Over the seas, not that far away.

”I’m going down, I’m going down, I’m going down!”
Thoughts of dying in a foreign country rushed through my brain at the same speed the adrenaline pumped through my veins.
A thick, rain drenched branch of the giant avocado tree scratched my face and another wedged my arm between it and the metal picking-basket on my ascending skylift – the vehicle over which I had just lost control.
Five meters below, the engine of this yellow metal monster, ferociously roared. The machine’s deeply grooved tires were frenziedly digging away in the mud. My hand levers were jammed at full throttle and I was uncontrollably being pushed higher and deeper into the tree. Help!

I had woken early that morning to the irregular humming of the warped ceiling fan, running at full speed. I was always hesitant to leave it on at night – the thing seemed like it could disengage and fly off at any moment, but I took my chances. It was hot.
The room was dark but I could still make out the graffiti on the nicotine yellow walls, made by previous volunteers. I recalled the first time I set foot in this Spartan dwelling a month earlier. I had seriously wondered what I’d gotten myself and my friend into, as I realized; - this prison cell looking dump was going to be “home sweet home” for the next six months to come.

The year was 1993, late September. I was 19 and determined to go to Israel and work on a kibbutz. My mother wasn’t happy. I was ecstatic!
I had persuaded a friend to join me. And so, one crisp autumn morning,
we waved goodbye to our petrified parents, ready to take on Kibbutz Tel Qazir!

Together with 8 other Swedes we arrived at the destination late at night. As we stepped out of the minibus the warm balmy air embraced us with aromas of everything unfamiliar - and garbage. We were immediately shown to our sleeping quarters by a large black-haired Israelite named Israel.
By the time the fluorescent ceiling lights had stopped flickering the cockroaches had managed to find new hideouts in the dark corners of our new” home”. My pale friend looked at me but we were both too exhausted to scream.

As the weeks went by we had come to love life at the kibbutz. We worked hard; up at the crack of dawn, a quick cup of instant coffee then down to the avocado fields picking basket after basket of the shiny, pear-shaped goodies. Rain or shine.

This day it had been pouring…
But my life couldn’t end like this; in a tree – what would my mother say?
Swiftly I managed to squeeze through, under the safety bars of the skylift, grab a branch and somehow made it down. The machine was still plowing through the tree as I hit the emergency stop.

Safe, relieved and feeling like my own action hero – this week I would have something new to write home about.