Archive for adventure

(SUR)real Georgia

Posted in Photo with tags , , , on 2015-09-22 by candycactus

Here is a collection of images from Georgia taken during prolonged stays in 2004-2012

GEORGIAN

Advertisements

3 istorijos iš Atakamos dykumos: DYKUMOS GROŽIS

Posted in Lietuviškai, Stories and Tales with tags , , , , on 2013-07-02 by candycactus

Kiekvieną sykį, kai sėdžiu sunkvežimyje jaučiuosi lyg liuksusiniame kino teatre su didžiuliu ekranu, ir su užuojauta akimis palydžiu turistus, vežamus bandomis džipais, kurie per kuprines gali matyti tik šiek tiek daugiau nei savo kelius. 

Panašu, kad Pietų Amerikoje suveikė hedonizmo saugiklis ir išmainiau aistrą keliauti dviračiu į tranzavimą sunkvežimiais. Iš reikšmingos sunkvežimio aukštumos pravažiuodama tūlą dviratininką, minantį per, tarkim, Čilės naujai tiesiamą tūkstantmylę dulkėtą magistralę, lyg pamiršus savo bilenkiek numintų tūkstančių kilometrų, su minkštu gailesčiu palydėdavau pastangas kovoti su modernybės pasiekimais – tiesiamu asfaltu ir begales mašinų. Ne, Pietų Amerikoje man nepatiktų minti dviračio. 

Paveikslėlis

Su vienais važiuoji kelias valandas, su kitais – dienas. Kelias dienas ir kelis tūkstančius kilometrų važiavome su Pablo. “I can’t get no satisfaction” dainuojam besiridenančių akmenų hitą ir staiga užtinkame, kad vidury atšiauriausios pasaulyje Atakamos dykumos, kur sunkvežimininkai žūna užliūliuoti mirtinos monotonijos, aptinkame vidury kelio bulvių. Pablo trenkia ant stabdžių ir niūniuodami susirenkame solidų maišą gėrio. PaveikslėlisSunkvežimininkams Čilėje moka nedaug. Belieka surasti kokių pagalių lauželiui. Bet viskas dykumoj ne taip paprasta. Pakelėse aibė kryželių žuvusiems, bet net ir mes su visu kriminaliniu potencialu jų juk nedegintume.

Pagaliau randame krūvelę šiukšlių – padanga, kažkokia kėdė. Puiki virtuvė. Šiek tiek dūmyja lakas ir guma. Bet ką čia, tokia dozė kancerogeninių medžiagų lyginant su Atakamos kasyklininkų sukvėpuotomis dulkėmis. Jei ne kas antras, tai kas pirmas gavo vėžį, tik niekas apie tai garsiai nekalba, o kosulys toli nesigirdi. 

Keistai atrodo ugnis dykumoje vidury dienos ir vidury padangos. Keistai karščio bangose atrodo mano bendražygė Liviana, iškeliavus ieškoti kur nusilengvinti. Toli nuėjo labai. Dykumos grožis maždaug toks kaip ir mirties. 

Paveikslėlis

Paveikslėlis

 

Paveikslėlis

Sustoja lengvoji mašina. Aplinkui nieko nėra, mūsų lauželis kepinančiame dykumos karštyje ir dykuma. Daugiau mašinų irgi nėra. Išlipa vyresnio amžiaus pora, nesisveikina, bet nusifotografuoja. “Seka, ką darom”. Transporto kompanija seka sunkvežimių vairuotojus ne tik iš satelitų, kurie sunčia į monitorius kiekvieną sustojimą nusilengvinti, bet ir tokiu būdu.

Pablo sau leidžia pasidaryti sportą iš profesijos. Tarkim, važiuoti galima tik tam tikru greičiu, kas Pablo reiškia, kad kelionė bereikalingai išsitempia. Pajungia dalykus ir laidukus taip, kad kelionės greičio įrašo diskas įsirašinėja nustatytu leidžiamu greičiu, o jis važiuoja greičiau. Paklaida matosi tik monitoriuose, kad jis zvimbia greičiau nei užprogramuota linija. Kartais tai turi pasėkmių, kartais ne, čia jau rusiška ruletė. Taip Pablo bent jau neužminga už vairo.   

Temsta. Liviana miega ant vairuotojo gulto. Mane ima siaubingas snaudulys, bet jaučiu pareigą šnekučiuotis su Pablo, kuris vienas iš tų, kur jau nebeturi ką prarasti. Važiuoti tokius atstumus Atakamos dykumoj reikia turėti šiek tiek savižudžio pašaukimo. O jis jo turi. Gyventi normalų gyvenimą, turėti vaikų, žmoną, meilužę, yra faktiškai neįmanoma. Jis turėjo visas tris, bet dėl šito darbo prarado. 

“Ar tave kada buvo apiplėšę?”, klausiu. 

“Ne, tik sielą bandė.” 

Atakamos dykuma – atšiauriausia pasaulyje, niekas čia negyvena, tik dvasios tų, kur žuvo per Ramiojo Vandenyno karą. O joms čia tikrai ne lengviau, nei gyviesiems. Kartais miegi, sako, ir pabundi, nes kraujuota ranka daužo į langą. Kraujas jiems bėga ir iš burnos, sudžiūvusios rankos prašo, kad pavežtum. 

Sunkvežimių vairuotojai Atakamos dykumoj susirenka nakvoti kartu ir eina miegoti paaukoję ar bent jau kažką pamurmėję mirusių dvasiom. 

Sustojam. Per veidrodėlį matau, kaip Pablo nueina nusilengvint ant užpakalinio rato. Ant akmens baltai parašyta Cristo Salva (Kristus gelbėja). Šalia trūnyja numuštas šuo.

Paveikslėlis

Privažiuojame prie vandenyno. “Štai čia anksčiau būdavo banginių mėsos fabrikas”, pravažiuojam vaiduoklių gyvenvietę. “Neliko banginių, neliko fabriko – viskas paprasta”. 

“Čia buvo kasyklos miestas. Viską iškasė ir pasibaigė. Smėlis keliauja, jau beveik nesimato namų stogų.” 

Pavieniai mažulyčiai kryželiai pakelėse ir didžiuliai elektros stulpai tęsiasi valandomis. Po penktos pradeda keistis atspalvis – nuo peršviesto bespalvio į rausvai gelsvą.   

Paveikslėlis

 

 

3 istorijos iš Atakamos dykumos: BOLIVIETIŠKA ŽIEMA

Posted in Lietuviškai, Stories and Tales with tags , , , , , , on 2013-06-28 by candycactus

“Ar moki virti?”
“Nu, moku, gal tik su mėsa nelabai žinau ką daryti.”
“Tai pabandyk gal, va čia dėžėse visko yra”.
Beveik archeologinio pasenimo autobuso griaučiai meta mintį, kad ko gero įstrigau čia reikšmingam laiko tarpui.
“Jei ką, galėsi čia pernakvoti,” man šaukia nueidamas pasienietis, lyg skaitydamas mintis.
Bolivijos pavadinimą pirmą sykį gyvenime perskaičiau vaikystėj kažkokioj knygoj iš anų laikų serijos “Drąsiųjų keliai”. Pamenu ne kažką, lyg impresionistiniam paveiksle kokius tai potėpius su džiunglėmis, indėnais, nežinia-kas-bus-toliau ir gal-bus-blogai.
Džiunglių čia nėra, bet užtai “nežinia-kas-bus-toliau” ir “gal-bus-blogai”. Rausvai pilkas plikų kalnų krastovaizdis, plokštuma.
Bandymo tranzuoti iš Čilės į Boliviją per Uyuni pasienio postą dar nepaskelbiau nepavykusiu, bet faktas, kad jau spėjau išvirti pasieniečiams pietus, jie murmėdami, kad vistik man išėjo nevisai, kaip pas juos namuose, juos sušlamštė, o per tą laiką nepravažiavo nė viena mašina, man teisėtai leido sunerimti.

autobuso griauciai
Jie čia atvyksta dviem savaitėm. Toli nuo savo motinų, ir žmonų, ir jų verdamų dieviškų sriubų, net atspariesiems boliviečiams šitas pasienio postas yra gerokai atgrasus. Bet kas, kas galėtų įnešti įvairovės į šitą siaubingą nuobodybę yra vertybė ir verta pastangų.
“Ko nerimsti, sakau gi, mano draugas tikrai arba šiandien arba rytoj čia važiuos, galės tave pavežti, čia gali pernakvoti, mums išvirsi valgyti”.
Skamba viskas kaip iš pasakos su nykštukais, ar meškom.
“O galima tam draugui paskambinti ir tiksliai sužinoti?” – nepasiduodu.
“Čia ryšio tai nėra, bet TEN galima pabandyti. Ten kur sniegas maždaug, ten yra ryšys. Keturiasdešimt minučių pirmyn ir keturesdešimt atgal. Tik neišvažiuok, ar prižadi?” Vėl viskas skamba kai iš pasakos. Ir apvalusis iš dviejų pasieniečių užsimuturiavo kepurę, kapišoną ir iškeliavo į pakalnę.
Likome dviese su viršesniu pasieniečiu. Pradėjo sniguriuoti. Šaltis pradėjo smelktis į kaulus. Laikas – ilgėti.
Atrodo keista galvoti apie sienas, kai viskas aplink tik kalnų plynė, autobuso griaučiai ir nedidukas pasieniečių pastatėlis. Artimiausia gyvenamoji apylinkė Bolivijoje – šimtus kilometrų nuo čia. Nėra ko stebėtis, kad niekas nevažiuoja.
Tikėjausi džipų, kurie veža turistus. Bet jie susimokę, net jei turi vietos, pakeleivių tokių kaip aš neima, kad verslas nežlugtų. Ir taip Uyuni yra prienamas tik tų, kurie su pinigais ir ne be jų. Į Čilės pusę kartas nuo karto pervažiuoja sunkvežimiai su raudonais grėsmingais užrašais ir kaukolių paveikslėliais, suprask sprogstama ir visaip kitaip gyvybei nenaudinga. Veža iškasenas iš gretimų kasyklų.
Pabudau rytę prie San Pedro de Atacama, dykumoj su karščiu kaip ir priklauso Atakamos dykumai Čilės pusėje. Atvykau per valandėlę iki Bolivijos sienos ir visiško lietuviško lapkričio. Apsirengiau visais savo turimais rūbais ir nenusifotografavau, nenorėdama daryti gėdos saviems palikuoniams.
“Teks nakvoti su mumis!”, šaukia tolumoje už kelių valandų iš taško atvirtęs į apvalųjį pasienietį apvalus pasienietis. Kūnas pastebimai išskyrė dozę adrenalino, lyg patvirtindamas racionalią mintį “nu jau ne”. Su pasieniečiais gal dar ir susitvarkyčiau, bet šito šalčio kvadratu naktį niekaip neištversiu.
“Jis atvažiuos rytoj iš ryto!”
“Rytoj iš ryto” Pietų Amerikoje gali reikšti bet kokį neapibrėžtą laiko tarpsnį besitęsiantį nuo keleto dienų iki amžinybės.
Keturios po pietų. Už valandos ims temti. Kasykloje baigiasi darbas, paskutinių sunkvežimių prošvaistė atgalios į Čilę ir dykumą, arba nakvoti su pasieniečiais vidury niekur kalnuose.
“Nu, čia nelegalu, vairuotojai negali imti pakeleivių, nes veža sprogstamas medžiagas, bet galim pabandyti.” Draugu tapęs apvalusis pasienietis sušneka su sunkvežimio vairuotoju ir sutariam, kad mane paleis gerokai prieš Čilės postą, kad bėdų nebūtų su Čilės pareigūnais. Sutariam ir jau leidžiamės apipaišytu kaukolėmis sunkvežimiu vingiuotu keliuku žemyn į dykumą, kurioje šiandien pirmą sykį palijo ir oras kvepia smėliu. Atakamos dykumoje prasidėjo bolivietiška žiema.

Not Finding Jodorowsky in Tocopilla

Posted in English, Stories and Tales, Travel diary with tags , , , , , , on 2012-03-27 by candycactus

We arrived there at night. Too dark to figure out the lay of things. “Any idea where we could pitch up a tent?”

The guy who brought us there was a professional in layouts – he was measuring geological factors for mines. On the way he showed us one beautiful tiny bay on the ocean, he was working there for a while measuring. All is fine and suitable, so soon there will be another port for the mine stuff. He lit a cigarette, Liviana went to pee and I looked up at the moon and if not the social situation requiring to be polite and respectful, I would have hauled at it like a wild dog, that I certainly was in one of my past lives. As if covering up my sadness, I arrange my scarf around myself. And then let myself being hypnotized by the red light of the cigarette in almost complete darkness accompanied by the sound of quite waves of the ocean – now I just observe silently my sadness from the far distance. “Look at this naive never grown up, why is she suffering for all this shit? This will not change anything anyway. And in the end, in its smallest particles, what is the difference between a tree and an asphalt road, milk and cyanide, whale and not whale, pristine bay and exploited bay?”. My observer has a point.

“There is a small artificial beach, you might want to camp there for the night”, he tells us. We approach a dark landscape of concrete illuminated by cold energy saving lights. Few youngsters drinking beer. We thank politely for the ride, look at each other and without words we know what we think – it is one of the most unsuitable places to spend the night. So, we depart and walk into the night.

We are both experienced travelers and we both don’t do things like that – to look for a place to camp in the outskirts of the city that we have no idea about and this in the middle of the night. But here we are. Chile is almost surreal in its size and form, it is incredibly long, so risks like these seem to be a price to cross it in certain time – Liviana is in a hurry to reach Rio before carnaval.

From the spots of the landscape illuminated by street lights I try to figure out what is this place like. I can feel the frustration coming up, like a dog trying to figure out things with a nose sprayed with detergent. It’s simply impossible to understand this place. Like so many parts in Chile if feels somewhat claustrophobic – locked in between mountains of some sort on one side and the ocean on the other, plus a highway between of the two. We agree to go on the safer side of things and walk up to the highway police cabin on the side of the road. “Sure,” – in Chile people seem to be always ‘buena onda’ and we can camp next to their cabin on the slope.

Liviana arranges her tent in the few flat square meters of the slope. Since recently I just use a piece of tent cloth to cover myself and sleep under the bare sky. But here it feels strange. I lie down and realize that there is no way for me to sleep here. Like a dog I walk with my headlamp around the what one should probably call beach, since it is next to the ocean, trying to figure out where else I could sleep. The earth has a strange texture everywhere, I cannot figure out what is wrong with it, what is it with this landscape, so strange. Finally I find two square meters that seem to be alright. I lay down and realize the huge electric lines above myself. No way, I cannot sleep here neither. It is not difficult to develop an obsessive compulsive disorder in this over civilized world, were you can hardly find an ‘untouched’ place by the progress, I think to myself. In the end I come back to the cabin. There is an awful smell of the canalization, but I cover my eyes, plug my ears and mobilize all my mental resources to reestablish equanimity and fall asleep.

Once in a while I can hear carabineros talking about us, cars passing by and stopping at the post. Until the point that I definitely wake up. It is still dark, I am still very tired but all at a sudden I feel the irresistable urge to leave this place. So I pack almost like mad, mumble something to Liviana that I am going, and set off.

While I walk, the dawn slowly reveals the truth around me. It looks as if some higher power would take all ingredients of the natural landscape with a tiny old colonialist town, shake them all together, put in a blender and pour back on this spot of the planet. It is difficult the only way I can describe the reason of the ugliness – all natural connections between things seem to have gone lost. I walk in this early morning and feels almost like a strange dream – I am still the only living being in this landscape. An accumulation of small shacks, garages or people live there? Small child pants. I walk along the road squeezed in between some rocks. At some point it becomes impassable and obvious that pedestrian has been forgotten in the planning of this bit. Old church, the trash around it witnesses that it has been very long time it was used for the last time. A wall with a painting saying “stop contamination”. Curve and all at a sudden there are people. It is all busy. Factory? Early morning, tired faces, no smiles, scarce joy. I probably have not seen any less human urban landscape. Enter the town. Coca-cola advertisement on every door. I ask for a coffee. Get one in a Nescafe cup. People seem to be very serious here. The old building witness of some already incomprehensible joy and ease in the past- there must have been children eating ice cream on Sundays, there must have been smell of fish coming from the kitchen windows in some days of glory of this town.

I hitchhike away from this strange place that invokes just sadness and endless melancholy in me. The driver – as so often in Chile – a kindest person. Tells me that the factory is a plant producing energy for all the mines around here in the desert. There is so much money that comes around from this business of mines, but none of that is being invested or comes back to the place where it all comes from. This city could be one of the wealthiest, but the logic of exploitation makes it to one of poorest, ugliest and the most lead contaminated towns in Chile.

We pass by a dead city in the middle of the desert, Maria Elena. The mountains of sand remaining from the mining seem like arms of the monster embracing the empty dead settlement. Miners cities are more impermanent as any other ones.

After crossing several hundreds of kilometers of this most inhospitable and most exploited desert I landed in an oasis – a farm surrounded by green, new age-ish folks, fireplace, music, as if all around would be just a bad dream. In the bathroom an excellent collection of books. I pick up one of Alejandro Jodorowsky “The Way of Tarot”. I am not into tarot, but his “Psychomagic” was accompanying and inspiring me for quite a while last years, so as the personality of Alejandro himself. I was curious to read the introduction, in which he speaks about his childhood. And there I read – Alejandro Jodorowsky was born 17th of February, 1929 in Tocopilla. Somehow blown away by the synchronicity of things I almost could not believe my eyes, how strange. But well, as they say – most beautiful lotus flowers grow in a worst mud, don’t they?

Tocopilla certainly was not like this as it is now. They are all pretty much gone now from Tocopilla –  firemen, ice cream, Sundays, poetry, a Lithuanian Jewish neighbor and Jodorowsky himself. All ingredients have passed through the blender of the mining industry and dictatorship. Some have been chopped into pieces, some thrown out completely.

I guess that is alright. Just contemplating permanent impermanence. And after all, if you chop the reality in its smallest particles – what is the difference between the lead in the air and ice cream in your mouth?

Paveikslėlis

Paveikslėlis

Paveikslėlis

(p.s. Found out that maestro Jodorowsky is about to make a film about this town. More: http://www.ladanza.cl/en. Here are some pictures of Tocopilla back then: http://www.ladanza.cl/en/gallery)

Magic of Coming Back

Posted in English, Stories and Tales, Travel diary with tags , , , , , , , , on 2012-03-08 by candycactus

After 2 months of vagabonding through places still visited by ghosts from the Pacific War, I am back to Buenos Aires. And here I am facing a strange riddle. How come a city that I have so little emotions toward to, like appreciation, fascination and just simply love (read: I dont like Buenos Aires. Malos Aires. For almost an indefinite list of reasons), can be all at a sudden so incredibly nice to me? There is no other city in the world were I would be granted compliments for nearly everything and from nearly everybody in the frequency that makes me think hard – what is it all about? Is it because my short hair got longer? Or is it because the terrible heat of the summer is fading and the muscles of portenos faces relax resulting in smiles? Or is it again that exterior just reflects ones interior?

But what about just a sheer coming back? I guess this must be the trick. Places that have unfortune to be popular for something or being declared to some heritage of the humanity, suffer from masses of comers-and-soon-goers, who come like a plague with their appearent usefulness of bringing money into the game. But have you ever experienced yourself rushing to a bus back home from work and being asked by, lets say, an Asian tourist something in a slow motion as if would be played to you backwards? Or you would want to pass on the sidewalk and there would be a crowd of “these” taking pictures of some facade you have never took notice even if you grew up in the same street? Well, thinking this way it is not difficult to see that being nasty to foreigners who come and never come back is just a survival strategy saving your soul for encounters that might result in any other exchange of energies apart from the monetary.

What happens when one comes back? All at a sudden pavements, walls of the city and everybody in and around them perceives this pure fact as a declaration of love. And they must see it right, even if I did not realize it myself. All at a sudden there is no problem if I ask for a cup of coffee with some milk apart (what the hell happened to this city that it does not refuse it anymore as before??). All at a sudden I find a verduleria, a vegetable store I wished to find where I would know the name of the vendor. And panaderia – they remember me from two months ago and give me a welcome back sweet. It goes on and on like this. Me – speechless.

But the last place where I would expect to be showered with compliments for more or less random stuff would be in an Indian clothing store with an Indian Muslim lady who does not let me see around because she just wants to hug me. What is happening?!

I must be radiating in a flashing manner – I came back, Buenos Aires!

Lovestory in Savsat

Posted in English, Stories and Tales, Travel diary, World Bike Trip with tags , , , on 2007-07-02 by candycactus

I came back. After the four months.  In that time  – Damascus, Jerusalem, Istanbul. Now, in Batumi  waiting for the bus to fill with people. It is damn hot here now. An elder lady, dressed in pink satin shirt and a straw hat comes up to sell me a new issue of playboy. After a while, another lady dressed excentricaly sells chachiapuri.

Well, as the saying goes, one cannot enter the same river twice. The first time I entered Batumi was half year ago. After a hard trip through the Turkey, Georgia was like an island in a chasing game, where you have to jump on something above the ground in order not to be caught. At that time I did not have any notion, that jumping on an island I would engage in another game with different rules. This time I feel so much more empty. Not because the bike is not here and because all my load is one bag instead of usual five bike bags. No, I guess emotionally I just hit the bottom. The emptiness. Absolute emptiness. And if usually I swear I would like to become a complete sclerotic in order not to remember the moments that hurt with the same intensity every-time they appear on the surface of your consciousness, this time I try to scratch all the crumbs from the corners of the pockets, remembering details and spreading them over the hurting emptiness.

These were the last kilometers before entering Georgia last time, in October. The road from Ardahan to Artvin is I would bet the most wonderful I have seen in Turkey and as enchanted as I was rolling down the winding road in the valley of amazing mountains coloured with November colors I realised it was time to find a shelter for the night. Since the valley road is narrow, there are almost no suitable places for a tent, so I looked around.

He came out from the yard and closed the fence after him, which looked as a dance, or a prayer, the calmness the whole process was radiating. He was wearing a suite. And a decent hat, that postmen are supposed to wear in old fashioned books.

A tent? Come in. We entered a lawn. I was expecting to go into a house full of his daughters and grandchildren. But we turned from the house. There were innumerous bee houses. And then I saw it in the end of the field. A tent. My first though was that it is his summerhouse. With the mixture of the languages I learned in Turkey on the way I asked, if he was living here. Since he spoke a dialect unfamiliar to me, I thought he did not understand my question. But during that day and the coming day I realised this phenomena of not speaking the language, but understanding so perfectly.

He indeed lived in the tent. A nomad. In winter also? Yes, in winter also. And then he would show me the enhancements on the tent he did in order to insulate it. I could hardly believe it. A soul-mate.. I thought to myself. A real nomad, detached from the pleasures or hardships of the sedentary life. He would bring the bees to the fields of Ardahan in the summer. And then his sons would sell the honey in Istanbul. He makes very good honey. He smiled at me. And he looked like some dwarf from a fairy tale sent to me just to make me believe, that there are people like him and me.

While the sun was setting beyond the mountains, the water from the river was setting on the grass and on the air. Guelverdi made some more tea. Do I want to see something else? Sure. He was connecting some kind of cables and before I realised what was really happening the was an extremely loud shot. Against thieves and robbers he said, and showed me his device. It was like a miniature bomb machine from the military fields. It is only to make a sound, he proudly turning off the gas.

In his tent there were drawers and bags neatly stacked one on the other, everything like from some hobbit like shelter. I asked about his wife. She died long time ago, he and offered me. I met so many people on the way. Every time I would become more and more tired forcing myself to be polite and excited. At a certain point you get tired, socially tired. I felt as if I hit the secret place in the game, where one does not have to play, where one can have a legitimate rest. We sat in silence and it felt exactly the right thing to do. We ate, he told me some more stories, and it felt as if I had this in my ear. I did not have to struggle to understand. It felt, as if he would tell me those stories for the one thousandth time, and I would know them by heart anyway, enjoying them as songs accompanying your movements.I pitched up my tent aside to his. The day before I was almost forced by two men to make love with them. Somehow they did not loose their reason and took my explanations about being a mother of a child and so on. They watched their porno films. I slept, but calculating in my dreams, how I would be able to open the door of the bus in case they would change their minds again. Tired, I was tired of intensity of every day would bring to me in a positive or negative form. And I slept next to the tent of Guelverdi as sound as possible for people who live their set lives, where everyday comes back as a familiar soothing refrain.

Next morning I asked him. What can I do for you? You provided me shelter. Maybe I can saith? Wash your clothes? Bring something from the town? He looked in my eyes as if we would know each other for years. Actually, if felt we never were separated. He smiled and said, can you cook for me? He was shaving, while the morning sun lazy came out of the hazy clouds. I would shout from the tent and ask, where do you have rice? And he would say, look in the box under the bed. And I would find some neat onions, some rice, and with the ceremony of the offering I would cook my best pilaf I could cook. Rice, the smell of fried onions, few tomatoes. We would exchange looks once in a while. Sometimes I would feel like his daughter
. But no, the daughters are probably less idealistic about their own fathers. No, maybe I am like his granddaughter. They are caring for their grandfathers remembering all the extensive loving care they would give to them when the busy parents would bring them for the weekend. We ate. And Guelverdi said slowly, it is very very tasty. And smiled. The midday sun came out. Time to go, my visa is ending in two days, still have mountains on the coast to go over.
I will go now, I said. I packed my bike bags and he opened the fence door to get out. We stood there, next to the road. He touched my face with his old wrinkled hand. I realised, I was not his daughter. In the last, or in the next life we were lovers. Love stories can be so short, ugh?

href=”http://candycactusas.files.wordpress.com/2007/07/savsat.jpg” title=”savsat.jpg”>savsat.jpg

Seseryste

Posted in Lietuviškai, Middle East, Stories and Tales, Travel diary, World Bike Trip with tags , on 2007-03-24 by candycactus

Freya Stark, buvo tokia moterike, kur keliavo per sitas vietas pries koki simta metu. Ir kai eilini syki reikia atsakyti klausima, kas as per viena ir ka as cia darau, ir ka as dirbu ir isvis, tada jauciu sielos seseryste su Freya,

“I may confess at once that I had never thought of why I came, far less of why I came alone; and so to what I was going to do – I saw no cause to trouble about a thing so nebulus beforehand. My sense of responsibility was in effect efcient, and purpose non-existent.”