 1997

Reality shock: A Cold First Night on the Kibbutz

The bus ride north to Kiryat Shmona took about three hours. I sat by the window, wiping condensation away with my sleeve every few minutes to keep the view clear. The road curved through the landscape, sometimes opening into wider stretches, then narrowing again. I was tired from the journey, but I didn’t want to sleep. I didn’t want to miss anything.

By the time we arrived, the weather had shifted completely. Tel Aviv had been mild and bright; here it was grey, cloudy, with a light, steady rain. The change felt immediate.

When we reached Kibbutz Kfar Blum, everything slowed. There was no formal arrival. No welcome, no introductions, no sense that anything had been prepared for us. We were shown to a room—two single beds with thin mattresses on metal frames—and then left alone.

The smell reached us almost immediately. The volunteer compound was located close to the dairy farm and chicken houses. Cow dung, chicken waste, and wet earth combined into something strong and constant. It didn’t fade. It settled into the space.

We stood there for a moment with our bags still on our shoulders, not speaking. Then we put them down.

There was no dinner. No explanation. No indication of what would happen next. Just silence.

I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees, looking down at the floor. Gerrit stood by the door for a few seconds longer, then came over and sat down as well. The rain continued outside, steady but not heavy.

The thought passed through my mind—not panic, just a quiet question: what have I done?

Gerrit spoke first. “Is this it?”

“I think so.”

We lay down fully dressed, inside our sleeping bags. The room remained still. The rain continued.

And that was the first night.

Main Volunteer compound - Kibbutz Kfar Blum

Kibbutz Kfar Blum: Work, Routine, & Learning the System

From Silence to Structure

The next day changed everything. Where the first night had been silent and uncertain, the morning brought movement. Doors opened, voices carried across the compound, and people began appearing without announcement. What had felt empty and unwelcoming the night before now revealed itself as structured and already functioning.

We were welcomed in a practical way—no formal introductions, just questions: where are you from, what work will you do. Tammy ran the system. There was no uncertainty around her role. She controlled placements, expectations, and discipline. Rick and Anton worked in the volunteer office with her, part of the structure that kept everything moving. Rachel, older and calmer, spoke good English and had lived in Europe. She moved differently—slower, more deliberate—and checked in on volunteers in a way that felt more human than procedural.

I remember standing outside the office after being assigned, adjusting the straps of my backpack again, even though I wasn’t travelling anymore. It was a habit from the journey, but it marked a shift. The movement had stopped. This was now a place to stay.

Aerial photograph postcard of Kibbutz Kfar Blum 

Nights in the 'Boogy Room'

Life settled into a rhythm, but not an easy one. Most mornings started tired. Nights were spent in the Boogy Room—the volunteer bar and disco. It was loud, crowded, and always warm. Music filled the space, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke, sweat, and alcohol. With only about 360 shekels a month, drinking had to be cheap. Six-shekel vodka from Kiryat Shmona became standard. It burned going down, but it was what everyone could afford. Some volunteers brewed their own alcohol, pouring it into reused bottles. You drank it without asking what was in it.

I remember standing near the edge of the room with a drink in my hand, watching the movement more than participating. The music was loud enough that conversation came in fragments. People leaned in close to speak, then pulled back again. Glass bottles and plastic cups moved across tables, and at times you lost track of who they belonged to. You stayed where you were for a while, taking it in, before eventually being pulled back into the flow of the room.

Leaving the Boogy Room late at night, the outside air felt cooler but still heavy. You walked back slowly, gravel underfoot, voices fading as people split off toward different rooms. The smell of the nearby dairy farm and chicken houses returned as you approached the compound. There was no real transition between night and morning. Morning came regardless, and work did not adjust itself to how you felt.

With Franck in our room 

Chicken Farm: First Assignment

My first assignment was on the chicken farm. The smell hit before you even entered—a dense mix of chicken waste, feed, and damp air. It stayed with you. It settled into your clothes, your skin, your hair. Even after washing, there was always something left. The work was repetitive. You moved through rows, feeding, cleaning, checking systems. The ground was uneven and slightly sticky underfoot. The noise never stopped—a constant low sound from thousands of chickens shifting and moving.

I remember the first full shift clearly, stepping inside and realising there was no clean air to breathe. You adjusted quickly, breathing through your mouth, focusing on the task. After a while, you stopped reacting to it. It became part of the environment. There were moments where you paused briefly, standing still in the middle of the rows before continuing again. At the end of a shift, you could smell the work on yourself before even reaching the showers.

Swimming Pool: Open Space & Contrast

Later, I was moved to the swimming pool, and the contrast was immediate. Open space replaced confinement. Sunlight reflected off the water, and the smell of chlorine replaced the heaviness of the farm. The work was lighter—cleaning, maintenance, watching. There were moments where you could stand still near the water and look out without being noticed.

One afternoon, I felt a low vibration before hearing it. I looked up and saw Israeli fighter jets flying low overhead toward the north. They moved fast, close enough that you felt the sound pass through your body. People paused briefly, looked up, then continued with what they were doing. It didn’t interrupt anything.

Another morning, I woke to a different kind of disturbance. The windows rattled slightly. Someone nearby said, “Katyushas.” That was enough. There were bomb shelters across the kibbutz. Everyone knew where they were. No one panicked. People got dressed and went to work.

Swimming pool on the kibbutz

The Store: Routine and Interaction

I also worked in the fruit and vegetable store. The pace was steady and structured. Kibbutzniks used an internal “funny money” system instead of cash. You weighed produce, packed items, and restocked shelves. Interactions were short and functional. A few words, a nod, then the next person. I remember one older kibbutznik who came in regularly, always selecting the same items in the same order. He barely spoke. After a few days, you anticipated his routine before he even finished placing everything on the counter.

Between customers, there were short pauses. You stood behind the counter, hands resting on the surface, looking at the shelves, waiting for the next person to step forward.

Kibbutz Dining Room Kitchen: Basic Food Prep

I also worked briefly in the kibbutz dining room kitchen, which served kibbutzniks and volunteers. There, I peeled vegetables and potatoes in a fast-paced but more informal environment. It was functional, repetitive work, with a steady flow of food preparation rather than strict oversight.

Chopping veg - Kibbutz Dining room kitchen

Kfar Blum Guesthouse: Structure and Responsibility

Later, I moved to the Kfar Blum Guesthouse, and that became the centre of my working life on the kibbutz for most of my stay. I was there for almost five months. Compared with the other work areas, it felt like a step up—more structured, more professional, and more directly connected to paying guests rather than the internal daily life of the kibbutz. The guesthouse itself had grown out of much smaller beginnings. According to the hotel’s own history, outside guests were first housed in tents and in kibbutz members’ homes until a donation funded six guest rooms, and that small guesthouse later developed into what is now the Pastoral Kfar Blum Hotel. The kibbutz itself had been founded in 1943 in the Upper Galilee, and over time hospitality became one of its important economic activities. Today the hotel reports 193 rooms and describes itself as a cultural and nature-oriented hotel in the Hula Valley. I have not found a reliable source giving the exact room count in 1997, so I cannot confirm your memory of “more than 100 rooms,” but it had clearly already grown well beyond its original six-room stage by the time you worked there.

During the day, Gerrit and I handled linen and room-related logistics. We used a golf cart to move around the guesthouse grounds, collecting dirty linen and towels from the rooms and taking clean ones back. That was part of the daily system, and Ada and Brynhilde were involved on the room-preparation side, so our movement in the cart was tied directly to keeping the rooms ready for new guests. There was a rhythm to it. We would drive from block to block, stop, load dirty sheets and towels, then bring back fresh ones. It was physical but straightforward work, and after a while it became almost automatic. You learned the layout of the guesthouse, the routes between buildings, where to stop, how much you could load, and how to keep things moving without delay.

The guesthouse grounds themselves were different from the rougher, more utilitarian parts of the kibbutz. The place was greener, more carefully maintained, and more outward-facing. The current hotel still emphasizes its green spaces, gardens, lawns, and quiet setting in the Hula Valley, and that matches the atmosphere I remember from working there. I also worked in the guesthouse garden during the day. That added another layer to the job. One part of the day could involve moving linen by golf cart, another could involve garden work, keeping the surroundings tidy and presentable for guests. It all formed part of the same hospitality system: rooms, grounds, movement, preparation.

Later in the afternoons, Gerrit and I also worked as bell boys for arriving guests. That meant helping with luggage when people checked in, moving bags from vehicles to rooms, and being part of the first practical contact guests had with the place. That job required a slightly different posture from the rest of kibbutz labour. You were no longer just doing back-of-house work. You were visible. Guests arrived tired from travelling, sometimes with children, sometimes with a lot of luggage, and you had to respond quickly and efficiently. There was no need for elaborate conversation, but there was an expectation of order and competence. It felt more formal than the chicken farm, the pool, or the fruit and vegetable store.

In the evenings, I worked in the guesthouse kitchen, and this was a separate job from the time I worked briefly in the kibbutz dining room kitchen. The kibbutz dining room was for kibbutzniks and volunteers, and that was where I peeled vegetables and potatoes in a more basic food-preparation role. The guesthouse kitchen was different. It served paying guests, and my role there was not food preparation at all. I worked only on the dishwashing system.

That system ran on a conveyor belt. Dirty dishes arrived continuously in colour-coded crates—blue and red—and they had to be organised correctly according to kosher rules. Meat and dairy had to remain completely separate, not only in cooking and serving, but also in washing, sorting, and handling. That meant constant attention. I stood at the conveyor, lifting plates, sorting them into the correct crates, and feeding them into the system. The pace didn’t stop. Water ran constantly, steam rose from the machines, and the floor was usually wet underfoot. The work was repetitive, but it demanded concentration because the separation rules mattered.

A Rabbi was present in the kitchen, inspecting and monitoring the whole process to make sure everything was done correctly. That changed the atmosphere. You were not just washing dishes in a mechanical way; you were working inside a religiously regulated system where mistakes had significance. I remember checking the crates before placing items, making sure nothing was mixed incorrectly, then continuing without pause as more dishes came through. The conveyor kept moving, the dishes kept coming, and you stayed with the rhythm until the flow finally slowed.

Gerrit unloading laundry from the golf cart

Kfar Blum Guesthouse garden and Dining room

Ada and Brynhilde cleaning rooms - Kfar Blum Guesthouse

Our transport working at the Guesthouse - golan heights in the background

Jordan river flowing through the kibbutz with Mt Hermon in the background

Mistakes and Consequences

I made mistakes. At the time, they didn’t feel like decisions. They felt small. Borrowing tools without permission seemed practical. Tools were often left around—leaning against walls, stacked in corners—which created a sense that they were available. I remember picking one up, pausing briefly, looking around, then walking off with it as if it was part of the job. There was no immediate consequence. You used it, returned it, and moved on. It became easier the next time.

Then came the golf cart. A group of Russian tourists wanted to see more of the kibbutz. I had access to a work cart. It seemed harmless to take them around, driving slowly and pointing things out. I remember them climbing onto the cart, settling in, speaking among themselves as I started moving. It felt controlled, even useful.

Then I turned a corner.

Zvi Schulman, the guesthouse manager, was standing there.

Still. Watching.

I slowed the cart slightly without thinking. The tourists went quiet behind me. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. That was enough.

I was fired.

At the time, it didn’t feel serious. Looking back, it was.

Living & People

For most of my stay, I lived in a dilapidated house called Planet Hollywood, near the Jordan River.

The name didn’t match the reality. The house was worn down—paint faded, surfaces uneven, everything slightly out of place. It housed about eight to ten volunteers at any given time. There was always movement—people coming and going, bags being packed or unpacked, conversations starting and stopping.

Inside, the air felt lived in. Clothes hung over chairs, shoes left near the entrance, small personal items scattered across shared spaces. There was no real order, but it functioned.

At night, you could hear everything—someone turning in bed, a door opening, quiet voices in another room, the occasional sound of someone coming back late. The Jordan River was nearby, and sometimes you could hear the faint movement of water if everything else was still.

One of my roommates there was Sandor Varga, a Dutchman with Hungarian roots. We didn’t talk constantly, but there was a quiet familiarity in sharing the same space—moving around each other without needing explanation.

At other times, I stayed in the main volunteer compound, where things were slightly more structured. That’s where I shared a room with Franck Cauchoix, the French volunteer. His presence was different—more animated, more restless, always thinking about the next move, the next plan.

People defined the experience as much as the place itself.

Grant and Laurette became my closest friends—steady, grounded, reliable. There was no drama with them, no unpredictability. Just consistency. Rachel, an elderly kibbutznik, provided something different—a calm presence, someone you could speak to without pressure. Her English was good, and she had lived in Europe before. Conversations with her felt slower, more deliberate.

Tammy ran the volunteer system with authority. There was no confusion about her role. She managed everything—placements, expectations, structure. Rick and Anton worked in the office, part of the system that kept everything functioning.

The volunteer group itself felt like a miniature United Nations. People came from everywhere—South Africa, Europe, Australia, South America. They arrived, stayed for a while, then left. New faces replaced old ones. Friendships formed quickly because they had to, and just as quickly, people moved on.

There was always a sense that nothing was fixed.

Everything was temporary.

Front entrance of Planet Holywood dorm where I mostly lived

Jordan river on the kibbutz

Franck, me, Paul, and romy posing in front of Francks red Puegoet on dairy farm and chicken house section of the kibbutz before our trip to Eilat

Group photo of the volunteers - April 1997

Travel Across Israel (and Beyond)

Local Movement: Kiryat Shmona & First Independence

Travel happened whenever possible. It was never one continuous journey, but a series of trips—some planned, some spontaneous—shaped by money, timing, and whoever was around at the time. Living on about 360 shekels a month meant movement had to be cheap. Hitchhiking became normal. Walking long distances was expected. Shared taxis and buses were used only when necessary.

The earliest trips were local, centred around Kiryat Shmona, about five kilometres from Kibbutz Kfar Blum. We would walk along the roadside or hitchhike, standing with our thumbs out, waiting in the heat or wind. When a car stopped, everything happened quickly—bags lifted, doors opened, a quick nod, and you were inside, adjusting your backpack as the car pulled away again.

Kiryat Shmona wasn’t a place you explored—it was a place you used. We went there mainly to buy alcohol. Cheap Russian vodka for about six shekels a bottle became standard. Beer existed, but it was a luxury.

There was a bar in the town square where we sometimes sat. The tables were worn and slightly sticky. The smell of beer and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air. I remember one afternoon when “Hey Jude” started playing. At first, it was background music. Then someone started singing. Then another voice joined. Within moments, half the room was singing. No one organised it. It just happened. For a few minutes, the entire space felt unified.

Kiryat Shmona town square

Northern Edge: Metula & the Lebanese Border

Another early trip took me north to Metula with Frederika. We cycled there. The road gradually climbed, and the further north we went, the quieter it became. There were long stretches with no cars—just the sound of tyres on the road and steady breathing.

At the border, everything stopped. Fences, watchpoints, flags. No movement. I stood between the Israeli and Lebanese flags and took a photograph. It felt like a simple moment, but you were aware this wasn’t just a line on a map.

Frederika posing at the Metula sign on our bike trip to Metula

Inland Journey: Tiberias & the Sea of Galilee

Travel inland brought a different rhythm.

With Paul, Ada, and Brynhilde, I hitchhiked to Tiberias. The process repeated itself—standing on the roadside, waiting, short lifts, adjusting plans depending on who stopped. The heat felt heavier there, sitting lower around the lake.

Tiberias lies along the Sea of Galilee, one of the most historically and geographically significant freshwater lakes in the region. The water stretched wide, reflecting the sunlight so strongly that you had to look away at times.

We walked along the promenade, eating shawarmas wrapped in paper, often dripping if you didn’t hold them properly. It was simple—eat, walk, stop, then move again.

Later, I returned to the same region with Dominik Otto. This time, we cycled around the Sea of Galilee. The experience was completely different from hitchhiking. The ride was long. At the beginning, the effort felt manageable, but it built gradually. Legs became heavier, shoulders tighter, but you kept going.

At certain points, we slowed down, not stopping completely, just reducing pace, letting the body recover slightly before continuing. By the end, the effort had settled into the body.

Paulo, Ada and Brynhilde on the road adjacent to the kibbutz, planning our trip to Tiberias 

Tiberias waterfront

Tiberias waterfront with Kate, Ada, Paul and Brynhilde with the Sea of Galilee in the background

Church at Tabgha - Sea of Galilee

Dominik Otto - Cycling adventure around the Sea of Galilee

Peter's landing place - Sea of Galilee. On circular bike trip around Sea of Galilee with Dominik

Jerusalem: Movement Through History

Jerusalem was completely different.

I travelled there with Grant and Laurette, and we stayed inside the Old City of Jerusalem. Rick and Anton were also part of the broader trip, staying with us at the Tabasco Youth Hostel in the Old City, although they did not join us for all the religious site visits. The accommodation itself was basic—shared spaces, simple beds, bags stacked in corners—but its location meant you stepped directly into the Old City environment as soon as you walked out.

From the moment you entered the Old City, everything tightened—space, sound, movement. The stone passageways were narrow, the walls close on either side, worn smooth in places from centuries of use. Movement was constant. People passed in both directions—tourists, locals, traders carrying goods. There was no open space to pause comfortably.

The souk was active at all times. Vendors called out as you passed, sometimes stepping slightly into your path to draw you in. The smell of spices, coffee, and grilled meat filled the air. Shawarma rotated slowly on spits, layers of meat browning as they turned. Oil bubbled beneath falafel being fried. Trays of baklava reflected the light from shopfronts. The ground underfoot was uneven in places, polished smooth in others.

At one point, I stopped in the middle of the walkway, standing still. People adjusted immediately, moving around me without hesitation. No one stopped. The flow continued, bending slightly around where I stood, then closing again once I moved on.

We moved through different parts of the Old City, following routes that connected the key sites. The Via Dolorosa ran through the narrow streets, marked by stations that people stopped at briefly before continuing. Movement was steady, not rushed, but constant.

At the Western Wall, everything changed. The noise dropped. The open space in front of the wall created a pause after the density of the streets. People stood quietly, some reading, some praying, others simply standing with their hands against the stone. Small folded notes were placed into the cracks between the blocks. I stood back for a moment before moving closer, then placed my hand on the stone and remained there without speaking.

From there, we moved to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The atmosphere shifted again. The lighting was dim, the stone floors worn smooth. Movement slowed noticeably. People spoke quietly or not at all. Candles burned in clusters, and the space felt enclosed, almost compressed compared to the open area at the Western Wall. You didn’t move through it quickly. You adjusted your pace to the space.

We also visited the Garden of Gethsemane, where the environment opened slightly again—olive trees, quieter surroundings, less pressure from movement. From there, we moved toward sites associated with Golgotha and the Garden Tomb, each location carrying a different atmosphere but connected through the sequence of movement rather than explanation.

The experience of Jerusalem was not defined by one site, but by how closely everything existed together—religious, commercial, historical, and everyday life compressed into a single space. You didn’t separate them. You moved through all of it continuously.

Damascus Gate - Old City of Jerusalem

Western Wall - Old City of Jerusalem

Western Wall - Old City of Jerusalem

With Rick, Paula, Anton, Grant and Laurette at Tobasco Youth hostel - Old City of Jerusalem

Arab souk - Old City of Jerusalem

On Mount of Olives with Old City of Jerusalem behind me

Arab Souk, Arab quarter - Old City of Jerusalem

Garden Tomb where Jesus was buried  just outside the Old City of Jerusalem

Arab Bus station with Golgotha behind where Jesus was crucified just outside damascus Gatre of the Old City of Jerusalem

The Old City of Jerusalem

Southbound Journey: Tel Aviv to Eilat

Further south, I travelled with Franck, Romy, and Kelly in Franck’s red Peugeot. The plan was ambitious—to eventually drive all the way to France.

We stopped in Tel Aviv. Compared to Jerusalem, it felt open and relaxed. Wider streets, more space, less intensity. We stayed in a youth hostel, walked in the evening, and ate out before continuing.

After Beersheba, we entered the Negev Desert. At dusk, we stopped. There was no traffic, no buildings—just open desert. Franck and I took photos of each other at the same time using cheap film cameras. No digital preview. You took the picture and moved on.

We continued to Eilat. The heat hit immediately. It rose from the ground and reflected off surfaces. We stayed at the Corral Youth Hostel. Days were spent at the beach.

One afternoon, we bought food from a supermarket and sat near the shoreline. Eating, watching the water, not doing much else.

But the trip changed there. Plans became unclear. Decisions shifted. I remember sitting with Romy and Kelly, talking it through. No drama. Just practical discussion. In the end, we decided not to continue. We parted ways in Eilat.

Franck, Romy and Kelly in the red Puegoet en route to Eilat - Tel Aviv

Franck and I taking pictures in the Negev desert near Beersheba

Flower farms in the Negev

Independence monument - Eilat 

Eilat picnic spot

In front of the Coral Hostel where we stayed in Eilat

Sinai to Dahab: Stillness and Slow Time

From Eilat, I crossed into Egypt alone.

The journey through Sinai took about six hours in an old Peugeot taxi. The interior was worn, the air hot and still. The driver spoke very little. Outside, the landscape stretched endlessly—sand, rock, horizon.

At one stop, we pulled over for tea. A small roadside setup, nothing around. A local woman served tea. I stood there holding a small glass, feeling heat rise through my shoes. No sound. No movement. Just wind across the desert.

In Dahab, I met up with other volunteers—Rick, Anton, Paulie, Billy, and John.

Life slowed completely.

We stayed in basic accommodation—thin mattresses, no air conditioning, sand everywhere. At night, the heat stayed inside. Windows open. The sound of the sea in the background.

Days were spent in the water. The Red Sea was clear enough to see straight down. I floated on my back, looking at the sky, then turned and looked into the water below—coral, fish, movement.

On one occasion, I went snorkelling while I was high. The colours were more intense, movement slower, more defined. It felt different from normal—more sensory, more immediate.

It was also in Dahab that I met Paul, a Scottish traveller who had already travelled around the world twice, moving from place to place doing odd jobs.

Dahab relation beach where we spent a lot of time

Dahab beach 

Some of the kibbutz volunteers I met up with in Dahab

On camel's back with my Egyptian bought shirt

Cooling off in the Red Sea

Cairo, Giza & the Nile: Scale and Movement

From Dahab, I travelled to Cairo. The overnight minibus journey was cramped and uncomfortable. Seats were tight, the air heavy, and sleep came in short stretches. At one point, another traveller offered me his shoulder so I could rest my head for a while. It wasn’t discussed—it just happened, the kind of adjustment people made on long journeys.

Cairo was constant movement. Traffic never stopped. Cars, buses, and taxis pushed forward in all directions, horns sounding continuously. Crossing the road meant standing at the edge, watching for a moment, then stepping into the flow and adjusting your pace as vehicles moved around you. There were no clear gaps. You moved with it.

At the Giza Pyramid Complex, the scale was difficult to process. You knew they were large, but standing there, the size didn’t fully translate. The stone structures rose out of the desert, fixed and unchanged, while everything else felt temporary and moving.

Back in the city, I remember visiting small perfume shops and buying pure sandalwood essence for 50 Egyptian pounds. The shops were narrow, lined with glass bottles, each containing different oils and scents. The interaction was direct—selection, price, purchase—then moving on again.

At another point, I ate at a McDonald’s in Cairo. It stood out because it felt completely familiar in the middle of everything else that wasn’t. The setting was the same as anywhere else, but outside, the city continued at full pace—noise, heat, traffic.

The Nile River cut through the city with a completely different rhythm. Wide and steady, it moved slowly, unaffected by the urgency around it. Standing near it, the contrast was clear. On the streets, everything pushed forward. On the river, nothing needed to.

Cairo traffic below taken from my hotel room

Nile River - Cairo

At the Giza pyramids - near Cairo

Upper Egypt: Aswan, Luxor & Return

From Cairo, I travelled south to Aswan. The heat was extreme—around 56°C.

Grant and Laurette were already there, having gone to see the Aswan Dam. I met them later that day. We walked through the town, moving slowly in the heat.

From there, we travelled to Luxor for a few days, moving between historical sites.

The return journey was long—overnight taxis, a night ferry across the Suez Canal, hours of travel.

When we arrived back at the kibbutz, everything felt out of sync. Dust on our clothes. Bodies heavy. The Purim celebration had already passed.

Masada & the Dead Sea: Effort and Stillness

On another trip, we travelled south to Masada. We started the climb before sunrise. The air was still cool at the base, but you could already feel the dryness. The path wound upward in a series of switchbacks, narrow in places, uneven underfoot.

Within minutes, the effort settled into the body. I felt it in my legs almost immediately. Breathing slowed. Steps shortened. You stopped thinking about the distance and focused only on the next few steps ahead.

There wasn’t much conversation. Each person climbed at their own pace. At times, we stopped briefly—hands on knees, looking down or out across the dark landscape, then continuing again. The light began to shift slowly as we climbed, from darkness to a faint grey, then gradually brighter.

As we reached the top, the sun began to rise. The desert opened in every direction—wide, flat, uninterrupted. From that height, the scale became clearer. You could see the Dead Sea in the distance, its surface still and reflective.

Masada itself carries deep historical and military significance. Originally fortified by Herod the Great, it later became the site of one of the final events of the First Jewish–Roman War. Around 73–74 CE, a group of Jewish rebels held out on the mountain against the Roman army. The Romans eventually built a massive siege ramp—still visible today—to breach the fortress. According to historical accounts, when defeat became inevitable, many of the defenders chose death rather than capture, in what has been described as a mass suicide.

In modern Israel, Masada also became symbolically linked to military identity. For many years, Israeli soldiers held ceremonies there, reinforcing ideas of endurance and resistance, often associated with the belief that Masada would not fall again.

At the top, movement slowed again. People walked around the ruins—walls, pathways, open spaces that had remained in place for centuries. There was no urgency. You moved through it, then stopped, then moved again.

After descending, we travelled to the Dead Sea. The environment changed immediately. The air felt heavier, and the ground near the shoreline was different—thicker, more mineral-heavy underfoot.

The first time I stepped into the water, it felt unusual. As I leaned back, my body lifted immediately. Instinctively, I tried to correct my balance, but the water didn’t respond the way normal water does. It held you in place.

There was a moment of adjustment.

Then you stopped resisting it.

You simply floated.

Lying back, looking up at the sky, there was no effort required. Around me, others were doing the same—some laughing as they adjusted, others already still. After a while, we moved out of the water and rinsed off under the showers, the salt leaving a noticeable layer on the skin.

Floating in the Dead Sea with Rick and Grant

Some lookout somewhere in the Judean Desert - 1998

Judean Desert - 1998

Yad Vashem: Weight and Silence

At Yad Vashem, the atmosphere shifted again.

I visited twice during my stay in Israel. Each time, the experience followed the same pattern—movement slowed, conversation stopped, and you adjusted to the tone of the place rather than setting your own pace. Yad Vashem, established in 1953, is Israel’s official Holocaust memorial and research centre, built on the Mount of Remembrance in Jerusalem. It covers a large area, with indoor museum galleries and outdoor memorial spaces connected by pathways.

Inside the main museum, what stood out most were the personal belongings. Large displays of suitcases, glasses, shoes, and everyday objects filled entire sections. These were not symbolic representations—they were real items taken from individuals during deportations. Many of the suitcases still carried names, dates of birth, or places of origin. Standing in front of them, you didn’t take everything in at once. You focused on one or two, read the details, then moved on. The scale only became clear gradually.

One section that stayed with me was the display of luggage. The sheer number of items—stacked, layered, compressed into one space—made it difficult to process. Each suitcase represented a person who had packed what they thought they would need, not knowing what lay ahead. You stood there for a moment, then moved on, but the image stayed with you.

Outside, certain exhibits made the experience more physical. One of the most striking was the deportation memorial, built around an original German cattle car. These boxcars had been used to transport Jews and other victims to concentration and extermination camps. At Yad Vashem, the cattle car is positioned on a track that extends outward and stops abruptly over the edge of a drop, overlooking the Jerusalem forest. You walk toward it, step onto the platform, and then it ends. There is no continuation. The design makes the meaning clear without explanation.

Nearby stood a white bus, part of the Swedish Red Cross rescue mission led by Count Folke Bernadotte near the end of World War II. In 1945, these buses were painted white with red crosses to avoid being targeted and were used to transport prisoners out of concentration camps to safety in Sweden. Over 15,000 prisoners were rescued in that operation. Seeing the bus in the same environment as the other exhibits created a contrast—one element of rescue placed within a broader context of destruction.

Along the Avenue of the Righteous Among the Nations, I came across the tree dedicated to Oskar Schindler. This avenue honours non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews during the Holocaust. Each tree represents an individual recognised for those actions. Schindler’s case is unique—he was a member of the Nazi Party and an industrialist who used his factories to employ and protect Jews, ultimately saving more than 1,000 lives.

He personally planted his tree at Yad Vashem in 1962, when the programme to honour the Righteous Among the Nations was first established. His recognition later became formalised through a structured process that Yad Vashem introduced to evaluate such cases.

The area around the trees felt quieter than the rest of the site. Fewer people moved through it at any given time. After walking through the museum, through the displays, through the cattle car and the bus, I sat near Schindler’s tree.

I stayed there for a while without moving.

The white bus which was used as part of the Swedish Red Cross rescue mission

German box car that had been used to transport Jews and other victims to concentration camps during the Holocaust of WW2

Closing

It was not one experience.

It was layers—work in the heat, nights without structure, movement across borders, people arriving and leaving, decisions made quickly and often without full awareness of their consequences. The kibbutz was one system. Travel was another. And they overlapped constantly.

Work during the day, movement when possible, then back again. Different roles, different places, different groups of people—each with its own rhythm, its own expectations, its own way of operating. Nothing stood still for long.

There were moments of pressure, moments of freedom, moments of routine, and moments where everything felt completely unstructured. They didn’t come in sequence. They existed at the same time.

At the time, I wasn’t analysing any of it. There was no attempt to step back and understand it as a whole. There was no framework, no narrative forming in the moment.