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The story begins directly after another adventure still to be told. As I emerged from a months abandonment and flow with the Hippy tribe of the Rainbow family in the deep nature of Hungary I scanned my bank account and pulled it up Online along side avaliable flights out of the country. My intuition and sense of adventure worked together well and before long I was on the next flight out of Budapest to Israel, Tel Aviv. As fate would have it my arrival date landed me in Tel Aviv on the day of the Jewish holiday Yom Kippur, 'The day of Atonment'. In practical translation this holiday means that all the traffic is stopped for the weekend and all the businesses close for its duration. To walk the streets of Tel Aviv with not a vehicle running left a beautiful and unforgettable sense of peace and recovery moving through the now Audible living spaces and buildings of the city. Tables were moved into the street to share meals and give thanks, children were roller skating and laughing along the vacant roads and laughter sang high those days. With my landing I was met with a powerful sense of hospitality. The people I met were upfront and directly curious about my reasons and intentions for visiting their country. I also felt a regular belief that the perceived image of the people of Israel was a negative one, for this people from local shop owners, street cleaners to mothers and fathers showed an apologetic will to prove this image wrong with very warm welcoming hospitality that truly touched me. Each roadside out of the city offered a hitch hiking station as standard culural practice. Just point your finger to the floor and in what seems like a heartbeat a ride stops and let's you in. This was my mode of transport to follow the rabbit hole down to the dead sea. I had heard from my time in communities and alternative circles that during the winter a group of modern nomads were likely to be found with a temporary camp living the winter days along the coasts of the Dead Sea, this was my destination. So pointing my finger at the road, within moments I had a ride that could take me half way. I accepted the offer. We shared some stories, time and a love for hummus. My new temporary companion knew enough to fan the flames of mystery surrounding this camp what I now learned was called Metzuk Dragot. A place with the floating salt waters, next to fresh water springs, and a small group dedicated to the good life there in the winter months. We parted ways and I set up waiting for my next ride. I waited. I turned down a ride. I waited. My chariot came. From the eventual 30 people I came to know well, two were pulling over in the next car, smiling ear to ear to take me direct my to the goal. The dead sea is said to be, in terms of sea level, the lowest place on earth. Jumping into that salty water amongst the otherworldly naturally formed clay structures, to find yourself not sinking but bouncing in the water like beyond buoyant driftwood, has got to be one of the highest feelings on earth. I roared with laughter. Spread on my back and spent my winter days with experience and salt. The sense of depth lies tangibly beneath the water but even trying with full momentum to bounce below, it always stays pristine and unknown.