New Blog

Since January 2014 I have a new blog. It is titled as "Travel to Tell the Tale" and serves as my personal website.

Go to Travel to Tell the Tale

Arrival in Amman

I am finally in Amman

After borders of two

Israel and Jordan

Having crossed on a long, long tour

This is more than coming back

More than a feeling

More than the once experienced

world: so unique and relieving

With Arabic music on streets

With someone saying so sweet:

Mozza, habibi, gamila (1),

And I laugh: aiwa, ana Masreya, Masreya, Masreya (2)!

Amman looks so live at night

The city – illuminated

My mind – tired, oh, so tired but

Fascinated

I see it from the window of a taxi

I smell it through the fumes of driver’s smoke

His long-sleeved shirt, white and neat

He smokes three cigarettes with an ease

I would normally shout

But today I allow

We pass the wedding

And hear people cheering

I am longing for the morning

To hear the prayer calling

And I want to say salam alekoum

To everyone I meet

Look! A man with a donkey

Walking on a street

Look! An old, old lady

Welcoming us with a cup of tea

Oh, Amman, oh Amman

In the gardens of Allah

You gift me with 10 days

To find my own ways:

To embrace every plant

and kiss desert sand

You make my soul sing,

And my body spring

I am yours, oh Jordan,

I am yours!

With my slightest shivers,

With my deepest thoughts.

(1) Beauty, my love, beautiful

(2) Yes, I am Egyptian, Egyptian, Egyptian (meaning: I was living in Egypt, I know some Arabic; and this reminds me of my Egypt times)

EC Latvian stagiaires meet Andris Piebalgs

European Commission (EC) Latvian stagiaires meet Latvian Commissioner Andris Piebalgs who is EC Commissioner for Development.

04.07.2013.
Brussels, Belgium

Photo
From left to right: Leonards Bunga, Līga Kuzmane, Agnija Kazuša, and EC Commissioner Andris Piebalgs.

Bridges

When I see the lake surrounded by so much greens as I cross Rue du Bemel, I can no longer believe I am in Brussels; the one I am used to. The smell of fresh grass, pure lake and cosy, lovely neighbourhood rather reminds of a village than a city of eurocrates (European Commission Beaulieu buildings are just across the Woluwe Park). Here, I also find Academie des Arts de Woluwe-Saint-Pierre where local youngsters and adults come for doing arts.

There is an exhibition organized on 21st of June; just before the students of the Academy leave for summer vacation. Their sculptures and paintings and videos are displayed in two floors. Among them, my colleague’s sculpture is there in the middle of one of the rooms. There are lots of impulses that strike my mind: clay bodies swimming in the water, Iberia light tickets to Barcelona, heart trees, shade of a woman, pregnant belly, a man stuffed his mouth with a full-size green apple, strings and wires, the music of loneliness, the music that runs past you as on tiptoes, but reaches your deep soul strikingly, French and French. Rooms get filled with people, probably parents and relatives of the students whose work has been exhibited. In the corners of the rooms there are tables with wine, juice, cheese and chips and other snacks. Some of the people spend most of the time there.

I talk to my colleague about his other sculpture which is not exhibited here, but that I have seen on photos. It’s a metal hand that is confronted to a wooden hand. They are facing each other and forming a shape o an egg. I ask him for a deeper meaning of this idea. He tells me, it’s a bridge.

At night, I have a very vivid dream: I am in Southern China, a small town. I am introduced to the local school and I am surprised to see loads of potatoes that they serve there. It rings to my mind that Chinese don’t eat that much potatoes. The primary food should be rice. But I don’t pay attention. I rather notice that the entire city is swarmed with people and I am sure, there must be an occasion for that. I ask for an explanation, and someone replies: we are celebrating the new bridge. Then, I look on my left and I see a bridge over the river that has been built to connect two shores of the city. It’s full of people and indeed, they are celebrating the new bridge.

 

Strasbourgh through Seven Seats

This story was originally published in "Internal Voices".


The weather should be better than in Brussels. Hopefully. My colleague compares the weather in both European Union official cities as I talk to him about European Commission trainees’ two-day trip to Strasbourg organised by the Politics and International Relations subcommittee.

Around 50 of us board the bus on the early, bright morning of May 19th from Brussels to Strasbourg. During the journey, I overhear some trainees discussing the previous night’s Eurovision song contest, some others are already planning what to do when in Strasbourg. There are some who just take a nap or read a book and perhaps there are others like me who naïvely hope these are going to be two warm days in Strasbourg. 

No such luck! As we arrive at Strasbourg Gare Centrale, we are immediately embraced by rain or perhaps we just brought it with us from Brussels to ensure we have it for the next two days. Thus, the Alsatian city close to the border with Germany doesn’t gift us with long walks admiring its gorgeous architecture. Instead, we move “from seat to seat” as my South African friend precisely describes, trying to avoid unwelcome showers over our shoulders.

Read the full story here.

 

My story in "A Sea of Words 2012"

Picture taken from IEMed.

My story "Blue Eyes' Story" (originally "Zilo acu stāsts") has been included in IEMed publication "A Sea of Words 2012" 5th edition.

You can find the publication with 14 short stories from different Mediterranean countries and download your copy here. The topic of the publication is "Solidarity between generations".

 

India, Bring Spring to Brussels!

To describe my first days in Brussels with one color, I would choose gray. Gray not only in terms of gloomy weather, but also the rhythm of life. People get up in the morning, go to work, earn money, go out, go for dinner, party on weekends. Unless you are a newcomer who needs to get used to metro that runs in two levels or find your way in the city, life seems to be more or less predictable, stable and in some way comfortable. At least the slice you get to taste as not being fully integrated yet. It’s mid March. I have moved to Brussels to do a traineeship at the European Commission. If I look at my life exactly one year back, everything seems totally opposite. I was living in Hyderabad (India) with more sun, more adventures, more colors. People welcomed spring in the craziest way I have seen so far – splashing colors everywhere and at everyone. They call it Holi, Hindu festival of colors.

It’s Easter break in Brussels, but no signs of spring to arrive soon. Since I never plan my grocery shopping in advance, on the day of the second Easter I realize that all the supermarkets are closed, I have moved out from a temporary place in Jette to a permanent one in Etterbeek and find myself hungry for all: food, colors, spring, India. “Those small Arab shops should be open," my flatmate tells me. So with a hope to find them I get lost in the streets of Etterbeek. Etterbeek is one of the 19 municipalities of Brussels city. My Belgian friend told me that the 19 municipalities are like 19 faces of Brussels. Each has its identity. Jette, for example, is more traditional, Flamish concentrated municipality while Schaerbeek is where a lot of Turkish immigrants live. And what is Etterbeek like? The municipality that is located close to all the European institutions with the famous Schuman metro station as a landmark. I have no clue yet.

I am listening to Chammak Challo, the soundtrack composed for the Bollywood movie Ra One. Last year it was a hit in India! Chammak Challo on streets, in weddings, in clubs, loved by youngs and olds. As I am looking for shops, I imagine myself one year ago. Would I ever face such a situation? In India, food finds you wherever you live, wherever you go. Street vendors follow you on trains or buses, in the corners of streets, next to your house, at touristic spots. Indians truly care that you get your meal. “Had your breakfast? Had your lunch? Had your dinner?” They will ask you each time to make sure you are fine.

Here, it’s taken for granted. Maybe not for those Arabs who have opened their shops on a holiday (but that’s not a holiday for them, I assume). I enter one such shop. Small and compact. I am looking for bread, but can’t find it there. So, I buy noodles instead. Then I get out and walk further on until I notice another shop. It’s actually not that hard. As I look around the area, I realize those small shops are not that scarce. Now it's another Indian hit on my MP3 player. It’s Subha Hone Na De or commonly known as My Hero. It lifts me up. I enter a shop. Too lazy to take off my headset. I do enjoy the song, the powerful rhythm, the energy. And I see fresh French baguettes on a shelf. With no doubt I take one and present it to the salesman. For a slight politeness I take off one of my headset. He tells me 70 cents. As I start looking for coins in my wallet, he asks me:

“Are you from Poland?”

“No. From Latvia.” I don’t mind to answer. “And you?” I ask in return.

“I am from India.”

“What?”

I can't believe what he just said. I want to give him my MP3 player as if proving - see, I was just now thinking about India, listening to My Hero and Chammak Challo, remembering Holi and colors, but I say nothing of that as if I am tongue tied and suddenly don’t know where to begin.

“Wow!” I only exclaim. “You are from India! I was living in India last year!”

“Really? Where?”

“Hyderabad.”

“Oh, that's south. I am from north, Punjab. It’s close to the Golden Temple.” He tells me with a pride in his eyes.

“I loved India!” I go on. He smiles and keeps in speaking about Punjab. I feel like we both have found each other in the right time and at the right place. We both get nostalgic.

I haven't paid him the 70 cents yet. Now after our nice chat it feels a bit awkward to hand him the one euro coin I have prepared. But I do it. And it's even more awkward to take the change - 30 cents. But I do it too. He is a vendor, I am a customer. Just like he lived in the North of India, I lived in South. We part with smiles and for some reason, I promise I will come to his shop more often…

I get out in the streets and suddenly notice something I didn’t pay attention to before. I see Indian ladies wearing winter jackets and under those dark, heavy jackets I notice colorful Indian kurtas hiding from the winter. Spring needs to come to see those kurtas at full length not only covering their ankles. I conclude. Where is Spring? Where is it? When will we finish this bad weather? My Italian colleague complains to me in the elevator as he looks at his umbrella scornfully. He is not the only one. The entire city is waiting for spring. It becomes one of the commonly discussed topics.

Some weeks later I am running to the bank in Etterbeek to solve a problem with my bank card. As I am doing it during my lunch break, I don't have much time. I hurriedly enter the bank. My cheeks red, my hair tousled, I am gasping for breath. I see a family being served before me. It’s a lady, her husband and their newly born baby. I look carefully at the young man and suddenly notice his outfit. He is wearing....what? Soft slippers, sweatpants and a worn-out jumper you would normally wear only at home. It could be his pajamas. How dare you go to a bank like this? Straight from your bed? I condemn him in my mind. But he smiles, looks at his wife as she handles the bank procedures, admires his newborn baby and doesn’t seem to worry about anything in this life.

Then I look out the window and see a few beams of sunshine.

Maybe he is right. Maybe Spring has arrived.

The Lianshui Dance

My First Impressions of a Chinese County

Ongoing clatter of children, always busy ping pong tables and basketball courts, random flowers being given to their foreign teachers, smiles, the melodious bell ring; my soft bed where you want to sleep longer and longer, a little dusty windowsill, my newly bought mug with green liquid inside (a unique design) and quite spacious and luxurious apartment with a Chinese painting on the wall, soft carpets, perfect bathroom. They say it’s 4 stars. Hunger for Facebook or Blogspot which are blocked here… desire to update my status... crowds flowing to dining hall, crowds sitting at classes, crowds, crowds, crowds. I have arrived in China. I have arrived in Lianshui, a very small county of 1 million people, a part of Huai’an city in South East China. I have arrived at school where I will be teaching English.

One might wonder what changes I am going through if compared to my previous teaching experience at a private school in India/Hyderabad. Quite a lot:

- from small school with modern facilities to a very large school with quite poor facilities;

- from around 500 students in total to thousands of students

- from around 10-12 students in each class to 40, 50, 60 and even 70 students in each class;

- from students whom you teach literature and writing as their first language is English to students who have almost ZERO level in English;

- from juniors and always unpredictable and interesting-to-observe teenagers to smiling primary kids’ faces.

In fact, my life here is all about school. I live at a school campus, I see students out of my window, I teach here at school, I eat at school cafeteria. I always skip breakfast though which is at 6 in the morning (too early), but get down for lunch at 11 am and dinner at 5 pm. Even when I go out of the campus, I would always meet students roaming in the streets... Just like me... Even when I go to the local supermarket, I would meet fellow teachers checking new products, thinking of what to buy and finally not deciding on anything because it seems there is nothing better to do in this county than to go to a supermarket, meet people and somehow contribute to the collaborative shopping.

What I like here are people: shy, timid, smiling, blushing, leading to confusions and misunderstandings...just like me? Maybe... And when I get out of my room in the campus - busy with students who play ping-pong, basketball, roam around or treat themselves with ice-cream, march in lines when necessary - I would always face endless „hello-s”, „hi-s”, shy smiles and great excitement and pride in their faces once I have smiled or wished back. And it’s not only about students. People everywhere seem so genuine, so curious to say random „hello”, to smile at me, to touch me. Everywhere: at the supermarket, in school’s canteen, on streets as I am passing by. They help me without knowing how, without understanding what I want. They would get me in the car and drive me back to my school not understanding clearly where it is, but sympathizing with the fact that I am lost. And they would seem so proud of having helped me that after the ride they would treat me with snacks. It seems I should want to get lost in the streets more often to ‘taste’ this Lianshui culture even more.

The thing that fascinates me here (and I guess also elsewhere in China) is the very normal unity and harmony that you can observe in the evenings. People just come together in an open-air fields and dance, practice teiji or do other kind of exercise. It’s so normal just to follow the music rhythms and perform the same dance together in a perfect harmony turning it into such a normal habit as having lunch or dinner; so normal that they don’t even smile as they dance. I notice some seniors wearing serious, life-experienced faces with deep, thoughtful eyes. I look at their feet and they move with ease. They know the steps very well. Life has been a long dance for them.  

Some blocks further, there is a local teenage popstar performing on a stage. He illuminates the local area with sparkles of dance, joy and cheers. The young people still need to learn the steps to dance well. This is the charm of this tiny Chinese county. This is the charm of a life-long dance; The Lianshui dance.

Where is Rue de l’Aqueduc?

One girl's search for a street turns into a little adventure...

As I make my way out of Louise metro station, Brussels envelope me in a beautiful darkness. It’s a quarter past eight. The street lights illuminate the liveliness of a Friday night out. Couples are meeting for dinner. Young people are swarming the streets like ants. Many of them just like me are newcomers and don’t really know where to go. I have my map wide open, and there is only one question on my mind: how to get to the Rue de l’Aqueduc?

I need to go there because I am invited for a friend’s “Bye-bye party”. I feel I am already getting late, but instead of becoming anxious and nervously checking the time, I decide to leave it in the hands of Brussels, my new friend, whom I entitle to guide me. I decide to first get on Louise Avenue and then turn right on Charleroise street. From there, I should find my way.

“Excuse me, do you know where is Louise avenue?” I ask the two random girls I meet on a wide street.

“Yes, it’s this one… but I am not sure.. we are new here,” one of the girls answer to me. “Where do you need to go?” she asks me.

“Charleroise street,” I decide not to complicate the thing with Rue de l’Aqueduc yet.

“Oh,” she says. I see uncertainty in her eyes. “I am not sure. We are new here too,” she repeats once again. Her wish to help me seems stronger than her ability to say “no, I don’t know”.  

“But this is Louise Avenue, right?” I double-check.

“Yes, it should be,” she looks even less certain now. I thank the girls, we exchange naïve smiles, the ones that newcomers make as they don’t know the city yet, but don’t want to be impolite to another such newcomer. That’s it - “au revoir”, and they are gone. I am now certain, this is NOT Avenue Louise. But out of curiosity, I go further on, to find at least one street sign to confirm my doubts. And as I see I am already approaching Porte de Namur metro station, I am sure, this is a wrong way and I should be going back.

I think I am now on the avenue Louisa. But for some reason, I turn right where I see a street with many restaurants. People are tucked in warm and cosy places and are happily dining and chatting. There’s a Chinese restaurant on the right and the smell of Italian pizza reaches my nostrils on the left side. I look that direction and make a quick eye contact with a chef. It seems so natural now to enter his pizzeria.

“Excuse me, do you know where Charleroise street is?” I ask him and even show it on a map.

He starts explaining something in French and by his confident look I see, he knows the place. But it’s too loud to hear him, and I don’t speak French. He points a finger on my map with one hand and in the next moment he takes out a fresh pizza from the oven with the other hand. I laugh as he does it. He laughs too. Then he hands the pizza to the customer and opens the door so that we could go outside. We finally hear each other and he explicitly tells me where the place is. My French is almost zero level, but somehow it’s a language you can sometimes understand. And I do understand him – I have to go straight, then see plaza and turn right. He paints his explanations with his hands and I notice how concerned he is to make sure I got it. And I did. I smile. “Merci beaucoup,” I tell him and I am back on the track. He is back in pizzeria.

I have reached Charleroise street and from here Rue de l’Aqueduc should pop up as one of the side streets. I say to myself. But the side streets are becoming more obscure. There are less and less people outside. I feel I could have gone too far, but I am pretty sure I am on the right way. It’s maybe my confusing face that betrays me. And I hear an old man calling something on my right.

“Mademoiselle,” he says in French. I look at him puzzled and he swiftly changes to English.

“Are you looking for a street?” he asks me. I still have the map in my hands, so no wonder why the correct question.

“Yeah,” I answer. I like his tone. I like his initiative. I like the way he approached me. He is looking at me through a tiny window grille. I can only see his white shirt and bald head. I suddenly feel like in medieval times when these kind of old men were in charge of a restaurant or an inn or even a cell. I find it so antique and charming. This man. His voice. The way he is leaning towards me from that grille. The entire situation. I tell him what I am looking for.

“L’aqueduc, l’Aqueduc,” he repeats, “it sounds familiar, it should be near… just go straight and then ask people, but you should be on the right way, I am sure,” he affirms and wishes me a nice day. I thank him in French and wish the same. Then a sudden thought corrects me – it’s an evening, not a day… well, but I keep on walking, blessed by the kind man.

I have walked for a bit and now I feel I might have really gone too far. No sign of finding what I am looking for. I hardly see anyone on a street now. There’s an old lady waiting at the red light. I ask her, but she doesn’t know. Then I cross another street and see a young man walking fast and talking on his mobile phone. I clearly see he looks busy and this is not really the best time to disturb him. But for some reason I present myself and my problem right in his face.

He hangs up the phone immediately. “L’aqueduc..,” he quickly repeats and says something in French. Having noticed I am not getting him, he starts decorating his French with some words in English. He proposes to go to the video rental place on the corner to ask a man there, and in the next minute I am following him. He has clearly taken the lead. We take stairs to go down in the shop, he asks me again for the exact address and number. Then he asks the guy at video rental, but also that guy doesn’t know more than “having heard that street”. We get out of the video rental place and go along the street. My cavalier doesn’t even think of leaving me alone any more and I feel a strong determination in him to help me find a place. On the way he makes a phone call. He speaks partly French, partly Arabic and I assume he might be Moroccan or Tunisian. He mentions La Bourse metro station and I assume it’s the place where he has to meet someone. That also explains his hurry.

“You can leave if you need to go somewhere,” I don’t want him to be late for his meeting.

“No, no,” he insists, “no problem. You don’t speak French, here all French,” he answers. Now it’s him doing my job. He stops people as we walk and asks them for the street I am looking for. They give him directions, but it still seems not to be clear. We walk for a while in silence. The only sound is our shoes pacing the road. I have a quick thought of asking him about his origins (since I speak a little Arabic), but then I give up this idea as it might distract us from our task. Besides, I already know he has something planned and he shouldn’t be here helping me.

There are not many people in the area and it seems we tell our problem to everyone we meet. There’s a couple walking down to us and my cavalier abruptly stops them. He asks them for the Rue de l’Aqueduc in French. They don’t know. Suddenly there’s another charming gentleman coming out of a nearby restaurant. Now it’s the couple that notices them first.

“Monsieur, Rue de l’Aqueduc?” the lady calls to the gentleman. He doesn’t know, but he takes out his smart-phone and comes to us. He slowly enters the street name on the screen. Meanwhile there is an elder man passing by and the lady asks them too: “Rue de l’Aqueduc?” He starts explaining something in French. The guy with the smartphone stands next to me and has found a historical description of the street. The Moroccan/Tunisian (?) guy is on my other side. And in the middle of this bustle when everyone is so seriously looking for Rue de l’Aqueduc I suddenly feel like ascending from the ground, looking at the situation from the above, observing people discussing the street, trying to find it on the smart-phone, making so much efforts, showing concerned faces while I do nothing. I suddenly can’t help, but utter an innocent grin. Everyone has been involved in the quest as if I was looking for a Queen’s Parade on that enigmatic, sounds-familiar-but-nobody-knows-where-it-is street. Finally, the directions come out of somewhere (and I don’t even remember where), but I assume it was the collaborative effect that brought the answer. I thank the people who were involved; my cavalier seems to feel more relieved than myself (as if it had become the concern of both of us). We get on the next street and voilà – it’s Rue de l’Aqueduc! The Morrocon/Tunisian (?) guy makes sure I will find the right number of the street and we part to disappear in different directions.

Patrick Wolf: Many Instruments, Many Stories

Photo by Justė Urbonavičiūtė

Originally published on Concertnews.be
http://www.concertnews.be/makepdf.php?id=1906

Review: Patrick Wolf 

Venue: Palladium, Riga (Latvia)

Date: 23/02/2013

The circus girl fell off her horse and now she’s paralysed. Patrick Wolf comes on a Palladium stage. Viola is playing, accordion is playing, harp is prepared, but his “guitar-friend” (ukulele) just died before the concert. Unlike the circus girl in the lyrics of “The Libertine” (the song that opens the concert), this misfortune doesn’t make Patrick Wolf paralysed. “This is gonna be a brand new show,” he says cheerfully. Throughout the concert London’s multifaceted musician proves it with his divine music, playful mood, sincere stories between the songs and his engaging character. It’s a fine, wintry evening of the February 23rd, and Patrick Wolf has stopped by Riga on his ten-year anniversary acoustic world tour.

Here he goes with “The Libertine” and runs the risk of being free; dressed all black, with a flowy shirt over black pants, his hair tied back, braided, and a headband decorating his head, his face beaming glitter. He sings vigorously, and then gets down on his knees and puts his hands together as if praying. “Bow down to your God,” he sings and bows down to the audience that sits comfortably in their seats to enjoy this theatrical ambiance. 

He performs “Hard Times” and then sits at his grand piano. He takes us to the only one percent of his music that he has written when he is conscious about the moment whereas in the other 99% he doesn’t know what’s coming next and what has happened before. It’s the song “House” that immediately makes him think of London, his birth town, big bells ringing as he was born opposite the Big Ben. In that nostalgia, he remembers his obsession with Mrs Dalloway (a novel written by Virginia Woolf) whose biggest thrill was going out to buy flowers… during that obsession his song “London” was written. “[That’s why] after “House” I immediately thought of playing London,” he tells.

Every song he plays is accompanied by a story. The next one - “Overture” – tells the one about a school boy who gets beaten up. “[At those times] I realized you have to love yourself before you love anyone else. It’s fundamental,” he says. “It’s about opening up when you have been told to repress, repress,” he adds and then continues with the song about a boy with a “heavy heart”. 

Patrick Wolf moves swiftly from instrument to instrument. For the next song, he takes his harp, speaks about having spent three nights at Kensington Gardens and then with the strings of his harp he plays the powerful “Wind in the Wires”. As if having gained courage for life, he leaves his home and London in the repertoire. He has reached the age of 18 when it’s time for escape. Paris is the place for that. He shares his fake modeling experience there. But now he is in Riga, inspired by the postcards, traditional plates and bowls, necklaces that Latvian fans have left for him in the backstage. He asks the audience now to teach him some Latvian and having learnt “I love you, Riga” he performs “Paris”. 

“What shall we do now?” he openly asks as he rolls up his pants “to make him feel better”. He now looks like a humble boy (perhaps like Oliver Twist?), a wanderer in life and a wanderer between his own songs. He asks if there are any requests in the audience. It gets decided for “This Weather” that he messes up in the middle of the song, then apologizes and starts over. He hasn’t planned the next song either. He comes up with that now. “It starts with B, ends with N and in the middle there’s T,” Patrick hints to his fellow musicians. “It’s Bitten.” The audience is quicker. 

Patrick says he feels excited about having no fixed agenda. “That’s my rules,” he explains.  Perhaps, that’s why his concerts are so magical and different from one another. In the next moment he has lost his bow. He is looking for it among the bunch of other music instruments on the stage. He finds it, grabs it and is left alone on the stage playing the sorrowful “Pigeon Song” on his violin. Then he calls back the accordionist for another sad song “The Sun is Often Out”. After that, Patrick takes us to the banks of the river Thames and tells about the moments when he has got up early with no people outside, just him sitting by the river, feeling excited about the falcons - “the most wonderful birds ever” as Patrick says. That is when he ends up writing his song called “The Falcons”. He performs it next. 

The final accords are more disco-like. “I grew up in discos,” he says and plays “Bloodbeat” that organically grows into “The City”. “Riga, don’t look so sad,” he localizes the lyrics and keeps singing “It’s about that day we kissed up by…. “Where did you kiss?” he asks and replaces the original “Niagara Falls” with the “beach” requested by the audience. 

Patrick Wolf now leaves the stage with an air kiss. The audience stands up. He and his fellow musicians return for the encore and end the concert with “The Magic Position”, one of Wolf’s most well known pieces. “This is a real dream,” Patrick says at the farewell and leaves. What remain now are the stage full of flowers, clapping hands and rejoicing hearts.  

Doing a traineeship at the European Commission

It was February when I got to know that I have been selected for a traineeship at the European Commission/DG Connect/ FET Flaghsips Unit.

Therefore, from March 15 to July 31, 2013 I am living in Brussels and enjoying the EuroBubble with suits and ties, meetings and networkings, coffees and lunch breakes, Place Chateilain on Wednesdays and Place Luxembourg on Thursdays.

 

Barranquilla behind the Masks

Photo by FNPI-Joaquin Sarmiento-Johana Peña

See this story published also in Wave Magazine.

“When I become an animal, I forget that I am a human being,” says Joseph Geralino (21), a member of African Jungle group. In the parade of the annual Barranquilla (Colombia) carnival - taking place from February 9th to 12th – he will walk in a lion’s mask. As a faithful Barranquero, Joseph has been participating in the carnival as far as he remembers. This year can’t be an exception. Not for Joseph, not for Orlando Camacho (57) who will put on a mask of a woman, not for Giselle Massard (33) who will embody Hindu deity Ganesh. It definitely won’t be an exception for the entire Barranquilla that will disguise itself and transform as a city. 

The Lion King

Joseph arrives at the workshop of a mask maker Jose Llanos (crowned as King Momo of this year’s carnival) immediately after having learnt about the chance to speak about his mask. The 21-year-old lives just across the street in the rather poor neighborhood of Galapa. There he stands surrounded by the numerous masks and carnival costumes that are casually hanging on the washing line like freshly washed clothes. His companions are black, giant gorillas with screaming faces and sharp teeth, tigers with neatly colored orange and white stripes, bulls that look serious and noble with their white, bulging eyes. Joseph has embodied all of these animals in the previous carnivals, and even more – panther and jaguar. There is one, however, that he hasn’t become yet – a lion. “Lion is the king of the jungle, the leader and one of the toughest animals in the [African Jungle] group.” The choice was clear to him already last February, at the end of the last carnival. 

Three weeks before the carnival, Joseph is thinking about his performance in the parade. As the dances don’t have any choreography, his moves will be spontaneous. “My clothes can’t be tight, because that would make me look fragile and delicate. I have to be extrovert and dynamic,” he says. The lion’s mask fits very well with Joseph who considers himself a leader in life. “I am the one who coordinates the course at my university,” says the student of graphic design.

Becoming a woman

The psychiatrist Isabel Prado Misas says we don’t choose our masks. “It’s the mask that chooses a person,” she believes. “People usually tend to choose masks that trigger something inside themselves. It’s a subconscious process. You immediately create a mental dialogue with a mask.” 

That dialogue must have happened with Orlando on those evenings he watches the local TV soap opera Casa de Reinas (House of Queens). Though in previous carnivals he always embodied animals, this year he has become very attracted to the character Cara de Bagre, known as the “catfish face”. In the soap opera she plays the role of Queen Caroline. “She has a weird smile. And the way she laughs is peculiar!” Orlando explains his choice. 

Though Orlando is spending one hour each day watching his character in the soap opera and crafting the smile of Cara de Bagre on the mask, three weeks before the carnival the man refuses to show any characteristics of Cara de Bagre. “I haven’t really practiced my role that well yet,” he shyly explains standing on a street at San Roque neighborhood in his loose, yellow-and-green colored bull’s costume he wore previous years. Only late in the evening can he watch television. “I am normally very busy,” he says. The 57-year-old Orlando works as a handyman and lives with his mother, two sisters and a brother. 

Orlando says he feels excited and proud to become Cara de Bagre, the funny character from the soap opera with a rather ugly face. However, he rarely smiles or laughs, his voice is slow and considerate, his eyes – sad and empty. “I am usually a very calm and respectable man in my neighborhood,” he says. Attention is what drives him to put on a mask and become someone else. And he knows he will get the desired attention at the carnival. “I want to involve people, make them come closer, take photos with me. Especially I like to involve kids,” he says. Orlando’s own children and grandchildren live separately as he is divorced.

Namaste, Ganesh!

For Giselle, carnival is a ritual. This year she is going to put on a mask of Ganesh. This Hindu deity is not just a coincidence in Giselle’s life. The inscription on her apartment door says “Namaste” (salutation in India). The image on her desktop background is Ganesh with its elephant’s head and human body. On the top of an empty parrot’s cage in her living room lies a mask with white long trunk and carved eyes. Three weeks before the carnival, it’s not finished yet. Giselle still needs to add orange, yellow and red colors, get a sword and Lotus flower for her costume. “I always like to feel the character!” She is enthusiastic. 

She doesn’t speak about Ganesh immediately. Having arrived home from her work, she apologizes for her messy room. Her day started at 5.30 in the morning when she had to get up for gym. “I need to lose some weight for the carnival,” she is honest. After gym, she went for work. Giselle is a journalist. It is 4pm when she gets back home in her one bedroom apartment. She starts putting her things in the order pacing the room from one corner to the other. At the same time she is speaking about the carnival. It’s important for her to explain its history, to tell about the main and the oldest parade Battle of Flowers, different groups that participate in the carnival and how she found her group Disfrazate Como Quieras (Wear the costume you want). She shows the photos of her costumes from previous eleven years. All of her masks - globe, octopus, eye, the Caribbean wind and others - have been carefully prepared. She agrees that they even look complicated with many colors and details. Just like her apartment - crammed with all kinds of small things, figures, gifts, souvenirs, paintings.   

“Let’s speak about Ganesh,” she suddenly proposes as she has sat down on a couch. Only then she explains her choice of this year’s mask. “I’ve been looking for something spiritual in my life,” she says. Even though Giselle is Catholic, she is not fond of church as an institution. Some years ago she realized she wanted to find her own God. “It started with this one,” she says and takes off a pendant from her neck. It has a small image of Ganesh. “A very special person gave it to me seven years ago. Since then, I feel I have to wear it every day. I feel it protects me.” However, it was only last year that Giselle started to think about the figure that hangs on her neck. She decided to read about Ganesh. That was also the time she became concerned about the way human beings destroy nature. “I found that God is universe, and Ganesh is a God of the universe,” she says. After lots of readings and research she came to the moment when she said: “Oh My God, it’s the same way I think!” It doesn’t always happen that Giselle knows what mask she is going to wear long in advance. This year she knows. 

Barranquilla in a mask

“Sometimes mask says more about the person than the face,” Alberto Salcedo Ramos, Colombian journalist and writer refers to Oscar Wilde. Not everyone prepares an individual mask for the carnival. Many people choose to disguise themselves in traditional masks like mocking Marimondas – hooded figures with long noses, floppy ears and bright trousers and vests. If not Marimondas – the most popular costume and the only one that originated in Barranquilla –, celebrators might dress into costumes of European or African origin, like El Congos, or wear costumes of traditional dance groups such as El Cumbia or El Garabatos. 

Whatever the costume, the carnival will overwhelm the whole Barranquilla, the largest port city in Colombia, where the advantage of Caribbean, mix of cultures and nationalities have developed a strong carnival tradition.  

“The whole carnival becomes a mask. Everyone becomes free, and the city transforms,” says Alberto Salcedo Ramos. He thinks that the mask is used to erase the differences and inequality that exist in the city. “Everyone comes together, and all become one,” he says stressing the unity that is created. The psychiatrist Isabel Prado Misas agrees with him. “You can find rich people and poor people enjoying the show and dancing to the same music,” she says. Moreover, she calls these four days of the carnival a catharsis, release of social pressure. „People in Barranquilla are very expressive, social, friendly, loud and spontaneous. The fact that we have the carnival shows the way we are. I wouldn’t imagine this city and people without a carnival.” 

When the four days carnival is over, it’s time to unveil the masks. For some, it’s also time to already start thinking about the next year’s carnival. People have received a large dose of energy, Giselle tells. “Once you experience parade, everything changes!” 

* This text was produced during the Gabriel García Márquez Fellowship in cultural journalism, organized by the Gabriel García Márquez New Journalism Foundation, -FNPI-,  and the Ministry of Culture of Colombia.

Brunello ‘s silence in the space of Cartagena

[ Originally published on Concertnews.be http://www.concertnews.be/review.php?id=1863&head=%20Mario%20Brunello%20&where=%20Cartagena,%20Colombia ]

Photo by FNPI-Joaquin Sarmiento-Johana Peña

It’s about space and silence. And silence is where music is born. The Italian cellist Mario Brunello reveals the two keywords that support his special relationship with nature.  Known for carrying his cello from Alps to Mount Fuji, from Sahara desert to his own garden, from prestigious concert halls in Europe, Japan and the USA to intimate chamber music venues, Brunello proves that he is more than a musician. He proves that every new venue for him is more than a place. In the early January of 2013 he arrives at the seventh Cartagena International Music Festival in Colombia to give three performances: in a chapel of Santa Tereza Hotel, in an open space of Plaza San Pedro and on the stage of Santa Clara Hotel.

Colored by light

“The first big shock is the light! Unbelievable! Everything has become light and fascinating! The country, the place.” He shares his first impressions about Cartagena at a press conference as he glances at the white walls of Claustro La Merced. “This building, this light color, the architecture is so natural. I want to add more music to this place! I want to color my music,” he keeps on admiring the space in an interview. Then, he puts on a light shirt, grabs his Maggini cello, adds the six members from Mario Brunello Quinteto and steps on a stage of Santa Clara venue. 

Together they fill the space almost full with local and foreign music lovers. With Brunello’s smile and eye contact as a signal, the musicians start playing Vivaldi in unpredictable contemporary variations. From a slow, dark melancholy he suddenly jumps to fast, vivid music that breaks the silence with his vigorous cello strings. How elegantly he drags the bow in the melancholic pieces! Then he flows into a second silence. We hear the sound of paper as Brunello turns the page of the notes in front of him. Then that silence is immediately followed by a sound of organ. How suddenly he widens his eyes, frowns and fills his grimace with curiosity and infectious energy as new, faster pieces encounter his cello!

Fantastic technology

As he turns the page to the next piece of Vivaldi, I remember the night before when he played in the open space of Plaza San Pedro to the listeners of Cartagena. The concert gathered much larger scale of audience starting from those who leant over the balconies to anyone who attended the free concert in the public space. That time it was only Brunello and the cello. Brunello started with a slow melody on the strings of his cello and added his voice to it. Giovanni Sollima’s Lamentatio turned into fast, rhythmical music bringing us quickly to the second composition - Giuseppe Colombi’s Ciaccona. 

Though playing in open spaces has become a trademark of Mario Brunello, he thinks that Cartagena was not really the right place for that preferring theatres and chapels. “Every space has its tonality,” he explains having heard Cartagena’s Caribbean Sea and its people who love to talk loudly, to sing and dance in the streets. Perhaps, that’s the reason why his performance at Plaza San Pedro fills the vibrant space with everything but silence. Brunello experiments with rocky and rhythmical sounds. With the help of a sampler he makes his cello as another member of his performance letting “him” play alone even when Brunello’s hands are free and his mind pretends to be wondering where that beautiful sound comes from. “We have to use technology. If Bach had this pedal I am using, he would [have made] fantastic music!” Brunello says.  

Silence shared with cello

Between the two songs he spoke Italian to an uncomprehending audience. Equally incomprehensible is imagining him as a nature lover who plays anywhere, from mountains to deserts at sunsets and sunrises. “I wanted to become a forester and understand the rhythm of nature,” he says. Perhaps, playing in nature is the way he partly fulfills his childhood dream. “I started to understand that my sound has an ability to fill up the space,” he says. 

After the first trials of playing in the countryside where he grew up, he started to carry his instrument when he walked in the mountains and performed in front of the nature and music lovers. “We try to listen to the body of the sound. Because in the silence you feel that the sound has a body,” he thinks. “When a composer starts an idea, he has to stop and think and start with a silence. I like that moment,” Brunello says. He stresses the role of his cello in these special moments. “We both have the same experience to listen to that perfect silence of the mountains before the first and after the last note. So these are moments that only me and my cello know,” he says convinced that instrument has a memory. 

Audience laughs and whistles

If so, certainly his instrument will remember the end of his concert at Plaza San Pedro - Brunello leaves the stage while his Maggini is still playing and the audience laughs. Certainly, Maggini will remember the very first concert when it played Boccherini to a rather small and restricted audience at Santa Teresa. And certainly, Maggini will remember the final notes at Santa Clara when Brunello ends the concert abruptly with a few notes, embraces his cello and leaves the stage. He comes back, bows to the audience and leaves again. But the audience doesn’t want Brunello to go. The synchronized applauding succeeds in getting him back. After a mutual agreement with the audience, he repeats the last movement of Vivaldi’s concerto for cello in C major. Only then it’s time for silence: for the musicians, for Brunello and his Maggini and for the audience that slowly leaves Santa Clara. But since silence is where music is born, I hear my neighbor still whistling Brunello’s catchy variations on Vivaldi.

* This text was produced during the Gabriel García Márquez Fellowship in cultural journalism, organized by the Gabriel García Márquez New Journalism Foundation, -FNPI-,  and the Ministry of Culture of Colombia.

Photo by FNPI-Joaquin Sarmiento-Johana Peña

Pasaka: Sīmens, Samsungs un Aifons

Mātei bija trīs dēli – Sīmens, Samsungs un Aifons. Vecākajam dēlam Sīmenam bija desmit gadu.  Tā kā puisis jau gāja skolā, māte tam daudz laika neveltīja. Piešķīra vien savu noslēgtu istabiņu un teica. „Mācies tikai!”. Taču dēlam pēc skolas gribējās paspēlēties. Kā kādreiz. Kā Māte to bija darījusi pirms piedzima Samsungs un Aifons.

„Mammu, kāpēc tu ar mani vairs nespēlējies?,” dēls Mātei reiz jautāja, kad viņa pārnāca mājās ar Aifonu uz rokām un Samsungu, stingri pieķērušos pie rokassomiņas.

„Tu jau esi liels! Kādas tev vēl spēlītes prātā? Sēdi un mācies. Paskat, tu esi visvecākais, bet glupākais no maniem dēliem. Aifons trīs gados jau iemācījies lasīt un rakstīt, kamēr tu knapi burto, ” Māte skarbi aizrādīja.

Sīmens saskuma un asarām acīs teica.
„Nu tad kāpēc tu mani neatdod citiem vecākiem, kas ar mani spēlēsies un mani mīlēs?” viņš jautāja.

„Nerunā muļķības, Sīmen, sēdi istabā un pildi mājasdarbus. Negribu vairs dzirdēt atrunas,” Māte strikti norādīja, un saruna ar to beidzās.

Sīmens kā pirmais dēls bija pa Mātes un radu rokām noņurcīts, turklāt noēdies un uzaudzējis resnu vēderu, mājās vien sēdēdams un nekā nedarīdams. Ar skolu nepietika. Cik tad var mācīties? Nekādu ārpusskolas pulciņu, nekādu spēlīšu. Vakari bija tukši kā izēsta konfekšu kārba. Tā arī Sīmens jutās – iztukšots un atstāts novārtā savā aukstajā istabā ka vai sāka mesties putekļu zosāda.

Vecāko dēlu nepavisam nevarēja salīdzināt ar brāļiem. Samsungam un Aifonam bija skaistas, glancētas, prieka pilnas sejiņas, tieviņi viduklīši, ka vai prasījās tik to vien kā pa rokām auklēt. Viņi vēl nebija radu rokām apbružāti, turklāt, spītējot saviem jaunajam gadiem, bija gudri, daudz gudrāki par vecāko brāli.

Nenoliedzami Māte visvairāk bija pieķērusies tieši jaunākajam, skaistākajam un gudrākajam dēlam - Aifonam. Brīnumbērns! Viņa slavēja trīsgadīgo dēlu visām savām draudzenēm. Puika jau mācēja lasīt, rakstīt, bija apguvis visas pasaules valodas, vienmēr zināja, kāds nākamajā dienā būs laiks, palīdzēja pat Mātei darbā (viņa strādāja par juristi), dziedāja, dancoja, spēlēja, izklaidēja Māti, stāstot viņai anekdotes un zīmējot bildes kā īstus mākslas darbus. Ko tik viņš visu nedarīja! Tieši tāpēc Māte Aifonu stiepa visur līdzi un lutināja ar visiem iespējamiem labumiem. Viņi kopā gāja uz darbu, teātri, operu, kafejnīcām, pasākumiem, ballītēm. Visur! Māte jaunāko dēlēnu tik ļoti mīlēja, ka vienmēr to glāstīja, spaidīja, taustīja, vienmēr sadzirdēja un uzklausīja, turklāt pirms gulētiešanas tā vietā lai lasītu pasakas dēlam, Māte klausījās dēla stāstos, dziesmās, dzejoļos, padevās brīnumbērna bagātās iztēles uzburtajiem videoklipiem. Un tā arī viņi viens otra skavās aizmiga teju vai katru nakti.

Sīmens, to vērojot no savas vientuļās istabas, raudāja. Viņš atcerējās, kā Māte bija lasījusi pasakas viņam. Kā Māte kādreiz viņu bija mīlējusi tāpat kā abus jaunākos dēlus, bet tagad to visu dabūja Aifons. Un pat vēl vairāk – izskatījās, ka pastarītis Mātei dod to, ko nespēja Sīmens un pat ne Samsungs.

Tiesa, arī Samsungu Māte ne vienmēr visur ņēma līdzi. Arī viņš lielākoties bija nosēdināts istabā, lai pildītu mājasdarbus un mācītos. Taču pret Samsungu viņa nebija tik skarba kā pret Sīmenu. Viņam klājās drusku labāk. Māte par vidējo dēlu atcerējās, kad brauca uz ārzemēm darba komandējumos, kuri notika gandrīz katru nedēļu. Varēja redzēt, ka viņa lepojas ar jaunākajiem dēliem. Abi bija tik gudri, ka varēja Mātei svešās zemēs gan parādīt virzienus, gan palīdzēt ar valodām, gan kārtot darba jautājumus. Tikmēr muļķītis Sīmens vienmēr palika mājās, aizmirsts pavisam. Mātei bija kauns iet kur sabiedrībā ar vecāko dēlu. Sīmens to juta.

Kādu dienu neviena negaidīta, neviena nevēlēta atnāca nelaime. Māte pārradās no darba... bez Aifona. Saraudātu seju, viņa ieskrēja vidējā dēla Samsunga istabā un nesakarīgi kliedza: „Aifons, nolaupīja Aifonu, kāds nolaupīja Aifonu..mans Aifons...mans dārgais, mīļais Aifons...”

Lai arī Māte bija sūdzējusies policijā par jaunākā dēla pazušanu, viņa neloloja lielas cerības to atrast. Tāpēc pavisam dabiski jaunākā dēla vietā stājās vidējais dēls un kļuva par viņas ikdienas biedru. Tomēr aizstāt Aifonu viņš nevarēja. Māte skuma pēc sava jaunākā dēlēna. Ļoti skuma. Naktīs nevarēja aizmigt, domājot, kur tagad ir viņas dēlēns, kādās rokās nonācis, vai vispār vēl dzīvs. Nevarēja aizmigt, zinot, ka Aifona nav blakus un zinot, ka ... diez vai viņš atgriezīsies.

Draudzenes Māti mierināja, teikdamas: Pagaidi pāris mēnešus, un pieteiksies jauns dēls, taču Māte zināja, ka grib tikai Aifonu – Aifonu, kuram viņa bija tik ļoti pieķērusies. Šis zaudējums bija pārāk liels, lai domātu par jaunu dēlu.

Māte bija palikusi ar diviem dēliem, un, likās, dzīve iestāsies tādās pašās sliedēs, kāda tā bija, pirms piedzima Aifons. Taču kas to būtu domājis, ka nelaimes Māti apciemos viena pēc otras. Saslima Samsungs. Izmirka lietū, saķēra iesnas, klepu un drudzi. Neviens ārsts nespēja pateikt vainu, un dēls tik ļoti savārga, ka bija jāliek uz gultas režīma.

Māte nezināja, ko darīt. Aifons, tagad Samsungs... Viņa krita depresijā. Bija pazaudējusi divus dēlus. Turklāt tos, kurus pēdējā laikā bija visvairāk mīlējusi. Viņa jutās tik vientuļa, tik pamesta, taču tad atcerējās par to, kurš, iespējams, jutās tāpat. Jau sen.

Māte klusām pieklauvēja pie Sīmena istabas durvīm un iegāja iekšā. Tur viņš sēdēja. Viņas apetelīgais, bet mīlīgais dēlēns. Strupiem pirkstiņiem, sagrauztiem nadziņiem. Pats pirmais. Dēls aši pagriezās Mātes virzienā, bet tad ātri novērsās un iegrima burtnīcās un grāmatās. Vēl joprojām viņš bijās Mātes, kas viņu rāja par slinkumu un salīdzināja ar jaunākajiem brāļiem. Tagad tā pati Māte uzlika roku uz vecākā dēla pleciem un saprata, cik netaisni pret viņu izturējusies. Saprata, cik ļoti tomēr viņa savu dēlu mīlējusi tādu, kāds viņš bija. Jau no pirmās dienas, kad piedzima. Šo viņa lempīgo augumu, sasprēgājušās rociņas, tomēr dzīvo, vēl joprojām dzīvo dvēselīti un spraigi pukstošo sirsniņu.

„Piedod, Sīmen,” viņa noteica un nokaunējusies paņēma rokās savu vecāko dēlu.

Masala India

 Masala dosa, you hear on trains; Garam Masala, you will find in curry; Bryani masala, you order in restaurants. In fact, “masala” should be the first word you learn before going to India unless you want to yield to the world of spices and savor Indian food with closed eyes. Yes, that’s what “masala” means – mixture of spices. That one word made me say “no” to lots of Indian food (though I got used to some spices after all) and having my personal whimsical reasons on top of that (no onions, no pork, no mashed potatoes, no unknown mixtures, no overcooked food, no sauces, no unhygienic and dirty plates), I sometimes ended up eating plain rice and bananas which I am very happy about. 

Had your lunch?

“Had your breakfast?”, “Had your lunch?”, “Had your dinner?” You will hear these questions every day asked by your fellow Indian colleagues, friends and even strangers on a street. Beware if your answer is “no”. A genuinely concerned and puzzled Indian face will stare at you urging to get the necessary meal as soon as possible. You might get tired of being asked the same questions every day, but for Indians it shows their sincere concern about your primary need or perhaps it’s also a nice way to start a small talk? 

Food becomes the central topic of everyday life. Carrying a food box to school (for the snack break or lunch break) becomes as crucial as carrying your pencil box or even wallet. Thus mothers check the menus of the school lunch to make sure their kids get sufficient food; employees often bring home-cooked food to their work place and share it with others; however, the realm of food is waiting for you in the frequent and famous Indian weddings when wedding organizers try their best to show the guests enormous varieties of food they can afford. The bigger the wedding and the richer the organizers, the larger and more abundant tables will satiate your taste buds with roti, chapatti, paneer, different types of rice, pani puri, bryani, dal, masala dosa, Chinese Indian food and much more.. 

Have you tried bryani?

I didn’t become a fan of Indian food, but I did enjoy particular dishes and discovered new tastes (which happen rarely taking into account my usual whims). For example, I can’t eat such things as masala dosa or pani puri and many other crazy, unknown, weird mixtures that look like something between soup and sauce and when judging in my terms – not alluring to my eyes to make me eat it. I liked all the rice stuff though (egg fried-rice, chicken rice) except for the rice dishes when rice didn’t look rice anymore, but white, round, flattened pieces of… rice that is called idli. No, no, no. Even though it’s made of rice, I couldn’t stand that look and immediately added to my NO list. Idli is breakfast food and looks strange like most of Indian breakfast dishes, something I couldn’t really befriend with save in chapattis and rotis that I called “bread/pancake stuff”. But I was happy with lunch and dinner. What I definitely want to compliment here is bryani. And if so, Hyderabad was the right place for me to live. Hyderabadi-ans are very proud of their bryani, typical food of Hyderabad. Therefore, if you are a newcomer or meet someone for the first time, add another question to “Had your lunch?” questionnaire. “Have you already tried bryani?” That is something you can’t actually escape when in Hyderabad, so most probably your answer will be “yes” unless you have just arrived. 

Food itself can be very cheap and sometimes it seems it’s even cheaper to buy it cooked outside than cook home. The prices of street food (for example, fried rice) might start from 30 rupees (0,40 euro cents).  

Chocolate is the King

As much as Indians like spices and hot food, they love sugar. One only needs to take a bite of jalebi (yellow, oily, sugary, warm sweet) to feel that the sweet sickening sugar in your throat will make you sing the sweetest symphony ever. Indians seem to love it. Their national plate of sweets alluringly boasts with wondrous colors, sophisticated appearances, and multitude ingredients reflecting the creativity of forms and shapes, and tastes. The sweetest of the sweet; different sweet; Indian sweet. 

And that’s not all. Despite the plenitude of traditional sweets, Indians would always equally seek for Western goodies. Ice-cream is something that makes them crawl. No decent wedding would end without ice-cream that gathers queues usually longer than the ones opting for Indian sweets. Butterscotch, vanilla, strawberry, chocolate…yes, chocolaty chocolate with chocolate chunks and chocolate slivers deserves another story here. Chocolate indeed seems to be the most to-die-for sweet.  “You will have to bring me chocolates if I do you this or that.” They say it to each other for doing favours  It feels as if chocolate is treated like a king ruling the kingdom of all sweets, even Indian traditional ones. At least that’s how supermarkets treat it with rather high price or better to say – no price democracy offering various chocolate options. What surprised me was that not only Indian kids, but even adults are overwhelmed with chocolate. “For this, you will bring me chocolates tomorrow,” an Indian teacher might say to her poor student. Just like love, chocolate doesn’t mind the age. The fact that even those chewy, sticky caramel candies with a thin, stingy dose of chocolate inside are called CHOCOLATES shows a clear chocolate deficiency and despair in Indian society. If someone has a birthday at school, they would bring these candies (as they are the cheapest “chocolates”), and that would count as: “oh great, you have brought chocolates”. What also confuses me is that they call it in plural – chocolates – instead of chocolate? 

Fruit paradise

Enough of sweets! Enough of masala! Unless you want to turn into one big Indian mama that successfully veils her best friend belly in sari as she graciously walks along the street, go for fruits. Next to the large variety of Indian food and sweets, the same should be said about fruits. Like in a paradise garden, you just stretch your hand, close your eyes, and a street vendor would hand you bananas, papayas, oranges, jackfruit, litchi, watermelons, chickoos, custard apples and, of course, mangoes, Indian national fruit.

I shall start with bananas as they deserve my attention first. They are cheap. Very cheap. Extremely cheap. I couldn’t resist buying them every day as they cost only 15-30 Rs per kilo (about 0,25-0,40 euro cents). They drag me to the supermarket every day and compel me to check other fruits in the fruit stand. That is how I discover papaya. As I am still at the fruit stand, I also have a look at oranges. I still don’t know if my students were right about saying that there are worms in oranges, that’s why some oranges are really small in size. I think these youngsters must have lied to me. The same youngsters discovered my obsession for bananas. Well, that’s another story of a great laughter. 

Snacks will find you

It’s very rare in India to find oneself in a place where no food or snacks or drinks would be sold (unless it’s really deep, deep countryside with no people there). In India, wherever a human being steps, food follows. In short, those are street vendors that need to make money and find their audience by figuring out spots where they could sell their product. Bus stations, train stations (no need to look for them, they will come on bus or train and serve you as a queen), on the street next to your apartment, next to touristic objects. A friend of mine started to call it a “newspaper food”. Why? Well, usually those salted peanuts or other snacks will be wrapped in an old newspaper as vendors can’t afford better merchandise. What I liked most of all the snacks and what is very Indian, is bhujiya, small, yellow pieces of rather spicy snack sold next to chips and cookies, the regular items that a street vendor has in his shack. 

Even if there is a place with no street vendors, like when we were visiting Allora caves and trading in the territory was prohibited, there will be a sign put up inviting you to eat before entering the venue in the food village they have set up.  For God’s sake – nobody in India ever wants you to be hungry and skip your lunch, dinner or breakfast or snack time. 

I can’t embrace cinnamon

I have to compliment that milky coffee Indians make. I love it! Sometimes it’s too milky especially in a very small and dusty street café where coffee might be served in a small, dirty cup. By the time it’s on your table (which could also reveal some random ants as you are waiting) the coffee might get covered with film. Yuck! I think the best coffee I tasted in India was in Bangalore. It was served in much bigger cups, cheap and tasted good with perfect proportions of milk and coffee. 

With respect to the subtle tradition of Indian tea making that involves lots of spices and milk and already mentioned sickening sugar, I would still say No to it mostly because of the taste of cinnamon that I can’t embrace at all. Tea is just not tea with that small, however influential ingredient. The situation was better in North India. I didn’t feel that much cinnamon (or perhaps, it wasn’t there at all) and could join in for some cups of tea. 

Coffee always works

Are you hungry by now? I am. In fact, even though I sometimes went on a plain rice and rotti/chapatti diet at school, there was never famine in my neighbourhood  I survived. Moreover, I enjoyed. And even if suddenly nothing tastes good, there are always wedding invitations to fix it. There are always Indian fruits, or my beloved and truly missed coffee machine at my school’s staff room that saved me even in that one day in eight months of work when I couldn’t eat a bite at school lunch (as it was a day of unknown Indian mixtures). Bon masala appétit!