Category Archives: History

May12

They’ll be home… where the garden is, where memories live

Posted on May 12, 2015 by terryannewilson

The pond, for fishing and skating

Our evening stroll offered swooping owls, waddling ducks and darting dogs. The sun sunk low into a newly planted field that borders the acreage, we call it home…’the farm.’ I’ve made my way back to Canada to surprise my parents for their 40th Anniversary, returning to a plot of land that embodies nature’s bounty, a lifetime of work and more memories than can be captured on film. But there’s no need; the images are imprinted on our hearts, embedded into our collective family memory.

This land, a grain field forty years ago, is now an oasis with towering blue and white spruce, and ponderosa pine that shelter from howling north winds. The grass is verdant this spring, its rich emerald hue a backdrop for flowers in bloom, golden spurge and delicate May Day trees.

At the garden shed

These are the prairies of Western Canada where settlers have arrived for the past few hundred years; enticed by fertile farm land, hopeful for idyllic homesteads and new beginnings.

From their European homelands they ventured by ship, uncertain of what the future held. They journeyed onward by train, along the newly laid Canadian Pacific Railway, disembarking at communities across this vast country.

As with my mother’s family in the ’50’s, many arrived from the Netherlands, risking all for a new life; hard work and toil yielded success. Proud, new citizens in a welcoming land. Some settlers trekked from the east or the U.S. in caravans of wagons, stacked high with furniture and family. The wagon parked on the acreage from my father’s family, is a proud reminder of their storied journey. Now a backdrop for a yellow rose bush, it was once a means of transport. A working wagon for hauling hay, feed, grain to elevators.

Quiet country roads

In my family, you garden, work in the yard, grow things, landscape and stroll the land; just as our ancestors have done. Is it in your blood, this need to commune with the land, I feel it is. I felt it wouldn’t be spring for me until I could dig a little, plant, walk the dogs along scented lilacs and quiet country roads.

And so, I’ve come home to my parents and I find them where they should be… where I’m delighted to be.

They’re ambling below dreamy blue skies, dogs nudging at their sides and geese gliding over sky. I’ve found them plucking asparagus, planting gladiolas and poking hollyhock seeds into tilled earth. It’s time to cut first grass, take the ‘storm plastic’ off and let the deck breath, prepare the planters and the ‘beds’. Soon the kitchen table will display their bounty; bouquets of lupins, tulips, dahlias, peonies, lilacs and glads.

Tulips in bloom

My parents awaken, work and stroll to a symphony of cooing, cawing; a melody of birds. Plump robins, doves, meadowlarks and elusive owls. Partridges, pheasants, hawks and cowbirds chirp and squawk. Butterflies flutter and bees flit past, en route to blossoms and buds.

Where grandchildren played and great- grandchildren now play

Under billowy clouds, skunks duck into warrens and gophers tunnel, deer prance through fields past gangly hares. The dogs wait patiently on a weathered deck as we have a ‘wee dram’ at dear, long time neighbours. Storm clouds brew, awakening our senses as we rush home through the shelter belt of trees.

These glorious days of spring find us reminiscing of grandchildren that grew up in this haven of outdoor activity. My children who were raised on different continents, came here…to be home.

Towering elms

Here, with cousins, they learned how to skate on a frozen pond and ‘hold on tight’ for tractor-drawn sleigh rides. How to build snow forts and duck snowballs. Summers passed in perpetual movement, running barefoot over green lawns, soaked and squealing. ‘Secret missions’ played out through trees and fields. Golf carts, bikes and trikes circled the yard, eager for an adventure.

It’s here they played ball, built campfires and gazed at a million stars. Where Grandpa taught them how to fish, to golf, to ‘drive a standard’ in a rusty, green pickup truck. Where Grandma ensured they knew how to play ‘Texas Hold Em’, sing ‘Hollandse leidjes’ and bake waffle cookies. Yes, it’s here they came to bond with family, find their roots, to become Canadian.

This oasis has been a constant in our lives, a refuge on the beloved flatlands of the prairies. I find my parents offering the same inviting hospitality that has always been for my family, since the day I was married here, on this land. The elms and pines are taller now, the wagon more weathered and the kitchen table a little scuffed from hearty meals and lively gatherings.

Grandfather’s wagon

And as it was recently when I crept into their home from halfway around the world, it was as always, gezillig…that Dutch word for cozy. The surprise was genuine; as were the friends and family here to celebrate these two special people. I know we’re fortunate to live and travel the world. Yet, we have a haven to come home to…it’s just east of Barnwell*, Alberta, Canada. And my parents, I’ll find them here, home.

An Anniversary surprise

The colour of beehives

*Barnwell is not named after a barn and a well, but after William Barnwell who immigrated from England. His family dates back to the Baron de Barnwell who came from Normandy with William the Conqueror in 1066

An early spring bouquet

The neighbour’s barn

Apr20

Every market tells a story…

Posted on April 20, 2015 by terryannewilson

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Tomatoes with a story

You’ll remember when I wrote my first dispatch from Kazakhstan I hoped for… “a labyrinth of streets and souks that come to life; exotic scenes, smells and intrigues.” I’m pleased to report that such markets are here in Aktau. They are lively, authentic and represent certain aspects of Eurasian culture and hospitality. Is a market not a place that tells stories and allows glimpses into cultures? I believe that to be true and so I give you….

Three markets known for their meat, fruit, vegetables, spices, plastic goods, cheap clothes and more.

Markets, where many of the vendors are from other lands. Home is Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan; all those new Republics that were suddenly cut adrift from the Soviet Union, encountering unprecedented challenges in the years since. Some people have struggled, the next generation has found it easier.

“Many poor people,” Samira, my Azeri friend tells me.

A simple market display

We are at the small Volna Market, stalls and stores just off a busy, main street. When the vendors discover that Samira is from Azerbaijan, she is surrounded.

“Please send greetings back home,” they say wistfully… they seem ever so homesick. A lady with striking red lipstick and tidy blond hair wraps smoked fish, then puts her hand to her heart.

“I’m from Sakhalin, Russia,” she says, seeming lonely despite the bustle around her. Perhaps like many, she was sent here as a dissident, never managing to find her way back home.

The friendly vendor from Azerbaijan

Eager for our attention, the vendor across the way gestures to her pyramid of eggs. I gladly buy some; she is ecstatic to have her photo taken, to have chatted with Samira in her native language. She pecks me on the cheek bidding farewell, pressing her jolly self against me for a friendly hug. Of course, being at the market with a ‘local’ is a different experience. Even our taxi driver has refused to leave us, now willingly laden with our purchases. He chuckles alongside the humourous Samira.

Warm smiles

On other days at two of the larger markets, my husband and I are mostly made to feel welcome. Tea and dumplings are offered, photos taken, stilted but eager conversation. Always we’re asked, ‘Which country are you from?’

“Ah, Canada good, Ottawa?” Our capital they know. Yet on one occasion, we are thought to be suspicious and we’re followed, told brusquely to put the camera away. I comply until I’ve turned the corner.

We buy produce that journeyed across the country by train from the fertile region of Kazakhstan, bringing staples such as apples from Almaty. This mountainous area in the Southern part of the country is the ancestral home of the apple… of all apples on earth, geneticists have recently confirmed.

‘Azerbaijani pomegranates’ and Almaty apples

Many of the ‘greens’ arrive from across the Caspian, grown by the Azeris and the Georgians. The vegetables are plentiful but one day I’m refused service. I’m too choosy about the tomatoes I’m selecting. The vendor shoos me away with a scowl, a holler and a flick of her hand. I’m offended until I ponder, Perhaps her family has memories of the ‘hunger winters?‘ Those that starved, the fate of half of the Kazakh population in the winters of 1931-33, did so because of Stalin’s forced collectivisation.

I regret being picky about which tomatoes I’m piling into my basket. Perhaps everyone should take some over-ripe and some firm, just thankful that there is food.

The essential sheep’s head

Meat is ample and readily available as Kazakh culture dictates.

Here, they opine that chicken is merely a vegetable; sheep, beef and horse reign. Vital to any celebration, or dastarkhan, a sheep’s head is displayed and served first to the honoured guest. It is then carved bit by bit; a piece of ear given to children, to be careful, to listen well. A smidgen of tongue to become more expressive. The eyes are delicacies, to seek wisdom. The brain, the best bit of all.

The dastarkhan still heeds the ancient ritual of showing respect to guests, to the elderly and relations. Ideally this is accompanied by shots of vodka, with plentiful toasting, usually every five minutes or so. The most senior starts it off and it goes from there. I have experienced this custom often… a toast, a shot (I forego the vodka), a toast, a shot… the third toast always salutes the ladies. I shall miss this tradition, as it poignantly imbues festivities with meaning and respect. Between the vodka, ample food, speeches and dancing if possible, a Kazakh celebration is not to be missed. But more of the ever present meat…

Bit by bit…

Besbarmak is boiled meat served in large hunks. Shashlik is marinated meat on a stick, often eaten at roadside cafes. Ulpershek is a dish made from the heart, aorta, and fat of a horse. Prepared in a kettle, it’s often shared between sisters-in-law as a sign of unity. Kazy is a sausage eaten in the spring when a cow has a new calf, sometimes served with rice. Mypalau is a dish made from sheep’s brain. Put the brain in a wooden bowl, add marrow, pieces of meat, salted fat in broth and garlic. On and on, go the meat recipes.

‘Fresh Meat’

Kazakh culture dictates that bread is never wasted. Furthermore, Kazakh hospitality demands that one must not leave a house without ‘at least having eaten a crumb.’

The ‘Naan’ baker

One doesn’t actually see much bread at these markets, but we peek into a naan bakery. The scent of fresh baking from the tandoor enticing us to enter. The baker poses proudly while I openly covet his old, weighty scale.

In our market visits, I had been intrigued by white, stone-like pieces that are displayed amongst spices, pulses and grains. Imprinted with knuckle-marks, they have a haunting story to tell.

In the desolate and remote Kazakh hinterland, once stood the gulag, the network of Soviet era concentration camps. The harsh weather and the impossible distances made escape futile. One such gulag, Alzhir, was solely for women and children. Their only ‘crime’; being, a wife, mother, or child of a man convicted of ‘betrayal of the motherland.’

Local villagers, risking their own lives, secretly tried to ease the prisoners’ hunger by throwing ‘stones’ at them. The guards delighted in this… ‘even your own kind throw stones at you!’ But the ‘rocks’ were actually hand formed, dessicated pieces of cheese curd, kurt. To this day, they are reminders of the repugnant man-made hells and of thousands of lost, innocent lives.

Kurt on display

When I see kurt in the markets, I’m reminded of my Dutch grandmother’s own wartime experiences. She would tell us sternly, yet lovingly, that ‘alles moet op’ – you must eat everything on your plate.

Knitted socks…from women prisoners

On a chilly day a few months ago, it wasn’t food that I bought at the market, but something to warm me. Two things in fact, both reminding of my stoic grandmother. First, a cozy pair of knitted socks, crafted by women prisoners out of dog hair. I remember my grandmother often knitting or crocheting. Through her life she also embodied resourcefulness; drawing from her frugal upbringing, from raising children during the Second World War, to the harsh realities of being new immigrants in Canada.

Across the alley, a welcoming lady nods to her wares; she has crocheted slippers. They are just as my grandmother had made for me. I remember choosing the colour of Phentex I wanted; they are long since frayed and worn.

‘My grandmother’s slippers’

I take my time deciding on a pair, thinking of Margje, knowing she’d be amused at finding ‘her slippers’ in such a faraway place. And the story of the kurt would have resonated with her, having suffered through her own ‘hunger winters.’ I think of her, and of all the ladies whose own trials are etched on their faces. I can’t hear all of their stories, but I can look into their eyes with sincerity and a smile, I can make contact. There is no language barrier to that.

New friends from Uzbekistan, after tea and dumplings

A mishmash of goods

A rainbow of plastic

Apr10

Enchanted by Baku… a caravanserai along the Silk Route

Posted on April 10, 2015 by terryannewilson

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As I dragged myself out of a 16-hour jet lagged slumber last week, I didn’t take it for granted that I was back safely across the world, ‘home’ in Kazakhstan. After a trip that included Azerbaijan, Canada and Turkey, we were quite literally blown back into Aktau. A severe dust storm almost prevented the plane from landing; we passengers erupted into spontaneous applause as the plane managed to touch down, despite the impenetrable, brown ‘murk’. Reminiscent of the days when applause followed each landing, it’s still a custom when flying in this region and it was entirely deserved on this occasion.

Carpets in Icheri Sheher

Fine dust scratched my eyes and throat before I had even exited the airport; the serenity of two weeks on Vancouver Island already felt a million miles away. And so upon waking the next day, three weeks of travels cascaded through my mind. The usual panoply of books and pamphlets collected over the weeks reminded me… there’s so much I want to write about. Books on Totem Poles, Emily Carr, The Silk Route, Topkapi Palace and Hagia Sophia. Where to begin?

At breakfast, it seems it was decided for me. After greeting the staff and claiming my usual spot at the hotel restaurant, two ladies beside me switched from Russian to English. Noticing the depictions of palaces in the book I was reading, one of them asked if they were from sites here in Aktau. “No I wish,” said I. ” I’m afraid there really isn’t anything quite as interesting here. You’re visiting then?”

“Yes, we’re from Baku, have you been there?”

“In fact I was there about three weeks ago, what a beautiful city! I loved it,” I said excitedly.

Tea in a lavish shop setting

You can be forgiven if you’re not quite sure where to find Baku on a map. It’s in Azerbaijan, a quick forty-five minute flight, west over the Caspian from Kazakhstan. In this short jaunt, one is transported to a city so brilliant in its cutting-edge architecture and spectacular lights, that it mesmerises even the most seasoned traveler. Much of the architecture suggests you’re in Europe. Wide, verdant boulevards intersect the shimmering Caspian with high-end shops in stately buildings. World class venue sites stand ready for events such as the Euro games, the Grand Prix and the Eurovision which kick-started the building trend in 2012.

Masterpieces of Heritage

Yet Baku is also an ancient city that enchanted as I lingered in ancient caravanserais and wandered past minarets that had stood watch for invaders such as the Mongols and Peter the Great. My friend Okkie and I ‘did’ Baku for some two and a half days before this last trip to Canada. By the third day, we still exclaimed… “Can you believe this place, we could be in Paris or Rome. Must we leave?”

At its root, however, Baku has always been about one thing; oil. The modern day splendour is funded by massive oil reserves. In fact, the liquid gold is so abundant in the region that for centuries flames have erupted spontaneously from the ground. Hence, the ultra modern Flame Towers that rise nearly 800 feet above the city, paying homage to Baku’s oil wealth.

Returning to my new friends at breakfast on the first day back, I shared some photos with my new friends, Samira and Gala. “But didn’t you like the new buildings?” they asked, noting that my images favoured UNESCO World Heritage sites such as The Maiden’s Tower, ancient city walls and palaces. “We walk past these all the time and don’t really think about them,” they confided. “Of course, but it’s really the old and the historic that I love,” I said honestly. “I found the old city fascinating.”

Street-side wares

Icheri Sheher, the old city, harkens to centuries past. Sights that span the centuries from the Great Silk Route to the modest Sultans, the Rulers of Shiravan. It spoke of repelled attacks, but also of lost campaigns such as against the Persians in the 1500’s. They promptly trotted off with many Azeri heritage pieces, now in museums world-wide. All the more important that parts of the old city itself are now Unesco Heritage Sites and mercifully, they aren’t going anywhere. Yet, the more recent history of this city’s transformation is particularly fascinating. By the 1860’s, Baku oil fields accounted for 90% of the world’s oil supply. The population at this time grew faster than Paris, London or New York. Along came workers from neighbouring Iran, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan and further afield… also artists, travellers and tycoons.

“Darling, l’ve so loved Venice, lets go home and re-create it in Baku,” could easily have been a conversation between an oil tycoon and his wife during these epic days that flourished into the ’20’s. Names such as Hajinski, Rothschild and Nobel. Yes, the same Swedish Nobel family of Nobel Oil, of the Nobel Peace Award. They were in Baku building a fortune, some of the first oil tycoons. Cobbled, medieval streets are lined with their once opulent villas, inspired by their heritage or visits to Europe. Countless oil barons built villas with Italian logias, those wooden balconies that peek out over the streets. They built with lavish marble, fashioned exquisite gardens and collected priceless artifacts for their villas. Some of those treasures are now displayed at Nobel Villa Petrolea.

Echoes of the ancient Silk Route

At the heart of the caravanserai

It was a time of flux and opportunity. Baku transformed from a population of 14,000 in 1898 to over 200,00 in 1920. I hadn’t quite realized this aspect of the city’s history, but I had anticipated that I’d be visiting a medieval settlement that had been on the Silk Route. This has become a recent fascination for me and I’ve come to realize that over the years I’ve traveled to many of these storied settlements… Nara, Xian, Guangzhou, Almaty, Varanasi, Kathmandu, Jaisalmer, Muscat, Istanbul, Venice, Rome, and now Baku. At each of these grand staging points, amidst markets and trading establishments, was a caravanserai. And for the first time, at least to my knowledge, I finally stood in one of these medieval accommodations along the Great Silk Route. These trade routes developed from the 3rd century BC to the 15th century AD. They conveyed goods, knowledge and customs across vast territories, connecting diverse people. Eventually a network of caravanserais stretched from China to the Indian subcontinent, Iran, Turkey, as far as North Africa, Russia and Eastern Europe, culminating in Rome and Venice.

“I flowed my hand over an evocative sculpture”

As I stood in the centre of the octagonal caravanserai in the old town of Baku, centuries of worn stone beneath my feet, I could imagine the scenes that had played out on this spot. Scores of camels shuffled in, their woven camel bags bursting with silk, dried fruit and saffron, jewellery and precious stones, pottery and weapons. The weary merchants could now rest with their precious cargo safe in the confines of the stone shelters; a respite from the dangers of the road or the volatility of the sea and feared pirates. I could hear the cargo being unpacked, chatter filling the air, camels eager to be fed and watered. Once the gates were locked for the night, the caravanserai would come alive with baths, welcoming food, mingling around open fires and strumming of music. A chance to recount the journey, tell tales and rejuvenate. Often these caravans traversed the route for a year or two, trading and restocking en route.

In Baku, new goods loaded included age old exports from Azerbaijan; oil, dried fruit and salt, dyes,weapons and carpets. I flowed my hand over a simple, yet evocative sculpture. From its vantage point it would have witnessed the pulse of the caravanserai, where merchants, missionaries and travellers such as Marco Polo engaged in cultural, scientific and spiritual discourse. Yes, it seems Marco spent some time here in 1264. He, like others, wrote of ideas and innovations carried along the silk route; the stirrup, the irrigation waterwheel, paper and printing. Polo, and indeed even Ghenghis Khan, became particularly enamoured with the abundance of rich silks along the Route. Silk tents, silk-lined wagons and, as Colin Thubron mentions in Shadow of the Silk Road, Ghenghis observed the ‘silk-clad women, glittering like a red-hot fire.’ Polo wrote of ‘the whole court of Kublai Khan assembling in identical coloured silks, according to feast-day.’ With such descriptions, one can easily imagine the extravagant life that trade along the Silk Route afforded those of wealth and status.

As I stepped through the imposing stone arch, back into the street, I felt the same fascination that travel writers before me must have experienced in places of antiquity… a sense of the confluence of history. One such writer was the intrepid Freya Stark. I look up to her, one of the first women to travel alone and write about such exotic locations. Of course, I’m not a renowned writer as she was and cannot begin to compare with likes of Paul Theroux or Colin Thubron, but yet I feel acute delight to have been here and to share it in my own humble words. I found my modern day travel companion and confessed that I’d experienced a poignant moment, for me at least. I admitted to her that I had long wished to experience a tangible sense of the Silk Route and to absorb the layer upon layer of history. Perhaps sensing this, Okkie had left me alone inside the caravanserai and she now gave me a hug of understanding. We sat on a low stone wall, turned our faces to the sunshine and silently absorbed Icheri Sheher.

The Maiden’s Tower and a tycoon’s villa

I had met Okkie in Aktau. It was one of those friendships that forms quickly. We both have three sons, similar interests, by chance we have mutual friends dotted around the world and we’ve lived in some of the same countries. Not surprisingly, many of the same artifacts are common in our homes; furniture, pottery and carpets from time lived in the Middle East. Not surprisingly we both agreed that the Azerbaijani Carpet Museum was a must-see.

Treasures at the Azerbaijani Carpet Museum

Azerbaijani carpets have been proclaimed a ‘Masterpiece of Intangible Heritage’ by UNESCO. Delightfully, the museum is built in the shape of a rolled carpet. As early as the 7th century, travelers exalted the high-quality rugs. We were intrigued by the exquisite colours from natural dyes such as pomegranate, madder and elderberry for red, sorrel and juniper for green, sagebrush and saffron for yellow, onion skin for orange, indigo and blackberry for blue. We marveled at the distinct designs and themes that originate from different areas; from Shirvan, Tabriz and Sumakh. I have such clear memories of these names tumbling from shopkeepers’ lips as I painstakingly chose carpets in Dubai, Doha and Muscat. Now here I was, admiring the treasured collection at the country of source.

After fulfilling days of sightseeing, we dined in sublime restaurants poised over the Caspian. Edifices from countless centuries traced the skyline, a minaret and tower from the 12th century, hammam cupolas from the 14th century, sculptured towers from the 21st. I understood why Baku has been a desirable city for thousands of years; a city that really isn’t only about oil after all.

On our last night in Baku, Okkie and I had gone to a revolving lounge, high in the sky. A few bottles of excellent Azerbaijan white wine later, the lights that sparkle upon the Caspian and Baku had transfixed us for hours. Our gorgeous hotel revolved into view, the towers, the illuminated villas, and on and on.

“Just one more ‘go round’, we’d say. After all, the modern sights are pretty great too!

Back in Aktau a few days after our first encounter, I have tea with my new Azeri friends. I ask about the scrumptious rice dish that we had ordered at every chance whilst in Baku.

Samira ‘making’ Azeri Ash

“How on earth do you make your rice dish? It’s called ‘Ash’ isn’t it?” I asked. Samira, whom serendipity saw fit to cross our paths, leaned forward in her chair. Positioning the teapot as a ‘cooking pot’ and the napkin as the ‘cotton cloth I’ll need to line the lid’, Samira demonstrated the pilaff recipe in her loveable, expressive way.

“This is the secret of our country’s dish – butter, it’s all about the butter!” Ah, just as Okkie and I had suspected.

Mar22

Snapshots on the road to Tofino…

Posted on March 22, 2015 by terryannewilson

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The Amphitrite Lighthouse, Ucluelet

“Would you like to take their photo,” the dog owner asked without hesitation, already reigning in her three large pets. We had stopped to take a photo of an ageing wooden boat on the main street of Ucluelet.

“That would be nice, if you’re sure?” I replied. But the lady, who introduced herself as Janice, was already scooting her three dogs up on the bench that was positioned in front of the Evelyn May. Its once brilliant colours still brightened up the otherwise ordinary street. The fact that it had become an unintended focal point on main street in a small Canadian town, didn’t surprise me.

Scooby, Honey and Keyna

Vancouver Island is that kind of place, comfortable in its unpretentiousness, resplendent in its natural beauty; an incomparable delight at the continents edge. It took ten minutes or so to get the dogs positioned just right, but Janice didn’t mind. She was more than pleased to display her three adorable hounds and they just happened to be wearing colours that complimented the faded hues of the Evelyn May.

It had been like this, the last 24 hours, chance encounters with many friendly folk. We had made our way from the structured elegance of Victoria and woven along the Pacific Rim Highway towards the ocean, to the wild margins of Canada’s most westerly point.

We had purposely taken our time, stopping frequently when our curiosity was piqued. And there’s been much of that. Sites that we were pleased to have stumbled upon; people with whom we were thankful we had stopped to share a moment.

For Canadians, visiting this part of the country is on most people’s wish list. The surfing, kayaking and whale watching, the seamless marriage of ocean and rainforest, the inviting harbours and superb seafood. The island is a living picture of ethereal beauty, but also home to thriving trade and industry. In the small harbours and hidden inlets are lumber mills and mining, fisheries and canneries, fishing trawlers nestled beside gleaming white yachts.

Cowichan Bay

We chanced upon one such place; Cowichan Bay with its long history as a fishing destination. From the early 1900s, Cowichan Bay attracted sportsmen from all over the British Empire for superb salmon fishing, earning the name of Salmon Capital of the World. It also beckoned celebrities such as Bing Cosby and John Wayne in the 50’s to fish for sport. Tales abound at the renowned local hotel of legendary fishing conquests from those days. It’s a peaceful bay where whales are said to wait patiently for the salmon run, anticipating the feast that will come their way.

The drive took us onwards to the the small city of Duncan, home to more totem poles than anywhere on earth. This is the land of the Coastal First Nations who carve their legends and lore into towering cedar logs. I am transfixed by the vivid colours and enchanting stories that inspire this unique art. It’s here that we met Robert from the Cowichan tribe, one of the ‘people of the warm land’. Robert sat on a bench surrounded by the symbolism of his ancestors, backdropped by a bright red Canadian National railcar. He lamented wryly that despite being drawn to this spot for inspiration, ironically, because of an allergy to cedar, he could never linger long.

The totems in Duncan

Robert told us that his great regret was never being able to give ancient stories life through wood carving. He took the time to relate his painful upbringing in a residential home, of the wayward ways of youth in his tribe and of better times now emerging in Duncan. I pointed out to him that Mr. Duncan himself was carved in the tallest totem towering nearby, a reminder of the confluence of tribal and settled lands. I asked him whether he regretted living here.

“No, I’m happy in Duncan, it helps me forget the past. I hope you like our town,” Robert said to me with an appreciative smile. “Where are you from?” Skirting the complexities of my life, I told him that I didn’t live in Canada full-time, but that I loved being here and learning about his history.

Colourful snapshots

“In fact,” I told Robert, “I’m from Alberta originally and hadn’t quite appreciated the vast differences between the coastal and the plains First Nations people.”

It’s true that being here on the coast causes one to appreciate this. Instead of hunting and subsisting on the buffalo as the tribes of the plains people had, the coastal people had relied on the ocean, primarily on whales. Given that the whale hunt was crucial for survival, whalers were the one of the most honoured members of the tribe. The expedition to intercept, kill and tow a whale home with a canoe in the open ocean was perilous. Not least of which was first the necessity of stitching up the mouth of the whale, so as to not take in more water and thus sink the crew and canoe. Every part of the whale was instrumental for survival. As with the plains people, I sensed there are many aspects from these former days that are keenly missed today.

On we went from Duncan to Parksville where we walked on the tidal flats of Qualicum beach – rippled sand, Brant geese on their grand migration gorging on eel grass and sea lettuce, and the moon pulling on tidal waters. At dinner our waitress asked where we were headed. “We’re on our way to Ucluelet,” we replied.

“I hope you’re staying at Black Rock,” she said. “I just stayed there on my honeymoon, it’s the only place to be.”

“Yes that’s where we’ll be, glad to hear this.” We chatted a little more and I asked where we should stop along the way. She told us the drive was beautiful and not to miss Cathedral Grove.

Strolling amongst the ancient cedars

As we cut west towards the Pacific, we soon found ourselves captivated by the beauty. We ambled through old growth forest where 800 year-old Cedars and Douglas Firs tower over ferns and mossy, twisted branches. As eagles swooped over dizzying tree tops, I could appreciate the reverence for the cedar tree. Every part of it was used by the First Nations. The inner bark was woven into mats, baskets, even waterproof clothing. Branches became ropes and the rot resistant wood was fashioned into canoes, houses, totems and ceremonial masks. In fact, the regions first inhabitants simply called it the tree of life.

Angelo in Port Alberni

As we arrived in Port Alberni it was very much in the clutch of a spring chill; a counterpoint to the budding cherry blossoms, the bright daffodils and lime green willows. We walked along the harbour, the pulp mill belching into the misty air, snow lingering on distant peaks. We came across Angelo, sitting on a bench with binoculars, spying across the inlet. He was keeping an eye on the logging unit he had worked with for 38 years.

An iconic Canadian train station

“I moved here from Italy after the Second World War, through Ontario but I eventually found work here. The pulp mill was hiring,” he told us, his handsome face belying his 80 some years. When I asked Angelo if he had any regrets that he had immigrated to Canada, he shook his head. “It’s been more than a happy life and besides, I have too many Canadian grandchildren to ever return to Italy,” he told us fondly. We talked awhile and shook hands. I sensed he was pleased that we had taken the time to chat, as were we. If I’ve learned anything at this stage in life, it’s to take the time to converse. Take that time to connect with people, hear their story, learn something new.

A colourful snapshot in Port Alberni

We also took the time to slowly cruise the back streets of Port Alberni, chancing upon colourful, striking everyday images. Port Alberni also retains its original train station, a design that is emblematic of most small towns in Canada. Constructed from the same blueprint, these iconic structures have welcomed people like Angelo as they arrived from afar to build a new life in Canada. Now the train tracks are less busy, with once useful cars spruced up for museum pieces or left to rust. A reminder that few things stay the same in life, but also that there is beauty in the old and abandoned, as well as the vibrant and living.

Onwards to Ucluelet where we planned to spend some time, between here and Tofino. As we checked into the Black Rock Oceanfront Resort, a welcoming young man, Mustafa opened up a local map to show us the region.

On the road, Vancouver Island

“The Wild Pacific Trail is right outside, if you’re lucky you’ll see whales as you hike along it,” he offered.

“Wonderful, we heard the Pacific Rim Whale Festival is on this week, hoping to see some! Are you from this area Mustafa?” I asked.

“I’m originally from the Middle East, I came to work for a summer and never left.” I looked past him to the massive windows beyond the lobby. They frame the Pacific ocean as it pounds against the craggy black rocks.

“I understand why,” I said, full with anticipation of the stay ahead. Full of new found appreciation for this special place on earth.

Surfers in the Pacific Ocean

Mar3

A lovely Kazakh bride and her ‘prince of the hearth’…

Posted on March 3, 2015 by terryannewilson

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The lovely bride, Rysgul at her ‘first’ wedding

I first met Rysgul at our hotel where she works in sales. It was a fleeting moment and our paths didn’t cross again until a recent cocktail evening. I was immediately struck by her warmth and we chatted easily. When I asked what her name meant, Rysgul replied, “It means ‘kind flower.” Her name suits her perfectly; she has a modest grace and classic Kazakh beauty, embodied in dark enchanting eyes and long, glossy black hair.

“I’m a newlywed,’ she happily announced early into our conversation. After congratulating her, I steeled myself to ask the question, curiosity getting the better of me. “Did you marry a ‘prince of the hearth?’ “I did,” Rysgul beamed, “so yes, I now live with my husband and his parents.’ I was referring to the Kazakh tradition of the youngest son taking the role of ‘prince of the hearth.’ It is his duty to live with and care for his parents. When one marries ‘the prince’ custom dictates that the bride moves to his childhood home. This new extended family isn’t for a month or a year; it’s a life long commitment. Rysgul explained that she was raised to respect this tradition and is proud, as is her family, that she’s now in this role. When I ventured that this would be considered unusual in many Western cultures, she did not waver or appear to desire it any other way.

Rysgul is a modern woman, yet committed to traditions that bind this area of Kazakhstan together, more so than other parts of the country. “I’d love to hear more about your culture,” I said, ‘and of course your wedding. I’m also curious about your striking wedding jackets and the unique hats you wear.’ Having noticed countless weddings at the hotel, the premier venue in the city, the questions were already forming in my mind.

“Yes the kamzol and saukele, we could do an interview if you’d like?” Rsygul responded graciously. What followed the next day was a delightful two-hour conversation and an outing to the award winning showroom, Nur Shah. It was an unexpected insight into the journey of a modern day bride, one that is still very much layered with tradition.

Where did you meet your husband Rysgul, how long were you engaged?

We met in a nightclub though neither of us were particularly in the mood to be there. We dated for about four years, but once you get engaged here it all happens quickly. In Kazakh tradition, a group from the boy’s family visits his girlfriend’s parents, they sip tea and eventually ask for her hand in marriage. A female relative of the hopeful groom adorns the girl with golden earrings. This means the girl is now taken, engaged. My fiancé offered a diamond ring as well. A day was agreed upon and it was official. Typically, an engagement is only 2 to 3 months.

Is anything given to the groom’s family?

Yes, depending on the status of the family, some money is given. It’s like a dowry to compensate for what the groom’s side has spent on new furniture, houseware, bedding items and carpets. There was once the tradition of giving 47 head of cattle for a bride. This has transformed into presenting a korzhun, a traditional bag with 47 various gifts inside. The bags are decorated with coins, rings and bead necklaces. They are passed down within the family. There are two wedding ceremonies, the first is for me as a send off, which was here at the hotel. All of my friends were here and my husband’s siblings.

Is that when you wear the beautiful kamzol and the saukele?

Yes, the traditional part of the wedding is when I wore the national dress or kamzol. I felt like a princess. The silver jewellery is also important, kind of good luck charms. That’s also when my braids were displayed.

The traditional image with braids displayed

Tell me about that, the knee-length hair that many young Kazakh women have.

It is the custom, if possible, to grow our hair to this length at least until we get married. It’s considered very feminine and beautiful. Yet when we do reveal it, we should off-set it with big bows or even bells, so as to not appear vain.

Will you cut your hair now that you’re married?

I might, maybe, but my husband doesn’t want me to, it’s well… (Rysgul chuckled coyly as her words tailed off)

I’m sure it looks stunning, to say the least. Is it shown at home?

Only to my husband. When I get home, my outer image changes. I go into my room and change into a caftan type dress, a white kimishek* covers my hair and we always cover our feet. It’s then time to cook the evening meal which I do gladly. My mother in-law will get started if I’m delayed.

So your ‘first wedding’ is traditional. Is it after this you begin life in your new home?

Yes, there was a ceremony after the wedding party, we entered the home to singing and dancing. It’s the custom that my new sisters in-law put a kimishek on my head as I kneel down. A fabric threshold hangs behind us which is white, but a woven red fabric is then draped over that, symbolizing the new marriage. This ‘artifact’ hangs in the home until I become pregnant. That evening there was also a dombra player who offered marital advice through music and prose.

It sounds lovely, and the second wedding?

A bride in the hotel lobby

That was the next day, Western style, when I wore a white gown that I designed. That wedding was in my hometown. I’m not from Aktau, but my husband is from this area – from the Adai clan. They’re more traditional, from the Mangistau area and very respected. We try to marry from neighbouring clans, but you must prove that your family lines are separated by seven generations. (I remember reading that it has always been shameful not to know your family lineage that far back. It dates back to the days of Genghis Khan when they were recited in verse.)

Is there a ceremony at the mosque? Did you have a honeymoon? Was it difficult, adjusting to joining his family home?

The blessing at the mosque can be done beforehand. No, we don’t typically have a honeymoon and for me it was quite natural to make the change. Every morning I greet my in-laws with a type of curtsy and a cupped hand gesture, as tradition calls for. (I had noticed this Sufi symbol of a blessing depicted in an ancient mosque and often see references to it.) But I’m able to be independent and still work, however some brides that are younger may be required to stay in the home. The foundation of our culture is respect for elders, this is ingrained in our tradition.

Your family must miss you Rysgul?

Yes, but I see them often and soon it is the three month mark. They will come to my new home for the final ceremony and bring my dishes and household goods that I’ve collected. Also, my in-laws will give a present to my mother, an acknowledgement that their daughter is now with a new family.

Is there one special present or does if vary?

Well, it depends on social status but in our case, it will be a fur coat.

Gosh how lovely. Is that the reason so many women here wear fur coats? I’ve never seen so many gorgeous furs.

Yes, it’s one reason and by that time in life, having a fur conveys a certain status.

Very interesting. Tell me, is there any chance that having gold teeth was once a status symbol?

(I allude to the many men and women here in their 50’s or older that have golden teeth. They’re often conscious that this is no longer ‘in fashion’ and hide their smiles.) Yes, exactly, that’s what it was. People melted down their jewellery to have it converted to gold teeth.

Do you plan to have children?

But of course and as you know, we are fortunate as the grandparents help raise their grandchildren. We don’t have to worry about child care.

One last question. How does your society react when a Kazakh woman marries a foreigner?

Kazakh tradition in every stitch

My parents would have been heartbroken, probably wouldn’t have allowed it in some way, but I do know a few friends who have. They love their husbands and lead a different life. But to a certain extent, they’ve walked away from our proud culture; I could never have done that.

The lovely Nurbibi indulges me

Late the next afternoon, as promised, Rysgul is waiting, ready for our rendezvous. She directs the hotel driver to Nur Shah, the acclaimed showroom. As we make our way in the rush hour traffic, I’m told that we’re going to the preferred place to buy kamzols for a ‘first wedding’ or for celebrations. The showroom began as a small home business, but the exquisite designs have now become status symbols.

A short kamzol in black

When we arrive at the nondescript building, its drabness surprises me. It offers no hint of the sumptuous atmosphere inside. “It’s our custom when you enter a place for the first time, that one should make a wish.” Rysgul tells me as she holds the door for me to step inside. A massive chandelier hangs in the centre of the room, illuminating a large Persian carpet on the marbled floor. My eye is immediately drawn to the array of exquisite kamzols and elegant dresses. They’re resplendent with glittering stones, jewels and intricate design work that intertwine symbols of swans necks, flowers, even the horns of mouflon sheep.

Here, a woman’s beauty is compared to the graceful curves of a swan and as they mate for life, their likeness is the inspiration for the ever present motif. Stitching on garments and hats also echoes the past, but Nur Shah has expertly incorporated an intriguing modern flair. I can well imagine the excitement a bride to-be must feel as she enters this feast of wedding indulgences.

With my gracious hosts

Nurbibi, the lovely assistant, kindly allows me to try on a number of Kamzols. They feel elegant and sensual. I sense the tradition the garment embodies. As much as I admire the saukeles, the pointed hats perch on the upper shelves suggesting they are too valuable to try on, they remain firmly out of reach. The bejewelled ones are breathtaking and if you’re fortunate enough to have been married in one, you will proudly display it in your home. Typically, fabric saukeles either have a fur-like plumage or the more expensive ones feature owl feathers.

Elegance and tradition

The saukele fascinates me. I’ve read that tribes called “tigrahauda” (wearing pointed hats) once occupied vast territories of Middle Asia and Kazakhstan. In the 1970’s, Kazakh archeologists found an undisturbed burial place of a Saka chief from the 5th century BC. His clothes were covered with golden plates and he wore a tall ‘golden headdress.’ Similarly, something akin to the present day Kazakh saukele is depicted on two ancient golden belt buckles. Both men and women wore this tall, pointed headgear.

Almost two and a half thousand years separate these treasures, yet the Kazakh saukele is still an important element of a wedding ceremony. I ask Nurbibi how long a bride normally takes to choose an ensemble. Rysgul translates to me that it can take as long as a year, but usually a month. “Yes indeed, how would you ever decide!” I say.

“Will you please give my sincere thanks to Nurbibi for allowing me this opportunity, it’s been such a pleasure.” When this is translated, Nurbibi returns the sentiment, a warm smile on her enchanting face. The subtle elegance of these ladies is in perfect harmony with the luxurious items that adorn the showroom… evocative in their modest, yet beguiling beauty.

An old depiction of a Kazakh marriage.

As we bid farewell and step back outside into dusk, Rysgul asks me if I had made a wish when we entered. “Yes I certainly did,” I assure her with a smile. And indeed I had. I wished this lovely new bride every happiness there is, with perhaps a newborn ‘prince of the hearth’ and a little ‘princess’ as well.

* The kimishek is the traditional white scarf that a married woman wears in the home and elderly women in public. They are often embellished with decoration. Once banned when Kazakhstan was under Soviet rule, the Kazakhs have embraced them again since regaining independence in 1991.

Feb5

Eleven hours in Istanbul… delight and dolmas

Posted on February 5, 2015 by terryannewilson

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I’m on a long meander back to Kazakhstan… Calgary, Toronto, Istanbul, Almaty and finally two calendar days later, Aktau.

The Sultan Ahmed or Blue Mosque

And so I found myself spending time in Istanbul, an ancient city I hadn’t yet explored but one which had always intrigued me. How could this great Byzantine city, long known as Constantinople, not be fascinating? Constantine the Great moved his empire here from Rome in 330 A.D.; the city was then already 1000 years old. Now it’s just good old Istanbul, meaning ‘to the city’, but I admit to a certain delightful bewilderment knowing I’m in the once Constantinople. It’s positioned along the Bosphorus river and has long conjured romantic images; of Sultans and their harems, of steamy Turkish hamams, of exotic spices and dazzling architecture.

A street side lantern shop

Despite those temptations, as the plane touched down this morning after an over-night flight, it crossed my mind to just languish at the airport for the day. Along with being travel-weary it was rainy and cold, yet this great city at the crossroads of Europe and Asia beckoned; its marvels and mysteries calling to me as it has to travellers for the past 2000 years.

An old city fountain

Bread and delicious dolmas

As the tram* rattled its way to Sultanahmet, the old city, I was delighted when the famed Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia came into view, their minarets majestically piercing the brooding Turkish sky. I wouldn’t explore those iconic sights today, I’d leave them for our return here in seven weeks during a proper stay. For now, I found myself relishing vivid street scenes; a rainbow of colour from hand woven carpets, vibrant displays of teas and spices, glass lanterns, to endless mounds of baklava and Turkish Delight. Needing a respite from both airline food and the rain, I ducked into what looked to be a typical Turkish restaurant. Tiled walls, flat bread blistering on an open oven, carpets hanging splendidly and best of all, dolmas; delicious, delicate morsels wrapped in grape leaves. It all greeted me, as did the welcoming owner, ushering me to a seat with a view to the ‘bread maker’. How did you even consider staying at the airport? You wouldn’t be eating some of your favourite food right now, nor would you have anything to write about, what were you thinking, I chided myself.

“Madam must finish with Turkish tea,” the affable waiter informed me after I was more than sated. He positioned a delicate cup in front of me before I had a chance to reply.

“No charge, it’s from him,” he said, motioning with a tip of his head towards the friendly chef standing between his grill and a counter lavishly displayed with food.

“Sağ olun,” I countered with a smile and nod, pleased I had remembered the more informal thank you, as when someone has gone out of their way to do something for you. Besides, it’s far easier to pronounce than teşekkür ederim, that more proper thank you.

One of the many entrances to the Grand Bazaar

I soon found myself in that one place any traveler must experience if you want to breathe the history of this city. Simply, one must disappear into the Grand Bazaar. The building of the Kapali Carsi began in the winter of 1455, after the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople by Sultan Mehmet. European travellers as far back as the 1600’s brought home news of the bazaar’s unrivalled abundance of goods and exotic atmosphere. Tales that often became the subject of romantic literature. Originally 67 roads wove the bazaar together, each bearing the name of the type of goods found there. The maze, where time seems to stand still, once housed squares, mosques, fountains and 18 gates that were locked in the evenings. However, this seemed superfluous as theft was unheard of, though an incident in 1591 rattled Istanbul to the core when a substantial quantity of gold disappeared in the bazaar. This prompted a closure for two weeks until the culprit, a young seller of musk, was found. Not, however, before a number of tortures had been carried out. Ironically the Sultan spared the theif from torture, but not execution. Other tales abound from those days as the social dictates didn’t allow women to frequent the bazaar, but perhaps a few disguised themselves and made their way in? Apparently one of the Sultans did just this, but as an excuse to eat his favourite pudding.

Dazzling tiled roofs that inspire and intrigue

Nowadays, the Grand Bazaar houses more than 3,000 shops in its 62 lanes, employing some 26,000 people. Each dolap or stall is replete with a sense of history as it sells beautiful ceramics, carpets and cushions, resplendent fabrics, intricately wrought metal, delicate stained-glass lanterns, and of course tea.

I note the mix of nationalities and languages, musing that Sultan Mehmet would surely be pleased as he had urged the return of those who had fled the city during the siege of the Ottomans, wishing to resettle Muslims, Jews and Christians as one. All part of creating a cohesive, cosmopolitan society and the Grand Bazaar is enduring proof of this. Pausing to take a photo of a grouping of tea cups, I’m reminded I had seen çaycı or ‘tea runners’ out on the street, moving deftly through the crowds delivering the piping hot cups of sustenance to shop keepers, a scene unchanged through the centuries.

Admiring the glass lanterns surrounding the tray, I’m approached by the shopkeeper, his gentle tone a welcome change from the persistent urging that I’d experienced throughout the day. “Where are you from,” is how it always starts, a prelude to the inevitable question as to whether you wish to buy a carpet.

Of glistening lanterns

Falling into an easy conversation, the stall keeper introduces himself as Recep as I admire the lanterns and candle holders in his cozy dolap. Eyeing a small holder off in the corner, I envision it on my desk, its mosaic of deep turquoise glass encased in white instantly captivating me. Despite the brilliance of the glowing lanterns, I ruefully admit I can’t carry anything that large.

“Please stay, we’ll have tea,” Recep offers kindly. I’m taken aback yet delighted as I know tea is an integral aspect of Turkish culture and hospitality. After a quick phone call across the lane on a central phone, barely two minutes later, tea arrives. Delivered on a small tray with a triangular handle, the çaycı nods politely as he hands me the tiny cup and saucer, the same I had admired throughout the day in countless shop windows.

As we chat, Recep tells me about the business he’s built from the ground up and I comment that it must be difficult with so much competition, considering the endless shops in the maze surrounding us.

Of tulip shaped tea cups

“No,” he assures me, “there’s enough for everyone if business is done well.” I believe at this point I ‘toast’ him with my delicate tulip shaped tea cup, so ubiquitous in Turkish life that it is often used as a measurement in recipes. And of the tea, apparently Turkey leads the world in per capita consumption of tea, it’s strong and delicious. Here it’s never served with milk and in the Eastern part of the country it’s common to place a sugar cube under the tongue before sipping the tea from the glass. I’ve declined the three cubes on my tiny saucer, but thankful that I didn’t refuse the kind gesture of being offered tea in the Grand Bazaar.

“Recep, I think I’d like that tiny holder in the corner,” I say standing up from the small stool, realizing it’s time to make my way back to the airport. “What is the price please?”

“There’s no price for you, my gift.” Sağ olun was again my heartfelt response. After a warm hand shake, I part from my new friend and navigate my way out into the brisk air. I hear, “Where are you from miss?” yet again and this time decide to just go with it. Turns out he’s selling those aforementioned treats… surely I should buy some. After all, who comes to Turkey and doesn’t submit to some delicious Turkish Delight?

By this time it’s rush hour and I join the commuters on the tram, at once appreciating their kindness. Some enquire if I need help, did I know the way? Others notice the city map in my hand and smile.

Beneath the exotic facades and arguably daunting perceptions that recent events have wrought here, a familiar fabric of life prevails. People make their way home relieved to reach the end of their working day, yet gladly offered their seats to the elderly. Sweethearts whisper in each other’s ears. Parents peck their children on the cheek as they hold them closely in the squash of people.

I’ve loved the Turkish people. I felt welcomed, I’ve felt at home.

Recep and much appreciated Turkish hospitality

This evening as my plane lifted off over the Bosphorus, onwards to Kazakhstan, I feel imbued with the mystery of what is still to be explored. I eagerly dig out two books I had acquired that day, already preparing for my visit in seven weeks. One of them is a gem, recommended by the bookseller. “You won’t be able to put it down,” he warned me, and I can’t.*

I so look forward to returning and we shall try to drop in to see Recep, that is if I can find that stall again out of the 3000 or so! Actually, its Takkeciler No. 7 Kapali Carsi -Beyazit…just in case you find yourself there and want a Turkish lantern (I know I still do) and maybe a spot of tea. Tell him Terry Anne sent you!

* Take the Metro from the airport to Zeytinburnu, switch here to the blue tram line and continue to Sultanahmet. Trip approximately one hour

*’Portrait of a Turkish Family’ by Irfan Orga

Dec15

A poppy for Sarah…

Posted on December 15, 2014 by terryannewilson

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A haunting line in Sarah Jane’s letter spoke to me as I stood at the Tower of London this September. “I picked up the paper and the wind turned it over, when to my dismay Will’s name stared me in the face, he had been killed.”

The Tower of London with its sea of poppies

As I watched volunteers ‘plant’ ceramic poppies into the grassy moat, I felt her devastating loss, as must the other families represented in the 888,246 poppies. The artistic installation entitled ‘Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red’ filled the Tower’s moat, creating a powerful visual commemoration for the First World War Centenary. Each poppy symbolizes the life of a British or Commonwealth soldier, like that of Sarah’s young husband killed in France. It was 1916 and the young widow was left to raise their four young children alone; Sarah was my father’s grandmother. Her letter penned only two months after William King’s death, reveals a loving, brave young woman. I wish I could have known her.

Dated October 25th, 1916, Sarah wrote to her family in England where she had been raised in Marsh Gibbon, Buckinghamshire. The letter is soulful and poignant, a young mother finally able to convey on paper what had befallen her happy family, “like some horrible night-mare that is past but not forgotten.”

Sarah and William with their four children, my grandmother lies on her mother’s lap

That long ago day in August 1916, after stepping onto her porch to fetch the newspaper, a gust of wind opened the page that revealed her husband’s name…deceased. She kept it to herself, willing it to be a mistake. Sarah wrote, ” Still I had nothing official, so I did no more but wire to the War Office and ask for information at once, but the torture of suspense of two days and three nights, no sleep nor could I eat. But you could not wish for a more merciful death. He was shot through the heart, he was not fighting.”

Sarah would soon learn that William had died from a sniper’s bullet as he dug trenches; those muddy, rat infested warrens that offered scant protection for the front line troops. She would receive a cloth game of checkers that was found in her Will’s front breast pocket when he perished; his blood staining the centre of it. I like to think that it was a comfort to her, holding something of his that had been with him at the end.

I also imagine the desire for her to return to her family in England must have been overwhelming at times. She wrote, “I don’t know what I shall do yet, but I shall not come back to England to stay, for Will took every precaution to leave us comfortably provided for in case of him being hurt or killed. It would be silly to wave it all on one side.” She seemed resilient and practical, all the while ensuring her husband’s efforts were not abandoned in death.

Sarah’s letter dated 1916

I envision her sitting down to write after tucking her four children into bed, perhaps the cloak of loss and loneliness slipping off her shoulders ever so slightly. “I’ll tell you I am very proud of him and hold my head very high for he was one of the very best of husbands and fathers…I was simply awful for weeks and I didn’t care what became of us. We have four bonny children and I marvel sometimes that I ever lived through it.”

Despite her grief, Sarah wrote that she hadn’t been against William going to war if he wanted to and that “someone must step in to defend the atrocities, we would find it difficult if no one came to our assistance.” Even with her loss she was able to reconcile the sacrifice, as so many women were forced to do during the First World War.

Sarah’s grandchildren with their father Albert, my father is far right

Women suddenly joined the workforce; they became munition workers and bankers, took over the fields and shops, drove trucks and became postmasters. They had no choice but to join the war effort, urged on by Queen Mary’s appeal to the ‘Women of the Empire” which urged all patriotic women to do their part in the war. She encouraged women of all ranks and ages to unite for the cause in the Mother Country and the Empire. Women’s participation in the paid workforce between 1911 and 1921 increased dramatically as they learned trades and skills. Widows like Sarah were often thrust into challenging new roles, while also having the daunting task of raising their children as single parents.

And yet Sarah wrote, “I don’t get much time to get blue, I can always find something to do to help others. I have two babies extra now as their mother has been taken to the hospital…and I went for them and thought how helpless and forlorn their house looked without a mother. And so I thanked God it was Will taken and not me and we should not grumble.”

Sarah Jane’s sampler, stitched in 1893

I find it remarkable that these selfless sentiments were written only two months after her husband’s death. I picture Sarah busy with her four young children, able to reconcile her situation as she went about her daily tasks. The loneliness of the evenings however must have weighed heavily, and I suspect she spent many of those nights darning, knitting or stitching. She was a cross stitcher above all, a skill she learned at the age of eight as her sampler* stitched in 1893 declares. Her name, Sarah Jane Parker, is stitched proudly at the top, followed with a prayer. It is proudly displayed in my parents home, brought with her Sarah when she boarded the ship that carried her to a new life in Canada. Perhaps it was stowed in her steam trunk with the expectation of it decorating the bride to be’s new home. Her love of this craft was passed on to her daughters including her youngest child Sadie, my grandmother, who has also left a legacy of beautifully stitched works.

Albert Campbell, a WWI veteran who would marry Sadie, some twenty years later

What Sarah couldn’t know at the time of William’s death was that her youngest, Sadie, would one day marry a man twenty years older. This man had fought in the same war as her father and it’s extraordinary to me that both my father’s grandfather and father, Albert Campbell, fought in World War I. Only one came home. Through the bravery shown by Sarah, her children had the love as if of two parents. Sadly however, that would be short lived.

In 1923 at only thirty-eight years old, the local newspaper announced that ‘Veteran’s Heroic Wife is Buried.’ It reported that many journeyed to attend the funeral of the late Mrs. Sarah Jane King. She had undergone a serious operation five weeks earlier, but succumbed to complications. The article mentions that ‘she had strived heroically to keep her little family together after her husband’s death.’

Sarah’s letter is one of many written archives that live on, as well as countless poems from that time. I’ve come across a young Canadian woman Phebe Florence Miller, a poet and postmistress from Newfoundland. During a long artistic life, she wrote many poems that capture the tragedy of the ‘Great War.’ Her poignant verse captures the courage, hard work and stoicism of many women. She echoed Sarah’s words when she wrote..

Can we have lived through it all?

Or was it some dream we dreamed?

Gleaming memorial shafts give us our answer.

My father, Curtis King Campbell at William’s grave in Ypres, Belgium.

Those Memorials exist in almost every Canadian community and ask us to stop and remember, to respect the sacrifices. My parents have visited Yperes, Belgium, where William King was laid to rest. Every evening since that war’s end, a bugle mournfully calls out to honour the fallen. Sarah did not visit nor her children, yet I know my parents felt the weight of all the loved ones they represented as they stood at Corporal William King’s war grave.

I felt it as well as I gazed out over that ‘sea of poppies’ in London, knowing a family member was represented. I’ve since claimed one for the family…one of the almost 900,000 ‘remembrances’ that have been boxed up and shipped out to the ‘Colonies’. It will be a remembrance in my parent’s home…a tribute to that handsome young man who gladly answered the call of duty to King and Country.

*A sampler is a stitching that was common for young girls to undertake at school, teaching them the skill of cross stitching.

Nov17

Lipstick palms on Phuket… of botany and the verve of Jack

Posted on November 17, 2014 by terryannewilson

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A place of serenity for the writer’s retreat

“Do you think someone plants all those ferns in the palm trees?” I ask Jo as we paddle idly in the pool. Another day of writing completed and we were now cooling off after a massage in the nearby massage studio. How will I ever leave this serenity?

“No, they’re epiphytes, plants that live on others. They root by themselves and just grow,” Jo says knowingly.

“See how some of the trees have ferns and those ‘spiky’ plants. And they’re orderly, as if it was landscaped.” I muse as I gaze out to the pool-side palm trees, each massive trunk in a cosy ecosystem with its ‘house-guests’.

Into the massage studio

“We have a theory in our family,” Jo continues, “trees are like people; some are more fun than others, maybe that’s where the party is, more booze, better snacks?”

“Hah, that’s good!” I say, quite taken by the notion of trees as a party venue.

Jo and I have often chatted about nature, but never more than at this writer’s retreat in Phuket. The garden cascades in all directions from the central pool, a who’s who (or rather, a what’s what) of a botanical garden. The coconut palms reign supreme, tall and imposing over the stockier white washed date palms, bamboo somewhere in between. Frangipani trees dot the lawns and verges, their fragrant flowers a fond reminder of my once Middle Eastern gardens. Those years when the kids played in gardens of jasmine, orchids and rainbows of bouganvilla. When they climbed houses built in exotic trees that we didn’t know the names of… when we drank sundowners with the melodic call to prayer as a backdrop. Gardens have always been important to us; they’ve helped root us to a country, provided solace in foreign lands.

Lipstick palms

This garden seems to reach out to us writers who are happily ‘entrenched’ here for a week. It is animated yet calming, even the water nymphs call out. One day, a lovely water-lily suddenly appears in its glazed pot, a little blaze of silken petals. As one might announce a birth, I summon the group that morning…”The lily has bloomed, do stop to appreciate it everyone!”

“I love that grouping of palms just there, beside my villa,” I declare in the general direction of Jo as we luxuriate late that afternoon on teak recliners.

“Skinny stalks of subtle lime,” I alliterate. “Burnt orange and lush lemon,” I continue, getting carried away with the literary thing.

“Those are luscious lipstick palms,” Jo happily jumps in, seemingly bursting with botanical knowledge.

“Well they would be, wouldn’t they!” I sigh at the resplendent scene before us, as if to breathe it in for posterity. “Ah, I think those are the palms that when Europeans first set eyes on them, they were named for the red sealing-wax palm.” I picture the slow drip of hot wax, the delicate stamp of a signet ring.

The Royal Embassy Resort is owned by Phil, a New Zealand transplant, and his lovely Thai wife, Ari. It’s a secluded, intimate setting and we’ve been treated like royalty. Even by day six, I can’t stop admiring the effortless bounty of nature that surrounds us. It’s also mirrored in the cuisine; delicious offerings served on banana leaves, intricately carved fruit and magenta orchids adorning tall, frosty drinks.

Normally I’m engrossed with the architecture of a country and though I’ve traveled through Thailand before, I am endlessly captivated by the effortless melding of nature into everyday life here. Could it be the stark contrast to Kazakhstan where I now live for some of the year? From the sparseness of the vast steppe to the overwhelming abundance… yet I remind myself that each country has its own beauty and uniqueness.

The view from our ‘writing room’ has transfixed me throughout the week. Yellow, snow-white and tangerine butterflies dance amongst fluttering palms. Delicate frangipani flowers cling to trees, pink hibiscus blossoms drift in the breeze, birds linger and browse the floral wares: inspiration at every glance.

As if writing and meeting new people weren’t enough to occupy the week, we were encouraged to limber our bodies and minds with an early yoga session on the lawn each day. I had affirmed to our yoga instructors, Anne and Melanie (Anne was the wonderful facilitator of the retreat) that I wasn’t a fan. Much to their delight, I quickly ‘purged those negative thoughts‘. It was difficult not to; with the night dew still clinging to the grass, we focused on ‘a drosti’ and executed the ‘warrior pose’ while glancing at tall bamboo, a favourite palm or gazing out to the misty hills beyond.

The waterlily has bloomed

Beyond the tranquility of our garden retreat, the neighbourhood slowly came to life. Tuk-tuks puttered in the lanes beyond our view, pans clashed on outdoor stoves, roosters cock-a-doodled, a broom swished across the corner store porch, and stray dogs barked in raucous anticipation of the new morning. Now this was the way to greet the day.

On day five a new friend, Barb from Halifax, announced that she had received a visitor as she opened the door to her villa that morning.

“Jack came to say good morning, he was right there to greet me,” Barb said as she laid happily in ‘child’s pose’ at the end of the yoga session. I admitted to being envious. We all treasured the rare encounters with Jack and, though he hadn’t actually enrolled in the retreat, we considered him as one of us, nonetheless.

The following day as I opened my door to greet the thick, humid morning, there he was. I was honoured to have been chosen for some personal attention. White hair soft as feathers, black ears erect not droopy, Jack allowed me to caress his silken curves until it was time for yoga. Yes, Jack is a rabbit that we all came to adore.

“Gosh, it must be sad for him to be alone here,” I wonder aloud to Phil one day after an impromptu tour of his admirable collection of Thai antiques.

“Well, Jack’s the only one left; all of his erstwhile mates have been savaged by the neighbourhood strays.”

“That’s so sad, how has he managed to survive?” I ask, reminded of the similar fate that met Pebbles and Bambam, our sons’ childhood rabbits (yes back in that seemingly serene garden.)

“Oh he hides, he’s wily, that Jack rabbit!” Phil says in his lyrical Kiwi strain.

The beloved Jack

There was evidence enough that the beloved creature played an important role at the Royal Embassy. On returning from an outing one evening, sun dipping below the horizon, we came upon Phil and Ari sitting by the poolside. Jasmine, their silken dog lazed on Ari’s lap and in the chair between, completing the family vignette, sat Jack in perfect contentment. I shall never forget that scene, there he sat… a rabbit called Jack on a chair for cocktail hour at peace with his family. It was absolutely heartwarming.

On the final evening at the Royal Embassy Resort, only Barb and I had stayed on. The other writers had flown back to their homes in the U.S., KL and Dubai; the rest had returned to their homes in Phuket, the island they had come to love. Barb and I made our way to what had become our favourite restaurant, ‘Bua’, perched on stilts overlooking the gentle waves of Kamala beach. Bua, the omnipresent lotus, sacred symbol of this fertile land, rising up from muddy waters to attain perfection. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the week that had just been.

“Well, my dear, cheers to a wonderful week, we were meant to be here indeed!” We chunked our coconuts together, setting the Pina Colada aswirl. It didn’t matter who had voiced the sentiment, we would part the next morning knowing we’d made a friend for life.

Early the next morning we took one final walk together, turning left from our resort

Hibiscus and Saturday morning laundry

instead of the usual right, taking us into a ‘normal’ neighbourhood which was just beginning to stir that Saturday morning. Boys cycled down palm lined streets, past lovely homes both grand and simple, some with kitchens and dining rooms exposed to the elements. A mother and grandmother tended to the laundry, graciously pausing to pluck a luscious pink hibiscus for each for us from their garden. As if in prayer, we met our hands to our heart, as they do here to convey a genuine thank you. I will dearly miss that heartfelt gesture and the gentle Thai people who smile so freely… who welcome you to their land with open hearts.

A gift of hibiscus

We passed yet more varieties of palms that Jo, my botanist hadn’t yet identified for me. They were interspersed with a few spindly rubber trees. Introduced for commerce, rubber trees arrived in Phuket at the start of the century, plantations once covering forty percent of the island.

“I hadn’t realized that rubber trees are tapped like maple trees to harvest the white goo that oozes out.” I slapped the trunk with my palm. “I really hadn’t grasped how it’s transformed into rubber, I got the full picture when I read about it this week,” I confessed to Barb.

Barb, in front of yet another variety of palm

Barb with yet another variety of palm

“Thank goodness it wasn’t just me, I hadn’t realized that either until I was here,” she conceded. As I snapped a photo of Barb in front of yet another variety of palm, I vowed to improve my botany knowledge for the next trip.

The view at The Indigo Pearl

It was time to depart and I left the quiet, unique resort to spend my last two nights at the Indigo Pearl. With only a small inkling of what awaited, I had booked the resort online, splurging a little at my husband’s encouragement, yet I had not imagined the sheer luxury or the captivating history. This resort, rather unexpectedly pays homage to the tin mining industry that had once been so important to the Phuket economy. The lobby and restaurants were opened to the verdant grounds and scattered amidst this stunning backdrop stood fascinating remnants from bygone mining days. Old tin presses become art, tin florets hang on walls and sit on taps, untold flirtations integrating design and history.

Tin becomes art

My suite overlooked the pool; fronds of massive, milky palms flapping like wallah-less punkahs over my patio, I was now truly in another world. And then I noticed the bathtub; perched on the patio and posed towards the verdant vista, candle already burning with exotic oils filling the air. Truly, how can I leave this paradise!

The beauty of a treetop spa

After a back and neck massage in the treehouse style spa on the second day (where even the chilled towels are proffered with magenta orchids atop), I venture outside the gates… it’s time to head to the beach. And as wonderful as it had felt to be ensconced within the walls of the pampering five star hotel, I was happily back into the heady chaos of Phuket street life. Vendors jostle for business, aromas of barbecues waft through the air as the Andaman sea crashes its waves onto the pristine shore.

I find the perfect spot on the white sand and settle myself. But something isn’t quite right; I conjour sweet memories of my boys building sandcastles and frolicking in the sea waves. Images of a family holiday on Phuket tug at my serenity, urging to be let in. Wonderful memories, now lingering and bittersweet in my solitude. No fellow writers to share my thoughts with, no friends beside me with whom to relate these golden images. This experience has run its course I confess to myself, though seemingly not before I cheer myself by having my second massage of the day… yes the second!

A bathtub with a view.

Come on this is ridiculous, you should be finishing those writing assignments, completing that gift list, even sending your hard working husband a postcard!

But no, recalling that I had strolled past a thatched roof structure, housing twenty or so rudimentary low, wooden tables, I am drawn back by the promise of one last Thai massage. It’s full with foreigners in varying degrees of un-dress, it just doesn’t matter here!

”Only 300 Baht (under 10 bucks) OK?” And I yield to the matronly Thai lady who catches my eye, her hand enticingly swishing her bottle of oil, a welcoming smile on her expectant face.

“I’m in!” and if not on a new spiritual plane, at least I’m soon cheered!

Someone recently mentioned a study that showed most people’s first deep sigh comes seven minutes into the massage; mine was at two, at the most! Relaxing and more ‘real’ than the resort experience, I succumb. Kids run about as moms and grandmothers alike knead and cajole the ‘stress’ out of us spoiled tourists. They keep a watchful eye on their brood during the hour long session, chatting in Thai to their colleagues beside them, nattering at the kids as they play simple games with leaves and sticks. Vendors bells ting ting as dinner time approaches. The local mosque’s call to prayer echoes in the air.

View to the Andaman Sea from the massage hut

The massage is glorious. The sound of the waves just a few meters away is natural mood music. The view of simple fishing boats bobbing and coconuts swaying on a nearby palm tree further encapsulate the mood, but it’s time to go home. I smile, barely managing to pick myself up off the woven Thai mat, slowly slipping on my flip flops. Dodging the daily late afternoon rain, I opt to have a quick Singha beer at the cafe across the street and happen to chat to a couple from Germany. They’ve just arrived on the island and of course I suggest the Royal Embassy Resort to them.

“They even have a pet rabbit named Jack,” I tell the friendly couple. “He likes to be petted,” I say fondly, already missing the little guy.

Coconuts hidden under massive fronds

It’s time to go back through that gate that takes me to the opulence of the Indigo Pearl, though somehow I don’t really want to leave this scene where people chat freely, where everyday culture is revealed, where one is absorbed into the pleasantly chaotic scenes. So I stroll wistfully through the gates returning the smile from the security guard, with one last glance at the tranquil sea. It’s my last night here and I might just have to have one more soak in that glorious tub…

Oct10

An adventure steeped in time… of camel caravans, limestone sculptures and peace

Posted on October 10, 2014 by terryannewilson

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Embracing silence in The Ustyurt

They say that in the Ustyurt area of Kazakhstan, you will be cured of your vanity, your petty desires…

I understand why – so dramatic is the scenery, so soulful is the silence, so humbling is the history. It lingers in the ancient sea bed, it lives in the chinks of rocks.

The silence was all embracing, only the noise of travellers disturbing the chalk and limestone mountains; hewn of tawny whites, creams and gelato pinks. Muted tones in the rocky sculptures of castles, arches and chalky yurts… a tapestry of life in pastel hues. Yet a lime green succulent bloomed defiantly on the parched, desert floor. A dash of violet showed off in the distance.

A ‘yurt’ and a ‘fortress’

I’m sure it was forever this beautiful, but it wasn’t always this silent. Once the water flowed and the tides crashed. Sharks swam and fish gurgled.

The Bakty Mountain, tawny whites and gelato pinks

Caravans with countless camels trekked along the ‘silk route’. Laden with bounties of sables, silk and honey, falcons, birch and slaves. These caravan tracks of the Manqystau were well trodden, ‘ships of the desert’ shuffling to and fro, east to west… west to east. Merchants traded, a mingling of cultures and religions, of Indian and Babylon goods. Clay bricks that reveal secrets of roadside settlements, fortresses and homes.

Yet, uncovered layers hint at Stone Age migrations; those long ago nomads following tracks of gazelles, antelope and sheep.

“Ships of the desert’

They live on still, graceful mouflon sheep prancing through the steppe, antlers of forebearers crumbling into the cracked and crusty earth. One and two humped camels shuffling through the sand, steppe eagles gliding overhead. Horses foraging for survival, herders tending torpidly.

A breathless trek to a high outpost. Through remnants of a stone walled fortress, where animals once were hidden, sheltered from enemy tribes. That safe haven, now a portal to a view of peaks. Peaks reaching to the desert sky, piercing the autumn breeze, drawing the glance of a soaring eagle.

A pinnacle piercing the desert sky

We camped in the shadow of a yurt, erected by nature itself. Its domed roof echoing our small, intimate, manmade shelters. Now the valley was alive with crackling embers and sizzling meat. With campfire chat, Russian and English washing across the chill desert air. Yet deafening stillness… in the surrounding cliffs, in the moonlit crevices, in the dark holes of sleeping lizards.

Mausoleum at Shopan-ata

And it ended where it was meant to; in a sacred place. The Manqystau ground is so. Legends hold it was blessed by as many saints as there are days in the year. Shopan-ata, an underground mosque where we were welcomed, shoes slipped off on rich carpet, beckoned inside. A maze of recessed spaces and cool in the caverns half light. Lizards dart in and out of niches. Sufi prayers etched on worn stone, a carved open palm for happiness. Our departure, a gifted white linen cloth, blue stitched for blessings. On the trail of pilgrims, since the fourteenth century. A place where all can enter, of any religion or creed. Peaceful… as it should be.

The Necropolis of Shopan-ata

Outside that tiny carved door, near that hallowed ground, grows a mulberry tree. Wrapping it’s wizened limbs around sinking tombstones, a scene unchanged. Did it once nourish those worms that would become silk…it is the mulberry leaves they eat.

Perhaps the pilgrims that rested here, had traveled this route. Perhaps they gazed at the same wondrous sights, in awe of the luminous moon, endless stars.

The underground mosque at Shopan-ata

On the ‘high outpost’

There is no perhaps… the wonders and vistas were theirs and they are ours. And that, is a joy, a joy to be had in the Manqystau.

Sculptures in the silence

Oct1

First Dispatch from a former Soviet city… where the streets have no names

Posted on October 1, 2014 by terryannewilson

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The Hotel we call home, with a preserved Soviet jet fighter in the nearby park

Not counting a few jet lagged days, I’ve been a resident of Kazakhstan for two weeks. Let’s begin with first impressions on arrival, tired and bleary eyed after an overnight layover in Istanbul. Thankfully, my long awaited visa barely received a glance and Bruce was there to greet me; as was the driver in a 4 x 4 fitted with a roll cage. I would immediately see why as impatient drivers weaved in and out along the chaotic, single lane highway. New and rustic vehicles zipped past as our driver kept steadfastly to the company mandated speed limit. Soviet style military trucks lumbered alongside shiny new Range Rovers, Land Cruisers and an inordinate number of Ladas. These boxy, toy-like cars were manufactured in the Mother Country and were popular behind the Iron Curtain. You could even choose your colour, as long as it was white! They were a symbol of city life and yet here they were in the ‘outback’ of Kazakhstan.

I imagine they wouldn’t stand a chance against one of these bactrian camels that wander so perilously close to the road; good call on the roll cage! The hairy, two humped beasts ambled along, at home in this barren, limestone landscape. They crossed paths with shaggy horses as they both foraged in the scrub. I would soon discover that one of these beasts is a staple of the Kazakh diet. In this hazy dream-like scene, I could picture Ghengis Khan and his warriors riding this parched steppe, once again staking their claim as they did in the 1200’s. In reality, it was only a goat herder recklessly shunting his precious flock across the busy highway. I gasped and the driver chuckled as I clutched Bruce’s hand; he sensed his normally intrepid travel companion was momentarily in culture shock!

A row of Khrushchyovkas often with painted murals decorating their ‘gabled ends’..either folk art, political or cultural

A dombra – the national instrument

The first glimpse of the city itself, Aktau, confirmed my bemusement. I’ve lived in similar cities in varying stages of development, notably Doha and Muscat. They weren’t as modern as they are now, yet it was in their tucked away labyrinth of streets and souks that they came to life; exotic scenes, smells and intrigues. Would it be the same here? Please tell me that’s the case, I feel as if the clock has been rolled back.

At first sight; drab, little greenery, crumbling sidewalks, haphazard and care worn. And then I see them, the Soviet style apartments. They go on and on and I know I’m in a former Eastern bloc state. Even with a smattering of modern buildings, one could imagine a city in decay or, with a positive outlook a city on the cusp of rejuvenation. Had one lived here during the Soviet days, it could appear progressive and modern. If not, it might seem outdated and dowdy, eager for a makeover. For all that, it’s a mere forty years old, originally founded in a quiet corner of U.S.S.R. where nuclear testing would go relatively un-noticed. I’ve met Westerners who enjoy living here because of that open space (happily now without the testing) as well as the traditional simplicity. As always, it’s relative and personal.

1, 2 and 3, with a neighbourhood shop

A patriotic mural

By the time I arrive at my hotel, a sleek building of steel and glass, I realize this will be my oasis of modernity. I look out from our suite on the top floor and the Caspian Sea rolls before me like a beautiful canvas. It shimmers and promises something exotic. But that would be stretching the imagination. The hotel stands out incongruously amongst the apartment blocks, a glaring counterpoint to the hastily erected utilitarian structures that give Aktau and any former U.S.S.R. city their character. The majority of the population call them home, some refurbished, most are not. Their once uniform appearance now stamped with a patchwork of individual modifications and candy stripes of pink, yellow and sickly hospital green. They are called ‘Khrushchyovka хрущёвка’ and were constructed from pre-fab’d concrete, mostly trucked out of Moscow. Usually only built up to five stories (this way they didn’t require elevators), they were only intended to stand for twenty-five years or so. They are carbon copied throughout the city, each with seven foot high numbers at the top of each, denoting their address.

The other part… well about those streets with no names, it’s true, there are no names! Even

Mingling of new and past culture along with a few Ladas

Mingling of new and past cultures, with a few white Ladas

the busy street I live on which runs close to the Caspian Sea, doesn’t have a name. I suppose you would say it’s the busy street where the modern hotel is. People here would know and if they didn’t, you would tell them it’s in Microdistrict 9… that’s it. The city is divided into these districts, as was Soviet style. One’s address is a series of numbers; the Microdistrict, building number and apartment number. Structured, simple, no nonsense. What I have noticed is that these areas seem to be neighbourly, often with ‘hole in the wall’ corner stores and colourful playgrounds. Children play in the fading warmth of autumn. Grandparents watch from nearby benches as they chat. And so I walk past their endless rows, intrigued with these homely homes, though I’m not quite sure why… not yet.

The seafront

My solace is the sea. Twice a week I walk and chat with a lively group of expat ladies. We meet at various points along the seafront, some with precious cargos in tow, (toddlers or wee dogs), though most of us are here alone. Accompanying our ‘oil and gas’ husbands, we have nothing but ourselves and time. Many of us are at the stage where adult children are scattered around the world. We speak of them and miss them, of course. But there’s a sense of wanderlust as we recall countries we’ve lived in, adventures remembered and those that are being planned. I’m reminded that living in any new country is always about the people. I’ve been welcomed into the expat group with open arms, lunches, seaside walks and apparently a crazy night of Karaoke is on the cards. No, I can’t sing, but one must be respectful of the local ‘culture’ so I’ll have to be dragged along! If you’re lucky in a new ‘posting’, you meet that one person you just kind of click with… that ought to be here the same time you are.

Molly is also new to the country and as Bruce and I waited for the hotel elevator that first day, she was exiting it. I was an exhausted mess, but I do remember her saying “I’m so glad you’re here now!” I don’t think that’s how I felt, but it was nice to hear. Within days, Molly strolled from her end of the corridor to mine for tea. Admittedly, a farewell one as she and her husband were off to an apartment. There went my new friend and neighbour with her red bucket, rubber gloves and a suitcase. I went back into my suite to ponder if we should also consider an apartment, an option open to us. Our hotel suite suite had been cleaned, our laundry just delivered and I haven’t thought much about it since. Well, maybe once or twice as I shuffle my microwave off my tiny counter to make way for my ‘stove’. Admittedly this isn’t for everyone, being confined to a small space. Let’s see if that view of the sea and ease of life keeps us here.

A breezy Wednesday morning walk

But what is it like, life in a hotel? Well it’s a delightful revolving door. From the people that work here, to the visitors, to those that call it home. The world seems to come into ‘my’ lounge and I love it. Also wonderful are the local Kazaks and Russians, eager to befriend you. I hope to meet with one of them this week as she’d love to tell me more about life here. For that and for friendship, I’m thankful.

A fisherman and a wedding shoot

Of course, there are a multitude of questions I have that in time will hopefully be revealed. To begin with there’s the food, fodder for it’s own entire blog entry. Not to mention the cultural differences, history and the language. My Russian lessons begin soon and admittedly, I’m frightened to death. Firstly, there’s that pesky ‘other’ alphabet to contend with (it’s called cyrillic.) I’ve left other countries not having made an effort with the language and I’m determined to not repeat this. Most people in the traditional shops don’t speak English. Nada, nothing, so it’s rather important. My first word… спасибо, sounds like spasiba… it means thank you. If I’m in the room about 4 pm, our laundry is delivered by a friendly lady named Amanguel. She comes in, hangs up the pressed shirts, plunks down the rest, and proceeds to chat. We point and motion, a game of charades which often ends in her grabbing a pen to illustrate her point. She smiles freely through her front gold-capped teeth, her jet black hair pulled back in a bun. We like each other, even though we can’t communicate.

A piece of Kiev cake and a stab at Russian

And so, this new adventure is just that, an adventure. I’m enjoying that guy beside me again after mostly living apart the last year. We’re suddenly in a suite together with no housework, laundry, chores, weeds to pull, or kids to cook for? It’s pretty darn brilliant actually, the time is ours. As Bruce has always said, ‘Terry Anne, I haven’t experienced it unless you’ve been there to share it with me.” So now I’m here and we’ll see how I manage. It should be alright, unless those walls start to close in, that Siberian wind blows me away or I never get past спасибо!

Late night Limoncella with Molly

In the meantime, Molly and myself are planning a trip with our guys, into the countryside to photograph those odd looking camels, just for starters. She’s a photo journalist, another reason we seem to get along just fine. For me, our friendship was pretty much sealed when I boarded the company bus recently. I really feel like a school child as we’re not permitted to drive here, I miss my Aspen! Once seated, Molly pulled a small vial out of her bag and slipped it into my palm. “Some lavender oil for you, I know yours broke on the way here. Have some of mine.” And that about sums it up. You can weather just about anything if you have friends at your side, a deep blue sea to gaze upon and a trip into the unknown to look forward to!