The dig is ending.
How can I tell? The digging:paperwork ratio has changed significantly.
Instead of dropping squares with a pick axe and hoe, I am drawing squares with pencil and ruler. Instead of finding pottery, I am reading it (just incase you were wondering pottery CAN be read. Like a book). Stones are being swept and swept and swept again. Pits are being closed with grates and fences are being erected.
Never-Never land is being fenced off. It’s time for all the children to go home.
Everything that we find is photographed, photo-shopped, drawn schematically, drawn to scale, described in Hebrew, described in english, and entered into the computer for future reference. I have spent most of my waking hours looking through a surveyors level (it is now somewhat disorienting to look through my own eyes and see the world without a measuring cross).
Sleep is non-existent.
As the final days of the dig unfold, we are jumping into any old pit and watching dust fly as we try to excavate as much as possible. One of the guys in my area uncovered a fire pit, complete with burnt stones and ash layer.
Such is the desperation to finish this dig in 2009, it has come to the point that when we find “stuff” above the level we want we don’t bother with it.Byzantine pottery? Its waaaaaaaaaay to new. It’s like 800-1000 years old. Throw it out! (and I spent two weeks of my life in a field in Camden digging up an archaeological treasure...the oldest piece of pottery was 198 years old).
It’s time to board the Jolly Roger. First stop: reality.
See you in Oz.
I have never been so nervous in my life. Not for judo. Not for Tara.Ed. Not even the time I made district cross county in 1996 and I was so nervous I made myself sick and couldn’t eat breakfast.
...I have to present my thesis to Omer (And just for the record: He is one of the world leaders in lmlk scholarship and just published an article that goes against my entire hypothesis).
It’s kind of like handing in a paper on evolution to God.
In saying that, the staff - despite their status and experience in the field - really value our opinions and input in discussions. The fluidity of Ancient History means that anyone can be right. Even if you are a 23 year old Archaeology Barbie from Australia.
Sadly, my Hebrew is not up to scratch, so my participation in such discussions is short lived. Despite the fact I have studied the language for two years; the only thing I can really remember was when I was once asked what “Sh’losh” was. “What happens when you have a big night out?” I replied hopefully.
It means three.
When the Hebrew gets too fast, or I simply drown in the gutturals, I smile sweetly and say “sh’losh”. Everyone changes to English...or goes to get their friends to hear the Aussie speaking Hebrew
...apparently it’s hilarious.
But it’s ok. I have taught the Israeli staff Australian. All I have to do is say “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie” and a chorus of “Oi, oi, oi” will follow.
Over breakfast, I sit at a table of academics and archaeologists, listening to history being created from evidence pulled out of the ground within the last three hours. We all eat nutella sandwiches. Every once in a while someone will throw me a bone: “What do you think Jen?”
I contemplate the evidence
“Sh’losh” I say.
“Oi” they reply...Academics are humans after all!
On a rare day off, Chris and I decided, on a whim, to go shopping in Old Jerusalem. We walked into the middle of an Ultra Orthodox Protest. Hundreds and hundreds of black suit-clad, fur hat wearing men, women and children stood under the Israeli sun for an entire day, screaming and yelling and fighting with police. They couldn’t hold placards, however, because that would mean they were working.
The reason for this heartfelt protest? A local car park has been opened for Shabbat (I am still confused about this whole Shabbat thing – Protesting is OK, but using an elevator isn’t?).
Once upon a time I caught the wrong bus from Jerusalem to Ramat Rahel. Instead of catching the number seven, I caught the 7 aleph. It goes no where near Ramat Rahel. The driver was a diehard Beitar Jerusalem fan. His bus’s interior was painted bright yellow to match the colour of his favourite soccer team. He drove me all the way home to Ramat Rahel (despite the fact it was 20 mins off his normal route) on the condition that I support this team. So my mission in the Old City was to fulfil this promise and purchase a yellow Beitar Jerusalem scarf.
It wasn’t that easy.
One man tried to sell me a burgundy one. It just wouldn’t do. When I said I wanted yellow, he produced a garish blue and yellow monstrosity. I know my Hebrew isn’t good. But it is good enough to tell the different between the words “Jerusalem” and “Tel Aviv”.
Meanwhile another man had asked Chris if I was his sister and wanted to take me to the back room to "show me all his Jerusalem scarf". I pointed out that Chris was actually my husband and I wouldn’t go anywhere without him. So the man offered Chris three camels.
I was horrified.
Only three camels? Surely I am worth more than that!?
And then I saw it. The menorah. It had everything a menorah should have...but it was decorated with a Christian fish and was a candlestick short. Somewhere, sometime, something got lost in translation! It was beautiful.
So after stumbling into a protest, fending off Tel Aviv, getting married, being priced at three camels and bargaining for a religiously confused menorah, I finally fulfilled my promise.
Go Jerusalem!
The mysterious illness that has been sweeping the dig is not the Mummy’s curse. Instead it is the not so mysterious illness that has been sweeping the world. Oink Oink.
As well as Alla, 5 other staff members have been MIA, which means I was not the only Assistant Supervisor to get a promotion by default. The dig directors think the Aussie’s amongst us planned this attack and are nervously scanning the horizon looking for our Kangaroo army.
The two new squares we opened have revealed a monumental wall about 60cms from the top. And a column base. And 5 coins of Alexander Jannaeus...We have exactly four days of digging to figure out what on earth it is.
Oh. I almost forgot. The Israeli President (and Nobel Peace Prize winner), Shimon Peres rocked up for a visit and we got a photo with him. He brought his own sniper squad and they all sat in the trees. Miraculously we had "just" found a full Roman-glass vase in square 17 so we showed him and he ooohed and ahhhed over our archaeology skills. He asked me where I was from and tugged my plait and all the media people snapped photos of this diplomatic exchange.
When I was little, Mum and I used to always play knuckle bones with the ones she used when she was a child...and I thought they were old!
When Yoav, the man with the metal detector came to C4, the machine started beeping like crazy...and out of the ground, he pulled a misshapen piece of bronze. I took one look at it.
It was a knuckle bone!
No one believed me. An expert was called in.
It was a knuckle bone!
They looked at me, amazed that a young B.A. had such excellent knowledge. I tried to look scholarly and wise...but ended up sitting in the dirt demonstrating how the game was played.
The game was apparently popular in Hellenistic Judah and bone pieces are often found...this, however, is the first time a bronze game piece has been found within the Judean boarders so C4 was in the running for find of the day
...then B2 found 4 complete Roman glass vases.
At least we found something!
I may be AB to most of the group. But to Omer, the Dig co-ordinator, I am Sunshine.
The only qualification required is blonde hair, a big smile and a slight obsession with lmlk seal stamps.
Whenever important people come to the dig (think Ronnie Reich, Gary Knoppers...) Omer introduces me as “Jennifer-Sunshine”. If he sees me outside suit and tie circumstances he will sing “You are my sunshine” at the top of his lungs. Yes! That’s right folks: I even have my own theme song (your life will never be complete until a flambouyant Israeli archaeologist serenades you with Jimmie Davis).
But what isn’t there to smile about? I love my job.
Unlike most of the jobs in the world which require an office with an outstanding view (think Sydney law firms) my job doesn’t suck. Even the paper work is growing on me (now that we have actually found something worthwhile). I get to draw top plans and scale plans and measure rocks and take heights with one of those little survey machines. I even like calculating the heights because it’s not just any old math...its archaeology-math.
But I especially like the paper work when it is about a lmlk seal-stamp...C4 actually found a lmlk seal-stamp...So the little backwater of square 17 is now our local tourist attraction. And I can die happy.
We finally hit the bottom of the trench with the walls and water channel. We answered the questions we needed to about the Persian structure (it was BIG) and the direction that the water flowed (South-North) so it’s all over baby...zip. finito. Closed.
And so we continue in square 15 & 17...going deeper and deeper, trying to make sense of the crazy confused stratigraphy and hotch-potch wall. The thing is, the more we dig, the more confusing it gets.
Have I mentioned how much I love my job?
Homer Simpson once said that the two greatest words in the English language were “De” & “Fault”. Alla called in sick so as a BA with a grand total of three seasons under my belt, I was promoted to Area Supervisor. Suddenly, I was left standing with a trowel in my hand, calling the shots and after each decision I felt like chanting “De-Fault! De-Fault! De-Fault!”
To make matters even worse, Alla’s mysterious illness struck on the first day of the second digging session – which meant we had seven new people in C4 (most of who hadn’t ever held a pick axe in their life) and we were required to open two new squares. It’s amazing how much easier it is to make a decision when you don’t have time...Mostly, my directions to my team consisted of “Go deeper. Then we will see” and “Just clean it up and call me back” as I, (quite literally) tore around the site in a ‘professional’ cloud of dust.
The symbol of my power came in the form of a telephone. Not a Nokia, or Motorola, but an Iron IIB jar handle. Normally the possession of Alla, this two and a half thousand year old potsherd covered in permanent marker is the be all and end all of the C4 hierarchy. The two German brothers who joined our crew this week think I am weird.
-
Have no idea why. Maybe it’s by default?
Along with the other two musketeers – Christopher and Andrew – (the other English speaking foreigners on staff), I found myself in Tel Aviv for a day of sun, beach and paddle-ball.
First on the agenda was a trip to Old Jaffah, the oldest sea-port in the world. All the paths and roads in Jaffah are made of white limestone. Not the most sensible construction material for a place that frequents the high 30s Celsius. As for the oldest port in the world: well, I have seen it (or at least I think I saw it, but couldn’t quite tell due to the large amounts of construction material strewn all over the place) so I can check that box off my list and I never have to go back. Ever.
Tel Aviv beach is an interesting place. You lie down to sleep and find you can’t. This is because there are hundreds and thousands of people playing paddle-ball. Non-stop. It’s like a 1000 tiny drums knocking continuously (this is before we even mention the overzealous guitar-player who knew a grand total of four chords). I have never seen the paddle-ball obsession anywhere else...it’s like they want to play cricket, but don’t quite know how!
Being the cheep tourists that we are, we ended up purchasing dinner at McDonaldim (Would you like the kosher or non-kosher menu?) and sitting on the beach to watch the sun slide down into the ocean. Last week the three musketeers found themselves on the Mount of Olives watching the sun set over Jerusalem. And on Shabbat, we sat on the observation deck at Ramat Rahel to watch the sun disappear over the ridge of Bethlehem.
While lazing in the glow of a beach sunset in Tel Aviv we contemplated the irony that instead of sharing such romantic moments with our significant other, we were always stuck with each other.
Or a trowel called strawberry.
On Sunday, we did what only archaeologists can do: went to visit numerous archaeological sites that date to the Iron Age. We were the only people at Tel Lachish (despite the fact it is one of the biggest and important archaeological sites in all of Israel)...but I suppose if you were not into Iron Age walls and pottery dumps, it wouldn’t be that exciting. We then went to Azekah (...just open a page of the bible – any page - and you will probably find Azekah listed somewhere!) The team we are working with at Ramat Rahel will be starting to excavate at Azekah in 2010...So far it has been untouched by a pick-axe or trowel. This means that the three musketeers will be spending many a romantic night watching the sun set over various Judean landscapes for the rest of our lives.
Then we hiked back down the mountain and stood at its base, gazing up at our future in all its majestic-scrub covered glory.
Ring Ring.
“Hello Destiny? I’ve been expecting your call”
A group of Germans, Jews, Christians (two Aussies and an American) walked into a Museum...
It sounds like the start of a joke. But it is far from it. Manfred, a professor from Heidelberg and the dig’s Co- director organised for us to visit Yad Vashem, the WWII Holocaust Memorial and Museum.
The exhibition was set up in such a way that you had to zig zag chronologically through the build up and execution of the “Final Solution” crossing over a central corridor numerous times in your descent to hell.
I know the history of the Third Reich inside out. I can reel off dates and events...and thanks to my HSC, I can recount the entire CV of Hilter’s henchman Albert Speer (You can’t live with a modern historian for the first 19 years of your life and not know!) Consequently, the content of Yad Vashem was familiar to me. But what I didn’t know (or maybe subconsciously choose to ignore) were the people.
The names. The faces. The shattered dreams.
Throughout my World Vision/Tara.Ed journey, I have reached out with this reality. I have exposed the names and experiences of countless children to Australia and have seen the abstract turn concrete when suffering was given a human face...I’m not supposed to be effected by this tactic.
First the persecutions, then the ghettos, then the death camps: the museum was covered in hundreds and thousands of names, stories and dreams: a photo, a movie, a belonging. Each pair of eyes stared out at me begging to be heard and remembered, took my breath away.
I was suffocating.
Funnily enough; the thing that got me in the end was a pile of shoes. I could handle the torture instruments. I could handle the train carriage and tracks. I could handle grainy videos which showed bodies being bulldozed into mass graves...but I couldn’t do a pile of shoes from the Treblinka death camp.
I can look at my own feet and see shoes, there was familiarity. A simple shared experience within the sphere of human existence.
I panicked: I couldn’t breathe.
The museum opens out onto the western hills of Jerusalem, and at 7pm, the sun is slowly setting. I burst into this tranquillity gulping air like a goldfish and desperately grasping for my own 21st century reality. And that’s where I was standing when Professor Manfred emerged with the same broken look. “I am very ashamed to be German” he confessed.
I am just ashamed to be human.
Thursday night is the final night of the digging week...almost. After a site tour and debrief, we end up in the Kibbutz bar drinking Goldstar and some suspicious sambucca-tasting drink that begins with Aleph (by this stage of the night I am normally not reading English coherently, let alone Hebrew). While most of the group head to bed at 9 or 10, the Site staff are always the last to go (some areas don’t always have pottery buckets the following morning). After the rigours of a working week, it’s great fun to unwind with the crew – 17 Israelis, 2 Germans, 2 Aussies and 2 Americans. The vocab of the four English speakers has increased considerably as a result of these “staff meetings” and now includes things that were certainly not part of Moses’ vocab.
Friday mornings are thus traditionally the least productive time of the week: thankfully it is simply comprised of cleaning areas, taking pictures and dropping squares a couple of centimetres. No one opens a new square (for fear it might turn out to be a rhombus) and the area supervisors always drink large amounts of coffee and water.
By the time Shabbat comes around, most of us are well and truly “resting.”
One of my favourite things of the Sabbath is the Shabbat Elevator. Traditionally, in Judaism the seventh day is a day in which nothing is able to be created...not even an electricity circuit to turn on a light. While turning on lights is not something I really require during my Jerusalem Shabbat, food is. To get downstairs without pressing a button in the lift is thus a crippling problem. Rather than spending their Shabbat cooped upstairs, the modern Jew can make use of the automatic elevator that goes up and down all day for the entire rest period. If you are on floor 6, you will stop at floors 1 through 5 before your designated stop. Same goes in the opposite direction.
...I take the stairs.
