Exodus: A day in my life, Part IV

“Mix up two eggs, take a brush, and sesame seeds. Brush the braided dough with the eggs and then sprinkle the sesame seeds on the top. I’ll show you,” says Dani.

While Dani goes to get the sesame seeds and brush, I go to the refrigerator and pick up two eggs. I grab a small metal mixing bowl and fork, crack the eggs open and mix them up. Dani returns. He sets down the braided dough, dips the brush in and applies the egg. 

He then grabs a handful of sesame seeds from a plastic bag and sprinkles them on top. “Just like that,” says Dani. “Do that to all the challah,” as he points to four other trays containing the braided bread.

“This is something new,” I think to myself. “Only in Israel would I be doing this.  Certainly not in Ventura, California. The people of the kibbutz need this. It is Shabbat and one needs challah. It’s a Jewish necessity.”

As I begin brushing the egg onto the challah Dani says, “Will you be able to work tonight at the pub. I’ll only be able to be there for a couple hours. Play some good music.”

“Sure,” I respond. “When do you want me to come?”

“Come around 10. First speak with Nat and Leah.  They’re going to open it.”

“Okay.”
 
My mood improves. Being the DJ at the kibbutz is a divine experience for me. I’m not much of a talker, and have difficulty in social situations, but I understand music, and a pub with good music is wonderful. I also love the sound system at the pub. I can play the music as loud as I want without people complaining.
 
By now I have made 15 discs of various styles of music, Reggae, Hip-Hop, Rock, Metal, Punk, Pop, Folk, Dance, and Trance. I also have an mp3 player full of songs. If I combine this with the music from the pub computer I have access to hundreds of songs.
 
Soon I am finished applying the egg and sesame seeds to the challah. What should I do now?

I see lots of trash bins in the back of the kitchen that need to be thrown out and I ask Dani if I should empty them. He tells me the Indians, Ritesh and Hoshang should do this. I walk away and find Hoshang drinking coffee, so I tell him to come with me to throw out the trash, as I don’t feel it is right to have the Indians do all the dirty work, like cleaning the drains, washing the dishes, and throwing out the trash.  I was told I have the authority over the Indian volunteers, but I feel uncomfortable as an authority figure. I hate telling people what to do, just as I dislike people telling me what to do.
 
I put on a plastic yellow apron and walk with Hoshang to the back of the kitchen.
 
“Are you ready 1138?” Hoshang.
 
“I’m ready 1139.  Let’s rock and roll,” I respond.
 
I open the green metal doors and place two large rocks next to each door to keep them from closing.  oshang and I begin pulling the heavy trash bins outside, onto the loading ramp.  There are six bins. Once the bins are outside I remove the rocks and shut the doors.
 
I look at my black Casio digital watch and see the time is 8:25am. The desert sun is already scorching. Sweat begins collecting on my face. I squint my eyes. I grab a handle to one of the garbage bins and Hoshang grabs the other handle. “One, two, three,” I say.
 
Hoshang and I lift the bin simultaneously. The bin is heavy. We don’t speak to each other. We just do our job.
 
The trash bin we are holding is full of uneaten food and food scraps. On the kibbutz we throw away about a fourth of the food that is prepared. Nonetheless, the uneaten food and food scraps are dumped in a large yellow container. The food will be used to produce compost fertilizer for the organic garden in the kibbutz.
 
As Hoshang and I are walking to the large yellow bin I see Mirav and Solomon milking goats in the distance. The goat milk is used to make various cheeses and yogurt. These products are used for internal kibbutz consumption, as Ilan, the man in charge of the goats has yet to receive authorization from the Israeli authorities to sell the goat milk, cheese, and yogurt.
 
To the left of the goat milking area, there are workers building an eco-neighborhood consisting of many geodesic domes. When this eco-neighborhood is completed it will be used to house people who come to Kibbutz Lotan to study permaculture.
 
In between the goat milking area and the eco-neighborhood is the kibbutz recycling center. The recycling center is constructed out of tires, filled with trash, and then covered with four layers of mud, symbolizing how trash can be utilized to build structures. There are separate areas to recycle paper, cardboard, newspaper, glass, nylon bags, and plastic containers.

Hoshang and I reach the large yellow container.  We set the bin down. I remove a heavy rock from a plastic lid that covers the yellow container and then remove the lid. The lid is used to keep the kibbutz cats from eating the uneaten food and making a mess.
 
“Mirav!” I shout. There is no response. “Mirav!” I shout again. This time she turns around. I wave and she waves back.
 
Mirav is an Israeli from Petah Tikva, who came to the kibbutz to study Watsu, a form of water therapy that got its name by combining the words water and Shiatsu. After her course ended she decided to stay at the kibbutz as a volunteer. She works with the goats, but one day a week she switches jobs with Pome and works in the kitchen. When Mirav comes to the kitchen to eat I usually hug her. Her hugs are one of the highlights of my day. Sometimes we play the guitar and sing together. She is a beautiful person with a beautiful soul.
 
“One, two, three,” I say. Hoshang and I lift the garbage bin and dumb the contents into the large yellow container designated for the food scraps. 
 
We walk back to the loading ramp at the back of the kitchen and empty out the contents of two other trash bins containing food scraps. The remaining trash bins contain trash that can’t be recycled.  We empty the three other bins into a large green metallic garbage bin that the Israeli trash authorities empty periodically throughout the week. The trash bins are empty.  Hoshang and I hose them out and set them upside down so that they can dry out.
  
I look at my watch. It reads 9:00 am. It’s time to eat breakfast.