Diary of a Goatherd

I'm spending a couple weeks on a goat farm in the hills near Jerusalem. I've got a lot of time on my hands, so I decided to write something each day.

Day 1

I had dinner with the goatherd's son and baby grandson. The little boy has black eyes that will stop your heart. He held my gaze and I stood rooted, not daring to breath until the moment was over.

I've been on this farm for four hours, and I've had many such moments.

There is too much beauty here. It pulls at me, like the tide. It saps my strength. I have a delight in this farm that is close to sadness. Here at the beginning I mourn the end.

I am drunk on this place. I whisper my love to it when I think it can't hear. I am infatuated, I know. These feelings are unseemly, indulgent, evanescent. What do I care?

Day 2

Ok. I'm alright now.

Day 3

See, that's why I don't Journal. Who needs a record of that stuff?

The actual herding part of goatherding is still kind of exciting, but I can see how it would get old. Basically I get up at 5 and go on a four-hour hike with another guy, four dogs and 150 goats. They're pretty good about following you around, but they also tend to follow each other. So one goat will see something tasty off to the side, and a couple more will follow him, and the more goats start walking that way the more will follow, and suddenly your herd's split in half. So you throw rocks and yell at them, and they stop and look at you like "Oh, right", and shuffle back again. I kind of want to tie them all together like kindergarteners at the museum.

Four things about goats:

1. They smell like goat cheese.

2. They have horizontal, pill-shaped pupils.

3. They pretty much only think about eating, all the time.

4. Except the males.

Day 4

Things move slowly here. The goatherd himself is pretty busy, I think, but finding things to keep me busy is evidently not his highest concern. At lunch he said something about tearing down a shed this afternoon, but I haven't seen him since. A guy came over for the day to get a feel for the place. We spend most of the day sitting in my sukkah, talking and playing backgammon.

Oh ya, I'm living in a sukkah.

The Feast of Tabernacles (the remembrance of the Israelites' journey through the desert) recently ended, so the family basically had a big, open-air bedroom they weren't using. It's up on a hill, overlooking the farm and the valley below, and it's got a kind of a birthday/slumber party/tree fort feel to it. Probably the coolest place I've ever lived.

Day 5

Today I watched the goats by myself for a while. It's quite gratifying, on the whole. I lead and they follow. I say "Heh!" and they look up. I throw rocks and they change course. I call "Boy boy boy!" and they follow me back home. They fan out a bit more than you'd like, and they're quite prone to oversteer - there's no easy way to move them just a few yards. And when you pull the wanderers back they tend to drive the main herd on before them. But I think I'm getting the hang of it.

This afternoon I took a walk in the hills. Apparently the foot of the next hill over marked the border between the Israelites and the Philistines in the first temple era. At the top of the hill are the remains of a watchtower (i.e. a bunch of old stones laying around) from which you could have spotted any Philistine armies being mustered on the plains.

Also, there are caves everywhere. I don't mean natural caves, I mean hand-carved ancient cisterns, cellars, hideouts and homes, overgrown and half-filled in. These hills are a boy-adventurer's paradise.

Day 6

I guess I should try to explain why I was thrown into raptures when I first arrived here. The farm is on the side of a hill, looking west over fields and orchards, towns and distant cities toward the coast. It was settled 30 years ago by the current owner, who built up the remains of a bombed-out Palestinian camp and fifth century Byzantine caves. The hills are creased by stone walls and terraces from a dozen eras. The whole place is a tapestry of new, old and ancient.

The farmer is like his land - weathered, vigorous, brimming with stories. He lives simply here with his wife, sons and grandson. He spurns technology and treasure's his independence. He worships fervently and welcomes guests graciously.

It's good to know that such places exist.

It's now near sunset on the Sixth Day. The Sabbath is at hand - my first in an Orthodox home in Israel. In a moment will close my computer, turn on my Sabbath light, put on my good shirt, and join the family for prayers.

Day 7

Today I rested. Not that I'd been working terribly hard on other days. I guess it would give a better picture to say that today I ate three very large meals, listened to a lot of Hebrew liturgy, and didn't use electricity.

See, the Torah forbids the lighting of fires on the Sabbath, and back when electricity first came out the Rabbis decided that it was a form of fire. So you can't use your computer or iPod on the Sabbath. You can use electric lights and whatnot, as long as you turn them on before dusk on Friday, and don't turn them off all day. Basically, it's forbidden to push buttons.

To a Christian (particularly those of us from excessively Protestant traditions) this may sound suspiciously like Phariseeism - the straining of gnats and tithing of spices, rules interpreted and elaborated until the original significance is obscured. But now that I've tried it, I appreciate it.

Essentially it's a fast. (Albeit a fast wherein you spend half the day stuffing your face.) You cut out a bunch of little things, and it makes you stop and think.

"It's kind of dark in here."

"I should finish that e-mail."

"I need to hear The Crane Wife right now."

"…Oh ya."