Manger Square

Until 1995, a feature of Bethlehem's Manger Square was the Israeli police station, a constant reminder of the occupation. Tour buses came and went decanting pilgrims to visit the Nativity Church. The square was also a car parking area, where small mop headed boys managed to extract shekels from me to guard the car.

One child named Ibrahim, a persuasive entrepreneur, who was no more than eight or nine years of age, inevitably succeeded in charming ten shekels from me. Even though the regular price was no more than one or two, I always succumbed. Thinking that perhaps his family were poor and the money would at least buy some bread and milk. It is just as likely that was spent on or some other item. It mattered not, the urchin had charm.

We always haggled, and Ibrahim faithfully protected the car, even though I was sure that was never really necessary. Ours was a game that we played out, and Ibrahim had the dignity of earning his shekels. From a cafeteria vantage point next to the Tabash brothers shop, I observed Ibrahim ply his trade, with great success. On one occasion, I offered him twenty shekels, a gift for the Eid feast. Ibrahim refused, saying it was too much. We eventually settled on fifteen. Ibrahim will be a young man now imprisoned behind a wall - Israel's propaganda security barrier.

Wanderlust

Wanderlust has a strong ring of truth for me. Wandering is to go forward aimlessly, without preconditions. That speaks to me of a journey with the potential to surprise, inspire, teach, and awe. This is particularly true in respect of living in another culture. It’s not about ticking boxes to confirm, been there, seen it, done that. The deeper insights to appreciate a culture require more effort. Connections are formed through our curiosity and being open to learning. This is the thrill of the journey for me. Connecting with what I'm inspired by draws me into a culture. Once drawn in, I gain more by way of enrichment.

Every culture has people whose lives beat with centuries old traditions. Those untrammelled by the ersatz of modernity. I’m thinking more of rural people. Farming communities who provide rice or grain for a nation, mountain, river, and coastal people, desert Bedouin. They can be poor and are usually the most hospitable.

The charm of souks and bazaars, with their pungent spices, exotic rugs, antiques fake or genuine, yards of richly patterned cloth, gold, silver, brass, leather, pottery. The mishmash of household goods, clothes and books. The all important cuisine. Exploring narrow winding streets seething with people. Wherever we go, what we see, hear, touch, eat and drink, sniff, has an impact.

The Bazaar of Isfahan is the longest roofed market in the world. I became quite friendly with a bazaari there. He sold rugs made by the nomad women. Qashqa'i, Baluchi, and Ashfar more commonly known as Kelim. The much prized silk Isfahan rugs. Aziz had a good command of English and French. He enjoyed having discussions with foreigners. Language removes barriers. Although my Farsi was poor, I had just enough of the polite terms to make meaningful contacts. I promised Aziz, to buy a silk Isfahan prayer mat before leaving the country. Prayer mats are generally less costly than rugs. I never kept that promise. The civil unrest with demonstrations against the Shah’s regime had precluded staying on.

Aziz was an astute businessman. When last seen, he was going to the Azerbaijan border to buy Russian icons. He hinted those were black market icons and probably stolen. Aziz always gave me a glass of tea. Black tea is the social drink in Iran. That was most welcomed. I'm not returning to Iran. I prefer to hold the memories of before the revolution.

Living in another culture is not the same as touring. The slow integration of immersion in a culture can't happen on a two to three week tour. The pace is too fast. When touring we have to be content with a few sublime moments, and reflect afterwards. I'm seriously considering China for next year. Not with a group. I don't want to be drawn into other tourist’s impressions or lamentations. I'm opting for a private car with a driver and a guide. That could also be more flexible. She hopes!

Three Months

It’s a change for me to write something personal here. I’ve had a varied and long career in education. When I happily retired in April, I was so looking forward to having the luxury of getting on with my writing. Alas, fate decreed that was not to be. My three best friends, one after the other, fell by the wayside to surgery. One had a mastectomy for breast cancer at the end of March. I’m pleased to say, she is now doing very well. In May, another had knee replacement surgery, and that was successful. Then the third also had knee replacement surgery in June. Again successful, however, her recovery is taking a tad longer. I did what any good friend would do. I set to in practical ways to help each one of my long standing, much loved friends. They would do the same for me. I’m so glad I was free to be with them and not working. Three months have flown, and I’m only now thinking about my writing again. I have though had some super reading binges in those months.

One of the novels that kept me awake reading all night: Candy’s Children by Sylvia Murphy. An enthralling, wonderfully paced, exciting story by a superb writer. Much thanks Sylvia, your book made me say, “If only I could write like that.”

One other book which kept me awake reading until I heard the dawn chorus. That was Eva Ibbotson’s children’s novel, Journey to the River Sea. I had actually bought that one for a friend’s twelve year old daughter. They live on Prince Edward Island, Canada. Chloe is an avid reader, their local library, which is small, can’t keep up with her appetite for reading. The book has since winged its way to her with others.

My childhood in Scotland was after the war years. My sister and I raided our local library every week. Reading has been a lifetime habit, and that took us both into careers in education. We were fortunate as children. Our mother encouraged us to read. We also had the joy of camping and walking in the Western Highlands. We had no television then, in the freezing winter months we listened to the wireless when not reading. The adults around us were storytellers, especially our grandmother. She would tell us stories every night before we went to sleep. Those were not from books, they were stories passed on from one generation to another. That combination of reading, listening to the wireless, and grandmother’s stories, was so enriching. I'm certain my imagination developed through those influences in childhood.

Silent Conspiracy

Apple Tree Cottage struck me as being quaint, and it was off the beaten track in the North Yorkshire Moors, nearby Scarborough and Robin Hood Bay. I needed the tranquillity more than the work, anticipating this new assignment would be tame. A community of Carmelite Nuns conjured up images of peaceful contemplation from the harsh realities of the world, of cloisters, incense and Gregorian chant. I had a new Dell laptop with 320 gigabytes, had upgraded the Photoshop software, and packed the laptop with my camera gear in the car for the trip to the North East. Photographers, much like artists and writers, tend to be tenacious. We persist with honing our skills, seeking the unique, the perfect shot. As a photojournalist, I had travelled extensively. My last assignment had been for the BBC in Somalia, where I became sick with Hepatitis. After that it was impossible to continue. The dragging illness precipitated months of lassitude and painful reflection. I had seen more famine, war, death and destruction, than I cared to remember. Most especially children’s pitiful emaciation in the countries where people struggle to survive as refugees, their lives on the desolate edge of existence. As with most photographers in my field, I had taken too many risks in the opinions of those who love me. Young, feisty, and determined to succeed, my career began in the 1970s when feminism was changing women's perceptions of what could be possible.

Even early in childhood, I had railed against the constraints of being a girl. Unlike the boys in the neighbourhood, we girls had to be sedate, predestined to conform. Boys had more freedom, something I envied. Most girls play with dolls, but I quickly tired of the lifeless, baby caricatures, other girls seemed thrilled by. I would have been nine years of age then, a privileged girl with access to the boy’s inner sanctum. One of the gang. My summer clothes comprised navy blue shorts, with yellow cotton tops. Girly frocks were no good for climbing trees, leaping over streams, cat-walking on dykes, or scrumping apples from orchards. Of the three Cleary boys, who lived next door, my favourite was Billy. He had his mothers nut brown hair, and his father’s sturdy build. Always tanned from an outdoor life, Billy had a gypsy spirit with a gentle respect for nature. We were constantly together.

The long hot summer of 1967, when in our teens we hiked in the fells, would be one of my most enduring memories. Billy’s elder brother, Stewart, had casually said a magic lake was hidden in the woods there. We never really trusted Stew, he was a consummate liar. But curiosity got the better of us, we had to find out. Billy's younger brother, James, tagged along with us. We had filled empty lemonade bottles with water, and taken thick cut cheese sandwiches with us. Trudging along the edges of fallow fields, we played at being soldiers on manoeuvres with James. Splashed through shallow streams, soaking our sandals, climbed upwards and onward, to where we thought the woods might be. Stopping to slake our thirst, we rested for a while under a giant beech tree, listening to the hum of insects in the bracken. There were lingering moments, when the larks sang sweetly, feathered gymnasts, hovering, dipping and diving, in the bluest of blue skies. When long speculations like flowing dreams, urged us that magic could be stirred at the next tree stump, round the next bend in the track, or stumbled upon when hope has almost vanished. And so it was on that day, we found a small deciduous wood of golden aspen, silver birch, and eared willows. We wandered into a shimmering glade startled by shafts of sunlight. Saw a lake where we could swim, where on the far side the water capriciously swirled.

Past Deception

Most mornings Elena had coffee with her neighbour Frances, who after driving her three children to school, called in at ten o’clock. Frances had been her mainstay when Elena’s marriage began cracking. A year ago, Elena’s husband Dan, had discussed the prospect of his promotion moving them to Europe. She was set against living in Germany. Her mother’s stories about the Nazi occupation of Greece had coloured her attitudes. Elena would never wittingly buy anything made in Germany. She avoided Germans when she and Dan were on holiday, refusing to have any kind of social rapport with them. One of her worst arguments with Dan, had occurred soon after his company moved into the German market. She was furious with him for not going for a promotion to France. Dan had reasoned with her that his fluent German gave him an edge. Elena had yelled at him, thrown his dinner onto his lap, ruining his navy blue suit.
“Your French isn’t at all bad.” She had shrilled. "If you had taken a crash language course before the interviews, I wouldn’t be so mad with you.”
Dan had stood his ground determined not to give in. “You don’t have to move.” He had said angrily through tight lips. “I can commute to Berlin.”
“I rarely see you the way it is now.” Elena had wailed. “Sod off to Berlin. But don’t expect me to entertain your German buddies.”

Now Dan was persuading her they should move permanently to Germany. “Give it a try. You would enjoy Berlin. I miss you when I’m away,” he wheedled.
“No Dan. You know my feelings about Germans. I will never learn to speak that language. Going there would be like betraying my mother and her family.”
Elena stormed off to the local pub, where she sat at an unobtrusive corner table after ordering a large cognac. Tearful she called Frances on her mobile, who was settling the kids in their beds. “Give me fifteen minutes. You know how the boys are. If I don’t tell them a story, Jeff won’t have peace.”

Sipping the warming cognac, Elena felt guilty for disturbing Frances. The pub was quiet with only a few regulars at the bar. She heard the nearby Church clock chime, hoped Dan would clear the dinner table, and put the dishes in the washer. Elena had no intention of being placatory, nor did she want to return home to find Dan sulking. Waiting for Frances to arrive, her thoughts moved to when she and Dan had first met. It was love at first sight on his part. Elena had been his tour guide. She had hardly noticed him for much of the Greece tour. The group of mostly young Americans had taken up more of her attention. She had been aware of Dan gazing at her with his hungry blue eyes. Thinking he was quite attractive, at the same time dismissing him as not her type.

Determined to earn as much money as possible from her temporary tour job that summer in 1997, Elena aimed to find photography work in New York. She could earn more money there, see more of the USA. Elena had a special rapport with one American on the tour. Rob a New England college teacher, with the build of an athlete, and an outgoing personality, had been seductively charming with her. Dan in contrast had seemed awkward, taciturn, and distant. Serendipity gave Dan his opportunity when Rob became sick in Heraklion, who said he would catch up with Elena later in Athens. Dan seized his chance to engage her in conversation at a local Taverna. After that evening, Elena had warmed to him more. He was protective when she couldn’t manage two group members, who were rowdy and argumentative after drinking too much Ouzo. Elena thought then, Dan’s concern for her safety was endearing.

Elena had excitedly anticipated Rob’s arrival, until she watched him swing into the Athens hotel foyer with a pretty blond hanging onto his arm. “Hi Elena, this is Adele. We met in Heraklion.” Rob had casually said, looking bronzed and in-love. “Adele’s a music student.” Elena felt crushed she was in-love with Rob. Her dream of being with him shattered like brittle glass that day. After the tour Elena met Dan in London. They saw each other frequently, Dan sent her flowers, took her to fashionable restaurants. He had a knack of being around when Elena’s photography assignments were slack. Besotted with her, Dan had persuaded Elena to see the summer through in London, before going to New York. Autumn and then winter passed, and she was no further forward with her plans. Dan had again persuaded Elena to wait until the spring before moving. By then she was used to having him in her life. “Come with me.” She said one day, as they strolled along the Thames Embankment. Dan’s response to that was, “Marry me.” Her parents approved of Dan. “He’s a decent steady chap.” Her father had said. Her mother asked if she loved him. Elena had hesitated before responding. That worried her mother. “If you don’t love him now, there’s no guarantee that will grow.”

Battle Ground of Wills

Nancy’s frustration leapt to the sharp arch of her eyebrows, to the tight tilt of her mouth, the controlled flare of her nostrils. Frome’s words had struck her like a shard of glass, cutting through his sly pretension. Blind to the blaze he had ignited in her, Frome had exposed his deeply held prejudice. Nancy knew at once, he could not be trusted. She could have retaliated; instead, she eyed him condescendingly with a coldly calculating stare. Then gazing over his head, she focused her ire upon the bare, stark trees, beyond his office window. Frome’s peculiarly clipped speech continued like a river in spate. Seated stiffly on the hard-back upright chair, as if patiently waiting for the London train, Nancy’s thoughts raced, there was much to consider, much to unravel. Averting her gaze from the window, she politely asked him for a cup of tea. The flow of his words halting, Frome’s slippery eyes danced in their sockets, he was not accustomed to interruptions. The immediacy of his heavy silence had become a battle-ground of wills. Frome saw, Nancy could be a formidable woman if thwarted. “Perhaps, Miss Prophet. You need more time to consider my offer?” His placatory words cut no ice with Nancy, her composure was restrained, her voice curt. “Yes, more time. Goodbye, Frome.” Dismissing him like servant, Nancy left the office scheming. She hailed a taxi for the station, her thoughts refusing to consider any further contact with Frome. His offer for the old manor house, had been absurdly arrogant.