Читать книгу Moon Over the Mediterranean - G J Maher - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

The wind had come up early and the ship gently rode the small swell out of the harbour. Alexander could see fishing boats dotted all over the place, men busily pulling in nets with little mechanical assistance. The smaller fishing boats bobbed around quite boisterously on the increased off-shore swell.

Alexander chose a bench out of the wind and sat to continue his book, peering up one last time to view the port as the ship rounded the southern headland and the town dropped out of sight.

Even though it was nearing the middle of summer, the ship was by no means crowded. Alexander settled down to read until they were nearing Paros, a journey of just a few hours. He read and read, excitedly turning page after page soon realising the similarity between Goldmund and himself. He wondered if this was the reason Polychroni had given him this particular book but thought it more likely that the reason was that it was simply a very good read. He started to wonder what all the other books he’d been given were about and was looking forward to each with anticipation.

By early afternoon the island of Paros was coming into view. Waves crashed on the tiny rocky outcrops off the harbour entrance and the Meltemi winds blew the spray far into the air. As the ship rounded the northern point, Alexander noticed a beautiful little whitewashed church and the ruins of a building nearby. I’d like to make that my first sketch here, he thought to himself.

Within minutes the ship had blown its horn, dropped anchor and was reversing into the dock. He packed away his book, and headed down to disembark. Again a group of locals greeted the passengers with handwritten signs advertising their hotels and rooms. This time however Alexander decided to search for a place without assistance. He wanted to be right overlooking the water this time and ended up choosing a quaint little room upstairs from a café and a stone’s throw from the water. He had to share the bathroom with the other guests but his room was just perfect. From the pillow of his bed he could see the harbour entrance and the pretty little church that he planned as his first sketch. Paros, he considered on his first afternoon on the island, was even more beautiful than Tinos.

His first few days on the island were filled with discovery. He did take his Hesse book with him, but spent more time learning about the history of the island, of the Crusades and the Ottoman era, of the high-quality Parian marble said to have been used in the construction of the Venus de Milo. Whilst wandering around Parikea on his first afternoon, he found the church of a hundred doors, Panagia Ekatontapiliani, parts of which are 1,600 years old and just like the church on Tinos, Panagia Evangelistria, he felt compelled to enter and explore. He was beginning to realise how resplendent all these major churches in Greece were.

Later that afternoon he put in a call to his mother back in Holland. He’d promised to call her regularly and thought that once a month was sufficient. He told her all the news: where he’d been, where he was planning to go next, even what he was reading. She told him that all the family was fine and each and every one of them was missing him. He promised to call again in a few weeks but in the meantime if she wanted to send a written message to Poste Restante Santorini, he’d be happy to receive it.

On his second day he set off around the harbour to the tiny church he’d noticed from the ship. Sketch-pad, pencils and charcoal in his day pack, he walked around the waterfront, over hills and along beaches to his destination just over an hour’s walking distance. Seated in the shade of a tree he sketched in great detail the tiny whitewashed church. Birds visited him, boats passed by and the wind remained a constant gentle breeze. When he finished, he was very happy with the result.

Returning by the same route, he plunged into the waters of the harbour again and again. By the time he got back to Parikea, he was quite thirsty. I mustn’t forget to take my water bottle next time, he thought. He chose to sit at a café prominently positioned next to the wharf. With so many locals enjoying their Greek coffee and conversation, the ‘Harbour Café’ seemed the place to be. Several octopuses hung on the awning railing in the afternoon sun, a sight that Alexander was soon to get used to. When the waiter arrived he ordered a Greek coffee and took out his book. He stayed there an hour or so reading and ordering a second coffee.

Parikea seemed considerably busier than Tinos had been. A nearby taxi rank with battered old Russian and Australian cars offered trips to locations that the few buses didn’t get to. Alexander took note of the possible destinations as buses came and went. He wanted to explore further afield the next day.

When tomorrow came he chose the bus to Naoussa, a small fishing village on the north side of the island. The journey was only about half an hour but the rickety old bus rumbled and shook the whole trip. On arrival he was greeted by an extremely quiet town square surrounded by tiny shops and cafés. As there were a few trees offering shade, he chose to sit and read. Ordering an apple juice he took out his book and continued on from where he had left off earlier.

When the waitress returned with his drink he noticed a beautiful young lady sitting several tables away. How gorgeous, he thought to himself. I wonder if she’ll look in my direction. He was really taken by her beauty. Brilliantly blonde hair, adorable skin slightly sunburned, strikingly deep blue eyes and cute farmer’s overalls. Just then she got up and walked off. Alexander felt compelled to follow her. A bicycle parked nearby leaning against one of the trees beckoned him. He looked around for the owner and, when he found him, offered a single finger indicating a one minute loan, and called efharisto as he rode off. Just outside the town limits he caught up with her.

‘Hello,’ he began. ‘Are you on holiday?’

‘Yes, I am,’ she replied with a fascinating accent.

‘Where are you from?’

‘From Bavaria.’

‘Have you been on Paros long?’

‘Just over a month,’ she replied with a hint of annoyance.

‘Could we meet later for a drink?’

‘Yes, if you want,’ she replied rather unenthusiastically.

‘Are you staying in Parikea?’

‘Yes, near the windmill at the end of the harbour.’

‘Okay, I’ll find you I’m sure. Bye.’

As he rode off, he was horrified at how stupid he must have sounded. Back at the café he found it difficult to read. His mind was almost entirely on the young lady. I didn’t even ask her name, he realised. I hope I find her later.

He spent the day exploring Naoussa and the surrounding countryside. I could live here, he thought to himself. At the end of the day he caught the bus back to the other side of the island and immediately began searching for the pretty lady. He hung around the windmill with his book pretending to read. Then he had dinner at a restaurant close by in the hope that she would walk past. He waited hours but he didn’t catch sight of her. Hours after the sun had set and after several attempts walking the streets near the windmill to no avail, he decided to call it a night. Feeling quite despondent, he walked back slowly to this room.

In bed with a half-moon shining upon the harbour waters, he couldn’t sleep. He lay awake thinking of her, what her likes and dislikes might be, what music she might like, what books she might read, or if she liked books at all.

The next day, after a difficult night of little sleep, Alexander chose to again start the day with a swim. On the way down to the beach, he saw somebody who resembled the blonde lady from the day before, softly playing a guitar sitting in the sand. Sure enough as he got closer he discovered it was her.

‘Hi,’ he called excitedly as he approached.

‘Hello,’ she replied.

‘Can I sit with you?’

‘Of course, but can you sing?’

‘No,’ Alexander replied cautiously. ‘Don’t let me interrupt you though.’

She continued to play and sing, and Alexander with his limited knowledge of music, guessed the piece to be Bob Dylan’s How Many Roads.

‘That was beautiful,’ he said when she finished.

‘Thanks, it’s a pity you don’t sing or play also. Would you like to go in the water?’

‘First I’d like to know your name.’

‘It’s Barbara.’

‘And I’m Alexander.’

‘Come on, let’s swim Alexander.’

This was something quite new for him. Alexander had never been swimming with a girl before, apart from his younger sisters but not a girl like this. He’d also never been on a beach with a girl playing guitar before. As they swam together, he felt quite excited.

They spent the day together, talking, playing music, swimming more. Barbara even got him to sing with her. After dinner that evening he invited her back to his room. They talked for hours, sitting on his bed and later they made love into the early hours, passionate and intense.

The following day was all music and conversation. Barbara played the most delicate and sublime music. The guitar she used was on loan from another traveller, and not a very good guitar at that.

‘You must be astonishing on a decent guitar,’ he told her.

‘Thank you, I play a lot. Music is extremely important to me. I love to play. My father taught me that music is an international language. Even the word music, musik, musique says this. Music travels in many forms he says … it is the soft subtle notes of a mandolin, the voice of a young child, the wind in the trees and so many other things.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. I don’t play any instrument but I’d love to. Perhaps in my travels I’ll discover an instrument that I’d like to learn to play.’

Alexander remained on Paros for some weeks spending most of his time with Barbara. After he finished Hesse’s Narcissus and Goldmund, he took a rest from reading. Instead while Barbara played guitar he sketched. Sometimes with pencils, other times with crayon and charcoal he would sketch Barbara’s hands as they played the instrument, her exquisite face as she constructed a musical piece, the faces of other people who walked by, animals in the fields, donkeys in particular. He sketched more churches, fences—the stone ones which separated the fields—and he sketched flowers and herbs. He drew fishing boats, their nets and paraphernalia in great detail, all the while enjoying the special music offered by Barbara. His favourite sketches though were of her.

They became close during these weeks. He presented his new love with a drawing nearly every day. She was appreciative and brought him flowers and ouzo. Having been on the island much longer than he had, she knew where to get the best brew. Next door and downstairs from the post office, there was a tiny Ouzo and Raki shop. The owner made it himself at his home not far out of town. It was by far the best ouzo around.

They made love nearly every day. He asked her to travel with him, but she refused. He tried to persuade her continually, but she stood her ground.

‘I must return to Germany,’ she would say. ‘I need to study music and to make it my life.’

He could see that the two of them would be able to get closer given the chance, but every time he raised the question of travelling together, she said no.

Before summer was over they parted company, Barbara returning to Germany as planned and Alexander sailing off to Santorini. For days after they went their separate ways, Alexander was devastated. He had hoped she would join him even if only for a short time. But it was not to be. They didn’t even exchange addresses, not that Alexander had one, but she would have, and he’d neglected to ask.

On Santorini Alexander continued his exploration admiring the steep cliffs of the main town, the island’s volcanic history and the picture postcard architecture. After a few days of being morose he shook himself out of his misery and started getting back to his normal self. He had toyed with the idea of starting to read Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet, mainly because it was a smaller book than the others Polychroni had given him, so he settled down one afternoon and began to read it. He didn’t really get into this one, but he knew it must have some importance so he battled on. Perhaps his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts often returned to the times he’d had with Barbara, but in time, he thought of her less often. One day he remembered that he had told his mother weeks before to write to him here. He immediately ran over to the post office where sure enough there were two letters from her waiting for him.

He opened them excitedly and read all the news of the family, the ups and downs, the increased summer trade of both family businesses, his sisters’ exam results, all sorts of interesting stuff. He was overjoyed to have received the letters and immediately went back inside the post office to call home.

His mother reminded him that he’d said he’d phone more often. ‘Yes I’m sorry, I will,’ he promised.

‘Where are you going to next, darling?’ his mother inquired.

‘No idea Mum,’ he lied. He didn’t think she could cope with knowing he was off to India, best to leave that news until he arrived there.

A few days later that’s where he was heading, leaving Santorini on another ship, back to Athens to arrange a visa and off to New Delhi before the end of the week. While in Athens he visited the Acropolis and of course the Parthenon, drank ouzo in Syntagma Square each afternoon and was sad that he was leaving when he eventually boarded the plane to India. He had absolutely adored the Greek islands and he thought the mainland was pretty good too. His best memory though was of his time with Barbara.

India became a true eye-opener immediately. Everything was so different from what he had grown to know in Europe. Landing in New Delhi at midnight provided Alexander with various challenges. He was still only 19 and the lack of organisation, the dirt, the way the people spoke English and the fact that it was midnight confronted a tired Alexander tremendously.

Luckily another traveller offered to share a taxi with him. The man knew exactly where he was going and told Alexander that there were hotels of all description and price range within a minute or two walk of where he himself was planning to stay. They travelled together to the centre of town and sure enough Alexander found an appropriate hotel right across the road for 20 rupees a night. He fell into bed enormously tired and slept for ten straight hours.

It was even hotter than the Greek islands when he climbed out of bed next morning. Without air-conditioning his room was almost unbearable. He ventured out into the foyer and asked the man at the front desk where he would suggest a good place to eat. The man suggested a restaurant on the next block, so Alexander sauntered off in the direction he was told. It was a good choice, but sitting there beside the road with the hustle and bustle of New Delhi and the incessant horn blowing, the scene began to drive him crazy. So this is the land that the great Mahatma Gandhi called home, he thought, a little unimpressed. It was hot, humid, noisy and dusty. After the cleanliness of the Greek islands, it also seemed very dirty.

It wasn’t long though before he fell in love with the place. He regularly took out his sketch-pad and drew what he saw. At first it was the architecture that beckoned him to put pencil to paper, but in the months that followed he drew all sorts of things: men pulling rickshaws, women in colourful saris, the sacred cows in unexpected places and close-up details of the striking faces of the inhabitants of this enchanting country. He was expanding his repertoire enormously.

Alexander spent the next year in India. He turned 20 in Pondicherry and was there at the birth of Auroville in February of that year when 5,000 people descended on the area from 124 countries with the dream of creating a new consciousness and a place to call home, free of government, crime and even money … a different world indeed from that which the British had wanted to create in India, a little Victorian world in a foreign land where they subjugated the people.

By this time he’d read all the books which Polychroni had given him and at Auroville passed the remaining ones on to other people, sometimes swapping them for other extraordinarily good reads. To have read the works of authors like Hermann Hesse, Krishnamurti, Khalil Gibran, Plato, George Orwell, Dante Alighieri and Aldous Huxley in locations like the Greek Islands and India was extraordinary in itself, but to have done so at age 19 and 20 was remarkable.

In Pondicherry he read extensively. He became immersed in Indian culture, reading up on the life of Mahatma Ghandi, Jawaharlal Nehru, Dr Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan and others. Everyone knew of the works and life of Ghandi and Nehru, but few knew of the outstanding contributions to philosophical thought presented to the world by Radhakrishnan. So respected and revered was he, that the renowned English scholar H.N. Spalding insisted after attending lectures by Radhakrishnan that he initiate a chair at Oxford University in honour of Eastern Religions and Ethics. But these three great thinkers were not the only ones Alexander studied. Swami Vivekananda had written: ‘We are what our thoughts have made us; so take care about what you think. Words are secondary; they travel far.’ Nagarjuna, whom he also read carefully, was considered to be the most influential Buddhist after Gautama Buddha himself. There was also Sri Aurobindo who lived and died in Pondicherry where he developed a method of spiritual practice called Integral Yoga. Alexander devoured books at an astonishing rate.

He spent months in the region and fell in love with the French colonial architecture. He spent long hours discussing complicated subjects with people from many countries and diverse backgrounds. He studied yoga and meditation in several locations throughout India and when he went across the border into Nepal for a short time, dabbled in mysticism and Buddhism. He’d grown his hair long and started smoking lots of ganja with other like-minded people. Returning to India, their music became another potent ingredient in his existence. The sitar was his favourite, but the unusual sounds of the snake charmer’s pungi, the bansuri and the pulluvan pattu were all exotic instruments that captivated Alexander especially when under the influence of drugs, which in time, got a bit of a hold on him.

He took journeys to the south of Tamil Nadu to Kerala and further to Goa on the west coast, always open to conversation and continually finding places of solitude where he could meditate, which of course in India would be hard for some, but not for him.

One evening in Goa, a town known for its alternative folk and alternative ways, he was offered LSD, but it was the only time he went that far. Being chased by the trees of the forest on his way home was too much for him to endure. It took days before he returned to reality. Ganja was a peaceful drug, hashish too, both relaxing and certainly mind-expanding enough for him.

In most of the towns and cities he visited on this second journey through India, he practised yoga and as time went on smoked less and less, reserving this indulgence for special times only, not every day as it was fast becoming.

By now he had met literally hundreds of people, many of them absolutely fascinating, some of them quite unique. He’d discussed subjects that were as intriguing to him as they were to the people with whom he spoke, subjects that were often diverse. He surprised even himself sometimes with the words that came out of his mouth. With each book he read and with each conversation he had, he was gaining wisdom.

There were times when the talks were nothing more than that, just talks, but occasionally, as time went on, they became a lot more.

Only on rare occasions did he call home these days. He drifted further and further from his roots. When he did call, his parents voiced their disappointment in him. But this did not concern him. He simply wanted to learn as much as possible in his travels and a connection with back home thwarted that.

Reading good books, meeting fascinating people, visiting exotic locations and keeping his eyes, ears and mind open at all times were his main priorities. And he was succeeding in his aim. He remembered his favourite quote from Mahatma Gandhi: ‘You must be the change you wish to see in the world’. He felt that the changes going on inside him, the absolute catharsis he was experiencing were evidence of him being that change.

It was now 1969 and man had just set foot on the moon. The world was changing for the whole human race. Alexander had travelled extensively through India on two occasions, before and after his time in Nepal. Now he felt it was time to move on. He was in Jaipur and had made the decision to travel to Kashmir, after having talked with other travellers who had come from there. To get there though he would have to catch a bus to New Delhi, then on to Islamabad, the recently constructed capital of Pakistan and finally across the border to Srinagar, referred to as the Venice of the East. He was excited to get to his destination but not for the journey getting there.

The various bus journeys and border crossings were a real pain. By the time he reached Islamabad, Alexander could go no further without rest, so he booked into a hotel which he named Cockroach Inn. They were everywhere, even in the bed. Needless to say he didn’t get the sleep he wanted, and mid-way through the night he just had to do something. He took all the sheets off, shook them violently and got a foul smelling mosquito coil from the man at reception, although a reception it was not, and a mozzie coil it was also not. In between waking and thinking that the hotel was on fire and a bit of restless sleep, the hours passed until the muezzin called the worshippers to prayer at the ungodly hour of 4.30 am. Alexander woke with a start, cursed the incessant howling, but was so tired that he thankfully fell back to sleep within minutes … at last a deep restful sleep.