My stint working on a goat farm in the hills of Galilee has come to a close. It was not a planned part of my trip. However, I don’t think it is an understatement to say it was one of the most profound and life-enriching experiences I have had to date. Imagine a little Eden tucked into the hillside, surrounded by lush Mediterranean landscapes, infused with heady floral breezes, full of life and abundance. This was the setting for my life for my stay on a farm that produced its own wine, olive oil, goat cheese and countless other edible delights. It’s English name was Goats With the Wind, but for a guy like me, it was Heaven.
The Gate to the Farm
Every morning I would rise before the sun and get my bones moving. Surprisingly, I was always ready to spring into action. Actually, this behavior got quite a few comments and strange stares from the other workers. I was told to “relax” and to begin with some hot tea or coffee and a cookie or two. Now, I never pass up anything free, especially when it’s edible, and so I got quite used to sipping hot tea flavored with fresh mint and warm goat milk.
The best part of waking up.
Then my day would begin with a thorough feeding and watering of every animal on the farm. This included the cows, horses, sheep, chickens, male goats, female goats, young goats and baby goats. Each group of animals required varying amounts of grain, hay, fresh weeds, and for the babies – fresh/powdered milk. At first I had to write everything down but it soon became a routine that was as natural as breathing the beautiful Galilean air. As I moved through my daily chores, I was constantly taken aback by the sloping mountains that overlooked the distant town of Nazareth. The property was spotted with olive trees, lemon trees, apple trees and even the occasional oddity like a papaya or carob tree. This was the background of the canvas I worked in.
Then again, my immediate vicinity was crowded by a much less glamorous but still deeply rich and life giving resource – poop. Yes, I quickly learned to make animal excrement my close friend. It was everywhere and no matter what I did, getting it all over me was unavoidable. In fact, even after leaving the farm, I still reeked of goat and was constantly reminded of this fact by strangers as they politely turned their backs to me and covered their noses. Yet, surprisingly I did not mind. Well, not in the end any way. I suppose I must admit to being a bit hesitant at first. However, I learned pretty quickly that it would be impossible for me to work hard and avoid getting mucky. So, within no time, I was quite literally knee deep in shit. Surprisingly, for a fancy city boy who is rather fond of keeping things clean, I loved it.
A shepherd's view in the hills of Galilee.
Every day was a new lesson in just how much work my body could handle. From sun up to sun down I worked under the hot sun, lifting bending, twisting and hoisting my body in ways I never remember using it in the past. At the end of the day, I was more sore in more places than I realized I even had muscles. I will especially never forget the way my forearms burned for the first three days or so.
In addition to the mindless, meditative (and extremely manly) manual labor, I was also entrusted to help with the delicate art of milking the goats. While I had seen this done one or two times while growing up in the Midwest, I can’t say I ever had a chance to grab that warm teet firmly in my hands and make the milk sing its way into the steel pail. Well, I finally had my chance. Sadly, I must admit that my first few days produced something more of a piddle than a song. Fortunately, with the help of a little well placed instruction and the development of some very fine gripping muscles, by the end of my stay I was producing a righteous foam in my bucket of thick goat milk. I was damn proud of my hard earned pails of fresh leche.
My days hummed along with the cycles of life. Everything needed to be fed. Everything needed to be watered. Everything needed attention. Everything needed to be made to feel comfortable. Generally, everything needed its share of love and if it got it, all was well. I just kept thinking, how healthy and satisfied I felt each day. I was outside, in the sunshine, using my physical body in every way it was designed to work.
There's always time for play
Of course, such a hard working machine needs some fuel to keep it going and this was perhaps the most rewarding part of working on the farm. The owners were two lovely people named Amnon and Dahlia who in addition to the goat farm, also ran a small restaurant for people by appointment only. Each day, there would be a small group of cars who would come all the way out to our little corner of the countryside from the hustle and bustle of the big city (Tel Aviv or Jerusalem). They came for a taste of the real Israel and it is what they certainly got. We provided them with lush salads of locally grown vegetables, an assortment of fresh and aged cheeses made from the very milk I was gathering, earthy bread still warm from the oven and even a glass or two of wine made from grapes grown and crushed just a few meters away. Naturally, the cooking skills were carried directly over into the feasts the whole family and the workers ate together.
The first meal of the day, very important
A typical breakfast started with a small dish of goat yogurt. To this we would add honey or a syrup made from dates. The next item on the menu was a heaping hunk of flat bread and goat lebne (a very tangy thick dairy product somewhat similar to cream cheese) drenched in olive oil. Then there would usually be a hot dish of goose eggs and vegetables stewed in a cast iron skillet. A fresh salad was also always served. It was usually made up of a combination of fresh cabbage, Persian cucumbers, tomatoes, parsley and perhaps some green or white onion. Thanks to all the hard work, I couldn’t eat enough so I tried my darndest to pack in as many calories as humanly possible at every sitting. Still, even though totally full, I always left the table feeling somewhat hungry.
Lebne and olives....mmmmmm
Dinner was another real treat. There was always a large gathering of people and we usually ate the meal off a large silver tray served at ground level. Everyone sat on cushions arranged in a circle around the food. The meal always began with a blessing of the bread and then everyone was poured a small glass of homemade wine. The dishes, though they varied from night to night were normally a rotation of the following. First there was a wonderful salad of large chunks of fresh vegetables combined with plenty of olive oil, fresh lemon juice and a hint of mint or cilantro. There would usually be a side dish of tahini topped with more olive oil and perhaps zatar spice – a blend of middle eastern spices, mostly oregano, and sesame seeds. The main dish was usually meat, often chicken or goat fixed in a gravy with plenty of stewed vegetables and plenty of spices. Everything was always served with plenty of bread or matza. After the meal, it was customary to have coffee or some tea with fresh mint, sugar and goat milk. Sweets were generally very uncommon.
A real dinner spread
In the end though, it was the company that made work on the farm truly memorable. As I said, the owners were a man named Amnon and his wife Dahlia. Amnon was a gentle soul of few words but lofty ideals. In many ways, he was something of a yoda character. I would ask a question like “Which pen should I put the goats in?” and instead of a straight answer, i would get another question that seemed more concerned with the functionality of the universe than the goats. Dahlia was a woman cut from the same cloth but with a softer sell. At first, she seemed a bit suspicious of me, the farmhand that evidently hadn’t spent much time in the field. However, she was a wonderful cook and I think it was my frequent moans of pleasure and questions regarding each dish she brought to the table. I quickly bonded with each of them, over discussions of travel, food and life and politics in the United States. Actually, it was a bit surprising just how eager they were to engage me since it is usually the case that Israeli’s don’t enjoy discussing politics with strangers. Surprisingly, Americans have a reputation around the world for being arrogant and happy to make decisions for everyone else. I am always happy to reassure strangers that not every American is like this.
In addition to Amnon and Dahlia, many members of their family, their spouses and their children were a constant presence throughout the day. It was refreshing to sit down to dinner and listen to the ebb and flow of Hebrew as the young one’s were instructed on the finer points of growing up a responsible Israeli. Overall, there were about 7 other members of the family hanging around, sometimes more if anyone decided to stop in. Then there were the other volunteers as well.
Now, my main partner in crime was a cute German guy named Jacob who had been at the place for a few weeks before I arrived. He was rather young, 23, and stoic but an all around great guy. He was my main teacher about the ins and outs of life on the farm. Most importantly, he was a great distraction and a good partner in crime if either of us made any mistakes. Sadly, it wasn’t until the last day that I learned he was a rather open minded young man and no stranger the occasional affair with a boy.
During my short stay, I was also fortunate enough to work with a Danish girl who was working on the farm while her Israeli boyfriend was in jail for ditching his military service, a French girl who also doubled as a cook and a baker, and another German girl who couldn’t wait to get off a farm where she was always…dirty. I’m truly grateful for each one of these people during my stay. The conversations and distraction each of them provided was simply invaluable.
Of course, my days spent on the farm had to end and I would continue my journey in the usual fashion – bumming a ride with strangers, getting dropped off at a bus station only to be picked up by a mini van and dropped of exactly where my next adventure would begin. This Israel is truly a great land.
