Travel Diaries: 1970s Palestine, Episode 46
Saturday March 5th 1977
The long anticipated El-Al concert (El-Al meaning ‘toward the sky) was surprisingly good, opening with a folk music line-up, switching to rock after the break. It was well attended by volunteers arriving form the nearby kibbutzim and moshavs, and once the dancing got underway, sleep wasn’t an option.
In the past few weeks, my part was to design the programme and posters, which were printed at the kibbutz printing plant (Be’eri prints the cheques for Israeli banks). As a ‘thank you’, a song was dedicated to me and to Roger ..The Days of Pearly Spencer.
My Be’eri T-shirt and certificate were presented to me today, and the signature collection is growing larger, quickly.
Sunday March 6th 1977
Rick’s Gestapo Party at the disco (what?!). How does he get away with this in a place built by Nazi survivors ..but he does. Chutzpah. Cojones. Or simply, Balls. He’s also handing around his Be’eri release papers for signatures and comments. “Playing to crowds, that’s my( k)butz brother. Oh my god, he’s bust another!” Referring to Rick’s broken guitar string finale at the end of a duet with Ifrach.
Monday March 7th 1977
Goodbye Be’eri. Walked out beyond the wire fence at 09.00, with four others. We stopped, turned, and a photo was taken from behind the safety of the security gate (* wish I had a copy of that). Going South, hitch-hiking (tremping in Hebrew) in the company of Marguerite …who speaks not a word of English and I, not a phrase of German. An informal bet is agreed as to who will be speaking the other’s language best when we arrive in Dahab.
It was a scorching day. One ride dumped us at a spot where several others were trying to hitch rides. Etiquette requires that the late comers walk on down the road further ..in the heat..on melting road tar, past a sign warning of flood danger(?) towards the shimmering horizon.
Ten hours later we reached Dahab, helped by our final ride from four German tourists. Marguerite had briefly chatted with them during a layover in Eilat, then I recognised them when we thought we were stuck for the night in Nuweiba (18.15), started a conversation with them, et voila.
We’ve said goodbye to our German chaperones. One of them had grown up in Israel, had attended the Be’eri school, and vaguely remembered Ifrach. Small world, smaller country. And so now I’m writing this by the light of a large, orange moon, lying on the sand outside our chosen palm hut. As to my German proficiency, Wir gehen nach Dahab, and Gute Nacht.
