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 Why do we do the things we do?

For me, there is often a book to blame. In the eighties I read The Source by James Michener, a novel that used an archaeological dig to tell the story of Israel from origins to present day. A light was lit; I wanted to go on an archaeological dig. Who wouldn't? 

An agency in London specialised in sending volunteers overseas - salt mines in Poland, apple farms in Romania and archaeological sites in Israel. I had never been outside of Europe and I have to say the land of Israel looked like those picture cards we were given in Sunday School - golden hills, palm trees and nomadic traders in arabic dress. The other volunteers were mostly American, mostly devoutly Christian and overwhelmed by the ancient alleys, markets, churches, mosques and synagogues around us. "Wow!" was the continuous utterance from one young man. 

The site we were to excavate was on a high mound from where the original settlers would have been able to view any marauders before they got close. They would have felt safe there. The site hadn't been worked on for a few years, and the earth was hard and dry. I'm not sure why archaeological sites are referred to as 'digs'. We scratched and scraped at the soil's surface, then ran our broken soil through a huge sieve to catch fragments of pottery, jewelry or bone. We found all three and, at night, lecturers gave brief talks on the significance of our findings. The small human bones we'd uncovered along with the fragments of jewelry inferred, the experts said, that the people had left in a hurry for who would leave babies and jewelry behind? Clearly, our mound had not been so very safe. 

I was living in history and have now a greater appreciation for all that lies in a museum. Did I enjoy it? Absolutely! Did I do it again? Never. Bent over the land is painful on even the youngest of spines. Besides, other books stirred other adventures. I can't be alone on this. 

Who else has read a book that has prompted a trip? I'd love to know.



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