Ten years in Camphill

I AM A PASSENGER

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 22:05:00 GMT

I’m sitting on a crowded bus and we’re driving into the night. All sorts of chit-chat is taking place with alternating volumes, and there’s an expanding smell of sweat which in some cases mixes quite well with a small amount of perfume and deodorant. A bit later this stench will also mix together with the smell of cigarettes, but we’re all enduring this in a very brave manner, occasionally taking a few deep breaths from the remaining air. We’re dreaming, listening to music, proudly explaining each other things like where we’re intending to go, how much we’re intending to make, who the members of our family tree are. We’re all going to be ﬁlthy rich. Of course, we cannot rush things, so it is not too bad if at the beginning we would need to wipe some bottoms, sweep a few courtyards, wipe some plates, all is good, just let it come. For starters, I’ll wipe a few drops of sweat off my side burns. We’re on our way rolling down the road, the bus driver has long resigned from going around the holes, but never mind, the roads are about to straighten soon, as soon as we got out of the country. We’re passing through a village. There are terrible looking tasteless gipsy palaces on the two sides of the road. Marble, glitter, staircases, roof styles resembling Indian and Chinese architecture. And then the owner lives in a small shed attached to the palace with his whole tribe, because they certainly won’t muddy the shiny new ﬂoor. Well, this is how it goes. Lesson learned. A bare-ass chicken thief will get to be beaten to pulp on the police station, but those who live in the palaces can take it real easy and guffaw in the face of any policeman. Well then, the highly esteemed seasonal worker crowd is swinging along the open road, joined by the au-pair girls, the waiter boys, the amateur criminals and counterfeiters, and I, who will go to a community to look after people with special needs. Retards? Asks me the girl who is sitting next to me. I’m thinking, it really isn’t worth giving her a long winded explanation. A few raindrops fall over the window. The rain mixing with the dusty window has a truly unique scent. The music is on, very educational and motivational tunes are creeping into my ears: No no no no no no...there’s no limit...no non no...No limit? Well, actually there is a limit. The limit is the border for now, still it has been easier to travel these days. If an individual queues patiently in front of the embassy from six AM till six PM and he or she endures different kinds of humiliations then a visa can be obtained. And so now you can go my fellow countrymen! Into the wide wide world. Get stuffed. There are no heart problems over here, we’re all sleeping in seated positions, some of the girls are half naked in this heat, but they’re not at all shy. We will have new supplies of fresh air, refreshing cold beer, beach, squawking squealing seagulls ﬂying above our heads, the sun will shine, people will hee-haw with sunburnt bellies everywhere. Pee-break. The big shots are buying croissants and coffee. The driver is smoking cigarettes with two workmen and a little hitchhiking old man. We’re getting closer to the border. My poor heart starts contracting a little bit. I don’t know why it happens, that over a number of years we still have to feel like scary criminals, every time we cross the border. Maybe it’s because we’re made to feel like ones. A few years back, when I was crossing the border, the soldier has shouted at me, that I should wipe that stupid grin off my face, because here it isn’t allowed to smile, and what do I think, do I think I’m cool? They looked into the sandwich of the girl who sat next to me, to see if she’s hiding any drugs in there. Poor girl was weeping, but I think I’ll be weeping soon too. But on the other side of the border those tears will be the tears of joy. Suddenly the whole bus is alight, and we’re all blinking diligently. I put a chewing gum in my mouth, I haven’t brushed my teeth for about ten hours now. I breathed into my palms and I almost fainted. Ok, now someone is coming through towards my seat. A volunteer passenger following the instructions of the driver is collecting money. Lei is good, euros, pounds, dollars...whatever there is. And there should be as much as possible. What do we need money for? Well, because it’s going to be faster to cross the border. Hmmm...does this mean that we’re going to bribe everyone? What the hell were they thinking? Now they’re collecting the passports. I’m starting to feel like in kindergarden. We’re driving near well lit abandoned and boring looking building. This is the border already. Suddenly there’s silence. The border guard shouts in through the window, telling us where to park, and then the driver gets off taking with him the money and all the passports. He’s back in ten minutes, and the border guard is with him again, and he comes up on the bus. He takes a look into the luggage compartment, goes across the bus and orders everyone off the vehicle. After they have given all our passports back another assertive statement follows. You need to queue! You need to show your passports one by one. People, this is not a group holiday, how can you. Of course we line up the way we can. They examine me quite well, they’ve only missed looking into my mouth. I could’ve really boasted with my new ﬁllings though. Good good...we’re free to go....we can sit back! Everyone gets back on the bus. the confusion and the fright has ended. I wasn’t scared. Were you scared? I wasn’t scared either. We fall back into darkness, and soon the road straightens! This is Hungary already. The next crossing is going to be easier. And then we’ll reach Austria. And we won’t stop till Munich. I’m grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I remember home. Saint George days. My hometown celebrations. I’ve been kissing a sweet black haired brown eyed girl called Evie all night long. As if this would’ve happened such a long time ago. The girls sitting next to me are moaning a lot, and I don’t have too much time for daydreaming. I’m forcing my Romanian quite well, since I had part of it through university. Some more pee-breaks. But now the conditions are luxurious.I don’t have the feeling of being on a ski slope anymore. I don’t need to squat, get a grip on a stick, chase ﬂies away. It doesn’t smell of shit. The soap has this incredible smell. I have washed my hands three times. Deary me...Germany...another world. We arrive in Munich, and here we would need to change bus. No worries. We’re sitting around for about nine hours, I see the really impressive football stadium from afar. I wish I could go into the city, but what if I get lost? Or if I don’t make it back on time? No, I cannot risk something like this, it is simply not possible. I carry on sitting, I gobble up al my sandwiches which have been packed by my mum about one and a half days ago, and I’m listening to the ga-ga, I mean the girls having a conversation about this and that. We get on the second bus. Here we can look out the window and stare at the sights. Scenery! Lots of things to see. everything is new. I haven’t been abroad before, I haven’t been only as far as Hungary till now. I have only seen things on TV. We’re not rattling along anymore, we’re whizzing by. Great ideas come into my mind. It will be wonderful! This is the West! A world of opportunities will unravel itself in front of me, and I only need to grab those opportunities. How far is London from the community I wonder? Will I have money and time to go into London? And I would like to travel around England. And I would like to sit on a red bus. And in a black taxi. And I’ll visit all churches and museums and I’ll take my share of everything good. We arrive to the port city of France, Calais. I have seen a documentary about the building of the Channel Tunnel and how much effort went into it. And now I’ve been inside the tunnel. I’ve been feeling a bit taken aback.. My ears were stuck. The train was gliding ahead, and we weren’t moving an inch with the bus. On the other side of the tunnel England awaits. The roads are different, and the things that were already familiar from guidebooks and documentaries. We were ordered on the other side of the road, but this didn’t confuse our driver at all. The hours were minutes, and eenie meenie miney mo we found ourselves at Victoria bus and train station. From here I only had to get to Charing Cross somehow, and from there it was another hour to get to the community.

Photos: Zagreb

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 21:53:00 GMT

Zagreb

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 21:52:00 GMT

It felt really pleasant to start sightseeing very early in the morning (6AM). Before sunrise, people at the Dolac market have started putting up their stalls, while I was sipping on my coffee trying to recover from a dizzy spell probably attributed to lack of sleep and malnutrition. I took a few sunrise photos at the cathedral then I walked around on Zagreb's quiet streets only disturbed by the occasional ringing of the early tram bells and pigeon coos. I enjoyed myself here, though I haven't visited any museums (apparently there's loads, and I should've at least visited the Museum of Broken Dreams- there's a reason to go back). Why I went to Maksimir…I don't know. But at some point I ended up there. There's supposed to be a huge park with beautiful lakes and such, and I haven't found any of it. So I went back to Zagreb and loitered around the train station for an hour or so, people-watching. I'm a bit sad that I haven't found the statue of Nikola Tesla. But there's a lot to see. The opera house looks nice, with a park around it oozing a pleasant atmosphere. I like the blue trams, they remind me of similar ones that I have seen about ten years ago in Montpellier. There are some old looking oak trees scattered around the centre. I think Zagreb is anything but dull and boring. Everywhere I looked was a potential photo: three nuns disappearing at the street corner, pigeon gathering on Ban Jelacic square (Jelacic, who was instrumental in putting an end to the 1848 Hungarian revolution…hmmm…interesting fact…the statue used to point its sword menacingly towards the direction of Hungary till 1990, when the statue was turned southwards), fishmongers, the smell of fresh vegetables, a man playing a recorder at a bus station, the mismatched chairs of a restaurant, 1970's lamps, the cathedral early morning, the streets of Kaptol and Gradec in Gornji Grad…and so on. A lovely day spent in the Croatian capital, and it was time to move on. So I hopped on a train to Ljubjana.

Photos: Salzburg

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 21:46:00 GMT

Salzburg

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 21:43:00 GMT

If Austria is a nice creamy cake, then Salzburg is definitely a bright fat red cherry on top. As the train was whizzing through the Austrian countryside I couldn't help but wonder why I haven't visited this beautiful country earlier. Mountains everywhere, hikers - young and old, beards:) (had to mention them again), cool lakes (like Zell am See) and all sorts of other really really cool stuff. Like the bacon and cheese pretzel that I had on one of the squares of Salzburg. It was as big as my head. And chocolate pretzels….drool…Posh looking Austrians walking around with great danes on leads, I've even seen a Saint Bernard. I had to stop in front of the Till Eulenspiegel restaurant, which reminded me of the Eulenspiegel fairy tales. Those were my favourites together with Nassredin, Munchausen, Sinbad and Wilhelm Hauff fairy tales (especially the story of the caliph stork, the little Muck and the little glass man - a story from Schwarzwald…oh I used to be so terrified of Dutch Michel). Eulenspiegel, the trickster…had a few laughs reading the tales as a kid…when one day I came across a book written by the Belgian author Charles de Coster who wrote the book "the glorious adventures of Tyl Ulenspiegl". It's a lengthy book. And it's not for children. Somehow the fairy tale was over. Coster sets his story in the 16th century, at the height of the Inquisition; Ulenspiegel’s father is burned at the stake as a heretic, and Ulenspiegel swears an oath to avenge his death. what follows is a series of gruesome deaths and torture scenes. The merry prankster transforms into a freedom fighter against religious oppression. Again a bit later on, I looked into fairy tales at a greater length and realised that many of the archetypal patterns and fairy tale elements are a contrasting series of evil and good, but where the good is also suffering. Basically a lot of suffering. I guess it's a relief that most of the stories have a happy end at least. But I'm suspecting now, that a story is never really finished and that it perpetuates into new ups and downs, highs and lows, more culminations of suffering, martyrdom and brief relief. Anyway…enough about fairy tales. Salzburg is a fairy tale…sort of. But I probably would have a different opinion if I would live there. So, at the start of a lovely sunny afternoon I was strolling on the streets of yet another most exquisite Austrian town, with every corner presenting a feast for my eyes…or camera shutter…:)

Of comfort and miserliness

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 21:39:00 GMT

Ever since I bought myself this new Mac, I don’t think much of theater anymore. Or books for that matter. Or tv. Or cinema. Or the company of people. Aah, this device. I must say it’s a divine invention. First of all I’m saving the cost of a ticket. And not only the price of any theater ticket, but the legwork too. Furthermore, I’m saving all the headaches about which theater I should choose, cause I’ve got all the choice I need on my screen. Isn’t this awesome?
Like totally. But please do carry on.
I’m also saving shaving in the evening, cause I don’t really need a shave to be glued on my screen at home. I don’t even need to put on any clothes, shirts, socks, fresh underwear. I save all these. Isn’t this brilliant?
Marvellous. But do carry on.
I’m saving my trips, the cost of fuel to the theater an back. And not only that I save the cost of a taxi or bus or any other means of public transportation, but I also save all the ordeal that comes with traveling. I don’t need to stand on a crowded metro, I don’t need to stand in the rain trying to wave off an available taxi. Au contraire I’m sitting quite comfortably on the sofa in my pajamas, watching Eugenie Grandet on my brand new Mac. Isn’t this an amazing thing?
Just grand. But carry on.
I’m saving my wardrobe. I don’t need to wear a jacket, I don’t need to sew on new buttons, my shirts don’t get creased, cause they’re all hanging peacefully, whilst I’m hanging out over here on the sofa, in my pajamas, with a growing beard watching Ebenezer Scrooge in the Christmas Carol. Isn’t this a comfortable thing?
Cozy indeed. Carry on.
I’m saving coffee, sparkling mineral water, pretzels during the interval. Not only the cost, but also the effort that it would take to acquire them. While the theater audience is queuing impatiently in the hall, I’m on the sofa, with a long beard, with my pajamas on, pack of Pringles in my lap, my jacket and shirts crisp and clean in the wardrobe...free of charge. Isn’t this sensational?
Very thrilling. And then?
Hmm. Nothing else. Is this not enough?
You mister are an idiot.
Why am I an idiot?
Cause I have developed your technique. I have done what you have done for many years, but then I have realized something.
Do specify.
I’ve sold my Mac, thus I’m saving all the effort to stare at theatre plays or anything else for that matter. Nowadays I’m just sitting in a corner, platting my beard.

Journey's end

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 21:31:00 GMT

I’ve been lying here motionless for about a hundred years on the burning sands or on the freezing snow, and I suppose I do not think of anything. This is when I feel completely free.

But then I’m brought back by the sound of an airplane or a seagull circling above me. In matter of fact I like autumn. I’m admiring one of the trees of the Schlossgarten, with its waning headdress. Under it a small girl with incredible almond eyes feeding a grey sparrow. Other big headed sparrows are being neighborly with each other on a fence, overlooking a sad fact. Autumn promises nothing but a teeth clenching future. There are no exceptions, not even for this beautiful park I’m sitting in. Many bird-week journeys away the torch of a statue points out the hight of freedom. The length of freedom is the shade of the setting sun cast over the harbour.

In My Lady’s garden pale pink rose bushes are reminiscing over the death of summer.

It is getting dark, I go down on the beach once more. Looking at half naked people now gives me the shivers.

The city is washed away in neon lights or a humid climate.

A year or so ago I used to gaze into the river on Tower bridge. The fog circles of the Thames were slowly strangling the sight.

We’re descending now.

“In a few minutes we will be reaching our destination, we would ask our passengers to stay seated, leaving your seats in a vertical position, keeping your belts fastened. The temperature outside is 15 degrees. We hope you had a pleasant journey. We wish you a great day and hope you choose our flight again!”.

I’ll walk down the stairs after the last person to leave. Dyce is waiting. I put my hands in my pockets and I find a yellow leaf in there. Who knows where it comes from.

Standing on the hill, next to the obelisk my eyes wander over my footprints left behind in the snow.

And in the valley hidden in grey mist I spot the chicken scoop, some of the pigs, a child riding a bycicle, people playing football, a few houses, a small community.

Memories of summer holidays

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 21:22:00 GMT

My nicest memories of summer holidays are of the ones which I spent at my grandmother’s place. When I was very young my parents took me and my sister to our grandmother’s village. I remember so many great things about those warm and sunny times. I was young and enthusiastic, playful, bit hard to be kept on a short leashJ, always trying out something new, playing pirate, falling in love with Eve, the neighbour’s granddaughter and so on. There I was almost every summer for about 10 weeks, under the severe eyes of my grandma. I thought of her as a somewhat stricter character, and now I realize that she had a very kind side of hers, which was always there cloaked with that strictness what a 10 year or child might only perceive. She was definitely a person with an excellent sense of humour and a very hard worker. She had to grow up fast, didn’t have a long and trouble free childhood and life had taught her to work for everything she owned and that’s what she did till the very end.

Once I went with her to work on the field. We picked hemp for a few hours. I remember as a child I couldn’t do it for too long, because my hands started burning, and also it was really difficult to wash all of it off my hands.

Yet, comfortable or uncomfortable situations, I remember many of them.

I remember going out with her and she was scything on the field. That is supposed to be a man’s job, and she did it just as well. Other times we spent a lot of time in her back garden, harvesting raspberries, gooseberries, or going off to her “lower garden” to get some cucumbers and peppers. We harvested potatoes and put them in a large wheelbarrow, pushed and pulled it back several kilometres till we got back to her house. We went to a mill not too far and we bargained for flour. Then she baked the best homemade bread, which usually weighed more than 3 kilos and was twice as big as my head. In the evenings she used to do the mix for the pigs, feed the chicken, the dogs and cats. This used to be my grandfather’s job, but he didn’t always do all of it…well…he actually hated all the chicken, hated the cat, and despised the dog; he was a mean old man. He always reminds me of Eustace from the cartoon Courage the cowardly dog. So my grandmother helped him out with most of the stuff, and after he passed away she did all of it naturally.

Once I was playing with the dogs and I was outside in the dirt for quite a while and got covered with head lice. It didn’t feel too comfortable when she started to wash my head with her coarse hands. I will remember those lice now.

Twice on a week I used to go with her to collect the milk. She didn’t have a cow, but others in the village were selling and it was always fresh, after the cows were milked.

I loved to see the cows coming back from the field, all of them knew which house they were living in, and some people were standing in front of their houses to greet them I suppose. Then they got milked after a good long day. And there I was sitting with my grandma at Pali’s place, who was doing the milking while we were waiting. Sometimes they offered me to drink the fresh milk but I didn’t really like it. Somehow I always had a thing for fatty milk, I can only drink the skimmed one. What I remember though is the smell of the milk, the smell of the cows, ahm and cowpoo, the peaceful evening atmosphere, the dark outside and the gossip inside in the poorly lit kitchen of the house, ah and the chicken in the kitchen. They used to stay there because the ones which have recently hatched, the baby chicken, were safer to be kept inside, till they have grown a bit. And the kitchen was the warmest place for the chicken. And the cat didn’t mind.

Scenes

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 21:17:00 GMT

You know, when you browse through a hundred thousand photos a day on social networks...if only you would hit the pause button and contemplate those images, and put your own words and impressions next to them. Images become stories. So, this time there are no images to show...only words. These are like a bunch of photographic haikus.

For some people there’s no progress in fashion. An old man resting by a street lamp post gripping his walking stick and a stripy shopping bag. The contents of the bag might not be from a shop though, it is more likely that they came from a nearby dumpster. His hat looks like a miner’s hat from the communist times, and his jacket too is some kind of old worn out jacket. It reminds me of those jackets which were worn by hundreds of thousands of people during the Communism. His face is full of wrinkles, and he lets his head down.

There’s a poster advertising a Christmas fayre, a karate dojo and another one trying to sell property. In the distance a bank. People rushing by.

Contrast in fashion. On a snowy afternoon, the snow has settled on the sidewalks, but it has melted on the roads. Cars whizzing by. Two people are waiting for the bus at a bus shelter. A man wearing a balaclava and shorts. He must be a bit cold though. A woman tucking her hands under her jacket, wearing several layers of clothing. The bus must be arriving, because she’s stepping closer to the edge of the sidewalk.

A woman putting on make up. Her hair is dyed red. There’s bits of dye on her cheek, and her lips are covered with lipstick. Her hands are working hands. It is important for her to look good.

An old woman on the train station, probably waiting for the train. Her fingers interlocked. She’s watching over her canisters (probably full of wine) and her handbag. She might try to sell some on the market. Pensions are low. Her face reflects sadness.

A man is just being arrested. There’s a stupid grin on his face. Two policemen are holding him on the side of a river. He must’ve been in the water, because his clothes are soaking wet. The policemen must’ve jumped after him because they’re soaking wet too. There must’ve been a fight as well, because their faces are bruised. He’ll probably get more beating at the station.

An older man, lower middle class, holding some paper money in his mouth, reaching after it with his hand.

The hope for a better life or the look of contentment is the look of an older woman who lived in a village all her time. She’s embracing a sweetcorn. Behind her is the sweetcorn field. The sun is slowly going down. The sky is painted in violet and orange. The old woman is hoping for a better crop next year.

A gipsy woman selling lavender on the street. Lavender flowers are tied together in smaller bunches. Her daughter is sleeping on a stripy bag crawled up next to the wall. People are rushing by.

The market is called New Times. But the times are hard and don’t seem to be new at all. A gipsy boy is sitting on his carriage transporting waste on the middle of the road, whilst police men are smiling at him. The boy is hitting the horse with a piece of wood.

Shopping centre. An overweight woman is sitting in a massage chair, after throwing in a coin. A KFC bag next to her. The woman seems to be enjoying the massage very much.

An old woman dressed in black crawled up next to a wall, like a sad old raven. Tired, hopeless look on her face. There’s a poster behind her on the wall, advertising a radio show entitled confessions about life. I wonder what she would confess?

A man dressed in an ancient costume holding a bow and arrows. A horse sitting on it’s back behind the rider. We were a rider nation once. Today a shepherd kneels his horse down because he’s drunk and this is the easiest way to get on the horse’s back. The horse is wise, connected with its owner, knows where to take the master home.

Bringing in the hay. Two horses are grazing in front of a carriage. Two men are stacking hay on it. The hay reaches a few meters high. The men haven’t finished yet. They must be trusting those horses. One pitchfork load of hay after another. Later on the loaded carriage is carefully advancing on the road. Cars are passing by.

On the cobblestone, the street artist is squatting in front of his stool. He could’ve decided to sit on it, but he chose to put some of his merchandise on it instead. Greek-orthodox religious icons are on sale. There must be a lot of religious buyers. A few hand carved spoons, with the same patterns on them. People must be interested in hand carved spoons too. Townscapes on a few oil painted canvases on the side.

Old guy wearing dirty clothes carrying a sleeping bag on his shoulder walking on a crowded touristy street taking a peek into elegant shoe shops...taking a turn on a street corner and checking out the contents of a few waste bins...walking onwards to a smaller park, sitting on a bench, watching people play tennis...feeding the pigeons with a few morcels of bread...going back on the crowded alley and watching the street musicians...checking out a few more bins...buying a beer at a local shop...going in to Mc Donalds to the toilet...asking for a cigarette from someone passing by...going to a deserted park...taking out the sleeping bag...popping, cheering, fireworks...a happy new year begins.

The fisherman

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 21:13:00 GMT

When I was a kid, one of my favourite books was The Boys of Paul street written by Ferenc Mora. I felt that I could identify myself with many of the characters, and I secretly wished to have my own “grund”.

The novel is about schoolboys in the rapidly developing Budapest at the turn of the 20th century, who defend their playground, the "grund", from the "redshirts", a team of other boys who want to occupy it. The boys regard the "grund" as their "Fatherland", constitute themselves its "National Army" and constantly use all the terminology of nationalism as common at the time in Hungary as elsewhere in Europe.

The "battle", fought with "sandbombs", ends when the smallest and weakest boy, Ernő Nemecsek, whom the other boys earlier mistakenly thought a "traitor", dies. Nemecsek, already gravely ill, dies of the effects of pneumonia after joining the battle in spite of his serious illness.

Soon after his death, the boys are chased off their beloved "grund"/"Fatherland" by engineers who inform them that an apartment building will be erected on the spot.

As I said earlier, I secretly wished to have my own “grund”, and I thought that one day I’ll be able to persuade some of the boys in my grandmother’s village to join me to form our own team in a quest to fight back the invisible “redshirts”.

Now that I think of it, they weren’t all that invisible either. All the tourists and people spending their free weekend by the riverside were considered by me “redshirts”. I loved the river; I knew all its sections lying next to the village. And I felt bothered by these tourists arriving late in the morning, burning their stakes, drinking their beers, washing their cars, fishing like amateurs.

I wanted peace and calm, because I was trying to catch a really big fish. I had a very good bamboo fishing rod which I used very proudly for a few years.

My friend and I, the two Zsolt’s, we used to disappear in the bush, competing with each other over who could catch more fish. We had dozens of techniques, we used different types of worms, bread soaked in water, sweet corn, insects we found other rocks called “karasz”. In those times there were plenty of fish in the river.

Once I discovered a place, where the fish were biting very well, and I went there with my sister to try our luck. We caught about 80 fish in an hour. We were really proud, went back to our grandmother’s house, I gutted them, and my grandmother fried them in a pan. Lots of small gutted headless fish rolled in flour and egg yolk…it was a delicacy!! And I caught them, with my sis.

I liked the quiet, and I felt that I owned the river starting from the bridge by the “bodega” all the way up to another bridge with rail lines on it. This was my river! At times I was there with the wind, the sun on my back, changing my fishing locations often moving barefoot through the river or through a path in a sweet corn bush. The other village boys gave me tips about where I could find a good spot, where the bigger fish might be. There was a place called “the Root” where we used to go swimming in the afternoons. During the mornings this place was an excellent spot for fishing. My friend, the other Zsolt had taught me how to catch fish with my bare hands. I really enjoyed that method, and the place such as “the Root” was the ideal place for this.

I knew different types of fish. There was one, which had an obscene but funny name. It was called the “pussy cutter”. Once I caught this fish and it bit me. Hence the funny name. It must’ve bitten many other people before.

On one of the afternoons, I managed to catch a huge fish. Well, it was huge for me, it probably weighed about 500 grams, and it was the biggest fish I ever caught. I used fresh sweet corn as bait, it was still milky inside. And when I saw the float disappear very fast, then my heart started to pound very fast too. I used the good ol’ tiring technique, where I let the fish run and then slowly pull it back, and then let it go again, and carry on playing with it, till it gets completely exhausted, and then I could pull it out of the water without breaking the hook in its mouth and letting it slip away.

That was it then. I quickly packed up, and started walking back home. People on my way home wanted to buy the fish from me, but I didn’t sell it to them. I think I was too proud to do such a thing. Instead I’ve taken it back to my grandma’s house, and after the usual gutting process, my dad said that he knows of a ways to take all the bones out in one go. And with that, in the evening I ate the best fish fillet in my life…

Photos: Snow monkeys

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 21:05:00 GMT

the macaques of Jigokudani Yaenkoen

Monkey bath in the hot springs of Jigokudani

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 21:01:00 GMT

Splash. Splash. Two wild monkeys dive into a hotspring next to me in the beautiful mountains of Jigokudani. The English translation of this place is Hell's valley, and somehow I do not have any burning desires to leave from here. This feels more like paradise than hell. A monkey-heaven.

Four hours ago I was still sitting on a metro on the Yamanote line heading towards Tokyo station. Then I got teleported by the Shinkansen to Nagano, on the other side of the island. A large group of very young school children rushed past me to take a group photo in front of the 1998 Winter Olympics banner. I caught a glimpse of their smiles, uniforms and small yellow hats before boarding the personal train to Yudanaka.

Finally there I was, feeling a little bit abandoned in a small rural train station. Faint music playing from the station speakers, an old man sitting on a bench and a dog running somwhere, maybe on a quest for new bone. My quest for the day was to visit the famous bathing Macaque. There were no English signs to point me in the right direction but as soon as I walked out from the station there was an arrow and the head of a monkey above it pointing towards a mountain. So I started walking.

I walked past many traditional Japanese houses, in the valley of Yokoyu river.The ground was rising below my feet till I reached a height of 850 meters and I spotted my very first Japanese hot spring on a steep cliff, spitting out boiling hot water onto the surface of the earth.Yes, it looked like the empire of Hades for at least a moment.

I went through a house where I could've taken a nice warm bath in the onsen, but I was too eager to see the famed snow monkeys in their spa resort which is probably better than Bath, Karlovy Vary and Baden Baden put all together (prime spa resorts in Europe). They feel so good and dozed off, that they do not pay any attention to me. And all this for the price of an admission ticket.

My new furry friends really didn't seem bothered at all. Monkey mums were carefully cleaning their babies, whilst monkey uncles and monkey dads had a long nap on the side of the pool. Aaah, the life! The sound of silence and a few other atmospheric sounds: scratch,scratch - splash - yawn.

These Macaques are capable to endure even -15 degrees Celsius, but it's easy like this if they're socializing in the hot bathing water all day long.

I must say evolution is no joke. They are the living proof. I suppose a couple of decades ago they must've seen a bunch of hippies snowball fighting and soaking themselves in the springs and they must've decided that swimming and snowball fighting is a good idea and they've been doing them ever since. There might be scientific proof for their behaviour, but I think ultimately it's just good old fashioned fun.Something we, humans manage to lose sometimes. This is why I envied my furry mammal counterparts, simultaneously I was in awe and I couldn't stop taking photos of them. They are my greatest photo models so far. It's a pity I'm not going to see them on Fashion Tv.

Photos: Bear lake - Sovata

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 20:50:00 GMT

Bear lake Zen

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 20:50:00 GMT

On May 27, 1875 there was a cloudburst, forming a hole on the bottom of which the hay brought by water deposited and produced a dead end. Water has accumulated and has made a lake. Thus we can say that the lake appeared both by landslide and by sealing. The name was given by locals who have seen the shape resembled a large bearskin.
This is Bear Lake in Sovata.

The other lakes next to Bear lake are distinguished by different curative factors such as healing mud of Black Lake and Lake Aluniş (9000 mc), clay-siliceous mud. Other lakes, Green (5000 m) and Red, underlying the Salt Mountain are also valuable by their salt water and sludge.

With an alpine climate with cool summers and mild winters, Sovata has a calming action on the nervous system. The resort is recommended for the treatment of gynecological degenerative diseases and inflammatory rheumatic diseases, peripheral nervous system diseases, endocrine disorders and cardiovascular diseases. In short, Sovata is recommended to treat gynecological, musculoskeletal, cardiovascular, digestive and endocrine, and to treat post-trauma state.

Photos: Transylvanian flavours

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 20:39:00 GMT

snapshots from Sekler villages

An authentic Transylvanian lifestyle

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 20:38:00 GMT

There are many people who still live or survive in the villages scattered accross Transylvania. I must say, that they are proud people. Proud of their culture, knowledge of crafts and their heritage. They don't have much, but what they do have will share with a traveler. I had a great time in a village called Haraly, and it has reminded me of times past in Szarazpatak or Demenyhaza. Time stays still in places like these just like in a Marquez novel. And some of the crafty people start to realise that true happiness is where we make it with our own bare two hands...A Transylvanian writer called Tamasi said once: "We're in this world, to find a home in it, wherever that may be." Traditions, crafts and culture are the new building blocks of a true home.

in and out of Agadir

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 20:14:00 GMT

I had certain small reservations about my trip to Morocco before I left. Mainly because I read too many scare stories on the internet about the increased amount of hustlers, beggars and all sorts of other funny people. I’ve also read about the lack of transportation from Agadir to other places. A few bus companies are operating from Agadir, well actually from outside Agadir, from another town called Inezgane. I’ve looked for their timetables on the net but haven’t found anything tangible and useful, they seem to have a very loose working structure. The hotel I booked had good reviews on some travel sites, so that was good. And the idea of being in weather conditions which are 10 degrees or more than in the UK seemed to be the most attractive. With all this in mind I booked a coach ticket to Victoria, and then the Gatwick Express to the airport. Gatwick has two terminals North and South, mine was the North terminal, which is the farthest.

The flight was relatively comfy and we arrived to Agadir Al Massira airport (I hope I pronounced right, cause I’m writing this from memory). I had to fill in a landing card and we were queuing for a long time. After a while I got impatient and I was jumping from one queue to another. Finally I was out from the airport. As soon as I walked out from there, I was

joined by a few taxi drivers. In front of the airport there are loads of taxis waiting ready to transport people. Needn’t I mention that this is the only means of transportation into Agadir, there’s also a local bus, but that stops in Inezgane and from there another bus needs to be taken – it seemed far too complicated to go for it. So I got in a taxi (cost me about 200 dirhams/ 20 euro) which took me all the way to my hotel which is called Studiotel Afoud. On the way, in the dark I got a few early glimpses of Morocco, and it all seemed quite strange, but expected in a way.

Having arrived at the hotel, I had a quick shower and went out for a very quick neighbourhood exploration. I was actually hungry so I got into the first shop I could find and bought bread, cheese, water...the essentials. And then back to the hotel. It was too dark to walk too far on the first evening. As I was walking back to the hotel I saw my first donkey cart on the side of the road between parked cars, with two donkeys waiting calmly in the night.

My hotel room was affordable and attractive enough to spend a week’s holiday in it. It had a double bed, a kitchenette, a balcony and an en-suite bathroom. I switched on the TV and watched a bit of NBC and went to bed.

In the morning I went out on the balcony to see the view, and it wasn’t too bad. I could see quite far till some hills, and I saw several prayer towers or muezzins I think that’s what they’re called. The weather looked good, so it was just about time to go and find the beach. I didn’t have a map, but I checked Google maps and I had certain sense of direction. So I

started walking and in about 20 minutes I was on the beach. I walked a length of it till the Kasbah hill, which is overlooking the city and it has big Arab inscriptions in it, something like God, Country and...I don’t remember the

third inscription. Some kids were rugby training on the beach, and there were loads of smaller groups of kids, guys playing football and volley. They like football here, because when there’s low tide, then the wet sand becomes hard

and flat and it’s ideal for football.

While I was walking on the seafront I started meeting my first characters, they usually stopped people by waving to them, then saying welcome to Morocco and then trying to sell you hashish, marijuana, trips/tours, women...you name it.:) One of the guys pointed me into the direction of a market, so I had the wild idea to walk there. Another guy who joined me - and surprisingly he was the only guy who didn’t want to sell anything, just wanted to chat – he said that the market is about 10 km-res away. So I suspected that they are talking about the Inezgane market. I started walking anyway, and after a while I got to a taxi station and I thought..ok...I’ll have a lift. But if you’re a foreigner and you don’t know the distinctions between the taxis then you’re lost. I got into a petit taxi instead of a grand taxi. Small taxis only operate within the city, but I didn’t know that at that time. So I got into one of these petit taxis and I said I

want to go to the market. The driver said ok and also said that it’s the Souk I’m talking about. I didn’t know what the Souk was, but I said to him let’s go and I’ll find out. After 2 minutes driving we arrived to the Souk, and now I

know that it’s one of the markets in Agadir (that one was the vegetable market), but it wasn’t the market I wanted to go to, and it was certainly not 10 kilometres away. And I got hustled by the driver, because I paid 10 dirhams and later on I realized that the Souk was just around a corner from the taxi stop, and he just drove me around a little bit. When I got out from the taxi, I was immediately joined by a guy, saying that he will guide me. I said, that I don’t need a guide, but he was really persistent and he said that he works for the mayor’s office and the market so I don’t have to pay him, he will just show me around. Luckily I read about stories like these before on the net, and I knew that he will take me to different corners of the market and will try to convince me to buy something, because if I do, then he will get a commission from the seller. So he showed me vegetables, and when he saw that I wasn’t too keen then we went to see garments and pottery and even Moroccan Viagra and that’s when I said goodbye to him. I was considering to take a turn behind his back, but I thought he would chase me, so I just said to him that I really don’t want to buy anything and off I went, my mood as well, so I got out from the Souk. When I was outside, I found myself in quite a rundown area, but lots of interesting faces/people coming and going so I snapped a few photos. One of them was really funny, because I caught a guy while he was having a shit on the side of a dried out riverbed. And it seemed all so simple for him. You know they are all wearing robes to cover their body even in this heat, so he just squatted down, pulled up his robe, and simple as that, the product dropped out. Now that was about it, my brief encounters with the Souk...I carried on walking and ended up in the Talborjit area which has actually been completely destroyed in 1960 by an earthquake. This place is

slightly off the tourist path, so it was good for me to see some local faces. I walked past a homless man sleeping with a baguette tucked safely under his head.

PART 2

On the outskirts of Agadir is very common to see carts pulled by donkeys. I think some people are making a living out of collecting rubbish and re-using what they can, even re-selling bits and bobs on some shady markets. I had to stop and stare in one of the donkey's face standing just outside an abandoned warehouse. As I carried on walking I was apporached by a beggar, an older man. He seemed to be an excellent photo-subject so I gave him 5 dirhams and asked him whether I could take a photo. He swiftly refused and walked away from me. More and more it seems that people feel quite uncomfortable by having their photos taken. A few minutes later I found myself in front of Jardim de Olhao, one of the bigger gardens of Agadir, and wandered inside. By the entrance a middle aged man was preoccupied with his oil paintings and some of his completed works were hanging next to his tiny workshop. I had a stroll underneath the palm trees of the garden, noticed a cat, listened to the birds and admired some of the stone walls built inside the garden. They must've been the recreation of something more famous, I couldn't tell, but I found it fascinating that out of hundreds of pieces of chipped stone they built a beautiful wavy shaped wall with impressive archways and mini courtyards. I carried on walking without really having a plan or a map. I enjoy discovering a town, a city by just walking in it and the idea of getting lost and not knowing where I might be thrills me. It is fun to find my way back to familiar places, and sometimes I would need to ask for guidance. So there I was, crossing the street past another beggar, a woman who chose to beg on the street trying to stop cars. For a moment I thought I would repeat what I did a while back, to offer some money and then try to take a photo, but then I gave up on the idea. I walked past a few mosques, and on my way people were giving me curious looks.

The car of the poorer person in Agadir seems to be the Renault 12, which looks exactly like the Romanian Dacia, that's because the Romanians have acquired the model and carried on building Renault type Dacias till recent years. As I walked past the car, my tummy started rambling and the voided cosmos in my stomach needed to be filled. So I entered a roadside restaurant and ordered fish soup, tajine kefta and eggs, and mint tea. This was supposed to be quite a traditional meal in Morocco, so i was satisfied with my choice. I was pretty much satisfied with the meal as well. I like the idea of having olives and bread on the side next to every meal, and they are not mean at all with their portions. So the fish soup came out, a bit hot, but felt good after almost a day's walk and fies appeared, they seemed to be eager to help me out in my efforts. I loved the mint tea. They must be using fresh mint leaves and plenty of it, because the tea had quite a strong minty taste sweetened with sugar. And the way they pour the tea seems to be dangerous, but the waiter didn't spill any of it on me, just lifted the tea pot half metre high and poured it in my glass.

Satisfied, with some small burp aftershocks and leaving 10 percent tip behind I left the restaurant and carried on walking. I got to a neighbourhood area with really run down buildings, one of them looked like Noah's arc, bars on the balconies and windows, rubbish around it, antennas and dozens of satellite dishes on the top of the building. I was joined by a guy trying to sell me hashish again but I was already used to this, so I refused. A few minutes later I noticed a Carrefour shop. Seemed to be odd, but it was really there. I went inside and bought some peaches. With a juice peach in my hand I stopped in front of a travel agency called Supratours buses. I figured I take my chances, go inside and ask for timetables and whether they could tell me how to get to a place called Tiznit and how to get back. The guy didn't know any English, only French. I have learnt French in school, but haven't practiced it for years. So with my coarse French I was asking for directions, and he seemed to understand me, but I was disappointed to hear that buses only go from Inezgane, the town 10 km'res away from Agadir and he said he doesn't know the bus timetables on the way back from Tiznit. Uncertain of what to do the next day, I have thanked him and walked back on the seafront. I found myself in front of a bird park, or a zoo called Vallee des Oiseaux, the valley of the birds. I went inside and indeed there were loads of birds hurdled in their cages hens together with peacocks,flamingos, parrots and ducks...seemed to be a strange combination. I saw some mountain goats, alpacas, muflons...so I took a few more photos. As I walked out I saw a street artist selling his touristic paintings, usually a desert scene, an oasis, a mosque, some berber people...things like these portrayed. Opposite him there was a large group of Africans (they were from Mali) and a berber man. They were selling carved african statues. Three or four of them were really busy carving. The berber man sitting with them had the most unusual and photogenic face. I feel really sorry that I haven't been able to take a photo of him. He had this deep stare as he looked people straight in their eyes. Some guy wanted to sell me some argan oil but I wasn't particularly curious at that time. I looked at the children on the square for a while. Some merchants have taken out a load of horse shaped trycicles and for a few dirhams lots of children could have a go, a race. The amount of concentration on their faces while they were riding their trikes! They seemed to enjoy it a lot.

When I got back on the seafront facing the Agadir holy hill it definitely felt like a different part of the day. Maybe also because it was a sunday evening, it seemed that the whole of Agadir has suddenly gathered on the beach. Families walking up and down, children, young and older women, covered and uncovered faces, street vendors everywhere, chatter and laughter everywhere. I sat down to smoke a cigarette, when a little girl sat next to me, put her little hand on my shoulder and looked into my camera. I had to show her the photos I've taken, and then she has shown me her bicycle. She asked me to take photos of her bike. Her mother arrived an instant later and she apologized in a makeshift French, she also said that she hasn't learnt too much French in school. So they were talking to me in Arabic, I was talking to them in English and we got along really well. The giggling little girl was clinging on me, fiddling with my camera. Then I thought soon it would be time to head back to the hotel. So I said goodbye to the woman and her little daughter and walked back slowly. After all that walking I already knew exactly where to go, how to get back to the hotel. Had a cigarette on the balcony, switched English France 24 on, and watched some news about the greek protests, bailout attempts and Romanians having been forbidden to work in Spain. Slowly I fell asleep and had some weird dreams of passing through Recas colony in Romania. Gipsies have built pagodas, castles and fortresses there after years of begging and crime throughout Europe. Someone told me once that one gipsy family have completed their massive building, but carried on living in a hut attached to the building. You see strange things everywhere I suppose.:) With this in mind I was looking forward to see new strange things in Morocco, the next day.

CONUNDRUMS IN INEZGANE

It is pretty cheap to have a meal in Morocco, and it is worth experimenting with the local flavours. We can go to Nando’s some other time. Apropos, chicken: I’ve been gobsmacked when I saw a GFC in Agadir. It put a smile on my face. Yeah, when I was young I couldn’t really afford a Nike, so I bought a Mike instead on the Russian market. Anyway, why would the chicken be from Kentucky when we’re in Morocco?

So getting back to the tagine. This is the national stuff. You can buy all sorts, and it’s prepared in various ways. And it goes in line with the tagine-pot making business. You’re not a real tourist if you don’t buy at least a tagine pot in one of the souvenir shops. I guess I wasn’t a real tourist myself, because I was happier to get myself a shisha. There has to be meat in tagine and that can be chicken or beef with all sorts of vegetables on the top starting from sweet potatoes to carrots, peppers, onions, and then everything is dumped together in a decent size tagine pot. It is generally eaten with couscous which is as vital in Morocco as rice in China.

I haven’t eaten that much soup whilst I stayed in Morocco (only fish soup and chicken soup), so I can’t describe a good traditional Moroccan soup.

Meat. It is hanging everywhere on Moroccan streets, those butcher shops have given me the jeepers creepers. There must be many flesh eating creatures lurking in the alcoves. So, all these meat bits are hanging on hooks everywhere, a bit like in Hostel. The customer will pick the right size and amount, the butcher will take it off the hook and with a reasonably sharp butchers knife…slash slash…you can hear the sound of the breaking carcass, frightened flies fleeing for their lives…and the product is on the counter wrapped elegantly into yesterday’s edition of Al Mountakhab. Forgive my ignorance but I was sceptical most times when I had a taste of the local meat.

As I mentioned earlier, mint tea is the traditional drink around here, and it’s the sign of hospitality, in many places they serve you mint tea free of charge, bit like green tea in Japanese restaurants or eateries. And it’s incredibly strong, fresh and sweet. I might’ve mentioned that too.

I’ve expected to have a taste of all of these things sometime towards lunchtime. That was part of the plan for the day.

So there I was on a Tuesday morning, thinking of where to go and what to do for the whole day. The day before I’ve heard someone say that there’s a market day in Inezgane, and I wanted to go there anyway to catch a bus to Tiznit, hoping that everything would work out just the way I wanted.

I knew that I had to go to the taxi station and take a grand taxi to Inezgane. So I walked towards those taxis situated fifteen minutes away on foot from my hotel. The rundown buildings, mess everywhere contrasting with some luxurious establishments have given me a creepy uncomfortably familiar feeling. More donkeys, more carts, scooters from the pre-war period, markets, shouting, smell, stench…and finally taxis. The station is basically a square with loads of old Mercedes cars parked everywhere. These are the Grand Taxis. Now if I’m right then all Grand Taxis have different colours, this is how you can tell which one is from where. And the ones in Agadir are blue, I think. It took me an instant to find one departing to Inezgane. That’s because it is a frequent destination. So I jumped in the back of the car. Then to my surprise three other guys jumped in too at the back, and two in front next to the driver. It is definitely not illegal to drive six people plus the taxi driver in a Mercedes which is almost falling apart. So other than gasping for air and seeing streams of sweat dropping off my forehead I think my journey to Inezgane has been swift, smooth…over.:) I got to the city centre and got out from the car right next to the market. Well I didn’t really see where it began and where it ended, because there were stalls everywhere, people selling practically anything. That was a good opportunity for me to start taking photos, but I’ve done it with a lot of caution, because I knew I would get into trouble if I would take close ups.

Photos: Morocco

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 19:56:00 GMT

in and out of Agadir

Visiting her

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 19:53:00 GMT

Looking through the windows puts a smile on my face. In one room a man is ironing his shirts, in another a cat is stretching on the top of the dressing table, and in yet another a woman wearing black stockings is practicing tango. As if I would’ve been dropped into an old black and white European movie.

I am mesmerized. By the greyish shining rooftops, by rows of chimneys, by a tower in the distance, by being able to see so far, by the feeling, by this stream of dream, by all This.

The city is about to wake up, but it’s still silent, and chilly, everything is still floating in a sleepy fog...trams are still half empty...soon the morning rush...soon I wave one more goodbye, and she’ll be gone. She’ll live her life and I will live mine.

Journey to the “ Cauldron of waters”

lokodizsolt — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 09:58:00 GMT

Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on a wing, onwards the sailors cry ...so I made a dramatic entrance onto the Isle of Skye through Kyle of Lochalsh. A while back, in a Youtube video I have seen Ray Mears, my favorite outdoorsman visit Loch Coruisk. He called it a beautiful and desolate place, which is only bothered by occasional tour-boat visits from Elgol. Those who are willing to take a more scenic journey would need to depart on foot from Sligachan campsite and walk about 7-8 miles to reach the lake. I have chosen this second option, and I haven’t been disappointed at all. I have put up my tent at the foot of one of the Red Cuillins called Glamaig. I have a knack for adventure, so I have decided to climb it, and went through all the bog and marshland to reach the foot of the mountain. I scrambled towards the top with the camera hanging over my neck, followed by the suspicious looks of mountain sheep, and stopped several times to take photos of the surrounding scenery. It started to get dark so I slid off. My shoes were gathering sheep droppings on my way down like precious artifacts. Back at the campsite I prepared my powder tomato soup. It took me a while to figure out that if I shelter my gas burner with a wall of rocks, then it heats up the soup quicker. And with this tomato soup party in my tummy I read a few chapters from Patrick Leigh Fermor’s book: Words of Mercury.
I haven’t slept too well, but I wasn’t really bothered by it the next morning, because I was on my way to Loch Coruisk. Battery power check. Walking boots and weatherproof clothing check. I walked through a long narrow slightly rocky path till Druim Hain, walking all the way up to the crest. Two climbers taking a break from the wind under a boulder. In front of me an enormous valley, with the road winding its way back to Sligachan and the start of the Cuillins. I had to go up Sgurr na Stri to get the best view of the lake and I wasn’t disappointed. Going down was a bit of a problem. The mountain was quite steep at places, and some of the rocks were quite wet. And I wasn’t prepared to leave my bones here, no matter how amazing this place was, so I paid attention, and managed my way down. And there I was at the side of Loch Coruisk. I took my socks off and went into the lake with a sigh of relief. I looked around, to see that a group of elderly people were skinny dipping in there, and some of the old ladies were shouting after me, inviting me in for a swim like a bunch of sea nymphs. I respectfully declined and went on my way.