Saving A Child's Heart- And My Own.

Prologue: Preparations and panic

I am a sheltered boy. There is no particular reason for this; I have no ailments to speak of except bushy eyebrows and a slightly oversized nasal region, no social problems (at least none without Jagermeister) or curfews and no inhibitions. I simply don’t get out much, which couldn’t really be classified as a crime or an illness.

This is partially due to an overprotective mother (leaving the house without the requisite paperwork is a logistics nightmare) and partially due to living in a particularly lifeless town (Eastwood will never be mentioned in the same breath as, say, Brighton, London or New York) filled with old ladies, chavs, or an intriguing mixture of the two commonly known as Satan. Either way, I was never some pining cockatiel in a cage, or whichever imagery you’d like to use. I was perfectly content with the way of life I was leading: it was comfortingly dull, there wasn’t too much opportunity to be hit by a car (a word far beyond most of the residents’ lexical capabilities) and while I felt intellectually stymied, the routine I led was laced with a close circle of friends and a fantastic DVD collection. It was nice: not a great deal of thinking was required. It was similar in some ways to the Jeremy Kyle show or perhaps working in a call centre. Once I even watched Jeremy Kyle IN a call centre. THAT’S comfort.

However, with university pending, I maybe needed to broaden my horizons a little. Eat some Turkish food. Watch a Mexican film. Perhaps even go to the theatre of the mood took me. Soon I roamed almost free, as long as central HQ was kept posted at all times. I dashed to London, Canterbury and Bournemouth at my whim. I went to any concert I wished. I even went CLUBBING. Can you imagine? Dancing in public? Me? I still worked at a call centre, mind you. I wouldn’t want to feel too liberated. It’s bad for the acne, apparently.

There was something niggling though. I’d never left Europe. I’d been to Cyprus, Spain, France, Germany, but there is something confining about living in (or at least close to- I don’t really know how the politics work so I can’t insert some barbed political commentary here. I can however chuckle a little at the word insert) a continent that quarrels over beef and holds competitions where ABBA win.

I came across an opportunity to travel abroad. My great uncle is the ambassador for Save A Child’s Heart, a charity based in Israel that caters for disadvantaged children waiting for or recovering from heart surgery. Save A Child's Heart was founded in 1995, when the founder, Dr. Cohen, brought two Ethiopian children back to Israel for cardiac surgery they never would have been able to receive in Ethiopia and would henceforth not have had anywhere near the lifespan or quality of that short life as you and I. His vision grew and grew, more children have come since then to Israel from so many countries (Ethiopia, Zanzibar, Congo, Nigeria, Sri Lanka, Kenya, China, Russia, Moldova, Iraq and, perhaps most significantly, The Palestinian Authority, to name but a few,) and now there is a medical task force comprised of over 70 talented doctors and nurses from all over the world operating on these children with a success rate of 96%. Since the program began, they have saves the lives of over 1800 children. Last year, they saved 213 precious lives.

It was not just a fantastic cause but a fantastic excuse to leave a country that reveres battered Mars bars and has a foreign Prime Minister who clearly hates it. Israel is TECHNICALLY still in Europe- I distinctly remember a Eurovision song called Be Happy, perhaps ironically so- but it was good enough for me.

And so it was done. The tickets were booked, supplies were bought from Tesco, and goodbyes were said, some tearfully (temporary separation from the significant other hurt a particularly large amount- it was a feeling akin to removing an oil rig from my passage. Not pretty or pleasant) and some drunkenly (what I can remember of my pole-dancing at my farewell shindig was hugely impressive- G-d bless energy drinks) but all I could feel as I passed that ominous red sign blaring “ONLY PASSENGERS PAST THIS POINT” was optimism and hope. I’m not entirely sure why they insist on utilising escalators in airport departure lounge entrances. It only makes the farewell cornier as you slowly drift up. There’s even time to look back wistfully at the ones you won't see for a while, and, on reflection, it's worse for them: that was the last time they’d ever see the boy they bought home from hospital, tiny dangling legs and tiny bobble hat in tow. The individual in the arrivals lounge in two months time will be a man, physically and legally capable of producing his own bobble-hatted, dangly wonders. I do still have a fondness for Thomas the Tank Engine however, so I don’t think there’ll be any of them just yet.

I’ve never been in a departure lounge on my own before, and the feeling is extremely rewarding and liberating. There’s no-one to say “No, you will not play that arcade game,” although I didn’t because it looked entirely appalling, and no-one to say "You will not buy that chocolate bar," and I did, because it was nice. I didn’t even feel lonely (I did have my chocolate after all) as I was too busy being extremely excited and observing the airport around me. It didn’t have that familiar hollow, disinfected airport smell and the usual bustle of the crowd seemed far away as I composed a farewell text message to my friends. Welcome, 21^st century. We love you and your free text bundles.

On boarding the plane, my confidence astounded me. Outside the obvious thrilling excitement, I didn’t feel any fear with regards to the next few months. I supposed my thinking went that anything I’d done wrong had already gone wrong and henceforth I may as well take it like a man. I was bundled into the worst kind of seat: a window seat with no window. It was like dangling sweets in front of a hungry, chocaholic, sugar-deprived baby and then throwing it (the baby or the sweets, interpret this at your will) over a nearby fence to a rabid rottweiler who smells of cabbage. I love the window seats- you can see mountain ranges and countryside as if man had never touched them. All I could see was a plastic wall, which had almost definitely been moulded by a person. I had nothing to distract me from the dire in-flight movie (if Chris Tucker falsely appears to have had his testicles strung from a speedboat I will gladly arrange it that this is an actuality.) This was all compensated for by the descent into Israel, caught by peering discreetly over the passenger in front's shoulder, boasting its coastline, lit by the lilting sunset and full of promise, looking as beautiful as any postcard.

On arrival at the airport I was struck by how MODERN it all looked. This is the Middle East, not anywhere NICE. The wide-open marble surfaces and modern, ornate structures surrounding the departure route (which takes forever) as I made my way through a wide, very long glass pathway to the passport control were not supposed to be there. This was supposed to be a shed with a window and a battered biplane.

The moment it hit me that the next two months of my life would be phenomenal was Israeli passport control, a normally feared entity. Slightly quivering as I queued up among other slightly quivering individuals, I noticed something about one of the passport control ladies: she was flipping gorgeous. I looked into the next booth and lo! Another attractive lady. And the next. And the next. And the next. As she asked me about my purpose in the country my only thought was: dribble.

As I practically swam the river of saliva down to baggage control (they had flowers on the conveyor belts, I tell you) customs and beyond I met with Johannes, an eccentric German fellow, who I was to share a room with for two months. He dressed like a French Beatnik poet- Flat cap, goatee (although an admittedly puny one in comparison to the facial monstrosity I would later develop,) striped shirt and smart shoes. He greeted me with a warm handshake and a hug and we bundled my luggage into the back of a taxi. This was my first introduction to a new species: the Israeli cab driver. They are very much like Rambo except armed with a taxi and a hyperactive fare meter. Never the masters of conversation, they simply sit there, honk as if their hands have Tourettes and suck your money belt dry.

On arrival to the house, the scene was striking. As I mudwrestled my suitcase through the door I was greeted by a small Kenyan boy, with Africa’s cheekiest smile. I was informed this chap was called Sami; 7 years old and many miles away from his mother. I looked over and saw two skinny Ethiopian lads playing with cars, curiously watched over by a rather bouncy baby boy, affected by Down’s syndrome, who came from Iraq. Two girls from Iraq smiled at me, drawing a more than passable interpretation of a tree. The house smelt of tomatoes and chicken, probably due to the cooking which was being undertaken by a few of the mothers from Iraq. The house was a lot larger than I expected, and rightly so. As Johannes heaved my suitcase up the stairs, I chatted with a Kenyan surgeon, here to learn as well as to give. I could hear little giggles and squeaks as I had a look round the place. A photo of the founder, Ami Cohen, who died in 2001 from altitude sickness, gazed proudly over the children playing on the brightly coloured rug in the lounge, which from here on would be known as the "salon." The beigeness of the walls was counteracted by colourful Disney creations painted vibrantly all over. The kitchen was large, but the hobs were hanging on for dear life, and there was a notable lack of a working oven or dishwasher (I suppose I'd take this role for the next couple of months.)

Dr. Joe showed me around the garden- virtually grassless, sandy and muddy from years of dirty washing water, there was a toy kitchen at the back which was beyond cleaning and some footballs scattered liberally around. Around the corner were some gas canisters, a water boiler and facing these a bench. A tiled patio jutted awkwardly into the sandy ground.

I then made my way up to my living quarters: my home away from home for the next nine weeks. As I fought my way past a computer which was just THERE (and connected to the internet via smoke signal) I was shown into a cosy little room with a pleasant atmosphere but no room for any of my things, which had to stay in the suitcase in the other room (the "dumping ground" I like to call it)- which smelt because of the rain. Yes, rain. In Israel. NOT what I signed up for.

Anyway, I had been awake since 5 a.m. and hit the hay after Johannes made me dinner (something he became quite accustomed to by the end of my stay here, although I held my own) and got a fantastic nights sleep.

THE FIRST DAY: Monday 18^th February

My first in depth time with the kids. Sami proved to be a really interesting child- full of fun, yet with very expressive, sad eyes, at least when he was sad. Most of the time he was causing chaos, so was generally happy. I also found out that the child is maybe the finest child actor since Haley Joel Osment, and would use these skills to get any attention necessary i.e. all attention, all of the time. The two Ethiopian kids were very funny, much older than Sami (they had taken him under their wing,) but they were trouble. There was malice, mocking in their eyes, mainly due to the language barrier. They worked as a double-team of “balagan” (Hebrew for chaos, the most frequently used word in the house, even over “shalom,”) and had a marked disregard for authority. Dawitt, the younger of the two, was a professional driver in Ethiopia- at 11. Clearly, he was not used to being small fry. Kirubel, 13 years of age, was from a very noble background, and this showed in his posture and knowledge of English. Dealing with them was an interesting challenge.

Arya was the name of the two-year old Down’s child, and he was remarkably positive, always happy. He literally screamed with delight on seeing me, which is peculiar- the exact opposite of the usual mentality when screaming ensues in my direction. Arya was the only child in the house when I arrived that hadn't yet had the surgery.

Shinuar was one of the Iraqi girls, very intelligent for eight years old and a surrogate mother to all the other children, even those older than her. She loved to draw and paint, and was actually better at this than me. The other Iraqi girl was Negeba- very shy and retiring, but watching her play with her mother was an unprecedented joy.

The house is charmingly grubby; everything is an off shade of beige, the gas is unreliable, the electricity is shabby as the toilet system struggles along as if to say “I don’t need to be a museum; I need to be a home.” It is, however, all strangely exciting, possibly because of the atmosphere in the house: one mother of a very small child was crying, saying she was going to leave with her child without warning in the next few days, pounding her fists against the floor with intense emotion. In the next room, The Ethiopian lads were patting Sami on the head and calling him Mango. Such contrasts were fascinating to watch. I closed the day drinking a bottle of beer with Johannes in the kids’ playground, where we would often be with the children, discussing life and other such technicalities.

It is here I would like to mention the mothers, who we are also here to support. The mother beating the floor in grief was Mama Juma, who was going a little mad from boredom and barely left her room. Mama Negeba played so happily with her child that I could cry, and Mama Shinuar was very poised and elegant, despite the simple clothes she always wore. Mama Arya was a revelation- always happy and dancing and exercising, determined to put Arya in positive surroundings filled with music and love. This was reflected in Arya's benevolent behaviour.

THE SECOND DAY: Tuesday 19^th February 2008

The news that I had to wake up before midday was devastating for me, especially Johannes had the day off and had gone into Tel Aviv. Some of the children had to have an ECHO scan to see how their hearts were healing- I had to take a Iraqi mother and her daughter, Shinuar, to the Wolfson Medical Centre in a taxi (the idea of taxi tickets, provided by SACH to subsidise travel, is a blessing.) Stick yourself in my loafers for a moment: following Hebrew signs to a place you’ve never been before with two people who don’t speak one single, solitary word of English. It’s a terrifying situation. I spend the day bonding with Sami and Shinuar at the hospital, chasing them around in between ECHO tests. Sami in particular refused to let go of my hand. The hospital itself is a labyrinth; what was going through the architects’ minds at the time is beyond me. The children’s wing is especially touching though, with mothers bonding with other mothers whilst caring for their children.

The hospital itself should have been soul-destroying. The architecture and layout was typical to that of a hospital: grey, unemotive and bleak, only highlighting the heightened intensity of the anguish of the mothers waiting for their children to emerge. However, there was something uplifting about the frantic activity in the ward: children of all creed and colours receiving free, effective medical treatment for maybe the first and last time in their life, and it was so obvious that everyone who was there really wanted to be there and was dedicated to doing it well. There was an energy about the place.

I was very much connecting with the children by this point. In the afternoon some very nice-looking Israeli students visited, and Johannes and I dribbled a bit. I was noticing the long dark hair of the Israeli women, and thinking "that looks pleasant. I quite like it, although wouldn't wear it myself." I suppose in the presence of women so utterly terrifying (and they are) you have to stay gentlemanly and avoid phrases like "Woof," and "I'd 'ave that."

Wednesday 20th February

Today was a normal day, by SACH standards. I made music with Johannes, which displayed a complete clash of different styles: he plays very stiff classical music, and I listen to Dillinger Escape Plan and Radiohead. I discovered for the first time that personality IS reflected through music. Why did I not see this before? Let me rephrase: why did I not see it as something other that pretentious music school claptrap before? We are currently trying to find our feet, musically and emotionally. I also met a guy from Clayhall today, a stone's throw from my place at home (a particularly lengthy stone's throw, mind you) and a lovely American girl called Joy, with ADHD. Making music with the children downstairs was one of the best moments of my life, and they were riveted. I don't think, however famous I do or don't get, I will ever play a gig like it: it was on another level, with Arya dive-bombing off the sofa in ecstasy (literally; it did look rather painful.)

Today I was also introduced to Gigi, a worker for Shevet Achim, the organisation that brings the Iraqi children over to Israel for surgery: obviously, given the political complications, SACH can’t just pop them on a plane and swing them over here. They have to come through Jordan, which is tricky enough. Every Iraqi child comes with a mother.

Out of either appreciation for Gigi’s work or sheer human politeness, I offered what would turn out to be the most dangerous cuppa I ever served. Tea was vended from a 3 foot high Shabbat Tea Urn, on which some absolutely raving pillock decided to twist the tap a little. On pulling this in an upwards direction as is customary with such utilities, I was somewhat disconcerted when said tap followed my hand, revealing a towering jet of scalding water. Perhaps bravely, but mainly stupidly, I thrust my thumb, already doomed, into the gap previously occupied by the tap, and quickly screwed the tap in, before feeling a mixture of relief and wanting to pass out.

A few hours later, I had the granddaddy of all blisters proudly residing on my thumb. It sodding hurt, but at least I looked like a mench.

Friday 29^th February

A new shipment of Iraqis came in today, and the children were utterly adorable. I think a non-cute kid in the SACH house is a practical impossibility: they all become cute after about half an hour, especially one child called Shiyan who wobbled in like a drunken pensioner and within minutes was covered head to toe in animal stickers. He would continue this routine everyday for a whole month. The house would soon be chaos, particularly with one girl who refused to do anything (as in literally anything) you said from the word go. She was called Sarah, and packed the kind of destructive power you only saw in bad science fiction cinema. She would soon cover the living room in crayon, to the dismay of the children already present. The Iraqi nurse was also great fun!

Johannes and I went into Tel Aviv for the first time tonight to meet with a friend of his, and to be truthful I wasn’t entirely impressed at first sight, at least not with the area we went into. It’s a complete example of the poor next to the rich and the dirty next to the clean. It also looked at first glance like navigation purgatory, although this would later be completely disproved. When we got down to the beach, however, when I was drinking beer with two fast-talking Germans who I almost understood (and really convinced me to go to Jerusalem on Purim,) gazing at the skyline (and it’s a very impressive one) as the sea folded itself over and over next to me, it was the perfect opportunity to zone out and have some thoughts of my own, about home, about the girl I left behind (it was now that her presence , or lack thereof, was felt) and after a palaver involving a missed minibus ensued, we landed home safe, having played our heart out on puerile arcade games, and eaten damn good hotdogs.

Friday 22nd February

Arya was taken for surgery today. It’s strange just how suddenly they get taken away, and so wordlessly. It’s an extremely original “okay, you’re going to have life-saving surgery today, you won’t realise what’s going on or what impact it will have on extending your tiny lifespan, but just get in the taxi.” I cooked my first Israeli dish as well: it’s called Malawa, a really strange tasting pastry dish. It works though! Despite being by me.

The chap from Clayhall and his girlfriend (who, it turns out, knows one of my closest friends very well- a small country) came over to ease the load somewhat. My beard at this point was flourishing. Also many, some Georgians and a previous volunteer from Canada called Tovah came to visit. One of the perks of the work is that we have many interesting visitors every day!

I had my first solo visit to the hospital, which was exciting and terrifying in equal measure. This was to drop Shinuar and her mother off to go to Jerusalem for a few days. I also bumped into Arya’s mother there, there to support her son who was most probably smiling through the anaesthetic, who was delighted enough to extend her hand to me. This was an incredible compliment from a Muslim woman, and this will stick in my memory as maybe one of the most poignant moments of my life so far.

Johannes commanded an amazing circle song with the children-it was quite life-affirming, and the children loved every minute. It's amazing how you can transcend any linguistic boundaries with music, and it was today I realised why I learnt to play the guitar: for others, not me.

I was supposed to be going to synagogue tonight, but one of the young Iraqi girls, Negeba, had very bad breathing problems and a face infection, so was rushed to hospital. I looked after the house while Johannes and the Iraqi nurse, Susan, went with her. Johannes was extremely good in the situation and dealt with it like a professional medic.

I had a serious chat with Hannah, the loveliest lady in my life (DISCLAIMER: Apart from my mother,) who was having problems with her university, the first conversation with her since leaving the country. It’s strange how with so many exciting languages flying around, English words from the ones you love the most will never fail to stir more emotions.

Saturday 23rd February

Today we took the children to the nearby park, because it was a lovely day. Was that a 4th grade sentence? I think it was. Anyway, they loved it. Sami fell in love with my camera (mainly because his face was stored therein) and we all prepared for the arrival of the children from Zanzibar, whose flight was delayed 13 hours, completely dwarfing my half hour wait.

We were supposed to break at 12. We forgot. This was daft. We made music until very late, and hopefully didn't wake anyone up, although I was wary of a few footsteps downstairs.

Sunday 24^th February

Today was an odd one. The Zanzibar children were sent for check-ups, as well as Dawitt, leaving Kirubel, the other Ethiopian, Sami, and also Baby Winnie, another Kenyan who had only just come back from surgery and has the world’s biggest cheeks. I entertained them with my laptop (by showing them semi-naked ladies. This is not actually true, I'd like to point out, but they were transfixed by a reasonably odd cartoon regarding Mangoes, possibly due to Sami's nickname.) and we made a spot of music together, which didn't seem to work without Johannes.

Johannes made “Satan Pie.” This was not death by chocolate. This was the Apocalypse by chocolate. We ate this, drank beer and made music- a perfect evening!

Monday 25^th February

Much needed time off! Today was so silent you could hear it- only two children remained at home, the rest were carted off to the hospital for ECHO scans. I was reliably misinformed that yes, I would be needed at 7.30 and yes, it was compulsory. I could have woken up at 11, and my eyelids hated the world for this little statistic. The daytime was not so inspiring- nothing of note happened, we simply put puzzles together with the children. This is highly rewarding in its own way, but also quite demoralising as they were better at it than me.

The evening however was a different matter. The Tel Aviv I wanted to see sprang to life- a visit to a SACH photo exhibition (entirely Hebrew, and graced with the presence of Idan Raichal, who I’m informed I was very lucky to have seen so intimately) was a highlight (mainly due to the fact the dribble-inducing Israeli students were in attendance with even more dribble inducing Israeli students.) Johannes and I then took a bus to the Harbour, where The Streets would be playing in over a month's time, with Joy, and ate in a highly schprauntzy restaurant, lush in its decoration and very nicely lit.

It was here that the adventure started. Swept away by a wave of machismo and possible stupidity, it was inevitable that these words would one day escape my mouth. “I would like turkey testicles, please.” And so they thrust the testicles at me, skewered in a manner I wouldn’t even wish upon a turkey, the undisputable rodent of the poultry world. With some trepidation I put the testicles in my mouth. And they were reasonably yummy! Post-testiculation, we attended an open mic evening at a jazz bar, where I managed to blag the equivalent of 8 shots of Jaegermeister in what will be marked as my first-ever Israeli argument about the price of the drinks. Those were the best sips of any beverage I ever had.

After Johannes and I shamed ourselves slaughtering “Always Look On The Bright Side of Life,” we slunk/staggered from the jazz club (I’ve never felt LESS like Ron Burgundy in my life, which wasn’t the intention,) to the English pub where Joy works. I was instantly befriended by an Englishman (from Brighton, no less) who offered me a Strongbow. I could have cried with relief- Strongbow is as rare a commodity over here as conversational taxi drivers. There are only five vendors in the whole of Israel. The barman was a tour de force- a real Robert De Niro, smart-talking, twice a millionaire and twice homeless. I was joined by Johannes, a UN representative, an Alaska fisherman and a Canadian bartender. This was an extraordinary mix of people, a kind of microcosm of the people you find here. At 5 we were booted out as the pub had to go “coo-la-la,” and we drunkenly fell into a sharout and watched the sun rise in between nodding off.

Tuesday 26^th February

Today was a real challenge. After a 24-hour marathon day and a five hour sleep, I was to navigate my way around Tel Aviv to a previously uncharted (by me) shopping centre with no means to contact Jake, my friend from England who I was to meet.

The problem with asking Israelis anything is that I am English, and they’d love to see me screw up. So trusting a man when he said, “Yes, this mall,” was probably a bad idea from the off. I wandered around for a while, took 15 minutes to find a payphone which didn’t work, eventually found a shop to call Jake from only to find out he was outside, which on second glances turned out to be untrue and I was very sad. This was partially due to the fact I was in the WRONG SODDING SHOPPING CENTRE. One taxi and half an hour later, we were reunited after several months to pontificate about life, love and potential film scripts, as well as our experiences in Israel. We sat by the beach, looking over the sea and the weather was divine. This is the Tel Aviv I was looking for.

The way back took two hours. The bus centre was hell to navigate, and after finally escaping I felt a real sense of achievement- the same feeling as two years prior to this, in Münster, where I successfully navigated my way through a previously unknown German town. On arriving home I typed this. Hurrah for post-modernism!

Wednesday 27^th February

The day was uneventful- filled with chores such as grocery grabbing and the procuring of edibles. It does still fill you with a sense of pride to be providing for these people that otherwise wouldn't have. The evening, however, was something different- we had an exhibition, very similar to the one Idan Raichel had performed at a few days previously except without the piano or the unintelligible language barrier. This exhibition took place at the Israeli Foreign Ministry in Jerusalem- a concept I salivated at. The road there took us through sweeping valleys and towering mountains and hills, much greener than I would have expected from a Middle-Eastern country. When we finally arrived before the city, it was as breathtaking as people claim, and all of a sudden it struck me why people have clashed for centuries over this place. I did not get to delve too far inside, and my only insight was through a car window, but the view over the city was incredible. The marking beige buildings formed a horseshoe on many different levels and it peered inquisitively down into the mountains. The sun was setting as well, casting an almost holy glow over the city. I am salivating at the prospect of seeing more of what Jerusalem has to offer in the future. I seem to be doing a lot of salivating over here- maybe it's something that needs looking at.

The exhibition was enlightening- there were no children thrust into the limelight this time, just the highest and mightiest purveyors of life to these children speaking with conviction and passion. I spoke with Dr. Tamir, a fascinating man who emanated wisdom from every pore and had an extremely gentle face. I met the board, the CEO, even the founder’s parents, which was an especially poignant moment. On returning home I had simply been enlightened as to how special these kids were- despite having finished for the day, I couldn’t help but be with them that little bit longer, so played with them until nine o' clock.

Thursday 28^th February

Today, I was supposed to go the hospital. This, however, I didn’t do. I met with Sammy Rosehill for mooching, coffee and to introduce her to the kids. After waiting on the wrong side of the road, I had to walk up to the next town, Holon, to meet her, but this was okay because she is nice. Yes, I just typed the word “nice,” and have been for the duration of my writing. Deal therewith. We drank in a coffee shop I only just discovered, and then within literally 3 minutes of arriving back at the SACH house, she was covered in little ones. She’s like Dr. Doolittle, but for people. It was lovely seeing her again, she’s been working for the ambulance service and will now teach English in the North.

Friday 29^th February

A reasonably uneventful one, although this was the start of my Swahili language adventure! I discovered that the Zanzibar people, while insular, were very friendly and personable. Due to their inability to speak a word of English, learning Swahili is very, very fun. Plus the kids are absolute angels.

Friday 1st March

A very quiet day, until the evening, in which Johannes and I sat on a 200-year-old military outpost in Azur after eating at an Israeli grill in which we were almost definitely ripped off due to our inability to read the menu (and I for one was entirely distracted by the synthetic cleavage of the ageing waitress- an astonishingly effective way to snare unsuspecting tourists) and splashing out on my first Israeli ice cream- three scoops of the stuff- and looked out over the skyline of Tel Aviv. My climbing skills evolved twofold and my nerves were jangling as I realised that the old building was made out of sand. Interestingly enough, we heard a far off Kassam rocket pop for away. We read the next morning of 60 dead Palestinians. We are in a place where things HAPPEN in CAPITAL LETTERS. Everyone lives life to the full because their state may not exist the next morning.

We sat on the outpost slurring Irish drinking songs (despite neither of us actually being Irish) at nearby females who were probably attractive but the distance, the light and the beer goggles may well have affected my reliability in this field. Johannes spewed out my current favourite quote of all time: “Where’s this god-damned cat, I’m hungry!” and we saw an upright bottle of Jagermeister (I dare say the lucky soul who finished it was less upright) which was clearly a sign from G-d to seek out and drink every drop of it that Israel has to offer. We did, however, manage to blag 8 free shots in the jazz club. Which you already knew but I’m damn proud of so have repeated for your (my) pleasure. Nice.

Sunday 2^nd March

Today I was introduced to Mama Juma and her beautiful son, Hastings. She was a very intelligent woman from Kenya with whom I had a long conversation about the difference in customs and traditions. I had met her before, but never had an extended conversation. The mothers here are fantastically persevering and gracious, and speaking with women like this gave me a fantastic insight into cultures I didn't know a single thing about. The Zanzibarians also invited me to eat with them, which I declined, to establish boundaries. This hurt a little.

Johannes and I both came down with a tummy bug. This is not good, as it put us in a bad mood all day, not helped by the fact that Dawit had decided to rummage through our room. He didn't take anything, mind, but childlike curiousity got the better of him. In the evening we visited the hospital to deliver food to the Palestinians, and saw my little chum Arya again- very happy, this time sitting upright and fascinated by my (now flourishing) locks. I must note that by this point I am sporting a rather impressive facial rug.

A profound thought occurred to me in the hospital. We met a baby called Mohammed, who wrapped his little fingers around one of mine. Because of the work of the doctors, these hands will grow up maybe to paint, or make music like Johannes and I, or to save other lives. They may also hold a gun. My mind then wandered to Sami, who, unlike any other friend I make abroad (and he is a friend now) I cannot simply post a MySpace or Facebook comment to. Beyond next week, I will never see or hear from this child again. He will not even remember me. I HOPE he doesn’t remember me- please G-d he should have no recollection of the time he suffered. He will grow up with this boundless energy, and I’ll never know what happened to him. This thought saddened me appreciably, although we kept strong in reassuring the Palestinian mothers, who were wonderfully accepting and open minded, that everything would be okay.

Monday 3^rd March

Much of today was spent in a bad mood, recovering from the tummy bug and bonding with the Iraqis who had returned to the house. The evening saw the return of Dr. Joe, a wonderful Kenyan doctor who speaks better English than me and carries conversation in a fascinating manner. We visited the hospital with him, for me to stand there with a Dictaphone recording Johannes’ interview with a Palestinian mother who didn’t quite know what was going on. I spent more time with baby Arya, who, it turns out, is arriving back to the house tomorrow. I rejoiced a bit.

Tuesday 4^th March

Much of today was spent in an even worse mood- I could sleep all I wanted but there was no way in G-d’s earth I could lose tiredness. My day was spent being frustrated with my possible foot infection, Johannes and all the children. Not a great combination when one considers I couldn’t really escape the three, unless I auditioned for the lead in Saw in a method way. In all three cases. I went to sleep at 6.

Wednesday 5^th March

Johannes was terribly ill today. There’s no ill person like an ill German person- it’s horribly depressing to watch. The day was quiet, there was a fantastic scene however where the Zanzibar mothers were playing some form of ball game which involved near death and decapitation which I like to call “throw and catch” in the interests of political correctness, despite nearly losing my gonads as a result of this pastime, much to the kids’ enjoyment. Still, Johannes and I blagged a half day, watched the sun set over Tel Aviv (I never watched the day melt away before- it’s an odd but fantastic experience) and ate a ridiculous amount of pizza.

Thursday 6^th March

One of those hallowed “Days Off” which comes round every week. After a Johannes-induced sterilisation of our living quarters, which involved real actual TIDYING and WASHING of the FLOOR with SOAP, and was HORRIBLE, Johannes and I ventured into Jaffa, the home of oranges and also the sea. I’m not sure what I was expecting- maybe just a nice diversion away from the Hullabaloo of the SACH house, but nothing I was particularly looking forward to.

The day got off to a very strange start. Looking around a nice little monument I bumped into a guy from Norfolk and thought it very nice that there was someone I didn’t have to slow down my speech for. Then things got surreal- I bumped into a family friend I hadn’t seen for a long time, in the middle of Israel. This was strange for me, and drummed it in just how small the world is!

We sought out an extremely expensive traditional Israeli snack (in both its contents and price) in a lovely restaurant with a singularly epic sea view before heading down through the narrow old city streets with very high walls (an early Arab characteristic, or so I’m told) to look at a few art galleries. One particularly stood out, with creations entirely from fabric. Then came the adventure.

We decided it would be quite splendid to watch the sun set. But standing on the shore is not good enough for Johannes and I! We WOULD be on a boat in UNDER TEN MINUTES. The advantage of having a German on side is that this almost always happens. We employed the talents of a generous local fisherman (the Israeli breed of generous- dropping the asking price from 400 to 200 shekels) to take us to view the Tel Aviv skyline. It was quite nice.

I then watched Johannes take photos. For TWO HOURS. He is a great photographer, but there is only so much enjoyment one can take in this activity as a spectator. This did provide the opportunity, however, to look over the vast nothingness of the black sea at night which, to conclude a particularly emo sentence, showed me just how far away my loved ones were.

In the spirit of the previous paragraph I went and procured myself some bright yellow hippy trousers and a t-shirt bearing the completely senseless and slightly ironic slogan “Don’t Worry, Be Jewish,” before eating some Libyan food, which was some of the finest I’ve ever tasted. On arriving back home in Azur I realised that in Israel, even the most uninspiring day will spring up adventure after adventure.

Friday 7th March

Anything I said about uninspiring days and adventures can be forgotten now. Today was horribly dull, almost nothing happened, I tried to go to synagogue but missed Shabbat, I tried to get some pitta bread to cheer me up but the supermarket was shut, and I tried to blot out the things I missed but that was ineffective. I missed my family; I missed my friends a LOT. Seeing that black, empty ocean the other night really emphasised that to me: I need them. I missed Hannah, a lot. I missed hugs- I haven’t had a proper, lengthy, love filled hug for three weeks now. I missed films. I missed my piano. I also missed carpet, of which there was none. I came home thoroughly miserable, but this was to be expected when I was so far away from home.

Saturday 8^th March.

Today was my “burnout” day. Many would say “Oh, you can’t burn out, you’re 18,” but I felt so tired and miserable all day for no reason. I kept falling asleep listening to Johannes’ traditional German monotone as he spoke with his father. I kept snapping at him as he barked orders at me, and I just wanted to cry. So I did. Johannes and I tried to make music but I was getting no creativity or style. Trying to write a song in German is murder. I listened to Binary Love and went over that incredible evening related to it in my head and it made me feel that little bit better: that first night with Hannah was so far away yet so close simultaneously. Contrary to Johannes’ predicament, I knew why I was here, but what frustrated me was that my target of manhood was miles away: I was just a confused boy far away from home, albeit one with an impressive facial rug. I did not feel as if I was developing in any way, just carrying the same bad habits from one country to another. I realised maybe I didn’t need to develop: I can cook and wash, what more do I need? There is still something missing.

The day was not without it’s high point: Radiohead’s Jigsaw Falling Into Place came on the radio and I squealed like a four year old girl.

Susan was rushed to hospital after I found her collapsed face down on the floor in her room. After two hours at the Wolfson Medical Centre, it was decided she was dehydrated, probably due to the Saharan heatwave that had made its way over here. I kept her laughing, kept playing the clown, but really wished I could do the whole “I’m almost a real medic” thing that Johannes does- he really is fantastic at that kind of thing. He has a two year advantage on me, but I’m catching up.

Sunday 9^th March

Today started off well- the children were in good spirits in the morning, especially Sami, and I was having a great time talking to the Kenyan mothers. All of the mothers from Africa have developed the interesting habit of whipping a breast out and feeding it to their child mid-conversation, as if we should be used to this. The kids are fantastic though- one child, Hastings, has an incredibly mature face, and is just plain beautiful. His jumpers are also rather hallucinogenic, which is always a plus in a human being. I may well visit Kenya before the year is out- to see Doctor Joe, Mamas Duma and Winnie and Sami. It wouldn't be this year- I already have The Edinburgh Fringe Festival and V Festival sucking at my financial teat, and I need some time to produce more milk. I do enjoy extended metaphors.

A schedule was sorted out for next week- one that involves a visit from Martin Luther King III and 50 Americans, no less- giving us three zillion days off, approximately. This is healthy, I think.

I then had the afternoon off. This involved going somewhere. ALONE. Once pointed in the right direction by a friendly Jewish emphycema (?) expert, I ended back up in Jaffa to purchase yet more amazingly comfortable trousers and some shorts, and play piano at the music shop- everyone there was very friendly, and were more than happy to become witnesses to the murder of musical integrity in their very shop.

The plan was to meet Johannes at some generic McDonalds on the seafront. This backfired. I walked the journey from Tel Aviv to Jaffa TWICE before it turned out Johannes had taken it upon himself to describe to me the wrong street in detail characteristic of him. We then jumped into the sea, taking on waves like extras in 300, only beardier, and I flaked out after about ten minutes but Johannes was fantastic to watch.

We then made our way to shore, to buy ourselves a drink. By “buy” we actually mean “blag Jagermeister from a particularly stoned barman.” I have ingested 6 shots of Jagermeister since my arrival here and not paid a penny. Now tell me Israel isn’t the finest country on Earth!

Monday 10^th March

Today was one of our hallowed “days off” which normally end up not happening but was in this instance enforced by our refusal to wake up before lunchtime (out of principle, not laziness.) We decided a plan (I lie: Johannes decided a plan, I watched and laughed at his hat) and headed into Tel Aviv to visit the Art Museum, which was really good. I’m getting quite adept at understanding art now: I noticed Johannes has a very keen eye for detail, especially in paintings. We saw some original Dali, Picasso, even Renoir and Van Gogh, the lot!

It struck me that Hebrew words have no vowels. You just have to “know” the words beforehand. This is highly inconvenient for those who actually need to read signs. I surpassed myself, however, in recognising the translation of Johannes’ completely useless travel book (which tells you the right road names in the wrong language) of Shaul Hamelech into “King Saul.”

We navigated our way (with the help of some very friendly locals- Israelis swing between hostile and amicable with almost no middle ground) to the Shalom Tower, which was noted in Johannes German tourist claptrap book as being a pivotal viewpoint over Tel Aviv. This was a lie, and it was closed anyway. We met a wonderful security guard, from Brazil, who told us about his Palestinian friends and his prohibition from seeing them. This was heartbreaking and showed in even truer colours the human side of this conflict. After thanking him heartily for reinstating my faith in humankind, we headed to the Azraeli Tower, an amazing spectacle in itself, which had an incredible observatory over Tel Aviv. Any city looks amazing covered in little specks of orange and white with giant neon-coated skyscrapers scraping the sky, but Tel Aviv seemed to go on forever. It was another opportunity to think about the folks at home: Hannah and my father in particular would love this view. I think I'll make a reservation for years in the future for when I propose to a prospective wife.

We headed down and chatted to the very personable lady at reception for about an hour- she found my Englishness particularly amusing, and looked shocked (and slightly disappointed) about my age, or lack thereof. G-d bless facial hair. Johannes used his journalism skills to blag her number which I COMPLETELY admired him for because it takes giant throbbing ‘NADS to do that to a girl at work.

I came home refreshed, happy and knowing where my future lie. Although not particularly relishing the prospect of waking at five in the morning.

Tuesday 11^th March 2008

The prospect of waking at 5 in the morning became an actuality. In theory anyway. In the real world, I simply ignored the alarm before waking up an hour later to accusations that “I should set my own alarm and this is all my fault.” And here was me thinking I’d taken reason with me in my hand luggage. Today we were to set off to a military base in the North- I had no concept of how it would be, distance or content-wise.

On reaching the north, four hours later, the views were incredible. Expansive mountain scapes were slightly overshadowed by an ever shrinking layer of clouds, and the landscape was so much greener than that of Azor.

We arrived stunned and bedraggled at the base, although the kids had been angels. We were led by a man who did not look too different to the villain in The Machinist onto a snow transport thing which trundled not-too-smoothly over to a giant expanse of SNOW. In Israel? It was just a pure, unadulterated example of how diverse this amazing country was.

The highlight of this for me was Sami’s reaction upon seeing actual, real snow. He was at first apprehensive, but as soon as he was on a toboggan he was screaming with delight- a really heartwarming sight.

Inside, we ate a particularly disastrous looking lunch of lukewarm sausages, which really made me not envy the IDF in any way. After this, I spoke with some lovely German volunteers who I have every intention of seeing again, and had a ride on a snowmobile which COMPLETELY PWNED.

I was cold, muddy and my ears were popping but the view over Assyria and Lebanon was incredible. The knowledge that this was an amazingly political vantage point only heightened the feeling of awe, only slightly dulled by the realisation that I’d left my mobile phone 2,500 metres above ground.

Wednesday 12th March 200

Today was very good fun. A group of American students (and one Brit, thank G-d) came to see the house and do a bit of good hard manual labour on the garden to hail the arrival of Martin Luther King Jr. Jr.- who never turned up. This was quite unfortunate as I was genuinely looking forward to meeting the son of the man who changed America.

I met some really nice former volunteers one of whom successfully out bearded me and looked like Noel Fielding. I had to go to the shop to ask for receipts else Laura would go mental, and that wouldn’t be very good. I didn’t get receipts, but semolina, which I think is a close second.

Over the past two weeks I have completely forgotten to introduce you to Laura. She is the Irish housemother who has lived in Israel for 8 years because of SACH. She is highly blunt and permanently looks in need of a cigarette, despite always having a cigarette to hand. She is highly energetic, and there is great pleasure to be had in watching her beat the living daylights out of an over-frosted freezer with a baseball bat whilst repeatedly saying "Yoffi" on her mobile phone. The world needs more characters like her.

Israeli mobile phones. An intriguing topic. I'd say one in four people is on their phone at any given point here. This would not pose a problem for me did every phone not ring with the bog-standard descending scale of the Nokia tune, including my own. The "HELLO!" is always replaced with a "SHALOM!" and a posthumous loud, aggressive conversation which almost definitely means "Hey, how are you, I'm fine thanks , how are you?" Israelis always sound like they are having an argument: at one point a woman started screaming at some of the kids and was actually making a clothes donation.

I received news that my phone WOULD be making a triumphant return to my pocket as, being a trusty old Nokia, it survived its polar expedition and will make its way to the hospital somehow.

Thursday 13^th March

Today was one of those almost entirely uneventful days which has an incredible conclusion. I took it upon myself today to become a lot more active with the children, and was rewarded at the end when they set out some chairs for an impromptu concert. This probably ranks as one of the best moments of my life.

The day started quite nicely. I motivated myself to wake up on time, and headed to the hospital to meet some BRITISH middle aged women, all Jewish. It felt like home all over again! I even saw a CRÈME EGG. I mean WHAT! IN ISRAEL! I managed to procure the mysterious lost receipts of Azur, which sounds like an Indy movie only slightly more mundane.

The kids played nicely, Sami was an angel, and the little guitar concert was a performance I don’t think I’ll ever top. I freestyled a little song about Israel, and even Mama Duma, normally austere, laughed manically.

I had a nice heart-to-heart with Johannes as well, and both our priorities shifted further towards the children.

Friday 14^th March

Today I FINALLY had the prospect of going to a Shabbat service. The morning was spent being loved by the children- I swear that’s our official job description- “To Be Loved By The Children Operatives-” and not doing very much at all.

The afternoon was fantastic though. We made our way to a lush but middle sized synagogue for Shabbat, unfettered by any emergencies, illnesses or lateness (all of which prevented us in previous weeks) for an experience I will definitely never forget. We spent the whole service contemplating life in our own heads because absolutely everything was in Hebrew, obviously, and we didn’t have a bleeding clue what anyone was talking about. Everyone was eyeing Johannes and I up suspiciously, checking our stomach area to make sure these “outsiders” were safe. The rabbi greeted us post-service, and this was, despite the obvious language barrier, the one Jewish community I ever felt welcome in.

Afterwards Johannes and I visited our favourite military outpost while he sobbed his heart out having been so moved by the experience. I hugged him very tightly- I got as much out of it as him as I really missed hugs! It was a manly man hug though, with no homoerotic subtexts whatsoever.

Saturday 15th March

Yesterday was a day off in which I woke at 12, journeyed into Jaffa confidently and went exploring along the beach. I was never much of an explorer, so even mounting a wall was an adventure for me. I finally found a beach to stand on and contemplate things in Jaffa- something which I was previously unable to find, which one would consider strange in a coastal town. Unfortunately the coastline is mainly occupied by a fisherman's pier, and to find anywhere to sit and think was a struggle until today. Even then, it was filled with rubbish (which I am starting to call "garbage" due to my overexposure to our pacific cousins, and I am almost definitely going to hell for this.) I was also accosted by a man, who wanted both my love and my trousers. The sunset was a deep, deep red, very beautiful, even from the Bus station. I also met a market salesman from Harlow and bought Hannah’s present, and a Kumiah which turned out to be female oriented. Aah well- my sister can claim it and would never know who it was originally for.

Sunday 16th March

Today was a more relaxed day. I played with the children for a while, then learned to make a Kenyan delicacy, chapatti- I’ve tried it and it’s nice. The last couple of days have been useful (we tidied the garden, par exemple) but not entirely inspiring. It has also been four weeks to the day that I have seen any of my family, which is quite strange.

Monday 17^th March

Today was spent warming myself to the new Young Judea volunteers, one was Keanu Reeves, one was a double bass player and the other was a girl from Texas. I grew to like them: they were amiable, and they bonded well with the children, much faster than I ever could. Sami was becoming very rapidly out of control: it’s time for him to go home I think.

Then some jolly nice medical students came over and I chatted to them. They were from Long Island, New York and were really great: one of them had a brother studying film at the academy that rejected Spielberg, one spoke with a great English accent (due to having Essex cousins) and they were fantastic company.

They left after we all ate a very pleasant meal arranged by the Zanzibarians, with whom I now shared a fantastic rapport. I’m SURE there were signs of flirting by Mama Omar and I’ve received several offers to come back to Zanzibar and Kenya to find me a wife.

I think that was about it! Johannes was at the hospital all day so it was a great chance to bond with the kids from Zanzibar.

Tuesday 18^th March

Today was the kind of rollercoaster I got on the plane in the first place for. I woke up in a BAD mood. A teenage bad mood that required no motive or reason: just pure hormones. The worst thing was that there was nothing I could do about it: I just had to separate myself from the kids to stop myself screaming them into a pulp. I had to go the hospital today to look after Ali while Aziza came home to distribute drugs (yes, heart patients just love LSD.) This was an adventure in itself; I fitted my first nappy (and also on the child- ho ho ho) and after turning it the right way round it was great- until 5 seconds later when he made “kaka” right before hysterical laughter. Even his bowels mocked me so. I then managed to sing him to sleep, almost in tears because of the tenderness of the moment. Baby Adji and his mother sat opposite: Adji has learnt my name at 1 year old and I almost died when he first called me. It was at this point I realised how proud I was of what I was doing.

On returning home I attended a pre-booked (as with most things, there was a lot of hassle about the booking- a conundrum with dates more than anything) session at the Holon Blind Museum- an amazing experience, in which we were thrown into a series of situations in complete darkness and expected to deal with them as a blind person would. Our guide was amazing: she really opened my eyes (no pun intended) as to what blindness really meant and the way other senses were accentuated was incredible. This made me appreciate what I have so much more.

On returning back to Azur after a complication with buses (i.e. finding one that went to a place such as Azur) I felt quite pensive so took my guitar up to the military hill on Schprintzak Street and wrote some music- only to turn round after hearing applause to find an audience of two had been listening the whole time. I’m lucky they weren’t axe murderers. Turned out to be a great guy called Eli and his woman, who lived on a military commune opposite the synagogue Johannes and I had visited but Friday. Eli was one of the nicest guys I ever met, and the commune looked really fun- I will almost definitely take them up on their open invite to return.

Wednesday 19^th March

Awoke in a far superior mood to yesterday, because of last night’s events. I spent the evening carrying out chores for Laura, but I didn’t mind, because I was too busy to be bored! At lunchtime I was assigned to write (or continue writing) this very blog- so here I sit! A Purim party planned for after lunch never happened, because this is due for tomorrow morning.

The afternoon was more interesting- I had a successful shave which actually made me look better, and then decided to ruin the whole effect by having Mama Ramadan cornrow my hair up reet nice! I looked well fly or something like that. The child found it hysterical, and the mothers loved it! I, however, looked like a complete pillock. Suffering for my art has never been so much fun!

Thursday 20^th March

Today was an emotional day- the kind I have been accustomed to at SACH, but a little more wistful. The morning was spent playing with the children (with Rebar, the little Iraqi comedian, Shinuar, the substitute housemother- who was 8- and Arya, the Down's-afflicted child for the last time ever) and doing chores- lugging the old washing machine down the stairs was definitely fun, in a permanently-crush-my-foot kind of way. I also prepared (yes, all by myself) a voyage into Florentine, for a Purim street party which I was very excited about- my first religious festival in Israel!

The afternoon started off nicely, with a collective of Women's Volunteers throwing a Purim party for the children, so a giant flash of colour in the lives of the children! At this point sadness set in- beautiful Baby Adji, from Iraq, would not make it, Johannes informed me on returning from the hospital. The mother was devastated, but the baby carried on smiling and laughing and screeching my name (every repetition was agony for me.) After all, what does an infant know of death? They fear nothing. Sometimes I would love to be a very small child again.
So, I ventured into Tel Aviv to a restaurant just off Allenby, which later purported to have wonderful food and waitresses of an even more wonderful nature. Even female McDonalds’ operatives in Israel are flipping gorgeous: it's not fair or funny. It's neither. Just stop already! After waiting an hour and a half for Joy and her friends (two Brits: one from Hampstead Garden Suburb, one from South Woodford, and six Americans, all dressed in varying stages of bizarreness) and a further hour and a half to get into this restaurant (although the jaw-dropping waitresses not only justified but also warranted the wait) we tried to head to the festival, but got distracted by an English pub (it just jumped out at us, okay?) which was far too cramped for my liking, unlike last time, and I really wasn't in the mood for conversation because of Adji. I never faced the concept of infant mortality before, but it was looking likely. I suppose it was all part of the package: it's never for granted that these children will survive, and it is just a miracle they survive so long and the majority are helped to health again.
I headed home, slightly bored and completely demoralised about my inability to converse with anyone in the pub, and got an early night (3 in the morning) in preparation for my trip to Jerusalem tomorrow.

Friday 21^st March

After oversleeping to the large displeasure of everyone else in the house, I arose from my slumber at 11 and received an earful from Johannes about this- needless to say it soon disappeared through the other ear. I was too wrapped up in my excitement about visiting The Holy City- it promised to be an amazing weekend, with jollity galore. I played with the children for a couple of hours, then threw everything I needed into a bag and headed for the bus station.

A small amount of confusion relating to the Sharoutim (mainly because the word for Minibus is also the word for toilet) resulted in me walking around in a manner traditional for me- in circles. When eventually on the sharout (extremely uncomfortable and hot, but it was lovely to listen to my mp3 player again) I was nervous and completely unsure as to where I was going- I ended up in the centre of town, and Michele was waiting for me as if by magic (and also I texted her to let her know where I was) and we tried our best to catch up on 18 missed years!

To start off with, Michele showed me a panorama of Jerusalem, pointing out all the places I’d need/like to know. We then took a route into the old city- this was particularly astounding- the orthodoxy were dressed in special Shabbat clothing because it was Purim, and there were just thousands of them pouring towards the Western wall because Shabbat was just breaking. When we got to the Western Wall, it was about one third of the size I was expecting- but I was twice as overwhelmed. Overshadowed by the Mosque of Omar, we were looking at the epicentre of the modern religious world. It was quite unbelievable, and the thousands of Jews of varying degrees of religiousness filtering towards it only re-affirmed my awe. There was an electricity in the air. I was introduced to all the landmarks I’d only ever heard about, like the King David Hotel.

Even after 35 years living here, Michele had not become numb to the magnitude of Jerusalem’s austere power. She lives two minutes away from the city centre, and this was unbelievable. I envy her so hard!

We returned to Michele’s flat, and I was first hit by the amount of FOOD in the vicinity- I wasn’t accustomed to not having to cook for myself! Even seeing a bath drummed it in how much I missed home. After doing a bit more catching up some of her friends came over- one was the spitting image of an ex so kept a considerable distance. The evening was very pleasant, I managed to impress everyone with my effervescent wit and I went to bed early to preserve energy for tomorrow’s trek up Masada.

Saturday 22^nd February

We awoke nice and early to hit the road by around 8. By now I had become accustomed to this, so could not really complain as I was about to have the best day of my life thus far. We headed out onto the dusty highway and within minutes were driving through the Ein Gedi desert, dry and dusty yet oddly beautiful, like the stark opening title sequence of There Will Be Blood. Giant red rock structures surrounded us as we drove beyond Jericho, the oldest city on Earth, and also the lowest- I felt my ears popping as we dropped 300m below sea level. The mountains of Jordan overshadowed the Dead Sea as we drove past, and as I felt the air rush past outside the window it had a very calming effect.

`On reaching Masada, I was astounded by the shape and structure of it, created by millennia of swirling winds and very red. We walked through the first tastefully implemented souvenir shop I ever saw, discreetly enclosed by the mountain and very well decorated and furnished. We then took an extremely cramped cable car to the top, and I was planted next to Captain Shove-You-Out-Of-The-Way-Because-I-Need-Photos. Who was female and possibly Dutch. After escaping this waste of human protein, the view was tremendous- even the blazing, uncomfortable heat could not distract me.

You could also feel the rich history of Masada- of the siege of the Jews at the top, the raid by the Romans and the Lots which were drawn to decide who would kill the rest of the Jews to avoid capture and then themselves. You could appreciate the sheer manpower needed to not only establish the water system but to maintain it- slaves dragged the water from the bottom to the top all the time everyday. You could gasp in awe at Herod’s palace built into the side of the mountain, and the fact that every stone was dragged there. The history, and the view over the Ein Gedi, was singularly impressive- akin to that of Jerusalem, bloody, beautiful and religion-fuelled.

After the cable car descent from Masada (after getting lost- how this is possible on a lump of rock is beyond me) we headed to the Dead Sea, puffed out and bedraggled, from the heat and not the physical exertion, to relax. The approach was quite simply paradise. Palm trees and a completely cloudless sky gave way to a calm sea, with a contagious air of relaxation. The sea itself is a marvel: I thought rumours of saltiness had been overplayed or at least the victim of a slight hyperbole but its true: you have no option but to float. You can barely tread on the bottom because of the rocks, so as soon as you remove a foot from the floor (I had a gravity war with my sandals, then just surrendered and threw them to the side) you float to the surface. I almost fell asleep- it was like being on an invisible lilo. After losing another fight with my sandals, this time to re-attach the straps- I swear this footwear is going to be the death of me.

So then we returned to my cousin’s flat, where I came upon the sudden brainwave to see my first ever film overseas, and that it would be Be Kind, Rewind. I successfully navigated my way to the Dizzengoff Centre, where I have twice frequented, neither time deliberately, with astonishing confidence. The cinema itself was quite plush and the half the price of my local in Southend, and the film was adequate- a cute paean to community spirit, and the kind of project my friends and I would undertake. On returning home after an attempted rip off (trying to charge me an extra 145 NIS for a 5 shekel sharout journey is not funny or clever) I slumped in to bed very content with my weekend.

Sunday 23^rd March

With the sudden realisation that I’d been here for five weeks, I elected to grab each day by the throbbing gonads following my life-affirming experiences in the Holy City and the desert. The morning saw me playing with the kids- I don’t see this as “work”- of course, I had vegetables to buy and distribute, and soap to obtain, and several instructions flying around at once, but the day was to hot to organise even a short walk- I would not optionally expose the children to 42 degrees of heat (the walk to the grocers was the longest ever) although Mwinyi opted to take a walk with me to the shop and we communicated very well despite the language barrier- maybe BECAUSE of the language barrier. The noises we had to make to communicate were quite amusing! It struck me that this is a child my age, but from a completely different heritage, culture and background. It makes me wonder if I’d have been the same person had I been born there, or whether he’d be similar were he English.

The afternoon rolled forward hastily, and where the brainwave came from I had no idea, but it was definitely had, and I had the sudden urge to see a good game of football, and I was informed that the place to witness such an entity would be Bloomfield, the home of Maccabi (and also Hapoel, but apparently they “suck,” despite being higher than Maccabi in the league) Tel Aviv. After wheedling Johannes into joining me, I spent the afternoon negotiating Hebrew websites to little avail and trying to find a functioning phone number to enquire how to get into the flipping stadium (which was much closer than I thought) and I almost fainted with relief when I came across (no, not that kind of relief) an English-speaking operator.

So, Johannes was wandering around drooling with anticipation at the prospect of seeing an open heart surgery while I navigated my way around the normally impervious Bus Centre- which I managed flawlessly, marking my “settling in” to Israel, at least on a temporary basis. On arrival we were led by a friendly IDF soldier (not a contradiction, most of them are very personable) to the right place and wandered almost deliberately into a stadium not dissimilar to Southend’s very own Roots Hall. I picked up some sunflower seeds (apparently this is essential to the Israeli football spectator experience- I for one found them awkward to eat and unappetising) and the game unfolded.

Johannes began half-heartedly but as soon as Maccabi scored their first goal (an uninspiring tap-in which the crowd loved) he was going mad. The difference I noted between English and Israeli spectators is a) the drums are in time and b) considering that Israelis converse normally at around 30 decibels louder than necessary, imagine their reaction at a refereeing mishap, or a foul. That also accounted for chanting- the melodies were very Middle-Eastern, and the dancing, especially to our right, was frantic, almost like a rave. This constant energy meant that when Maccabi scored (and they did twice, without response from Ashdod, who were the better team throughout) it didn’t make too much difference. There was a lot more energy in the crowd than at Roots Hall.

Maccabi played a very sloppy long ball game and I have literally no idea how they won, let alone by a two goal margin. I was lucky in this regard: I was (proudly) wearing a red Southend shirt- the same colour, as luck would have it, as Ashdod. As I looked around I could clearly see that I was the only flash of red in the entire Maccabi half of the stadium. I stuck out, literally, like a sore thumb.

The atmosphere was fantastic, although I received very suspicious looks. On the way home (we walked to the bus centre) we came across an odd green light above a sign which said “Open 24 Hours.” Johannes and I made haste in the opposite direction: I’ve seen Hostel, I’m one of the poor few.

We ended up back home, refreshed and pleased that we live in Tel Aviv, at least for the time being.

Monday 24^th March

This was a particularly uninspiring one- not much happened, I did some chores for Laura and this was about it. Distributing food is good fun though- it’s then I feel like I’m working for a relief organisation, and that I’m doing something genuinely great. I found out today that Negeba and Shiyan are leaving tomorrow, and this made me very sad, especially seeing as Shiyan had only just learnt my name. He was the first child I’d seen arrive here and leave here, so I had a special connection with him.

Otherwise this was spent playing with the kids, and writing a song about my experiences here- maybe my best yet. It was inspired by Ali, the first child from the Zanzibar group to receive surgery, who returned to the house in fine spirits today, and it was only a week ago with the British visitors that I saw him unconscious with an IV in his arm. A very poignant moment.

Another four slightly scary looking Iraqis arrived today, and they looked like the first group I’d have problems connecting with.

Tuesday 25^th March

Today I was to visit the hospital with the new Iraqi group, nervous a) because as aforementioned they were reasonably scary looking and b) because I’d never induced a group before.

On arrival, however, it turned out all I had to do was sit in the room and wait with the children and mothers. It turns out they were very positive and gentle- there was virtually no balagan (except for one child, who wet himself) and the kids proved themselves to be great and very easily entertained.

Back home, food was prepared for me by Mama Mustafa, who happens to be a godsend, and I spent the afternoon trying (in vain) to re-string my acoustic for the first time. After Johannes did it in about twenty minutes (I took two whole hours to do it dangerously wrong) I was pleased that I could sound good again. Well, as good as is possible when you are me.

That evening, at supper with Susan, Johannes, Mama Adji and her son (who is delightful and tragic) I found a way to unite three completely opposed cultures. This involved no peace talks of any kind: what it did involve was tumbling bum-first of my chair, which subsequently shattered into three pieces much to the delight of the children and also Susan, who clearly had never seen a man falling over before. All the leaders of this country need to do is a spot of slapstick and they can solve everything.

Wednesday 26^th March

The blog for today was written 48 hours in retrospect, so my memory is somewhat hazy. Therefore I will avoid writing about today as it most likely involved playing with the children and doing some chores, and as I seem to recall I spent the entire afternoon (after a lunch break which never really was- use the term "lunch break" very loosely whenever I write about it) making this particular publication presentable to human society, although this is by no means a money-back guarantee about the quality of this (and if you paid to read this, contact a consumer rights organisation or your nearest police station as someone suspicious almost definitely has your credit card details.) My undertaking here is nothing on that of Johannes, who is at any given time photographer, journalist, carer and medic, and is frequently burnt out.

Today did have one marking event: the timely departure of Negeba and Shayan, an extremely sad moment although there was a great sense of hope in looking at them and knowing they would lead a normal life- Shayan would almost definitely not remember his experience here. As I've said before, he need never know how he suffered. It was very sad to watch them go, especially Shayan, who I only just bonded with. He also looked like Ernie from Sesame Street, which is a considerable bonus when one considers I resemble Bert ever so slightly.

I will therefore take this opportunity not to list what happened today but give an all-too-brief summary of the gratification this "job" provides. The children now are not "clients," as would be normal with a "job." They are friends, who can make you laugh, make you cry and cheer you up just by being there. Several of the younger children have learnt my name, and when I enter a room they scream it with a beaming smile. The children come and gather round you when you are anywhere, because it is your sole job to make them smile, and even if you are not organising an arty activity or games (games are hard, because of the language barrier: they love checkers and jenga however) you can simply tickle or make a stupid face at a child (I have become particularly adept at the latter) and they will raise a smile, or even a laugh. This warms you to the soul: no-one needs a smile more than these chaps and chapettes.


Thursday 27^th March

Today is much fresher in my mind, so I can now recall actual events instead of vague heartwarming philosophies. Today was a day off, and therefore involved sleeping in until a ridiculous hour. Johannes and I designated today as a "music day," which involved lugging our instruments to Tel Aviv and playing wherever would be most conspicuous- for example, playing in a music shop was undertaken for two hours (I actually played an electric guitar for the first time in two months and BOY did it feel great) before heading into a shopping centre, a bus station and the seafront to serenade strangers. Many, many people smiled. This was the effect we were intending to achieve. We then headed to the English Pub, a safe haven for Strongbow, and played pool (I played the best game of my life against an Israeli Woman I like to call "The Killing Machine,") and chatted to our hearts content- we met with the fascinating Kenyan surgeon, Dr. Joe, so this conversation was fruitful and captivating. We headed home, lightly intoxicated and content with our day.

Friday 28th March

This morning saw me take a "brief" visit to the hospital to obtain some medicine for Winnie and some Sim cards and credit for the new Iraqi mothers, a seemingly menial task which took an infinite amount of time longer than fetching life-saving medicine for a young child, but such is life. The most beautifully organised and organisedly beautiful Orange shop was the home to a 20 minute wait for Sim cards, only to be told that they did not have credit and that I would have to browse indistinct shops for an hour to try and find such a rare commodity. In one of these shops, however, I got talking to a shopkeeper who I thought was Australian, but it turns out was originally from Clacton. I also met a pleasant chap from Atlanta and then met with Dr. Joe in the hospital while I ate a McDonald's.

The decision was later made to avoid synagogue and practice for tomorrow's gig at the English Pub- a practice which kicked in nostalgia regarding previous band practices months ago- the last I had was, I believe, in July, and this is an experience I sorely miss. I almost definitely wouldn't be going to Hell for this, were I not spending tomorrow morning in a Church.

Saturday 29^th March

Today was what will go down in history as “music day.” Johannes broke it to me in the morning that we would be playing at the Church, which came as quite a shock but also quite an interesting prospect. We bundled into the minibus with Mamas Juma, Mustafa, Adji and the new Iraqi mothers and arrived at a Church which looked more like a bar, on the same road as the English pub we would frequent that very evening. I suppose when they got bored of Creationism they could always turn to alcoholism.

The church itself was intriguing- it was a haven for people of all religions, and the music the two guitarists onstage were making was lovely and melodic. The pastor was charismatic, although I’ve never been able to grasp the concept of prayer out loud, and this certainly doesn’t work whilst flashing a movie star grin. A couple of intense believers were dancing so frantically to the music it appeared they were on the edge of unconsciousness. Hands were waving in the air- they were utterly devoted and submissive. It was fascinating to watch. After a lengthy speech which skilfully related religion to reality whilst justifying Jesus as Messiah (the whole “let Jesus into your life” spiel doesn’t really gel with me, because the community it was delivered unto had on the whole already taken this step, so the whole thing was rendered entirely pointless.) The music we made afterwards with one of the guitarists was very pretty though.

After sitting down to a humble lunch of pitta and houmous (now my staple diet) we went to the beach for the first time during the day, and it was packed- a perfect place to flaunt our stuff. We walked towards the shore amidst much attention- the amount of bikini clad women throwing themselves at us asking for a song was quite astonishing and not entirely displeasing.

The Minibus took us back to the house, where Johannes and I practiced for tonight until our fingers turned blue, which was an absolute pleasure. After a few pizza-related delays we made our way onto a sharout, in which we played very loudly, much to the displeasure of one of the Ethiopian women on board who expressed this displeasure very loudly in our faces. We were hardened to this kind of behaviour because our cleaner is also Ethiopian and shouts at us a fair bit.

On turning up to the English Pub, we were told to wait half an hour until the sound guy arrived and we passed this time in a cornershop- we hijacked the speakers at the command of a woman who we assumed was the proprietor but was in fact just a drunken customer, and the real proprietor, we discovered, was the vexed looking gentleman whose warning glares we ignored (I have had maternal training in this matter for many years) and whose cornershop we continued to bombard with sound. A Yemenite then joined in with his guitar, which was fantastic, except he didn’t have a clue how to tune or play.

It was only then that we were accosted by a group of religious Jewish girls asking for Happy Birthday, which Johannes proceeded to wow them with. They came from London; on asking about my location of residence, I naturally responded Southend. They asked “Do you know Rabbi Lew? (the previous leader of my congregation, and one of my favourite people ever.)” Turns out he was their current headmaster and that one of the girls lives on Gants Hill Crescent, where my mum grew up. Gants Hill is a world unto itself, but the world outside is also not massive.

After being thrown out (literally: Johannes’ violin cable was lobbed after him like a javelin) of the cornershop, the gig itself was maybe one of my finest accomplishments. Okay, maybe not, but it wasn’t the train crash I was keenly anticipating. It was far worse, and the crowd LOVED it. Set lists were fumbled for mid-song, singing was interrupted with arguing, capoes, kazoos and Germans were lost, found, lost and found again; the songs themselves, however, weren’t faultless but were flipping good. We were thereafter treated to a Strongbow (ooooooooh yes,) a Guinness, a few winks from the barmaid and 100 of the finest shekels I would ever hold: I had finally earnt money in Israel.

Johannes and I were delirious: we never thought introducing ourselves as “a couple of pillocks from Western Europe” would reap so much success. We were guaranteed a slot on Wednesday and invited to be a regular act, and we were also told by the Robert De Niro-esque barman, as aforementioned many days ago that he would market us to anyone he could, and give two shekels of every beer sold to Save A Child’s Heart.

The one downer of the evening is that I discovered an old, old song called Dance Like A Monkey and this depressed me ever so slightly. Still, this was lost in the slipstream of our “Sharout Disco” on the way back- the sharout driver was even playing silly buggers with the lighting and starting a clapalong.

Johannes and I waltzed home with a beaming smile pasted across both faces (perhaps it was the same smile but so large it need two faces to accommodate it) as we discussed the day that was the reason days were invented.

Sunday 30^th March

I was completely high from the excitement from the yesterday and woke up re-invigorated, and Johannes was seemingly in a similar mood. We chased each other round the kitchen leaping over anything in our path and spent the whole morning being really good with the children and generally having a great time.

The afternoon saw us receive a visit from the second vice president of Nigeria- they were immaculately dressed and you could tell they were from a very high social class. The visits bring all kinds of people to the House, and these are a particularly interesting facet of volunteering here.

Afterwards Johannes and I had a practice in which we doubled the length of our setlist, and we also received news of a gig next Wednesday, which will be for a giant party thrown by John Smith’s lager. We have been given two sets, one in the early hours of the morning. Hopefully it will be the kind of car crash the public love.

Monday 31^st March

Omar and Ramadan, who have both recently warmed to my presence, were taken for surgery today, severely reducing the amount of Zanzibarians in the vicinity, especially seeing as both Faizel and his mother had also been admitted. This almost definitely guaranteed non-stop chaos from Ali, Fatma and Rehema (the latter less so, but she was definitely blossoming socially- it was fantastic to watch.) Adji from Iraq also proved himself to be the umpteenth person to develop a fascination with my nasals, and has taken it upon himself to grab my nose at any opportunity and shout “Agum!” (a rough translation of “Adam”) before expecting my pinchedly-nasalled response “Mama.”

Tonight Johannes disappeared off the face of the planet for 40 minutes when Shevet Achim came to visit and I created a brilliant game which involved everyone in the house screaming “JOHANNES!!!” at a death-defying volume. To date, I still have no idea where he disappeared to.

We had a giant argument about our setlist and then went to sleep. Such is intercontinental musicianship.

Tuesday 1^st April

The morning was, in true April Fools’ fashion, dedicated to convincing my friends in the minutest detail that I’m making Aaliyah, and almost convinced a few of them. I also picked up my most impressive Swahili phrase yet: “subuni ya kufulia” which I am reliably informed means washing “powder.” This new found and highly illuminating phrase was exactly what I took with me to the hospital to impress the Zanzibar nurse and the mothers, returning from the surgery of Omar, whose heart was still being repaired, and Ramadan. It’s really great to bring a smile to the face of a woman whose son currently has his chest open, and you could see a sense of relief that her son’s struggling would soon be over. Her face had softened somewhat.

Both Fatma and Mkubwa were taken for surgery for tomorrow- that’s four from Zanzibar in three days. All I knew is that with Fatma away, the house would be very, very quiet. As it happens, Fatma was taken back from the hospital in the evening because Mkubwas surgery was taking forever.

Johannes and I headed to the English Pub come the evening to sink a Strongbow and discuss our plans for the Charity Gig with the barman. This was a brief but fruitful discussion, and firm evidence that all board meetings anywhere should heretofore be fuelled with cider and preferably in English Pub surroundings.

Wednesday 2^nd April

Today the news that the Kenyans would finally be heading back home tomorrow was unleashed quietly yet brutally on me my Mama Winnie, and while I was pleased that their administrative-error-induced wait was finally over (I have never seen Mama Juma’s face so gentle and happy,) I was saddened by the fact that after tomorrow, I will never see these wonderful children again. This was made more heartbreaking by the fact that, for the first and possibly last time, Winnie let me hold her, without crying- she was genuinely smiling and laughing, and with each giggle and small part of my soul either expanded or died: I could not work out which.

After taking some arty photographs of them to remember them by, I prepared myself for tonight’s gig, waiting for Johannes to come back from the Negev, and knocked up a new setlist- one with more banter, which left some screaming in hysterics and some reeling in bewilderment. Either way, the lacklustre audience made a bit more noise than last time, and the arguments between Johannes and I became more inventive, although my voice didn’t hold out as well. Our practices were a little rushed, and this showed, but it was briefly entertaining.

After chatting with two Finnish guys I almost definitely want to marry, a fantastic barmaid from California and a Turkish guy who was insistent on taking me home and having his way with me, I ended up back at the house, wishing Hannah had been there for this performance.

Thursday 3^rd April

Today was a day-off, traditionally spent recovering from the night before the day-off. Technically it should be termed an afternoon off, because mornings don’t exist for us on these days. I went into Tel Aviv to try (in vain) to find a keyboard for hire, and also a ukelele. Tel Aviv has neither. This is sickening stuff.

It is here that I should make a few observations about the Israelis. Yes, I’ve mentioned before about THAT ring tone, but yesterday made me realise just how severe the problem actually is- it’s everywhere and it always sounds like it’s coming from my pocket. The other mantra you should adopt is “Never entrust your follicles to an Israeli hairdresser. I emerged lockless and beardless, and am now considering joining the army merely to justify the cut.

After wandering around the single largest music shop I ever saw, I took one hour to get back home. The Kenyans were ready to depart when I eventually re-emerged in the house after a resolutely unsuccessful day. Having my final hug with Sami pretty much finished me off, and even Hastings let me hold him. I had pressing matters at home also, but I had a huge cry and everything was okay again, at least until the problems re-arose.

Friday 4^th April

Today was spent missing Sami’s presence and wondering why it was so quiet in the house. Johannes was due today to go to Jerusalem, so he departed and I spent the time playing with the children, preparing the ultimate fried salad and talking to my friends over the internet, most of whom I now sorely missed. Friday was one of those days that doesn’t warrant taking up too much text space, merely consisting of some guitar practice and sleep being constantly interrupted by phone calls. Going to Shabbat alone was quite nice though- a time to collect all my thoughts from the week and ask G-d what’s going to happen next

Saturday 5^th April

Today was a day of highs and lows, as I have become accustomed to here. The morning was maybe my most difficult since arrival, as with the Iraqi mothers in Church and the Zanzibar nurse in hospital, I had sole responsibility for the three most difficult children in the whole house and it was murder- they were beating each other, bursting each others balloons, antagonising each other with song- even the cutest of the bunch, Rehema, was creating her fair share of Armageddon. In the end the only way to deal with them was to tire them out in the park. Afterwards they were very well behaved and almost adorable.

Johannes phoned me today to tell me that he was in The West Bank and I should not be alarmed. This situation would be similar, I imagine, to phoning my mother and saying “It’s okay, I’ve just been decapitated but at least I can see everyone’s feet really clearly and it makes me greatly appreciate the benefit of shoes.” Needless to say, I panicked a little, and in my state of fear tidied the room with an equally worried Iraqi nurse. She complained about how she missed him, and I had to laugh at the futility of what she was saying, in comparison to the seven month loneliness marathon I’ve had to endure to date.

I gave myself the afternoon to get ready for tonight’s gig: The Streets gig had come about rather rapidly, and I had no idea where I was heading. I did, however, know where the English Pub was, which is inadvertently where I found myself sinking a pint before I headed off. 10 minutes before the gig started I arrived at the venue, and asked the ticket vendor for my reserved ticket, which was not present in any way shape or form. I was only lucky that the chap I was meeting had a spare and I was saving his life as well as him saving mine. On entering the venue, it proved itself to be quite a spectacle- extremely large, with giant plasma screens everywhere. I’d certainly not been anywhere this large in England to see a concert.

The support band was a proficient act from Israel who stayed on for two hours, much to the dissent of the English members of the audience. Had the lyrics been in English and not howled like instructions from Moses, and had the band known when to shut up (the answer: about half an hour ago) then the tack of the English may have been different.

The Streets, however, more than made up for it. Supported by a backing band I have never seen the likes of (the drummer was out of this world) he stumbled over lyrics and made pratfalls in a way that only managed to be endearing and funny, and these were lyrics that I could easily fill in for him, having followed him since an early age. The moment I knew this concert was sublime was when they broke into the Prodigy classic “Out Of Space” and demanded that the crowd rave. I was more than happy to oblige this semi-naked man running around the stage who had in the last hour of my life fulfilled a childhood dream. Even though I wasn’t with my close circle of friends, this may have been the best concert I ever attended, just for the sheer surprising musicianship onstage. Even “Weak Become Heroes,” my least favourite Streets song, was absolutely phenomenal.

The taxi home was cheap enough and I came home feeling tired but satisfied.

Sunday 6^th April

A fortnight today, and I would be returning home. This thought filled me with a lot of sadness: yes, I would miss the children, no question, even though the children I bonded with first and foremost had now finished their patch-up and been flown home; but the feeling that filled me was one of indecision, symbolised in today (a free day, and one that should have been taken with great aplomb) which was spent sleeping, milling around the Bus Centre (which still manages to confuse me, and it took me just hours to navigate my way to the post office) and arguing with my girlfriend over absolutely nothing.

The ticket company who provided last nights titillation decided to destroy the afterglow by charging me three times for the same event. After taking this into my own hands (and in a fashion I’m glad I adopted from my mother) I ransacked the operator’s will to live and cornered them into giving me a refund for a ticket I never even received.

I did buy a rather snazzy t-shirt however, with the slogan “The Fun Starts Here,” and featured a cute rabbit about to stick a fork in a plug socket. That’s retail therapy right there.

Monday 7^th April

This morning was terrible. After an explosive argument with Johannes (who has shown himself to be extraordinarily selfish at times, and I will speak no further on the matter,) I stormed out of the house after cleaning some chairs, and got hopelessly lost in Azur.

Then I had another Felman First in Israel: I walked somebody else’s dog. They don’t use leashes out here: they simply read their CVs from the IDF to the poor mutts and they submit to their every whim. This friendly Labrador I name “Dog” took it upon himself to follow me around my hopeless course around Azor, which nearly took me into Holon AND Tel Aviv (which are in opposite directions) and two hours I landed back at the house, to find little Sarah from Iraq looking her mother, just wandering down the street. It surprised me a little that a mother could love her child enough to travel across Iraq and Jordan to save her life but just desert her to go to buy some beans or whatever it was that she so desperately had to buy in the mini market.

Johannes and I had a slightly tearful reconciliation and continued our day amicably. We made up via music, abandoned our planned night at t’pub (the abbreviation was necessary as I bumped into some completely out of place lads from oop north there the other night, and this establishment will heretofore be known thus) and practiced heartily for our upcoming concert at said pub. We spoke with Susan about how different everything was from what we expected, and I hold no grudges about this.

It is necessary here to mention Jonathan, the 18 year-old volunteer from Israel who is working in the office instead of in the defence forces, although he is stocky and muscly, and wouldn’t look out of place in an IDF uniform. He is far too placid for this kind of work though, very calm and collected, boasting fantastic English and a great accent. At first it took a while to warm to him, and my sense of humour had to adapt as he took things very literally- one of the disadvantages of speaking in a foreign tongue. Very soon we were laughing about Johannes’ organisation fetish (One particular highlight: “Johannes cannot perform the YMCA as it is not in alphabetical order,”) and also his side hobby as The Terminator, which is 100% true by the way.

I caught an early night, and by early I refer to midnight.

Tuesday 8^th April

The YMCA was firmly cemented in my skull and refused to leave, largely thanks to Jonathan’s bluetoothing skills. I’m absolutely certain that Freud would have something to say about this, but he’s not here so the psychoanalysis can wait for a bit. Besides, Freudian nips aren’t (mummy) really my (mother) field of play. HA! Trying saying that will a faceful of falafel!

This morning we received a visit from the Canadian mentioned many a paragraph ago, who’d promised to take me out to Tel Aviv and show me what’s what but never did. We had our first chat about our experiences (she was the volunteer here before Johannes, and the tension between them is almost too funny to watch) and all and then pledged to hit Tel Aviv this evening, which we did: funnily enough, the random drinking establishment we chose was the English Pub. I did have the excuse of needing to speak with Scott, the bar owner, about a few things. And also Guinness.

A practice ensued that afternoon for the show the next day- after three songs my voice packed up (two of these were instrumentals) and I had to call it a day. This clearly does not bode well for tomorrow, for which we were hopelessly unprepared. I swore to myself I would force feed Johannes to himself if he threw one more slow anti-war protest song in there.

So I headed out to Tel Aviv, quite excited that I’d made another couple of friends to meet with other than Johannes, and had a great chat with Tova at the pub, before heading back to her apartment (very nicely furnished and modern) with her flatmate and some semi-naked guy whose existence confused me a little. Still, we had a nice talk and a laugh and I headed down to Ben Yehuda Street to catch a sharout home. This is one thing I shall miss about Israel: The possibility to travel even at 2 in the morning for under one pound.

After completely negating the last sentence by having to take a fifty shekel taxi home, I flopped into bed, after sneakily checking Facebook to see if my lady’s friend’s art project had been posted yet, due to the fact that it supposedly featured the significant other not wearing a great deal. You can take the boy out of Southend…

Wednesday 9^th April

My curiosity had very much proverbially slaughtered the metaphorical feline, and these pictures not only involved my other half being fully clad but also fawning over another gentleman. Such is art.

The day was spent practicing for tonight’s performance, and in the process entertaining the children. The key to success in this house is killing as many birds as possible with as few stones. PETA would go absolutely mental if they knew.

So, the day was spent being filled with the kind of jittery anticipation that normally accompanies pub gigs: the reaction of the barmaids, the general approval of kazoo usage, the face of a stunned spectator when they recognise a cover version- this was my vision of the evening. As with most of my “visions,” this was later teabagged into submission and then positively urinated over by a cold audience, a police interruption and genuine complaints about our performance. This was not aided by a complete and total charisma void on my part- even my bottomless storage container of British charm could not salvage it.

I spent the remainder of the morning (yes, morning, in a pub- one of the beautiful things about an English Pub is you get the Strongbow AND the lack of sleep) talking gibberish at the barmaid who didn’t seem to mind and talking with anyone, to slightly more positive feedback after we finished our second set (because I sunk to the low of playing Wonderwall, which was the point at which I sold out, like Mr. T promoting World of Warcraft, only wit’ less jibba-jabba.)

The worst part of the performance was that knotted-stomach feeling at the end. It brought back horribly intense memories of the first time I was kicked out of a band and everyone I love had left and I was left alone to wait for a taxi, trying to keep my cumbersome keyboard out of the rain. I felt exactly the same here. I had given a train wreck of a performance and there was no one there to give me a consoling hug and to tell me to keep at it. There was just Johannes complaining how he missed Susan after six hours.

As I left the pub and my friend Al Cohol I felt “horrible sad” as Johannes persisted in saying, and felt as if I had lost any conviction in playing music. As I sat there considering the option of becoming an accountant or perhaps an insurance broker and for the first time being glad that Hannah was not present to witness the monstrosity that was the last hour and a half (this is the problem with giving me too much time in display to the public.)

On falling into the house at five o’clock in the morning, Johannes and I ceased to be awake, and at least the optimism of waking up very late tomorrow.

Thursday 10^th April

As with most optimism, this was stubbed out pretty rapidly. Four hours after nodding of, I was abruptly awoken by a thick Israeli accent:

“Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.”

“Yes?”

“Do you have the box that I left for Johannes?”

“No.”

It was Sarah from the Office.

“Is it in the room?”

“No.”

I answered the door, semi-naked and hugely disgruntled.

“Okay, bye,” was the ever so slightly amused response.

I was not hungover. I just wanted to take a largish baseball bat to the face of anyone who had ever woken anyone up anywhere, because it is a fate I would not wish upon that guy who stole my girlfriend that time.

Today (this afternoon- after re-sleeping the morning was a dead entity) I was set to go to Jerusalem on a crusade. Poor lexical decision, I apologise- quest is maybe a more appropriate choice of word. Under orders from my six-year-old cousin (he knows who’s boss,) I was to say hi to the guy in the sky via the Western Wall, a tricky task considering my navigation skills leave much to be desired. Eventually I stood in front of the wall, having previously only seen it from afar. Its power was extraordinary: I felt G-d for maybe the first time in my life, and the history of the wall was electric. It was almost visible. Without being able to help myself, I sank into my arms and cried, for no reason at all. For Jewish people, it is a phenomenal experience.

Thereafter I met my friend Tova and we headed to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which was also a singularly impressive experience. The high domed roof mural was sadly too dark to see, but it was the meaning behind the place that shone through the ornate gold architecture: this was Jesus’ place of death. We saw the table upon which he was rested after removal from the cross. We were inside his TOMB. Of course I was not as emotionally moved as some of the others around me, but it was still inspiring to see the tomb of the man who inspired most of world religion today.

On emerging, we heard the call to prayer from the Mosque of Omar. Our tour of modern religion was complete, and we headed back through the Shuq amidst gaggles of people trying to sell us things (one proud vendor of a Bert and Ernie sweater got my vote) and headed down to Ben Yehuda Street (every town has a Ben Yehuda Street and this gets on my pip) to discuss politics, Shakespeare and clowns over a coffee. This was pleasant: despite her almost impenetrable accent, which consists of mostly Canadian but also English, Irish and Israeli almost at random, she is a fantastic conversationalist. She is often mistaken as a relative of Laura’s because of her look, mannerisms and accent and I can’t honestly say I blame anyone. She also laughs like the Penguin in Toy Story 2 i.e. SQUEAK. SQUEAK. SQUEAK. SQUEAK. SQUEAK. It’s endearingly… squeaky.

On returning home I went for a spontaneous jog with Johannes, thought about how Hannah’s upcoming University interview could affect our relationship, and dozed off halfway through an imaginary hug.

I had actually written this section yesterday but I erased it like a buffoon. It used to be a lot better, I promise, but you’ll have to make do with the slightly less proficient version. I’ll give you a free hug next time I see you as compensation.

Friday 11^th April

Today was a nice day: Johannes disappeared into Jaffa in the morning. Don’t misunderstand me; the niceness and his disappearance are not directly proportional. It was just a coincidence.

I spent the morning climbing up the side of the house to break into the office, an activity which, given the complete lack of an office key when Laura was not present (I have since acquisitioned one from her,) Johannes and I became accustomed to. I felt like Steven Segal though, or someone else who is genuinely macho. He was probably a poor example. The machismo feeling faded away when I remembered the nature of my invasion: to get a toy truck for Hussain, who was to depart this afternoon, and to fetch Pampers for the smaller ones.

On returning back into the house, I took a great deal of pride in the fact I had achieved something with no pratfalls or balagan, and ate a celebratory pitta bread. I also found out that Tova left for Canada on Wednesday in order to be with her family on Passover, which saddened me a little because I’d only just become acquainted with her. Most of my free time was taken up with writing the blog that I had haphazardly deleted two days prior to this, in between requests for “picatures” from Mama Hussain, who was a beautiful Arabic woman but spoke Arabic in a very throaty, and sounded very menacing, especially when saying “picatures.” Which she repeated. Over. And over. And over. Until I subsisted to her every whim. She then decided to leave her phone behind, which is what’s known in the trade as Karma.

The evening saw me visit synagogue, some I now take some kind of nourishment from this instead of boredom, as per back home: of course I didn’t know Hebrew as well as, say, Jesus, but it was a great time to collect my thoughts from the week. I found out that Hannah had done really well in her interview, pwned them like n00bs, and now was just waiting on the results of said n00b-pwnage. I am literally in awe that Microsoft Word did not just “n00b-pwnage” as a spelling mistake. I may compose a love letter to Bill Gates shortly after this.

It is here that I shall for absolutely no reason whatever and with no link to any previous paragraph in the text mention our wonderful local shops. Without the red tape and health and safety rigmarole necessary in England to even fill out the paperwork to run a shop, the shops here are very exciting. Even at the greengrocers, the thrill of finding a non-decrepit vegetable (tomatoes especially; I have seen some mind-boggling mouldy specimens) is something else. The shop, however, that captures my imagination most effectively, is the mini-market, an ever-shape-shifting enigma of a vendor. Every day, the layout warps completely: I would rummage where the cheese section was yesterday and today find garden gloves, or tampons, or nail scissors. To visit this shop every day was an unprecedented joy, and a refreshing change to the monotony of major supermarkets.

Saturday 12^th April

Today was a day I wanted adventure-free, a day just spent seeing Tova and Jonathan in Tel Aviv. So naturally, the first thing that happened was an adventure. I knew something was wrong when the sharout driver completely avoided where I told him to go. It was halfway up the highway to Beer Sheva where I thought, “Hmm.” So I took this up with the sharout driver, who promptly shouted something in Hebrew and left me at the side of the freeway, pointing me in the vague direction of somewhere and scooting off to wherever he wished to go.

And so I started walking, against the traffic flow and anything but safe in the knowledge that one step to the left would mean I was tourist roadkill, armed with only a Bert and Ernie sweater and flip-flops. Somewhat alarmingly, I saw an old dishevelled baseball cap on the floor, and wondered where the body was. I went ever so slightly delirious, naming my hand Clive and speaking to it about why it hadn’t slapped the sharout driver.

And so I continued walking, the heat bearing down on me like a teabagger, and the dust stinging my eyes, like a teabagger. All I could see of my destination were some vague outlines of skyscrapers through the dust: I didn’t even know if they were the correct skyscrapers. They were just tall and attracted me.

And so I was bored of walking, but continued to do so because not walking meant not getting anywhere. I was not worried until a police car pulled in, hazards a-flashing and sirens a-blaring, and I turned slightly pale when I realise my passport was resting quite comfortably and snugly next to my bed, having a quiet titter at my expense. I was bundled into the back, and the officers were interrogating me as they drove in an unspecified direction, the opposite direction to that which I was originally walking: Where was I from? Where was I going? Why was I walking into 100 kmph traffic in flip-flops? What was my business in Israel? Luckily they accepted Connexxions Student Card as a form of ID, otherwise I’d been whisked off to the station and given the Midnight Express treatment. Instead of giving me handcuffs they gave me water and biscuits and I ended up at the station, fully hydrated and ready to continue my day as if nothing had ever happened.

I eventually and exhaustedly met with Tova, and we met Johannes and the Iraqi children on the beach to splash around a bit, and then we ate in a jolly nice restaurant at which I had my first mashed potato since leaving Blighty, and I just craved some Yorkshire puds.

Jonathan phoned, and we had a long convoluted conversation about where we were and in the end I gave up trying to make sense and passed him over to Tova, who, in perfect Hebrew gave him perfect directions to where we were. Sometimes I hate people so much.

He drove us all to the harbour, where I tried to find those bastards who ripped me off for the ticket, but failed to. We mooched around, had an ice cream, and headed to Dizzengoff, where Tova and I went to see No Country For Old Men and Jonathan headed home.

Sunday 13^th April

It hit me today that I had one week left in this wonderful country. It made me think back to how quickly one week passes here- having a Friday and Saturday weekend really confuses the system, and henceforth the time passes extraordinarily quickly. I knew it would be the blink of an eye before I was back at Luton, and vowed to make the most of this week.

I decided therefore to change up some money for the purpose of spending- I spent yesterday borrowing and begging due to my recent gift purchases. This, however, proved to be the worst way to enjoy Israel, when one considers the post office’s ticketing system, which is fine except that there is no queue to act as a deterrent, so I was technically speaking standing in a queue of 150, and it was a pain I haven’t experienced since standing outside a winter Arcade Fire concert, breath condensing into thick slabs of ice and nipples poking the poor individual in front (it may have been my girlfriend actually) in the back of the neck.

After the tedium of the queue finished (two hours later- Israelis lack British queueing skills, and the tutting noises they made weren’t quite up to standard, although you must bear in mind that I am used to my mother) I returned back to the house to find Tova there draped in children- she really is fantastic with them, maybe to the same extent as my friend Sammy who visited many paragraphs ago. We spontaneously decided to see There Will Be Blood, to see if it was any better the second time, a feat which I deemed nigh on impossible. It was. I was left open mouthed by the end, and only took my eyes off the screen to look inquisitively at Tova as she put a shawl round her head and pretended to be E.T., reasonably convincingly also.

The trip home was maybe the first time a sharout driver did not give me any hassle. G-d bless this man.

I will now, unannounced, provide a list of my firsts in Israel:

· My first ever haircut in a foreign country.

· The first money I ever earnt in a foreign country.

· My first nappy change.

· My first handshake with a Palestinian.

· My first scrape with foreign police.

· The first time I ever heard a cockerel crow (sad, I know.)

· The first time I ever sang a child to sleep.

· The first time I ever lived with a roommate.

· The first time I ever met an Arab, or spoke Swahili.

· The first time a child under two had learnt my name.

· The first time I received second degree burns trying to protect someone else.

· The first time I ever played music in a Church.

· The first time I had ever been at the top of a mountain.

· The first time I had ever been in any worthy amount of snow.

· The first time I ever met anyone from Kenya, Sudan, Nigeria, Zanzibar, or Iraq.

· My first continuous blog.

I’ll fill you in with more when I remember.

Monday 14^th April

It dawned on me today just how close the end was when I broke it to the Zanzibar nurse (of whom I’d become very fond, she is wonderfully eccentric) that I only had six days left, and the subsequent faces of the constituency of the room broke my heart: these were people who would genuinely miss me.

Today was spent, as is the norm, doing chores- dusting fans in 35-degree heat in particular. I didn’t really relish this- all I wanted to do was spend time with the children I would soon be leaving to the hands of another, hopefully inferior. volunteer.

The afternoon was where things became reasonably miserable. Tova came to visit the house, and she danced for the children- she knows her stuff. Just as she was about to depart, Hannah came online, and I had to leave to drop Tova off at the sharout stop. This was a contentious issue, as Hannah proceeded to turn excessively frosty thereafter, and naturally an argument ensued, which resulted in nothing getting solved, and me being in a foul enough mood to go to bed at half past eight in the evening.

2500 miles puts as much pressure on a relationship as the same amount of tonnes of brick would on, say, a chicken. Certainly, had I been here one month longer, I wouldn’t have had a girlfriend to return to, the rate things were going. I hadn’t heard her voice for two weeks come the end. Her wonderful, goofy, gormless voice, which completely belied the intelligence beneath, had been absent from my hungry ears for so long. Tonight hurt a little more for this reason.

Tuesday 15^th April

Today I awoke in a shockingly positive mood, for no apparent reason. I apologised to Hannah for last night via text message, and spent the day interacting with the children. Ramadan was being painfully affectionate and even the normally subdued Rehema (who had recently blossomed into a social butterfly) was grabbing my hand and smiling at me. Children can be so spiteful.

Tonight was also the night I would see Tova for the last time, which was a real shame- she’d been a fantastic listening ear and someone to go out with who didn’t waste two hours taking photos of walls. As nourishing as Johannes may have found it, I didn’t gain a great deal from it.

I spent the day simply enjoying playing with the children- Bank Leumi came round and threw a fantastic little party for them. The incentives some have are very nice, and I wouldn’t expect that kind of gesture from a bank, let alone an Israeli one, so much kudos shall be dispensed from my person in their general direction.

The moment, however, that defined my day (and perhaps my entire stay here in Israel) took place on the patio. Baby Omar, back from surgery maybe a week ago, had miraculously forced himself onto his spindly little legs and was tottering around the garden with a smug look on his face, as if he had been walking for years. This moment was the one that I think will define my time here: a child, too weak to even move before this surgery, brought to walk about with a smile on his face by the doctors. It was quite incredible, and I proceeded to scream like a four-year-old girl.

I went out to the English Pub for a celebratory bevy, to discover that the owner’s English girlfriend had moved back in and everything was running as per normal, so Tova and I sank a pint and headed along the Promenade and had a grand old chat, the last we’d ever have, which was really quite sad.

Then I received a text from Hannah simply saying: “Big news.” I wondered what this could mean: perhaps her breasts had expanded again, or she had coagulated an emu. What this means is beyond me. Anyway, she revealed to me via MSN Messenger (on the beach- I do love “3” network) that she had been granted entrance to the university three miles away from mine. We’d be closer than our abodes in Essex. We had a future. It was quite incredible, and I proceeded to scream like a four-year-old girl.

After sinking another celebratory pint, I headed home, thoroughly ecstatic with how my day ended, and relishing the opportunity tomorrow to see some catheterisation.

Wednesday 16^th April

Today I awoke in an astonishingly sprightly manner at 6.45 to witness a catheterisation- a procedure where the doctors examine a heart via a long tube inserted into the groin and up a major artery, providing measurements and sometimes remedies to more minor problems in the heart.

All of the cardiologists were surprisingly relaxed, dressed very casually and laughing and joking with one another as I observed awestruck both through a window and on an x-ray machine what was going on, as they aimed to block a passage which should have developed but didn’t with a coil thread through the catheter tube. The process was hugely complex-looking and intricate. Even the anaesthesia, which was slightly distressing due to the fact that the one-year-old Palestinian girl had to be held down because she was so upset, was hugely impressive, and I had never realised how difficult it must be to stabilise any individual in that condition.

I was very excited, and was speaking with a very nice X-Ray technician and an ECG operator who talked me through the process, showing me what was wrong with her heart and how they repaired what they could. The whole thing was a thoroughly enlightening experience.

Afterwards I somewhat surprisingly bumped into Tova in the canteen, and we both went to visit Mustafa, an Iraqi boy who had needed two operations and had been here for six months and counting, recovering from his last operation, and on the cusp of returning to the house. He looked very well indeed. I also met Lilia, an incredibly positive Palestinian baby with wonderful parents, all three very happy and playful. I also managed to see Mkubwa, in very bad shape and filled with a litre of lung fluid. Seeing him like this was quite horrible, and the Zanzibar nurse was crying next to him.

I caught up with Dr. Tamir, the kind and wise cardiologist I met in Jerusalem early on, and thanked him heartily for the opportunity of seeing this kind of work- I would never get the chance to do so again, what with England’s red tape fetish. He invited me to his for a Passover meal- a complete honour and an invitation I duly accepted.

I returned from the hospital after being dragged round a clothes shop by Mama Mustafa (I left England to ESCAPE this kind of thing) and said my absolute final goodbye to Tova, I promise. That was sad actually, she’d become a really good friend over the last 7 days, and I was going to miss her kind nature and OTT humour.

On returning home three hours later than planned (such is SACH) I didn’t really do much apart from head to the Bus Station with Johannes for some “fun” which involved him buying a coke and then getting some photos printed and me watching.

I sorted out some online stuff and went to bed, content with the fact I’d seen some great things today.

Thursday 17^th April

Today I woke up VERY early, in order to go to Jerusalem with Johannes, who had taken it upon himself to book himself a Kibbutz interview, which “should only take up to two hours.” Luckily for all concerned, he spent the night vomiting and so could not waste one hundred and twenty of my valuable soul-searching minutes confined to his bed. He had been told his time at SACH was coming to an end, and was trying to find an alternative means to stay in Israel. That’s as may be, no man takes up my Jerusalem time.

On arriving after an extremely successful snooze on the Sharout, I tried to find Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Memorial Museum, in the Old City of Jerusalem. To those of you who are familiar with the whats and wherefores of Jerusalem, this may seem like an odd sentence, due to Yad Vashem’s position somewhere completely different. I, however, am familiar with neither, and spent a good two hours navigating my way around to find this place.

On arrival, the surroundings were beautiful. I took a surprisingly green walk to the entrance, and the building itself was beautiful: a triangular structure built into the side of an equally green mountain.

The two hours that followed were maybe two of the most harrowing but profound of my life to date, and two hours I certainly don’t regret not spending waiting for Johannes in some godforsaken foyer. It was an in depth, very personal tribute to those who suffered and died in that tragic period. I found the video testimonies particularly touching, and some of the pictures jarred my heart to see- some pictures of hanging and starving Jews made me want to weep.

The room, however, that made me start to cry was the Room of Names- a library of the name of every person who died in the Holocaust. There were so many- a vast circular room filled wall to wall with folders of countless names. It was the first time I really felt the impact of that period, and the sheer scale of devastation caused. It was not hysterical crying- just a soft tear in remembrance.

I came through the other side (the museum was a kind of prism with rooms on either side, which you went through to get to each segment of the exhibition) with a re-invigorated sense of the past, and a closer link to my religious core than ever before. I knelt beside the memorial altar, with the name of every concentration and labour camp carved into the floor, and said a short prayer, asking that the same never happen again in this century. You need only look at Darfur, Sudanm Rwanda, even in the very country I’m in at present to see that this kind of event could still erupt. I just pray with every inch of me that we can see sense as a species.

When I left, I finally felt comfortable in Jerusalem. I wasn’t a seasoned veteran, but three visits was enough to get a feel for the different areas and how to navigate them, and I felt a sense of pride in this- I’m not even used to Southend yet.

When I arrived back to Azor, I found a certificate, the taxi ticket to the airport and a goodbye bottle of wine on my bed, and it felt ever so final, as if I’d already left. In my head, maybe I have- perhaps it will hurt less on Sunday if I take this mentality. I also found Johannes doing enough attention seeking to kill a small herd of wildebeest, with Susan more than happy to attend to his every groan. I decided he was having too much fun for someone overacting themselves into submission and so put on The Dillinger Escape Plan, a band who have pretty much abandoned time, key and reality signatures and now just make noise, very loudly. That should’ve made him genuinely ill.

I decided for no apparent reason to go and see a band called Lietterschpich in Tel Aviv tonight who create the most vile music known to man, and whose name pleasantly translates as “litre of semen.” I’ve done dingy underground music venues in England, and so wanted to see what somewhere like Israel would have to offer- and was thoroughly impressed by the dinginess presented to me. A flat you normally would have turned your nose up and walked straight past that, so I was informed by the very personable gig promoter in charge of promoting a band with a name like Lietterschpich (not an enviable task,) was a secret Communist gathering spot stuck out like a sore thumb just for its sheer mundanity.

I was speaking with the bands extensively beforehand, and they showed an admirable passion for what they do, which is not very much at all. I went to the supermarket, grabbed myself the cheapest beer imaginable (I had very few shekels to last me four days) and went back to the venue to find myself in a conversation about dark ambient techno with a guy called, erm, Guy that I was WAY out of my depth in.

So the first band appeared, and only the drummer sat on stage (playing at a ridiculous rate) while the guitarist and singer (as this was a “grindcore” band, the “singing” involved mimicking Daffy Duck, were he a poorly recovering speed addict) stood in the audience, yelping and shredding. After half a minute they stopped, and the (slightly meagre) audience clapped haphazardly upon realising this was not a technical fault but a “song.” I took the opportunity to chat with Guy outside about more techno. I really was losing thread of this conversation, but, considering how many amphetamines this chap had pumping through him, I don’t think he ever really had any thread whatsoever.

As the second band came onstage everyone sat down, which I found slightly odd, so naturally conceded and did the same. The band looked interesting to start off with: about as stonerish and strung out as any group of individuals could be. In particular one chap, who sat there playing a frying pan and reindeer bells for the majority of the time, looked the part. This was dark ambient music: the lead singer chanted his way through the whole thing, the only screaming onstage felt necessary, and when I closed my eyes it filled me up and gave me great thinking time in my head about what I had seen this morning. They were superb, and their set was seamless.

The band I came to see then stomped onstage, looking reasonably inconspicuous: a 42-year-old greying drummer, a traditional “shouty man” and a gentleman at the electronics who looked a little like Super Mario surely could not possibly make as much racket as the first band. All I could do when they first started playing was get swallowed by the music- I have never heard anything so intense and abrasive. There were no notes; there was barely any rhythm. It was just electronic feedback, an elongated, distorted buzz which was skilfully modulated, spasmodic drumming and howling the likes of which I’ve never heard. It was not pleasant in any way, but again I closed my eyes and let all my hatred rise to the surface and brushed it away. The music was evil and abrasive, but I used it to positive ends. When it finished I spoke with the band, and told them how much I’ve annoyed my significant other with it in the past (I felt a pang of emotion as I thought of her at her own gig- she went to see a band called Portishead tonight and was almost definitely not having as much fun as me- and how much I missed that girl) and I was familiar with their work, which surprised them greatly. They then turned the tables, and revealed that the buzzy-man (there is no other word for him) worked for Shevet Achim, the organisation that brings the Iraqi children to Israel for SACH.

I returned to the House to find a clean room (WHY DO THEY DO THIS TO ME! WHY!) and an open bed, which I gladly jumped into knowing how I would be suffering tomorrow morning.

Friday 18^th February

This morning I took part in the suffering I predicted yesterday. I woke up virtually unable to speak due to the necessity yesterday to shout louder than the “singer” due to the volume of the “music” and I had the reasonably depressing prospect of packing for home today. It was easier than anticipated, in terms of spatial management, but virtually impossible in terms of emotional separation. All the mess I’d created in two months was suddenly taken away and shoved into a suitcase (disclaimer for mother: folded neatly, colour co-ordinated and alphabetised) and this house started becoming less and less like a home with every item I folded away.

Johannes spent most of the day asleep and farting (he perhaps had a urinary infection, according to the resident Moldovan doctor) and ordering the drugs was maybe one of the things that represented my stay here the most- caring for a German volunteer with an Iraqi translator and following instructions from a Moldovan doctor. Such things will never, ever happen again, probably anywhere in the world.

The rest of the day was spent rehearsing haphazardly for tonight’s charity concert, with no setlist and Johannes intermittently halting his playing to double over in pain. I looked on the bright side (under instructions from our finale) and realised that even if both of us caught TB and died mid-set, it still couldn’t be worse than the last gig.

We turned up at some indistinct point in the evening (professionalism is optional) to find that there where four people there, all from SACH, and the two other acts had withdrawn. At least there were fewer people to bombard us with things.

The set we played was marred by a bit of feedback (not complaints, like last time, but literal sonic feedback) and a cable problem, but that was it. I was being quite charismatic, if I do say so myself. The chords I played were listenable, Johannes’ violin was six times too loud and his playing was definitely affected by his illness. He soldiered on regardless, and his ailment meant I got to make a Passover-related yeast infection joke, which I quite liked.

I said my last goodbyes to Scott and his girlfriend from Ilford (I never got to say farewell to the lovely Californian barmaid, Krysten, but there you go) and had a surprisingly hassle-free sharout journey home.

I listened to the violin dominated live footage until half 3 in the morning.

Saturday 19^th April

Today was an odd day indeed. An inadvertent extra day off (in that I overslept due to getting to the house at 3 in the morning) meant that I would almost definitely work, because I always interacted better with the children when there was no pressure coming from anywhere. To be honest, even had I thrown things at them and put them in little bags, they wouldn’t have sent me home. Fortunately, I didn’t have this idea then, although the way Fatma was behaving (she spent the morning with half finished braiding and extremely tall hair, punching people) I became tempted.

Most of today was spent finalising my packing arrangements (this entailed staring at the suitcase wistfully and wondering whether to attempt to shut it yet) and getting ready for my first REAL Israeli Seder. Passover meals were normally something I dreaded- often quite tedious and operated in a very dry manner. I was not quite sure how this was going to end up.

It nearly didn’t “end up” at all. On calling the taxi service, it was revealed to me that there weren’t any available, and so I gathered together all of my Israeli argument skills (and believe me, you accrue a multitude of them in two months) unfortunately to no avail. However, things started moving when I got Laura on the case (an Irishwoman speaking Hebrew is a brutally effective weapon and should by rights be in any arsenal) we had a taxi dispatched pronto.

It took me two months to find a taxi driver worth talking to, but it happened. Our driver there was Itzik, probably the happiest man in the world ever. I decided to adopt him and it was he that would take me to Ben Gurion Airport in under 24 hours (this statistic jarred my thoughts a little) and would also return us to Tel Aviv. We were heading out of town to a place called Caesaria, a place I’m told is one of the most expensive in Israel and was an idyllic place to live.

On arrival, I saw why. The town was silent: In Azor, you were greeted with highway traffic when you opened a window; In Tel Aviv, the metropolitan bustle of the city streets; in Caesaria, pure, unadulterated silence, perhaps punctuated by the odd bird (she shouldn’t have been running around with sharp implements anyway. Sorry,) or insect. The house (whilst hell to find) was unbelievable. A garden the size of a small forest greeted us (there was one a similar size round the back) and both were filled with amazing sculptures made by the hostess herself, a Canadian woman of great kindness and on whose invitation we were here this evening.

The house inside was incredible- about the size of, say, Texas, or my nose, and extremely well lit and decorated, with an army of sofa chairs and an Olympic sized swimming pool (and two Jacuzzis, just in case you couldn’t reach one.) The dinner table was one of the longest things I’ve ever seen (let’s just leave the obvious immature humour out, shall we?)

And so we mingled. Johannes managed to get himself into an argument about 9/11 in under three minutes, which may be a new record, and I spoke to the hostess’ incredibly mature seven year old daughter, who had a keyboard, two guitars and two violins, but needed a drum kit otherwise she wouldn’t be happy.

The meal was quite splendid, conducted entirely in Hebrew (and partially in Aramaic because that’s what the Yemenites did back in the day, but the Host, who sported a rather impressive goatee, talked us through everything in English, and was a man of considerable wisdom and warmth. He also had a rather impressive goatee, a point I’ve already made but will make again due to the rather impressive nature of his goatee. I even attempted (and almost succeeded at) a passage in Hebrew.

Afterwards, I sat in the garden, sometimes alone, sometimes with a few boys my age, talking about the wonderful country I was about to leave, and thinking about the irony that I was leaving on the day of the Exodus TO Israel. The silence around the house really helped, and the meal (accompanied by some endearingly awkward music by the youngest at the table- a novel take on Ma Nishtana it must be said.)

Johannes and I made a spot of music for the guests after the meal, cunningly omitting “Gentleman’s Wash” from the set list. This was appreciated by many of the people there, and it was great to do this at a Passover meal.

The taxi ride home was actually done by Itzik’s son, who knew a lot of English and was equally easy to communicate with. I knew I’d had maybe the first great Seder of my life.

The End: Sunday 20^th April 2008

This was it. Two months of smiles, tears, sweat, some blood, blisters, taxis and one hell of a lot of fresh pitta bread had reached its final day. This made me very, very, very sad. Had I been anywhere in the world, in the harshest regions of Kara-Kulpakstan or abandoned in the Arctic Tundra, for two months, it would be hard to leave. This house had been my life and everything in it for 9 weeks, and I did not know how I would view my life when I returned home. Would it be with some kind of renewed vigour, knowing I’m lucky to have my full health? Or would it be with revulsion and dissatisfaction, knowing that Southend is a living, moving dung heap of a dwelling place.

The Iraqi mothers took it upon themselves to make it easier for me to leave. As soon as I emerged downstairs for breakfast, I was followed by a horde of them shouting for soap, eggs, shampoo, oil, everything, all at the same time. This is not something I would particularly miss when I arrived home. I fried myself some brunch (my last malawa, a sad moment) and sad outside with Johannes, quite quietly, thinking about how I would cope outside the house. I hadn’t become institutionalised or anything of the sort, I would just miss the freedom and fulfilment this house provided on a basic emotional level.

Dr. Joe came round, and we had a bit of an impromptu disco with Kurdish music (Susan had a pretty impressive array of it on her laptop, although it could all have been the same song, I was never sure) and Johannes and I played together for the last time- something I’d have slight pangs of emotion about were it not for the fact that I missed hearing my own instrument and voice anyway and playing in keys other than D or G.

And so came the moment where I ascertained that I had left nothing behind (save some shoes, which was deliberate as they were as battered as the washing machine, and a scarf, which was not deliberate and I actually quite regret as it was quite a nice scarf) and lugged my, well, luggage down three flights of stairs, which didn’t pose the challenge I thought I would due to my newly forged rippling biceps. It was at this point my heart broke, somewhat ironically. The face of little Ramadan, who I’d only ever seen blank-faced or smiling gleefully, dropped, as he associated suitcases with permanent or at least long-term separation as he’d only just used his suitcase for the first time also. Both he and Ali ran up to me and threw their spindly arms around my knees (as far as they could reach) and as I turned to leave the door for the last time, I heard Ramadan squeak an almost silent but noticeable “Maheri [farewell] Dada.” I couldn’t look back at him, I wouldn’t have been able to withstand the force of that child’s eyes.

And so the taxi pulled up, and as I walked down the path to the haphazardly installed front gate (opening this was a task I almost definitely will not miss) all the mothers and children in the house filed after me shouting happily, not realising they would never see me again (maybe some of them were happy for precisely this reason) and it was here that I realised the enormity of the impact of my time here: my presence was loved and appreciated by most of the people there, and the smiling and laughing, I came to realise upon reflection, was not glee to see the back of me (although I’m sure Hadassa the cleaner had a quiet cackle to herself) but gratitude.

Dr. Joe climbed into the taxi with me, as he had to get back to the hospital, and as Johannes took me to one side, told me I was going to be a great father and gave me a comforting hug before bundling me into the taxi, I couldn’t help uttering the last sentence I’d ever utter at Borochov Echad before feeling a hot, salty tear make tracks down my face. This sentence went thus: “That hurt so, so much.” It was maybe the most emotion I’ve ever put into five words.

The rest was a bit of a blur, although I distinctly remember being extraordinarily confident with the airport hustle and bustle, as if I’d been doing it for years. I arrived in the departure lounge, sat there gazing wistfully over Jerusalem whilst listening to music, before discovering I was in the smaller departure lounge and could do some serious duty free shopping instead of being, well, pathetic really. So I went and bought myself a 1.75 litre bottle of Jagermeister, which suddenly made me feel a fair bit better.

On the plane home I just zoned out a little bit, read a spot of Bill Bryson and listened to music. It was a slightly delayed but almost entirely uneventful flight (closest thing to exciting: they almost forgot to give me my food so I had to ask for it) but my parents’ reaction when I got home was sublime. Mine was the first suitcase from the luggage conveyor, something which I don’t think will ever happen again, and I’ve never seen my mother move so fast.

I talked jetlagged, tired gibberish for the car journey home, and collapsed into bed after taking the wise decision to procrastinate any unpacking or organisation until later on.

My bed felt extremely comfortable, and it was great to see the house again. I fell to my knees and kissed the carpet because I hadn’t seen any for two months, and the piano was calling me but I couldn’t answer because my sister was asleep in preparation for her art GCSE tomorrow.

Everything was awfully quiet.

Epilogue: Preparations and Panic

Yes, I’ve made the extremely pretentious decision to repeat the opening title. In more than a literal sense, I’m back where I started, back where I was even 8 months ago: jobless, with many of my friends still at university, although this time around their return was imminent: I found a small amount of relief in this.

I was preparing myself to go back to normality, and as soon as I set foot on the Number 20 bus to Southend it felt as if I’d never left. I kept chuckling to myself about how absolutely nothing had changed in any way. What did I expect? Was the Eastwood in my mind a neon-coloured metropolis filled with hover cars and computerised waiters (even a restaurant would do)? Was I expecting a volcano to have sprung up in the middle of Chalkwell, decimating all life there and reducing Essex to a post-apocalyptic nightmare? Would I finally get to be Mad Max? I’m not quite sure why I anticipated something being different, but all Israel did was make my current place of dwelling seem very, very feeble indeed.

That’s just Southend though. It’s a fantastic place, until you leave for longer than a week, and then you realise just how good everywhere else is. It’s like the ex-girlfriend you thought you loved dearly and now can’t remember the name of. I was walking through Southend, job-hunting (largely unsuccessfully), and I noticed I was audibly groaning after I saw every person walk past: every girl in a polka-dot dress with a lego haircut talking about “Dave ‘oo she shaaaaaaaaaaagged;” every middle-aged gambling addict who’d never been married and was talking about how Bert has ripped ‘im off abaaaht the mota;’ every baby-blasted young mother or polo-shirt wearing oik who was almost definitely going to hit you if you looked at him. I realised how colourful Israel was and how lifeless and dull this “town” was.

Yes, of course I’d missed my friends, who I was in the process of making reunions with (I’d been drunk twice in the first week back- you can take the boy out of Southend…) and I was craving the company of my significant other, but that does not negate the fact that Southend and its populace are about as emotionally engaged/engaging as a rabid chestnut.

I left part of me in Jerusalem, and a smaller but still significant part of me in Tel Aviv. The question was whether there was enough of me left to keep going in England. The prospect of employment seemed to be getting further away by the minute, and I had no incentive to wake up before midday, and this was hugely depressing, considering I couldn’t actually sleep. I’d never slept so soundly as in Israel.

I wouldn’t be able to reap the emotional rewards of my voyage until months after. Right now, however, I was falling into the same bad habits I was carrying in my hand luggage at Ben Gurion.

Things aren’t as bad as I’m suggesting at the moment. I took a break from writing between this paragraph and the last because it was upsetting me, and in this space I manage to secure myself a highly paid position crunching numbers for the NHS, I’ve seen my girlfriend and we decreed to make the raging rows a thing of the past, henceforth ensuring we had a bloody marvellous weekend. It’s also so lovely to see my friends on a regular basis again, and also the acquaintances. Many of them have now become firm friends, particularly my unemployment buddy, Chris, who made the exceptionally wise move of breaking his leg in five places and is now reaping the (incapacity) benefits without actually doing much.

In conclusion to the mammoth adventure (I mean this not only in the context of my journey but also you reading it- if you got this far I owe you a beverage) there’s no place like home. There’s also no place like Israel.