Bedouin Women

I'm joining Linda's Wednesday Wit and Wisdom once again. The challenge is to post a picture, then write a short story or a poem about the picture as a writing exercise. My inspiration today comes from this very bad photo of Bedouin women in the desert of the Sinai. I had wanted to write about these women for quite some time.

May 1996. I'm on my way from Cairo to Mount Sinai, crossing the desert of the Sinai peninsula. It is hot. The area we're driving through is bare - rocks, sand, some dried up grasses, and shades of beige and sienna with hints of red. The mountains are steep and not inviting at all. It is a merciless landscape.

In the distance we see goats and sheep and a handful of women wrapped in black shawls. When we come closer they  wave to us, with a friendly smile on their faces. We stop at the next turn and get out. Slowly the women approach us, a bit shy at first. Then they show their crooked teeth in a broad smile. Suddenly children join them, hiding behind their moms and peeking over to us - the rich tourists.

They invite us for tea. We are hesitant - is the water safe? They boil the water for a long time and brew strong, dark tea with a few leaves of peppermint inside and lots of sugar. I'm sure I couldn't drink it without the sugar, and I'm also sure that it will keep me awake all through the night. We sit on the dirt ground and the primitive mug of tea is given from hand to hand. Everybody takes a sip. This is not the time and place to be picky.

The women don't speak English, but there is someone who understands a bit of Arabic. They tell us that they are Bedouins, proud nomads who live in the desert. They live in tents with their children, sheep and goats - no no, the animals are not in the tents. They make their own jewelry and want to sell it to us. Where are the men? We don't see any. They wouldn't tell us.

The children are less shy by now and come over to us. We have a few sweets that we give them. They shout in excitement when they are allowed to look through the binoculars one of us carries around. First they hold them the wrong way. They laugh and giggle just like every child does. They touch our light skin, our clothes. And finally they see us get into our vehicles again because we need to go on. They wave when we leave.

They don't have a steady home. They own only a few clothes and some goats and sheep. Compared to our life they are poor - they don't have a house, a car, a TV; their kids don't go to school; their daily life and work is hard. And still there wasn't any resentment. On the contrary - they proudly invited us to share a cup of tea with them. There was such dignity. And I wonder - would we have been that friendly if we had met them in "our" world?

Moon Over Yosemite

I'm joining Linda's Wednesday Wit and Wisdom once again. The challenge is to post a picture, then write a short story or a poem about the picture as a writing exercise. My inspiration today comes from this photo of the moon over Half Dome in Yosemite.

They had spent the entire day outside - walking through the snow covered meadows in the valley, sliding down a gentle slope in the afternoon, walking up to Mirror Lake and finally, after a dinner of pizza and some wine, the rest of the family had gone to the open air ice arena that was close to their cabin in Curry Village. She, however, had chosen not to skate but go further away from the village and watch the full moon over Half Dome, the landmark of Yosemite.

She stood at the low fence by the meadow, taking in the moon light and the silence. Every now and then laughter was heard from the ice arena, and if she turned around she could have seen the flickering light of the fire in the huge fire pit right next to the ice arena. But she didn't turn around. Her eyes were trained to the top of Half Dome that glowed mysteriously in the light of the moon.

Suddenly a shadow emerged from the trees to her left, a low shadow. Quietly it was moving toward her. She didn't even have to look to know immediately what it was. She stood perfectly still, only her eyes were following the shadow.

It was a coyote. A lone coyote strolling through the night, avoiding the loud humans and following the white patches that the moon painted on the ground. 

She almost held her breath, afraid to make a noise and scare the animal away. Her spirit animal. She didn't feel any fear, just gentle curiosity and a deep fondness. 

Finally the coyote noticed her. However, he didn't stop, just moved a little bit to the side and closely passed her in no hurry at all - as if he knew that she was some kind of kindred spirit and he was safe with her. She looked after him until he had disappeared among the deep shadows of the trees.

She stood there for a long time, staring to the trees. Then she turned around, cast a last look to the moon and slowly returned to their cabin.

*******

Another true story...

Always a New Start

I'm joining Linda's Wednesday Wit and Wisdom again. The challenge is to post a picture, then write a short story or a poem about the picture as a writing exercise. My inspiration today comes from this photo, taken in 1995 in Israel.

Early morning, everybody seemed to be still asleep. Silently, she crept out of her hotel room and took the stony path down to the lake. Even the lake seemed to be asleep. Tiny waves lazily licked the rocks at the shore. On the other side the Golan Heights stood purple and silently against the background of an increasingly orange sky showing a few clouds that would disappear by mid morning at the latest. The lake mirrored the sky, changing the intensity and the shades of the color by the minute.

That's Syria on the other side, she thought. Such ancient lands. Such long history. And here I am, today. A dream come true. 

She hadn't come here for religious reasons. She knew that many people did. She had seen them in almost every place in this country that she had visited so far. She couldn't identify with them. She came because of the fascination this country held for her. The contrasts, the conflicts. The people - the Jews, the Christians, the Muslims. It was the melting pot that fascinated her.

Nothing of that she felt this morning. Instead she felt peaceful, watching the sun rise behind the Golan. She wanted to keep this picture, this moment in her heart. This feeling of being one with the world, no matter what you believed - if you believed.  This was the same to everyone - the sun rising over the mountains, spilling its light on the lake, on the land. The start of a new day in all its quietness, with all its possibilities. Always a new start. 

She would hold this memory in her heart for years and years to come. Whenever she needed a quiet place to go to, she just closed her eyes and dreamed herself on the shore of the Sea of Galilee.

The Mountain

I'm joining Linda's Wednesday Wit and Wisdom again. I wish I could do so every week, but I think at the moment that's just not possible. But hey, here I am!  The challenge is to post a picture, then write a short story or a poem about the picture as a writing exercise. My inspiration today comes from this photo, taken in 2005 in Alaska.

They had been on the camper bus for six or seven hours - she had stopped looking at her watch, being too occupied looking at the landscape passing by. They already had seen so much wildlife here - a little fox, a grizzly bear looking for food at the hillside, caribou, another bear, two beavers busy swimming around their little lake. Now they were approaching the end of the journey - the campground in the heart of Denali National Park, at Wonder Lake.

You couldn't tell that it was already past 10:00 pm. It was still light as day, even though she started to feel a bit tired. But she was also excited. And besides, the day was far from over. They still had to walk up to the campground with their huge backpacks, pitch the tent and then finally they would be able to curl up in their sleeping bags.

No one seemed to sleep in the campground anyway. There was still a quiet buzzing around - someone was playing the guitar, campfires were hissing and there was the constant humming of mosquitoes. Oh, the mosquitoes of Alaska! Good thing they had their nets with them that they wore over their Tilly hats, and the gloves as well. Those mosquitoes were hungry for fresh blood.

Finally the tent was pitched, the mats rolled out and the sleeping bags ready for them. The sun was at an angle now. They knew that behind the clouds Mount McKinley - or Denali - was hiding, and they were also aware of the fact that you rarely saw it without any clouds, if at all.

And then the magic happened.

The sun started to glow - the best Alpenglühen you could ask for. The clouds were glowing, it was amazing! But what was that? The clouds were parting - as if to greet the new day, a couple of minutes before midnight. And through the clouds the most amazing mountain was appearing - huge, white, bold. She was speechless about the sheer height of the mountain. Majestic was the word that came to her mind. It was still and big - it reminded her of a stranded whale on the beach. 

The entire show lasted for five minutes until Denali retreated into the clouds again. She felt like it had just greeted her and let her know, "yes, you little human, you are in Alaska, and this is where nature reigns".

Living by the Sea

I'm finally joining Linda's Wednesday Wit and Wisdom again. The challenge is to post a picture, then write a short story or a poem about the picture as a writing exercise. Of course my picture was taken during our vacation in Oregon. 

She loved the early mornings at the beach, when she had the long and wide stretch of sand almost to herself. There were only a few dog walkers around, usually with big dogs who loved to chase the seagulls and run into the water to retrieve a ball. Every now and then one would come to her, sniffing her out, get a pet on the head and return to its owner. She loved to watch them and witness their joy of life.

Every time she came to the beach she found some new treasure – an empty crab shell, a seastar, a beautiful piece of driftwood, clusters of barnacles. The oyster catchers danced around in the low water and the seagulls were yelling, always yelling. Could they ever be quiet?

She wondered what it was like to live by the sea. To have a little cottage on the cliff. First thing in the morning would be to walk at the beach. In the night she would listen to the waves crashing on the sand. It was music in her ears. She wondered what it was like to be in a storm, in the safety of your home, watching out over the grey and wild ocean while the wind was rattling around the corners with an eerie sound.

Was life different when you lived by the sea? Was it more laid back? Did some things just cease to be important? Would you live more according to the tides? Would you spend hours watching for whales to appear, scanning the sea to see their spout? Would life be more slowly? Have a deeper sense? Would you be more content?

She felt this stir in her soul, the wish to break out of her daily routine and opt for a slower life. A life that was dominated  by nature and not by money and working hours. A simpler life with just the things you needed for a basic life, not the things you wanted but didn’t really need.

She sighed and watched the dog running along the waterline, jumping for joy. So carefree and without a worry. She would have a dog if she lived here. Perhaps two. Big dogs. What was keeping her from this dream? She was free.

She would go to the real estate place she had seen the day before. And then to the animal shelter.

Trapped in a Churchyard

A photo, a story - here we are for Wednesday Wit and Wisdom over at Senior Adventures with Linda Kay! 

It has been two hours since she had left the car in the small parking lot in Widford and followed the signs along the hiking trail through the lovely Windrush Valley. It was a beautiful day for a hike - not too hot, the sun was hidden in the overcast sky, the air was rather humid. She had started her hike midmorning, and a while ago the tiny church of St. Oswald had come into her view.

It was a picturesque old church in the middle of nowhere. It had a small walled-in churchyard with a few gravestones. The area around the church was mainly meadows with the hiking path going right through the middle of them. There was no one around - except for a herd of cows uphill from the church. It was the typical English countryside in the beautiful Cotswolds.

She entered the churchyard through a kissing gate - it made a squeaky noise when she opened it to the one side, slipped in and then closed it again to the other side. She just loved these gates that you couldn't find outside of Britain. Slowly she walked around the churchyard and then entered the church. The old church smell that she met in each and every one of the old parish churches welcomed her at the door. She sat in one of the pews and took in the interior of the church until she decided that it was time to continue her hike.

When she stepped out into the churchyard she realized that her way out to the meadow was cut off - by the cows. While she had lingered inside, the cows had come down the hill and gathered right in front of the kissing gate.

She went closer, talking soothingly to the cows, hoping that they would run away when they saw her. But alas! - they seemed to be interested in her, stretching their big heads over the wall and trying to reach her with their long tongues. Usually she wasn't afraid of cows - on the contrary, she loved cows. But these were a few too many and she just didn't dare to open the gate and march right among them.

Slightly panicked she looked around, searching for another way out. There wasn't any. She imagined how she would be trapped for hours here, with no one coming by. Slowly she walked to the other end of the churchyard and decided then and there that she had to climb the wall. She knew that this wouldn't happen without any bruises, but she didn't really have a choice. So she scrambled - rather ungracefully - over the rough wall and walked down to the lower meadow, turning around every now and then and checking over her shoulder whether the cows followed her or not.

They didn't. But she couldn't shake off the feeling that the cows were whispering to each other about this strange young woman who hiked alone through their valley without any fear, but felt the cows were a menace. Only when she thought she was safe did she slow down and started to laugh hysterically.

*********

I'm afraid this is a true story...

An Evening in the English Countryside

Today I am joining Linda's Wednesday Wit and Wisdom for the second time.

This is my photo, taken 15 years ago:

Whenever I look at this photo I travel back in my mind to those single trips to England I took in the late eighties and early nineties. I was hopelessly in love with this beautiful island, its landscape and its people. I often flew to London for long weekends with my friends, and in June, when the days were the longest, I usually spent about three weeks in England - mostly in the Cotswolds and in Norfolk. I traveled on my own and that was exactly the way I liked it.

This photo was taken in Northleach, one of the less touristy villages in the Cotswolds. I stayed in a lovely Bed and Breakfast where I returned to every summer. My favorite time was in the evening, after I had dinner. The days were long, and I loved to walk through the Northleach churchyard and further on into the meadows. The sheep were here every day, and their calm "bah bah" accompanied me on my silent walks. I sat somewhere in the meadow and just took it in - the sheep, the quietness, the wind rustling in the leaves of the old trees, the birds singing their evening songs (I particularly remember the blackbirds). At some time the church bells started to ring - the beautiful change ringing that you find only on the British Isles. It is such a special sound! If you have never heard it, here's a short video. For me this kind of change ringing belongs to an evening in the English countryside. It gives you peacefulness, calms you down and just lets you be in the moment.

I remember feeling completely whole and at peace with myself. Those evenings were magical, and when I feel a bit low nowadays I can go back there in my mind and recall the quietness. I often only returned - reluctantly - when it was starting to get dark. I never feared walking through the cemetery after the sun had set, and I never had any worries being out there in the countryside, just me and the sheep. Sometimes I met a farmer and we talked for a while, had a lovely exchange. Something to feed my soul. Sometimes I would stop at a pub for a pint when I got back to the village, talking to the locals and playing a round or two of Jenga. It was my vacation, I had left all my worries behind, I didn't think about my work, I lived in the moment. I was blissfully young.

I was also invited to link to Two Shoes Tuesday - thank you for the invitation!

Where My Father Grew Up

This is the first time that I am joining Linda at Senior Adventures at her Wednesday Wit and Wisdom. The idea behind this is to share a story of a particular photo - or a poem, if we like. I had always thought this is not for me because of my inadequacy of the English language, but Linda encouraged me. She often shares a memoir with a certain photo, and I want to do something like this as well.

So let me take you to Marienburg in Poland, or Malbork as it is called today.

This is yours truly back in 1993. I'm standing at the river Nogat, right across from the Marienburg, or Malbork Castle. So what was I doing in Poland so shortly after the Iron Curtain came down, you may ask.

For centuries, Marienburg belonged to Germany. The castle was founded by the Teutonic Order in the 13th century and named Marienburg (Mary's castle), and so was the town's name, that grew around it. The part it is located in was called West Prussia (don't get confused by people who call this area East Prussia - it is NOT East Prussia, however, most people are unaware of this fact). The castle is the largest castle in the world by surface area.

This town is the place where my Dad was born and raised. His memories of his life here are stories of an innocent, blissful childhood, spent in the woods, on tiny islands in the river. It's hot in the summer and bitterly cold in the winter. Every winter this river would completely freeze over, and my Dad and his friends would ice skate every afternoon until it was time to go home. In the summer, he would row. He was in a rowing club and they did their training here. There was an island somewhere in this river where the boys (and perhaps some girls as well?) would go to, spending long summer afternoons fishing, swimming, and just hanging out. It was a small town, and since my Dad and his siblings were the children of the only veterinarian in town everybody knew them. His Dad - my Grandpa whom I adored when I was a little girl - was one of the first people here who owned a car. As the only veterinarian in the area he needed it to get out to the farms. It became my grandparents' and aunt's survival ticket in the last months of World War II when the town was already burning, the Soviet army was closing in and they had to make their way to Danzig (Gdansk) to board the last refugee ship out of the port of Danzig to Denmark.

My Dad had to join the German military when he was hardly 18 years old. He went to the navy, serving on the Scharnhorst and doing a tour on a submarine. At the end of the war he became a POW with the British and was released in 1946. He never saw his childhood home again. Marienburg became part of Poland. His childhood home was lost to him for ever.

When Eastern Europe broke apart in the early 90's and traveling into these countries became so much easier, I wanted to see where my Dad grew up. I wish he would have come with me, but he didn't want to see the modern Marienburg. He wanted to keep his memories of a childhood that died with the end of the war.