From Russia with Love - on tour with Rusalki

Impressions

On the road - and a wee bit tired!

21 October 2013

The long night's journey into day, into night. At four o'clock the alarm wakes me from my shallow slumber. In Russian tradition I sit on my suitcase before leaving and kissing my love goodbye for a week. Bags packed and dragged down the stairs, I hop on the bus that weaves its way through the waking city. With each turn, it squeaks and squeals like there is a human hidden in the hinges. Early workers get on, recognizing each other from their daily routine, nodding acknowledgement. I arrive at the airport slightly nauseous, feeling it should be the end of my journey, not the beginning.

Weight restrictions.

We have to lose weight. Literally. Tanja's suitcase is too heavy. A 2.5 kilo surplus that could cost no less than €70. So, we have to redistribute, open cases, shift things, pushing lids down, groaning and sighing. Finally, we get the green light ... To stand in an even longer queue. Security. More unpacking: liquids, Ipad, camera, take off watch and hat. No visitation this time, surprisingly. Maybe that new haircut is giving me some conformist credibility.

Early morning take-off

Finally, the first plane. Everything goes according to plan. In the first light of day we see the neat flat Dutch acres surrounded by waterways recede. We land at Charles de Gaulle airport, where we transfer. We rush to border control only to collide with a non-moving mass of passengers. Apparently all the guards are on coffee break, or strike, or are simply suffering from general ennui. 'Doucement', one of the ushers says. 'C'est un affront! ' C'est un affront!' Frouke repeats, while we stumble over, giggling. But best not to laugh, or even smile, when facing the officer. We make it through eventually.

How boring, Charles de Gaulle airport, only a few shops with €400 face cream and a smattering of alcoholic drinks, large bottles only. We smear our faces and hands with the creams on offer, spray some expensive perfume and leave the shop. I think to myself that I should go into a perfumery every day and 'test' the merchandise, never buying anything and always using the best products. I suppose one could. Perfect skin for free. If only they had something that would instantly cure the hideous spot under my nose... 

Why did we take this roundabout tour? It was cheaper, I guess, but the price to pay! For two hours we sit on the tarmac because the passenger chute can't be detached and special equipment and personnel is required. After an hour they offer us a glass of water. And to add insult to injury, we fly over Amsterdam, 7 hours after I woke up in that same city. The throbbing in my forehead makes me feel like Meursault.

The food is good, but the rose is finished by the time the purser reaches our seats, so we settle for an acidic red that leaves the teeth rough; anything to pass the time. We fly towards the night, the day unfolding behind us. In the receding daylight, we see the neat flat Russian acres appear below us. The plane lands ever so softly, the way only Russian pilots can.

What awaits us is a repetition of the French border check: hugely long queues and very little movement. But we have arrived! And our dear friend Malik is there to greet us!

But our ordeal is far from over. Because of the two-hour delay (I noted that no form of recompense was offered), we land smack in the middle of evening rush hour. We squeeze ourselves onto a small bus, squashed like sardines. At snail's pace we creep towards the stop where we have to change over to another, smaller bus. We're really no more than anchovies by now. After two hours in traffic - queues seem to be the theme of the day - we make it to Mama Tanja's house, where there is borstj and gworstj and a lot of warmth. Exhausted we go to bed, untypically early, where I write these notes before snuggling under the duvet in my mercifully cool room.

Tomorrow we sing at the Summer Palace in Pavlovsk.

Friends

At Pavlovsk Palace

22 October 2013

Transport is not a problem today, as Lisa, a conductor working for one of the music schools in the district is giving us a lift to Pavlovsk. After a nice slowly morning, and not much of a headache on my part, we jumble into her car and drive off through the sleazy suburbs of St Petersburg, all dust and grit and large grey buildings, soaked in a brown smog. But slowly signs of the old Russia resurface. Soviet architecture makes way for birches and pine trees and soon we pass through lovely Pushkin and then our destination Pavlovsk (which makes me feel like having Pavlova). The most noticeable thing about these towns is a sense of space and peace. You can breathe here. It it not hard to imagine what life would have been like here, say 100 or 150 years ago. We fantasize about gentlemen in carriages and ladies with umbrellas.

We can't enter the Palace without the obligatory plastic shoe covers (mini bin bags, really) and are given a 'private tour' of this magnificent building. We could wander here for hours were it not for our imminent concert. We are shown into a hall with beautiful chandeliers and freezes along the ceiling. The acoustics are good too. We are determined to be at our best tonight, as the audience will consist mostly of music students and teachers: they will know if we mess up! 

Lots of flowers and presents!

Singing autographs

                                           We came, we sang, we conquered.Throughout the concert people come up to us to give us flowers and presents and afterwards the steady stream of gifts continues. We are quite overwhelmed, while we sign CDs and cards. For a short moment in time, we are stars. This is more than we could have hoped for. 

Food, always much food. The ladies who organised our tour take us to their music school in Pushkin and stuff us with meat pies, fruits and cakes. They themselves are all remarkably thin. We talk and toast and sing. This is what we do best: to meet the world through music. Content and quite full, we return home. Tomorrow will be a long and busy day.

23 October

Rise and shine, it's time to be stars again. After beautiful picturesque Pavlovsk, the grim suburb where we perform today is quite a contrast. We need roadies! But, no, now these elderly ladies (I mean us) have to carry all their costumes, hairpieces and instruments themselves. The bus driver says he will tell us where to get off, but doesn't, so we end up marching a bit longer along rows of bleak apartment blocks. The cultural centre also looks rather dilapidated, but inside we are met by Alla and other friendly faces.

Suburbs

We performed here for the survivors of the Siege of Leningrad a couple of years ago and are happy to see many of the survivors still surviving. They, in turn, are happy we have 'new costumes' and remember everything about our last performance. We sing many old memories back to life. An old man comes up to us after the show to thank us for giving them back their music, which few people sing these days. People tell us long stories in Russian and we nod and smile and hug. A 90-year-old lady shows off her dancing skills while some of the others sing with abandon. A special moment, fleeting but unforgettable. And just as quickly as the hall came alive, it turns quiet again and we are on our way to the next gig, across town.

The survivors of the siege of Leningrad

It is harder, much harder to perform when you're tired, so our performance at the Music School is not without flaws. We are preceded by the group of one of the ladies who organised our tour. They're very good, technically, though perhaps a little too sweet and neat. They tell us we were the inspiration that got them started in the first place. How amazing! I tell them, the apprentice has become the master and it is now our turn to learn from them. To be the inspiration of anything artistic and beautiful feels like a great compliment. Perhaps our presence on this earth was not completely in vain, after all.

......

26 October

Some tourist attraction ... (not)

Time appears to be the theme of the day. First we thought we'd have to get up at 6 to get to Atomic City by 11, but thankfully we learn that we in fact have to catch the train at 11. We get to the station with plenty of time to spare. Tanja orders the tickets and I can tell from her face that 'our' train won't be running today. In fact we have to wait three hours, because the winter schedule came into effect three days early. We pay through the nose to lock up our bags for a few hours and simply step outside, not knowing whether the environs have anything to offer at all. In the distance we spot a big church, a landmark possibly worth exploring. Tar vapours and piles of bricks greet us on our way. 

s Novim Godam!

The church is being renovated but we're glad to find the door open. The decorations are relatively sparse and signs of Soviet time still prevail, such as the tile floor, which would look more in place at a butcher's shop. I secretly take a couple of pictures - every detail of our lives needs to be recorded, after all. An old lady is talking to the priest, seemingly confessing her sins. Sas and I decide to also clear our conscience by naming some of our worst deeds and come to the conclusion that sinning is relative, depending on perspective.

On our way back we pass through a horridly clinical shopping mall, adjacent to a large ruin of a building, which once upon a time must have been quite grand. It's beautiful in its dilapidation. Graffiti on one of the stairs says 's Novim Godam' - happy new year. A marker in time, intermittently valid.

Choo choo to Sosnovy Bor

Finally we get on the train and our long journey to Atomic City (Sosnovy Bor) begins. The beginning of the end of our tour. Tomorrow we're flying home, with a suitcase full of memories.

…

 Back home, I realise that I didn’t manage to chronicle all of our adventures in and around Saint Petersburg. I was simply too busy having them! And, as my late friend Andrew used to say: ‘Life isn’t worth living if you can’t have any adventures!’

 

IS Almere - a brief history in time

About eight years ago I first visited the International School of Almere for a job interview. ' "International School", that must be very grand,' I thought. So, naturally, getting off the bus at Waterwijk, I kept my eyes peeled for a majestic building that oozed tradition. Nothing of the sort. At the end of the street I saw an small old, slightly ramshackled building with a board nailed to the front, indicating the school's name. My job application went successfully, especially because I told Mr Bosman, the head, that in my last job I had to invent/create a lot of my lessons without much help. Just the sort of person they needed, for reasons that soon became obvious.

The school only had three classes at the time and they needed new staff because, for the first time, there would be a Grade 10. For a few years, student numbers remained more or less the same, between 55 and 65 and the small team of teachers worked away like army ants in the sometimes boiling, sometimes leaking premises at Waterwijk, without much support of either of its parent schools. We were left to our own devices and used books that almost fell apart in our hands and a handful of dinosaur computers.  

After a couple of years we moved into a corner of Het Baken Trinitas, where we were regularly eyed with suspicion. Slowly, in obscurity - and not always without difficulty (space was an issue, e.g.) - we continued to build our masterpiece.

We wrote our unit plans, and re-wrote them again, and once more, to meet the stringent demands of the IB. One summer break, I spent 80 hours putting all my units into the digital system. All of us worked huge amounts of unpaid overtime. I myself must have put in a total of about 2000 (!) free hours over the years, nearly costing me my health. Others worked equally hard. The Bosmans left, having done their bit and soon we got a young and handsome new head Eric B., whom everybody (especially the female students) loved, but wasn't quite experienced enough to handle such a huge challenge. So, when he disappeared after eight months, Ms G. was kind enough to fill in as interim head. 

We had several authorisation visits. We were promised several times that we were going to have the DP. We were often disappointed. And still we beavered away, not giving up.

But all the effort had not been in vain. Because finally, we got authorised for the DP, for MYP and, with these treasures in our pockets, we moved to our fabulous new building at Almere Poort. Our 4th head of school, Ms Devilliers firmly took matters in hand. 

And people started to notice. While student numbers had been stable, but low, for years, while we operated under the radar, suddenly interest started to rise, to the point that for September 2013 we almost had to start turning down students; we were going to be 'full'.

They say it takes ten years to become proficient at anything, whether that be playing the violin, becoming an athlete or any other kind of professional. This is exactly the case for us. We celebrated our ten year anniversary this school year and today we are a school that not only has a sound curriculum and a solid team of teachers, but also a wonderful community of caring and principled students and parents - as was proven once again this weekend when they decided to occupy the school.

It is incomprehensible that such a good school should close, for reasons that nobody quite understands, while a school that has a history of stealing exams can stay open. One of the reasons would be that we don't have enough 'international' students. But defining 'international' is very difficult in this day and age. I have lived in two countries and feel equal ties to both, but I have only one passport. There are many people like me. What is also implied is that Dutch students don't have the right to an international education, which seems pretty ludicrous, especially in a country that wants to be a 'knowledge economy'. 

Supposedly there is also a debt. Where this debt comes from and who is to blame is unclear, but certainly this is something that both boards must have been aware of before last week. 

What they had not reckoned with is the strength of our community and the intelligence of both students and parents. The content as well as the timing of the bad-news meeting was an insult to everyone present. They must have figured: 'just before the start of the summer break, nobody will cause a riot. People will have their tickets booked and they will simply go away.' Hah! How wrong they were - and, to be honest, rather incompetent! 

Today we heard that talks were going 'in the right direction', but no agreement had been reached yet. Whichever way this goes, I want to congratulate our students and their parents, and our entire team on our fabulous achievement. We have built something together that is worth being proud of, worth fighting for. And we won't give up. WE SHALL, WE SHALL, WE SHALL NOT BE MOVED!!!

P.S. In some obscure village in the middle of France, I just got the good news that IS Almere is to stay open. All the parties got around the table once more and slogged out an agreement. Hurray! This would not have been possible without the help of the Almere city council, so a big thank you to them!

And what a lesson to our students: sometimes, when you really fight for something, your dream can come true! The only thing is: now they can never complain about the school again, hahaha!

Stories for Telling: Mariana

MARIANA

Where the setting sun still paints the receding hills red and the river spreads its arms to meet its friend the ocean, a little house stood alone in the wood. The buzzing of bees could be heard as the rain downed gently on its roof. Smouldering ashes were all that was left of the fire in the hearth. The smell of earth and cherry blossom filled the night air. A man sat on a small stool, wielding a tool: a sail needle with which he was stitching together the strong cloth. His hands were rough from weather and work, but his movements graceful as if he were embroidering silks. The man shook his head, his manes flying like a wild dog. A single tear streaked his face, dropped on the white linen, leaving a darker mark. What once was would come no more.

He had come home from one of his trips, long journeys on his ship, to sell cotton and wool, dried meats and fruits and the odd gun if he could lay his hands on them. He had returned and found her dead, the love of his life, who had come to be with him, Gunthar Plot, seasoned sailor and home-wrecker.

He would forever be haunted by the image of her hair disappearing underneath the waves as she had jumped into the water to speed up their reunion while his ship slowly sailed into the misty bay. They had dredged for hours, but found nothing.

How had it all come about? Oh, the day they met was engraved in his memory. He had sat on the shoreline, fixing the little sloop that brought him to and from his ship. It was on a day not unlike this one; hazy rain fell, scents were released by the strengthening sun, spring had arrived with a promise of summer. Mist hung across the bay, so he heard her before he saw her delicate beauty.

A vision in white, floating into view, singing softly a tune he knew. She had stopped and looked into his grey-blue eyes with her own green-golden ones. He tried to speak but was transfixed, enthralled, enchanted. A question mark hovered between them.

A hand outstretched. Instant fire. Then lips met lips and sand got into clothes as they rolled and rolled along the sheltered beach. She laughed, her laugh as clear as a mountain stream. “I am Mariana,” she whispered. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, madam,” he mumbled while kissing her neck, encircling his fingers with her red curls. It was as if all life had conspired to this meeting. It was destiny. They were soul mates who had recognised each-other at once. Or were they?

Time had stood still, hours had gone by in seconds, the mist was clearing. The sound of a horn pierced the sky. She swiftly gathered her garments and ran away; gracing him with one more smile. She formed a thought in his head: “have faith”. Then he was suddenly – and utterly - alone. That glorious moment of all-encompassing happiness had passed as quickly as it had arrived.

Listlessly he wandered back home to his house in the woods, despair descending into his heart as he feared he might never see her again. Mariana. Her name would haunt his dreams and waking hours. He would wake up sweating, remembering their embrace. His appetite left him, he grew a beard and as the pain of her absence didn’t abate he went wild and wayward.

He had looked for her everywhere, calling her name across glen and marsh. Searching in all the nearby towns and villages, asking: “Do you know, have you seen, have you ever heard of Mariana?” But nobody knew her, saw her, heard her. It was as if she had never been. He took to his ship and sailed the seven seas to find a trace of his love. He hired agents to track her down. But she was lost and so was he. He went mad.

Truth be told, he had always been a bit of a ruffian, going his own way, never heeding others. That’s why he liked the sea, the freedom to always be on the move. He still felt the blood of his Viking ancestors urging him to explore and conquer. Whenever he felt a yearning in his heart, he would just pack up and leave, trading (and sometimes thieving) here and there to earn his keep. Oh, there were women – as you know, one in every port – but none of these had captured his heart. He might spend a night, a day or even a month, but then his companion would wake up one morning to an empty bed, not even a dent in the pillow where he had lain.

But now things were different. He was no longer his own. He suffered from insomnia, he grew sad and angry. At night he howled like a wolf, in the day he growled like a lion. It was commonly known that he was involved in plenty of bar-room fights and bore the scars of his rage on his body.

Girls with red hair became his obsession. If he saw one walking on the market or along the shore, he would wear her down until she were his. He stole wives from their husbands, daughters from their parents, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him.

For he was not undesirable. His fair hair, his tanned face and grey-blue eyes, his muscles weaving like ropes around his limbs and his blistering smile made him attractive to dreamy housewives and romantic schoolgirls. And his unexpectedly gentle voice deceived them into believing they meant something to him. But his heart was closed. It had been closed before, but having once known the light of love and see it extinguished, the doors were now locked and barred.

Until one day …. He came home and found a small casket in front of his door. Inside it lay a large shell and inside the shell a lock of red hair. As he lifted the shell from its box, a tiny piece of parchment fell to the ground. In elegant round letters was written: ‘have faith’. At once out of breath, he sat down, clutching his treasures to his chest. Mariana! She existed! She had not been a figment of his imagination. Hope set his heart ablaze. He danced around the room, ran outside and screamed: ’she lives!!!’ The bees buzzed happily around him and two little birds alighted on his roof, twittering excitedly.

But what now? Was there anything he could do but wait? Have faith? He thought he would go mad all over again, but this time he decided to go and seek out the old wise-woman who lived on the edge of town. Maybe she could shed some light on this mystery.

The room was dark, except a small candle that burned brightly at the back. Gunthar knocked on the open door, but no answer came. Carefully he edged through the maze of ragged chairs, small tables covered with tattered pieces of real Indian silk, statues and images that reminded him of the ones he had seen on his travels. Finally he saw her, her bright yellow eyes searching his with a smile. She was not old, nor young. Her face was laced with lines, but they were not deep. Yet, she gave the impression that she had been there forever, never moving from her seat by the candle. Layer after layer of the most exquisite material was draped around her frail body. But looking closely, you could tell that the moths had had their way with her clothes. Her hair was grey nor blond.

“You will meet again, but it will not be as you imagined”, she told him, even before he asked her. “You must see through the veil, that’s how you can find her. She has been with you, but you didn’t see. Look through the veil, nothing is as it seems.”

She smiled, indicating that the session was over and it was time for him to leave. Nothing more would be revealed that day. As a parting gift, she pressed two small glass angels into his hand. He stumbled outside, dazed and confused, nearly choking. Instead of answers, all he got was more questions. Look through the veil. What on earth could it mean? Had he not heard mystics speak about the veil between this life and the next? Could that mean that she was dead? “She has been with you, but you didn’t see”, the lady had said. Was that because Mariana was now a ghost that hovered nearby? They would meet again. Would they meet, then, on the ‘other side’, when he died? Did reunion lie in death? He was ready to die if he had to. Life without her had become so pointless that he didn’t feel the need to cling to it. But he felt certain the wise-woman didn’t mean for him to take his own life, so he didn’t. Instead, he started speaking to Mariana as if she was right beside him. And although she never spoke, he imagined her close and found some comfort in that.

You might wonder, dear reader, what happened to our red-headed heroine. Rest assured, all will be revealed shortly, as we make our way to the conclusion of this tale.

For we now return to that dreadful day, when he saw her disappear beneath the waves. He had travelled many a league and was returning to the trusted alcove where they had first met. He had talked and talked to her for hours, days, months, while staring out over the sea. Sometimes, just before dawn, he would feel as if she was right next to him and lightness would fill his step. That is how he felt when he arrived that morning.

A veil of mist hung across the bay. Suddenly, she appeared. Look through the veil! He saw her splash into the water, running to meet him. His heart leapt. He dived and swam towards her, waves engulfing him. He surfaced, searching for her. Her red hair was like a beacon. She was his lifeline and he struggled to reach her. But she was floating down, disappearing underneath the sea. He lunged down; trying to catch her, but only water ran through his fingers and bits of seaweed. He tried and tried until he was too worn out. He lost consciousness and drifted down to the sea bed, the two glass figurines, which he had kept with him at all times, floating out of his pocket and, after bouncing up and down a couple of times, burying themselves in the sand.

The sun was warming his back. Was he dead? No, he lay on the beach; face down in the sand, his joints stiff, his clothes drenched. The mist had gone. Seals were barking out at sea. He looked over the water. He had seen her, through the veil of mist, but it had not been as he had imagined. The old lady had been right.

Having lost her twice, he had crossed the threshold. He no longer wanted to live. Sitting by the dying fire he made up his mind. He took the sails that he had stitched together. He dragged his little sloop out into the water, lay down and covered himself with the oiled cloth. Slowly the lapping waves moved him away from the shore and the current took the small boat in its arms. In this way, he would be close to her. He started talking again, words flowing from him softly, continually, in the language of his forefathers. “Ástin mín, ástin mín. Þú hefur náð botni sálar minnar.” Seals swam around his boat, barking and dancing in the water. One of them attracted his attention. It appeared to be laughing while it nuzzled its nose against the sloop. It had unusual green-golden eyes. He would have recognised those eyes anywhere.

They floated into a cloud of mist. “I love you”, she said, and placed a kiss on his mouth. “But ... , how…?” he stammered. “You have fallen in love with a selky, silly”, she smiled. “We can only cross between worlds through the mist. That’s why I couldn’t come to you. But I was with you all the time. Did you never see me, swimming off the port bow?” “Of course I did”, he laughed, still bewildered. “I always knew it was you.”

And now? Can a love like this exist? Of course it can, in fairytales. And this is one. So he jumped overboard and his love for her transformed him. Together they swam, sometimes seal, sometimes human, and found joy beyond compare.

'A Mermaid’ (detail) by John William Waterhouse, 1900   

Photo: Royal Academy of Arts, London

© Pep Mac Ruairi

My Life with Andrew

Steep inclines and declines

It must be almost exactly twenty years ago that I first met Andrew. I was auditioning for a newly-to-be-formed theatre company that was going to tour Romania for a month, playing on the streets, at orphanages and theatres. Together with his friend Michael, Andrew was doing the selections.  I was quite intimidated by these guys. I hadn’t done a lot of improv before and these two just seemed to be able to conjure a whole lot of nonsense out of thin air. Clowns, in the true sense of the word. I didn’t do very well during the auditions, but hoped they would still take me, on account of the good vibe between us and the fact that I could play some musical instruments. And indeed, I made it through the selection and we went. It was the beginning of a life-long friendship.

Michael and Andrew, always ready to do another show, after the show.

During that month in Romania, which was pretty life-altering for each of us, we really got to know each other.  I found Andrew very easy to talk to and confide in. He always seemed to know exactly what was going on. At the same time, his sharp humour was often mistaken by the other girls for sexism, but I found his somewhat cynical attitude quite refreshing, so we ended up hanging out together quite a lot. 

'Compost' theatre company in Romania

After a couple of weeks, we had a few days off and the group split into little sub-groups. Andrew wanted to go walking in the Carpatians and Michael and I decided to join him, though the route was labelled as ‘very difficult’. The fact that Andrew had a sore knee didn’t deter him in the least. Of course, at the time I didn’t know he had been running up and down the Austrian mountains in his youth. We were amazingly unprepared, with very little food and water. After nine long hours we finally made it to the bottom of the mountain, where we jumped into the river, nearly dying of thirst. Of course, we had not arranged any accommodation either, but luckily we came upon some scouting camp, where a man pointed us to a farmhouse at the end of the town (Bran), where we could spend the night. It turned out to be a Baptist commune. One of the first things Andrew asked was: “Where can I take a shower?” His request was met by roars of laughter and one of the men pointed to a cold tap in the middle of the courtyard. 

At the Baptist commune

That evening we sat around trying to communicate with the people from the commune. I decided that a song is always a good way when one doesn’t know the language. The ladies responded with such loud chainsaw-style singing that Andrew had to turn off his hearing-aid. The next day we could barely walk, even a two-inch step would hurt our poor legs. In the town of Bran there is a castle, which is supposedly Dracula’s castle, where Andrew and I first came up with our fake sword-play and the word ‘Tsching!”, which we would use henceforth to celebrate whenever we had conquered a problem. It was an adventure we would never forget.

'Tsching!' at Bran castle

After Romania, we always kept in touch. We went to Michael’s wedding, where we bitched about everything that was wrong about the proceedings. My husband and I went to Andrew and Lucy’s wedding and they came to ours. There were some serious ups and downs in our relationship. Once, when Andrew and Michael were visiting Amsterdam, Andrew got so angry when I made an (only slightly) politically incorrect joke about people with learning difficulties that he completely blasted me to pieces. I was shocked and surprised, because he wasn’t exactly the most politically correct person on the planet, but I realised that these people had a special place in his heart. And perhaps his own sense of being an outsider made him extra sensitive. For a moment it seemed our friendship was over.

'Compost' admiring great Romanian wig

But when you’ve become like family to each other, the friendship is never over. You’re stuck together, for better and for worse. How unfair life is, that it had to get so much worse for Andrew.

The last time I saw him when he was still able to talk, he made a list of the things he had accomplished in his life. He knew he had done good work. He was extremely proud of his son Ethan. He was very happy with his theatrical successes. He loved the travels he had done. He had only one regret, he said, and that was that he should have had more sex. Typical! 

His very last adventure with myself and Andrea is already becoming a classic. We were visiting and he wanted to go to Saltburn. He insisted on taking his electric wheelchair, which made me think in hindsight that he had planned the whole thing beforehand. He wanted to go down to the beach, but the road from Saltburn town is very steep. He must have reckoned that Andrea and I would not have been able to wheel him down in his normal wheelchair. We thought it was very dangerous and irresponsible to go down, what with the heavy traffic and all, but, stubborn as he was, he scooted off on his own. He was not to be deterred, just like that time in the Carpatians. When trying to take a hairpin bend, he lodged himself into a fence. With great difficulty, we dragged him loose. The decline was so steep that even the breaks from the wheelchair couldn’t hold the weight. He went up the hill, seemingly docile, but then turned around and did the same thing all over again! With the help of a strong passer-by we managed to get him down the hill, where we had fish and chips, looking out over the sea. Andrew even had a couple of chips himself, though at that stage he was already on astronaut food. I had to admit that it had been worth it. Sometimes you can be too careful. He, now famously, said (with his Ipad voice) that “Life isn’t worth living if you can’t have any adventures.” A lesson to us all.

At the house, he showed us piles of photographs and old film footage of his life. Then we said goodbye. “Come again,” were his last words, spoken with his Klaus ‘speak-it’ voice.  But he left us too soon.

Andrew scooting off into the distance

Stories for Telling: The Mahandra Dervish

THE MAHANDRA DERVISH

Our Earth is a magnificent place, with its variety of landscapes and climates.  Far in the north, the cold mountains of Nargist are white with frost and snow, while green and lush Boscodale has a milder clime with regular rain. And further south, pine and chestnut forests run towards the Southern Sea, on the other side of which temperatures rapidly rise, reaching their peak in the vast stretches of the Mahandra desert.

Here, mountains and hills, rocks, stones and pebbles have all been ground down, crumbled and crushed by the blazing sun to their tiniest form: millions and millions of grains of sand. They say there are more grains of sand in Mahandra than there are stars in the universe, and many of those stars can be seen peeping through their nightly curtain when the sun sets over the deserted desert.

Now, many people think sand is dead. But have you ever wondered why sand encapsulates your feet when you tread it? Why it seems to cling to absolutely everything; your clothes, your hair, the corners of your eyes? It’s because sand wants to live, but can’t take shape of its own accord. Of course, winds and storms pick it up, swishing and swirling it around, but when the storm lifts, the sand helplessly falls and is doomed to wait patiently for the next passer-by.  But, eventually, a passer-by will come.

Mooh-Ri was born in the city of Al-Amahad, situated between the Southern Sea and the Mahandra Desert. Al-Amahad was a wondrous place, full of palm and orange trees and wild figs growing in the town squares, where fountains chattered jubilantly in the shade of yellow stone walls, adorned with mysterious carvings and symmetrical symbols from ancient times. Mooh-Ri was a philosopher, a wanderer, or, as others put it, a dreamer. He had big, dark, almond-shaped eyes with long lashes and strongly defined features. He was a beautiful young man and, whether we like it or not, life is easier on the beautiful. Their sins are more quickly forgiven and their requests more speedily granted. So, where others toiled, Mooh-Ri was allowed to dream.

His boundless curiosity took him all around town, listening to the stories of old and playing haunting melodies on his al-ud (or lute, as we call it nowadays). What interested him most of all were the carvings on the walls. He would trace them with his fingers and study them for hours. He even had a little notebook, in which he drew the symbols he came across most often, trying to discern a pattern. But every time he thought he had a clue, it would slip through his fingers like the Mahandra sand, though, obviously, like the sand, some of his thoughts would stick.

One night, Mooh-Ri was sitting on one of the city walls, gazing out at the Mahandra desert in the fading light, the first stars twinkling overhead. Absent-mindedly he touched the markings on the wall, tracing and gazing, gazing and tracing, round and round. A whisper caressed his skin. Goose bumps. Someone, or something was calling him. Without getting up, he floated slowly down, until he stood outside the city wall, the sand ready to meet his feet. He was not surprised. He had to go. 

As soon as his feet touched the earth, his environment began to change. From the corner of his eyes, he saw dim shadows taking shape. With each step forward, the vision became clearer. He was walking on a golden road, and as he walked, trees, houses, even sparkling castles sprouted into existence; a golden world, glowing mildly underneath the night sky. He walked and walked until Al-Amahad seemed a dim memory and when he was tired, he opened a golden door, found a golden bed and laid himself down to sleep. 

Even before opening his eyes, he sensed he was not alone. A benign presence, though; something to look forward to. He kept his eyes shut a moment longer, savouring the anticipation and … there she was, glowing in the golden dawn. “Hi, I’m Sorra,’ she said. She looked familiar somehow. It came to him that she reminded him of a girl he’d met in a fishing village on a trip to the Southern Sea two years back. The girl had sold him some fish. Her father had fried it up for him, but they had ended up eating it together. It had been one of those perfect days of tranquility that you never forget, but never think about much either.

From that moment on, Sorra and Mooh-Ri stayed by each-other’s side all the time, laughing and happy while they created their own world. Time did not exist. He knew there was a city called Al-Amahad, where he had once lived, where he had friends and family, but all that seemed very far away now, like it belonged to a different life. He felt he had finally come home.

Sorra taught him an amazing dance, where you just spin round and round, your arms stretched out, one pointing upwards, one pointing downwards. Round and round, until you feel nothing but your own heartbeat aligning itself with the heartbeat of the universe. The sand adored this dance too, it felt so alive. He had never experienced anything more true and beautiful.

Life became blurry; days blending into nights, dance slowing into sleep and he felt he needed to make more of an effort to stay focused. Because, dear reader, falling in love is easy, but staying in love is another story altogether. It’s easy to lose oneself in the desire to be connected. And it’s even easier to get lost when one is in the desert.

He glimpsed Sorra from the corner of his eye, moving away from him. She was walking into the desert, the sun beating down on her. Was she getting smaller or further away? He could not tell. Until eventually she completely melted into the sand and was gone. He ran after her, trying to scream, but his throat was dry. All around him the houses and trees and palaces were crumbling down, disappearing before his eyes. He stumbled and crawled to the place where she had fallen, his hands clawing the sand. But it merely slipped through his fingers. Had none of it been real? Had it all just been a dream?  

He sank down in despair, groping around blindly, his eyes too dry for tears, his lips congealed by thirst. How long had he been in the desert, without eating or drinking? His skin was burned and blistered. Just as he thought he was going to lose his mind completely, his hand touched something. The sun had melted the sand to glass and he held in his hand a perfect figurine of Sorra, a little glass angel.

You see, dear reader, does the dreamer dream the dream, or does the dream dream the dreamer? Had touching those symbols on the wall somehow activated the dream, or awakened the sand? Mooh-Ri spent a lot of time thinking about these things, sitting on the walls of Al-Amahad. He made music and in his little notebook he wrote poetry about the sand, his beloved and connecting with the universe, the source. Whenever he felt lost, he would dance the whirling dance and over time, many came to join him. He was almost at peace.

There was just one more journey he had to make. So, one morning he borrowed a camel and travelled to the Southern Sea. There he sat, watching the colourful fishing boats moving in and out of the little harbour, listening to the waves lapping at his feet, the water bright blue. Finally, when dusk was about to fall, a small caique moored and a young woman nimbly jumped ashore. “Hi, I’m Mooh-Ri,” he said, blushing slightly. “I remember. My name is Marie-Sor,” she laughed. She fished a little glass figurine from the folds of her dress and said teasingly: ‘You sure took your time, didn’t you?”

And that’s when he learned that reality exceeds the dream every time.

Long after Mooh-Ri and Marie-Sor had passed away, a merchant found the two glass figurines, hidden in the Mahandra sand, and he sold them to a sailor from the north, who had had a similar experience. 

© Pep Mac Ruairi