My face flushed, then a scorching white-hot tone of panic blasted my brain ear to ear as I realized I’d been pickpocketed on that bus from Haifa to Akko. My passport was gone — along with it, my identity.
Game over. No side jaunts to Amsterdam. No London. No maybe-I-could-work-my-way-home, west to east, starting with a job as a deck hand on some Liberian freighter bound for Pakistan… (which probably would have been the end of me anyway, so thanks, Fates, in hindsight, for making that passport disappear).
No, my only travels now would be red-tape pilgrimages from my temporary kibbutz home, down on the northern edge of the Negev, to the US consulate in Tel Aviv and back again… however many trips it might take to re-establish my identity as a stranger in a strange land in a just-cooled-down war zone… to procure an even more temporary passport, good for one trip and one trip only: the beeline special back to New York JFK.
With his long, receding silver-blonde hair, matching full beard and moustache, round tortoise-shell spectacles, white puffy dress shirt offset by a tan vest, baggy tan shorts and sandals, an amiable and dignified sort of tall and paunchy, Yaakov Pleet looked like Kris Kringle in civvies, on a vacation getaway to, where else, Tel Aviv.
He introduced himself to me as I sat there on a bus bench on a warm, sunny afternoon, waiting to catch my ride back to the Negev. Within a ten-minute exchange of pleasantries and how-do-you-do’s, Yaakov had also already managed to regale me with insightful tidbits about the history of the surrounding neighborhood and even spout some snippets of poetry.
I would bump into Mr. Pleet on three more successive trips into Tel Aviv, all by happenstance, never in the same spot or even in the same neighborhood — there he was, seated at a coffeehouse patio, on my second trip — I joined this jovial sub-Saharan Santa for a spot of tea as he sprinkled more poetry in with cultural tidbits, philosophy, Bedouin lore, an unending string of enthralling far-flung factoids.
On my final foray into Tel Aviv, he was perched cross-legged on a park bench, soaking up rays and contemplating the meaning of life. Yaakov now waxed fervently about his childhood and university days in Canada, transferring to the merchant marine corps from the Royal Canadian Navy in mid-World War Two so that he could be of more direct service in helping emigrants and refugees make their way into Israel, this land he now loved with a deep and intense loyalty…
More poetry, more factoids, more hints that Yaakov perhaps spent as much time as he did on city street corners because he might be cruising for young, impressionable, unsuspecting fellers… I bid Mr. Fleet a respectful adieu.
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Temporary passport finally in hand, it was time to go home. I’d stay for Purim, the Jewish equivalent of Halloween. And what a party that was, with a full moon rising and setting over the Negev — pinks, purples, oranges and blues like I’ve never seen before or since. It went on all night, and I joined my hometown buddy Bubs Barker at his workstation in the barn, 5 a.m., milking the goats, six at a time, one troop after another, mounting and dismounting on a little goat-milking merry-go-round — attaching and unattaching the automated teatcups, piling fresh silage in the middle, unpiling and hauling away fresh goat poo from around the perimeters. Mostly I remember how good that steamy morning boetz (coffee) tasted, thick with cream, dunking sugar cookies and calling it breakfast.
