Toda Raba Dudes

"One of the characters asked a death stewardess if he would get to Heaven and she told him that of course he would. He asked if he would see God, and she said, ‘Certainly, honey.’

And he said, ‘I sure hope so. I want to ask Him something I never was able to find out down here.’

‘What’s that?’ she said, strapping him in.

‘What in hell are people for?’” K.Vonnegut, God bless you Mr Rosewater

I met Bertrand on the steps leading to a small hostel in Old Jerusalem, not far from Jaffa Gate. He approached me to ask if I knew where he could find something to eat. I answered that there was a falafel and pretzel stall nearby. But it didn’t end there. We established that we lived in the same city. We quickly trespassed the murky terrains of the usual travellers’ small talk. When he expressed his desire to visit Gaza Strip, I sensed that a truly rare specimen just landed on my doorstep (divine intervention maybe?) – a like-minded, hard-core, fearless traveller; an extinct kind – and I’d rather go and try to drown myself in the Dead Sea than let that one go! I shared my travel plans with the pleasant Frenchie and didn’t hesitate a second before asking him to join me. Now, I’m usually not that forward with people. Like, really really. Especially the male kind. The only other occasion of such an aggressive behaviour that I recall was when I met Olli. That was six years ago and Olli has been one of the bestest friends since.

So with Bertrand mightily jetlagged (having just arrived in the Eretz) and just as overwhelmed by my enthusiasm, I had every right to expect that he wouldn’t call me the next day. But he did!

A few days later I walked into my room at Abraham Hostel after a brief stay in Tel Aviv, to see a new addition to our merry bunch perched on one of the lower bunks – and A. upon her with a fanatic glint in her eyes.

“So, I thought about death” she was saying “or pondered death…oh, not like that!” she stopped herself, seeing the bewildered look upon the lovely face of the newcomer.

“Hi everyone!” I exclaimed “I’m back!”

A. duly introduced us, and this is how I met Samira. As she told me later, she was awash with relief upon my appearance in the room. It distracted A. from impending Christian indoctrination, which was something that Samira, having just spent the whole day with a dude who claimed to be the second incarnation of Jesus, had really had enough of.

Samira, Bertrand and I went on a day trip together. We climbed the mountain over Masada at sunrise. We frolicked in a waterfall in the Ein Gedi reserve. We covered ourselves in mud and floated blissfully in the Dead Sea. And we had absolute ball the whole day long. We laughed, laughed and laughed. When the trip came to an end, we felt like we’d known each other at least several lifetimes; we didn’t want to part. “We make a good team” said Samira. We were giddy with the discovery: we’ve found perfect travel buddies at last.

Ah, the blessedness of meeting people on the road. You bond so quickly and so intensely. There is a fast track of sharing life stories and intimacy, necessitated by the demands of being in each other’s company and dealing with practicalities of travelling, 24/7. There is fierce beauty to these strong but fleeting connections. You know you’ll have to part soon, which allows your heart to open somehow more fully, to be more present and more giving.

The three of us went to the Negev Desert together. A hell of a trip! We formed a united front against a sexually frustrated voyeur Beduin that happened to be our host. The night under the stars was one of the most mystical experiences I’ve had up to date. So was the drive back to Mitzpe Ramon (six of us in a five-person car, Samira and I squashed together on the passenger seat) with a bunch of mad Americans (a pastor amongst them). Oh, maybe I’m pushing it a bit with the mystical, but it sure was very enlivening.

Bertrand and I travelled to Palestine. Twice. Again it was fun. And educational.

Samira and Bertrand went to Tel Aviv together. Not my story to tell, but I can vouch that fun was also had.

Now they’re both gone, back home, to their friends and stories. And Israel is not the same without them. These short few days were enough to recognize their beauty, their sensitivity, their inner wisdom and strength. Thanks for sharing, my friends. Keep journeying with open hearts. “God loves us”

Till we meet again.

Maybe this is what people are for? To be with other people.

Palestine Rocks!

Post rap class in Balata refugee camp school

Entrance to Project Hope office

So there it goes: I've been living intensely, traveling, connecting with people and so on - and all my vows to write consistently are flying out of the window. There's a backlog of funny - and dramatic - stories writhing within my poor brain, and I'll need to get them out, or else some serious mental constipation - or implosion will follow.

Yesterday Bertrand (a fellow-travel junkie, whom I picked up on the streets of Old Jerusalem and to whom I bid a sad farewell last night) and I dared to cross the Wall for the second time; we visited a NGO - Project Hope in Nablus. We were honoured to meet and talk to the director of the project - Hakim Sabbah - as well as several employees and volunteers. I'm especially grateful to Sandy Marshall (former volunteer and current employee and PhD student, who's made Palestine his home), who dedicated a big chunk of his time to tell us about the situation in Palestine and answer the incessant flow of our questions. That was so helpful! We got to accompany Lynne - one of the volunteers to Balata refugee camp, to watch her run a rap class for a group of 11-12 y.o. boys. I returned very charged by inspiration and just as slightly overwhelmed by all the new information, which I'm still digesting like a boa snake its huge pray, so bear with me, and have a read below (quoted from Project Hope's website):

"Project Hope is a non-profit volunteer organization. We support children denied access to basic services that every child needs in order to develop into healthy and well-balanced individual. We provide educational and recreational activities, medical and humanitarian relief and practical training that can empower them with hope and skills for the future. We are currently working in Palestine, a nation where the majority of the population is age 18 or under and living under harsh conditions, making our work all the more important.

Objective - Children and Youth

The objects of the organization are to provide support and humanitarian aid for children and youth around the world living in areas of war, conflict, enlever and underdevelopment through the application of education, training, recreation and health-care activities.

Through alternatives to violence we are improving both the physical and mental health of our participants. We provide a venue for them to express themselves positively, release frustration, develop skills, engage in dialogue and build hope for the future. Our regular programs include language classes, drama and art. Our educational and recreational activities are provided in partnership with existing groups in the local community. In the spirit of cooperation and to save costs, we provide many different programs in partnership with different Palestinian organizations within the community.

We do our utmost to keep costs low and work efficiently. We do not want to waste money in an environment where money should not be wasted. This is one reason why we prefer to use other organization's premises and/or cooperate to create on programs, pooling our resources together. If a building already exists and can be used to organize an activity, and a basic infrastructure exists there, we prefer to supply the programs and human resources. We believe that working together is always a more effective model to effecting real change.

In Project Hope local Palestinians and Internationals work together. Local Palestinians and Internationals have the opportunity to participate in our programs, partake in the administration of the organization and be a leader of a program. We believe in Bottom-Up, not Top-Down development. This means international volunteers act largely as assistants while we aim for leadership at the community level. In this way we can better understand what the local problems are and make use of local innovations to solve them, while providing advice and know-how from outside.

Project Hope is a grassroots initiative helping ordinary people to make a difference. In our work, we value everyone, whatever their creed, religion, sex, color or class background. We feel everyone can make a positive contribution to the lives of Palestinian youth, and want to give everyone we can such an opportunity. We are doing our best to help what is becoming a lost generation and hold on to hope for a healthy, vibrant Palestinian society."

Or go to their website

I've been greeted warmly by Palestine. There were no suicide bombers in sight, but many friendly people eager for me to hear their stories were. Apparently one listens to many stories when living here. Some even make the hairs stand out. I want to hear them all. And share them. So I have to go back, I suppose. Any takers? ;-)

No longer disenchanted

Sunset over the outskirts of Tel-Aviv

"Look at you now, you're disenchanted,
can't believe how things can change.
Take a little out of life and things get strange.
And now you find the wishes you were granted,
things you thought were in your hands,
have slipped away.
How much can you withstand?

The wasted time, the money spent,
a sign that reads 'For Sale or Rent'.
And everything is at a standstill,
and where's someone who'll be on hand till
you're no longer disenchanted,
thinking everything is wrong?

You know you're not the only one to wait so long.
I wonder, can you try again?
Are you that strong?" About the girl

I like travelling on intercity coaches. I like their sleekness and speed, the elegance they cut through ever changing landscapes with.

And I like how they make me feel. I like how these trips force me to be still and reflect. Observe the passing countryside; observe the passing of things. Memories come and go, when I'm on buses. Images long forgotten resurface again. Emotions flood through me in mad torrents, then seep through the pores: a sudden wetness on the cheeks, and occasional gentle hand of grace.

Just like today, on my way between Tel-Aviv and Jerusalem.

I think I'm dumb, or maybe just happy.

Did I say how much I liked Abraham Hostel?

I like it too much. In fact, I may never leave it. I’m thinking of getting a chronic-volunteer visa, you know.

Exaggeration. But it’s cool, really.

Chilled out vibe, colourful walls, super friendly co-workers. The work is easy and pleasant, and their breakfast is actually quite nutritious. Blah blah blah.

What makes Abraham Hostel cool is also the apparent absence of drunken British 20-year-olds who populate Australian backpacker places like plague (not that I have anything against the British, the 20 year olds, or the drunks); most of the hostel’s patrons are middle-aged, and religious.

Take my two roommates: A. and B. are Canadian, middle-aged and super sweet. They greeted me heartily when I arrived. They asked many questions about my background and experiences, and they sounded appropriately gob-smacked by my answers. Then the ominous question was asked (by A., the more eloquent one):

“Do you believe in God?”

“I don’t know”, I responded according to the truth, trying to sound like I was genuinely seeking some truth that was "out there", as well as puzzled by my spiritual limbo, which I actually was a little.

“I see” said A. “Well, I’ve been there too. But then…I’ll never forget the day when I found Jesus”

“What’s up with that?” I thought, but then a long, passionate story of A.’s seeking and eventual conversion to Christianity followed – backed up by many quotes from the Bible – and I knew: A. and B. were looking for another sheep to join their herd. It’s a funny thing, that power of persuasion. But the end of the spiel I felt as if I’d been sucked into some kind of a void, my vision went blurry, my limbs grew weak – I even acquiesced to a prayer for my soul, which A. conducted curled into a ball on a bunk bed. The prayer was frank and ardent, and it actually melted something in my heart. But then I was fried. I needed to regroup almost as badly as I needed to pee.

“Remember, God loves you” called B. after me, as I was making my hasty retreat to the bathroom. This sentence, as well as too much sin talk (“Human nature is sinful”) already started to grate on my nerves, and I had a slightly ill feeling that A. and B. were going to grate me with them again. So far I haven’t been mistaken; I’ve been hearing it every day. What’s worse: I’ve started to believe them.

I also live with Richard (not his real name). He often plonks his great behind upon the bunk below me, making the bed shake and wheeze with exertion. Then he rants how his internet wouldn’t work, and how the Israel-Palestine conflict is to take responsibility for this. My introduction to Richard was less than sweet. He accused me of having malicious thoughts, before I even had a chance to form any at all. He’s obviously a soul in pain and I’ve been trying to break him by my kindness (offering to lend him my laptop, where the wifi is fine etc.). The progress is slow. I’m fearing I might be coming down with a slight case of Samarithropia* and it’s only been a few days!

Overall I’m intoxicated with Old Jerusalem: with its white walls, and ringing of the church bells and muezzins singing “Allah Akbar”, and the orthodox Jews rushing past in different configurations of pairs, groups and singles; all is happening at once as I stroll through the ancient paths, stroked by the warm, dry desert wind.

It’s just like one grungy, suicidal dude used to sing: “I think I’m dumb, or maybe just happy”.

* "Samaritrophia, hysterical indifference to the troubles of those less fortunate than oneself. Samaritrophia (…) is the suppression of an overactive conscience by the rest of the mind." (term coined by Kurt Vonnegut)

A lesson in history

“A country is not just what it does—it is also what it tolerates.” Kurt Tucholsky, German essayist of Jewish origin.

So, Yad Veshem – the Holocaust Museum. Watching the footage of Hitler ranting and raving in the Reichstag and then passing through the streets of Berlin, thousands of people cheering on him, I couldn’t help but marvel (again) at the phenomena of this one man, who with his mad passion and charisma managed to ignite the whole nation; to inspire it with his idea to follow and commit things unspeakable.

Yad Vashem is a Jewish museum (duh!). It’s created and maintained by Jews, and meant for Jews to visit. Its focus lies in showing the whole spectrum of German persecution and annihilation of the Jewish race. The message is loud and clear: Lest we forget what was done to us. I’ve heard opinions that the post-war generation of Jews tends to make the Shoah their new religion and define themselves by it. No doubt there are people who take remembrance too far, but…but. Who am I to judge, really. See the museum materials and you’re reminded that a terrible thing had been done. It is also true, that we, human race, have an enormous capacity of sweeping things under the carpet, should the shovel and broom not be right under their noses. Howgh.

I’ll refrain from writing more, for the fear of getting into some philosophico-political discourse, which is way tedious and not the focus of this blog, but just so you know: this period in history and all that goes with it is a topic close to my heart, and my brain too.

Shalom Y'all

So I'm here, in Tel-Aviv.

The flight was uneventful, except for zero sleep caused by freezing temperatures on the plane and the lack of blankets of pillows. Which I excuse, it was a so-called cheap flight. I'd brought my own little pillow with me, but it got pinched as soon as I left my seat to visit the bathroom. Oh and there was a little screamer two rows ahead of me wailing on top of his/her lungs for the two thirds of the trip. I tried to read the first page of my book for the eighth time, while darkly fantasizing about a world with no such little kids in it.

Yesterday I was resting a lot, as my birthday rolled in and out, thankfully sparing me the burdens of painful reflections on where my life is going. My family blessed me with sweet messages. The highlights were: the first swim in the Mediterranean, the delicious if way too big meal in a lively eatery in Old Jaffa; the evening walk through the street market - the narrow path between sleeping stalls overflowing with rotting food leftovers and other soot from the day. "If I weren't so sure we're in Israel, I'd say we're in India" said Shai brightly as we hopped over this pile or that. The fishy smell intoxicated, not in a nice way. Shai didn't seem to mind gorging on his Vanil Halva all the same. I stumbled and slipped on a heap of fish heads. I was mortified; my brand new shoes were soiled.

We had a ball and I learnt two new Hebrew words: eshkolit for grapefruit and rimon for pomegranate. Or was it the other way round?

I clearly can't write very coherently as I'm overwhelmed by the new; the smells, sights, sounds of Tel-Aviv, the crazy driving, people arguing vehemently on buses and streets, everyone minding other people's business. Yasss, delightful. I've just broken a chair by merely sitting on it (one leg collapsed under me, then I was on the floor, dazed and confused and with a sore bum), which is just a perfect illustration of how excited I am to be here.

How I became Slowacki for a day, suffering for millions in Jerusalem

I’m one of these people who are capable of turning their life around in an instant. In other words, I have no problems making spontaneous decisions. Not much thought process involved before, and lots of “what the f..k was I thinking” afterwards. Sometimes.

Before Israel I was in India, awesome trip but it kicked my arse, as India does. At the end of my seven weeks I was so ready to leave, but still had some days to kill before meeting my partner in Turkey for the next leg of my trip. So with nothing much better to do, I booked a flight to Israel. As luck would have it, I arrived (after a 24 hour trip) in Tel-Aviv the day after Rosh Hashana, when the whole city was lulled by post-holiday decadence and sleep and public transport was shut of course. At the airport I met a Russian Israeli, who hailed a sherut taxi for us and apparently negotiated a deal with the driver. “Apparently” being a relevant word here, for soon after we departed, some sort of conflict between “my” guy and the cab driver sprouted. I didn’t even need to employ my long-forgotten Russian to guess what was going on: money. The driver demanding more than was agreed, my new friends rebelling, all that jazz. The tiff seemed to escalate with the speed of light, my companion betraying some truly evil temper. The cab driver kept turning around, waving his fist and barking back angry words. There was an unspoken threat of driving our car off the road and into a tree. Two older ladies who shared the taxi with us tried to placate the fighting males, but to no avail, while I sat stunned and mute, swinging between amusement and dull annoyance. Then our taxi driver must’ve found himself at the end of his tether, as he pulled up on the side of the road and ordered his opponent to get the hell out. And you know what: yours truly, as his assumed companion and therefore-partner in crime, was made to depart as well. Unfair!!! We were left on some road on the outskirts of Tel-Aviv. I remember saying to myself, wow, this is gonna be fun.

Fast forward several hours, I was safely installed at Florentine Hostel, not too far from Old Jaffa port. I’d met Rafi the owner – a chilled and mischievous bloke and did the usual preening and ablutions to bring my pitiful feral self back to the state of relative useability. Then it got dark and out on town I went to catch up with my sweet Israeli friend Shai* and his brother and brother’s son. Tel-Aviv that night was ablaze with lights, crowded with families and party-goers and bursting with music: an avid celebration of life against, and perhaps even despite all odds – and threats. It is most likely a city like many others (by which I mean dirty and obnoxious), but it felt like Kingdom Come that night, feeding my post-India starved flesh and soul with sensual feasts and blessings of good company. Shai and I stayed up long. We lounged on reclining chairs at a beach bar (psy-trance sound system behind us, the sea in front) and shared some kvetchy talk and shocking drinking stories. Numbness was leaving my body. The night was balmy. Life was cool. Everything was all right again.

I also recall an endless wait for an empty taxi to take me back “home” on

Elifelet Street.That’s where my memories go blurry, the night being late and all. I know I was somewhat hesitant getting into a cab, the traumatizing experiences from my earlier ride still ringing loud and true.

I awoke at midday the following day. For the first two minutes I had to ask myself where I was. Ever heard of refreshing benefits of sleep? Gee, I felt as if I’d been fed a gram of valium and my head was pounding with the nastiest of aches. Then Rafi barged in, in his hand triumphantly sat my passport.

“The German guys found it by the entrance. You must’ve dropped it last night”

“Holy shit” was about the only thing I could utter, disbelieving how my angels looked after me. “But…how…?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve done worse when I was pissed” the proprietor reassured me brightly.

“But I wasn’t!” I protested. I was livid.

Too late, my fame had already spread.

Florentine Hostel was a super cool place really, it has a massive terrace that served as community space cum bedroom for the guests that weren’t lucky enough to have beds. Shai and his brother still haven’t forgiven me for choosing a place in apparently seedy part of town and for being able to sleep in a roomful of twelve snoring fellow travellers, unperturbed by the smell of rotting towels and filthy socks spread evenly about the room by a staggering fan. Maybe they don’t know that I’ve slept in the bushes of Central Park in NY, strapped to by backpack once, and it was far worse.

I loved Florentine Hostel, and swapping travel stories with cool folks from all over the world, but I didn’t stay there long. Shai pretty much decided to delegate me from there; I gamely obliged. I spent the next couple of days with him and his family. I’ll spare you the details of what we did and where we went, but these were happy times, and meaningful too.

On day five I said hasty good-byes to my sweet hosts (and I was cut up with grief to have to do so) and hopped on the Egged bus to take me to Jerusalem, which I felt I needed to explore alone. I got to Old Jerusalem and basically never left it for the next twenty four hours or so, till it was time to go back west. I was overwhelmed by the city’s liveliness and its sandstone beauty, I let myself get lost in the narrow streets over and over again. I remember standing agape amongst the bustle of a crazed street market in the Arabic quarter; I walked the ramparts like a woman possessed, looking out to the great desert and olive groves outside, going back and then forward in time; I followed a pilgrimage of Polish Christians, grateful for the fleeting sense of belonging, then – I was alone again. At some point I discovered that my camera was missing, and that trite fact brought on some immense and unstoppable catharsis. The camera was a piece of crap and I couldn’t care less. But the photos inside…well they held some sentimental value to me. First I wept for the lost pictures; the next thing I was wailing for all human suffering – a crumpled wet ball of snot amongst the sun-drenched cemetery. I stuck my tiny bundle of prayer between the stones at the great Western Wall. It was there, surrounded by women crying, swaying and bowing in fervent prayer where I caught a hint, that my life was about to change completely. Again.

The following day. On a bus back to Ben Gurion airport. Well ahead of time. Wistful and weary from all the crying, but also calmer, relieved. Guess what: my adventures weren’t over yet. I fell aslumber on that bus, missed my stop, woke up with a start somewhere short of Haifa. Kicked up a fuss, made the bus stop, jumped out. Once again I was out on the street in the middle of nowhere, forced to hitch-hike. This time I was only slightly amused, in why-does-it-always-rain-on-me way. I darkly pondered the pros and cons of missing my flight to Istanbul and barely resisted the mounting temptation to jump out of the car again and march romantically in the direction of setting sun. So what a disappointment it was, that I made it to the airport on time after all!

Strangely, when I finally tore through the barbed wires of airport security checks, I was sure of one thing, it being: I wanted more of the same.

I spent six days in Israel. Riddiculously small amount of time, some of which I managed to waste, recovering from various jetlags and hangovers. Those six days only sharpened my appetites. New dreams were born: to spend a night on the Negev Desert, under million stars; to walk the narrow streets of the City of Fire again, marvelling at its history, complexity and madness.

I wish I was this sure now. I’m freakin’ nervous, that’s what I am. At the same time I kind of can’t wait.

*not his real name

Night is long and full of zasadzkas

Photo: Courtesy of P.C.

It’s late at night, but the birds wouldn’t shut up, all too excited by the abundance of Spring in full bloom, fragrant and spilling juices and lust. There’s a lonely dog barking in the distance, a semi-dark night already bearing the promises of dawn, and one lonely mind inside with some fingers attached to it, tapping clumsily away at the keyboard. Mind you, I don’t really feel lonely right now, I only say it cause it sounds romantic and existential and seems to fit in with the mood of the scene.

Right now, at this very moment I feel oddly connected, loved even. I know that downstairs in the kitchen kidney beans are soaking up with water, in preparation for a yummy czulent to be made for my pre-departure dinner. Which will be served with Israeli kosher wine and shared with my parents tomorrow night. A curious bunch of judeophiles we are, I have to admit. My Dad, with his passion for history and unrelenting desire to ponder and discuss the complexities of Jewish-Polish relations across centuries; myself with my mysteriously acquired knowledge of the Bible, with my interests in music, customs, ethnicity and sense of community exuded by the members of the tribe of Judah; my Mum finally, who just goes along for the ride, but it’s a good ride and she enjoys it all the same – and she’s a great cook always ready to explore new recipes, czulent for example. My bro I don't know how he fits in there yet, but he sure did ask me many questions about Hebrew.

Philo-semitism aside, the dinner, the wine, the trips to Krakow and Auschwitz and the sea – my parents probably would never do it if I weren’t here. They’re doing it to see that cheesy little grin on my face, to have it spark again with excitement, to bring me back to the proverbial life. My parents are amazing, I know I’m repeating myself, but bloody hell it’s taken me 30 or so years to realize it, duh.

***

The night moves along, the sky doesn’t get darker, the birds still wouldn’t shut up.

I remember one of the last nights before departing from Australia earlier this year. The full moon drumming circle on top of the cliffs at South Bondi. How high and proud did the moon hang, casting its silver rays across the silent waves. How wildly and unabashedly I danced in the circle, surrounded by other ecstatic bodies. The drummers drummed, the fire-twirlers twirled, the winos wined, the stalkers stalked while the talkers talked, and so on, you know the drill – but altogether it was an awesome night, laced with magic, tinged with melancholy. I knew I was leaving. I was acutely aware of each moment. I wanted to remember Australia in its most symbolic and splendid guise – and the universe provided (or else I made the right choice of places to go).

After I left the party, and was walking briskly yet pensively down the cliff walk towards the bus stop, head full of longing and shit like that, I trotted past a group of teenage boys.

“Hi” called out the tallest and boldest of them “Could you…um… perhaps get us any weed?”

I opened my eyes wide, jerked out of my somnambulic state. There were three of them, the leader and two hangers-on. Their faces looked drawn and hopeful in the lame lamplight; they could’ve been thirteen, fourteen years old.

“ I – don’t think so” said I. I had to bite my tongue not too say “Aren’t you a little young for that?” but that was one of the phrases I’d promised myself to never utter.

Awkward silence. Moving right along.

“So, what you up to tonight?” asked the leader, desperate not to forgo the little connection he’d won with me “Getting wasted?”

“ No no and no. Too old for that. Bye!” And off I went.

I was smiling amusedly; also because I realized that I managed to say something unoriginal after all. Not for the lack of trying.

Beautiful night to remember Australia by.

***

Ooops, dawn is here. How did that happen? Nighty night!





If I were a drinker, I could have a boyfriend by now

At my physiotherapist’s. I lie supine, he prods at my biceps. He’s a tall, brooding type, a bit like Angel from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”, except less boringly handsome. As he spins the tale of how he used to come to work zonked out on fado music, his eyes have that faraway look of a complete goner. He talks to me as if he knows me, even though we only met last week. And he abuses the word ‘romantic’.

‘Do you drink alcohol Smilla?’ he asks out of the blue, as he continues to expertly stick his fingers in my trigger points, sending hot needles of pain down my arm, which is kind of nice.

I wait him out a bit, let him prod some more, but I can’t help smiling.

‘What kind of question is this? And what’s it got to do with the work we’re doing?’

‘Nothing. But I just had a moment of terror there, when I realized that you might be an abstinent.’

You’ve got to love Poland.

***

Ah the interminable days of Miss Smilla. Lots of nonsense and picking at my pimples. Occasional glimpses of some terrible beauty and madness. Catching the obscured absurdities and hilarities of life on a fishing rod of my observations, as I stand aside, chewing my hair. Waiting.

We all hate it, but still we have to

 Small Talking

We are in a car, stuck in a traffic jam in front of a railway crossing, somewhere halfway between Walcz and Poznan.

Piotr was supposed to be my navigator. But he kept on fiddling with his new camera and filming the road signs rather than reading them, so we got lost. Twice. I was hoping that Marta would help, but she just keeps to herself in the back seat, silent like a church mouse.

It’s rapidly getting dark. I’m running late for a dinner with my brother’s sister-in-law’s husband’s parents.

Earlier on I silently grumbled against having to carry the burden of starting conversation with that autistic duo. But. I’m bored stiff.

“Do you know that my brother got married?” I say to Piotr in a pleasant tone.

“No I don’t” He sounds obnoxious, or maybe just indifferent.

“And you don’t seem to give a shit either”

“I do give a shit! No, wait, I don’t really. Is it this Agnieszka he married?”

“Yeah. You’ve met Agnieszka”

“I’ve seen her once. I remember when she came down the stairs when we were watching TV. Wearing a nightie!”

“It was the middle of the night you moron. You’d rather she wore a ski suit? You used to prance around the house barely clad in nothing but boxer shorts yourself and it was in brightest bright of the day”

Piotr doesn’t respond, unfazed. When I glance sideways, I can see the left corner of his mouth twitching.

       “Remember how Chunky was going nuts then?” I go on “In Ela’s absence that is. Barking and      

running berserk as if she were rabid?”

“That I do”

“Poor Chunky ain’t with us anymore you know. She apparently passed on last year but I found out only recen…”

“But Ela has a child now” intercedes Piotr

“Which means…she doesn’t need a dog?” Well. “It’s true, she used to carry Chunky in her arms everywhere as if she were a baby…”

“At least the child won’t cark it on her so soon”

“It wasn’t SO soon” I protest “Chunky lived the whole ten…”

“Piotr!!!” Marta’s shocked voice from the back seat flogs our ears. I’ve completely forgotten she was there.

“Marta! I’ve forgotten you’re even there.” says Piotr.

“Sometimes when you open your mouth…it’s hard to remember that you’re this supposedly evolved, compassionate, sensitive human being” Marta is shy, but when she speaks, it is with cunning sweetness. Or is it sweet cunning?

“Who, me?”

“Piotr speaks in pure poetry” I chime in.

Piotr grins openly now. “Now look who’s talking.”

He’s all warmed up and wants to keep chatting. I’ve achieved my aim, but Marta’s shriek and her stolid words have had the effect of a bucket of cold water poured over a hot head. They’ve put me back in place; reminded me who the oldest in the group is (me) and who, therefore should set the moral compass – and show the way.

So I try.

(this happened a while ago)

An Incomplete List of Things I've Learnt In The Last Five Months

An Incomplete List of Things I Learnt In The Last Five Months:

1)      Deeds really do bear consequences

2)      The consequences more often than not turn out to be in exact opposition to what we expect or desire

3)      Contrary to some popular new-age beliefs, we aren’t always able to create our own reality. There are occurrences that our stuck-up minds simply cannot control. Learning to surrender comes in handy than.

4)      Impermanence of phenomena is a FACT, not just a flashy slogan-material to quote to one’s lovers for the sake of sounding cool. And, impermanence HURTS like hell.

5)      Not to take things for granted. Cliched much? Not to be the arrogant, up myself, nonchalant – and naïve- bitch who acts as if the world should tiptoe around her.

6)      As per continuation on more positive note: to be grateful for what you’ve got.

7)      To appreciate my family’s selfless love for me and generosity.

8)      One has a relentless capacity for falling down and getting up again. A blatant strength of spirit, or potential for survival,

9)      And you’ve got to keep trying.

10)  Antidepressants are a crap cure for grief and loss, but

What I Am Hoping To Learn (Soon):

1)      Time is DA (healing) BOMB (tinged with good amount of soul-care).

Alas.

Stalking a pigeon

"Kardelen pauses, and enquires, "Do you know what is the most difficult thing in the world?"

Rustem Bey scratches the side of his nose and replies,

"Stalking a pigeon."

Kardelen looks at him as if he's gone mad, and the aga explains,

"They always see you, and they always fly off."

"I see," says Kardelen, curling her lip. "I suppose I wouldn't know about such...country matters."

She pauses for rhetorical effect (...)" Birds Without Wings, de Bernieres

This year's blog, it better last.

I'm not eaxactly sure how many of them I have created and then abandoned mid-sentence in the abyss of the web, as I inevitably got bored or ran out of things to say. But this one, oh, it's a serious cause. Blog with a purpose. A travel blog. Of sorts. I travel quite frequently, or so some seem to accuse me of. For me, of course, it's way to rarely. When I'm on the road, I usually torment my love-me-long-time friends with lengthy group e-mails filled with descriptions of places only I find captivating, or situations that noone but me has considered amusing. From now on, I'm gonna dump it all here.

Enter Israel. I'm going there in 2 weeks. Yay! Reasons for going:

Reason 1: I have some time to kill and no clue what the hell else I could do.

Reason 2: I really want to get some volunteering under my belt.

Reason 3: "Jerusalem, if I forget you, let my right hand forget what it's supposed to do" 

Reason 4: I honestly deserve to have some fun...and hang on, why do I expect to find joie de vivre in a religious land threatened by wars such as Israel? Intuition? Cellular memory? Cognitive-behavioural conditioning? Yep, that one. I've been before and fun was had.

What happened to the first half of the year anyway? Honestly, it's been some seriously crappy times. I fled Sydney at the end of February, just as the sticky heat was about to turn my brains into pudding. I gave my boss 3 days notice. I didn't have to worry about my flat thank god - I had been homeless for nearly two months by then. My love relationships dissolved, my career burned out, I was exhausted and unhappy - depressed even. Oh and did I mention the heat?

 

So I boarded the plane and crossed the (metaphorical) 7 seas to enscone myself in the safe coccoon of my parents' home in Poland. Right back into the womb. My parents have been fantastic. I've had no obligations, no money stresses, but abundance of time to sulk and feel sorry for my messed up-self. In consequence I wallowed in depression for as long as I could, until one day I woke up so bored with myself, that I got up and said ok let's get on with it.

Or something.

Ever since, I've been trying to love myself a little. It's like stalking a pigeon, as it keeps flying off when I get a bit closer; but, you know, I keep trying.