Yesterday we went to a village outside of Nablus called Zaweta. fortunately most of it was downhill as we had taken the risk of hiring bikes to take us out there. Let me put this in perspective: I have seen approximately two people riding bicycles since I arrive here almost a month ago. Plus traffic laws seem to be taken as things significantly less than guidelines out here, so I was feeling a little apprehensive about this entire endeavour, not in the least because the only footwear I have out here consists of my trusty flip flops and a pair of heavy leather boots which I put in as an afterthought in the anticipation that at some point around the end of November I might be compelled to wear them a couple of times. Fortunately we had chosen a friday for this escapade, so there was virtually no traffic on the road. We seized the day and cycled riotously around the roads, swooping around like vultures. We thought perhaps we could start a hard-core cycling gang and name it Cultural Imperialism...

Another thing that made the outward journey possible was the fact that most of this trek was downhill, necessitating little more than the judicious application of brakes (far from mandatory as many of our brakes were temperamental to say the least) and the adopting of the Arab road code: NEVER look behind you . I didn't quite have the nerve for this last one and frequently checked what large truck was approaching behind our caravan of wayward cyclists whilst nervously whistling 'daisy, daisy,' under my breath. We briefly stopped midway up a hill which most of us were walking up anyway to breakfast on icecream that contained a larger proportion of e-numbers than i believe is generally permitted in most countries. We then continued to our farm. We made the fateful decision to take the bikes into the olives grove. This was an error. The path was not suitable for rolling the bikes let alone riding them, and the ground was very VERY spiky with dead dried foliage which made a pincushion out of my soft and vulnerable feet. I made a joke about not knowing whether I had been bitten by a snake or whether it was just thorns when our guide looked round and said nonchalantly that no one had actually died from being bitten here for quite some time. His tone reminded me of the blaze air the cats have around here when they cross the road. They see the cars hurtling towards them (and they do hurtle. I believe it is a point of honour that they try to run these felines over) and saunter across the road as if the cars were but pieces of fluff to be ignored. This would seem to be asking for death but I have yet to see any roadkill of the cat variety in Palestine.

The last part of the journey compelled us to cut across a road reserved for Israeli military vehicles. It is prohibited for Palestinians to use it at all and they seemed very nervous as we crossed to the other side. They outwardly panicked when some of our party, not realising the implications, starting to cycle along it. the road leads up to the nearest settlement and we could just see the electricity pylones in the hills. Besides that I only saw a couple of jeeps riding along it, and I think that the settlement is either far enough away or not populated with the usual religious nutcases for there to be trouble in these olive groves as yet.

We arrived and spent the next half day spreading sheets around the trees and scaling the branches and dangling off ledges to pluck the olives off the tree like monkeys pick fleas off one another. In the still-strong sunlight it was surprisingly exhausting work and we got through I don't know how many bottles of water. The narrow branches usually supported three or four of us and the rest worked around the lower branches or on the precarious rickety ladder. I ascended it once and decided I would rather rely on the tree for support. At lunch we dined on maqlubeh the famous upside-down chicken and rice and vegetable delight and joked around with the local olive-pickers who found no end of things to laugh to each other about. the subject was normally us, particularly Kevin who is blessed with the stereotypical Irish pasty white with curly ginger hair complexion, which he also happens to share with many of the orthodox Jews (yes, ginger Jews, Jaffa oranges, Jaffros etc etc hilarious). I reassured them that there were no Jews to be seen. I am glad that not enough of the party of foreigners understood Arabic to give me away.

When we had exhausted our enthusiasm for work for the day, and the sugar rush for the tea we were served had caused a slump in our will to live, we were invited to swim in a large 100 year old Ottoman pool in the back garden of an exceedingly kind gentleman who happens to be a relation of Sami who is director of the music centre. The pool looked as if it would yield not only several feet of sludge but also a couple of dead bodies if dredged. Nonetheless we dived in, some more stalwartly than others. It was very refreshing, made even more so with the snacks provided: fresh walnuts a seemingly endless supply of pomegranates from Mohammad's garden. I am pleased to say I ingratiated myself sufficiently with his extended family to be granted an open invitation I intend to make use of. It was like the garden of Eden there, completely idyllic, especially as the sun set through the trees and we were lying against the bricks that still retained the heat from the day.

Happiness and general merriment. Now back to work.