LYING IN a hammock overlooking the ocean , in a garden of a woman whose last name I do not know , with all my belongings sprawled on the grass soaking up the autumn sun and my bandaged knee glaring at me begging the question : How on earth did I get here ?
THE STORM
LYING IN a hammock overlooking the ocean , in a garden of a woman whose last name I do not know , with all my belongings sprawled on the grass soaking up the autumn sun and my bandaged knee glaring at me begging the question : How on earth did I get here ?
The detectives amongst you may piece together these sips of diluted juice to gather that somehow water and danger comprise this image ’ s backstory . An image that to the unassuming eye looks serene and characteristically expectable . What your eye does not see is that this serenity in the hammock is equivalent in luck to the homeless , phoneless , passport and ID-less illegal foreign migrant that you read about in the Sunday Times .
It all began on a whimsical adventure called Shvil Yisrael , or the Israel National Trail , a sixty three day walk from the northern-most point of Israel ( Mount Hermon ) to the southern-most city of Eilat . I chose to partake in this walk to culminate my year of living in Israel , an embodied farewell letter of sorts .
Joining a group called Walk about Love seemed like the perfect hippy-dippy way of making the journey as blissful as possible . Walk about Love is an NGO founded by Rea Pasternak , a typically gruff Israeli with a heart as smooth as Black Cat peanut butter .
Eight years ago Rea started the NGO as a walking party through the country where he eased the brunt of carrying bags and food but supplying all those needs on his massively overloaded but seemingly content 4X4 truck . This year a family with nine children who joined the trip changed the dynamic
“ How long I stood frozen I will never know , I was unthinking and my feet started losing sensation .” from a walking party to a Jewish version of what it would look like if the Zohan teamed up with Modern Family on The Amazing Race .
As the illegal foreign migrant that I was with a pittance of shekels to my name , I undertook the great adventure as a true African warrior : With no tent and certainly no hiking boots . For 31 days I indulged in this image of a newfound me , sleeping in hammocks , woken by the autumn sunlight , carefully mending and soothing my blistered feet each night after a day of walking approximately 20 kilometres . I enjoyed the stares , of admiration no doubt , as the Joburg Jewish Princess my brothers once labelled me was slowly disappearing behind layers of mud and colourful plasters .
Now , those detective eyes are probably starting to flicker . Autumn + Israel + hammock … Yes , the impending dragon of rain is rearing its head . And so we arrive on Caesarea beach on the 31st day of the walk . The weather forecast is blaming the desert , a disdainful example of scapegoating one who lacks the manpower to self-defend , a northerly windstorm which may or may not bring with it some rainfall . Only the Knesset can know .
Fear not , the African warrior hunts for a solution : Roman ruins on the beach which form a perfect tunnel for wind and rain protection , says she who did not take geography for Matric . That night was my turn to cook dinner for the group and a hero I felt as the nine children returned for seconds and thirds . Filled with exhausted pride I retreated to my tunnel , tucked myself into my thin sleeping bag upon the tunnel floor , said my goodnights to Tina
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