The Inimitable Hermit House of Herzliya, Part One

For the past couple weeks, I’ve been staying with distant relatives on the outskirts of Tel Aviv, a seaside town called Herzliya. They have been the kindest of hosts and taken me in as family – homemade meals, a bed to sleep on, and an incredible tolerance of my constant comings and goings.

I’ve spent most of my time in Tel Aviv, writing by day, and by night, meeting up with people I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know along the way. I’ve met kibbutzniks, farmers and virtuosic guitarists; astrologists, animators, architects, interpreters, interior decorators, shoe designers and toy inventors; I’ve worked with photographers and documentarians, trained with professional rock climbers, quibbled with bullet-wounded bar owners; I’ve heard tall tales of war from paratroopers, medics, naval navigators, and EOD specialists, from Israeli patriots and American expatriates; I’ve even been solicited for sex and tefillin in the same day.

Most, if not all of these people have a story (or two) to tell, but one man really grabbed my attention. We did not meet organically, that is, in a bar or coffee shop or through mutual friends. I stumbled upon his home while running along the beach one afternoon. His name is Nissim Kakhalon, and he is the hermit of Herzliya.

Herzliya is a pristine beach town ten kilometers north of Tel Aviv. Founded as a farming community in 1924, it is now one of Israel’s most affluent districts, largely in part to the marina that was built in the 1980s at the southern end of its scenic coast. This area boasts a spacious beach where travelers and inhabitants alike can enjoy a day in the sun, a vibrant series of coffee shops, restaurants and hotels along the newly developed boardwalk. But as you walk north, away from the boats and the boardwalk, the dunes grow higher as the beach thins out into an amalgamation of jagged rocks and ruins from the ancient port city of Apollonia – a military fortress from the 6th century BCE that served as a watch point high above the sea – an area no longer suitable for leisurely lounging. Now within these dunes – towering cliffs of sand, solidified and striated from centuries of withstanding wind and rain – about three kilometers from the marina, it is here that you will find the house of Nissim Kakhalon. This house is not above the dunes, not beside them. Nissim Kakhalon’s home is carved from inside these fragile walls along the Mediterranean Sea.

The dwelling is a feast for the eyes, a life-size sandcastle carved from within these ancient cliffs, jutting out mere steps from the ebb and flow of the tide. A mishmash of stone, coral, tires, bottles and glass washed ashore, every inch of this seaside palace was hand-picked, the beach and ocean serving as his personal Home Depot. Part fortress, part castle, part work of art, the territory is barricaded in by a three-meter high wall, an assortment of colorful rocks collected from his front yard. Scattered caves, clandestine turrets, and a single, sculpted, glass-eyed facade give the illusion of tactical surveillance. At the top of the dune sits a “Gaudian” watchtower, round and wavy in shape with intricate tile mosaics decorating the exterior. And to the south is an unfurnished porch shaded by a ceramic boat-shaped awning and zig-zagging wooden thatches – a desolate area that could easily accommodate two dozen people.

The structure – or perhaps its creator – seemed confused as to whether this was a place of seclusion, or one to capture the attention of passerbies who look upon its beauty with wonder and curiosity. In this case, it was the latter. I was eager to learn the story of this inspiring and earthen palace.

I began asking around Tel Aviv – patrons in bars and in coffee shops, people who’s couches I crashed on – but no one had heard of this man or his house of sand and stone. I was surprised, excited. How was this such a well-kept secret? I then asked around Herzliya hoping the local folk might be more privy to the sandcastle on their beach. Nissim Kakhalon, as it were, is something of a myth to Herzliyans. Most of the locals shared the same kernels of information, each varying in layers, detail and tone – some equally fascinated as I, some disinterested, some disapproving; some hailing him an enigma, an artists, a modest man, and others deeming him a recluse, a degenerate, a lost soul. Just as urban legends are recycled, rehashed and built upon the more they proliferate, Nissim Kakhalon is a modern anomaly that many believe to know, yet everyone has their own take on his tale.

The gist of the “myth” goes like this. Kakhalon is a squatter, a single man who moved to the beach forty years ago – long before the development of Herzliya’s marina and its subsequent rise to affluence – to live a life of solitude and build a place for himself on the water. They call him “the Caveman.” From the onset of his lifelong project, he has only used natural and recycled materials which he has found along the beach’s coast, on streets, in garages and dumpsters – anything he can get his hands on, assuming others consider it unwanted goods, is fair game. Local government and authorities have tried many times through the years to oust Mr. Kakhalon from his dwelling in the dune, but the consensus among Herzliyans is that he is harmless, and his work fascinating, so they allow him to live in relative peace, despite the laundry list of zoning infractions he has committed. (Keep in mind, this is the only home that is physically on the beach; all others are required by law to be built a certain distance from the ocean as to protect them from the ever-rising tides and inevitable landslides.) The only minor victory these authorities have had was when Nissim Kakhalon opened a coffee shop on the porch of his home – aptly named “The Caveman Cafe” – serving tea, Turkish coffee, and simple snacks like hummus and babaganush. The porch quickly earned its place in travel guides and “Must-See” booklets as a summer hangout, and Kakhalon enjoyed the company, not to mention the instant success of his boutique business. But as a place of public consumption, he could not keep in accordance with the health and safety codes necessary to run a for-profit establishment (nevermind the income, corporate and real estate taxes he refused to pay). And so, the short-lived Caveman Cafe fell from grace in 2008 and has since lost its page in the travel guides and “Must-See” booklets, once again becoming the not-so-humble home of a hermit. What came of Nissim Kakhalon since the demise of his cafe is the big question mark in everyone’s story. Some say the cafe was the last straw, and the government finally had means to evict the pesky squatter; some believe he abandoned the house and went to start anew on another beach; some thought he had left for the winter, but would return once spring turned; some attest to seeing him working away – as he has done all these years – from his watchtower atop the dune, roaming the beach at sunset for seashells and stones; some reckon he has since died.

Kakhalon’s legend, as told by the Herzliyans, was a helpful start in learning about the man behind this madness. But it wasn’t enough. So much was missing from this fable, so many loopholes and disconnects. This guy had been living in caverns for four decades, but what before then? What was he secluding himself from, and why? What spurred this enigmatic lifestyle? It rained for several days after I came across the house, and I scoured Google for stories, articles, anything, but only found reinterations of the Herzliyans’ anecdotes.

On the first day of sunshine, I grabbed my camera and made my way toward Apollonia. I was going to meet the hermit, that is, if he was still there.

Photos of The Hermit House of Herzliya.

Arabian Nights in Bohemian Paradise

I should preface our trip to Sinai by saying that it isn’t the best of times to be crossing the Egyptian border, especially by foot, and especially by way of Israel. It wasn’t until we checked our email upon returning to Israel that we heard of the tragic soccer riot in Cairo, and the kidnapping of two tourists in St. Catherine’s about an hour away, both of which took place while we were in Sinai. (As they say, out of sight, out of mind.) The decision to go to Sinai was spontaneous, and Spencer, a fellow American, was convincing enough that it was a harmless place – what’s the worst that could happen?

Well, upon crossing the border from Eilat to Taba, we were expecting the worst. A cabbie trailed behind us for the one kilometer walk from the Taba border to the bus station, insisting in his high pitched, restless tone that we had missed the last bus to Nuweiba, our destination. He was right. That’s when we started getting accosted by cabbies who were at each others necks to get our business. None of this seemed safe to say the least – five guys in turbans and half their teeth arguing with each other in Arabic. One by one they conceded until two men stood before us, lowering the price by five Egyptian pounds every time we agreed. The price went from 100 pounds per person to 75 total before one cabbie remained, guiding us to his van. (The same friendly fellow that followed us from the border.) But the real scare didn’t come until we paid the border tax another kilometer down the road. Our turbaned friend pulled over, turned around and said “120 pounds,” to which we futilely argued that we had already agreed on a price, and he showed us the door. So we got out, heads hanging at the prospect that Egypt wasn’t meant to be. But then, on our walk back to the border, the same two cabbies caught up with us and began the same ritual, so we called it at 100 pounds and started again for Nuweiba.

The fun didn’t stop there as we held on for dear life, booking it 140km/hr with the Sinai mountains to our right and the Red Sea to the left. Driving on the wrong side of the road, honking the whole way down (which apparently is a friendly “hello” to your fellow drivers in this small Arab community), we were awe-struck by the view while praying this guy doesn’t make a wrong turn into stone or sea. And to boot, if you reached for a seatbelt, all they say is “this is Sinai, no seatbelts here.” NASCAR scouts should definitely look into Egyptian cabbies – they could be the future of the industry.

An hour later we arrived at Sababa Camp, but as Stu pointed out, none of us had smiled for the past two hours. When we walked up to meet the camp ambassador, Saleh Wahid (“One”), and looked across the water at the sunset over the Arabian mountains, that all changed. We were finally there.

Photos of Sababa Camp, Sinai.

The camp is a bohemian paradise run by Bedouins, who are some of the most hospitable people I’ve ever met – and many wearing red turbans no less! (Saleh, the ambassador to westerners passing through the camp, compromised by wearing a red Yankees cap to bridge the cultural gap.) Sababa was exactly what we needed after two weeks of constant motion, a couple days to rest in hammocks beneath palm huts, smoke some shisha/nargila/hookah (we learn a new word for this every week), snorkel over shallow the corals of the Red Sea and stare off into the mystical mountain ranges in not so far off Saudi Arabia. Oh yea, and the tea. Bedouins make the best tea I’ve ever had – they really know their herbs and spices.

Bedouins are a nomadic people, desert-dwellers with an uncompromising honor code. Along the Egyptian coastline there were several abandoned towns, five-story concrete buildings without a single person inhabiting them. The Bedouins prefer to be as removed from westernization as possible, often times constructing huts adjacent to the security these concrete fixtures, allowing themselves only to survive on that which they built with their own hands. In fact, in principle they don’t use concrete at all – everything in Sababa Camp was built out of palm wood, frond, stones and hand-weaved tapestries. But the paradox of their alienation is that they rely on western travelers passing through as a primary means of sustaining their lifestyle.

So when Paul, Stu and I arrived in this place far removed from anything we have seen before, they greeted us with open arms. And what’s more, Saleh Wahid – who has lived in Miami and Brooklyn on and off for the past 25 years – repeatedly tried to get us to stay for days, weeks, months. “What’s your rush?” he would ask. The men working at Sababa were relatively simple, and all very young at heart. They were perfectly content with the leisurely lives they lead, spending their days alone on the beach, or accommodating their guests in any way they could. Hospitality is a huge part of the Bedouin culture, and we certainly experienced that first hand – it almost seemed altruistic, especially given the cost of everything. Paradise does have a price… And it’s about $20 a day.

Needless to say, we met some very interesting characters at Sababa Camp. Saleh Wahid was the most worldly and well-versed of the bunch, and spoke fluent English (albeit lethargically, as with everything else, he felt no rush to finish his sentences). On our first night there was no one else staying at the camp, so the Bedouins invited us to sit with them at their fire. We brought over our shisha, removed our shoes and took a load off. They made tea and roasted sweet potatoes on the fire coals as we spoke with Saleh about the States, the bustling culture and how you cannot find anything like this in America, despite there being such an ideal of freedom. We talked about our dinner, how the chicken was raised just across the street for 6 months, and made for a delicious, filling meal; while Americans always seek more – plumper, juicier, better – and poultry is engineered to grow 3 times the size in 3 weeks, genetically altered and bred without feet. He spoke of America as having no sense of community, a culture that raises you to believe you have infinite possibilities in life, that the entire country is yours to inhabit. It doesn’t matter who your neighbor is, because you can choose all the who’s, what’s, where’s, and when’s in life.

At first he seemed well adjusted to the west, having built up a restaurant in Miami and managing another in NYC. But the more he spoke negatively of capitalism, the more it seemed he had something to prove. Maybe he just wanted us to stay longer, maybe he was lonely, maybe he was less adjusted than we gave him credit for. In any case, he was leading an easy lifestyle, and it takes some balls to leave a business behind to do that.

We spoke primarily to Saleh Wahid because, well, none of the other Bedouins really spoke English. But my favorite of the bunch was Saleh’s childhood friend, also named Saleh. (Coincidence? Maybe, but I kind of doubt it. I’ll refer to him as Saleh Itnen, “Two,” going forward.) Saleh Itnen is a butcher by trade, and though we never saw him with a knife in hand, he had slaughtered the chicken that was our dinner just hours earlier. We met him that first night by the fire, though he kept mostly to himself, constantly in need of keeping his hands busy – whether it was tending to the fire, poking at the sweet potatoes, maneuvering the tea pot on the coals, smoking, or wandering around the camp, Saleh Itnen bounced around like a caged bird.

Every so often he would mutter something in Arabic to Saleh Wahid with a grin on his face. Like an older brother, Wahid would shake his head and deem if it was worth even relaying the message on to us. But at one point Itnen mentioned “sheesh beesh” which is the middle eastern name for backgammon (literally translated in Turkish as “six five,” a solid roll in the game). At that point I repeated “shesh besh?” challenged him to a game, and the language barrier was broken.

Saleh Itnen, a fifty year old man, acted as though he was fifteen. Blind as a bat, he could barely see the board, let alone the numbers on the dice. Luckily, he could understand English numbers, so I’d tell him his roll – “six four” – and he would repeat back to me: “seeex forrrr.” his moves were so deliberate, he was able to see the board faster than I could register the numbers I had just told him. But while his prowess at sheshbesh was that of a seasoned vet, his patience was that of a hyperactive child. I would roll, look at the board for 3 seconds, and he’d start shaking, twiddling his fingers, pointing at pieces. A couple of times I would make a move and he’d tut, pick my pieces up and make a different move, asking “why not thees!?” And funny enough, he was right every time. I lost 3 straight games to him – gammoned once, backgammoned in another. Best player I’ve ever had the privilege of losing to.

After the game he invited me down to the beach, saying it was time to say goodnight to Mr. Sea. So we went down to the ocean, listened to the tide splash against the rocky shore, and out of the silence he said something that was beautiful in its simplicity. It was the most English he spoke all three days, and putting his finger behind his ear, this is what he said:

“Every morning, every night, I say hello to Mr. Sea. ‘Hello Mr. Sea!’ Mr. Sea speaks. He tells me things but I cannot understand him. He understands me. He listens. ‘Goodnight Mr. Sea!’ Until tomorrow.”

You could chalk it up as terrible English, or something your five-year old nephew might say, but this is who he was – a simple man with no wife and no kids, who has found deep solace in living by the water. The next day he walked along the beach for two hours picking up artifacts from the seashore, then arranged them as a graveyard on the beach, taking a step back every few minutes to appreciate his ephemeral work of art. As if he’s always lived in the present – never looking forward or back – he seemed grateful for what was directly in front of him, but didn’t take the time to reflect on the bigger picture. Then again, he was always smiling, and some might say that’s the most important thing.

We also met some funny Brits passing through the camp. Di and Roo – a married couple from Northern England – had spent the past two weeks “vacationing” in Palestine (interesting choice, no?). Di was the more outgoing of the two, though Roo was also very funny. Both possessed a childlike wonder and a desire to see things off the beaten path. And like most Brits, their intellect (perceived or actual) shone through their accents.

Di had long dreads with various laniards seamlessly woven in. She even bought one off of a brother and sister walking along the beach selling bracelets. But as she began tying it into her hair, the Bedouin girl grabbed her arm. “No! It’s for here,” pointing to her wrist. Di said “it can be for this too” and the girl – first perplexed, then fascinated once Di added it to the collection in her hair – smiled at the freedom with which she turned a bracelet into something altogether different. The girl had places to be, bracelets to sell farther down the beach, and her little brother was growing impatient. But she didn’t want to leave, completely enamored by Di’s creativity. As the little boy tied up their nomadic bead shop, signaling their departure, his sister reached into her pocket and handed Di a bracelet that was not for sale, a token of her gratitude. And as they walked away, in that moment, I wished the little girl had Facebook, but just like that, a beautiful friendship had come and gone.