At holy-hell in the night we were woken by an irascible old Israeli man and his young grandson. Wearing Umbro’s and a t-shirt and sliding into Teva’s The Monster left the warmth of his room for the chill night air of the Israeli desert.
At this point we were given our marching orders. By the six year old grandson. Because only he spoke halting English. There were TEN THOUSAND six week old baby chickens in the coop in front of us. Our job, that is the six of us, was to move FIVE THOUSAND of them to an adjoining coop. And by adjoining he meant fifty meters away. If we didn’t succeed in this task, the chickens would get too large and suffocate within their coop. This would surely lead to the death knell of the kibbutz. The death knell in fact of Israel. No, in fact we were assured the whole of the world’s fate rested in our hands. So moving some chickens was of paramount importance. Continue reading