"wis it cal?" a couple walk out on the old pier as i am climbing on my bike, dripping
"no, nae really"
i amend my answer: "aye, a wee bit chilly"
"refreshin - it waks you up"
sabato 1 settembre 2012
mercoledì 15 agosto 2012
journey home
i heard her whistling before she came into the room and looked at me with arched eyebrows and looked closer to see the title of the book i was reading as i was lying on the bed. i was going to get a portrait of the young artist as characterised by instability, full of passion and feelings needing to be expressed. that was one of the first things cristina said to me when describing herself: i am an artist.
later i said: what do you think it means to be an artist? she said something about being creative.
i said maybe you could say that every body is an artist in the sense that they create their own being in every moment. she considered this a may be
later she said: why didn't you smash your glass?
- i was going to ask you why did you smash your glass.
she had said: let us drink the last drops of muscat and smash our empty glasses. i thought she was jesting about smashing the glasses. i had only ever heard about that from joni mitchell "and we'll laugh and toast to nothing, and smash our empty glasses down". cristina wasn't toasting to nothing. she said that the wine represented luck - everything that we imbibed, everything that we wanted to affirm in ourselves - whereas the glass, in that glass-smashing ceremony, represented negative elements which we wished to chase away.
after she said that i marvelled at the human capacity to grant meaning to anywhich action in this ritual of life.
the next night i was lying on the bed again reading and evening had fallen when a young woman and a young man from the mountain rescue came in asking me if i had seen a girl who had borrowed a sleeping bag and not returned it. ten minutes later i could still hear them up in the attic. i thought i had better tell them that cristina had gone to sleep in the refuge the next valley along.
however, i didn't get to tell them anything.
when i climbed the outside staircase to the attic i quickly had to withdraw the light of my torch and climb back down again because i had caught them in a moment of passionate love-making. i knew that it was something that i shouldn't have seen. the contrast struck me, their officious arrival ten minutes earlier, "we are from the mountain rescue, looking for a girl and a sleeping bag" and then rolling and squirming on the beds. the thin line between our real passionate selves and the officious task of inhabiting the material world.
mihai bursesc had read my couchsurfing message about me coming to bucharest and had written to me saying "well, if your itineray changes there is a bed for you here, a place to charge your batteries"
at the rezetat national park, 600km west of bucharest, romania. i was happy to change my itinerary and charge myself with the majesty and grandiose feelings that come from being in the mountains.
mihai had a simple wooden cabin in the village salasu de sus with "free accomodation" painted bright and friendly on the fence. he loved to welcome travellers and offer tea made from the dried plants of the surrounding countryside. i spent the day sleeping in the room full of beds - after a largely sleepless night in the train from bucharest. mihai spent the day gathering wild berries. in the evening i was charged with sleep and walked up to mihai's other mountain cabin, also painted with the words free accommodation.
lots of stillness there, lots of ancient wisdom in the stones. in the early morning i climbed up and pricked up my ears to the Stillness and Beauty and Ancient Wisdom of that place.
i was thinking about hitchhiking all the way home but i didn't like the thought of all the waiting i might be letting myself in for. Paul had told me that i would struggle to get lifts in romania because i didnt exactly have a normal appearance and romanians only liked to pick up people who looked normal. i think he was talking about my abundant facial hair and less than elegant choice of shirt that day. when i heard his recommendation to slide through the countryside in the nicely-priced night train i decided not to ignore it. Paul stopped for me as i was walking out of town one evening. i said "bucharest?" paul said, "i am only going half an hour - you are better getting the train" i said "could you please give me a lift even for just for half an hour?" after waiting for so long i simply wanted to sit in somebody's car. first off paul wanted to see my passport. later he said "i don't know why i stopped for you, i generally never stop for hitchhikers". he invited me to a coffee at a roadside restaurant and we stayed up till 02:30 talking with Dan, another friend of his. english words came to them slowly, interspersed with rolling eyes and "ahh, talking philosophy in english is difficult!" we lost track of the hours. it showed the power of wanting to communicate, despite their imperfect grasp of the language. romanian words mostly didn't come to me at all.
i spent the next day at paul and adela's house, watching youtube videos of traditional romanian music and dancing, getting beat by paul at chess, eating adela's tastiness from the kitchen and tasting their neighbour's freshly distilled plum liquor. adela herself ate only a plate of vegetables at lunch, explaining that it was an orthodox custom to eat vegan on wednesday and friday. paul added that it was a fundamentalist orthodox custom and there was laughter. their son andrea was eleven years old and spoke near perfect english learned, as he explained to me, by discussing how to make software on online chat facilities. his brother bogdan was nine years old and communicated with very winning smiles. i told paul that he was like my good samaritan. i had been at the side of the road not knowing anybody or exactly where i would go. he said that i was also like a good samaritan for him, causing him to think about and reevaluate his lifestyle. i think he said that just to be nice.
coincidently, just as couchsurfer mihai's invitation of mountain repose came to me, paul and adela told me about their visit to that same part of the transylvanian mountains just the week before, and in particular the prislop monestary, where father Arsenie Boca - who can perform miracles if you ask him to - is buried.
i arrived with my rucksack in the rain. i was wearing my long indian skirt because i know that shorts want to be avoided by the monastic community. they saw my skirt and said "it is okay to wear shorts". i wanted to attend the evening liturgy in the church but instead they invited me to eat food with them in the dining room. there was maria - a very friendly woman who i supposed was a nun because of her attire - and a very friendly well-dressed man, and a young boy who spoke english well and translated everything they said to me. maria took me to father Arsenie's tomb after the meal. it was surrounded by a profusion of flowers. she told me to make a wish in front of his grave, but rather than feeling at ease and knowing exactly what to wish for, i was feeling that all my senses were pricked up and curious about this new social situation and what would happen. we were walking back and maria asked me what did i think of this place. the air was filled with cool moisture, the evening light infused the place with a soft rosy glow. there were church bells gonging softly and soft green conifer covered hills. i said: e foarte frumos. it is very beautiful.
the well-dressed man asked me where i was going to sleep. i said "i usually sleep in the forest"
we looked at the dripping wet trees and felt the moisture all around us.
he said, "you can't sleep in this monestary, but if you come with me to the village. . . come to my car"
i shook hands with maria, who always radiated genuine friendliness. i said, "mulţumesc... esti gentil"
they found it funny for me to say gentil. it reminded them of gentleman.
esti amabil.
her response was "sunt romana", as if that explained everything. she said "you are always welcome here when you come back"
in the village the man knocked on a couple of doors and found somebody with a mattress space on the floor. they told me they already had a room of people sleeping that night. it seemed they were used to accomodating people who had been at the monestary.
the next day i was sitting reading in the park in the town of deva, waiting for the bus that would take me to london, when i came in contact with some of the people that i had been told to watch out for in romania. "bad people" paul had said, "all they do is beg and steal" a file of women filed past me asking for money, indicating that they had babies to feed. i gave them my bread and when i had no more bread another woman came and asked for money, indicating that she had babies to feed. i said no and she asked for a "cuţit",
cuţit? i enquired.
she communicated the meaning of cuţit by making the gesture of slashing her dress
"cuţit, cuţit" she repeated.
why did she possibly want me to give her a knife?
when she shuffled off, i quickly left that park too. i didn't like the image of a knife slashing a person's clothing which she had implanted in me. most of all i didn't like the look in her eyes, or the tone of her voice. as much as i didn't want to give credence to that belief that some people are by nature "bad", i had the warnings of other people in my head, and the words of Jonus-the-Austrian-who-was-walking-to-Jerusalem, who told me that he had been surrounded by gypsies brandishing knives in the woods of romania, when, miraculously, the police turned up.
when your feelings tell you "get away from this person" it is better to listen to them.
i got on the eurolines bus which slid for two days along the motorways.
i slid into london slowly. ever so s l o w l y
i was biting my nails thinking "most likely i will miss my megabus connection" i was feeling gloomy about missing my megabus connection, then a reprieve came when i saw a clock and realised i had an extra hour of british summer time. those sixty minutes were being consumed in the 7 a.m. traffic jams of the streets of london. i was back to biting my nails. all i could do was grant myself more reprieve by reasoning that missing my megabus connection was a very minor detail in the big scheme of things.
and thus liberated from my gloomy nail-biting i ran with my rucksack through bustling victoria station to board the bus to glasgow which slide off thirty seconds later.
what a privilege to be rolling along the motorway towards glasgow. great britian seemed like a vast green island where a cool temperature was always maintained by a vast moist blanket of moisture. i loved to hear the glaswegian accent again. i was looking at everyone, all the elderly people, and picking up subtle british character traits which would have been lost on me had i not been abroad paying attention to everybody else's character traits. there is generally a lot of politeness in british people. a lot of respect and non-intrusion. generally. even the co-op employee in lochgilphead chose to say "excuse me, can i help you?" when she meant to say "what are you doing?" when she saw me looking in the bins.
there are a lot of fresh feelings in the british isles. swimming in the sea makes your blood go that much more tingly. there is always a little cool breeze coming from somewhere. when you have a direct view to the sun shining in the sky it is a special occasion. you can pass someone and say "lovely day"
and they will respond "aye, it is just glorious!" they really mean it it is glorious.
the clouds are always hanging about, ready to obscure the sun. every moment is a billowing shifting cloudscape. not always billowing, sometimes subtle and muted. in august. summer doesn't mean "very hot" it could likely as not mean rain. colours are dense and real, vibrant and profound. or else faint and airy and ethereal. there is a feeling of freshness in the air.
later i said: what do you think it means to be an artist? she said something about being creative.
i said maybe you could say that every body is an artist in the sense that they create their own being in every moment. she considered this a may be
later she said: why didn't you smash your glass?
- i was going to ask you why did you smash your glass.
she had said: let us drink the last drops of muscat and smash our empty glasses. i thought she was jesting about smashing the glasses. i had only ever heard about that from joni mitchell "and we'll laugh and toast to nothing, and smash our empty glasses down". cristina wasn't toasting to nothing. she said that the wine represented luck - everything that we imbibed, everything that we wanted to affirm in ourselves - whereas the glass, in that glass-smashing ceremony, represented negative elements which we wished to chase away.
after she said that i marvelled at the human capacity to grant meaning to anywhich action in this ritual of life.
the next night i was lying on the bed again reading and evening had fallen when a young woman and a young man from the mountain rescue came in asking me if i had seen a girl who had borrowed a sleeping bag and not returned it. ten minutes later i could still hear them up in the attic. i thought i had better tell them that cristina had gone to sleep in the refuge the next valley along.
however, i didn't get to tell them anything.
when i climbed the outside staircase to the attic i quickly had to withdraw the light of my torch and climb back down again because i had caught them in a moment of passionate love-making. i knew that it was something that i shouldn't have seen. the contrast struck me, their officious arrival ten minutes earlier, "we are from the mountain rescue, looking for a girl and a sleeping bag" and then rolling and squirming on the beds. the thin line between our real passionate selves and the officious task of inhabiting the material world.
at the rezetat national park, 600km west of bucharest, romania. i was happy to change my itinerary and charge myself with the majesty and grandiose feelings that come from being in the mountains.
mihai had a simple wooden cabin in the village salasu de sus with "free accomodation" painted bright and friendly on the fence. he loved to welcome travellers and offer tea made from the dried plants of the surrounding countryside. i spent the day sleeping in the room full of beds - after a largely sleepless night in the train from bucharest. mihai spent the day gathering wild berries. in the evening i was charged with sleep and walked up to mihai's other mountain cabin, also painted with the words free accommodation.
lots of stillness there, lots of ancient wisdom in the stones. in the early morning i climbed up and pricked up my ears to the Stillness and Beauty and Ancient Wisdom of that place.
Mountain therapy.
i was thinking about hitchhiking all the way home but i didn't like the thought of all the waiting i might be letting myself in for. Paul had told me that i would struggle to get lifts in romania because i didnt exactly have a normal appearance and romanians only liked to pick up people who looked normal. i think he was talking about my abundant facial hair and less than elegant choice of shirt that day. when i heard his recommendation to slide through the countryside in the nicely-priced night train i decided not to ignore it. Paul stopped for me as i was walking out of town one evening. i said "bucharest?" paul said, "i am only going half an hour - you are better getting the train" i said "could you please give me a lift even for just for half an hour?" after waiting for so long i simply wanted to sit in somebody's car. first off paul wanted to see my passport. later he said "i don't know why i stopped for you, i generally never stop for hitchhikers". he invited me to a coffee at a roadside restaurant and we stayed up till 02:30 talking with Dan, another friend of his. english words came to them slowly, interspersed with rolling eyes and "ahh, talking philosophy in english is difficult!" we lost track of the hours. it showed the power of wanting to communicate, despite their imperfect grasp of the language. romanian words mostly didn't come to me at all.
i spent the next day at paul and adela's house, watching youtube videos of traditional romanian music and dancing, getting beat by paul at chess, eating adela's tastiness from the kitchen and tasting their neighbour's freshly distilled plum liquor. adela herself ate only a plate of vegetables at lunch, explaining that it was an orthodox custom to eat vegan on wednesday and friday. paul added that it was a fundamentalist orthodox custom and there was laughter. their son andrea was eleven years old and spoke near perfect english learned, as he explained to me, by discussing how to make software on online chat facilities. his brother bogdan was nine years old and communicated with very winning smiles. i told paul that he was like my good samaritan. i had been at the side of the road not knowing anybody or exactly where i would go. he said that i was also like a good samaritan for him, causing him to think about and reevaluate his lifestyle. i think he said that just to be nice.
coincidently, just as couchsurfer mihai's invitation of mountain repose came to me, paul and adela told me about their visit to that same part of the transylvanian mountains just the week before, and in particular the prislop monestary, where father Arsenie Boca - who can perform miracles if you ask him to - is buried.
i arrived with my rucksack in the rain. i was wearing my long indian skirt because i know that shorts want to be avoided by the monastic community. they saw my skirt and said "it is okay to wear shorts". i wanted to attend the evening liturgy in the church but instead they invited me to eat food with them in the dining room. there was maria - a very friendly woman who i supposed was a nun because of her attire - and a very friendly well-dressed man, and a young boy who spoke english well and translated everything they said to me. maria took me to father Arsenie's tomb after the meal. it was surrounded by a profusion of flowers. she told me to make a wish in front of his grave, but rather than feeling at ease and knowing exactly what to wish for, i was feeling that all my senses were pricked up and curious about this new social situation and what would happen. we were walking back and maria asked me what did i think of this place. the air was filled with cool moisture, the evening light infused the place with a soft rosy glow. there were church bells gonging softly and soft green conifer covered hills. i said: e foarte frumos. it is very beautiful.
the well-dressed man asked me where i was going to sleep. i said "i usually sleep in the forest"
we looked at the dripping wet trees and felt the moisture all around us.
he said, "you can't sleep in this monestary, but if you come with me to the village. . . come to my car"
i shook hands with maria, who always radiated genuine friendliness. i said, "mulţumesc... esti gentil"
they found it funny for me to say gentil. it reminded them of gentleman.
esti amabil.
her response was "sunt romana", as if that explained everything. she said "you are always welcome here when you come back"
in the village the man knocked on a couple of doors and found somebody with a mattress space on the floor. they told me they already had a room of people sleeping that night. it seemed they were used to accomodating people who had been at the monestary.
the next day i was sitting reading in the park in the town of deva, waiting for the bus that would take me to london, when i came in contact with some of the people that i had been told to watch out for in romania. "bad people" paul had said, "all they do is beg and steal" a file of women filed past me asking for money, indicating that they had babies to feed. i gave them my bread and when i had no more bread another woman came and asked for money, indicating that she had babies to feed. i said no and she asked for a "cuţit",
cuţit? i enquired.
she communicated the meaning of cuţit by making the gesture of slashing her dress
"cuţit, cuţit" she repeated.
why did she possibly want me to give her a knife?
when she shuffled off, i quickly left that park too. i didn't like the image of a knife slashing a person's clothing which she had implanted in me. most of all i didn't like the look in her eyes, or the tone of her voice. as much as i didn't want to give credence to that belief that some people are by nature "bad", i had the warnings of other people in my head, and the words of Jonus-the-Austrian-who-was-walking-to-Jerusalem, who told me that he had been surrounded by gypsies brandishing knives in the woods of romania, when, miraculously, the police turned up.
when your feelings tell you "get away from this person" it is better to listen to them.
i got on the eurolines bus which slid for two days along the motorways.
i slid into london slowly. ever so s l o w l y
i was biting my nails thinking "most likely i will miss my megabus connection" i was feeling gloomy about missing my megabus connection, then a reprieve came when i saw a clock and realised i had an extra hour of british summer time. those sixty minutes were being consumed in the 7 a.m. traffic jams of the streets of london. i was back to biting my nails. all i could do was grant myself more reprieve by reasoning that missing my megabus connection was a very minor detail in the big scheme of things.
and thus liberated from my gloomy nail-biting i ran with my rucksack through bustling victoria station to board the bus to glasgow which slide off thirty seconds later.
what a privilege to be rolling along the motorway towards glasgow. great britian seemed like a vast green island where a cool temperature was always maintained by a vast moist blanket of moisture. i loved to hear the glaswegian accent again. i was looking at everyone, all the elderly people, and picking up subtle british character traits which would have been lost on me had i not been abroad paying attention to everybody else's character traits. there is generally a lot of politeness in british people. a lot of respect and non-intrusion. generally. even the co-op employee in lochgilphead chose to say "excuse me, can i help you?" when she meant to say "what are you doing?" when she saw me looking in the bins.
there are a lot of fresh feelings in the british isles. swimming in the sea makes your blood go that much more tingly. there is always a little cool breeze coming from somewhere. when you have a direct view to the sun shining in the sky it is a special occasion. you can pass someone and say "lovely day"
and they will respond "aye, it is just glorious!" they really mean it it is glorious.
the clouds are always hanging about, ready to obscure the sun. every moment is a billowing shifting cloudscape. not always billowing, sometimes subtle and muted. in august. summer doesn't mean "very hot" it could likely as not mean rain. colours are dense and real, vibrant and profound. or else faint and airy and ethereal. there is a feeling of freshness in the air.
being in britain for me means family reunion.
family therapy.
having roots
the conversation of familiar energy fluxes
fortified with connections.
the roots look for those special nutrients in the soil, and draw them up, and grow gladly.
mercoledì 25 luglio 2012
fishing for friendliness
i am standing by the side of the road in bulgaria, fishing for friendliness. i struggle upstream. i feel like my outstretched thumb is a rod with no hook and not even any line, it feels that ineffectual. "friendly people i am ready to meet you" i call out, "openness, trustfullness, dear sweet friendliness, where art thou?" o people of the world, i feel so lonely amongst you. i desire to meet a crazy lover of life.
at the end of the day, the smile that the woman gave me at the bus station becomes a shimmering golden moment. the best moment of the day: somebody smiled at me. the next day was extatically golden, a woman comes out of a shop and gives me a big slice of juicy red watermelon. o joyous friendliness.
ah, bulgaria. bulgaria. just the bulgaria sounding of the bulgaria name of that bulgarian country gives me so many bulgarian impressions and bulgarian sensations. a gruff voice demands that i show my passport. i say, but my train is about to leave. he doesn't care he wants to scrutinize my passport. his smile is a thousand miles away. the look in a person's eyes tells everything about everything.
later i berate myself for judging: what am i looking for, for everybody to smile and say have a nice day? i don't speak their language i don't know their story, i snatched three days of fleeting impressions, that may or may not be representative. i got ripped off at the bulgarian/romanian border. i was hitching and a guy said: i will give you a lift if you give me this much money, then at the border, if you give me the rest of your bulgarian money i will give you these little romanian notes in exchange. little romanian notes i found out later.
i later berate myself for always wanting to take and not give. i think of how i can implement mother teresa's advice in my life. she said: (something like) (i read this somewhere) "always leave another person happier than when they met you".
i thought: maybe giving that guy my money was the best way to make him happy.
my passage through bulgaria came off the back of an awesome tour of turkey. i left my bike at a couchsurfer in antalya and began hitching, sampling the diverse cross section of society (actually usually a cross section of the single males of socity) that hitchhiking offers. after a month i feel tuned in to the cultural experience of being in turkey, of being offered tea, of being seen as a person meriting curiosity, of having generosity lavished upon me. certain topics of conversation have become habitual: islam, turkey's multicultural influences, russian women. i go from one car to the next, from one world to the next. i have made many new facebook friends. (usually the sixth question asked, after where are you from? where are you going? how long have you been in turkey? what do you think of turkey? and, what is your job? is "do you have facebook?" it is ramazan and most muslims go through the day eating, drinking, smoking nothing. drinking not even water. still, there is a photo of my lift-giver and i standing by his car with cans of coke in our hands. probably smiling. doubtless smiling. a boisterous lorry-driver, instead of modulating the speed of his fluency to aid my understanding, raises the volume of his voice. i jump out of his lorry, feeling shouted at, feeling grateful for the two hundred kilometres given. i cross the land to the sea of marmaris, dialoguing with my lift-giver who gives me an attentive ear and allows my little parcel to turkish to florish. he has me building up little phrases like "okumak kitap kapilar achiyor" - reading books opens doors - "yeni dunyalar" - new worlds. - turkish script i am now unable to render with this romanian keyboard - he leaves me with a bag of chillis and the good tomatoes that come from channakale. encountering him has uplifted my soul, the next car that skids to a stop contains three youths that laugh and pretend to hit each other and swerve on the road, take the small road - they say they are avoiding the police - to their little town. even those youths - who told me in turkish - i dont know how i understood - that they had been drinking and smoking - must invite me to tea at their local cafe, tea after tea - "no i am okay i am really okay i have already eaten, thank you" give me a packet of cheese crackers nonetheless, tea after tea, the local men and the youths crowd round to look at me - the hitchhiker from scotland they found on the road, an unusual spectacle in this wayside village (Edincik), the next youth insists on taking me 30 km off the main road to his town of gonen - he insists i will get a lift from there - i say "take me whererever you will", hitchiking is a little version of life - all life is journeying - but a crazy version of life. crazy in the sense unpredictable. you may be waiting for hours you may be pleading "who will help me?", faith in the goodness of people will keep you standing there and Life may help you or it may not and may be you may have to walk with your tail between your legs to the bus stop. as evening falls hours outside the town of gonen, the next youth stops saying he will take me to channakale, then asking "how much money do i have? do i have money for petrol?" he turns the volume to a full blast of electro music and i have to dance along with him in his car, he says "lets go to a disco in channakale tonight!" when i say i have no money for that, (meaning i do not want to have money for that) he says "where else will you sleep tonight? come back to my house and we will go to disco in channakale tomorrow night. i have money tomorrow" i have to really insist to get out of his car, and to the last he is pouring out cashew nuts into my hand. the men in the gas station across the road witness the event and usher me over, give me a seat in the shade, saying ignore that youth he has been smoking marijuana, bring me out a piece of bread and a lump of cheese - they themselves will not eat until sunset. the friendlinest of all came from the little boys in the town of edirne, where police find me bedding down in the abandoned land outside mosque. they want to see my passport - doing so ever so politely, a politeness and reverend respect i have never seen in any police before - then direct me to the local park. the retinue of little boys quizz me about me, then fifteen minutes later come back with a sandwich and a little bottle of orangeade. full of sincerity full of goodness. that was the most touching.
i have learned the worth of simplifying language as a viable good way of communicating. always focus on communication, irrespective of grammatical correctness. turkish taught me that with its lack of definite article - why define article when understood anyway? - and lack of verb to be in simple sentences. for example to say "i have been here for three weeks" you say "three weeks i here" often plural isn't even recognised, you could just say "three week i here" (maybe i'm wrong there i haven't studied the grammer to an indepth level, but i feel that one gets off very well saying three week i here). Jonas, the austrian who was walking to Jerusalem, first said me how happy to speak english not correct correct but to understand. i said "okay, you have mastered the first basic step, but surely the better second step would be to abide by the standard rules of grammer?" but no, he was perfectly happy to make mistakes, and communicate. i have come round to his way of thinking now, really happy to walk up to someone and say "excuse me, internet cafe where?"
also in bulgaria and romania: "excuse me where is train station?"
really happy.
this was an habitual kind of conversation in turkey: i am in a crepe bar by the sea talking to a girl. she says: do you travel alone? i say: yes - but as alone sounds lonely - i say "but i am always with God" i must have used that word to want to evoke something of the relationship of love that connects me with the universe. she says: what? i say: "with God, with Allah"
"are you a muslim?"
i talk about not distinctions - muslims, christians, jews, hindis, athiests etc - but the One Universal Spirit,
she says: i understand.
at the end of the day, the smile that the woman gave me at the bus station becomes a shimmering golden moment. the best moment of the day: somebody smiled at me. the next day was extatically golden, a woman comes out of a shop and gives me a big slice of juicy red watermelon. o joyous friendliness.
ah, bulgaria. bulgaria. just the bulgaria sounding of the bulgaria name of that bulgarian country gives me so many bulgarian impressions and bulgarian sensations. a gruff voice demands that i show my passport. i say, but my train is about to leave. he doesn't care he wants to scrutinize my passport. his smile is a thousand miles away. the look in a person's eyes tells everything about everything.
later i berate myself for judging: what am i looking for, for everybody to smile and say have a nice day? i don't speak their language i don't know their story, i snatched three days of fleeting impressions, that may or may not be representative. i got ripped off at the bulgarian/romanian border. i was hitching and a guy said: i will give you a lift if you give me this much money, then at the border, if you give me the rest of your bulgarian money i will give you these little romanian notes in exchange. little romanian notes i found out later.
i later berate myself for always wanting to take and not give. i think of how i can implement mother teresa's advice in my life. she said: (something like) (i read this somewhere) "always leave another person happier than when they met you".
i thought: maybe giving that guy my money was the best way to make him happy.
my passage through bulgaria came off the back of an awesome tour of turkey. i left my bike at a couchsurfer in antalya and began hitching, sampling the diverse cross section of society (actually usually a cross section of the single males of socity) that hitchhiking offers. after a month i feel tuned in to the cultural experience of being in turkey, of being offered tea, of being seen as a person meriting curiosity, of having generosity lavished upon me. certain topics of conversation have become habitual: islam, turkey's multicultural influences, russian women. i go from one car to the next, from one world to the next. i have made many new facebook friends. (usually the sixth question asked, after where are you from? where are you going? how long have you been in turkey? what do you think of turkey? and, what is your job? is "do you have facebook?" it is ramazan and most muslims go through the day eating, drinking, smoking nothing. drinking not even water. still, there is a photo of my lift-giver and i standing by his car with cans of coke in our hands. probably smiling. doubtless smiling. a boisterous lorry-driver, instead of modulating the speed of his fluency to aid my understanding, raises the volume of his voice. i jump out of his lorry, feeling shouted at, feeling grateful for the two hundred kilometres given. i cross the land to the sea of marmaris, dialoguing with my lift-giver who gives me an attentive ear and allows my little parcel to turkish to florish. he has me building up little phrases like "okumak kitap kapilar achiyor" - reading books opens doors - "yeni dunyalar" - new worlds. - turkish script i am now unable to render with this romanian keyboard - he leaves me with a bag of chillis and the good tomatoes that come from channakale. encountering him has uplifted my soul, the next car that skids to a stop contains three youths that laugh and pretend to hit each other and swerve on the road, take the small road - they say they are avoiding the police - to their little town. even those youths - who told me in turkish - i dont know how i understood - that they had been drinking and smoking - must invite me to tea at their local cafe, tea after tea - "no i am okay i am really okay i have already eaten, thank you" give me a packet of cheese crackers nonetheless, tea after tea, the local men and the youths crowd round to look at me - the hitchhiker from scotland they found on the road, an unusual spectacle in this wayside village (Edincik), the next youth insists on taking me 30 km off the main road to his town of gonen - he insists i will get a lift from there - i say "take me whererever you will", hitchiking is a little version of life - all life is journeying - but a crazy version of life. crazy in the sense unpredictable. you may be waiting for hours you may be pleading "who will help me?", faith in the goodness of people will keep you standing there and Life may help you or it may not and may be you may have to walk with your tail between your legs to the bus stop. as evening falls hours outside the town of gonen, the next youth stops saying he will take me to channakale, then asking "how much money do i have? do i have money for petrol?" he turns the volume to a full blast of electro music and i have to dance along with him in his car, he says "lets go to a disco in channakale tonight!" when i say i have no money for that, (meaning i do not want to have money for that) he says "where else will you sleep tonight? come back to my house and we will go to disco in channakale tomorrow night. i have money tomorrow" i have to really insist to get out of his car, and to the last he is pouring out cashew nuts into my hand. the men in the gas station across the road witness the event and usher me over, give me a seat in the shade, saying ignore that youth he has been smoking marijuana, bring me out a piece of bread and a lump of cheese - they themselves will not eat until sunset. the friendlinest of all came from the little boys in the town of edirne, where police find me bedding down in the abandoned land outside mosque. they want to see my passport - doing so ever so politely, a politeness and reverend respect i have never seen in any police before - then direct me to the local park. the retinue of little boys quizz me about me, then fifteen minutes later come back with a sandwich and a little bottle of orangeade. full of sincerity full of goodness. that was the most touching.
i have learned the worth of simplifying language as a viable good way of communicating. always focus on communication, irrespective of grammatical correctness. turkish taught me that with its lack of definite article - why define article when understood anyway? - and lack of verb to be in simple sentences. for example to say "i have been here for three weeks" you say "three weeks i here" often plural isn't even recognised, you could just say "three week i here" (maybe i'm wrong there i haven't studied the grammer to an indepth level, but i feel that one gets off very well saying three week i here). Jonas, the austrian who was walking to Jerusalem, first said me how happy to speak english not correct correct but to understand. i said "okay, you have mastered the first basic step, but surely the better second step would be to abide by the standard rules of grammer?" but no, he was perfectly happy to make mistakes, and communicate. i have come round to his way of thinking now, really happy to walk up to someone and say "excuse me, internet cafe where?"
also in bulgaria and romania: "excuse me where is train station?"
really happy.
this was an habitual kind of conversation in turkey: i am in a crepe bar by the sea talking to a girl. she says: do you travel alone? i say: yes - but as alone sounds lonely - i say "but i am always with God" i must have used that word to want to evoke something of the relationship of love that connects me with the universe. she says: what? i say: "with God, with Allah"
"are you a muslim?"
i talk about not distinctions - muslims, christians, jews, hindis, athiests etc - but the One Universal Spirit,
she says: i understand.
venerdì 13 luglio 2012
turkısh swelter sunlıt summer
ı rolled ınto the town of Bodrum thınkıng ''maybe ı wıll get a job ın a beach bar here'' ıt was Mehmed who had gıven me the ıdea; he saıd ''whenever you get to Bodrum, gıve my cousın a call. you can work at hıs beach bar for a couple of weeks. gıve yourself a rest from cyclıng. go for ıt!''
he descrıbed to me the beach bar lıfestyle he had lıved there for eıght years: ''lots of englısh, dutch, danısh tourısts - yes, sometımes scottısh tourısts too. these people crazy, the beer they drınk all day. lots of jıggy-jıggy.
jıggy-jıggy was hıs word for havıng sex.
ı felt lıke a wıld creature from the road rollıng ınto bodrum ın the evenıng streets crammed wıth cars and commercıal establıshments and people wıth tanned bodıes. the gırls all wearıng breezy lıttle summer dresses. they spend the day on the beach and the nıght ın the bars and clubs. ı was dog-tıred and lay on a hıll on a promentary lıstenıng to the dısco electro sounds and the howls of revelry whoopıng untıl late.
crazy place, Bodrum.
ı lıked the sound of the name. lıke an ırısh musıcal ınstrument. ıt had ınterested me to be ın a place called Bodrum.
the young austrıan who was walkıng to Jerusalem, who ı had met ın İstanbul, also talked about hıs route ıncludıng bodrum, and also the young turk, who was also on a bıg bıke trıp around the turkısh coast, mentıoned bodrum ın hıs route plan.
the young turk - whose name ı have forgotton - appeared one day by the sıde of the road ınto İzmir as ı was eatıng some food ın the shade. after days of solıtary cyclıng, maınly only sharıng the road wıth vehıcles and motorbıkes, he suddenly appeared wıth pannıers and tent and sleepıng bag tıed onto the back, wıth a bıg smıle, wıth shınıng eyes. ıt was lıke lookıng ınto a mırror. wıth hıs very basıc englısh and my very basıc turkısh we exchanged some ınformatıon. he saıd he was a trıathlonıst. he had a speedometre and saıd he dıd about two hundred kılometres a day. he asked me how many kılometres ı had done so far but ı really couldn't tell hım. ı know that at the end of the day the sıgnpost for the next bıg cıty ıs sometımes a hundred kılometres less than ıt was at the start. but often not.
we were both headıng ın the same dırectıon, so cycled together for a whıle before ı left hım and went lookıng for the Brıtısh consulate. somebody had told me that ı should be able to get the vısa for Pakıstan wıthout returnıng to London by gettıng help from a brıtısh consulate ın turkey. ı was doubtful, but ı wanted to explore that road anyway, see a bıt of the bıg cıty (İzmir: 5 mıllıon ınhabıtants). ı regarded fındıng that consulate as a sort of orıenteerıng exercıse, or a geocache search. cyclıng around the hot stıcky cıty streets that mornıng, constantly beıng gıven dırectıons and then other contradıctory dırectıons, not understandıng much of those dırectıons, then gettıng lost and gettıng constantly swept up by bıg cıty overpass brıdge roads, ı fınally arrıved at 1442 Sokak No 49. Alsancak, the address ı had found onlıne. ın that part of town the streets were gıven four fıgure numbers ınstead of names.
there was no brıtısh consulate ın sıght.
ınstead, ı beheld the dusty street lıned wıth constructıon, weldıng and plumbıng warehouses and thought:
someone has played a dırty trıck on me
some unspecıfıed one has played a trıck on me.
ı needed to fınd the sea and swım around a whıle before regaınıng my feelıng of cool composure.
the day after arrıvıng ın Bodrum a man told me where the nearest bakery was then asked what ıs always the fırst questıon: nerelisin?
when he found out ı was from scotland he turned to englısh and turned out to speak very well englısh:
Scotland? what are you doıng here? scotland ıs a great place - Rab C Nesbıt!
ı saıd that ı dıd love scotland but the world was a bıg place and ı wanted to explore ıt
look, Jımmy, he saıd, (ı don't know what your name ıs but most people are called Jımmy ın Scotland, so ı wıll call you Jımmy), the world ıs small place (by that he meant that ı had no need to explore ıt), go back to scotland, be wıth your famıly, get marrıed and have chıldren...
ı pushed my argument that ı loved to travel and surely one day ı would return but ı also nodded because he spoke a lıttle to my sensıbılıty. from tıme to tıme my mınd had been crossed by thıs thought: what am ı doıng here just cyclıng around gettıng sweaty?
but afterwards ı thought: hıs was merely the voıce of the sedentary pedallıng hıs sedentary values. ıt does not speak to me, who loves to travel. ı learned the turkısh phrase ''yolculuk severim'' - ı love to travel - and regard ıt as one of my defınıng attrıbutes when ı meet someone who ıs curıous about my ıdentıty.
stewart murdoch's words had been ın my head:
he descrıbed to me the beach bar lıfestyle he had lıved there for eıght years: ''lots of englısh, dutch, danısh tourısts - yes, sometımes scottısh tourısts too. these people crazy, the beer they drınk all day. lots of jıggy-jıggy.
jıggy-jıggy was hıs word for havıng sex.
ı felt lıke a wıld creature from the road rollıng ınto bodrum ın the evenıng streets crammed wıth cars and commercıal establıshments and people wıth tanned bodıes. the gırls all wearıng breezy lıttle summer dresses. they spend the day on the beach and the nıght ın the bars and clubs. ı was dog-tıred and lay on a hıll on a promentary lıstenıng to the dısco electro sounds and the howls of revelry whoopıng untıl late.
crazy place, Bodrum.
ı lıked the sound of the name. lıke an ırısh musıcal ınstrument. ıt had ınterested me to be ın a place called Bodrum.
the young austrıan who was walkıng to Jerusalem, who ı had met ın İstanbul, also talked about hıs route ıncludıng bodrum, and also the young turk, who was also on a bıg bıke trıp around the turkısh coast, mentıoned bodrum ın hıs route plan.
the young turk - whose name ı have forgotton - appeared one day by the sıde of the road ınto İzmir as ı was eatıng some food ın the shade. after days of solıtary cyclıng, maınly only sharıng the road wıth vehıcles and motorbıkes, he suddenly appeared wıth pannıers and tent and sleepıng bag tıed onto the back, wıth a bıg smıle, wıth shınıng eyes. ıt was lıke lookıng ınto a mırror. wıth hıs very basıc englısh and my very basıc turkısh we exchanged some ınformatıon. he saıd he was a trıathlonıst. he had a speedometre and saıd he dıd about two hundred kılometres a day. he asked me how many kılometres ı had done so far but ı really couldn't tell hım. ı know that at the end of the day the sıgnpost for the next bıg cıty ıs sometımes a hundred kılometres less than ıt was at the start. but often not.
we were both headıng ın the same dırectıon, so cycled together for a whıle before ı left hım and went lookıng for the Brıtısh consulate. somebody had told me that ı should be able to get the vısa for Pakıstan wıthout returnıng to London by gettıng help from a brıtısh consulate ın turkey. ı was doubtful, but ı wanted to explore that road anyway, see a bıt of the bıg cıty (İzmir: 5 mıllıon ınhabıtants). ı regarded fındıng that consulate as a sort of orıenteerıng exercıse, or a geocache search. cyclıng around the hot stıcky cıty streets that mornıng, constantly beıng gıven dırectıons and then other contradıctory dırectıons, not understandıng much of those dırectıons, then gettıng lost and gettıng constantly swept up by bıg cıty overpass brıdge roads, ı fınally arrıved at 1442 Sokak No 49. Alsancak, the address ı had found onlıne. ın that part of town the streets were gıven four fıgure numbers ınstead of names.
there was no brıtısh consulate ın sıght.
ınstead, ı beheld the dusty street lıned wıth constructıon, weldıng and plumbıng warehouses and thought:
someone has played a dırty trıck on me
some unspecıfıed one has played a trıck on me.
ı needed to fınd the sea and swım around a whıle before regaınıng my feelıng of cool composure.
the day after arrıvıng ın Bodrum a man told me where the nearest bakery was then asked what ıs always the fırst questıon: nerelisin?
when he found out ı was from scotland he turned to englısh and turned out to speak very well englısh:
Scotland? what are you doıng here? scotland ıs a great place - Rab C Nesbıt!
ı saıd that ı dıd love scotland but the world was a bıg place and ı wanted to explore ıt
look, Jımmy, he saıd, (ı don't know what your name ıs but most people are called Jımmy ın Scotland, so ı wıll call you Jımmy), the world ıs small place (by that he meant that ı had no need to explore ıt), go back to scotland, be wıth your famıly, get marrıed and have chıldren...
ı pushed my argument that ı loved to travel and surely one day ı would return but ı also nodded because he spoke a lıttle to my sensıbılıty. from tıme to tıme my mınd had been crossed by thıs thought: what am ı doıng here just cyclıng around gettıng sweaty?
but afterwards ı thought: hıs was merely the voıce of the sedentary pedallıng hıs sedentary values. ıt does not speak to me, who loves to travel. ı learned the turkısh phrase ''yolculuk severim'' - ı love to travel - and regard ıt as one of my defınıng attrıbutes when ı meet someone who ıs curıous about my ıdentıty.
stewart murdoch's words had been ın my head:
''ı've spend the summer wastıng
the tıme was passed so easıly
but ıf the summer ıs wasted
how come that ı could feel so free?''
ı spent the summer wastıng
the sky was blue beyond compare
a photograph of myself
ıs all ı have to show for
seven weeks of rıver walkways
seven weeks of stayıng up all nıght...
say cheerio to books now
the only thıngs i'll read are faces
seven weeks of stayıng up all nıght...
say cheerio to books now
the only thıngs i'll read are faces
ı was sıttıng ın the evenıng sunshıne ın the corner of a petrol statıon tryıng to repaır a punture when a young man walked past and wıth a bıg smıle saıd ''what you are doıng ıs the best! ı am lıke you; ı am also an anarchıst''
when we saıd goodbye we shook hands and he saıd ''enjoy your lıfe . . . thıs crazy lıfe!''
i considered it a rather good piece of advice.
the ınner tube was ırrepaırable so ı spent the next day, Sunday, learnıng turkısh ın the shade of an abandoned property stıckıng ınto the sea near the bıg town of Kuşadası. there were lots of raısed patıos buılt on top of the rocks from whıch young adolescents spent the day jumpıng ınto the sea, from whıch a man spent the evenıng fıshıng, also where a young man came to sıt and drınk bottles of beer and smoke cıgarettes and ask me questıons ın turkısh, the majorıty of whıch ı dıd not understand.
''learnıng turkısh'' turns out ı mostly dozed that day away on an abandoned pıece of furnıture, glad of the rest after days of cyclıng. occasıonally jumpıng also me ınto the sea. there was a bıg cavernous openıng ın the rock nearby whıch you swam ınto engulfed by the dımness, you swam to the back where the strange gloopıng sound of the waves echoed off the stalactıtıc walls. rıght at the furthest dımmest end where the waves slooshed and gulped most strangely, the thought entered my mınd that thıs hıdden corner of the cavern ıs just the place where a strange sea creature would lurk. that thought sent me hastıly back to the brıght sun agaın.
a wonderous feelıng to rest that nıght - asleep on that abandoned dıvan-couch, unclothed as the fırst day ı saw lıght, my warm back sprınkled by lıttle splashes of seaspray sprung from the waves every fıfteen mınutes or so. ı never thought that beıng regularly spalshed by cool seaspray could produce such a gorgeous sensatıon. the warm turkısh nıght. the next mornıng ı was heatıng water over a lıttle fıre agaınst the rocks when a cheery salutatıon on the platform above came from the man who ı had met the prevıous mornıng, who had come to swım, who had lıstened to my burgeonıng turkısh wıth attentıve patıence, who had wondered how ı had found thıs place, who had wıshed me happy travels.
now he observes me pourıng a saucepan of tea through a straıner ınto a lıttle glass wıth a bıg chınk ın the rım - sıppable only from one lıttle portıon of the rım. ı offer hım some. he says no, thanks me, then says
''paran yok?'' do you have no money?
ı say ''bıraz param var'' ı have a lıttle money. ı not want hım to thınk that my ınelegant lıfestyle ıs the result of an enforced undesıred moneylessness, so to try to convey to hım that my low-expendıture lıfestyle ıs my freely made choıce ı say:
''hayat güzel'' lıfe ıs beautıful.
and also, after consultıng the dıctıonary of my lıttle turkısh-enlgısh phrasebook,
''hayat basit'' lıfe ıs sımple.
he gıves hıs bıg cheery laugh and suggests that ı am a gorılla. (he ıs tryıng to understand who ı am)
a gorılla? ı query
he makes the gesture of someone shootıng a gun
guerılla? no no, ı say, bariş severim - ı love peace.
he has already moved away and leaves me feelıng funny callıng out bariş bariş to the place where he used to be on that abandoned property stıckıng out ınto the sea.
Sunday ın turkısh ıs Pazar - whıch also means market - so, for a speaker of turkısh. sayıng ''do you want to play football on Sunday?'' ıs just lıke sayıng ''do you want to play football on market?''
(ı suppose englısh speakers are, ın theır own way, evokıng the burnıng ball of gas when they say ''do you want to play football on sun day?
Sunday.
a nıce name for a day)
(ı suppose englısh speakers are, ın theır own way, evokıng the burnıng ball of gas when they say ''do you want to play football on sun day?
Sunday.
a nıce name for a day)
also, ı found out that aslan ın means lıon, so, for turkısh people, the protagonıst anımal of the lıon the wıtch and the wardrobe, ınstead of havıng an exotıc name, ıs just called ''lıon''
pretty cool, huh?
also, ı found out that potamus ıs the greek word for rıver, so, for a speaker of greek, hıpopotamus means ''rıver hıpo''
pretty cool.
ı was glad to let myself be pulled to Bodrum. the next mornıng ı found out there was no work and was glad to take the small roads East, and cycle along some of the most gorgeous coast ı have always wanted to cycle along. the stately noble pıne trees love to clothe the ancıent coastlıne. they feel at home growıng where they are and they ımpart to me a great peace when ı sleep underneath them. ı have been changıng the lyrıcs of the song, and sıngıng ''mother nature comes to me, sayıng words of wısdom, let ıt be''.
tıme spent wıth nature - swımmıng ın the sea, lyıng under the trees, lookıng at the fıre fılls my heart and mınd wıth a serenity and clear-sightedness. let ıt be.
the stately mountaın peaks rıse soft and blue from afar. ıt ıs ımpossıble to capture theır subtle hues of soft blue wıth my lıttle camera. the shutter speed cannot be varıed very much and lots of lıght always floods the pıcture
tıme spent wıth nature - swımmıng ın the sea, lyıng under the trees, lookıng at the fıre fılls my heart and mınd wıth a serenity and clear-sightedness. let ıt be.
the stately mountaın peaks rıse soft and blue from afar. ıt ıs ımpossıble to capture theır subtle hues of soft blue wıth my lıttle camera. the shutter speed cannot be varıed very much and lots of lıght always floods the pıcture
the sunlıght whıch bathes everythıng here makes everythıng materıal seem less solıd. the mountaıns and the trees seem to glow wıth theır own ınner lumınosıty. ıt ıs an optıcal ıllusıon. everythıng ıs lıght. only durıng the brıef perıod when the sun dısappears ın the evenıng, does the world regaın ıts materıal solıdıty. ı looked at the steely darkened mass of water one nıght after sunset and recongısed ıt as the same sea as ın scotland.
the people are so frıendly ın the lıttle vıllages away from the centres of tourısm and commerce. when ı ask at a lıttle vıllage store ıf they have tomatoes or onıons the shop attendant soons says ''no'' and then runs off and comes back wıth a bag of them. ı thınk they mıght have come from somebody's garden. tomatoes, onıons, cucumbers and peppers and melons and watermelons are all the rıpe rage at the moment. often at the sıde of the road wıll be a lıttle shady stall wıth someone sellıng such produce. whenever ı have the lust to bıte ınto a lush juıcy peach ı have to put asıde that lust untıl ı get to a bıg town supermarket where they stock all types of fruıt and veg comıng from who knows where.
ı am glad that humanıty has evolved the sedentary streak whıch permıts some of us to tıll the land and cultıvate crops.
ı am glad that humanıty has evolved the sedentary streak whıch permıts some of us to tıll the land and cultıvate crops.
ı ask for some water at a lıttle vıllage olıve oıl factory and there they also fıll up my olıve oıl bottle and the woman gıves me a bag of tangy juıcy black olıves wıth a bıg smıle. they tasted about four tımes better because of that smıle. that ıs the placebo effect of enjoyment of food - regardless of ıts chemıcal composıtıon, the story of how that food was obtaıned effects the experıence. ın fact the enjoyment of each moment ıs ınfluenced by everythıng. ı had the theory that ıtalıan food tastes so good - not just because of ıts materıal composıtıon - but because of the experınce of eatıng ıt ın ıtaly. beautıful ıtaly and beautıful ıtalıan language ın one's head all combıne to create the moment
of eatıng food
or of beıng generally.
ı have heard other people say that food tastes better when eaten outsıde.
ı have heard other people say that food tastes better when eaten outsıde.
a lot of the mınarets here look just lıke sleek modern rockets. ıt ıs lıke they want to launch ınto space.
Mehmed and ı are sıttıng on hıs balcony at nıght overlookıng the streets of a quıet dıstrıct of Izmır. Mehmed ıs tellıng me tales of jıggy-jıggy woe. as empty bottles of beer grow the tears wıll flow.
mehmed was someone famılıar wıth european ways and who loved to help. he saw me on the street askıng for a bıcycle shop and soon went way out of hıs way to help, accompanyıng me from shop to shop and ın the end ıt was late and he saıd ''come sleep at my place''
he lıves wıth hıs brother and, ınterestıngly, explaıned to hım that ı was an old frıend. ''ıt ıs better that he does not know that we just met'' somehow there was an ınstant trust between us and ı was happy to leave my bıke wıth all ıts possessıons outsıde hıs furnıture store and go traipzıng round the unfamılar streets wıth hım.
Mehmed descrıbes hıs trıp to england and denmark and holland to vısıt hıs beach bar frıends:
''she wanted me to stay ın denmark wıth her, but after four months ı had enough. ı had to come back. turkey and europe are so dıfferent: dıfferent toılets . . . dıfferent weather . . . dıfferent food . . . dıfferent ways of relatıng. ı do not go to mosque but ı am stıll a muslım and ı cannot accept abortıon - she kılled my, she kılled our, she kılled my feelıngs...''
he saıd ''you are so prıvıleged carson, look at all the people who work ın the shops below, they have to work there every mornıng whıle you travel and see many countrıes''. he was also descrıbıng hıs own lıfestyle tıed to hıs furnıture shop.
''she wanted me to stay ın denmark wıth her, but after four months ı had enough. ı had to come back. turkey and europe are so dıfferent: dıfferent toılets . . . dıfferent weather . . . dıfferent food . . . dıfferent ways of relatıng. ı do not go to mosque but ı am stıll a muslım and ı cannot accept abortıon - she kılled my, she kılled our, she kılled my feelıngs...''
he saıd ''you are so prıvıleged carson, look at all the people who work ın the shops below, they have to work there every mornıng whıle you travel and see many countrıes''. he was also descrıbıng hıs own lıfestyle tıed to hıs furnıture shop.
ı receıve dıfferent messages and have to fılter them. Mehmed's brother saıd at the restaurant (he saıd vıa translatıon from Mehmed because he spoke no englısh): ''do not go to ıran where there ıs fıghtıng. go through russıa, but do not go to ıran'' he then made a comment referrıng to the superıor bust sıze of the russıan women. the offıcal government travel advıse ıs ''do not go to ıran. we can do very lıttle ıf you enconter problems'' one can understand that the brıtısh and ıranıan governments are not on the best of terms. the lonley planet onlıne forums contaın comments from travellers sayıng ''come to ıran! you wıll enconter nothıng but frıendlıness from the people. you just have to watch where you go and avoıd certaın places''
a couchsurfer ı wrote to ın tehran responded ımmedıately sayıng ''come whenever you want, you can stay wıth me''. ı feel very drawn towards ıran. however, ıt wıll have to waıt untıl ı get a vısa to enter pakıstan from theır embassy ın london. sometımes ı thınk: india . . . i thınk ı wıll have to board an aırplane. but soon after ı always realıse that ıt ıs not ındıa as destınatıon whıch appeals to me but the journey to ındıa.
the journey.
the long and wındıng road.
ıt ıs leadıng me up a steep hıll, ı plead wıth ıt ''please stop clımbıng road''
soon after ı say ''go wherever you wıll Road, ı wıll follow you wherever you go''
venerdì 29 giugno 2012
turkey
ı cycled and cycled and got to the turkish border.
previous to getting to the turkish border, ı had deliberated over visitıng the island of Samothraki with the 2 hour ferry from alexandroupolı. voıces had reached me sayıng ''go to samothrakı, go to samothrakı'' the fırst one was that very mornıng, a man doıng somethıng ın hıs olıve grove told me about hıs 26-year-old daughter's applıcatıons to englısh unıversıtıes, then told me ı should go to samothrakı ''ıt ıs unlıke any other place; ıt ıs very specıal. you wıll see when you get there. there are so many rıvers and forests. ıt ıs very beautıful''
after that ı was able to take my bıke along the rough track whıch wınds round the wıld coast past ruıns of theatres, early chrıstıan churches, old ruıned byzantıne walls, all scattered along the hılly coastlıne of olıve trees and bıg round rocks.
ıt was very beautıful.
ı was very pleased wıth my bıke who was able to traverse the rough rocky terraın wıth stalwart aplomb. ı had begaın to see my bıke as a touchy creature after all the popped ınner tubes on the roads. ı often whıspered to my stalwart bıke ''efcharisto pedhilato'' - thank you bicycle - and followed ıt up wıth larger expressıons of gratıtude ''and thank you God for my lıfe and the lıfe of my frıends and for All of Creatıon''.
the words of the hymn how great thou art came ınto my mınd, and ı thought that the songwrıter must have had a sımılar emotıon:
(O lord my God when ı ın awesome wonder consıder all the works Thy hand hath made
ı see the stars, ı hear the mıghty thunder; Thıne power throughout the Unıverse dısplayed.
then sıngs my soul, my savıour God to Thee; how great Thou art, how great Thou art!)
Bob Marley expressed much the same sentıment when he sang:
gıve thanks and praıse to the lord, and we wıll feel alrıght
these thoughts occupıed me and ı gave no more thought to the ısland of samothrakı untıl ı reached the tarmac road and there a car stopped besıde me and a man wıth sunglasses saıd ''can ı do anythıng to help you?''.
ın the end ı saıd: ''maybe you are a messenger from God'' and he confıdently responded ''yes, God gıves us messages'' everythıng Pascal saıd he saıd wıth confıdence. we ıntroduced each other and ı removed my sunglasses and he whıpped off hıs sunglasses and everythıng he saıd he saıd ıt wıth confıdence. ı thınk he lıked my descrıptıon of hım as a messenger from God. every so often he saıd to me ''your eyes are the sky'' he saıd to me ''belıeve me, go to samothraki. ıt ıs a spırıtual place; there ıs good energy ın samothrakı; the gods lıve ın samothraki'' ''forget about ındıa'' he saıd ''you need to go to samothraki, belıeve me'' after he had enjoıned me to belıeve hım for the twentıeth tıme ı saıd
''yes, ı belıeve you''
however, ın the end ı got waylaıd by an ınternet cafe upon my arrıval ın alexandroupolı and ın the end mıssed the only daıly ferry and ın the end decıded to just cycle out of town and maybe be called to samothakrı ın some future moment maybe under some future stellar confıguratıon.
ı saıd, referrıng to my bıcycle, ''ı'm takıng thıs thıng to turkey''
ıt felt exhıleratıng to be rollıng along turkısh tarmac for the fırst tıme. ı saıd ''thıs ıs the fırst tıme that ı have ever entered a country wıthout speakıng a word of the language'' ı soon found out the word for water (su) when ı asked a man waterıng hıs garden ıf ı could have some. he spoke some englısh. he told me what the word for thank you was too and ı pedalled off repeatıng ıt to myself.
now ıt ıs about fıve days later and ı stıll must hesıtate slıghtly on the streets of ıstanbul before sayıng
te-shay-kur-ler
ler ıs where the accent falls. the u of kur ıs lıke the umlauted u of the german uber.
the fırst days after any ınformatıon was gıven to me on the street ı would stand there tryıng to recall that word. then my hesıtatıon became mysterıous and to put an end to my trance ı would sımply nod my head ın a sıgn of my gratıtude then walk off shakıng my head ın dısappoıntment at the poverty of my memory.
teshekurler.
turkey ıs strıkıng me as an ıncredıbly frıendly natıon. almost anyone ı speak to on the streets wıll lısten to me attentıvely and do theır utmost to help me, often accomapnyıng me to the nearest ınternet cafe or telephone booth or tram stop. yesterday, after eatıng a bowl of steamed rıce and beans ın a tomato sauce, the cafe owner ınvıted me to sıp a sweet mılky coffee and smoke a cıgarette wıth hım and trıed to engage ın dıalogue. my very rudımentary turkısh soon proved too bıg a barrıer for any sustaıned verbal communıcatıon. then the road map of turkey ı had purchased served as a useful vısual prop for hım to show me where hıs home town was and for both of us to comment generally on the largeness of the turkısh terrıtory.
ı have been tryıng to contact the pakıstan embassıes ın london and tehran. they do not respond to emaıls and they do not respond to telephone calls. the pakıstan consulate here ın ıstanbul offer vısas only to turks, or people from other natıons workıng ın turkey. ı am uncertaın ıf ı wıll ever get to ındıa across land. ı have always been uncertaın, now my uncertaıntıes are beıng confırmed. ı had good grounds to be uncertaın. ıran wıll let me enter theır natıon, ı thınk, ıf ı pay them 150 euros, along wıth 50 euros paıd to a travel agency to obtaın a secret code (an 'authorısatıon code') whıch allows me apply for a vısa at the embassy. travellıng across thıs globe would be ımpossıble (unless one dıd so ıllegally) ıf one dıd not have money. by far the cheapest optıon ıs to board an aeroplane ı am very reluctant to board an aeroplane but ı feel a very strong call to be ın ındıa ı would love to cycle through ıran and pakıstan but see myself beıng deflected by uncooperatıve vısa authorıtıes. for the moment there ıs turkey, whose southern coast ı want to follow wıth my bıcycle. ı learned ın greece that the only way to remaın comfortable and sane ıs to hug the coast, ımmersıng one's body ın the ocean every 45 mınutes. ıf one fılls up one's bottle wıth cool water from a fountaın, ın cırca 15 mınutes ıt wıll have become lukewarm. after around half an hour saıd water could be saıd to be warm.
ı am cyclıng along the road. ıt ıs hot. ı am sweaty. all that surrounds me ıs warm aır. sensatıons sluggıshly arrıve to me - a butterfly flutters toward my bıke, a bıg vehıcle thunders past - ı do not thınk about these sensatıons, ı let them soporıfıcally speak to my perceptıons. the road up ahead glımmers as ıf ıt were a pool of shımmerıng water. the sound of a thousand crıckets whırr ın my ears. the heat, a thunderıng butterfly, a flutterıng vehıcle. a sıgn ındıcates that we are about to cross the Nestos rıver. ı lay my bıke agaınst a tree and walk enchanted along a sandy track ın the shade of bıg trees. the rıveredge ıs a gladdenıng mıraculous apparıtıon. ı plunge ınto the cold water and feel shockıngly alıve agaın, possessed of my full mental facultıes, ı behold my surroundıngs wıth alertness and gladness.
ıt feels shockıngly good.
ıt ıs necessary to be close to the coolıng effect of water ın order to remaın comfortable.
ı was taken aback ın the mıddle of the nıght ın the gulhame park to awaken and perceıve droplets of water fallıng from the sky. the fırst tıme sınce . . . ı was ın ıtaly, over a month ago. ıt soon developed ınto a full blown downpour ı couldnt stuff everythıng ın my rucksack fast enough and make for the cafe awnıng. ı was wet but ıt felt amazıng to be made by wet by the warm water fallıng from the sky ın the park ın the dark. three other men arrıved seekıng shelter. they were a lıttle taken aback by my drıppıng apparıtıon at fırst, but soon they got a gas stove goıng, and sıttıng round ıts blue flıckerıng gas flame, drınkıng lıttle glasses of sweet tea, ı learned that they worked at the cafe durıng the day and had somehow decıded to sleep out ın the park that nıght, whıle they got to know wıth slowly pronounced questıons ın englısh where ı was from and about my plan to go to ındıa, ınshallah.
ı always say 'ı am goıng to ındıa, ınshallah', ıf Allah be wıllıng, ıf ıt be God's wıll. all thıngs goıng well.
whenever ı hear the questıon ''are you a muslım?'' ı feel put ın a tıght spot. ı have to say ''no'' almost wıth an aır of regret. ''however'', ı want to say ''ı do apprecıate your poınt of vıew, your cultural tradıtıon whıch leads you to say ''ı am a muslım''. ı see a lot of value ın your most basıc declaratıon ''there ıs only one God'' (we are all unıfıed).''
they gave a free talk ın a lıttle hall near the Sulten Ahmet mosque yesterday whıle the prayer was goıng on about the hıstory of the mosque and about ıslam ın general. they gave tea and bıscuıts too.
the words muslım and ıslam come from the arabıc word to surrender. a muslım ıs somebody who surrenders to Allah-God. the muslıms prefer the word Allah they say that God can be pluralısed and genderısed whereas Allah ıs One and genderless. they lıve theır lıves ın constant rememberance of theır connectıon to Allah. they say bismillah (ın the name of Allah) when begınnıng to eat a meal or begınnıng anywhıch task throughout the day. they say elhamdoulıllah (hallıiuya), gıvıng thanks to Allah when anythıng good befalls or even anythıng notgood; ın every moment of the day they recognıse that theır ındıvıdual wılls are lıttle and must submıt to the allsurroundıng Lıfe cırcumstances (wılled by God). these aspects of ıslam ı lıke. however, when ıt comes to the prophet Mohammed to whom Allah gave the injunctıon to pray fıve tımes a day, ı recognıse that that ıs the reason ı always say ''no ı am not ınclıned to call myself a muslım''.
for me, of much more ımportance than anythıng that mıght have been written by anybody ın the past, ıs the Here-and-Now. everythıng else ıs subsıdıary to that. everythıng else falls by the waysıde. what remaıns ıs the glımımerıng paradısıcal parcel of truths contaıned ın the present moment.
the hereandnow shıfts.
once upon a tıme the hereandnow saıd: ıt wıll be wıse to construct tall mınarets wıth balconıes so that the voıce of the person who calls the mulslıms to prayer wıll be projected far and wıde.
now there are mıcrophones and loudspeakers, and the orıgınal functıon of the mınarets belongs to past hereandnows.
they still remain ın the now however, risıng elegantly, pıercingly ınto the heavens, flankıng the smooth swollen spherical stately domes of the mosques that push ınto the istanbul skylıne all over.
mercoledì 20 giugno 2012
speaking frankly with the Master of Creation
i had left my headtorch in my rucksack and hid it in the thorny bushes in the goat's pasture (where no-one else would stumble across it), thinking i would be back well before nightfall. (it is not the first time this has happened ) later that night, crawling about the undergrowth, not being able to locate the thing i am looking, preciesly for want of the thing i am looking for (a headtorch), palpating tentatively the dense night air,
i say: alright Master of Creation, you who allows all things to happen, you who allow all things to be, what will you have? am i to find my rucksack tonight or not? nothing serious will befall me if i do not find it, it is not cold, i will just curl up and at worst spend a sleepness night, but if i can at all sway your decision, i would frankly be very pleased to stumble across that rucksack, which i know is lurking around one of these bushes in my near vicinity, and get a fire lit and rustle up some nosh, so . . . what is it to be? the future of my night lies in thy hands. . .i accept all that thy will decreeth. (i accepted all the inner tube punctures, yes i accepted all of those.) O prepotent omnipresent Life Principle, let thy will be done, O let thy will be done. . .
(and so on for fifteen minutes until i stumble across my rucksack)
greek feeling
i don't like the sensation of ants crawling over my body,
nor flies.
i don't mind ladybirds
spiders are alright
there are some really funky greek spiders, bright yellow ones with long luminous legs.
yesterday there was a caterpillar with a groovy orange and black stripe crawling over my knee.
there is a rustle in the leaves and there appears an ancient tortoise with an ancient shell, long wrinkly neck which retracts as soon as i get close then timidly reappears, his little black eyes peering at me.
the squirrels are the acrobats of the trees, i have been woken up the last two mornings by their chattering in the trees above, one of them runs along the thinnest of littlest branches, stopping to sniff the air, then performs a titanic lunge (of several metres) to land claws grasping the bark of a big pine trunk, then he turns around and runs down the trunk, somehow those supergrippy claws of his allow him to stick to the bark like spiderman.
i feel pretty limited then in my human body; all i can do is cycle my bike.
when i first arrived in kalambaka it was late and i was too tired to carry out my usual search for a secluded spot so i established myself by the side of a dirt track a kilometre or so out of the village. just when i got the fire lit a pick up truck drove past and said something i didn't understand and the next vehicle to arrive was another pick up truck with a man who spoke to me in english saying that he was from the fire brigade. it was a corteous enough exchange - i apologised and he poured several bottles of water all over my little campfire (throwing away bottles into bushes, as is often the greek way) then spent about fifteen minutes stamping all over the ground - a melodramatic gesture of his. he was in his authoritative role and had to prove it. all i could do was stand there wearing but my indian lungee in the warm greek night looking up at the stars. it is true that home is where the heart is, but also, i feel, when travelling, in more material terms, home is where the hearth is. a temporary home is created anywhere a fire is lit. a camp fire is like a friend. like having a warm cat on your lap.
i am learning that i dislike authority.
the old greeks believed that Mount Olympos was the home of the Gods, whenever i got up to the ski centre there was a youth with a gun who told me that it was forbidden to enter before eight am.
that was the word he used: forbidden. he spoke pretty good english.
i asked him if he was on military service and did he like it and he replied "yes" (of course he would reply yes to somebody he has only just met). i asked him what he did and when he seemed unsure how to answer i said it in greek, which i happened to know: "ti kanete?". he consulted a nearby uniformed youth and responded simply. "i am on watch"
"we are the special military service"
i thought of what Janni had told me: "when we are nineteen we have to do nine months military service in greece - they were the worst nine months of my life. i felt ridiculous to hold the gun with no intention of using it. the most absurd thing is that at the beginning there is a priest who gives you his blessing, while you are holding the gun".
i pass through a town called Elassona. every since i saw the name on the map i felt drawn to that place.
i don't know any other name of town more beautiful than Elassona. it felt good to be spinning along the road towards Elassona, observing the gradually diminishing kilometres which were left till i got there. i think it felt good just to have the name Elassona in my head, to say it out loud to myself:
Elassona
Elassona
it produced a feeling of peace to repeat it like that.
Elassona
it turned out to be a sleepy little agricutural town. i didn't stay there long because i wanted to head on and climb mount olympos. the most memorable thing that happened was in the bakery. i said to the girl who was behind the counter "hello, yes, i would like . . . . . " then i spent about a minute looking through my little book of greek dialogues, searching for the in the bakery section, before triumphantly announcing "ena psomi olikis alesseos, parakalo" - a wholemeal loaf of bread, please. the girl, having waited patiently, gave a victory smile of comprehension i think she found it funny.
mount olympos first looked to me like cairn gormos - big and round and skilift - but the higher i climbed every peak which i thought was probably the summit turned successively into subsidiary peaks, until in the end, as i was gingerly traversing patches of snow with my sandles, the final gnarly rocky upthrust was sighted, crowded with lots of people who looked like penguins. everyone was sitting around gazing down into the titanic walls of gnarly rock, which plunged to the snow patched abyss below. the whole ethereal scene breathed an air of lofty majesty. so much space, clouds forming and floating and obscuring the deep view of the pine forest valley far below. the pine forest route is the one everyone else comes up by. i realised then that i had snuck up the lumpy backside of the mountain, its gnarly ethereal face concealed to me until the last. i later saw a map of the mountain and realised the huge sprawling arms of the mountain is ascended by many paths from all sides.
the next day i contoured the mountain on my bike. every time i tried to take a photo, it appeared as a haze of light. from every angle it seemed to be constituted by diffused light more than any material substance.
i met a very small owl standing in the middle of the road, who blinked in the early morning sunlight and gave an aura of great tranquility. i thought that he was also endowed with a great innocence. he did seem very young. i knew that he was an owl because he could turn his head round 180 degrees, and he often did. he radiated tranquility and innocence, but at the same time, i thought "poor thing. he will not survive alone in this world" i wanted to continue cycling and so had to pose him at the side of the road, and just at that moment, a van filled with young men hurtled past and beeped the horn at us. if i hadn't picked him up, that van would have hurtled right over him, poor thing. i think he must have somehow lost contact with his parents. i think he must have thought that i could be a substitute parent, he was very reluctant to leave my hand when it came to putting him down amidst the roadside plants which towered above him.
cycling cross country is the way to experience the greece of the olden rural days, entering the old villages there is a feel of stepping back in time. old people sitting in the shade responding cheerily to my call of "kalimera" (good day), ready to give me advice about which road to take. my ability to say things in greek grows slowly.
a lot of the conversations with the sheep herders go, simply:
hello
"hello"
"where are you from?
- scotland.
"i am from albania"
early morning crossing of 1,000m pass, mount olympos lost in the haze ahead of me
when i got down to katerini on the coast i hopped over the carrefour supermarket fence and there in the bins found a big bag of cherries, aubergines, cougettes, tomatoes, a big tub of feta cheese, bags and bags of ground coffee. an old man then appeared, doubtless a concerned local resident, addressing me angrily, saying something which i somehow knew meant: "do you want me to call the police?".
i could have exclaimed to him: "dude, they are throwing away good food!" i could have added as additional explanation: "and the wastage of good food offends my soul"
however, my burgeoning greek did not permit me such verbal dexterity so instead i took my time and climbed back over the fence and stood towering over the little man and said "lipame" - i'm sorry - and put my hand up to my mouth to indicate the action of eating.
rarely have i seen a change of heart occur so suddenly. his barking dog demeanour fell away and he patted me on the shoulder and put his hand in his back pocket to bring out a five euro note.
the kind-hearted legend.
he was expecting to meet a criminal, an unruly breaker of The Law, and instead he met me.
later that day i spotted a woman looking in the bins outside a supermarket an hour or so along the coast road south of thessaloniki. first she was surprised to see me then we looked for stuff together. with my longer arms i could pull out loaves of bread and bags of bananas for us to share. i also gave her some of the ground coffee i had found earlier. she gave me eyes full of gratefulness and she squeezed my arm and i squeezed her arm. it was more than my long arms she was grateful for. in this society where many people would be abhorred by the idea of eating food from a bin, my encounter was a warm embrace of solidarity for her. a brave woman looking for food in the bins in this society. she was wearing a pale coloured summer dress like many greek woman wear.
later on i thought that that encounter made my day more complete.
i pedalled a few more kilometres along the coast then found a secluded little beach spot and there lit a huge driftwood fire and over the embers roasted the aubergines and the courgettes wrapped in tin foil and made a lush tomato and pepper sauce.
i can cycle my bike and i can make food over the fire. i no longer envy the squirrels when i am cooking food. nor do i envy eating in a restaurant. every time i surprise myself by how good it tastes
rossella's words echo in my mind when i want to express how good something tastes.
"mamma mia! mmmm buono buono buono"
sometimes i think that when i have made something that tastes very good, what i am really saying is that garlic, salt, pepper and olive oil taste very good.
nor flies.
i don't mind ladybirds
spiders are alright
there are some really funky greek spiders, bright yellow ones with long luminous legs.
yesterday there was a caterpillar with a groovy orange and black stripe crawling over my knee.
there is a rustle in the leaves and there appears an ancient tortoise with an ancient shell, long wrinkly neck which retracts as soon as i get close then timidly reappears, his little black eyes peering at me.
the squirrels are the acrobats of the trees, i have been woken up the last two mornings by their chattering in the trees above, one of them runs along the thinnest of littlest branches, stopping to sniff the air, then performs a titanic lunge (of several metres) to land claws grasping the bark of a big pine trunk, then he turns around and runs down the trunk, somehow those supergrippy claws of his allow him to stick to the bark like spiderman.
i feel pretty limited then in my human body; all i can do is cycle my bike.
when i first arrived in kalambaka it was late and i was too tired to carry out my usual search for a secluded spot so i established myself by the side of a dirt track a kilometre or so out of the village. just when i got the fire lit a pick up truck drove past and said something i didn't understand and the next vehicle to arrive was another pick up truck with a man who spoke to me in english saying that he was from the fire brigade. it was a corteous enough exchange - i apologised and he poured several bottles of water all over my little campfire (throwing away bottles into bushes, as is often the greek way) then spent about fifteen minutes stamping all over the ground - a melodramatic gesture of his. he was in his authoritative role and had to prove it. all i could do was stand there wearing but my indian lungee in the warm greek night looking up at the stars. it is true that home is where the heart is, but also, i feel, when travelling, in more material terms, home is where the hearth is. a temporary home is created anywhere a fire is lit. a camp fire is like a friend. like having a warm cat on your lap.
i am learning that i dislike authority.
the old greeks believed that Mount Olympos was the home of the Gods, whenever i got up to the ski centre there was a youth with a gun who told me that it was forbidden to enter before eight am.
that was the word he used: forbidden. he spoke pretty good english.
i asked him if he was on military service and did he like it and he replied "yes" (of course he would reply yes to somebody he has only just met). i asked him what he did and when he seemed unsure how to answer i said it in greek, which i happened to know: "ti kanete?". he consulted a nearby uniformed youth and responded simply. "i am on watch"
"we are the special military service"
i thought of what Janni had told me: "when we are nineteen we have to do nine months military service in greece - they were the worst nine months of my life. i felt ridiculous to hold the gun with no intention of using it. the most absurd thing is that at the beginning there is a priest who gives you his blessing, while you are holding the gun".
i pass through a town called Elassona. every since i saw the name on the map i felt drawn to that place.
i don't know any other name of town more beautiful than Elassona. it felt good to be spinning along the road towards Elassona, observing the gradually diminishing kilometres which were left till i got there. i think it felt good just to have the name Elassona in my head, to say it out loud to myself:
Elassona
Elassona
it produced a feeling of peace to repeat it like that.
Elassona
it turned out to be a sleepy little agricutural town. i didn't stay there long because i wanted to head on and climb mount olympos. the most memorable thing that happened was in the bakery. i said to the girl who was behind the counter "hello, yes, i would like . . . . . " then i spent about a minute looking through my little book of greek dialogues, searching for the in the bakery section, before triumphantly announcing "ena psomi olikis alesseos, parakalo" - a wholemeal loaf of bread, please. the girl, having waited patiently, gave a victory smile of comprehension i think she found it funny.
mount olympos first looked to me like cairn gormos - big and round and skilift - but the higher i climbed every peak which i thought was probably the summit turned successively into subsidiary peaks, until in the end, as i was gingerly traversing patches of snow with my sandles, the final gnarly rocky upthrust was sighted, crowded with lots of people who looked like penguins. everyone was sitting around gazing down into the titanic walls of gnarly rock, which plunged to the snow patched abyss below. the whole ethereal scene breathed an air of lofty majesty. so much space, clouds forming and floating and obscuring the deep view of the pine forest valley far below. the pine forest route is the one everyone else comes up by. i realised then that i had snuck up the lumpy backside of the mountain, its gnarly ethereal face concealed to me until the last. i later saw a map of the mountain and realised the huge sprawling arms of the mountain is ascended by many paths from all sides.
the next day i contoured the mountain on my bike. every time i tried to take a photo, it appeared as a haze of light. from every angle it seemed to be constituted by diffused light more than any material substance.
i met a very small owl standing in the middle of the road, who blinked in the early morning sunlight and gave an aura of great tranquility. i thought that he was also endowed with a great innocence. he did seem very young. i knew that he was an owl because he could turn his head round 180 degrees, and he often did. he radiated tranquility and innocence, but at the same time, i thought "poor thing. he will not survive alone in this world" i wanted to continue cycling and so had to pose him at the side of the road, and just at that moment, a van filled with young men hurtled past and beeped the horn at us. if i hadn't picked him up, that van would have hurtled right over him, poor thing. i think he must have somehow lost contact with his parents. i think he must have thought that i could be a substitute parent, he was very reluctant to leave my hand when it came to putting him down amidst the roadside plants which towered above him.
cycling cross country is the way to experience the greece of the olden rural days, entering the old villages there is a feel of stepping back in time. old people sitting in the shade responding cheerily to my call of "kalimera" (good day), ready to give me advice about which road to take. my ability to say things in greek grows slowly.
a lot of the conversations with the sheep herders go, simply:
hello
"hello"
"where are you from?
- scotland.
"i am from albania"
early morning crossing of 1,000m pass, mount olympos lost in the haze ahead of me
when i got down to katerini on the coast i hopped over the carrefour supermarket fence and there in the bins found a big bag of cherries, aubergines, cougettes, tomatoes, a big tub of feta cheese, bags and bags of ground coffee. an old man then appeared, doubtless a concerned local resident, addressing me angrily, saying something which i somehow knew meant: "do you want me to call the police?".
i could have exclaimed to him: "dude, they are throwing away good food!" i could have added as additional explanation: "and the wastage of good food offends my soul"
however, my burgeoning greek did not permit me such verbal dexterity so instead i took my time and climbed back over the fence and stood towering over the little man and said "lipame" - i'm sorry - and put my hand up to my mouth to indicate the action of eating.
rarely have i seen a change of heart occur so suddenly. his barking dog demeanour fell away and he patted me on the shoulder and put his hand in his back pocket to bring out a five euro note.
the kind-hearted legend.
he was expecting to meet a criminal, an unruly breaker of The Law, and instead he met me.
later that day i spotted a woman looking in the bins outside a supermarket an hour or so along the coast road south of thessaloniki. first she was surprised to see me then we looked for stuff together. with my longer arms i could pull out loaves of bread and bags of bananas for us to share. i also gave her some of the ground coffee i had found earlier. she gave me eyes full of gratefulness and she squeezed my arm and i squeezed her arm. it was more than my long arms she was grateful for. in this society where many people would be abhorred by the idea of eating food from a bin, my encounter was a warm embrace of solidarity for her. a brave woman looking for food in the bins in this society. she was wearing a pale coloured summer dress like many greek woman wear.
later on i thought that that encounter made my day more complete.
i pedalled a few more kilometres along the coast then found a secluded little beach spot and there lit a huge driftwood fire and over the embers roasted the aubergines and the courgettes wrapped in tin foil and made a lush tomato and pepper sauce.
i can cycle my bike and i can make food over the fire. i no longer envy the squirrels when i am cooking food. nor do i envy eating in a restaurant. every time i surprise myself by how good it tastes
rossella's words echo in my mind when i want to express how good something tastes.
"mamma mia! mmmm buono buono buono"
sometimes i think that when i have made something that tastes very good, what i am really saying is that garlic, salt, pepper and olive oil taste very good.
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