Colours of the Wind

Couchsurfing Encounters

r8chel — Sat, 30 Mar 2013 00:46:00 GMT

"For f*ck's sake!" suddenly erupted downstairs.

Julia and I were huddled on the floor of a loft, our noses braced against the roof and a window screen Ralph controlled from his remote control. At 10pm we had fled into our sleeping bags as he clicked off the lights and swallowed us up in pitch black. He slept below, and at 2am suddenly started shrieking. Terrified, Julia hid her glowing mobile phone and the flat elapsed back into silence.

We had arrived in Bordeaux hidden in a train toilet. It was the first stop on our way to begin the grape-picking season, only to find out we were on the wrong side of France. “You’ll never make it in time.” Ralph sneered.

He had met us at the station to drop off keys and left for basketball practise. A plate of cookies greeted us at his apartment and we exhaled in relief. Couch-surfing is a strange contract. Meeting the stranger on whose generosity you will depend is an odd experience. You regard each other aloofly- wondering if the other person will be weird, nice or a serial killer. “He must be a cool guy.” I repeated to Louise. She had nodded in agreement.

But as he scowled audibly beneath us, my stomach flipped.

We had already spent one week in Paris with our first host, Jean. A handsome French man verging on middle-aged, who lived centrally and worked for Microsoft. But besides a table, coffee machine and fold-out couch, his flat was empty. Jean sent directions by mail and assured us the door would be open, “I don’t lock it. There is nothing to steal.”

We were greeted by two other couch-surfers. Romanian Catina and Turkish Betul had already been crashing rent-free for months. By the time Julia and I left, we would share Jean’s floor with an American drifter and four more Polish girls.

“When I go abroad for work trips I couch-surf a lot, so when I’m home I pay back the community." Jean explained as we picnicked at a local park. "Besides it’s a waste to keep such a big flat to myself, I’m always at work anyway.”

“Have you ever had bad experiences?”

“Once a Slovakian guy locked me out and was gone until 3am. All my things were in his flat and I had to catch a plane in the morning.”

“You’re lucky your first host is Jean,” Catina had warned us, “I’ve stayed with some really strange people. Jean’s lifestyle is a bit strange- but he’s a good person.”

As Julia and I exchanged terrified looks on the floor of a loft in Bordeaux, I wondered if we were safe.

Photos: Vienna 2012

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 23:45:00 GMT

Images from the city of Vienna!

Photos: Bosnia & Herzegovina 2012

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 23:32:00 GMT

Images from Sarajevo, Visoko, Mostar and Blagaj!

Photos: France 2011

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 23:12:00 GMT

Couch-surfing Paris and Bordeaux!

Photos: Turkey 2010

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 23:07:00 GMT

Summer in Turkey!

Photos: Hong Kong 2009

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 22:48:00 GMT

Images from Hong Kong!

Photos: Russian Winter 2008-9

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 22:03:00 GMT

Images from various cities in Russia

Balkan Pyramids

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 05:20:00 GMT

Rain drizzled around, alleviating us of the heat and our own sweat. We had been trekking up and down Bosnia’s irregular skyline for almost an hour. In the distance a mass cemetery sprawled out at the foot of our destination; a mysteriously geometric hill.

Malik had invited me to his homeland; the site of a recent, bloody conflict. Where his father’s military horse leapt from a cliff cowed by something dark enough for animals to understand. “There is something wrong with my country... on average we have a war every 500 years.” Malik’s friend had insisted, as we feasted on barbecued beef.

Bullet holes dot the pastel streets of Sarajevo, and in Visoko or Mostar roofs crumble to the ground or have been wholly amputated by gunfire. While among the rubble Mosques, Churches and Synagogues gleam almost side by side. Bridges crossing numerous streams and rivers seem symbolic of communities living in peace, at least until this 500 year cycle runs out.

Yet besides ethnic tension, it seems Bosnia has another reason to attract international attention. As we began our trek a handful of excavating volunteers pulled up in a stuttering car. They were soon followed by a minivan, emitting a crowd of Americans. We formed a mismatched semi-circle around a little wooden hut, plastered with posters and tourist gifts. Dr Semir Osmanagich appeared as the crowd hummed into silence, for the discoverer of the Bosnian Pyramids.

We spent the next forty minutes underground. Led by a Bosnian archaeologist through strangely cool tunnels. Mushrooms sprouted on the muddy walls and torchlight lit faint hieroglyphics. our heads bobbed up and down dodging a ceiling that funnels oxygen deep into this labyrinth, to a pool of fresh water. A volunteer had joined our tour, and stopped every now and again to recharge his energy crystals on the floor. In generous English our guide explained that these tunnels possess a sort of rejuvenating capacity, sheltered as they are from ‘cosmic energy’.

Soon we caught up with an American archaeologist, engaged in discovering the magnetic ‘energy beam’ supposedly projecting from a large granite tile he searched with metal prongs. Sitting in a circle we closed eyes and flattened our palms against the tile, attempting to feel the energy.

We emerged into daylight and the muggy atmosphere, suddenly exposed to the sunlight and ‘positive ions’. Continuing on our way we trekked ever uphill to the geographical centre of Bosnia, and to the summit of the largest pyramid on earth; “Pyramid of the Sun”.

A Russian Christmas

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 03:30:00 GMT

Following a group of Russians we slipped into the hall of a church, and eventually into mass. As we entered a shrivelled but smiley old woman conveyed that she wanted to tie aprons around our waists. I was scolded by some man for holding a camera and then we shuffled into a space in the crowd. The interior was mangificent. Scented candles burned, the walls depicted saints and biblical scenes all painted in pastels and gold. Huge golden chandeliers hung from high spire ceilings, and a bishop chanted melodically. Every now and then a chorus of women would pipe up angelically. It was so serene and reverenced. And filled. Hundreds of Russians stood crossing themselves and bowing at certain words or phrases, women stood with their eyes closed, and lips moving. A child lit a candle and prayed.

When we got back to the bus a friendly woman offered “Ruskee chie”, like I haven’t already tasted Russian black-tea about six hundred times. It was very kind though, and very appreciated.

The bus jolted down the street and around a bend, parking on top of our destination: a frozen lake. We followed Darina and a couple of other women into this little wooden hut, where we hastily changed into pyjamas, taking it in turns to climb down the icy stairs and ‘dip three times’. Having spent summers in the Irish Sea, I didn’t find the water exceptionally freezing, the frozen steps were worse. It was a shock submerging yourself so quickly but not unbearable. In the depths of the Russian Winter the water should be warmer then the sub zero environmental temperatures, and perhaps this is why Russians can stand to contemplate such a shock to the nerves. It is wonderfully refreshing to feel your body warm up again, under the layers and layers you hide inside. Apart from Darina, her ‘siberian mother’, Magda and I, maybe only two other women took the plunge. We left triumphant, and ‘strong’- with a story to tell our grandchildren. It was minus twenty degrees.

On the journey home food was shared around the bus, and a steel mug of vodka passed between seats. The warmth burning down my throat into my belly was such a relief, as I sat with my hood up, gloves on and zipped up; snug in the cold. The back seat passengers, having been relatively quiet on the way up were drunk. Someone produced a balalaika and they sung passionately from 2am until we arrived back in Nizhny, dramatic wailing interspersed with triumphant cries of ‘Opa!’.

The Visitor

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 03:21:00 GMT

At about 1am or something someone started banging on the door- it was a neighbour complaining about the noise. In the end she just wanted us to move the music into another room, as directly above her son was asleep. I’m not sure if she arrived intoxicated, but it became very clear that it was her intention. Elated with birthday cheer I greeted her with one of the very few Russian phrases I know, ‘nice to meet you’ and consequently she began following me around. And not just following- pulling, hugging, squeezing and generally being very forcefully affectionate. She kept calling for me, wanted to speak with me and dragged me back to the dancefloor anytime I departed. Our new friendship quickly spiralled into a pursuit and of course finding it very funny Dimi encouraged her in Russian.

At some time in the morning, three Russian men were pounding against the door. In her element Marija flung her body against it, preventing anyone from leaving, convinced it was an angry husband coming to fetch his vegabound wife. There was a whole uproar, Rufus wrapped his chain around his fist determined for a fight.

Eventually Ivan went out to speak with them and discovered that really it was just a few middle aged men who had been drinking outside, who wanted to join the party and even offered him vodka. However Masha- who had previously told Magda that she didn’t want to go home because her boyfriend beat her, was hiding behind the bed. Despite everyone else’s demands that we just boot her out to ‘deal with her own problems', my heart had already melted.

Attempting to put her to sleep I dragged her to bed, and sat on the floor repeating ‘sleep’ and ‘goodnight’ in Russian. Understanding that she wanted a kiss I gave her a goodnight peck on the cheek, but when it only seemed to inflame her I immediately declared ‘Net. Ya lublu muchena’; ‘no. I love men’, which she then also repeated. I tried again, pretending to sleep, until she started whispering fiercely and licked my hands and face! And she bit my arm!

Eventually at 5am in the morning, when she woke and Ivan finally forced her to leave, having sobered up, she was a different person. With make-up smudged all down her face of stone, sitting in the kitchen demanding a cigarette, totally changed from the carefree oblivious drunkard of the night before.

Suddenly it occurred to me that upstairs there was a child that would have to deal with this grim, hung over woman.

Turkish Resolve

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 03:13:00 GMT

Mert squirmed in front of me, focusing on the plastic nozzle. Huffing and puffing smoke as though it could save his life.

He had taken me to the legendary mermaid’s bay, where he asserted in his deep slow voice, “A fisherman found her, hundreds of years ago”.

We glided along the water’s edge between horizons melting into the sky above and sea below, my brown face grinning in his motorbike’s side mirror. Mediterranean stars shone in my eyes and my hair. We drove up rugged hills into the arid Turkish countryside, dodging swarming bats and Islamic superstitions. Where sitting at an abandeoned monument we sipped Effes, overlooking the city lights below.

There is something intoxicating about this part of the world. A place where winter doesn’t exist except for the resigned grumbling of locals, describing gang warfare, docked boats and bleak, colourless days.

Close to home Mert was finally overtaken by his 15 hour shifts at the Marina, and drove the motorbike into a street curb. But shrugging the pain into his Turkish Machoism Mert limped to a nearby shisha lounge, where- despite my concern- we played backgammon and smoked for thirty minutes. Before eventually dizzied by the pain, he allowed a friend to drive him to hospital.

He had broken his toe.

"Like a Human"

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 02:33:00 GMT

I’ve been to Hostel “Africa”. In this particular area there is something like three or four buildings of students, and in each usually a floor of foreigners who are generally all coloured. The foreigners and Russians don’t mix and it really is becoming something like tribal warfare. In fact TJ told me about one incident that happened this week; two Africans were walking in a nearby park when a gang of Russians surrounded them, demanding money. Someone called someone, and suddenly every single African male in the area appeared at their side. Terrifying the bullies of course, who apologised and fled. TJ marvelled at the ‘brotherhood’ of it all.

Elsewhere in the linguistic university hostel, where students from all over the world study Russian, there is a similar Chinese stronghold. Before Kevin left he told me about some fight between a Chinese girl and her Austrian roommate which resulted in a sort of European vs. Asian clash for a month. The racial divides are just confounding, especially when you’d think everyone would have had enough of it on the streets.

And on Saturday night as Sarah, TJ, Rufus and I stood waiting for my bus, a drunk young man shouldered into TJ. Before I’d even noticed his friend returned to apologize, slurring ‘excuse my friend’ as sincerely as he could in his drunken state and limited English. He continued to ask us where we were all from and what TJ was studying, before another friend dragged him away. Another minute passed and suddenly the perpetrator came over to apologize.

Standing on the street, aware that people were staring at us and I would probably be safer alone, their drunken antics seemed to disperse all the hostility. Looks became curious rather than condemning and suddenly the boys were returning again and again to apologize or just be drunken fools.

But TJ just became more and more offended. He scoffed as I pointed out that they were only being friendly, saying that I didn’t know what it feels like to be completely out of place. It was humiliating, rather than endearing for him. Rufus asked if he would prefer that they were racist, and he replied that he would prefer they treat him like a human.

Crystal Collars

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 02:23:00 GMT

"This is just dangerous".

Lucy’s hypnotic eyes swirled as she leaned over the table.

"Besides, do you really want to be those girls? You know the ones I mean…"

Icy agreement crawled up my spine. I didn’t want us to be ‘those girls’, but chilled, I wondered if we already were.

In daylight, the seediness of the situation was felt by all. Yet with such typical carelessness Imogen and I shrugged. Together we would probably allow ourselves to be carried away to a desert island. In the hope of finding paradise, but as likely to be greeted by salivating cannibals or death by starvation and sunstroke. Fortunately we have the luck of the Irish- and each other.

We had been contacted by Nicola, the dark haired woman who swept us up at Jalouse almost a week previously. She had made dinner reservations for a party of nine, and invited us to join.

"Oh my god it takes months to get on the waiting list. I think we should go."

"I don’t know…"

But standing in front of Imogen’s wardrobe I had already submitted. The full length mirror, associated with so many nights out, initiated default behaviour. Suddenly we were painting our nails and curling/ straightening hair…

We met the other girls at the sliding doors, and were swept into a different world. Three floors and more went underground. Endless round tables scattered in areas serving different cuisine, eaten by men and women that gleamed in designer clothes, flawless make-up and precious jewels. The highest society, so rarely seen, had gathered here in masses. Further below ground was a club area, where we were directed to wait at Peter’s table. It was like falling into Alice’s rabbit-hole, and with each twirl becoming more and more aware of your own imposter peasantry. Given away either by the dress I was wearing- one of two that I owned, my nervousness or crude prettiness.

You can spot blue bloods by this nonchalant ability to make labels seem unremarkable. As though they simply belong on their bodies and are conjoined to their DNA. It is a seamless ability to adopt material items as almost spiritual goods. I however, stand so far apart from my fancy clothes and wear them so awkwardly that I felt my commonness must stand out like a shining beacon in my face.

Eventually we were invited upstairs to a restaurant table, where Peter sat with four guests. To my left was Emily, as unnerved and quiet as I had become, playing with the hams and cheeses prepared for us I whispered under my breath,

"It feels like there’s no gravity here."

Without the aid of alcohol, the conversation was stilted. Peter is a self-made millionaire and venture capitalist. His working class background betrays itself in his coarse accent and gluttonous social habits. Presently he whipped out the portfolio of his most recent project. A luxurious apartment complex that will be hoisted in the coming year. We all cooed and ahhed.

Peter’s girl-friend Inga, the pious ‘angel’ Nicola had described, supposedly walked the runways of Dolce and Gabbana at fourteen. She was Latvian, with white blonde hair and pretty though hardly breath-taking features. She glared at us understandably as we sat down- with a face that struck me not for looks, but for how old it was. She is my age, and yet decades my elder. If once sublimely beautiful, her beauty has all withered up into the life she has lived, and how tired and mean her expression was. Plainly speaking, Inga is Peter’s ‘kept-woman’. He provides for all her living expenses and in return she has no rights, as we were about to discover.

"Ladies! I have a present for you all! Just a little something I picked up from a friend."

Dancing around the table he presented us each with a bracelet. Watching Inga’s reaction from the corner of my eye I whispered to Emily,

"Now we’re collared."

Strange Turn of Events

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 02:08:00 GMT

I bit into my apple. Savouring this single piece of Mongolia that would be mine, in the end. Tears streamed down my face as my despair gave vent to a poem entitled ‘One Apple in Mongolia’.

I had been sitting on the same kitchen chair for most of the day. Clutching a water bottle to my stomach as it convulsed excruciatingly. I was in too much pain to even stand up, or sleep. And drifted now through consciousness and images of what I might look like emaciated and bald.

On the table before me was a copy of the ultra sound scan I had received at a private clinic in Ulanbaatar. Unintelligible russian was written beside it, describing a ’15 centimetre ovarian cyst, growing since birth and possibly cancerous’. The doctor looked at me with huge Mongolian eyes as I squirmed where I lay, biting my hand to muffle the groans.

Days after I arrived in Ulanbaatar to take up a year long teaching contract, I developed severe abdominal pains. I was told to return home immediately for surgery, and shuffled through Seoul airport like a frail old woman. Yet almost as soon as I touched down I recovered and was found perfectly healthy.

Catching a Moment - Snow

r8chel — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 02:00:17 GMT

It’s been snowing for days; Nizhny Novgorod is being reborn. Snow clothes the landscape in a layer of froth that glistens as you trudge along- slipping and sliding, hobbling like an old woman. Everything is cleaner and brighter, the mornings are fresh and crisp, and hills in the distance covered in white. Streams freeze and are being buried. And when you drive along the bridges or up the hill that overlooks the city, it’s like everything has been put to sleep. The city seems hushed in all the mistiness. People around you seem somehow more relaxed and calmer. The snow is really the saving grace of this ugly, industrial city. It floats down in heavenly drops, so ceaselessly it could almost drive you crazy.

Russians love the snow, they whined and whined until it arrived
and now that it has anticipate skiing, snowboarding, ice skating and are more collected about the natural order of things. They reminiscence about -30 and days when they couldn’t leave their buildings because it was so cold. It’s beautiful but indigestible. There are the cars and the factories and the towering Soviet structures, and then there is the snow.

And as temperatures continue to drop a special breed of Russian desperation begins to catch. As you stand alone at the bus stop, waiting in the cold, your pulse slows down until finally you fall into this strange daze. Limbs turning to lead you stop thinking reasonably and start acting desperately.

When a bus is so full that the doors won’t shut really you can wait for the next. But not in this cold! Not when drivers operate according to no known timetable. People shove and snatch at seats, or are left tinned like pickles with smelly hair in their face and legs between their own. And then the conductor snarls and throws change at you, exerting her power. She will similarly seize eleven roubles from the next passenger, who in turn, will flash a deathly look and shove someone else.

But yesterday as bodies slammed to and fro and I laughed silently, a stranger smiled back. For the first time in three months.