Posts From Jerusalem

The Amazing Arava

Right from our first venture into Israel in 1984, when we visited David as a student at Hebrew University, I was greatly impressed by what the Israelis had been able to do here in three and a half decades
and despite three Arab attempts to wipe them out.  The Judean hillsides were green with hand-planted trees.  The swamps of the coastal plains had been drained and transformed into productive vegetable fields.  Old cities had grown and new ones had been established.  Despite a killing inflation at that time, the country was growing and thriving.
   Visiting David and his family each spring since their move here in the summer of 2003, our travels revealed new verdure and orchards and fields of plenty every time we left the house.  And a world of commerce and industry that we did not see was humming out there,  adding to a thriving national economy--again despite intafadas and suicide bombings and sadly unfulfilled  negotiations by the Palestinians.
   Each "Study Vacation" we've taken with AACI has enlarged our view of the country--an awesome richness of human and natural resources, of antiquities, of cultural venues.

   And, just when I was fairly sure we'd seen most (or even all) of it,  we went down to the central Arava valley for still more!

Begin with the word "moshav"- an  agricultural co-operative of private farmers.  Then picture five moshavim, each about 4 or 5 square miles in area and each moshav run by 120 families and about 700 Thai workers (who live with these families).   You already know that this is desert land where only acacia trees and a few  other extremely hardy plants (that can survive on 10" of winter rain) will grow.   Take away that part of he desert gouged and ravined by flash floods, as well as the flood plain itself.  What's left is hard-packed rocky clay that most roots cannot penetrate, so sand is imported (mostly from nearby Jordan) as a growing medium.  Wells must be drilled to reach the plentiful water of deep ancient aquafers (150' to 3000' down), though the deeper water is hot and brackish and thus must be treated/cooled before it can be used for irrigation. 

The endless rows of peppers, tomatoes, eggplant, and other vegetables are covered (like greenhouses) by mesh or plastic.  Drip irrigation hoses bring nutrient-laden water right to the roots.   The desert sun does its powerful magic, and there is lush production.  Not only of vegetables but of vast acres of date palms,  yielding some of he finest dates in the world.

Now consider this:  these five moshavim produce 60-70% of Israel's agricultural exports.  Truck farms are not meant to be beautiful. But these are mightily impressive!   And in the desert, yet!

Alright, the farming in the desert thing is marvelous, but (they say) that's what the Israelis do--make the desert bloom, or become productive.  So, let's look at some antiquities.
   It seems that the Arava Valley goes back to biblical times (and earlier, if you remember the stone-age remains we saw last October in the southern Arava).  Four or five spots in the southern Arava are mentioned in Exodus as places where the Children of Israel camped or found water.  Here, on this trip,  one special place at Moa in the central Arava was a fortification to protect the southeastern boundary of Judea against the Edomites (from what is now Jordan).  This fortification was apparently enlarged several times during the period of "Kings" and down to the end of the Hesmonian monarchies, just before their conquest by the Babylonians in the 6th century BCE.
   By the times of Greek and Roman conquest of this area, a thriving spice and incense trade had developed between the lower Arabian peninsula and the port of Gaza (thence by ship to Greece and Italy and later into Europe).  The Nabateans, in the first century BCE rebuilt these fortifications into one of their way stations along this route.  The Romans eventually took it over and added their (patented) bath houses.  The last evidence of occupation is from the early Byzantine era (5th-6th centuries CE). 
   These remains are only partially excavated, revealing two or three levels of buildings.  When and if further work is done, who knows what else may come to light.
   The excavations are on three levels over several acres, comprised of waist and shoulder-high walls--perimeter and gate, dwellings, baths, etc.  In comparison to the fully exposed ruins we saw a year ago in the north these look a little crude.  But these, along with Megido and a very few others (outside of Jerusalem), offer a glimpse into more than a thousand years of history.
   On  the previous day,   we saw another  structure of the  Nabateans (mentioned above).  These were an especially interesting (and mysterious) people.  They are thought to have been nomadic tribes from the Arabian and Jordanian deserts, with no written documentation, but with distinctive pottery, some of it ass thin as eggshell porcelain.  They first appear in the first century BCE as possible creators of the fabled spice and incense route.  The apparently were able to maintain way stations in the brutally dry desert by means of water storage and basic farming at these way stations, methods that have died with them.  The Nabateans, as a distinct culture, vanish in the 8th century CE, apparently absorbed by the spread of Islam.
   Another part of our tour was strictly for the birds--Arabian Babblers, to be precise (no joke).  One of the Moshavim has a bird sanctuary, partly for the benefit of migrating birds (over a million each year traveling from Africa to Europe), and partly as a research facility.  Dr. Ronnie Ostreicher guided us for some two hours in an area inhabited by 7 Arabian Babblers (there can be as many as 24 in a social group).   For two hours, we learned from him watched them and fed them a little.  For the food (Dr. Ostereicher has earned their trust with food and proximity), they  hopped around within a few yards of us--a little nervous, to be sure, but more like pigeons in the park than birds in the wild!

That was not the last surprise awaiting us in the central Arava Valley.   We visited an antelope farm.  And why would anyone think to set up such a thing in the barren desert?  In this case, there are several reasons.  First, the dozen or so animals represented here,  most from the African veldt-a dozen species of antelope and the wild ass-- plus the Barbary sheep, are either endangered or actually on the edge of extinction.  So, the owner is breeding them here for zoos and for return to the wild.  As his venture here grows, he hopes to ultimately have a "safari" type of experience for Israelis to enjoy.

As a side venture, he is also breeding Langastinos (or crayfish)
for food and research.  Apparently, Israeli scientists, studying the way these shell fish regenerate broken off body parts, are close to developing a technique for regenerating knee socket tissue that has been damaged by arthritis--without surgery.

Probably the least expected enterprise here in the desert, however, (at least for me), was the crocodile farm.  Yes, a very determined woman, with the help of her husband, built several cement and rock pools on a few acres of this otherwise unused landscape.  That, she said, was the hard part
.  For a few years, now, they have collected adult Nile crocs--10' - 15', long, cold-blooded, and very nasty.  They then set about breeding them and incubating the eggs artificially (thus doubling the survival rate) and caring for the hatchlings, further increasing the survival rate (compared to that in the wild). 

Why?  Again, the two main purposes are to restock the severely diminishing wild stock in Egypt (poaching, which is hard to control, threatens the Nile croc with extinction) and selling them to zoos around the world.  In addition, some precious belly hide is sold for shoes and handbags, and the meat is also in demand by gourmets (?).  They can produce 1,000 baby crocs a year now;  they aim for an annual production of 5,000.

This latest wonderful trip was a kind of send off as we head back to the US on March 18th.  During this winter here, we have finished our apartment ("!!!) and made contact with some old friends:   most recently with Al Bogorad whom we haven't seen since our New Paltz days 30 years ago.  Bea and Maury Friedman spent a weekend with us on the way to see their son in the southern Arava.  And, back in late December, we went to dinner twice with Joyce and Brooks Colburn (from Westport) who were here on a tour.

A very fine stay it has been.   As Porky Pig used to say, "That's All, Folks
!" (until this coming October, at least).

Share An Important Moment From the Past

This is not a political blog (and it is not likely to become one).  Still, my time here in Israel during he past two winters has certainly given me (and Arlene, too) something of an Israeli perspective of events in this neighborhood.  More than the perspective, perhaps,  we have learned a lot of Israeli history.  One highly charged moment of that history was brought eloquently to life this past Saturday evening by Yehuda Avner, at the Great Synagogue.  This former ambassador and adviser to several prime ministers recounted the meeting, in July 1977, at the White House, between President Jimmy Carter and Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin. 

Since I cannot do justice to his depiction of he event, I offer below part of his article in the Jerusalem Post of last fall that Avner read to us.  And he shouyld know what happened there, since he took the notes at that meeting on which this is based.    Enjoy!

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[Presented for its historical significance in view of Jimmy Carter's book. If it had any positive effect on Jimmy Carter, it is not evident in his book,]
The day Jimmy Carter was reduced to silence
Jerusalem Post ^ | Sep. 11, 2003 | Yehuda Avner


Jimmy Carter, peanut farmer, ran an austere White House. Consonant with his innate Calvinistic intuitions, he cast himself in the role of citizen-president. He banned Hail to the Chief, slashed the entertainment budget, sold the presidential yacht, pruned the limousine fleet, and generally rid his mansion of foppery, artifice, and pretentiousness. He even carried his own bag.

So when he welcomed prime minister Menachem Begin to the White House in July 1977 with a flamboyant ceremony fit for a king - replete with a 19-gun salute, a march-past of all the armed services, and a choreographed parade of the Army Old Guard Fife and Drum Corps in the white livery of the Revolutionary War - the media rightly conjectured that this was a token of either high esteem or pure flattery.

US ambassador Samuel Lewis confided that it was a bit of both: "The president was persuaded that in dealing with Begin honey would get him a lot further than vinegar," he said.

And, indeed, the talks did get off to a decent start. The two leaders and their advisers exchanged views on such sensitive topics as an Israel-Arab peace parley in Geneva, the Soviet mischief in the Horn of Africa, and the PLO menace from Southern Lebanon. Then came a pause, and when coffee was served the president and the premier sipped in silence, each sizing the other up as if by mutual consent in preparation for what was next to come.

And what came next was an amazingly detailed presentation of the Likud creed on the inalienable rights of the Jewish people to Eretz Yisrael. This being the first summit between a Likud premier and an American president, Menachem Begin was determined that Jimmy Carter hear firsthand what he stood for.

Secretary of State Cyrus Vance, an unruffled man as a rule, became quite agitated upon hearing that Judea, Samaria, and the Gaza Strip were not to be relinquished. He contended that this would put pay to any plan for a Geneva peace conference.

The president thought so, too. Carter wore a mask of politeness as he peered at his notes, written in his neat penmanship on heavy bond White House stationary, but one could tell by his clenched jaw that irritation lurked beneath. He said in his reedy Georgian accent: "Mr. Prime Minister, my impression is that your insistence on your rights over the West Bank and Gaza would be regarded as an indication of bad faith. It would be a signal of your apparent intention to make the military occupation of these areas permanent.

"It will close off all hopes of negotiations. It would be incompatible with my responsibilities as president of the United States if I did not put this to you as bluntly and as candidly as I possibly can. Mr. Begin," Carter railed, exasperation flaring in his steely, pale-blue eyes, "there can be no permanent military occupation of those conquered territories."

We Israeli officials around the conference table in the Cabinet Room, where the meeting was held, eyed each other with sideways squints. But Begin had readied himself for this encounter with this post-Watergate president of moral renewal - Carter the preacher with a penchant for self-righteousness.

So he leaned back and gazed with deceptively mild eyes above the president's head at the old brass chandelier hanging over the grand oak table. He was not going to be rushed.

He knew that he and the president were on vastly different trajectories, a no-exit confrontation on the settlement of the biblical heartland. Carter was as cast iron as himself. He would not bend. Nevertheless, Begin had somehow to persuade this judgmental man, who wanted to be a healer, this energetic doer with the empirical mind of an engineer, that he honestly and truly wanted peace, and that the territories were not only a matter of historic rights but also of vital security.

SO WHEN he returned Carter's stare he did so with a look that was grave and commanding.

"Mr. President," he said, "I wish to tell you something personal - not about me, but about my generation. What you have just heard about the Jewish people's inherent rights to the Land of Israel may seem academic to you, theoretical, even moot. But not to my generation. To my generation of Jews these eternal bonds are indisputable and incontrovertible truths, as old as recorded time. They touch upon the very core of our national being.

"For we are an ancient homecoming nation. Ours is an almost biblical generation of suffering and courage. Ours is the generation of Destruction and Redemption. Ours is the generation that rose up from the bottomless pit of Hell."

His voice was mesmeric, his tone deeply reflective, as if reaching down into generations of memory. The sheer ardor of his language nudged the table to intense attention.

"We were a helpless people, Mr. President. We were bled white, not once, not twice, but century after century, over and over again. We lost a third of our people in one generation - mine. One-and-a-half million of them were children - ours. No one came to our rescue. We suffered and died alone. We could do nothing about it. But now we can. Now we can defend ourselves."

Suddenly he rose to his feet, his face as tough as steel. "I have a map," he said, intrepidly.

An aide snappily unrolled a 3x5 chart between the two men.

"There is nothing remarkable about this map," Begin went on. "It is quite a standard one of our country, displaying the old armistice line as it existed until the 1967 Six Day War, the so-called Green Line."

He ran his finger along the defunct frontier, which meandered down the center of the country.

"And as you see, our military cartographers have simply marked the infinitesimal mileages of defensive depth we had in that war." He leaned across the table and pointed to the deep brown-colored mountainous area which covered the northern sector of the map.

"The Syrians sat on top of these mountains, Mr. President. We were at the bottom." His finger marked the Golan Heights, and then rested on the green panhandle below. "This is the Hula Valley. It is hardly 10 miles wide. They shelled our towns and villages from the tops of those mountains, day and night." Carter gazed, his hands clamped under his chin.

The prime minister's finger now moved southwards, to Haifa: "The armistice line is hardly 20 miles away from our major port city," he said. And then it rested on Netanya: "Our country here was reduced to a narrow waist nine miles wide." The president nodded. "I understand," he said.

But Begin was not sure that he did. His finger trembled and his voice rumbled: "Nine miles, Mr. President. Inconceivable! Indefensible!" Carter made no comment.

The finger now hovered over Tel Aviv, and then it drummed the map: "Here live a million Jews, 12 miles from that indefensible armistice line. And here, between Haifa in the north and Ashkelon in the south" - his finger ran up and down the coastal plain - "live two-thirds of our total population.

"And this coastal plain is so narrow that a surprise thrust by a column of tanks could cut the country in two in a matter of minutes. For whosoever sits in these mountains" - his fingertips tapped the tops of Judea and Samaria - "holds the jugular vein of Israel in his hands."

His dark, watchful eyes swept the stone-faced features of the powerful men sitting opposite him, and with the conviction of one who had fought for everything he had ever gotten, tersely declared:

"Gentlemen, there is no going back to those lines. No nation in our merciless and unforgiving neighborhood can be rendered so vulnerable and survive."

CARTER BENT his head forward, the better to inspect the map, but still said nothing. His eyes were as indecipherable as water.

"Mr. President," continued Begin in a tone that brooked no indifference, "This is our map of national security, and I use that term in its most unembellished sense. It is our map of survival. And the distinction between the past and the present is just that: survival. Today, our menfolk can defend their women and children. In the past they could not. Indeed, they had to deliver them to their Nazi executioners. We were tertiated, Mr. President."

Carter lifted his head. "What was that word, Mr. Prime Minister?"

"Tertiated, not decimated. The origin of the word 'decimation' is one in 10. When a Roman legion was found guilty of insubordination one in 10 was put to the sword. In our case it was one in three - tertiated!"

And now, with moistening eyes, and in a voice that was deliberate, stubborn, his every word weighed, Begin declared, "Sir, I take an oath before you in the name of the Jewish people - this will never ever happen again."

And then he broke down. He compressed his lips, which began to tremble.

Unseeingly, he stared at the map, struggling to blink back the tears. He clenched his fists and pressed them so tightly against the tabletop, his knuckles went white. He stood there, head bent, heart-broken, dignified.

A hush, as silent as a vault, settled on the room. Seized by his private, infernal Shoah reverie, he peered past Carter with a strange reserve in his eyes, a remote stare. It were as if he was looking through this born-again, Southern Baptist president from way inside himself, from that deep, Jewish intimate place of infinite lament and eternal faith - the place of long, long memory. And hidden down there, in that place, he was standing with Moses and the Maccabees.

Carter bowed his head and remained in an attitude of respectful frozen stillness. Others looked away. The tick of the antique clock on the marble mantelpiece suddenly grew audible. An eternity seemed to hang between each tick. The silence was deafening. It was a thunderbolt of national resolve never to go back to those lines.

By degrees, in slow motion, the prime minister raised himself to his full height and the room came back to life. Carter considerately suggested a recess, but Begin said it wasn't necessary. He had made his point.

The writer, a veteran diplomat, was an adviser to four prime ministers, including Menachem Begin.

Visiting With Living Heroes

Each February, the Senior Section of AACI (Assn. of Americans & Canadians in Israel) holds its 'Congress' in some pleasant  place (last year it was at the Dead Sea)l.  It's a time for discussions  of an interesting/useful topic and possibly airing current AACI issues.  This year the Congress was held at he Blue Bay Hotel , right on the wide blue Mediterranean, in the resort city of Natanya.  There were no pressing issues to deal with, but we had a theme

derived from this 60th year of Israel's statehood:  the men and women who came here (1946-1949) to defend the incipient, then fledgling nation, or, "Living Heroes."

You might wonder  how many of those 80-somethings would be alive to tell their stories?   And where would you find them?

Fortunately (for us and for history), these people have an organization called Machal (mah  chkal'), which has personal records on most of the nearly 4,000 "Volunteers from Overseas" (which is what Machal stands for) who became the backbone of the army, navy and air force that defended the new state in 1948-49.   The group continues to this day, but it  was the stories of some of  those original members that we were privileged to share.

One of the speakers, a past president of Machal, tried to explain how this phenomenon came about.The State of Israel did not just suddenly "happen".  A lot of hopeful planning had been going on since the early 1930's, by Zionist organizations and other Jewish groups (mostly in the U.S. and Great Britain), largely directed and funded by the Jewish Agency.  The Great Depression spurred thousands of Jews to emigrate to Palestine and to plan for a post-Mandate Jewish homeland there.  Before WW II, it was a grand dream;  afterwards, it seemed an urgent, even desperate necessity.

The terms of the British Mandate itself, under he League of nations in 1922,  specified that Palestine would eventually become a "Homeland for the Jewish People," though it was vague on many specifics.  And after the end of WW II, Britain clearly wanted to rid itself of this costly and troublesome stewardship. And, behind the scenes, the clearly pro-Jewish sentiments of the 1917 Balfour Declaration had given way by 1930  to Britain's close ties to Arab oil potentates--who were virulently anti-Jewish and to whom the notion of a Jewish homeland any where in the Middle East was anathema.  Very simply, by the 1930's, the British were much more concerned about Arab oil than Zionist Jews.

In 1946, though the world was weary of war, the monstrous reality of the Holocaust was fresh in its face.   Not as something new, then, but as the culmination of 20 years of hope and intermittent  planning, in the fall of 1947,  the infant United Nations began debating the partition of Palestine into Jewish and Arab states, and on May 14, 1948, voted to do this.  Armies of all surrounding Arab countries immediately invaded, bent on wiping out the newborn State of Israel before it could  take its first breath.  And they probably would have succeeded, except that Israel's gestation had been longer and better planned than was apparent at the time.  Through the efforts of several Jewish organizations, mainly the Jewish Agency, a de facto government had been in waiting and planning since 1946.

Israel's defense, though, was obviously a huge, immediate need.

Two underground Jewish militant groups, the Irgun and Hagganah, had worked separately for years to terrorize the British army in its governance of Palestine.   Great Britain allowed only a small annual quota of Jews to enter  Palestine, even as Holocaust survivors and multitudes of other Jews from around the world desperately needed to come there.  Hence the aggressive militancy of Irgun and Hagganah.  The new leaders of Israel convinced these rivals  to unite as part of Israel's "army".  In addition to them, thousands of men and women already in Palestine joined the armed defense.

And this is where Machal came in-- as a decisive element in the armed defense of the new nation.

The great majority (more tan 90%) of Machalniks were seasoned veterans of fighting in WW II, with a year and a half, or more, of military training
and combat experience.  Most had army training, of course, but many came from naval, air force, and a wide variety of technical backgrounds.  An extremely valuable segment had medical, pharmaceutical,  and public health experience.   

Why did they come?  Some Machalniks had planned to come to Palestine anyway.  But most were simply Jews (and a handful of non-Jews)  who had heard or read about the new state--a Jewish homeland at last--  and its dire needs, and felt they had to do something.  So they came.  A few made this life-changing decision almost on a whim--why not?  Their reasons and their stories were so varied.

And where did t hey come from?  Nearly a quarter of the overall number came from South Africa.  Another quarter came from the U.S..  Another quarter from Canada and the U.K..  The remainder came from Scandinavia, several parts of the Soviet Union, many from France and Morocco, from various South American countries, from India, and even a handful from China.   English was the most common language, followed by French, Russian, and Spanish.  And, yes, this was a large problem.  Early on, English was the lingua franca, but Hebrew gradually took over.

What was it like?  The canvas is too broad for me to paint the full picture of how vital these Overseas Volunteers were in the War of Independence, but here are a few glimpses (with figures mentioned in the various talks and from Machal handouts).

Some 83 doctors and 87 nurses and other medical professionals provided he bulk of battlefield casualty treatment, with a few doctors attached to nearly every brigade.  Two doctors were killed in the fighting.  These men and women were also vital in training others as medics and workers in field hospitals.

One of our speakers was a British nurse who volunteered her services in 1947 and was sent to a large relocation camp near Marseilles where thousands of Jewish refugees (Holocaust survivors and dislocated men, women, and children, most  without papers) who wanted to go to Palestine, or to any country that would officially have them.    Learning her job as she went  about it, with minimal supplies and only occasional assistance from a doctor, she did what she could, there and later aboard a ship trying to get to Palestine.

One man gave us insight into the 10 ships that brought some 31,000 Jewish refugees to Palestine, despite the British blockade.   At first he was part of a small covert group of Americans who, right after WW II, purchased small ships (mostly Liberty Ships and the like) that were being sold for scrap.  A few wealthy Jewish families funded this effort.  The group met in a room above Toots Shor's night club (courtesy of Mr. Shor) to set up dummy corporations that "owned" each ship.  Each ship had to appear to be a separate enterprise, so that, if it were intercepted by the British, it could not be traced to Jewish sponsorship.  The names of both the corporations and the ships had be be neutral and innocuous.  He and his colleagues had adventurous lives, getting these relic vessels refitted for passenger-carrying sea duty, getting them to the port for loading, and safely out to sea.  Eventually, he joined the crew of one of these and helped it on its circuitous wandering course to Palestine. ( It had to stop at a dozen or more ports so as not to seem to be bound anywhere in particular.)  He became one of thousands of unsung Machalniks who manned these vessels of hope.  The most famous failure of these was the "Exodus II" whose real story did not have Leon Uris happy landing.

Another fellow, after 4 years as an officer in the Canadian Navy, came to Palestine in early 1948 to serve.  He found theere an old ice breaker (!), 2  destroyer escorts, 2 coast guard patrol boats, and 4 really old American PT boats.  All of these needed significant repairs to be sea-worthy, and crews for each had to be found and trained.  That's where this young Canadian salt came in--and helped establish the Israeli Navy.

Another vital group that received little press was the combat engineers  Their "day job" was training Israeli army recruits.  But some of them also built bridges and airstrips, laid mines and cleared minefields.  Their most memorable achievement, though, was building the "Burma Road" into besieged Jerusalem.

French-speaking and South African Machalniks were the heart of the group that trained the Israeli artillery corps, with help from English and Russians.

The vast desert region of the Negev was virtually conceded to the Israelis after a few months of fierce fighting by Palmach, whose three brigades were bolstered by 450 Machalniks.  One unit in particular so terrorized the Arab forces that it was nicknamed "Beast of the Negev".

At the outset of the 1948 War of Independence, Israel had several "armored" units but only 3 light tanks.  These had been stolen from the British Mandate forces by non-Jewish deserters from the British army.  These tanks saw action mostly as decoys and as a "show of strength" in strategic spots.  Israel's real 'armor' early on were armored half-tracks smuggled in from central Europe as fighting forces disarmed after WW II.  Machalniks provided  much of the training and strategic savvy to make these vehicles effective against Arab tank corps.  (After the War of independence, not surprisingly, tanks were a priority in the new IDF (Israel Defense Force).

Among the many Machal panelists was a former US Navy corpsman who was aboard the Exodus II, helping to look after the sick.   A few air force veterans took the handful of Piper Cubs and other light planes that were on hand, trained additional volunteers, and, with ingenuity and daring, put together Israel's "air force".  Veteran flight mechanics put together a crated Spitfire and used random spare parts to rehab another fighter plane;  both were made airworthy and helped provide a little air power.  Machal mechanics were a valuable part of every fighting unit, providing expertise and ingenious repairs, and training those who kept Israel's trucks and fighting vehicles running.

Ironically, the Soviet Union gave covert assistance, allowing arms, spare parts, and a miscellany of equipment to pass through Czechoslovakia,hoping that the new state, with socialist leanings, might become its toehold in the Middle East (!).
Among the casualties of the War, 119 Machalniks were killed or MIA.  Many more were wounded and a handful were POW.

Most Machalniks returned to heir home countries after the War, but about 550 either stayed here or returned to Israel within a year or two to stay.  Most of the two dozen or so men and women whom we saw and listened to looked very good.  One needed a part-time wheelchair and three of them used a cane.  The others, though, seemed as spry as any of us in the audience.  As a group, these Machalniks would have passed for a youngish batch of seniors who stayed in shape with tennis and swimming.  In the history of Israel, this first wave of Volunteers from Overseas provided remarkable and essential sinews for Israel's arms!

Of Cabbages, Drain Pipes, and a Newspaperk

We must be having fun, because time is fleeting by faster than Humphrey after a squirrel.   Actually, we are having fun (the trips, the concerts, the lectures),  but there is a hard-to-define element beyond those high points
--call it pleasure or being satisfied--that makes our daily life here very nice.

Our routines, walking the dogs, shopping, and (at times) just  trekking somewhere, is ordinary.  Some days our 'excitement' is deciding on a restaurant.  There's breakfast and the morning paper,and the NY Times Op Ed  columns and our kids' blogs to read on-line.    So, it's often 10 am by the time we have our act together.  Real excitement boils to the surface when something is needed for the apartment--a trivet or two, a vase, coffee mugs, or a pot;  then we're off in hot pursuit, like hungry wolves on the scent of a rabbit.  Oh, the sport!!!

It's not only what you do, of course, but the circumstances under which you do these things.  And, for us, despite all the craziness of the Israeli government and the devalued dollar and the Palestinians (hapless Fatah and madly aggressive Hamas), despite all the things we could gripe about, we walk the Jerusalem streets feeling safe and at home.  Outside, it's been colder at times than in a dozen years, and, of course, we have a day of chill, nasty rain  about once a week (it IS the rainy season, after all!), and most recently several inches of snow and slush(!!!), but inside we are warm and comfortable in ways that have nothing to do with Celsius.

On the negative side (inevitable), there have been a couple of real nuisances to ruffle our routine:  (1) incredible noises in our kitchen drain and (2) an even more incredible bureaucracy at the Jerusalem Post subscription department. 

Those rumblings and percussive noises emanating from our kitchen sink gave the place a tenement/haunted house ambiance that was not attractive.  After two months of nagging our contractor Gili about this, and he adroitly dodging the issue, he was spurred to action by the possibility of a reference to friends who were planning a renovation.  Once he actually went up on the roof to check the venting (often discussed but not quite done), he discovered that a recent roof repair had inadvertently covered the vent opening for our drain pipe.  Tear away a piece of errant tar paper and---voila!--no more noises!  If only all of life's problems were so easily solved.

The Jerusalem Post--or at least its bureaucracy--was the source of our second headache.  This paper, admittedly a curious assemblage of news, opinion, and analysis (though head and shoulders better than most city papers in the US),  still offers us the most complete coverage of Israel IN ENGLISH.  So, we ordered home delivery when we moved into our new place, and they do deliver, right o our door, every day and in all weather.

The devil was in the billing details.  I had them put their monthly charge on our credit card, but someone there, in his/her wisdom, entered the annual subscription rate (which would  have been ridiculous for us who would not be here all year).  The problem lay in trying to change that arrangement.

The cheerful cherubs in customer service will happily take your subscription order or listen patiently to your complaint or refer you to the best person to help you--anything at all, except actually DO something for you.  You see, they are as powerless as a picture on the wall.  And, most frustrating of all, they cannot even forward your call to, say, the finance office, where someone can look into your subscription mess.  No, they can only leave a message at the appropriate desk and someone will call you back in 24 or 48 hours.  Right!

The closest I got to meaningful action in the first six weeks of calling was a fellow named 'Mark' who assured me with the sincerity and concern of a brother that he would personally hand carry the message to his friend in finance, who would call me the next business day.  Well, it didn't happen and I was never able to locate 'Mark' again (!).

So, we threatened to cancel our subscription.  But, of course, those folks don't have the power to do that;  the message will be passed on to finance,....

When we mentioned to David the crazy difficulty we were having with the J.P., he roared into high gear (in Hebrew--much more effective), threatening that we would come to their office in Tel Aviv with a lawyer if they did not immediately cancel our subscription and refund an appropriate balance of the annual rate we'd paid.  Well, HE was able to get through to finance.  He was assured of the cancellation and even sent a confirming email, with the promise of a faxed copy of the refund details.   That was four working days ago, and the paper is still at our door each morning and David is still awaiting the refund fax.  Stay tuned, guys!   We may yet be driving to Tel Aviv to storm the J.P. offices.

Some of life's problems are easy.  Others may require something strong.

Another opening, another tour

When AACI (Association of Americans & Canadians in Israel) announces another tour, we rush to sign up.  And with good reason.   In 4 days, 3 nights, they pack a lot of good stuff--a nice place to crash, knowledgeable guides, most of the meals (not gourmet, but good, well-prepared food), a significant insight into an area of Israel, and at an affordable price.  Our trip to the northern Negev, Dec. 24-27, was another good one.

The bus trip to our location is generally accomplished during the first morning,  and we begin exploring  right away, in this case,  at the Center For the Promotion of Bedouin Women. 

As their normally nomadic life style has evolved (for many Bedouins) into fixed encampments, villages, and even one small city, they have remained among the poorest Arabs, with the least education.   Groups trying to help the Bedouin community generally, now realize that one effective way is through helping Bedouin women--with  work that will bring money into the family economy.  Such work becomes a practical wedge, first raising the family standard of living, if only slightly, but also prompting the male head of the family to realize that letting the woman out of the home can be a very good thing.

Working out of their homes, starting and maintaining small businesses, working in these enterprises, and learning such basic crafts as wool processing and weaving (and retailing her own and others' work) become incentives that attract some of these women to go to classes, get out of their homes and become aware of the wider world, and contribute markedly to their own and their children's betterment.

This Center, then, showed us a woman (Hagar) demonstrating the spinning of her wool with the simplest of hand-held devices, and then weaving it into a rug on a simple loom on the rug-covered floor.  The women weave rugs (mostly small ones),  pillow covers, and pocket books.   They dye their wool into several vivid colors as well as earth tones.  Their  simple patterns are very attractive.  We bought two pillows, which turned out not to go well in our living room (for which they were intended), but add an attractive touch to the guest room.

The Center, with its own web site (of course) and retail arrangements in several Israeli cities, is slowly but effectively bringing Bedouin women productively, into the world--to schooling, social awareness, commerce, and even higher education. 

After lunch, we stopped in at a kibbutz where several dozen Jewish families from Cochin, in s.w. India, have settled.  As part of their effort to retain the distinctive customs, clothing, and life style from their old diaspora enclave, they have set up a kind of museum collection of exhibits, featuring clothing, utensils, photos, and verbal descriptions of their old life.  This is very interesting for visitors, perhaps vital for a larger 'world memory';  but a third generation of Cochin Jews, wrestling with assimilation and 'progress', may need those exhibits as much as the outside world--very soon.

On Tuesday, we headed south into the Negev to explore a roughly elliptical 'crater'  (some 25 miles across).  Sometime after the primitive seas that had covered Asia Minor and northern Africa had settled into the Mediterranean and Red Seas, this point on the earth's crust had "popped" due to internal pressure, laying bare many strata of minerals and fossils that become an illustrated textbook for the geologist.

Beginning at the visitor's center, whose vantage point gave us a look around the valley and surrounding hills, with a short film outlining the main features of this formation, we visited their Chai (life) center, where a small zoo of the local animals and plants were on display.  It was more intimate than most  such collections, with a chance to see and pet a (non-poisonous) diamond snake and view (at fairly close quarters) a large porcupine,  and  smaller desert rodents unique to the area.  And all this with commentary from a resident specialist.

Our tour of this area took us from a wall of fossilized snails and colored mineral layers (measured in geological time) to the ruins of a "service station" on the Spice Road from Petra to Yoffo (from only 1600 or so years ago).  Among other things, we learned that the camel, not indigenous to these deserts, was brought in from Africa and quickly became "the ship of the desert" because of its strength, endurance, stability in sand, and (especially) its capacity for going long distances in the heat between water fill-ups.   A walk along one road gave us access to remarkable large sandstone crystal formations.

As darkness was falling, we stopped for one of the best astronomy lessons Arlene and I had ever experienced.  In a small warehouse, an entrepreneurial science teacher had set up a little theater where he showed his own video/movie introducing one to the heavens.  We then went outside for a look at the real sky and its most obvious lights (North star, Mars, Venus, Big Dipper, etc. (which made more sense and were more understandable now).  The instructor had set up a 5" telescope for us to take turns looking at Mars.  We saw and understood things that (for me) had only been facts taken on faith before!  A very fine teacher!

Not so fine was the  restaurant stop on the way back to the  kibbutz.  Our choice of chicken turned out to be the rubber variety.  That's life on he road, I guess.

Wednesday took us to the most important resource of the Negev--water.

On a kibbutz  in the north-western Negev, right on the Gaza border (well fenced and lit), we saw the first deep water well (1937, and still in use) with  which Zionist settlers tested the viability of farming the desert.  The experiment worked out and other wells followed, permitting determined people to literally make the desert a real farming region, to cover it with groves of trees, and make their kibbutzim (in time) look like semi-tropical plantations.

We toured the  National Water Service's regional pumping station that provides fresh water for Be'er Sheva and other communities in the northern Negev.   Its massive pumps and computerized systems (run by a handful of workers) were impressive, but (for me) the kicker was their back-up.  Most of Israel, including the Negev, runs on electricity;  but what happens if there is a power failure of if sabotage should cut of service to the pumping station?  The answer stood in the next room to the pumps:  a nearly 2-story-high diesel engine, salvaged from an ocean liner, recondition, and relocated here to power an equally massive generator.  When switched on (as it is periodically for testing), this auxiliary system provides electricity for the pumps and the whole plant, so that the water does not stop flowing.

That evening after dinner, we learned a great deal about "Farming in the Negev" from a film and two speakers.   The story and its details would sound a little hyperbolic--except that we had driven through and walked through so many examples (including the kibbutz were staying in) of this modern miracle.  Indeed, beyond all that Arlene and I have seen in both the Negev and the Arava Valley in October, the wooded green hills and valleys of central Israel (85-90% of the trees planted during statehood), as well as the plentiful parks within every city, town, and settlement in Israel, attest to this nation's successful commitment to 'greening' the land.   From earliest Zionist settlement through statehood, trees have always been a high priority--and with magnificent results.

The last day of our tour, prosaic and workmanlike though its details might seem, had its own special impact on me.  We toured the Netafim manufacturing plant (one of 15 worldwide) where they fabricate drip irrigation materials around the clock and around the calendar (closed only on Yom Kippur).  Manufactured by the most up-to-date and ingenious machinery, these materials (hoses with drip dispensers inside, made to the buyer's specifications) and human expertise provide efficient use of water to farmers, municipalities, landscapers, and reclamation projects on every continent except Antarctica.  Since the early '60's when the first drip devices were invented (and steadily improved over the years), Netafim has made Israel a world leader in the use (and re-use) of water.   Obviously, great computerized machines spitting out little dingies, extruding miles of hose, or assembling things will provide n inspiring sight for just so long.  Yet, to absorb the intellectual and economic impact of this company's work here in Israel and around the world makes me understand something about Israeli ingenuity and resurgent prosperity.

Later Thursday morning we had a look at another product demonstrating how Israel can make something out of not much.  I first heard of the jojoba ('ho-ho'-ba) bean and its oil in a NY Times article in the late '70's, when agricultural scientists  discovered its benefits to human hair and skin.  So, said the article, this plant that grows wild in the deserts of Mexico, was going to be cultivated in the s.w. U.S. deserts (as I suppose it was).  Fast forward to the early 21st Century on a Negev kibbutz which had tried, unsuccessfully, with several crops.  They found and raised  jojoba bushes (a perfect fit in this desert land) and built a processing plant for crushing and bottling the oil, which has many uses--a fine lubricant and skin restorative, as well as a now basic ingredient of shampoos and soaps.  And their operation is growing along with the demand.  I couldn't resist getting a couple of spray bottles of the stuff, and it is really nice!

All too soon we were heading back to Jerusalem, much more aware of how much is going on in the northern Negev.

Catching Up: II

Renovations aside, we've had a busy fall, especially once we moved into the new place in mid October.

The six or eight times we've gotten to the Conservative Synagogue Monday evening forums have all been informative and stimulating, with speakers raging from  political analysts to  arceologists. 

The Great Synagogue's monthly lecture series (Saturday evening) gave us David Horovitz (Editor of the Jerusalem Post) in October and his principal columnist, Caroline Glick, in November.   For deep, balanced, and authoritative analysis of the Israeli-Palestinian situation and prospects, those two are like Thomas Friedman and Charles Krauthammer.    Neither speaker found much to e hopeful about (before Annapolis) (both have been skeptical  in their writings since then), with Ms. Glick even arguing persuasively that  it's much too early for a 'two-state solution', given that the Palestinians don't have anything with which to make a state yet (government, infrastructure, policy, leadership, and especially unity).  Unfortunately, nothing has happened, even Annapolis, since their talks to raise much hope (for me)

In late October, Arlene and I took an AACI tour to the southern Arava valley (the eastern strip of Israel, running from just below the Dead Sea to Eilat.  It is significantly lower than the Negev Desert, also mostly desert, but with its own distinct ecology.)

We stayed at Kibbutz Ketura during our 4-day visit, with a room at their guest house and most meals in the communal dining room (good, solid institutional fare--healthy and uninspired).  Our tour last spring to kibbutzim in Galil in the north (as well as informal sources) had given us to understand that the kibbutz movement was dying out, with virtually all surviving groups going private to stay afloat.  We were surprised, then, to find that the 6 or 8 kibbutzim within a 30-minute drive were thriving.  The one exception to this point had suffered from mismanagement and was bailed out in 2003 by several neighbors, collectively, with stringent changes, safeguards, and oversight to get and keep them on track.  All the groups in this area had thriving agricultural operations, each with two or more of the following: date trees, goats (milk and  cheese), field crops,  poultry and eggs, bee hives,  citrus, and  wine grapes.  Each rented out their guest houses like 'bed and breakfasts' and to tour groups.  Some had light manufacturing.  And several had ingenious projects to make money:  Kibbutz Ketura grew a red algae (which are dried and used for food dyes and  sold to Japan where it is a delicacy;  A nearby kibbutz maintains a therapeutic horseback riding stable, for treating emotionally disturbed children (effective,  in great demand, and expensive);   another kibbutz has created a "1001 Nights" building complex of marvelous beauty (designed, crafted, and built entirely by the residents over 15 years--most of them artists).  it is functional for them, with offices, meeting rooms, and library, and  is certain to become a tourist attraction for anyone coming through this region.   Several kibbutzim have begun a specialty 'institute'--Kibbutz Lotan houses 'The Center for Creative Ecology.   Ketura has its Arava Institute for Environmental Studies, which is now funded in part by the government and affiliated universities (Israeli and foreign);  a nearby group is developing a solar energy 'farm'--converting some of their (less productive) farm land into fields of solar collectors. 

This last project, a no-brainer for an area with 320-plus days of sunshine a year, is held up by unbelievable red tape in getting permission to convert crop fields to some other use.  And, I am told, this is not he most bizarre instance of Israeli bureaucracy at work!

We spent a very interesting  morning at Utva, examining 8,000-year-old ceremonial remains built by the late stone-age inhabitants of this area, the most complete example of some 18 such on a plateau region between the Arava below and the Negev above.  It consisted of an 18" high 'wall' forming a square, about 150' on a side.  Inside this formation was another square of slightly lower walls, with its corners touching the midpoint of the outer walls (and thus making all the compass points).  Just outside the western side of the inner square was a chamber, 6 ' x 20', with a 2'x4' altar-like platform inside it.  Arceologists studying these formations think they were part of religious observance of some kind, but cannot figure out the details, other than that there seemed to be one of these for each little community.

On another kibbutz,  Dr. Elaine Soloway showed us around her experimental orchard.  Her prize projects included a recently domesticated fruit tree from the mountains of central Africa, whose fruit is highly nutritious, its seeds produce a high-quality lubricating oil, and whose bark and lumber is also useful.    This tree is now ready for commercial use,  with the potential to greatly enhance the nutrition and economy of central Africa. 

Dr. Soloways "Methuselah tree" was actually a headline grabber.  Several  palm tree seeds were found in  an archeological dig;  from surrounding evidence they were thought to be at least 1300-1400 years old, and, of course, were probably quite dead.  Dr. Soloway was invited to try to germinate them (why not?).  After more than a year at this (and pretty well given up as possible), a tiny green shoot was seen above one of them!  Six months later, she reported to us, the shoot is several inches tall and looking very healthy, thank you!   Naturally, this incipient tree was named 'Methuselah'.  The only downside of this success story, she said, was that this made her Methuselah's mother.

On another trip south of our kibbutz, we learned about tree survival in the desert (many grow along dry river beds that flood briefly during the winter rains, providing water enough for those plants that can bloom quickly, store the water, and tough it out for the rest of the hot year.  We learned also that palm trees need huge quantities of water;  thus, when you see palm trees in the desert, it means there's water (an oasis) very near by.

As an icing on this wonderful experience, we found at Ketura Scot Friedman (and his family), son of Bea and Maury Friedman, our friends of many years.  We were able to spend a pleasant few hours with him and his wife.

Our visit to Ketura ended all too soon.

We did not lack for music this fall.  The Israel Chamber Orchestra performed at the YMCA's lovely auditorium, featuring a fine performance of Mozart's piano concerto # 27.  We've also enjoyed two concerts of the Jerusalem Philharmonic.  From our new digs, it's a 20 minute walk to the Jerusalem Theater where they play.

And, of course, it takes from 30 minutes to an hour and a half to plow through the Jerusalem Post after breakfast six mornings a week.  As you know, time flies when you're having fun.

Catching Up: I

In the 1950's classic, Ray Milland lost only a weekend, tragic as that was in its cause.  I have the unsteady feeling that we have lost a couple of months in this theoretical quagmire called 'doing a Jerusalem apartment'.  The thing is simply never quite done.  And the causes for this, individually, are so trivial
that it takes weeks of irritating repetitions before you realize just how much you are standing still in a process that is supposed to be going forward!

A couple of examples will give you some of the flavor of this problem, but nothing of its nerve-grinding malaise.  Long, long ago (I cannot find the actual date even in my appointment book), Yakov (our designer) suggested strongly that we need something on our LR, K, and MBR windows, both for privacy and the good looks of the rooms.  Arlene and I, in our internal make-up, just don't like curtains or drapes.  We like to look out of windows, not close them up.  But Yakov persisted, happily, and we went looking at some possibiities.  Soon we had narrowed  the issue down to Venetian blinds, not slim ones or plastic ones, but traditional wide wooden ones, despite the modern look of our place here--it was something that just worked for us--not really explainable or arguable.

Let's not even count the days spent in coming to that basic decision.  We chose the blinds, the store owner (a genial Mr. Weiss) came to our place in less than a week to measure the 3 windows;.

It took another 3 weeks or so for the blinds to be made up.  (Part of the game that anyone can deal with.)  They were finally ready and delivered, though not installed.  Seems they came with the wrong hardware.  So, the long boxes sat here for a week or 10 days, and then were installed.

The kitchen blinds went up in a flash, as that is a normal window.  The MBR window, though is some 6' x 9', requiring 2 sets of blinds to cover the whole window.  The LR window wall is even larger, taking 3 sets to do the job.  You must understand, also, that large blinds, with strong cords and an ingenious crank mechanism to move them up and down, are nonetheless delicate at heart, requiring fine tuning and adjustments after they go up.   So, Mr. Weiss came 3 times in an effort to get slats to stay parallel to each other and the floor (simultaneously).  Then the spacing between each of the 3 LR blinds was not even (even I could see that!)   Then Mr. Weiss got very busy (or something), making several appointments and either forgetting or simply not showing up.  Then he went on vacation for a week, with the firm assurance that he would tend  to our adjustments when he returned.  Right!  Add 10 days, with a few more no-shows--things came up, he had to run to Beit Shemish, he couldn't leave the store just that morning, ....  Meanwhile, we were tailoring our day around his projected ETA, only to let down yet again.

Maybe our loud complaints got through;  he finally showed up on Dec 4th, took a careful look at the problems (which have not changed in the month-long interim) and decided (correctly) that the LR blinds would have to go back to the factory for adjustment.  They'd be picked up that Sunday.   Amazingly, they were!  But you realize that it will take an act of both God and the Knesset  to guarantee that we won't have a bare LR window on Dec 31st, when we will have guests here.  Perhaps, with good imaginations,  they'll  will be able to picture in their minds what should  be there!

A second (of many) example is our interior doors.--3 bedrooms and 2 baths.  The design choice was made last spring and confirmed during the summer (via email).  Still, they were not actually ordered until after we got back here on Sept. 6!  That would not be a problem except that those doors, like atomic submarines, take a long time to be made.  Months.  In this case 3 months! 

The navy would be delighted to have a sub of any description in 3 months, but we were living here during most of that time with only a 'loaner' door on the M. bath for a shred of privacy.  No matter how good the rest of the place looked, it had a cave-like quality without the doors!  Well, they finally came and were hung on Dec. 7th.  They add so much to this place!

Don't get me wrong.  We love this place--the apartmenty, our location, the city.  It's the pace of some things that can wear you down.

Banking in Israel,

"Strange" is the first and kindest adjective
that springs to mind to describe Israeli banking.  Think of Alice's Wonderland with the Mad Hatter as Minister of Banking and Scrooge as his First Deputy.

Admittedly, we don't  have wide experience here with the banks,  but,...
Well, it's so different from what we're used to in the states.  Yes, as different as apples are from applesauce.

Just for a full-flavor sense of this new scene, consider these facts of life:

*A typical personal bank (checking) account does not pay any interest.  There's no such thing as a 'savings' account, only CD's and other instruments (paying minuscule interest).

*There is a small transaction fee (5 cents or so) for almost every movement of your money, in and out of the account, every check processed, etc., as well as a monthly fee.   Some banks don't even send out monthly statements;  you have to drop in and ask for a printout!

*Major banks have branches all over the city, some all over the country.  However, the branch where you opened your account is the only place that will/can handle your banking--except for a deposit or cashing a check.If you need to change your address or discuss a discrepancy in your account, you must go to "your" branch.  Should you move, you have a choice of staying with your original office or opening a new account at the office nearest you.

*Cooperation, even communication, between the branches of a given bank is as minimal as they can make it.  There is sometimes outright competition and antagonism! from one office to another within the "same" bank.

*The typical bank branch has a counter with clerks, as you might expect in an American bank.  But 80%of the bank area is comprised of desks in little cubicles, where you take care of any business other than cashing a check or making a deposit. 

*Accustomed as we are to managing 3 bank accounts and our investment portfolio on line, Israeli banks seem medieval in how little one can do, except by coming in person to your "own" branch where a live person can do it for you!

Well, let's see how these last two characteristic affected us.  Our main account (more on this later) is at Bank Leumi, where we also took our mortgage.  Our account has a -75 and a -95 at the end of the number:  one for shekels and the other for dollars.  We had wired a bunch of dollars from the states into this account and periodically move some of it into shekels. (We're hoping that the dollar will strengthen giving us a better exchange rate.)  In order to effect this conversion, each time we must come into "our" branch, which is downtown--not the branch in the German Colony, which cannot help us.  At "our" branch we have two people, Sylvie and David, who take care of our account.  Sylvie doesn't speak nearly enough English to be helpful, so David (perfect English) has done all our work. 

While this arrangement might sound like truly personal banking (especially for folk who need a lot of hand-holding and translating.  But consider this one episode, when we came in to move dollars into shekels, see if our new check books were ready (they don't mail check books;  you come in an get them!), and to have senior discounts instituted on our  transaction fees.  This would have taken 5  or 10 minutes at our Peoples Bank back in CT, where they also know us by name.  But it David 35 minutes.  The checkbooks were ready and were handed over in a minute.  The conversion into sheckels took him 10 full minutes on the computer and generating papers to sign.  The senior discounts required a lot of computer scanning and at least 5 phone calls, but was finally put into place with more signing of papers.  Beyond any ego trip of personal attention, this session smacked a lot of  Bob Cratchet on a stool before a high Victorian desk.  Except, very likely, Cratchet (even with quill pen and double-entry account book) would have been fired for taking so long to manage such simple chores.

The mortgage process also had some interesting moments.  After examining the offerings of several banks, we found the lowest monthly payments at Bank Leumi.  We had been pointed there by Micha, our real estate agent and trusty English-speaking  guide through the Hebrew maze.  He had a friend in the mortgage office way out at the western edge of Jerusalem, but Micha drove us there each of the three visits needed to get the deal done. His friend there spoke competent English, but Micha soon proved invaluable in translating technical terms for us and advising her in Hebrew about our exact  wishes or questions.  With a choice between a dollar mortgage or a shekel mortgage, she had sown us the clear advantage of the latter.  So that's what we signed up for.

The final throes of the mortgage arrangements took us (Arlene, Micha, and me) to the downtown office of Bank Leumi (the one where we eventually opened our checking account).  The person who was to help us, a stentorian matriarch, argued loudly that we really needed a dollar mortgage.  When told that Micha's friend had advised us on the other, she roared, "They're thieves!"    Micha, with consummate diplomacy, steered us to another woman who went over the options with us and agreed that we were, indeed, better off with the shekel mortgage.   And so it was.

I loved the fiesty independence of one branch from another!

When we got off the plane last November,  we were given a short priority list :  1. Ministry of Interior (national ID card);  2. Ministry of Absorption;  3. open a bank account;  4. sign up with one of the four medical plans.   That bank account was essential to receive the direct deposit of the stipend received each of the first several months.  (Everyone got the same amount, regardless of one's finances, in order not to embarrass the more indigent.)(It pretty well guaranteed that the new arrival would have a roof over his head and food on the table while he adjusted and found work.)

Unaware at that time of just how important the choice of bank and branch might be, we walked into Discount Bank, right around the corner from our rental apartment, and opened an account.   A few basic questions revealed to us the realities of fees, interest, and statements.  We were told, as we left, to use the branch directly across the street, since this was not a regular customer service office.  That was fine with us, until the unsmiling brusqueness of the people in that branch prompted Arlene and me to look forward to a time when it would be feasible to use a different bank altogether.  (That time will come this November).  I've gone in there for statements, to cash a check, and for advice;  they are consistently unhelpful--and don't seem to care.

One other insight into Israeli banking occurred when we gave a large check to our lawyer as our down payment on the apartment we were buying.  It took a little over six weeks to clear--because Bank Leumi (like other Israeli banks) presents its foreign checks for processing only ONCE A MONTH (saving a lot of fees for them, but creating severe financial bottlenecks for customers like us).

But, hey, we'll survive.  We're learning how to use the system without getting burned too often or too badly.  At least we have a personal banker who speaks English--and that's useful, at least whenever the bank is open.

When Bureaucracy Works

Much depends on where the world thinks you are--officially, that is.

When Arlene and I left Israel last April 30, the official world had our address as Lincoln, 12A, apt 8. And that's where they thought we were through the long summer and as we arrived back on September 6, regardless that we were not there.  So, high on our 'to do' list were trips to the Ministries of Interior and Absorption, to our bank, and to our medical provider Maccabi.  If these people didn't know that our new home was at Rachel Imeinu, 10, apt 5, the furies of confusion could rain down unimaginable torments upon us.

Of course, we weren't actually living there yet.  We staying with David and his family in Efrat.  The hour-and-a-quarter trip in to the big city involved a bus from Efrat to the Malka Mall in western Jerusalem (about $1.50 each) and then a city bus (69 cents each) to our apartment in the German Colony, or another 10 minutes beyond that to the downtown area where the ministries and bank were located.  The Efrat bus schedule was not wonderful (about every hour or 1-1/2 hours during the day and early evening) but feasible.  The major city buses came every 10-15 minutes.

So, in we went, armed with our teudot (ID cards), passports, original temporary ID card, and our new cell phone numbers (on paper because we had not yet memorized them).  With time on hour hands and some sense of Israeli bureaucracy, we expected, with the patience of well-trained cows, to spend the next two or three days trying to input our new data.

The first, and probably toughest nut to crack was Interior, the infamous scene nearly a year ago of three-plus hours of nightmare antics that generated no pride for either us or that ministry.  We knew the drill:  get there early, get your number to the correct desk, and wait.  By 9:35 we were sitting in the main waiting room with slip #152 in our hands, ready for desk #1 (which specialized in changes of address).  (Right!)

The fourteen numbers ahead of us were dealt with systematically.   A scant 25 minutes later we were seated at desk #1, pouring our documents before a smiling clerk (yes, smiling!).  The passports turned out to be superfluous, but no matter.  She scanned my old information, consulted her computer monitor, asked for the new data, typed it in.  I was careful to point out that we were not yet living at this new address, and where we were staying.  I don't remember how she handled this, but there was no concern or auxiliary document to fill our, and she still had that pleasant look.  Then Arlene's change was entered.

Suddenly, after a mere 5 or so minutes, we were getting up from the desk, feeling, well, as if something had been omitted.  I was almost expecting her to send us to the next desk in this procedure--for new finger prints, or something.  But, in fact, we had done it!  In less than 40 minutes, we were in and out of Interior!

There was jauntiness in our steps on our ten-minute walk to the Ministry of Absorption.  True, Absorption had been the nicest to us last year of all our dealings with officialdom, but we knew it would be foolish to get cocky this early in the day.

Inside, we told the receptionist what we wanted to do.  With a smile (everyone was smiling!  What's wrong with this picture?), she informed us that all she had to do was enter our new address and phone numbers into her computer.  And she did.  And, in less than five minutes, were out on the pavement again, trying not to feel too euphoric.

Still, we rewarded ourselves with lunch at Cafe Hillel (with the best croissants in town).

The next logical stop would have been nearby Bank Leumi, but we had been able to change our address with them over the phone.  So, off we went on the  half-mile walk up and down to Maccabi, our health provider, at the Wolfson building. Once again, the receptionist simply entered our new data into their system.   While there, Arlene had to sign up with a rheumatologist.   And (medical marvel), he was available to see her in an hour and a half!  So we waited.  Dr. Amar turned out to be the coldest fish she had ever encountered, but she was on board.

The last stop at our other bank (long story) found it closed at that late hour.   That still left us elated with a 5 our of 6 day.  Bureaucratically speaking, that is like beating Tiger Woods by 10 strokes!  Oh, yes, you will mutter that changing an address SHOULD be simple.  But, oh what a relief it is when it IS simple!  With a doctor visit thrown in as icing on our cake! 

The bus rides back to Efrat were very pleasant.

Off to Jerusalem

Shalom from sunny Israel, and Shena Tova, Happy New Year, and all those good things.Arlene and I are back, we are well, and (with any luck at all) our apartment should be finished by the end of September.  Yes, you do remember correctly:  the target date had been September 15.  But language is an imperfect tool, and contracts can be really humorous documents, especially in Hebrew.

But I get ahead of myself.  This post should have begun, "Never again!" --from Newark International Airport, that is.

The whole tension-filled boondoggle was actually a series of miscalculations on our part.

This series began last spring, as we scheduled our April 30 flight to the states and the 9/5 return to Israel;  we tried to avoid an evening or red-eye time because Arlene cannot sleep on a plane.  So, we opted for the 2:30pm from Newark (none from JFK).  And, since the shuttle limos from Connecticut did not go to Newark, we rented a small SUV to hold us, 2 dogs, their crates, and suitcases--a ponderous lot that just did fit.

But the flight itself was not the first real problem.  The rental SUV was fine, the traffic not all that bad, but we were amazed at how much longer the trip to Newark was compared to hour-and-a-half romp to JFK.  Instead of the planned 11:30 arrival at the Budget return area, we cruised in at 12:35.  But the return procedure was brief and there was still plenty of time.

Then, little things became mountainous impediments.  Getting two luggage trolleys took more than  10 ridiculous minutes.  The short walk to what looked like a shuttle bus stop revealed that there was no bus;  over our heads (a guard pointed out) was a shiny new light rail system to whisk us quickly to terminal B where El Al would be waiting.... You get the idea.

Again, the little details.  The escalator was out of the question, and the small elevator was a cruel joke.  Ingenuity prevailed and we crammed everything into the car.  At the platform level, it was a race with the doors to get us, dogs, and things out.  We lost.  One trolley with toppled luggage on the floor remained.  Calling on my experience with hundreds of elevator and subway doors, I tried to push it open--and succeeded only in jamming the doors off their tracks!

An airport attendant came by, tried the doors, and phoned for a repair person.  ten or fifteen very long minutes later, he arrived;  in another ten endless minutes, he had the doors working.

With the freed trolley and the rest, we waited more endless minutes for the next train (dozens, it seemed, had come and gone during the previous waits!).  It came and we took up most of a smallish compartment.  Four long stops later, we got off at the long-sought Terminal B, only to discover that we were on level 3, while the check ins were on level 4.  We were down to about 45 minutes, as we got into a normal-sized elevator.  But it had a mind of its own and took us down to level 1, where several other overloaded travelers tried to get on.  It was unduly warm in there as we carefully stopped at every level and left other travelers unable to get in.  Eventually, we got to our level 4 and raced (!) half the length of the floor to El Al.

While we suffered in the elevator, a scene played out in my mind, based on those long waits by the gate for the cattle call that would herd us aboard a plane.  On occasion we'd hear the PA boom out:

"Passenger Metcalf.  Passenger Lowell Metcalf, on Arugula Air flight 27. Please report to gate 15 immediately.  Your plane is ready to take off."

Then smiles blossomed among us as we heard a more peremptory summons.  And, once, amid our giggles, poor passenger Metcalf was given one final call.

But I was not amused now, as I was fast becoming the latest passenger Metcalf!

Like manna from above, the check in crew were magnificent, unperturbed by the scant time remaining, dogs that had to be paid for and weighed, and crates that had to be assembled.  They simply proceeded, calm, smiling, and helpful.

Much lighter, we set off on the mile trek to gate 62.  There was a line at the security check, but not very long.  Then they decided to open our rolling carry-on.  Those two large plastic bottles of shampoo and conditioner, the ones that should have been packed in a check-in bag....were confiscated, along with Arlene's miniature knife (part of her Swiss Army credit card-sized utility kit).

But, we got it all together  (suitcase, belts, shoes, etc.) and made it to gate 62 with a solid 8 minutes to spare--and 3 other dawdlers behind us!!!  The one big consolation, aside from the relief of just being on board, was that there had been no summons over the PA.

And the flight?  Very routine:  Arlene could not sleep.  However, dinner and breakfast were rather good!

We arrived, I a little groggy, Arlene a little wiped out, and the dogs boundingly happy and fresh-faced!  David met us with his trusty Peugeot looking very much as he had when we saw him off a week earlier.  And the desert sun felt good.