The dreaded winter is here. Work is more or less at a standstill. At times like this, Gabor & I find ourselves revisiting our not-so-distant trysts with the tropics and dreams of calling balmy sunny skies our home.
Idle thinking? I think not, afterall we did spend a good part of our time together trying to rectify our climatic woes. Pre SargaHaz, Gabor & I set out to scout homes under the tropical sun but as fate would have it, we ended up as you well know, right in his back yard, back to square one, to Hungary.
But not before we notched a few adventures on that proverbial belt called life. 1853 is the story of one such bizarre quest.
A better part of the year 2008 saw us in Goa. We’d spent a couple months scouting the smallest state in India, the birth place of Goa Trance (horrid noise mis classified as music - but this is a matter of opinion) renowned for its beaches, its wildlife – and I’m not just talking the kind that inhabit its nature reserves and jungles etceteras.
On one of our Vespa rides across this coastal state, we chanced upon a really beautiful property. This old Portuguese house was colossal in size. A small hidden entry led you to an ill-kept front yard, then this monument of a house and a backyard big enough to house a few Jurassic wonders if one so desired.
While the facade of the house was in disrepair, both Gabor and I were awestruck by its proportions and all the subtle architectural details, the solid woodwork and beautiful old painted tiles that have borne the brunt of nature . It was love at first sight.
We spent the better part of an hour trespassing and building castles in the air – we’d convert it into a guest house, the rooms would be huge and spacious – as old houses usually are, the furnishings would be old Malabar ( a personal favourite), a huge ballroom/dining area on the ground floor, the backyard and front yard would be fragrant with frangipani – another personal favourite, palm trees would border the land, blah blah blah.
We decided to knock the door, not expecting a response but still tempting fate. To our surprise, a voice answered our insistent summons. The guy who opened the door was, well, strange-looking. His appearance was that of a man who has not been on good terms with the bath and his clothes had that waxy homeless people clothing patina. His fingers were nicotine stained and his soda-bottle lens spectacles were cracked in a few places.
Nevertheless we ploughed ahead, told him - lets call him 1853 (this house was built in C.1853) of our chance road stop and spotting this beautiful old house. Would he be so kind as to show us his house? (the dashed audacity of strangers I tell you!) 1853 gave us a glorious smile and embarked on a history lesson of the estate - who built the house, the several years it was in his family, its hay days, how he is the only one who resides here now. All this while I am stealing glimpses of what lies beyond the front door and what little I saw was just incredible – beautiful old teak furniture, a continuation of those painted tiles, peeling paint that did more to add character and atmosphere and a sweeping staircase leading to the floor above. Magic!
1853 and Gabor were having a real conversation while I was distracted with thoughts of what this house must have been like in its full glory, the people it must have housed, the guests it must have welcomed, the celebrations it must have hosted, the walls that must have resonated with mirth and laughter - totally overboard.
Back to earth I heard 1853 say:
1853 – And now they put a chip in my ear and are spying on my work with the Indian Government
Gabor – (uncomprehending and moving a step closer to hear 1853 better) hmm?
Rohini – (OMG! A Loony!! Why is Gabor not making his excuses and backing out) I’m terribly sorry about that, but why don’t you speak with a doctor and get the chip out? (ok am totally humoring this potential dangerous fellow here)
1853 – The Indian Govt is using my ear to spread disinformation to the CIA. They refuse to operate on my ear. I can hear them all the time. Did they send you?
Rohini – Not at all, we really were just passing by. I am so sorry for all your trouble. Would you like us to get you a doctor?
Gabor – (what is Ro going on about a doctor!)hmm
Rohini - Oh it’s getting late, we have to leave now. Thank you so much for your time. (grasping Gabor’s hand here and taking steps backwards)
1853 – If you can lay your hands on that book I wrote with Einstein on nuclear physics, do so.
Rohini - I’ll be sure to check it at the library. Ciao.
Gabor & I leave, kick-start the Vespa and are on our way. I question Gabor about why he did not make a move earlier – to which he answered that he had misheard the dude and thought that 1853 was deaf and talking about some hearing aid! Finally the CIA bit caught up with him and realization dawned, but only partially.
On the journey back we both debated dressing up as a doctor and nurse, visiting 1853, “performing a surgery” and removing a chip from his ear – a cell phone chip masquerading as “THE” ultimate in spy tools. Perhaps it would help?
We didn’t return, no chips were removed, 1853 we hope is alive and kicking and over his mania, and the house probably still stands proud. Another missed opportunity, another experience added to the colorful kaleidoscope of life.
Amen!
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What was that about a picture being worth a thousand words?? I rest my case. Here are glimpses of the object of our affection/affliction. Bon voyage!
Sarga Haz – Our personal DIY heaven
Our whimsical vines and views
Our backyard prairie paradise
The jungle book re-invented
Eye Candy!
Anyone who grew up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie and her Ms.Marple character is well acquainted with the fact that life in St.Mary Mead is not as idyllic as it seems. Village folk are far from the “salt of the earth” stereotype. One has to only scratch the surface to find out what lies beneath.
Gabor & I have had our first brush with the what lies beneath bit, and though nothing remotely as sinister as what Ms.Marple brought to light, in fact, no mysterious body parts popping up in fields and fireplaces, we have a story to relate.
There is a well on our land. We are delighted by its presence because it means that there is a possibility that the underground source of water can be re-tapped (the well was in disuse these past years) which in turn means that we would have an unlimited and clean source of water.
Advertised on one of these message boards in the supermarket were the services of a well cleaner – X. Gabor gave X a ring and he showed up and explained to us exactly what cleaning the well would entail.
X would drain the water present in the well – about 2m (6ft)deep water in our 20m (65ft) deep well. He would then clean out the grime so the water could come to surface more easily. They agreed upon a price, shook hands and that was that.
The following day, X showed up with his partner Y, they erected what I can only best describe as a teepee frame over the well, attached a pulley and siphoned the water out of the well with a pipe. It was an incredibly cold morning, so while X and Y waited for the water to drain out, Gabor & I returned home, brewed some tea, packed some poppy seed cake that Gabor had baked earlier in the day, and parceled some 2 dozen kiwi fruit for the men to take home – we wanted them to know that we appreciated their services on a cold day such as this.
Minutes later, Gabor returned to Sarga Haz, goodies in hand, and saw the guys all packed up, pulley & poles included. Nonplussed he asks X what was the matter. X gives him a grand smile and tells him that his work here is done - the water is drained, and unfortunately, the well source is dry. If Gabor wants X to go in and investigate, he needs to pay him roughly $1000, – that is $900 more than the price we had agreed on for the very same task at hand.
So basically X neatly repackaged the “cleaning the grime for $100″ to ” investigating a new water source for $1000″ all in the same location, the so-called “dry” well.
We knew that X’s claim of the water source being dry was bogus. Just that week we had met some neighbours who told us that the water source beneath our well was alive and kicking, and the water so pure that we could even use it for drinking and cooking. And all the well needed was a little cleaning at the bottom to get rid of the silt that had built up over the years.
Now Gabor is a relatively patient fellow, kind-hearted even. But not one to suffer fools or be taken for a fool at that. Anyone trying to pull the wool over his eyes be warned! When he sees red, he SEES RED! The images I am left with, in the war that ensued, is that of Gabor brandishing the flask containing the tea, very battle-axe like, chasing these gentlemen off our land.
Its been a few days, and I’ll admit it, I’ve done a fair share of worrying about the well source having indeed dried up and us having been unduly harsh, but a visit the day before to the well showed water in it and my doubts are laid to rest.
City Slickers v/s Country Tricksters 1-0
The thing about being marooned on a hilltop in the middle of nowhere is that one has plenty of quiet wintery afternoons such as these to ruminate over the past. A nice cuppa tea close at hand, the subject of my meandering mind was La Habana and a chance encounter that altered the course of my life forever.
My youth had been coloured with the distant rhythms of Afro-Carribean music - soulful rumba, son and salsa. Also intrigued as I had been, by the practise of Santeria – an amalgamation of “pagan” religious practises combined with Catholic right and ritual – I just had to visit the fascinating Cuba and see things for myself.
I did all of that, explored Havana, its hidden alleys, Malecon, moved in exotic circles filled with dancers, artists, poets and prostitutes alike. Oh I am such a shameless show-off but if reading this gets you to call your neighbourhood travel agent and book a ticket to this land of paradoxes, then my work here is done.
Returning to my thoughts, what I didn’t bargain for, was bumping into a Hungarian fellow with what can only be best described as a wierd stylised Hare Krishna Hairdo. And falling in love. And now spending a lifetime together – sans the wierd hairdo of course.
And to think that neither Gabor or I were supposed to make it to Cuba when we did. Our paths would have never crossed had he not impulsively decided to give Cuba a go, nor I – a pre-planned trip to Costa Rica fell through, freeing up more time for me to spend in Cuba. Fancy that!
So, today sees me picking Kiwi fruit with him by my side, the cold freezing our fingers as we snip the fruit off its spindly branches but our hearts full of glee and gusto realising that our lovely home is probably one of a kind in Bacs Hegy, if not the entire Hungary, that boasts of a Kiwi fruit tree and that too in full bloom!
Miracles are here at hand and ripe for the picking!
We’ve inherited walnut trees on the hill, and nut bearing ones at that, or would that be fruit bearing? Among these trees, there are two that are my pride and joy, simply because their trunks are covered with these beautiful green leafy climbers that just make the tree come alive! I’ve been showing off said trees to all sundry, leafy bits and all, when finally I was told, by a very reliable source, that there is nothing symbiotic about these climbers, beautiful as they may be. These leafy climbers are parasites, and are strangling my trees as we speak.
So, Gabor & I have spent an afternoon, hacking at these climbers, freeing our walnut trees from captivity. Talk about a wolf in sheep’s clothing!
The books have arrived! Three in all – and I’ve spent quite a few hours burrowed under the duvet, reading all about composting, south-facing walls, crop rotating, and my favourite buzzword - micro climates. I now feel adequately equipped/armed to tackle my grandiose plans of planting a vegetable garden and learning more about how to care for the vines.
Armchair gardening – a fool’s paradise you say!
Ah but you see, this is not to be the extent of my re-education. The girl has a major hidden asset – FAMILY! Gabor’s parents are both incredible gardeners/viticulturalists and the produce from their family orchard and vineyard is the stuff legends are made of. For real. A sampling of their vintage (Riesling) is proof enough – the perfect tease for ones taste buds. Paradise in a glass.
And the kitchen garden – lets just say that Gabor and I have been greedily feasting on its flavourful and varied bounty all summer long. And now that winter is here, our systems are in for a rude shock. But we shall have to brave our supermarket syndrome come what may. Sigh!
At the other end of the spectrum are my parents – mom is an avid gardener herself, and probably the only gifted green thumbs in the entire Berry Family – growing up, it was my job to water the plants, and some of the best times I’ve shared with my mom, apart from those in the kitchen, are potting and transplanting blossoming bits. My father makes up for his lack of gardening skill in unfailing enthusiasm and encouragement and this my friends shall see us through many a rainy day.
So you see, armed with horticultural stalwarts such as these, a girl is sure to survive the nitty-gritty of all things xylem and phloem. Ploughing ahead………… one day at a time.
J is our neighbour from across the road. Everyday, at the crack of dawn, he bicycles to the hill from his home in the village down in the valley and tends to his grapes. He digs channels, he weeds the rows, he gathers the autumn leaves in neat piles he probably even instructs his vines to grow in perfect symphony. Picture perfect!
Now that we are well on our way to clearing the brambles from our driveway and the surrounding border, we have a clear view of his property, not even a stem out of place! As my father-in-law succinctly puts it – on days that Gabor and I may feel that our work here is done, one look across the street and ample motivation enough to get on with our eye-sore.
Like I say, Neighbour’s envy, owner’s pride!
Gabor visited our neighbour E last evening. Over a few glasses of wine from E’s cellar, the men got talking and E related some tales about Sarga Haz and its previous owners – twice removed. Here’s one about the cherry tree.
Near the enterance to Sarga Haz, stands a grand old cherry tree. Planted eons ago by I don’t know who, fate dealt this sapling a terrible hand. The family that planted the cherry tree had a few squabbling members. One such member, a crotchety old man, and a spiteful one at that, in a fit of rage, dumped 20 litres of foul-smelling, inky black industrial oil (yes the information E related to us is that exacting) on this cherry tree – then a mere sapling. Clearly the dude did not have access to our shrink infested anger-management savvy world.
Needless to say, I can’t imagine how a plant survived this gross mis-conduct, but its survival is testimony to its triumph over this man’s hatred and misguided rage. Seasons changed. People came and went, the property switched hands a couple times over, all while this tree stood unwavering and stoic. Rooted in it are countless memories of all things past. I for one am waiting to climb its branches, sample its sweet fruit and savour its wisdom come cherry season.
Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are. Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha
We had our house looked at by a mason. A very capable mason at that. He knocked on walls, took giant size steps to estimate the carpet area, nodded thoughtfully at the crumbling termite infested woodwork, and then decided to inspect the land surrounding the house, to view the water damaged walls from the outside so as to speak.
Did I tell you about the pampas style, chest high (if you are a 5ft 4″ midget like me) grass that has usurped the land on one side of the house? Turns out, she holds a few secrets of her own! Like a deer who was catching up with his nine winks while HJ our mason was wandering around, romping about in said grasslands. I don’t know who was startled more by the intrusion, the deer, HJ or Gabor & I.
The deer, rudely awakened barely gathers his wits, starts thrashing around wildly in the grass, and gets his antlers caught helplessly in the thorny undergrowth. HJ is now wildly gesticulating in our direction, and Gabor and I look horrified by the minute. HJ holds on to the antlers of the deer – who by now has now given a whole new twist to the “Deer caught in headlights” bit.
Now there is some high-pitched verbal back and forth between Gabor & HJ, in Hungarian – none of which I comprehend – my linguistic skill level is at best elementary. Oof! Why are the men gesticulating while there is a deer to set free!
I heatedly urge Gabor to join HJ in helping to free the deer – and Gabor enlightens me “Ro, HJ wants me to hold on to the deer while he slits his neck, then drag it back to his pick-up so that he can tie him up and take him home and make a feast out of him come grape harvest time – this weekend for HJ. Comprende Vu???
So now you have me, appealing, in what is surely gibberish for a non-english speaking, pocket knife brandishing, deer antler holding HJ, while Gabor, my brave protector and do-gooder, rushes up to the deer, grabs the antlers away from HJ’s grasp and helps set him free!
Methinks we just saved a life! Needless to say, HJ was sorely disappointed by what to him seems to have been a colossal waste of good wild deer dining. (Grrrr these namby-pamby City folk!!)
A message to the deer, whom I’d like to picture, happily grazing about in the grassland, Bon Appetite!
I’ve spent an afternoon uprooting weeds. Daunting! How is a city girl supposed to know if what she is systematically plucking, chopping, snipping are indeed weeds or some rare plant sub species that carries the secret of everlasting health or some miracle hair-growth tonic! All that religious downloading and viewing of the fantastic David Attenborough’s “life of plants” series rendered useless. By the way, am I the only one who thinks that his voice has that sonorous lull me to a deep restful sleep quality? I think not!
