Day Two at Bethsaida.

Ok, so first foray into the wild and wonderful world of archaeology at the historical city of Bethsaida is picking weeds. Not just any weeds mind you, we're talking some pretty freakin tough plants. There are thorns, there are screams of pain. We have been schooled in the finer arts of setting up tarps and the breakfast crew for the next couple of weeks has been chosen. I figured this was a test of our mettle (not to be confused with nettles... of which there were plenty) as well as a test for the gloves most of us had brought along with us. My own Target brand bright green beauties would serve me well throughout the dig.

We were back at Kibbutz Ginosar by noon and were at the pool by one. The sun blazed a dry heat and I spent about two hours as a disembodied head, paddling around the pool, making conversation with other Diggers as I met them. We were shortly introduced to Zachary, lifeguard of the chiseled abs and sly smile and C and myself swiftly dubbed him Cabana Boy. S and C and I shared a beer and conversation at the hotel bar and S then made a trek that he would make many times... showing newbies the route to the kibbutz supermarket to buy beer. The supermarket was manned by a surly woman who said precisely three words (in Hebrew and English) and failed to share my excitement over the abacus that was for sale. Armed with Tuborg and Goldstar, we headed back to sit in front of S's room, slapping at bugs and listening to the kid watching TV in the dorm. Eventually we all meandered to our beds as 4am quickly approached.

First day in our chosen Locus's and my group at 1765 are instructed to clean away all of the dirt and boulders, displaced by an earthquake and time, lining the road into the city. We set about our task somewhat merrily... picking and poking, dumping all the dirt into buckets to be heaved up over the side and sifted . Quickly we became envious of other sifting stations throughout the site as we eyed our red-headed stepchild sifting station. Where others sifted in the shade, contraptions held up by trees or stands, excess dirt falling into the coveted wheelbarrows, we were forced to sift by hand, over a pile of dirt, in the blazing sun. Our sifter was carefully placed on three buckets and by 9am, sifting became decidedly not glamorous and more torturous.

By breakfast we were wrung out slugs, slithering into line for a bounty of bread, cheese, hard boiled eggs, tomatoes, cucumbers, cereal and Turkish coffee. Someone mentioned that the productivity of work decreases by at least 50% after breakfast and we would soon learn why.

After breakfast, fortified and chipper we once again attacked our road with a fever of young Indiana Jones's...until energy waned with the rising of the sun. Sweat mixed withdirt and dust, pasting my body and glasses. I had been chosen for the seemingly innocuous job of Getting Popsicles. Now popsicles were to play a pretty large role in life at the Dig as I would soon learn and so therefore this early trip was a mere break from life at 1765 for me. We piled into the little rental car and chugged down to the local restaurant where Benny had been providing Diggers frozen treats for many years now. Hauling into the parking lot we felt a strange forboding descend around us in a shadowy haze as we made note of the darkened windows and lack of any movement whatsoever. My compatriot S seemed to be getting stressed and as we walked around the building, setting off alarms when I tried to open the side door, he became more agitated. "You don't understand... if we go back empty-handed they'll KILL us... seriously!!" I really couldn't understand the severity of the situation, and it would in fact be a few days until I really and truly understood the manic need for popsicles. We rode back to the dig and I abandoned him to the vultures of the other areas while I went back to my trusty compadres at Locus 1765, whom I knew I had already forged a tight bond with and who probably wouldn't tear off my limbs and dump them over the side along with our sifted dirt.

The next day seemed eerily the same: same locus, same sifter, same wheelbarrow envy, same breakfast. With the sun rose an uncomfortable feeling of fear...I was once again to go on the Popsicle Run and I felt my skin crawl as members of my group relayed their extreme heat exhausted need for a popsicle and murmurs of rebellion played upon sun parched lips. S and I once again loaded into the rental and putted down the road to Benny's only to stop in horror as we, once again, saw the dim windows and tumbleweeds blowing through the parking lot. We frantically asked the nearest human, in this case a man selling cherries on the side of the road, where in gods name Benny WAS... we must have looked possessed, covered in dirt, filth and sweat...fear burning white hot in our eyes...he mumbled in Arabic and ambled away, casting frightened glances over his shoulder. I felt like pummeling my hands on the glass doors or kicking something or running far far away but we dejectedly loaded into the car and drove about negative 3 kilometers an hour back to the site.

There's this path that leads up to the city road where my group was working... it's a long, steep thing that is easily eyed from up top. I could see people standing up there, armed with pickaxes and brooms and I swallowed heavily, fresh sweat breaking out on my upper lip. S and I convinced ourselves that years from now, other archaeological diggers would find our bleached skulls propped on the side of the road, popsicle sticks jammed where eyeballs once were.

There was anger, I'm not gonna lie... there were looks of evil from dejected, hot Diggers. There were moments I feared for my life. Popsicle duty was really not all it cracked up to be. The following day did, in fact, come armed with popsicles... this time I totally bailed on the Drive of Shame but S pulled through like a champion. I recall standing over the sifter and looking down the sun-drenched road, seeing his head bobbing as he practically ran up the path, bearing a brown sack, triumphant where I had failed. Diggers surrounded him, gloved fists plunging into the bounty, sifting through the booty. At the precise moment I tasted the lemon frozen goodness, and as we sat with our feet up, not talking, slurping away...I finally understood the mystical allure of Popsicle Break.