This morning I was awoken by the sound of pumped-up-to-the-max Klezmer music. Evidently the teachers at the yeshiva elementary school across the street, which is run by the Belz hasidim, had decided to give the kiddies (who, it seems, do not get a summer vacation) a morning of dancing in the playground. There they were, dressed in collared shirts buttoned to the top and tucked into dark trousers that were belted under their armpits, long sidecurls and ritual fringes bouncing as they danced wildly. The corpulent, bearded, black-clad rabbis surveyed them indulgently, no doubt as glad as their charges to have a break from the classroom.

At first it was charming, in an atavistic sort of way. I padded around my apartment barefoot, humming to vaguely familiar melodies with lyrics that varied between yai dai dai and cheeri bim cheeri bam. But after an hour I was clutching my head. Oy vey! Please, let it stop! It's too hot for all this noise!

I was saved by the alte sachen man.

Several times each week, an Arab guy from Jaffa appears in my neighbourhood, riding a horse-drawn cart and shouting repeatedly in Yiddish, “alte sachen” (old things). People lean out their windows and call out for him to come and take away their leaking refrigerators, broken-down furniture and worn-out clothes. Presumably, he sells the stuff somewhere. But why does the Arab junk collector call out in Yiddish? My theory is that the original Tel Aviv junk collectors were Yiddish-speaking Jews from Eastern Europe, and the cry “alte sachen” became a sort of trademark.

Anyways, the kids at the Belz yeshiva, who do speak Yiddish, love the alte sachen man. As soon as they hear his cry they rush to the schoolyard gate and press their faces between the bars as they shriek out “alte sachen! alte sachen!” For kids who spend at least 8 hours per day in the classroom from the age of 4, and who aren't allowed access to television, cinema, secular literature or the physical outlet of sports, I guess this is a major source of entertainment.

So they were distracted from the klezmer music, and the rabbis, I guess, didn't see any point in continuing. They went back to the classroom and I had some peace and quiet.

More stories about my colourful neighbourhood tomorrow.

Meanwhile, for some excellent video clips that are good examples of how irreverent Israeli humour can be, click on this link. My favourite is the third (and last) one down: it was filmed on Rothschild Boulevard, about 2 minutes from my apartment, at a time when suicide bombings were a very regular occurence.