Obtaining Clarity

From a bleak Pskov city we were transported by bus into the rural Russian countryside. On the way we were asked not to consume liquids for it may be detrimental to the activity we were soon to engage in. Miles of winding forest roads decorated with occasional rustic homes finally led us to our isolated destination. Temperatures were submerged and a small frozen lake could be glimpsed through the trees.

On entering the log cabin style building we were given clear instructions on how to proceed. Within minutes we left the changing rooms in bathing suits as if a well coordinated group. We lined up on small wooden benches in the entrance room adjacent to a big wooden door. Each of us received a sheet meant to be used as a towel later on which we wrapped firmly around our shoulders for perceived warmth. Our attention was directed to shiver control while our guide slipped into the hot chamber to make preparations.

Moments later fourteen of us were packed in like sardines on terraced plank benches, desperately trying to adapt to temperatures that had instantaneously skyrocketed beyond calculation. Lightheadedness from dehydration briefly made it difficult for me to distinguish between steam and stars. I recovered somewhat when I suddenly felt the cool and soothing sensation on my skin of being whipped with birch leaves from behind. I passed on the favor by using a wet birch branch with lots of leaves to hit the person in front of me on her neck, shoulders, back and arms.

As the scorching minutes ticked by I sensed my extreme apprehension of the upcoming challenge dissipating. Relief though, was indefinitely delayed by the unspoken iron will of the beautiful Nadya, guarding the door and pouring more water on the rocks. A time period indicated by her would determine when our pores were suitably opened to leave the steaming inferno, even if only momentarily.

It was a short sprint around the building in groups of three, with first a cold air shock just outside the steam chamber and then a second shock outside the banya’s front door. With bare feet we ran on a sandy and stony path down to the lake’s edge. The jetty was short of reaching the hole in the ice big enough for a human body to voluntarily fit through. A precarious walk on the surface had to be made up to the edge. Then a heart stopping plunge into the deep icy liquid. The initial sharp freeze-burn-sensation turned into a freezing-numb-anesthesia off sorts. I achieved clarity. Total clarity. For several seconds. The feeling continued to last until I pulled myself up and out over the edge again.

I had blood trickling from my knees and hands where the sharp ice edges caused small cuts when I climbed out. Without delay we hotfooted it back to banya salvation.

An hour and a half later we found ourselves upstairs above the steam room. By this time, some of the braver amongst us had experienced clarity more than once. We were exhausted, but I felt clean in more ways than I could describe and the contented faces of my travel partners told a similar tale. Our hosts had barbecued outside while we were cleansing and now we had an impressive feast laid out on the beautifully decorated long table in front of us. Barbecued chicken, bottles of vodka and wine, plates of traditional Russian snacks and bowls of salad were all prepared and ready, but first many toasts had to be made.

Folk tales, humorous with wise words were told and translated. We toasted  to friendships and friends. We toasted to good relations amongst nations. We toasted to excellent health and beautiful women. We toasted to the hope for world peace.

Based on an event in 2006

Article and photo by Jean-Jacques M

© 2009

Let me tell you an Irish story

DUBLIN

I arrived on a shoestring and found this little youth hostel called The Rainbow, on top of Doran’s Pub in Marlborough Street. It was down town North Side, the area was seedy, but the place was affordable and reasonably clean. I ended up in a dorm room with thirteen other blokes, with complimentary smelly socks and deep thunderous snoring at night. The lifestyles of the lads were work hard and play hard, building construction by day and 101 pints by night. During the first few days I set out early in the mornings applying for jobs at bars, pubs and café’s. I was trying my luck out mostly over the bridge on the South Side in the trendy Temple Bar area. By the end of the first week a faint feeling of nausea settled in the pit of my stomach and increasingly made itself known. I was running out of money. By week two my search had covered the North and South sides in a forty five minute radius. Another week later and I knew I was in trouble. I would only last a few more days. The guy at the Rainbow’s reception offered to let me stay “off the books” if I promised to pay up later. Not knowing whether I would be able to do so, I agreed. I did the circle for yet another three days and despair set in. It was drizzling incessantly and the single figure temperatures blackened my mood.

Then, something unusual appeared on the always-empty hostel notice board. “Barman required for daily six hour lunchtime shift at busy North Side Pub”. I was sceptical, but I found the place around the corner from Connolly train station. I walked in and spoke to an elderly gentleman with white hair. He said they would take me on for a week and see how I survived. In the meantime, he wanted to know, could I help them take in a delivery from St James Gate? He threw a black apron at me and pointed down the narrow flight of rickety wooden stairs. The basement floor was sandy and I had to stoop low to not knock my head on the overhead beams supporting the pub floor. Through the musty blackness I aimed towards the muffled voices and sounds up ahead beyond the maize of pillars. I could see beams of light filtering through a trap door which opened from the pavement outside. Shadows broke the light as kegs of Guinness landed with dull thuds on sand bags, before rolling off and then being grabbed and stacked up against the wall by the pub owner. Having explained my unexpected appearance, he asked me to finish off the job and to report for an interview upstairs when I had done.

The following day I started pouring pints and this was a busy number, number being what you would call a part-time job in Ireland. Taking orders, delivering them, stocking fridges, clearing tables, taking in deliveries, taking out garbage, getting ice, helping in the kitchen, topping up pints, taking calls and working in the dungeon filled my shifts to the brim. I didn’t mind escaping down the hatch when kegs needed changing. In the basement the owner had an impeccably kept collection of empties bottles with Irish brand names such as TK, Cidona, Finches and Club Orange which needed continuous sorting and helped justify my longer absences. Upstairs in the bar the Dublin accent proved to be my biggest challenge. A Pack of Blue, a Pint of Bulmers and a Bottle of Bud all had a similar ring to my foreign ear. It took a while to distinguish them clearly as cigarettes, cider and beer. Pub regulars had to be instantly recognised when they walked through the doors and their drinks knowingly poured. Ideally, by the time they had sat down their dram of whiskey were already in its glass on its placemat and their pint of Guinness was settling under the tap almost ready for its head to be topped-up.

Three weeks on, having settled some of my hostel debt I could afford to buy myself a pint. Downstairs at Doran’s they tolerated us, as long as we stood to attention when the Irish anthem played. Blended in with traditional Irish songs and Thin Lizzy numbers, I had no recognition of the tune when it played the first time. I continued talking with a friend when everyone else had piped down. An elderly gentleman walked over and angrily confronted me over my disrespect for the Irish flag. So, I bought him a pint and that seemed to calm him down. The following evening all eyes were on me, but I passed the test. The night after, along with others I was invited for a lock-in which meant that those in the back bar could stay on after closing time. We left at four a.m. singing songs and feeling very Irish. Just down the road was another traditional pub in Talbot Street, called The Celt. It was smoky and dark and frequented mostly by regulars. When you walked in, there would be a few seconds silence until you had sat down. If you nurtured your pint long enough, as you tend to do, a fellow might wander over, strike up a conversation and share with you stories of his childhood in Dublin or the unedited history of Ireland.

Days and weeks came and went and the gloomy weather persisted. In the mornings I walked past news stands on O’ Connell Street with poster headlines screaming about an imminent war in the Middle East. In the Irish Independent I noticed several articles about Irish neutrality. Shortly after that I decided it was time to move out of hostel life and managed to secure a small bed-sit in Drumcondra, not too far from Mount Joy Prison. At the same time the travellers’ grapevine signalled alternative work opportunities and I got a lead about a retail placement agency offering full time positions. I needed the step-up to afford my new rent. I went to see them and within days they had an offer for me a distance away from the city centre. At the pub I gave notice, but the owner tried to persuade me otherwise. He said that in Dublin a person should rather avoid working in a neighbourhood with the word “kill” in its name. I told him that I had made up my mind.

The off-licence in Kilbarack was an hour’s walk and commute by DART. I was issued with a uniform and trained in merchandising, stocktaking and store keeping. Some of the staff were members of an Irish band with a Nordic name and the official team spirit was all about good music on the shop stereo. Pilot Light, Jeff Buckley, Damien Rice and Sigur Rós were headlining in loops, with Fiona Apple providing back-up. My first pay-check turned out to be even  smaller than my final one from the pub. It was revealed that I was paying emergency tax, being a new arrival in the Republic of Ireland. I adjusted my shopping habits and found the local butcher and green grocer closer to home. The food was quality; mostly coming in from small farms in the countryside and after a while I was being recognized along with some others as a regular local. Sometimes I got a 50c knocked off the price when the sales lady was in a light-on-the-scales mood. I used toothpaste sparingly. In the bed-sit there was an old radiant heating system. It took twenty four hours to heat up and about the same to cool down. I turned it on every-other-day to conserve energy and moved my bed next to the radiator.

Consumerism in the capital of the Celtic Tiger was most evident on the overcrowded side walks of O’Connell and Grafton Streets. It was shoulder to shoulder shopping in the franchised retail stores, fast food joints and fashion outlets. Just a couple of side streets away you could find working class folk bartering for fresh food and budget batteries at market stalls and discount shops and in Henry Street one and all was united in turning the economy over. In a city of contrasts I found my lighthouse of reflection next to the River Liffey at the Winding Stair Bookshop and Café. The creaky steps spiralled upwards and opened onto three floors of sparsely decorated rooms with plastic tablecloths and watercolour views of the Ha’penny Bridge. Here, surrounded by rustic book-shelved walls I could sit peacefully, enjoy the view and spend my saved up half-a-Euros on a filter coffee, while struggling my way through the first chapter of a second hand copy of Ulysses. On alternative cold days I found my cellar of warmth and tranquillity in the unpretentious basement of Simon’s Café, across the river at the red-bricked George’s Street Arcade. The walls were covered with posters of the latest forthcoming gigs and musical events around town. Local artists, musicians and students could all come here and spend hours of anonymity, reading or talking in the comfortable and homely surroundings.

The Christmas season was upon us and my store keeping skills were well honed. I could advise customers on pot still, single malt and blended whiskeys. I knew about New World versus French wines and there was hardly a world beer I hadn’t sampled. We were doing twelve hours a day, six days a week. A fortnight before D-Day the shop got robbed. I was stacking the walk-in fridges and heard loud voices. By the time that I got onto the shop floor, the balaclava wearers were already behind the counter emptying out the till. Our daytime sales lady stood in shock and I stopped in my tracks at the sight of a sizeable butcher’s knife being waved at me. They didn’t get much and the police suspected they were local lads. Two days before Christmas they decided to visit us again, but this time I missed the action while having my coffee break at the café next door. All part of the silly season I was told by the band.  On Christmas Eve after closing time we had a staff raffle and I went home with a bottle of Powers 12 Years Old Special Reserve, the finest whiskey I had ever tasted. Even today it lingers as an impressive pot-still experience, with slightly sweet and spicy flavours with a touch of pepper and honey, being light on the palette and possessing soul and bone warming qualities, accentuated by a particularly cold winter in Ireland.

–

Article and photos by Jean-Jacques M

Loosely based on events in 2002/2003

© 2008

Anything for a cool job!

Its a “warm” day in The Middle East. To be more specific, it’s a hot day in Tel Aviv, which is completely normal. It’s early-September and the country is suffering from a permanent heat wave, day and night. I’m lethargically lounging on one of the benches in the television room. The ad for this youth hostel proudly offers “air-conditioned” facilities. In the corner, above the television set to the right, with brackets mounted to the wall, is an industrial sized air-conditioning unit. My eyes drift towards it every now and again and I’ve noticed others in the room having the same tendency. It’s out of order, on a long term basis, but we have felt its power weeks ago. The wide-screen television and bright bar fridge pale in comparison to the universal magnetism of the big brown air regulator overhead. They sure know how to make them around here. In fact, the air conditioning repairman was around a few days ago, fixed the unit at reception, but miraculously neglected to get around to this one.

It’s equally hot everywhere else in the hostel, except at the reception area where cool-air groupies and new arrivals fight for standing space. The heat outside is in a different league, reserved for the brave and the desperate. Its late summer and shadow worshipping is the new religion. On CNN the reporter is going on about the latest financial scandal on Wall Street. “Blah-blah; blah-blah; blah-blah”. I don’t even have the energy to change the program via remote control to scan amongst the 200-and-something channels on offer with the local cable company. Today I’m alone in my misery. Everybody else is either insanely working outside doing construction or landscaping for cash, poor buggers, or are braving it on the beach which is scorching hot with lukewarm, dirty sea water or have by now already departed for cooler shores. A fly buzzes and circles around and around and around. My eyelids are like lead and I feel how I slowly start dozing off, when it happens: There’s a crackle on the intercom system. All my senses perk up and are perfectly alert. Could it possibly be? And then I hear it:

“A-A-A-A-N-Y-B-O-D-Y F-O-R A D-I-S-H-W-A-S-H-I-N-G J-O-B . . . !!?”

I scramble for the intercom phone on the wall, pick it up and shout:” Benny, it’s mine, I’ll take it! The ‘peep, peep, peep’ in my ear tells me that somebody might have beaten me to it, but I might still get it. I run up the stairs, three steps at a time and get to reception in 10 seconds flat, sweat dripping as I notice one of the Slovakian girls on the public telephone. “Damn, they want a guy for this job”, she says. “Mercy has come my way!” I think, and grab the phone from her. “Yes? 33 Sheinken Street? Okay No problem. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.” I head straight down the stairs, all the way out the front door and on my way across Dizengoff Square. As I pass the McDonalds just after the bridge, a security guard asks me if I have a cigarette. I hand one over and hope for no more delays on the way to Sheinken Street. As I approach my favourite kiosk, where I normally buy the paper from, I cross the street to the other side in case the owner tries to start up a conversation with me. As much as I enjoy our usual chats there’s no time for pleasantries now. He sees me, I wave at him from the other side, show the peace sign and head straight on.

I speed up my already fast pace and carry on down Pinsker Street until I find Allenby Road, turn left and carry on past “My Coffee”, which was recently renovated and partially rebuilt due to an “incident”. The outside tables are deserted, but it looks jam-packed inside. Feeling a bit dehydrated and light headed, I make a quick left-turn into Sheinken Street and the scenery changes. I slow down to take it all in. Trendy people are striding the sidewalks, briefly stalling at boutiques and music stores for window shopping, or licking on their 2 Shekel Burger King ice creams. But there’s no time for day dreaming. I check the number on the nearest shop: no. 27. Almost there. A few seconds later I spot the copper numbers of no. 33 gleaming in the sun. It’s a funky coffee bar, packed to the brim. The security guard asks me something in Hebrew. “I’m here for the dishwashing job”, I reply in English. “Got a gun?” he asks in a strong Israeli accent as he checks me with a metal detector. “No.” I reply. “WELCOME!” he says with a big smile. In I go and then the SHEER BLISS of an icy cold, well air-conditioned room hits me with a shocking force and embraces me. Instant relief.

“I’m the dishwasher” I tell the barman. The lady at reception: “Eric! We just got worried that you might not come.” I tell her that my name is Jean-Jacques, not Eric, but I’ve been through this scenario before. At some places you are always Eric or Tony, no matter your real name. “Want to drink something before you start?” she asks. “Yes a Cola please.” I refrain from making the mistake of asking for a Coke, which in Israel could be close to confessing to a drug problem you don’t have. So COLA it is. “With Ice, bevakasha” [please]. I get shown to my kitchen porter post, next to three deep basins stacked high with dishes and two trolleys waiting in queue, laden with pots, pans and cutlery all in need of serious attention. “Embaya.”, I say. No problem! I can hear the sound of the ceiling fans cutting through the air and the rhythmic buzz of the overhead air-conditioning units. The perspiration has already dried from my face and a soft breeze is stroking my skin. I can feel the goose pumps starting up and I know that soon I might even feel a slight chill.

Six hours later, at 12:30 am, a cooled-off dude walks out of Harbavaz [The Duck], with a smile on his face and shekels in his pocket. Sometimes doing the dishes can be the best job in town.

Loosely based on events in 2002. Written on location – rewritten in 2008.

Article and photo by Jean-Jacques M

© 2002 – 2008

A Man on a Bicycle

It’s a wind-blown Saturday afternoon in Belfast, Northern Ireland. A new restaurant called Ratz, with an international theme has opened on Bradbury Place. The display menu boasts a wide variety of exotic dishes from around the globe. The exterior has an attractive sand blown, glass fascia, with a world map etched large onto it. Above the door, a sign reads in bold italics: “Intercontinental Brasserie“.

I’m peering through the gap between Africa and Asia to have a look at the décor, when a voice next to me suddenly says: “Anything good on the menu?”

I turn to my left and stare into the crystal blue, inquisitive eyes of an unknown stranger. They belong to a man; who is middle aged and slightly disheveled with longish, unkempt blonde hair and an unshaven, tanned and slightly wrinkled face. He’s wearing a two piece, dark blue rain suit and he’s pushing an over-used, blue bicycle. Over the handlebars hang an array of white, crinkled plastic bags, the contents unidentifiable.

“Oh, it looks pretty good” I decide to answer cautiously. “Not too sure about their prices though…”

“So where are you from”, he asks, with that familiar thick Belfast accent, the emphasis being on a slightly drawn out “you”.

“Southern Africa, originally.”

“From far away then” the man replies slowly and pensively. “Do you read much?”

It’s an out-of-blue question and I respond somewhat evasively, not too sure what to make of it. “Some. When I have the time”.

The man persists: “What is it that you like to read?”

After a flash mental scan I recall one or two books which I had recently more or less worked my way through. I decide to mention a philosophical novel and a popular psychology title – the type of reading you could find at any local charity store or high street book seller.

He listens attentively and I notice what seems to be a kind of perceiving, analysing quality to his gaze. Then, with a smile he says: “My name is Clarence, and what is yours“,

“They call me Jack around here.”

“Well, you sound quite well-read, Jack.”

“Clarence’s bicycle is blocking the way slightly and a well dressed, elderly couple steps around us, while carefully glancing him up and down. “Reading is just a hobby of mine, I guess,” I say.

“Oh, there are worse hobbies to have” says Clarence matter-of-factly. Have you ever heard of a book called “Time Journeys, a Search for Cosmic Destiny and Meaning?” It’s a good start to get you interested in physics and the possibilities of time travel. It’s by a man called Paul Halpern. Or, alternatively you could try “The Arrow of Time” by Peter Coveney and Roger Highfield. The tag line reads: “A voyage through science, in search of Time’s Greatest Mystery!”

Clarence becomes animated as he continues. “Think about this: Why is it that time moves forward, but not backwards? A slight pause. Did you know that Einstein once remarked: “The distinction between past, present and future is an illusion?” If so, Jack, should we consider time-reversibility a possibility?” Raised eye brows. “So, subjectively we interpret time as uni-directional, right? But, if the concept of chaos shows us that the future is open, it also points to the past being open, which means it would not result in an arrow of time.” Short pause. “So in theory we should be able to go back in time. Or maybe, we should ponder the possibility of a safety-mechanism having been built into the universe, to deny us from doing exactly that!”. Expectant look.

Slightly stumped, I say: “Erm, well, I couldn’t say, Clarence, but those are certainly very interesting points to ponder. I’ve always enjoyed a good read and a good think, but don’t really get much time for it these days.”

“Ah, a modern conundrum Jack, but life experience and reading are the keys to wisdom, and unlike experience, reading is free.” Clarence reaches into one of his plastic bags and brings out a pack of booklets with yellowish and blue covers, banded together. He removes one, returns the rest, turns the booklet over and starts scribbling something on the back with a blue ball point pen. “Now, if that’s down your alley, you might also want to seek out a book called “The Frontiers of Complexity” by Roger Highfield. It deals with how complexity relates to evolution, ecology and cosmology and even touches on artificial intelligence. Very insightful.

While speaking, Clarence jots down the titles and authors as he continues: “Another title worth mentioning is “Hyperspace: A Scientific Odyssey through parallel universes, time warps and the 10th dimension.” It’s all in the name. You can find it right here in the city library – in fact all of these books are there – this one is in the science category on the second floor, in the back aisle, it should be on the 3rd or 4th shelf, on the left – I think. It’s written by Michio Kaku, a Japanese writer”.

More people walk around us and Clarence moves his bike out of the way to prop it up against the wall, while using the seat to press on, as he continues. “But those are all very scientific, Jack. Equally interesting and depending on whether you have the time…” broad smile. “Aye, more on the human side of things, I could recommend “The Quark and the Jaguar.” It’s about human adaptive systems, like language, culture, creativity, consciousness… aspects of human learning systems which are constantly in a state of flux. There’s even a section on our world ecological dilemmas with questions about sustaining a future for the human race and the biosphere. For instance: Can man naturally re-adapt to a more harmonious balance with our planet? Considering how modernized and industrialized we have become? Quite topical wouldn’t you say.”

I’m about to respond to Clarence’s question, but our voices are drowned out by loud engine noises as a bus draws up. The now more blustery wind tugs at the hair and clothes of the disembarking passengers and causes leaves to roll and skid audibly along the pavement. A disposable paper cup lid, with a straw through it, lifts off, spirals upwards, gains altitude, and floats past us, then changes course to head up and away across the road. A couple of shops down from where we stand, in our direct line of sight, is a popular greasy spoon with heavenly smells of fried fish and chips. This and the gnawing hollowness in my stomach confirm my decision to cross the five meter divide to fast food gratification after our conversation. The Intercontinental Brassiere would have to wait for another day.

Some of the bus’ passengers enter The Plaice, the double-decker pulls off and Clarence’s voice becomes audible again: “…you ever heard of electro-acupuncture, bio-resonance and scenar, Jack?”

I shrug a definite no.

“Okay, now this is real ground breaking stuff. You can read about it in “Virtual Medicine.” Its an overview of how ancient practices such as Chinese acupuncture and others are now being harnessed and integrated with electronic technologies. So, these new devices are in effect cutting edge, virtual, and holistic healing systems – the perfect marriage of the traditional and the modern! Amazing, really. Here’s some background -Scenar was originally developed for the Russian space program and what it does is it teaches the body to heal itself by using what they call biofeedback. What’s astounding is that it can actually read the body’s energy and then help to predict or determine and also cure diseases. Now, until recently this might have been considered quite alternative or new age, but it’s all becoming mainstream. The researcher and author is a doctor by the name of Keith Scott-Mumby”

Clarence has filled an entire page by now and he turns the booklet over. “Here Jack, let me pose another question: Might there possibly be a link between quantum theory and consciousness? I mean, would you say that consciousness could possibly be scientifically explained or interpreted?”

I must be looking very perplexed, because Clarence says: “Oh aye – if you’re ready for a real paradigm shift, then read a book called “The Quantum Self.” The writer makes a case for quantum processes being directly responsible for our subjective awareness.” A long pause. “That one certainly got me thinking too. Well worth a read. Also, keep an eye out for her other book, “SQ: Connecting With Our Spiritual Intelligence.” She proposes that we all have a natural higher consciousness which may be laying dormant and unexplored within ourselves, and that the first steps towards activating it is to become much more self-aware of our place in the universe and our necessary interaction with nature.

“Could you please make a note of the author, Clarence?” I ask.

“Certainly, it’s by Danah Zohar.”

“I was thinking of getting dinner soon, Clarence. Would join me? We could continue our conversation over a meal and a mug of tea.”

Big smile. “Oh no, Jack. Thank you. I’m well looked after and had something just before I left. I’m not going to keep you too long. I have a few more people to meet today, but let me jot a few more titles down.”

Moments pass as Clarence continues to make notes in the empty spaces on the third page of the booklet. “Before I forget, Jack. Since we’re on the subject of food, sea-food for that matter, I’ve got to mention “The Omega 3 Connection” by Andrew Stoll. I’m sure you’ve heard how fish oil is considered to be excellent brain food, but there’s much more to it. Omega 3 is the ticket to mental health, for anybody and everybody. It should be part of our regular staple diet and the research in this book proves it. Keeping in mind, that amongst other near magical traits, it has the ability to restrict Alzheimer’s from developing and has proven very effective in treating depression”.

“How long will you be in Ireland for, Jack?”

“Oh, it’s indefinite for the moment, Clarence. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Okay, there’s a book here in the library you simply shouldn’t miss out on. It’s called “Ingenious Ireland.” Mary Mulvihill took six years to put it together. It’s a fascinating county-by-county tour of the island of Ireland. It covers everything from history to inventions, mysteries and myths, fossils and discoveries and science! You’ll need to spend time with it though as it has about 500 pages.

Short pause. “Well, there you go Jack! So now you know exactly what to read on your travels. When we meet again, maybe you can suggest some reading material for me… and when you’re in a far-off destination next time, send me a post card, will ye? I’ll put my address down here for you.”

Realizing that our impromptu meeting is soon coming to an end, I say: “I definitely will Clarence and thanks a million for this, I mean it. It’s been absolutely fascinating.”

“No, no need to thank me Jack; this is just what I do – for the community, you know.  I was diagnosed with a condition a long time ago, which would have affected my ability to lead a normal life. But, I was advised by my doctors to read as much as I could, all the time, to help me focus my mind and it worked, Jack! It was my salvation and we don’t need to suffer from an ailment to read,  now do we? Besides, what we choose to focus on is what we become aware of…”

“Well, that’s me Jack! I’m off.” Clarence hands the booklet over and climbs on his bike. “All the best! Browse through the rest of that when you get a chance. Everything you need to know about British Bonds is in there. The best returns for your money – and you stand a good chance of winning a prize every month too. I’ve won a few times!” he says looking back, as he cycles off on his way up University Avenue.

I turn the booklet over and see: “N&SI Premium Bonds, 50th anniversary. Pick up your Anniversary Prize Draw leaflets to find out more.”

As I turn to enter The Plaice I look at my watch and realize that almost an hour and a half have passed. Inside I find a table close to the window and while watching passers-by, questions of random chaos and chance meetings dance on my mind.

–

Loosely based on events in 2005.

(Names have been changed)

By Jean-Jacques M

© 2008

Krzystoff & Bogdan

I’m standing on the access road to a German motorway, close to the Polish border. I crossed over about an hour ago by train and a fellow passenger offered to drop me off. It’s absolutely freezing and I reflect on how I’ve misjudged the sting of an early October, Central European winter. Cars are speeding past me and I vaguely recall being told by someone that in Germany hitch-hikers don’t often get lifts. I also realise that I won’t be able to stand around in these low temperatures for much longer!

Another car speeds past and deep in thought, I don’t realise that it has stopped about 200m down the road. Until I hear the parp, parp, paaaarp of its hooter. I grab my overweight backpack and run as fast as my stiff legs would carry me. The possibility of the car pulling off as soon as I approach is always a possibility. As I come closer, I notice that it’s an old style Ford Granada 3.0 litre with flashy alloys. A tall guy with unkempt black hair, wearing faded jeans and a black leather jacket climbs out as I approach on the driver’s side. As he addresses me in German, understanding some Dutch helps me to guess the question and I reply in English that I’m heading towards Frankfurt. The following day, I had to catch a Euro Lines coach from Frankfurt to London. “I am Bogdan”, he offers in a strong Eastern European Accent. “OK, we not go Frankfurt, but you come”. As he gestures to load my bag into the car’s boot, I notice a dark figure in the passenger seat. I also notice a pink rug on the dashboard. I rip my Lonely Planet guide from my backpack before the trunk gets slammed shut.

I slide into the back passenger seat, behind the other person who is bald and has a leather skullcap and a black leather jacket to match. When the co-pilot turns slightly and nods, Bogdan introduces him as his brother, Krzystoff. I don’t see any resemblance. Apprehensively I think to myself that whatever happens, for now this definitely beats getting frostbite by the roadside!

Bogdan pulls off with determination. Krzystoff lights three Polish cigarettes and with a gruff, “you smoke!” hands the first one to me. As he turned, I notice the complete lack of hair in his face and on his arms. As if a mind reader, Bogdan offers some information: “Krzystoff he work(ed) close to Chernobyl, so he loose hair”. The cigarette is damn strong, but I appreciate the gesture, since I desperately need the nicotine hit. Polish music starts up as I flip through my guide to find the section on language and translation. I make an attempt at asking simple Polish questions, of which half they understand, but conversation warms up and remarkably, we manage to learn a few things about each other. They are both builders who cross the polish border once a month to do work on German construction sites. The Deutsch Mark is the strongest currency in the region and the brothers manage to earn five or six times as much as their countrymen back home.

Soon we enter a large village. They have an argument about what seems to be directions, but eventually we enter an industrial area, which is totally deserted. The compound has 12-foot fencing around it and the guard post is empty. I gather that they were supposed to meet a business associate and that we have to wait. For a brief second I experience a realisation that if something had to happen to me over here, no one would ever know… We all climb out to stretch our legs and Krzystoff hands me the fourth ready-lit cigarette. After about 20 minutes Bogdan kicks in the dust, mumbles something and starts the car. As we head out of town and onto the open road, Krzystoff produces a bottle of vodka-looking liquor with floating gold flakes. He breaks the seal and passes it to me with a “You drink, Jean, you drink!” The bottle gets passed around and Bogdan informs us that the Autobahn is just ahead. This part of the trip, they seem to have been looking forward to.

Everyone’s spirits lift and Bogdan asks me to remove a plastic container from behind his seat. It’s packed with Polish sausages, savoury snacks and sandwiches. I happen to glance at the speedometer, which is nudging its way to 190km/h. I think to myself that looks can deceive when it comes to old cars and I try not to think of a possible blow-out at this speed. A half an hour later we wash the last sandwiches down with Polish gold. Bogdan muses over the quality of the liqueur and Krzystoff lights-up more smokes.. Every time they consume something I’m offered some first and it seems to me that to decline would be a major insult.

I watch as the picturesque countryside passes by and suddenly I realize how exhausted I am. I’ve not slept properly for 48 hours. My trip from Poland to Germany was on one of the ‘normalijne’ trains, which get loaded to the brim, and if you board late, you end up sharing standing space in the passage with about 40 others. The night before that, I waited around a Polish train station, since sleeping on benches is prohibited. It was my way of saving a few Zloty’s, since I was running out of cash fast. Bogdan must have noticed because he turns around and in a brotherly manner and says: “Jean, you sleep! Okay, you sleep!”

I wake up two hours later, amazingly well refreshed. The bottle of liquor is empty and the brothers seem unaffected. Krzystoff passes another cigarette and Bogdan informs me that they are prepared to take me all the way to their destination, Stuttgart, from where I can take a train to Frankfurt. My earlier paranoia now all of a sudden seems distant and must have been fatigue induced. I accept gladly with a “dziekuje!” – thank you. We have left the Autobahn and are approaching a quaint village with a stunning mountain range as a backdrop. The brothers have another “bizznizz” meeting lined up and this time the client is waiting at a coffee shop. I get introduced as their friend from “Afrika” and am invited to join the table. After an hour of German shoptalk and politics over coffee and snacks, the wealthy looking businessman picks up the tab. Bogdan indicates that they want to show me something. We drive to a posh suburb where the brothers point their handiwork out to me. They actually specialise in the fine art of plastering design without using moulds. It entails little twirls, patterns and shapes that apparently are in high demand in Germany.

As we continue on the last stretch to Stuttgart, more scenery that is beautiful compliments the trip. Five hundred and something kilometres after Bogdan and Krzystoff offered me a ride; we stop at the entrance to the city’s main train station. Both brother’s climb out and I retrieve my bag from the boot. The quieter Krzystoff unexpectedly gives me a hug while good naturedly slapping me on the back, saying: “Jean! Our Brother!” Bogdan shakes my hand and bid me farewell and good luck. He hands me two packets of Polish smokes. I’m at a loss for words , but I get my tongue back and thank them profusely.

Last minute advice from Bogdan includes boarding the train without a ticket as they rarely bother checking them on inter-city express trains. Slightly dazed, I lug my backpack into the station hall while increasingly experiencing a dull throbbing in the back of my head. I wonder if the Lonely Planet guide has included the German word for painkillers…

[Based on an event in 1997, written in 2000]

By Jean-Jacques M

© 2000 – 2008