Racing a champion

I gasped as I first hit the water – freezing cold water, direct from the source.

With seized up lungs, and some mental preparation, I looked left to my competitor: Morroco’s number one swimmer, Muhammed. Muhammed, who, if my broken French served me correctly, had raced in the Olympics and represented Morroco in the sport he knew. The champion, grew up in the Sahara in a small town – Meski, whose only attraction, among the mud-bick homes and desolate planes, was an oasis like spring (from “the source”), that nourished the town with water, Morrocan tourism, and a national Olympian.

Ready, set, go – yelled Tandi.

Tandi swore it was too close to call, but I knew that I had let Australia down.

As we shook hands and hugged goodbye, with a forced smile I swore that I would return one day to Meski, trained, and ready, to claim the title from this unlikely Saharan Olympian.

Being a Coward in Myanmar (Burma)

After three weeks of being very aware of every political conversation, and knowing that any time I was to converse with a local Burmese there was a good chance we were being surreptitiously eavesdropped by government agents (and I have been taking my paranoia medication), ensured that a late evening phone call to out hotel room caused us much anxiety.

After experiencing a crazy day of chaos in Myanmar’s capital, running with thousands of other Rangoon residents from gun fire and violent monk beatings, we were resting in our Chinese style hotel where we were barricaded for the night (martial law ensured no-one would leave their room after 9pm). However, an English journalist who we had met that day in the streets, comparing stories of the military crackdown, had somehow found us in our hotel, called our room, and was requesting an audience with us in the hotel bar.

How did he find us? How did he know our names? Did we really tell him where we were staying? Was he a government undercover agent? Did we speak too openly about our abhorrence for the Myanmar government? Were we in trouble?

As we descended to the lobby, I assured Tandi (not believing it myself) that everything would be ok.

After a beer, and some more discussion, Andrew, a journalist from Time Magazine, made a simple request. He asked us to take a DVD with video clips shot that day by a native Burman, of monks being beaten, people stoning military vehicles, and other crazy violence, to a BBC contact in Bangkok the next day. As of then, such footage hadn’t made it to the world with the closure of the internet and international phone calls (taking it to Bangkok by plane was the only way this footage would be able to be seen by the world). He believed that these images, if we would smuggle them out could really help the international community’s understanding of the crazy situation.

We were cowards.

After spending three weeks falling in love with a people whose gentle Buddhist nature, and warm and incredible hospitality had changed me as a person, I really wished that there was something that I could do to help. But, when confronted with that something – something that might endanger my life, I failed to be the person that I always thought I could be.

And as I snapped the DVD with my hands, as we drove through the streets to the airport, leaving the Burmese to their despotic government, I felt crumble that part of me – that bravery that I thought I had.

Mere possessions

Disembarking the flight and bolting towards immigration and passport control is a weird habit of mine (I still cant get that crazy New York pace out of my system) . Although knowing that the quicker we made it through Marrakech´s airport meant more time at the Gnaou and World Music festival in Essouira, justified my pace. (The festival was a week long crazy music, and jumping up and down lots, festival with an unbelievable amount of young crazy Morrocans.) But after watching others with disdain retrieving their bags, and after peering through the bag´s carousel opening, I knew with a sinking feeling that we were backpack-less.

But being without our things brought us blessings and experiences we wouldnt have otherwise had:

• Shopping for undies in a Morrocan bazaar (army camouflage style – 100% polyester) and then requesting receipts (scrawled pen markings in Arabic on the back of a crushed pantyhose package)
• Bargaining for new clothes that we would throw out a few days later
• Having Benjy fly into Morocco to visit us (in an attempt to locate our bags – which no one could find, we reached out to a friend in London for help, and instead of locating our bags, he brought himself (and some welcome deodorant)

Finally, we learned how little we require in life. We saw that we can easily be happy wearing the same smelly clothes, and  jumping the night away to the bizarre sounds of Gnoan music.

war

Climbing the darkened stairwell, of a soviet housing commission high rise in a depressing part of Kanaus, Lithuania’s second city, I knew we were about to experience something special.

This was to be one of many incredible conversations in Lithuania as we attempted to visit the birthplace of Dennis’ father and extended family, and pay respects at the killing fields where they were all eventually murdered in 1943.

We spent 1 week hearing stories and seeing the sites of atrocious murders, destroyed or abandones synagogues, death camps, razed ghettos, and old cemetaries. It was fascinating and sobering, yet for me strangely un-emotional. My ties were not here even though part of my culture and people were.

But as the creaky stairwell door opened to reveal a frail 83 year old man (Yehudah) with a an incredibly firm handshake and warm face absent of smiles, I hoped that my role of interpreter (Hebrew -English) would not only help Dennis learn something about his family which came from the same village as this elderly war-veteran, but would help stir something up for me too.

As the conversation proceeded, we incredibly, learned about some of Dennis relatives, and the close frienship that Yehudah had with Dennis´ cousin. We heard about life in the ghetto, we learned about his years after the war chasing war criminals, and finally he shared with us one of his Soviet war stories which I thought was so special and moving, and something I want to share.

It was towards the end of the war and his battalion (he had escaped Lithuania and eventually teamed up with the Soviet army) stumbled upon a German army unit. In the ensuing battle, Yehudah wrestled one of the German soldiers to the floor and with his gun in one hand, reached with the second into his pocket to reveal a photo of his family whilst screaming at the soldier “This is my family. Do you know them?”

The German soldier, begging for his life, nimbly answered – ¨No, no, I didnt kill them. I didnt kill any families.”
“You killed my family – I am a Jew and you killed all of them.”

When the soldier heard that Yehuda was a Jew, he gasped and begged him to kill him quickly, to which Yehudah replied “if you did not kill any innocent people, then why should you be killed?” The soldier didn´t trust Yehudah and raised his arms as if to protect himself. At that moment the enemy fire rained down and shot the soldiers outstretched hands.

Yehudah, after dropping to the floor, offered the soldier his hankerchief to stop the bleeding. The soldier, amazed at Yehudahs´ spirit, was overcome with emotion, and overwhelmed to be shown such mercy by a man who had reason for revenge.

A few years later, Yehudah wanted to meet the soldier again and put out a request for his details via a Berlin newspaper. Two weeks later, he received a call from the soldier´s  teary mother, who called Yehudah after seeing the request and exclaimed that her son, every day for the remainder of his life, would recount the story of this amazing Jewish soldier, who showed him such kindness.

As I reflect apon the story, and continue to hear the voice of the elderly survivor Yehuda sharing his stories, not proudly, just matter of factly, I learn about a side of war that we seldom come to realize. It has showed me that even in the face of madness, there is always humanity.

Roots tour

Doing a roots tour in a country very removed from any ancestory of mine didnt bring me any expectations of learning more about where I came from.

However, as we played the name game, I thought I would ask our cute smiley Lithuanian tour guide Chaim (a middle aged chatty Litvak with an incredible knowledge of local history, language and Jewish and Holocaust history), where the name Rapke came from (any attempt to glean anything from my family gleaned embarrassed shrugs).

So with trepidation, I ventured to ask Chaim (out of Tandi’s earshot so she wouldn’t later have any issue with taking on the name should she so desire) where the illustrious name Rapke comes from.

With a gasp of recognition (more of a squeal), Chaim siad “I know zis name. Zis is – how you say – wechetable“.

Oy, images of… I cant even write it, sprung to mind as Tandi know in earshot pissed herself laughing.

“Wechetables like many wechetables – like peasant wechetable….”

Oy – Please tell him to stop…

So after assuring Chaim that he was very wrong and should do a better search, Chaim went home that night to investigate the name in his many books.

So as we rise the next day Chaim approaches me with a piece of paper, obviously deliriously happy at having found what vegetable our important family name comes from.

I sheepishly look doewn at the paper and with horror read…

PENA = Rope = TURNIP

So as I sit here contemplating “Tal Turnip”, I just hold hope that our little Chaim, who is sure that Rapke comes from Turnip in Russian, may still be able to find me another more appropriate explanation in Polish or another language. In the meantime, I contemplate Tal Rabinowitz as an alternative.

From Russia without love

I was determined to love Russia. And why not. I spent years laughing with (at?) the Russians in my school back home, I love borscht, and after a rickety start at age 16 (alleyways, forgettable nights, bits of carrot and peas over my shirt) – I love vodka.

But Russia challenged my desirous love.

Sure, Venice like alleyways, gilded palaces, fairytale spires, disneyland like churches, hauntingly beautiful Russian Orthodox choirs, and architecturally marvelous buildings fill the streets, but there was something that didnt quite work for me.

I felt like a spectator in Russia but never quite felt part of it. I watched the way the men pull their pants high up their abdomens, I observed the high hems of the women’s skirts/belts (no complaints) and their stilleto like high heels (even the bus conductor), and concentrating on the fashion, which definitely stressed leopard print, made the streetscape an interesting one.

It may have been the lack of manners, the few smiles we encountered, the mafioso like black cars that mysteriously transported the wealthy through the town, the extra expense that tourists were forced to pay for entrance to museums and other buildings, and the perennially rude Russians (?misunderstood), that made me snap, but I cant be sure.

As I found myself on my last day, after having travelled through Moscow and St Petersberg, screaming and shaking my finger at the woman selling entrance tickets to the cathedral “You are a horrible horrible woman!” and then muttering “pizda” under my breath at her, I realised that it may still take some time until Russia is ready for my love.

soviet charter airway

I can only imagine what the Russian stewardess (who spoke no English) was screaming as she elbowed her way through the throngs of passengers who were no longer in their seats and had jammed the aisles, desperate to open the aircraft’s rusted door for disembarking. At 2:15 am, as our rickety (the nicest adjective I could muster) plane bounced down in Moscow in a random remote airport, I too felt her ire.

 

The plane which was taking us from Istanbul to Moscow was way cheaper than any registered airline, and so trying to save some money, and convincing Tandi that all airlines must pass FAA regulations, we handed over the money for the flight.

And after a short three hour delay, the call came for boarding. Initially I didnt think that not being able to pronounce the name of the airline, nor for that matter read the crylic name on the aircraft (still unknown), was to be an issue. But when we looked around in disbelief as we boarded the 1940s plane, we should have been more concerned.

So the plane filled with people – laden with shopping bags of all sizes, and as people still standing and milling around packed the aisles, the plane pulled away from the gate. Now I have seen safety demonstrations before, but having difficulty seeing the hostess (not to mention not understanding the language) because of the people still standing and shmoozing in the aisles, and watching the grinning lad who was pulling faces behind the air hostess as he stood leaning against the toilet, it was a performance to remember (I did manage to see that the oxygne masks though come out of the seat back on front of me and not from above the seat like other planes).

 

After a few Russian salads, and that knee still pressed into my spine through the thin plane seat, the plane was starting its descent to land at one of Moscows (again unpronouncable) airports. This was obviously the sign for people to fire up their mobile phones, start removing their bags from the overhead bins and head to the door. By the time the creaky planes wheels touched down on the runway, all the passengers had jammed the aisles (holding on for dear life as we touched down) and were yelling at the hostess in return as she tried to get to the door.

 

Finally the door opened, and with a resounding thud as the first line of queing passengers were literally trampled by the rush of passengers rushing off the plane for what seemed like a half-yearly sale, I too decided to join the flood and like a good fellow Russian passenger, elobowed and shoved my way to the 2 hr queue welcoming us to mother Russia…

 

buzzzzz

There is a noise more than any other that will raise me from slumber. It is a noise so infuriating and bone chilling that I have little control thereafter over my actions.

On my second night in Kas (a sleepy Mediterranean town hugging the gorgeous turquoise coloured coast of south turkey), after spending the day tanning my bronzed body, swigging beer, and falling into a belly full of grilled fish food coma – I encountered that noise.

Now, prancing naked around our pension room at 0330am with a towel in one hand and a flip-flop in the other, conjures images better forgotten. Yet trying smash into oblivion the creators of that terrible noise I just described required both hands.

How I hate the buzzing of mosquitoes!

Having realised that I had an issue (thanks Tandi for pointing that out), I knew that in the name of matrimonial harmony, I needed to get past the insanity that this particular hum provoked in me.

Two nights, a pair of boots (that remained working with tape and rope), 25 kilometres, three skinny dips, and 7 blisters – later, I had the opportunity to face my lunacy.

On a deserted hilltop on part of the Lyceum way (a path that plunges its way along rugged Turkish hilltops and coastline), camped by the well where we drew our water, we crawled into our cosy tent as the sun was setting and the mosquitoes buzzing.

Struggling not to jump out of my tent and spray DEET continuously, with deep meditation, breathing, and Tandi’s elbow, I finally embraced the anxiety provoking mosquito hum. Being surrounded by a mosquito proof tent definitely helped, but I still felt proud of having conquered the fear that the mosquitoes engendered. And, for the first time, I allowed the gentle buzzing that enveloped our tent in the night to lull me into a sleep, and naked I slept with a flip flop close by – just in case…

Turkey – the people

So as we come to the end of Turkey, and we ask ourselves (well actually others ask us, and the blank looks we give are kind of conversation killing) what the highlight was – for Turkey it was definitely the people. So we give thanks:

• To the bar owner who went out to buy a turkish-english electronic translater in anticipation of meeting us for dinner the next night (we were very very late…)
• To the twenty sober (cake and coca cola only) university students who embraced us at their friends birthday party and taught us the Turkish jiggle before having to leave us at 10pm to head back to their dorms before curfew
• To the hotel owner who concerningly called all the city’s hospitals looking for us when we didnt come back to the hotel one night (out partying with some friends)
• To the 22 yoga teachers who all sat around cheering as I played guitar and ad-libbed words to Bob’s “No Turkish Woman No Cry”
• To the Kurdish man in Istanbul’s dorky jeans market who bought us sandwiches, chai, and even paid for us to use the toilet – we were guests
• To the slimeball in Istanbul who informed us how much “Natascha” was going to cost us per hour in Moscow
• To our crazy turkish mates – Ali+Gulshah, Alper, and Cidgem+Kozan who opened their hearts and homes to us in istanbul
• To the 4 dutch trekkers who gave me their tape to fix the soles of my hiking boots that both fell off simultaneously on the same day while stuck in the middle of the mountains on the Lycian way trek

sorry for the long delay… we are back