Vagabond Journey 1981-1982

Vagabond Journey 1981-1982 in Europe and Asia

Preserving Memories: A Journey Through Time and Technology

After completing my three-year military service—an experience that shaped but also exhausted me—I did what many young Israelis do: I took off. The year was 1981. With little money but endless time, I set out on a nearly two-year journey that would become one of the most transformative chapters of my life. It wasn’t planned in any structured way. It was more of an instinctual pull—toward freedom, unknown places, and toward something inside myself that needed to stretch and breathe.

Looking back now, decades later, I revisit that time through the faded photographs I took along the way. Traveling through Norway, India, and Nepal in 1982 and 1983, I carried a modest camera and packs of film. I wasn’t trying to be an artist or storyteller—just someone trying to freeze a moment, to hold onto what I sensed was fleeting and precious.

So much has changed. Today, with digital technology, we snap and store endlessly, with instant previews and the luxury of memory cards. Back then, each photo was a choice, a cost, and a small hope—that the image would come out and that it might carry a fragment of feeling or light.

Ansel Adams once said, “A great photograph is one that fully expresses what one feels, in the deepest sense, about what is being photographed.” At the time, I didn’t know what I was feeling. I only knew I wanted to remember. The photos, imperfect and undramatic, now speak louder than I expected. They don’t always tell detailed stories. Some evoke a mood, a color, the slant of light. Others feel like postcards from a younger version of myself—curious, searching, alive.

That they’ve survived all these years is something I’m quietly grateful for. Not because they’re technically good, but because they remind me. They remind me of the vastness I felt inside, the quiet freedom of being untethered, the moments that shaped me before I knew what shaping meant.

These images aren’t just frozen moments; they are memory’s scaffolding. And even if time has softened the details, the essence remains.

My Creative Dream in Amsterdam

I spent my days in Amsterdam living a kind of creative dream. I worked at a funky, low-priced hostel whose proprietor—a gentle older man surrounded by parrots—seemed plucked from a novel. We’d sit at his kitchen table in the back, his hand gently stroking the feathers of a scarlet macaw as he spoke about life, travelers, and the city’s undercurrents. My job was to spot new arrivals—young backpackers in search of cheap lodging—at the train station and bring them back to the hostel. It gave me enough time and space to paint, wander the canals, and visit the Van Gogh Museum, where I stood for long moments in front of Vincent’s sunflowers, absorbing his agony and brilliance.

I was living the artist’s life—untethered, spontaneous, romantic in all the best and worst ways. Riding a beat-up bicycle through the narrow streets, I found myself both grounded and free. Amsterdam revealed its duality to me each day. By daylight, the city was orderly, buttoned-up, laced with quiet civility. But at night, the masks came off. The Red Light District pulsed with neon, hashish cafés hummed with conversation, and all manner of people mingled in an atmosphere of surprising tolerance. The extremes coexisted not in conflict, but in rhythm. I wished the rest of the world could learn from this unlikely harmony.

One afternoon, the rhythmic drumming of a small group caught my ear. I followed the sound and found myself face-to-face with the Hare Krishnas—shaved heads, orange robes, and wide smiles, chanting with such infectious joy that it was impossible not to feel something stir. At first, I was skeptical. Who were they, really? Were they brainwashed? Searching for something I didn’t understand? But curiosity pulled me in. I followed them to a small temple where they offered a free vegetarian feast—but only after sitting through the ceremony.

The chanting was relentless, a single phrase repeated like a wave breaking again and again on the same shore. And yet, something in it softened me. Their joy wasn’t performative. It felt real. That meal—my first taste of Indian cooking—was unlike anything I’d ever eaten. Warm spices, unfamiliar flavors, and a sense of welcome that caught me off guard.

I was 22, spiritually rootless, and yet that encounter planted something I couldn’t name. A sense that prayer isn’t confined to pews or pulpits. That there are many doorways to spirit, and none more “right” than the others. Mutual respect, I realized, is its own kind of worship.

That evening, as I walked along the canal, something quietly shifted. My vague idea of traveling to India began to take shape. I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment a different kind of journey began.

👉 Watch a brief glimpse of the Hare Krishna chanting that sparked this reflection.

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Midnight Sun Odyssey: My Summers on Sørøya Island, Norway

In the summers of 1982 and 1983, I found myself living and working in the small fishing village of Sørvær on Sørøya Island, nestled off the Arctic coast of Norway. Those days now feel like a dream etched in soft northern light—where the sun circled above the horizon like a curious god that refused to sleep.

The midnight sun was more than a spectacle. It was disorienting, magical, and deeply humbling. Each night, I would watch as the sun appeared to set—dipping low and painting the sea in hues of rose and pewter—only to begin its ascent moments later, refusing to disappear. I never got used to it, and I never wanted to.

Sørøya is a place carved by sea and wind. Its rocky hills are nearly treeless, and the terrain invites long walks, deep breaths, and sudden stillness. The sea, dark and violet-hued, feels both close and infinite. There are only three villages on the island, home to about 1,000 people—most involved in fishing or fish processing. Sørvær, where I stayed, is perched at the far western tip. Its wooden homes are painted in bold strokes of red, yellow, and white, and the largest structure is the fish factory, humming with the rhythm of daily life.

There is no bridge, no tunnel—only a ferry from Hammerfest connects Sørøya to the mainland. That ferry felt like a passage between worlds.

👉 Curious where Sørvær is? Find it on the map.

To get there, I hitchhiked from Amsterdam with my friend Danny. It took over two weeks and covered more than 2,100 miles—through fjords, mountain passes, forests, and ferry crossings. Norway stretched on like a spine of ancient rock. We passed small coastal towns where fish factories sat near the waterline, each one a reminder of the sea’s pull.

Some nights we slept in odd places—once, inside a locked campground cabin we quietly broke into, only to be woken up by the camp inspector doing preseason checks. We greeted him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Hi, good morning,” we said—and walked away like travelers who had simply taken the wrong door.

👉 To witness the surreal beauty of the midnight sun, watch this brief video.

Looking back, I realize I wasn’t just traveling—I was collecting moments of wonder. I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but Sørøya shaped me. It quieted me. It taught me to notice light, to listen to wind, and to trust the strange inner compass that leads you to islands few people ever reach.

In Search of a Summer Job in Norway’s Thriving Fish Industry

It started as a rumor—whispers passed from one backpacker to another. Supposedly, in the summertime, while Norwegians vacationed in the warmth of southern Europe, their fish factories up north were in desperate need of seasonal labor. For a young traveler like me, with little money and plenty of time, it sounded like gold.

So my friend Danny and I packed our bags and headed north. We didn’t have a plan, just a sense of direction: go as far up as we could, and ask along the way. In each village, we stopped at post offices, thumbed through local phone books, and made calls from chilly, glass-walled phone booths.

One factory manager told us, “Right now, we’re shut down—everyone’s on strike. But come on up. When the strike ends, we could use some help.”

That was good enough for us. We took the ferry and arrived at Sørvær, a windswept village on Sørøya Island, perched near the edge of the Barents Sea.

Life there moved with the tides. Each morning—long before the sun rose—local fishermen set out into icy waters to catch cod. The best season, we learned, was from January to April, when cod returned from the open sea to spawn in the fjords surrounding the island.

The boats were modest, often just 40 to 50 feet long, manned by one or two people—usually family. They’d bring the fish back no more than two hours after the catch. The freshness wasn’t a selling point—it was simply the way things were.

We also discovered that Sørøya is part of one of the few remaining places on Earth where cod fisheries are still healthy—thanks to Norway’s strict sustainability regulations. Like Iceland, Norway enforces policies that ensure fish populations remain stable, habitats are respected, and local communities can continue living from the sea without exhausting it.

Sustainable fishing isn’t just about the environment—it’s about continuity. It’s about leaving enough in the water for the next day, and the day after that. About honoring a rhythm older than commerce. We didn’t know that then—not really—but we were lucky to be there, to witness it, and for a brief time, to be part of it.

A Journey from Boat to Supermarket: My Experience in the Fish Industry

Working in the fish processing factory on Sørøya was gritty, cold, and physically demanding—but also strangely fulfilling. The work was honest. Rhythmic. There was something deeply satisfying about being part of a system that turned raw catch into food for families across Europe.

I remember the boats pulling up to the dock, their hulls rocking gently as cranes lifted massive white tubs—cubic containers the size of bathtubs—sloshing with freshly caught cod. Each shift, I worked with a crew of five. Dressed in thick, waterproof overalls and insulated gloves, we stood shoulder to shoulder, knives in hand. There was no talking. Just movement. Fast, practiced, and precise.

My speed and clean cuts didn’t go unnoticed. Some of the Norwegians—initially reserved—started inviting me to join their teams. That small recognition meant something.

We were paid by weight, so efficiency mattered. The faster we gutted and decapitated, the more we earned. But there was more than money in it. There was camaraderie, purpose, and the humbling realization that you were one small part of a vast food chain.

From round, silver-scaled fish to breaded fillets packed in neat, branded boxes, the transformation was remarkable. Machines handled the bulk, but human hands were always part of the equation. The smell of sea and salt never quite left our clothes.

Soon, these boxes—bright with photos of lemon wedges and parsley sprigs—would be shipped to supermarkets far from this icy coast. Shoppers might never imagine the boat, the island, the hours, the knives. But I would. I always would.

The Harsh Winter Climate and the Delicacy of Stockfish

On Sørøya Island, where Arctic winds sweep across the sea and snow coats the earth in silence, a centuries-old tradition endures. Here, in this remote northern edge of Norway, codfish are transformed into stockfish—an unassuming name for what has become a delicacy in kitchens across Europe and beyond.

The process is deceptively simple, yet each step is steeped in care and precision. After gutting and removing the head, each cod is matched with another of equal size. Their tails are tied together with cotton string, forming a pair—a quiet partnership in the drying ritual. Then, with practiced hands, the fish are hung over wooden racks that rise like skeletal frames against the pale winter sky.

From January through April, the cold, dry air does its quiet work. No smoke. No heat. Just wind, time, and frost. The drying can take anywhere from two to three months, depending on the weather and the thickness of the fish. The spacing on the racks matters: too close, and moisture lingers; too far, and the wind can be too harsh. It’s a balance only locals truly master.

The harshness of the climate is part of the alchemy. It draws out moisture slowly, preserving the fish without compromising its integrity. When the process is done right, the stockfish is light, aromatic, and resilient—ready for travel, trade, and eventually, the plate.

There’s a quiet poetry in it: fish that once swam through icy waters now swaying gently in the wind, shaped by winter into something enduring. Just like the people who make it.

The Fascinating Habits and Lifestyle of Norwegians

Norwegians defy the simplistic stereotype of tall, blonde Nordic folk. While there’s truth to their Viking heritage, it’s the cultural undercurrent—felt more than spoken—that truly defines them. A subtle but powerful value of uniformity runs through the national psyche. There’s an old saying: “Conform to the customs or flee the country.” It sounds harsh, but it’s more a reflection of the deep desire for cohesion than exclusion.

And yet, Norwegians are remarkably inclusive, especially toward foreigners. I found them to be generous, accepting, and curious—especially once a little trust was earned. Religion doesn’t play a dominant role in daily life, but their disdain for neighboring Sweden—rooted in centuries of historical rivalry—remains a quiet national quirk. On the flip side, nearly everyone speaks English fluently, making communication effortless.

One of the more peculiar cultural experiences I had was around alcohol. On Sørøya Island, where I worked, there was no local liquor store. To get alcohol, one had to order from the state-run Vinmonopolet on the mainland in Hammerfest. The shipment would arrive by ferry—timed, conveniently, for the weekend. During the week, my colleagues were stoic and soft-spoken. But by Friday night, with a few drinks in hand, those same quiet Norwegians became animated, funny, and warm—suddenly, my closest companions. At the time, it amused me. Decades later, I see it with deeper understanding: a cultural rhythm that isn’t uniquely Norwegian, but distinctly human.

Coffee, however, was a constant. In a country where alcohol is expensive and tightly regulated, coffee reigns as the daily social ritual. Known as kokekaffe, it’s made by boiling water and letting the grounds steep in the pot. It’s lighter than espresso, but deeply satisfying in its own way. Norwegians drink it at all hours—breakfast, mid-morning, after dinner. The tradition gained momentum during the prohibition years (1917–1927), when coffee quietly took alcohol’s place as the national drink.

Though the prohibition ended long ago, the ritual stayed. I came to appreciate it—not for the volume of consumption, but for the taste itself. Roasted. Bitter. No sugar. A habit that began in the Arctic stayed with me ever since.

When Destiny Is Written in the Stars

My journey to Norway changed everything. It was there, on that remote Arctic island, that I met Dalit. She had arrived with a group from her kibbutz—friends who had worked in Sørvær before and knew the rhythm of the place. I didn’t know it at the time, but something in me whispered that our paths crossing wasn’t random. When two people meet at the edge of the world, beside the frigid northern sea, it feels like more than chance. It feels like something written in the stars.

Together, we wandered far—from Norway’s windblown cliffs to the temples of India and the quiet trails of Nepal. Later, we returned to Norway to pick strawberries under endless summer light before finally planting roots, first in Israel, then in Los Angeles. Along the way, we created something truly rare: our son, Tomer—a living bridge between our worlds.

We spent 28 years together—years filled with love, friction, growth, and transformation. Eventually, we parted ways. But the journey we shared remains etched into the map of my life, like a constellation you can always trace back to.

👉 To read more about my reflections on fatherhood, identity, and the lessons life continues to teach me, I invite you to explore my biography page.

Etched in Memory: A Personal Account of Arriving in New Delhi

We left behind gloomy London and flew to New Delhi with Aeroflot, the Russian airline. Back then, there were no formal diplomatic ties between Russia and Israel—nor between India and Israel—so unease lingered beneath every interaction. Our overnight stop in Tashkent, now the capital of Uzbekistan, was surreal. A uniformed security guard sat outside our hotel room without explanation. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

When we landed at New Delhi Airport, I was pale and disoriented. I remember wearing a white shirt. My hair was long. I scanned the terminal, trying to make sense of the new terrain—and probably looked as confused as I felt.

Dalit stood beside me, calm and composed. Her stillness was a sharp contrast to the chaos that surged around us. She looked radiant, almost cinematic—petite, poised, with those unforgettable Elizabeth Taylor eyes that seemed to slow everything down. She didn’t just walk through the terminal. She glided.

In that instant, I saw the scene from above—me, the bewildered wanderer, and Dalit, the unlikely anchor, glowing with beauty and grace in a place that didn’t pause for anyone.

Then came a figure through the crowd—a tall Sikh gentleman, in crisp white, his turban immaculate. He moved toward us with surprising gentleness, as if he had been waiting. Without words, he gestured for us to follow. Through immigration. Through customs. Through the whirl of movement and heat and smell—until we stepped out into the street.

It felt, unmistakably, like an angel had taken our hands.

The shock of arriving in India is unavoidable. The auto-rickshaw drivers, the crowds, the color, the honking, the smiles—and of course, the cows—everything wants a piece of your attention. Welcome to India, I thought.

We made our way to the New Delhi market, got a room, and began our venture. Almost immediately, the hotel receptionist asked if we had whisky, cigarettes, or a camera to sell. In those days, these were rare and coveted commodities. We’d come prepared.

A few days later, after wandering through Delhi’s crowded streets and witnessing even more cows than I thought existed, Dalit turned to me and said, “I want to go home. I can’t take it.”

I looked at her. I understood and said, “Sorry, my dear, I paid for your ticket. I have no money to send you back. You are staying here with me!”

That moment sealed something between us—an unspoken pact to ride the waves of the unknown together.

It also taught me a lesson I’d carry forward: when the city overwhelms, the mountains call. That has been the rhythm of every trip to India since. The chaos of Delhi gives way to a yearning for the Himalayas—for air, for space, for silence.

Pearls of wisdom learned in India

We spent six months roaming the Indian subcontinent, living the way vagabond travelers do—wandering, observing, absorbing. At the time, I didn’t realize how deeply those days were carving themselves into me. It took years—of reading, study, introspection—to understand that a few quiet pearls of wisdom had slipped into my consciousness during that first journey through India. They’re still there—growing, unfolding, sometimes blooming. I don’t expect to ever fully grasp them. That’s not the point. Life, like India, teaches in spirals, not straight lines. The journey is about progress, not perfection.

Defy the Crowd: Drawing a Line for Healthy Boundaries

In a country of over a billion souls, solitude can feel mythical. Sometimes it seems as if the entire world is walking beside you. In those moments, I learned—almost by necessity—to draw a line. Not to push people away, but to carve out a small sacred space within the crowd. That act of quiet defiance—of choosing boundaries without hostility—is something I carry with me to this day, wherever I go.

The Power of Kindness: Learning to Trust in India

India stares you in the eye. There’s no hiding. People look at you—really look—and they aren’t afraid of the contact. Often, they smile. Sometimes they approach. Many times, they help. Even when they don’t know the answer, they still want to assist. It taught me to return the gaze. To soften. To trust. To accept kindness without suspicion. To offer it without calculation. India asks for your full presence and rewards it with quiet, unexpected grace.

Let Things Happen: Surrendering Control

India doesn’t unfold on a schedule. Trains run late. Streets don’t follow logic. Plans dissolve in the heat or in the rain. And slowly, in the middle of all that disorder, I learned to let go. Not to give up—but to release. To trust the process, the chaos, the delay. Because more often than not, what seems like a detour becomes the very heart of the journey. India taught me that what doesn’t go “right” may go better. It gave me a new lens for life.

I’m reminded of Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance, set during India’s Emergency of 1975–1977. Four strangers—thrown together by caste, gender, corruption, and fate—discover that survival depends not on power, but on kindness and interdependence. Those who find acceptance, who offer help, who yield to life—they live. Those who resist are often lost. Sometimes, acceptance is the answer.

Everything is a Teacher

In India, time bends. Days are measured not by the clock, but by the body—by hunger, by rest, by sun and shadow. And in that space, I began to listen differently. To myself. To the world. One day, a tree became my teacher. Another day, a stray dog. Once, a butterfly. They weren’t mystical experiences—they were ordinary moments that spoke in a new language. I realized then: everything holds a lesson, if you’re quiet enough to receive it.

A Wild Night in Pokhara, Nepal: A Tale of Psychedelic Exploration

It happened only once—just one night in Pokhara, Nepal—but it’s etched into my memory like a strange and beautiful dream. That night, I tried magic mushrooms for the first time, mixing them with yogurt in a modest guesthouse room tucked beneath the Annapurnas. We waited patiently. Nothing happened. So we got up, shrugged it off, and decided to head to the police station to get our hiking permits.

Yes, the police station.

At first, everything felt normal. I was animated, friendly—chatting away with the Nepalese officers in their striking red berets. We found common ground quickly. I told them about my time in the Israeli Army as a paratrooper, where we also wore red berets. They were warm, curious. The moment held a surprising sense of connection.

Then, mid-conversation, Dalit and I looked at each other and began to laugh.

At first it was soft—then uncontrollable. We realized what was happening. The mushrooms had begun to work their way into our systems, shifting perception, stretching time. Somehow, we held it together just long enough to finish our conversation, thank the officers, and make a swift exit.

Back in the room, the hallucinations arrived in full color. I lay on my back, transfixed by the ceiling—now a shifting canvas of purples and geometries, alive and in motion. The patterns danced, shimmered, spoke in a language made of light. It was another world entirely—vivid, intense, and oddly comforting.

In the morning, our neighbor casually remarked that it sounded like we’d had quite a night. I smiled. They had no idea.

That single night in Pokhara remains one of the strangest and most treasured chapters of my travels—not because of the substance, but because of what it revealed: the wild, unpredictable, and sometimes hilarious terrain of the mind.

👉 For a visual taste of Pokhara’s trippy allure, this short video captures a hint of the surreal atmosphere I remember.

An Unforgettable Himalayan Adventure: My Journey Through the Annapurna Circuit

When I set off for the Indian subcontinent, the Taj Mahal wasn’t calling me. Nor were the backwaters of Kerala, the ghats of Varanasi, or even the culinary chaos of New Delhi. Those wonders came later. I went with one thing in mind: the Himalayas.

A lover of rocks and silence, I had wandered the Sinai for years. But the highest mountains on Earth? That felt like destiny. And in 1982, we were among the first foreigners allowed to hike the Annapurna Circuit—just after tensions had eased between the CIA-backed Khampa guerrillas and the Nepalese Army. The trail had opened. We walked in.

The journey began and ended in Pokhara. One month. 145 miles. A circle of peaks and prayers, of suspension bridges and shy “namaste” greetings. Of asking for “khana” and “sutnu”—food and sleep—in dusty villages with warm hearts.

Each night brought a floor to roll our bags across and a plate of steaming dal bhat: rice, lentils, potatoes, cauliflower, and whatever else could be grown or carried. We lived on less than a dollar a day, and felt like the richest people alive.

I remember the dread of the hanging bridges—the kind that swayed just enough to make your breath catch—and the frozen anticipation of Thorong La Pass. At 17,769 feet (5,416 meters), it’s the circuit’s highest point, blanketed in deep snow.

Our final night before the crossing was spent in a cramped shelter, wall-to-wall sleeping bags. Twenty, maybe thirty trekkers and Sherpas. A legendary stop run by two Nepali men lovingly nicknamed the Dal Bhat Brothers. There was laughter, exhaustion, and frost hanging in the air.

And then, a gesture I’ve never forgotten: an American woman noticed Dalit’s battered sneakers—barely hanging together—and offered her extra pair of shoes. Just like that. I was too young, too naive, to have thought ahead. That woman’s kindness may have saved Dalit’s toes from freezing. I still carry that moment in my chest. Gratitude, and a lesson.

👉 This video captures some of the raw, rugged spirit of the Annapurna trail. It may not be my exact path, but it echoes the one that etched itself into my soul.

The Delicious Delight of Yak Yogurt in Nepal

I still remember the monkeys—dozens of them—roaming freely around the sacred temples of Kathmandu. Locals regarded them as divine messengers, and their presence added a surreal, almost mythic quality to the morning light. Among the many daily rituals we settled into, one stood out with particular warmth: breakfast. Every morning, we’d savor a clay pot filled with fresh yak yogurt—thick, rich, and tangy, often drizzled with local honey.

Yaks, those large, shaggy creatures with bowed shoulders and majestic horns, are the lifeblood of Himalayan life. As pack animals, they carry supplies across rugged trails. As dairy providers, their milk—loaded with butterfat—produces a yogurt so creamy and full-bodied that cow’s milk seems timid in comparison. Eating it from an unglazed red clay pot added an earthy texture, both literal and symbolic, grounding me in that moment, in that place.

Nepal, for all its beauty and spiritual resonance, also holds a sobering contrast. Known to budget travelers as an affordable haven, it’s also a land stitched with deep fault lines—both geological and political. Beneath the stillness of the mountains lies a country often shaken by unrest and instability.

👉 Watch a brief travelogue glimpse of Nepal’s daily magic

👉 This clip captures the harmony of temple life and its resident monkeys

Conclusion: Memory as Compass, Travel as Teacher

I set out with no clear plan—just a need to move, to go somewhere far from what I knew. What I found wasn’t just new landscapes, but a deeper sense of myself. From the stillness of Norway to the wild energy of India, from Kathmandu’s temple monkeys to the woman who gave Dalit a pair of shoes in the Himalayas—each place, each moment left its mark.

This wasn’t just a trip. It was my first big journey beyond the borders of my homeland, Israel. I had no idea then how much it would shape me. Every journey I’ve taken since carries something from that original adventure. It set the tone. It showed me how travel can wake you up—and how you never return quite the same.

Decades later, I return to that time through memories—photos, smells, a certain rhythm of thought that still echoes the paths I walked. I learned that life doesn’t unfold in straight lines. It moves in circles, in pauses, in turns we don’t always expect. Travel taught me to meet the unknown with curiosity instead of fear.

I didn’t understand the meaning then. That’s the thing about travel—you live it going forward, but only make sense of it looking back. Maybe that’s what makes it so powerful. We don’t just travel to see new things. We travel to find out who we are.

1981-1982