Drumtochty Highland Games, Aberdeenshire, Scotland
Standing in the field, the grass soft under my bare feet, I get ready to run. I see my family; sitting on the fresh hay bales laid around the arena, my sister absent as she tightens the skin of her tenor drum somewhere behind the shows colourful facade.
Here at the Drumtochty Highland games in northern Scotland, everything is how it should be. The smell of wet grass overrides that of cooking meat, and the solitary bagpiper pacing the competition line drowns out the groans from the tug of war teams competing in the field.
Toss the caber, high jump, long jump, 400 metres, 800 metres, shot put. Walking through the scramble of events, the starters guns pointed to the sky and the kilt-clad judges like moth-ridden vultures, I feel very glad to be Scottish. To be part of this event that could be taking place a hundred years ago, that is special to me.
Suddenly, as I wait for my moment, the crowd’s attention is drawn, suddenly and hypnotically, to a brightly bannered entrance carved in-between the dark yellow bales.
It is not a band that emerges into the field, but a fearsome gang of kilted figures, their blood red cockades rising far above the crowd. Together dozens of pipes sing out at once, their melody haunting and ancient, the hairs on my mothers neck standing straight out. Leading the procession are the pipe majors, their batons and uniforms gilt and gaudy, epaulets and outrageous facial hair in full display. Moving smartly behind come the pipers and drummers, the latter beating staccato rhythms in time with their own marching feet.
Dotted through the procession are smaller figures in blue kilt jackets, the tops of their heads in line with the other players shoulders. My sister flits to and from my sight, occasionally lost behind massive swaths of tartan and serious pipers, concentrating as without her glasses she struggles to navigate the arena. It is something to be proud of, these twelve year olds, scowls of concentration, marching on parade, fearsome just by the sounds they create.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Bourtie House, Scotland
On a rainy Sunday afternoon in New England, sitting before a crowd of those I value as much as anyone, I watched Shackleton close. The school, which had helped me so much over the past years, could do so no longer due to a total lack of funds. I sat at the front; my face tilted upward, more the product of a starched collar than any internal discipline or “stiff upper lip” mentality.
Since then, from catching the plain to London to taking the train through Eastern Europe, I have been thinking of writing in homage to Shackleton. Yesterday I spent several hours by the computer, fingers prodding the keys half-heartedly. How could I sum up the school, the friendships forged, lost and strengthened, those days spent perched at the top of Blood Hill and desert gullies, all in a page?
The following list of “I had nevers” illustrates just some of my experiences from Shackleton. Together they are a tribute to time spent learning in four countries, over thirty American states, numerous ecosystems and several cities.
I had never climbed part of the Appalachian Trail. I remember as I scrambled to the top of a mountain and looked down upon all I had done that day, letting the sun fall down on upon my face and knowing that I had achieved something. Two weeks into the school year and one week into wilderness orientation, lying back against the rocks with my hat over my eyes I felt better than I had in years, my body was fit and my mind calmer.
I had never worked at a ski resort. Leaning head on into the door, staggering through and flopping down upon a chair, I understood what work was like. I slipped off my gloves and, slamming my hands against the counter, was almost able to defrost my fingers. The seconds passed, someone fell over and again I was up, lunch forgotten as I ran to the lift ramp, slamming my hand against the metal STOP button.
I had never taught Mexican immigrants their rights once in the U.S. I remember standing on rust and rubbish, a stack of business cards in my pocket and a few words of Spanish somewhere in the back of my head. Before me stood people, Smugglers and their human cargo, the former confident in leather jackets and oversized belt buckles, the latter worried and scared, holding bottled water and children as we stepped forward with our cards.
Now, that stage of my life is over but the sense of adventure and exploration is not. As I grab my pen and note pad, sling a backpack strap over my shoulder and head out the door I know that whatever mistakes I make, I am still very much the Student at Large of my blog.
On a rainy Sunday afternoon in New England, sitting before a crowd of those I value as much as anyone, I watched Shackleton close. The school, which had helped me so much over the past years, could do so no longer due to a total lack of funds. I sat at the front; my face tilted upward, more the product of a starched collar than any internal discipline or “stiff upper lip” mentality.
Since then, from catching the plain to London to taking the train through Eastern Europe, I have been thinking of writing in homage to Shackleton. Yesterday I spent several hours by the computer, fingers prodding the keys half-heartedly. How could I sum up the school, the friendships forged, lost and strengthened, those days spent perched at the top of Blood Hill and desert gullies, all in a page?
The following list of “I had nevers” illustrates just some of my experiences from Shackleton. Together they are a tribute to time spent learning in four countries, over thirty American states, numerous ecosystems and several cities.
I had never climbed part of the Appalachian Trail. I remember as I scrambled to the top of a mountain and looked down upon all I had done that day, letting the sun fall down on upon my face and knowing that I had achieved something. Two weeks into the school year and one week into wilderness orientation, lying back against the rocks with my hat over my eyes I felt better than I had in years, my body was fit and my mind calmer.
I had never worked at a ski resort. Leaning head on into the door, staggering through and flopping down upon a chair, I understood what work was like. I slipped off my gloves and, slamming my hands against the counter, was almost able to defrost my fingers. The seconds passed, someone fell over and again I was up, lunch forgotten as I ran to the lift ramp, slamming my hand against the metal STOP button.
I had never taught Mexican immigrants their rights once in the U.S. I remember standing on rust and rubbish, a stack of business cards in my pocket and a few words of Spanish somewhere in the back of my head. Before me stood people, Smugglers and their human cargo, the former confident in leather jackets and oversized belt buckles, the latter worried and scared, holding bottled water and children as we stepped forward with our cards.
Now, that stage of my life is over but the sense of adventure and exploration is not. As I grab my pen and note pad, sling a backpack strap over my shoulder and head out the door I know that whatever mistakes I make, I am still very much the Student at Large of my blog.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Bratislava, Slovakia
Strobes blink convulsively and the people dance and are lost, swept away for a second under the blanket of noise, alcohol and constant flickering light. Behind the strobes darkness has triumphed, disorientating and shrinking, my horizon turned to a single room, the hold of a dingy houseboat.
Click, Flash, Pause
The photos we took that day tell more than I ever could, the digital time-pauses convey the details replaced in my memory by a cocktail of adrenalin, bravado and testosterone. Flicking through them, looking closely at each one I can attach the textures, voices and sounds that make these pictures mean something more, remind me of time I did something new and different.
Click
Tristan has sleep in his eye, our grins are lopsided and psychotic and our fleeces seem smeared by a thin sheen of filth. A clock would be paused at 5:30 AM, the few people about taking care to avoid us. Backpackers, packs and bags on the ground by our feet, boots scuffed to the point of mutilation, my “slouch” pulled down above my Cheshire- cat grin.
Tourists, his camera dangling and a guide book in the crook of his arm, my photo camera making my jean pocket bulge.
Friends for a day, we are filled with cockiness at having travelled to Slovakia with no plan in mind and no reason for going. We stand there in the relative warmth of the central bank, and as they wont except zlotys we pose with promotional cardboard
cut-outs and run when security approaches.
Click
A group photo, seven of us standing upon cobbled streets, half looking at the camera and smiling. 2:30 AM one day and several adventures later. The wind is biting and cold, our grins slightly forced, our fleeced arms holding each other tightly together. The facial expressions are those of people thrust from the warm womb of a club into the streets biting air, of people impatient with the fumbling of the camerawoman as she stairs in blank amazement at the bleeping displays and complicated buttons before her.
It doesn’t matter who they are, that half those in the picture are forgotten, their names gone for me, their roles simple footnotes in the book of my trip. For that moment, resting against me, we are all there is, all we need, these five tourists and our two unlucky female locals, seemingly amused by our comradely.
In this background the flash lights a stucco wall, the plaster hiding the viewer, shielding you from the rest of Bratislava, the high tower and murky Danube, lights on the water and trams in the street.
Click
The club, the strobe frozen between flashes and the music between beats. Anna, pupils dilated by the change in light, her hair tied back and lips parted slightly. Nails are painted, her hand carefully holding a drink, the lights reflecting off the glass and ruining the shot. Her teeth are white and her eyes dark brown, her gaze fixed straight ahead, the expression slightly mocking behind the liberal application of makeup and lipstick.
Click
5:30 again, the picture shows a paint-flecked door, the side of a scuffed train that has known thousands like me. By the door I wait, my bag wedged beneath stained jeans, the halogen lights my enemy as my eyes refuse to flutter and close. My hand holds the camera and a ticket, the thin paper yet to be stamped or inspected. Nearly out of focus is the time board, thick black letters smudged by distance, the words Wien (Vienna), 5:45 quite invisible from this far away.
Strobes blink convulsively and the people dance and are lost, swept away for a second under the blanket of noise, alcohol and constant flickering light. Behind the strobes darkness has triumphed, disorientating and shrinking, my horizon turned to a single room, the hold of a dingy houseboat.
Click, Flash, Pause
The photos we took that day tell more than I ever could, the digital time-pauses convey the details replaced in my memory by a cocktail of adrenalin, bravado and testosterone. Flicking through them, looking closely at each one I can attach the textures, voices and sounds that make these pictures mean something more, remind me of time I did something new and different.
Click
Tristan has sleep in his eye, our grins are lopsided and psychotic and our fleeces seem smeared by a thin sheen of filth. A clock would be paused at 5:30 AM, the few people about taking care to avoid us. Backpackers, packs and bags on the ground by our feet, boots scuffed to the point of mutilation, my “slouch” pulled down above my Cheshire- cat grin.
Tourists, his camera dangling and a guide book in the crook of his arm, my photo camera making my jean pocket bulge.
Friends for a day, we are filled with cockiness at having travelled to Slovakia with no plan in mind and no reason for going. We stand there in the relative warmth of the central bank, and as they wont except zlotys we pose with promotional cardboard
cut-outs and run when security approaches.
Click
A group photo, seven of us standing upon cobbled streets, half looking at the camera and smiling. 2:30 AM one day and several adventures later. The wind is biting and cold, our grins slightly forced, our fleeced arms holding each other tightly together. The facial expressions are those of people thrust from the warm womb of a club into the streets biting air, of people impatient with the fumbling of the camerawoman as she stairs in blank amazement at the bleeping displays and complicated buttons before her.
It doesn’t matter who they are, that half those in the picture are forgotten, their names gone for me, their roles simple footnotes in the book of my trip. For that moment, resting against me, we are all there is, all we need, these five tourists and our two unlucky female locals, seemingly amused by our comradely.
In this background the flash lights a stucco wall, the plaster hiding the viewer, shielding you from the rest of Bratislava, the high tower and murky Danube, lights on the water and trams in the street.
Click
The club, the strobe frozen between flashes and the music between beats. Anna, pupils dilated by the change in light, her hair tied back and lips parted slightly. Nails are painted, her hand carefully holding a drink, the lights reflecting off the glass and ruining the shot. Her teeth are white and her eyes dark brown, her gaze fixed straight ahead, the expression slightly mocking behind the liberal application of makeup and lipstick.
Click
5:30 again, the picture shows a paint-flecked door, the side of a scuffed train that has known thousands like me. By the door I wait, my bag wedged beneath stained jeans, the halogen lights my enemy as my eyes refuse to flutter and close. My hand holds the camera and a ticket, the thin paper yet to be stamped or inspected. Nearly out of focus is the time board, thick black letters smudged by distance, the words Wien (Vienna), 5:45 quite invisible from this far away.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Auschwitz, Poland
Through the centre of the camp is a railway, the very one from which they came, staggering not only with their belongings, but also with the fear of those who have lost everything.
Auschwitz is barren; the sky downcast and grey to the point of black, a lone deer walking stately though forests of crumbling brick and rotting wood, and in the distance wind blows Emily’s hair lightly against her cheek.
Imagine, the smell of sweat, the tears of defeat and the cries of anguish, echoing though a crowd of thousands. Through this I walk, the ghosts almost brushing against my coat, crossing the railway to the steady Click of a camera shutter behind me.
My friend is beside me, the American marine who has swapped gun for a camera and stands, near emotionless by a pond containing the ashes of thousands. Click, he brings the camera to his eye and freezes the image but not the feeling, the moment of utter hopelessness, staring ahead, unsure of what to do, feeling awful.
As I turn, looking down an avenue of ruins, past the bombed out gas chambers and the communal latrines I catch sight of her, Emily. Angel in the darkness, some life in this place of death, an Australian student, looking at me with tears in her eyes. She stands on one side of the wire, me on the other and I can see her hair fluttering lightly in the breeze, her face drawn from the effort of being here, seeing all that has been lost and that never can be found.
Later, walking hand in hand through the gate, the words “work will set you free” passing above our heads I think that maybe, just maybe some good has come out of this place.
In the square that night, in a tower far above our restaurant a trumpet player suddenly stops half way through his tune, the age-old ceremony to remember the wars Krakow has lost and recovered from. Emily sits opposite me, the candle lighting up her face as she tries to explain, to salvage something between us after my failed attempt to kiss her. We manage, sitting and eating, the thoughts of the death camps still echoing though our heads, as I pay the waiter and walk her home.
That night, fuelled with the memory of my failure and that of the world to stop a holocaust, I go out. We walk in a cluster, our whoops and yells carrying through deserted streets, the locals wise enough to leave room for this group of wild Britons. Like barbarians of old we barricade one club after another, the security chasing us back as we run off laughing, not some load of football hooligans but most of us students, transformed into these dervishes by alcohol and adrenalin. Memories now, a grinning Roland mooning the security office, the Polish-speaking blonde trying to get into a club with my library card as I.D. The beers clanking together, wild laughs and finally silence as I collapse into bed and wait for morning, glad not to be sleeping on a train.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Prague, Czech Republic
The building is painted a faded yellow, the colour custard powder turns after years in a dusty cupboard. On its worn façade, dark brooding Germanic script tries to convey something vital, its meaning lost however by my lack of Czech.
Crossing the empty street with its thin sliver of tarnished tramlines I wonder what I am doing here. Through the door and sitting down, flicking though a menu written in Czech, the feeling stays with me. After all, what do I know about Eastern Europe, its individual countries and the myriad of intricate customs attached to each one? As I get the waiters attention and nod my head vigorously in the direction of pig drawn upon the menu I know the answer: Nothing.
Why Prague, a city I knew only from picture postcards and others hazy recollections of drunken ramblings. I came here with Alex, his wife and “Jelly”, travelling through rolling plains and past sluggish windmills, retreating from the regal expenses of Vienna. The car chugged along and urban sprawl was replaced by grape orchards, Austria for the Czech republic and I started to become slightly homesick.
Prague youth hostel, a dank door sunk into a mouldering edifice of a once proud building. Alex carries my bag while Mike smokes outside and avoids this traveller’s tomb. Once inside and with Alex gone pottering down the street, old skills start to emerge and my brain begins to work double time.
Ten minutes later. I walk briskly, swerving around gothic towers and small billboards, chatting with my new friends, two sisters from Australia and an American medical student. In the hostel I had introduced myself and quickly persuaded them to let me “tag along” to better digs as we head through Prague, taking the escalators downwards into the gloom of a communist era subway. As we decent into the concrete depths they debate constantly, the student trying in vain to convince me that sliding downwards will give him the orthodontic experience he craves and is thus a necessary endeavour.
Inside the next hostel and again its almost a reflex, passport out and open to the photo page, money in hand, take the room key, test the bed and drop the backpack. This is my life, this series of actions and reactions, pure spontaneity as I sit down and look at my map. My “map” is one of the whole of Europe and shows large cities and rivers and yet it is the best I have. After dinner I meet another American and a Russian crayfish scientist and with ice cream to share we stand on a bridge and look down upon the Danube, content just to be silent and think.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Vienna, Austria
Eleven a clock at night, somewhere along the Danube, and I am standing perfectly still. Beside me the rough-hewn steps of the Canal lock are slowly rising, the water retreating from the grimy concrete. As the last step disappears so do my chances of escape and my mood is downcast as I head below decks.
I am a teenage prisoner in a middle-aged jail, this boat with its greasy buffet, 60s disco and dodgy crew. Around me are my fathers high school friends, partying it up on the end night of their reunion, most in various stages of decay. I manage to snaffle the Champaign to help ease my suffering but am unable to prise the boat doors open and escape. Finally I can doge fate no longer and end up doing the twist with my mother, waiting for the moment where the boat slides against the quay and I am running up the gangplank to safety.
Later, sitting in a bar surrounded by frightening sixteen-year-old girls I have time to think about tomorrow. As this is the last night of a three-day reunion my parents will be leaving Vienna, heading to Spain and leaving me stranded in Austria. This leaves me in a situation, the regal city of Vienna being extremely expensive. The plan is simple and one designed by Dad and myself: Go to Eastern Europe come back by Friday.
Before I can plan anything detailed my night spins out of control. Though a series of strange events I find myself in a strip club where Viennese hen partiers try and steal my underwear tags. From there I end up in a house, sipping plum vodka with some Latvians while a bearded Italian backpacker dances around in his underwear. Escaping from the suburbs I am waylaid by spiteful Croatian bus drivers and collapse in my bed (designed for Vietnamese boat people it would seem from its diminutive size) at four with no plan for the morning.
Eleven a clock at night, somewhere along the Danube, and I am standing perfectly still. Beside me the rough-hewn steps of the Canal lock are slowly rising, the water retreating from the grimy concrete. As the last step disappears so do my chances of escape and my mood is downcast as I head below decks.
I am a teenage prisoner in a middle-aged jail, this boat with its greasy buffet, 60s disco and dodgy crew. Around me are my fathers high school friends, partying it up on the end night of their reunion, most in various stages of decay. I manage to snaffle the Champaign to help ease my suffering but am unable to prise the boat doors open and escape. Finally I can doge fate no longer and end up doing the twist with my mother, waiting for the moment where the boat slides against the quay and I am running up the gangplank to safety.
Later, sitting in a bar surrounded by frightening sixteen-year-old girls I have time to think about tomorrow. As this is the last night of a three-day reunion my parents will be leaving Vienna, heading to Spain and leaving me stranded in Austria. This leaves me in a situation, the regal city of Vienna being extremely expensive. The plan is simple and one designed by Dad and myself: Go to Eastern Europe come back by Friday.
Before I can plan anything detailed my night spins out of control. Though a series of strange events I find myself in a strip club where Viennese hen partiers try and steal my underwear tags. From there I end up in a house, sipping plum vodka with some Latvians while a bearded Italian backpacker dances around in his underwear. Escaping from the suburbs I am waylaid by spiteful Croatian bus drivers and collapse in my bed (designed for Vietnamese boat people it would seem from its diminutive size) at four with no plan for the morning.
