Another Sunrise

This morning saw a light frost, miniature ice shardlets glistening in the first rays of sunlight. I closed the door behind me, leaving a flower shadow painted on the wall by the morning light.
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Under a keen, blue sky, I passed cropped fields of sandy coloured stubble with their scatterings of hay bales, punctuated by deepening reds and rusts of the changing leaves. A Scottish autumn at its very best.
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It was not like this ten years ago today. I was half a world away, if not a whole world. It was the end of a long and especially heavy monsoon and the Yangon I left behind was lush as the late afternoon flight lifted into the sky. An hour later, the sun was glowing red as it rested on the Bangkok horizon, pausing before it slipped out of view. Silently marking the end of another day, and another era.

It was late that evening when I heard the words that were to take life in an unexpected and unwanted direction. “This is highly suspicious of cancer” Dr W gently told me.

Ten years ago, this very day. Those words have echoed in my ears ever since.

There have been numerous sunsets and sunrises since that day, each one different and each one heralding an unknown day or night ahead. Some cloudier days when the sun has been hidden, and some bright skies like this morning when the sunlight throws promise and optimism on the coming day. This chimes somewhat with the path that life has taken since, and of course, before then. Some sunnier, promising sunrises and gentle, rosy sunsets. Other days, a stormy sky, hiding the sun or gloomy, troubled clouds shaping the mood of the day ahead and the challenges and surprises that arrive in our path.

On this significant Landmark Day, I am thankful to be here, and thankful to see the sun rise and set on an ordinary, extraordinary day.

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Blissfully unaware

The other morning, I was smiling at a Facebook memory of my early days in Myanmar as a post from years ago flashed on the screen in front of me. I had apparently been preparing to travel to the field, smugly noting that Grandmother’s suitcase was lying in the corner recovering from a field trip less than ten days earlier.

“poised to pack again – grandmother’s suitcase is, as, yet, blissfully unaware” I had announced to the world.

Wondering idly when that had been, I checked the date. My heart stopped, I had written this on 4 September 2009. The irony hit me hard. Only 19 days later, life had changed dramatically.

Checking back on my diary, I could see that I had left Yangon early on the Monday morning, 7 September. Grandmother’s suitcase and I had left home before dawn, with two of my colleagues to head to the airport for our flight to Mandalay. The flight had been smooth, and I had noted that I was becoming familiar with Mandalay airport, with its cavernous arrivals area, row of empty immigration desks and the one carousel creaking as it revolved with our few bags on it. I had been there only a couple of weeks earlier but it seemed that the landscape was even dustier than it had been then, the bougainvilleas holding on to their colours with effort under undignified layers of dust.

This had been the start of an exhausting but inspiring to Upper Sagaing in the remoter north of Myanmar and where few foreigners were allowed to travel.

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From Mandalay we had travelled by train, arriving not long before midnight and spent the following days visiting project areas and working with our field based colleagues. I learned such a great deal, these early days of my job in Myanmar were such a time of constant learning and growing to understand the context and our work.

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We headed back down to Mandalay several days later, on an overnight train in a crowded compartment. From Mandalay we travelled onwards to another township. This time in the dry zone where we spent more days with colleagues and communities in our project areas.

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We covered a great deal of ground, both in distance and our work. I had travelled by plane, train, car, bus, boat and even bullock cart to remote villages and townships gathering mosquito bites, dust and dirty laundry. Grandmother’s suitcase was clearly disgruntled at the indignity of this treatment – we were both travel weary but I was also inspired and motivated at the end of such a draining field visit. Another very early departure for the return trip to Yangon saw us driving through Nyaung U’s roads, deserted but for a long line of monks collecting alms as the sun start to throw its first light of the plains of Bagan.

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I would be home in Yangon in time for lunch, with many a tale to tell, not enough photographs and a week’s worth of sleep to catch up just a couple of days before my visa would expire. The long awaited renewal had still not come through and I would not be not permitted to travel until it did.

All through that field trip I had been blissfully unaware of that I had been carrying an additional item of baggage with me. An unwelcome addition which had been growing and developing. It was just a few days later, in the shower, that I discovered the lump and life took a completely unexpected turn. I had been blissfully unaware that I had been harbouring three masses, two of them cancerous in my left breast.

It was 23 September 2009 when that blissful lack of awareness was so abruptly ended.

Ten years ago today, I entered a new universe. Ten years have passed, and I am still here. The collateral damage, be it physical, emotional or psychological has been considerable but there is an important message. I am reminded more than ever to carpe that diem. We all go about our days, unaware of what might lie ahead. There are challenges ahead, personal and global yet equally there are moments and people to cherish and treasure. We just need to pause and make sure we don’t miss what matters.

Night Train to Bucharest

As late July approached my plans to undertake this long dreamed of journey finally sat comfortably in place. Tickets and hotels were booked – the various train segments and reservations, one flight, stays in the corresponding nights in cities along the way homewards – all accompanied by carefully selected reading for the journey. But my nervousness was not reduced by the careful planning. I still harboured not inconsiderable disbelief that I would actually travel on this journey, or even that I would arrive in Istanbul.

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The various components would see me travel from Edinburgh, a relatively short flight to Istanbul, stay a few nights there, and then begin my journey back. Firstly I would catch the night train to Bucharest, through Turkey, Bulgaria and southern Romania. After a few nights in Bucharest, I would board the afternoon and overnight train through Transylvania, Hungary and Austria into Vienna, to catch the day train the following day all the way through the Alps down to Venice. After a couple of nights in Venice, I would board my next train for a 36 hour journey through the Italian, Austrian and Swiss Alps, Liechtenstein and France before crossing the channel and heading London-wards. A couple of nights in London then, before the East Coast Train up to Edinburgh.

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Photo credit – https://www.seat61.com

But indeed, the days did pass smartly, and grandmother’s suitcase started to accumulate the necessities of comfortable clothes and books, in its little corner of the bedroom in preparation for the flight to Istanbul and the homecoming journey.

It was early afternoon four Thursdays ago, when the lock was snapped shut, and grandmother’s suitcase was howfed down the Edinburgh stairwell, up the cobbled street and onto the tram for the Airport. I swiped my travel card, for the very last time. Part of this journey would see me transition to the Voldemort age which, in addition to not being permitted to speak out loud, magically provides free travel on Scottish buses and trams. I checked in for my flight, nervously instructing grandmother’s suitcase to go straight to Istanbul, unlike its mysterious adventures at Christmas where it took its own holidays, and refused to accompany me.

The flight to Istanbul was uneventful, if late, and arrival at an almost deserted airport made for a smooth arrival. To my relief, grandmother’s suitcase had decided to catch the same flight and we were happily reunited.

It was well after midnight when I arrived at my first destination, the renowned Pera Palas.  This hotel is an icon of quirkiness and eccentricity, built in 1892 for passengers disembarking from the Orient Express. This was intentionally selected to set the tone of my rail journey back to Edinburgh, all the way by train over the two weeks of my return journey along the route of the Orient Express. The Pera Palas was rich in character and history, and is featured in the Lonely Planet as a sight rather than a hotel. It has a distinguished literary pedigree. Agatha Christie reputedly wrote “Murder on the Orient Express” in room 411. The main character of Ernest Hemingway’s short story “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” stayed there as did the protagonists of Graham Green’s “Travels with my Aunt”. The place was steeped in literary and other history.

Once I had checked in, the night porter took great pride in showing me the drawing room and lounge areas before taking me into the glorious elevator instructing me to sit on the velvet bench as the metal cage took us up to my room.

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To my delight there was a little balcony, and even at that late hour, the views over the Golden Horn with the illuminated mosques took my breath away.

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The Pera Palas is a wonderful institution with a museum, libraries, photographs and the celebrated Agatha Christie Room as well as little display cases dotted around with original Orient Express tickets, and memorabilia as well as many original fittings. The perfect setting to prepare for a memorable train journey.

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Para Palas – original house phone

I planned to stay four nights in Istanbul, exploring and absorbing this magical city, nestled on the cusp of Asia and Europe. While exploring the city, I was accompanied by Orhan Pamuk’s glorious book “The Museum of Innocence” gifted by a friend with the recommendation that I visit the museum itself while I was there. Reading the book, and visiting the museum brought an expected depth to my experience of Istanbul. As well as Pamuk’s sizeable work, I had also brought Paul Theroux’s “The Ghost of the Orient Star” where he recounted the journey he had made by train across Europe, Asia and back on the Trans Siberian in 2006. In this he retraced the very journey he had taken himself thirty years earlier (told in “The Great Railway Bazaar”). These books were the perfect travel companions, grounding me in the right frame of mind for the forthcoming rail journeys, evoking the spirit of the Orient Express and also giving me the sense of being absorbed in Pamuk’s Istanbul life. Both books (one fiction, one non- fiction) had references to and descriptions of the Pera Palas, and on the Saturday evening there was a wedding reception, which could easily have been the very one described in Pamuk’s Museum of Innocence.

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Timeless – Saturday at the Pera Palas

The days passed too quickly and in no time, grandmother’s suitcase was being packed carefully for the first train, and the start of my journey by rail all the way back to Edinburgh.

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My first challenge was to get the right train, from the correct station. Traditionally the train would arrive in and leave from Istanbul’s Sirkeci Station. However, this station in central Istanbul, has been under major renovation for some time, with a completion date of at least two years hence. Long distance trains are currently leaving from the little known Halkali Station out in the suburbs. I had to somehow get myself to this station.

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Sirkeci Station, Istanbul – under long term renovation

I had been told that a bus shuttle ran from Sirkeci to Halkali but getting timings or information about this bus proved to be impossible. Eventually I was told that the bus did not run, as the metro suburban train ran to Halkali. With my bags, arthritic hands and difficulty with stairs, I was not too comfortable with the prospect of howfing grandmother’s suitcase on the metro, so I decided to take a taxi which I was promised would take less than an hour and not be expensive, less than 90 Turkish Lira.

Of course, I was nervous. That is the appeal of such travel. The sense of achievement when you navigate the complexities of unusual travel is more than worth the anxiety. Usually.

My first concern was that the taxi driver would try and take me to the airport, as this would be the normal destination for a departing passenger. I was worried that be would not believe that I really was trying to get the night train to Bucharest. As we passed more and more signs to the airport, I realised that the moment to clarify my destination had passed, and that if I did turn up at the airport the time to raise this would be then. Eventually though, we turned off the main highway, and I was relieved to see a sign for Halkali. I was less reassured when after a few minutes, the taxi driver slowed down, rolled down his window and asked a fellow driver where the “train istaysion” was. This happened several times, as the clocked and meter ticked on, and we headed onwards, with no sign of a train line or station at all.

Finally, the driver spotted a train line in the distance, but in the opposite direction. More directions and a ticking off from a policeman, heading down a very welcome exit route and round a roundabout more than once and we drove past a building that seemed to house train platforms and an escalator. Another few wrong turns later, and both myself and the taxi driver were satisfied that this indeed was the train station, just hiding up an escalator, and I was confident enough to thank my taxi driver and head into this strange building.

Grandmother’s suitcase and I trundled up the escalator to an empty concourse. Clutching my ticket, I headed to find the details of the train’s departure from the information board. There wasn’t one. No departure or arrival information, no information desk, no signs, no clues. Nothing. Only a little ticket office, where I turned to for help and information. I handed my ticket through the window and asked about the Bucharest train. “Ah, Sofia”, responded the railway staff. “No, no, Bucharest”’ I responded. “You go Platform 4 at 9 o’clock”, he responded.

Much relieved, I dragged Grandmother’s suitcase along to the stairways leading to the platforms. All were blocked off by those tape barricades that exist only in airports and railway stations. Peering down the stairs, I realised that not one of the platforms had numbers. Each platform did have a waiting room at the top of the stairs, but absolutely no clue as to the identity of platform or destinations served. As it was not long after 8.30 and my train was not due to actually depart until 9.40, I was comfortable to just wait patiently in one of the waiting areas. Another woman joined me in the waiting room and in broken English we chatted. She was heading in the opposite direction, past Ankara I gathered, at 10 pm. The fact that she had arrived so far in advance of her own train both reassured and troubled me!

She disappeared after a bit, and I took Grandmother’s suitcase to have another look around and see if I could gather any more clues, and also any snacks and water in addition to what I had brought. I could see a few more people now, and overheard one man asking about the Bucharest train. Perfect! I immediately locked onto his path and followed him into another waiting room. By now it was almost 9 pm, and there were probably a dozen folk in the waiting room. Perched on the edge of my seat, and ready to move I kept the fellow Bucharest passenger in my sights at all times. My search for sustenance was completely futile. There was not a single shop, stall or sign of nearby. Just as well I had packed a stock of snacks and enough water. I was fairly sure that there was no catering on the train so wanted to be prepared.

One of the station staff came into the room soon after 9 pm, and announced something in Turkish. I asked another passenger who did not get up to follow the station man, if that was the Sofia train. “No”, he responded but couldn’t remember which train it was. “Bucharest?” I asked hopefully? “Yes, yes!!” he replied. I joined the small line of passengers down to one of the platforms and a rather short train consider it was to take 22 hours, cross 3 countries and arrive in Bucharest. My ticket said that I was in wagon 479 and that was the first carriage as I reached the train. Reassuring except that on the side of the train was the insistent sign –

Istanbul – Sofya Ekspress “Istanbul (Halkali – Kapikule – Svilengrad – Sofia”.

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I walked along to the next carriage, which had a different number so I returned to the one with the matching number of my reservation and attempted to drag myself and grandmother’s suitcase up the steep steps. The conductor was at the top, and helped me with myself and my baggage to clamber properly on board. He took both my ticket and reservation, along with grandmother’s suitcase, and led me to the second compartment where a large man was dragging his own and his wife’s luggage into the compartment. “Your berth”, the conductor told me, pointing to the bottom bunk on one side. I breathed out in relief. I had been silently dreading finding out which berth I would be in, knowing that there was precisely a 50% chance of being on a top bunk and trying not to consider the antics that would entail getting in and out of bed however often that needed to happen.

The couple managed to stow their bags, and settled in the seat opposite me. And to my relief they told me that they were were Romanian and also travelling to Bucharest.

I sat down and relaxed. I now knew that I was safely aboard the Night Train to Bucharest.

To be continued …

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Romanian border, 2 am, awaiting passport checks

I have a dream …

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Romanian border, 2 am, awaiting passport checks

I have many dreams, I have to confess. Not a bucket list, but a wish bucket which I can dip into and draw out a wish. Not always something extravagant or sophisticated, but often something quite minuscule.

I have previously written about a cute little pot I bought while visiting Poland. It was a deep blue colour, about the size of a miniature scone and had stars and a cat painted on the side alongside some writing. I was not in the slightest troubled by the fact that I had no idea what the wise words said but later learned that they described the little pot as “a place to keep your dreams”. How very perfect. This little pot has travelled far, and suffered some breaks, but it is still mostly there and held together with glue. And happily the dreams do not slip through the gaps. They do form my metaphorical wish bucket.

My wish bucket contains a number of dreams, those which I still hold on to experiencing, and those which I treasure now as memories or precious items. And there is always space for more dreams …

Some of the dreams which have been realised from my wish bucket are:

  • Meet a blogging friend in a new place
  • Buy a picture/piece of artwork at a gallery opening and watch them put the red sticker on it.
  • See a kangaroo in the wild. I saw many during my visit to Australia over Christmas and New Year 2015/16.
  • Visit a country with the letter ‘Z’ in it. Tanzania, and its magical island of Zanzibar
  • Sail through the Norwegian Fiords
  • See some of my writing in print.  In a book, with real paper pages!
  • Get funky, colourful nail art on my finger and toenails just for fun, just for once.

There are still more dreams which I hold on to:

  • See the Aurora Borealis (northern lights)
  • See the rings on Saturn through an astronomy telescope
  • See an iceberg
  • Book into the Oriental Bangkok for a weekend.  Or maybe a night.  Or maybe just have afternoon tea there given the price! (So far I have managed an afternoon tea and a decadent dinner).
  • See a starfish in the sea

There are also dreams which I am wary to articulate. When I was diagnosed in October 2009, the very obvious wish was to hang around beyond the treatment and return to a reasonable level of health. Reaching the five year mark a few years ago was an emotional milestone, and one I marked with thankfulness.

Now, my diagnosis came at a time of a personal Milestone Birthday those years ago. It was my 50th birthday, and plans to do something memorable were thwarted by visa constraints. My milestone birthday dream had been to travel to Bhutan, and indeed that is still to be met. But as I reached those 50 years back in 2009, I had recently moved to Myanmar and our visa was still in process. We were not able to leave the country, and not even able to leave Yangon. I had a beautifully memorable evening, with friends and colleagues in a wonderful space in Yangon, but travel plans were put on hold. For a very long time, it turned out.

Ten years earlier than that, as the arithmetic demonstrates, I marked my 40th birthday. With a great deal of dream nurturing,  and then planning, my wish to travel on the Trans Siberian railway became a reality. I had the most amazing trip, across the Siberian taiga, alongside awe-inspiring Lake Baikal and through the Mongolian steppe before the train descended dramatically, as it snaked past the Great Wall of China into Beijing. That had been intended to cure me of my debilitating wanderlust. It was not exactly successful, as a few months later, I found myself at Edinburgh airport with a one way ticket to Kathmandu, and a three year contract to work in Nepal. The rest is history, and seventeen years later, I returned to Scotland (now two years ago) with the petulance of a spoiled child whose trip to the seaside had come to an end.

That trip for my 40th birthday, all those years ago remains ingrained in my memory. It was a truly pivotal, and I find that even though health and energy are not what they were, the dreams are just as vivid.

Why am I dreaming so much at the moment? There is a swirling of memories and moments in the atmosphere. I realise that I am on the brink of two important milestones. One is the Next Milestone Birthday – the Voldemort Birthday. The age which must-not-be-spoken-out-loud. This is the year I receive my free Bus Pass and can qualify for some senior citizen discounts. The other life marker 10 years later was equally memorable, but was not in the slightest planned or even anticipated. That was when I heard those life altering words “this is highly suspicious of cancer”.

Just over a couple of weeks ago, late in July I a glance at the date showed that it was exactly 20 years since I embarked on that railway trip from Europe to Asia. I realised that 20 years ago to the day, I had been in Russia, watching the kilometre markers pass, one by one, telling me exactly how many kilometres I had travelled from Moscow. Every marker I passed told me that I was a kilometre further east than I had ever been before. I remember looking at the map unfolded constantly beside me, and marvelling that immediately due south, if many miles, from that point of the journey lay India! India. I could see it clearly on the map, but my mind was utterly incapable of absorbing that fact.

Twenty years later, I have found that as I was approaching this Voldemort birthday, I was increasingly compelled to embark on another journey. A gentler journey than that odyssey across Siberia and exploring Asia. A journey which I had long yearned to do, one which whispered temptations in my ear. One which I have not been able to resist.

So, I have just returned to Scotland from what has been almost a mirror image of the Siberian journey. Just a few weeks ago, one Thursday afternoon late in July, in less than five hours, I flew from Edinburgh to Istanbul, that mystical city where Europe meets Asia on the banks of the Bosphorus. I spent a few days exploring this new city, embracing Asia briefly with promises of a return. Then, inspired by the tales and legend of the Orient Express, I embarked on a journey which traced its route back to London (and on to Edinburgh) on the “other Orient Express”, as Paul Theroux calls it, by train all the way. Keeping true to the spirit of the journey, I stayed in the hotel originally built for passengers disembarking from the original Orient Express. This is where Agatha Christie reputedly wrote Murder on the Orient Express in Room 411, where I had panoramic views across the Golden Horn, of the Blue Mosque and where I was captivated by the melodic prayer calls and Turkish delight coloured sunsets.

Now safely back in Edinburgh, having travelled on six trains, through ten countries, spending 92 train hours and covering over 2500 miles, I have treasured memories and many photographs of this journey which helped me to step into this new decade. And stories to tell …

Here is the opportunity to relive the past weeks, as I begin to put this whole experience into words, to share.

Gentle, post cancer, gecko yoga

Resettling in the west, I find that I hold on to many aspects from my lives in the east. Morning rituals around meditation, evening tea lights that flicker as the daylight fades and provide a sense of solace, and the comfort of prayer flags fluttering as they unfurl blessings into the atmosphere. These are all little rituals that I find bring calm and peace of mind. And in the past few days, I have added another short practice. My own version of yoga. Proper post cancer, inflexible old lady, gentle gecko yoga.

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While I was going through chemotherapy, I spent some time with a yoga instructor who put together a very gentle routine which was one of the practices which I found helped me through the gruelling treatment path both physically and mentally. That, alongside regular swimming and my obsessive healthy eating plan, played an important part in my overall wellbeing throughout the year of my treatment.

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Sunrise swims Yangon

Approaching ten years since my diagnosis, and collecting additional medical and health glithches along the way – some long lasting side effects of treatment, some more recent after and side effects – such as peripheral neuropathy (which has rendered numb toes and very tippy tips of my fingers), good old Twang Arm, painful joints from Femara. Add that to an old compression fracture in my lower spine and general ageing stuff, you could not really label me a yoga model. Not a positive one, anyway.

So I have designed my own routine. And for those experiencing unwelcome long lasting effects you may be able to identify with my personalised poses. So I have decided to share this, my own Gecko Yoga…

Stretch the Truth

My first move is a gentle stretch. At five foot and half an inch tall, when I stretch, I feel that there can be no harm in a little stretch beyond by true height. Two arms outstretched in front of me, I lean towards the wall, then gradually move my legs one at a time away from the wall so that I am at an angle and then breathe in slowly, hold, breathe out, repeat… repeat …Once I have completed this pose, I move gracefully to my next pose. Perhaps not terribly gracefully but it is fine to imagine it is.

Wall Salutation

I breathe in, move both legs together behind me and lift my head up gently. This is the Wall Salutation. It is much easier on a tired, asymmetrical soul with creaky joints that refuse to work than a sun salutation. Plus we don’t see that much sun really. Just clouds and walls. Again, breathe in slowly, hold, breathe out, repeat… repeat …

Broken back Mountain

Once I have completed enough of this pose, I am ready to move on to one of my favourites. The Mountain is a foundation kind of pose, and I find it really grounding. But nothing is so easy with a compression fracture, so my version is quite gentle. More in breaths, more holding, more out breaths. Nearly finished now. On to my final pose before warm down.

The Woodcutter

This is reminiscent of the Tree, but the numb toes version. Both arms stretch up above my head, and are brought together slowly in a prayer like pose. Breathe in slowly, grit teeth and slowly lift right leg. Place it gently against the lower calf, if I can reach that high. A nano centimetre above the ankle will do. Hold, breathe slowly out. And fall over. I also call it the Falling Tree. Breathe in again, wiggle those toes as they resist stability and slowly lift left leg … big toe can rest on the floor in semblance of proper Tree and will keep the secret. And fall over again. Repeat until falling over happens before the leg is raised. It’s not going to get any better.

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And move into a chosen rest pose to warm down, Broken Back Mountain works well here, before drawing hands together to close the routine with a respectful “Namaste”.

Whereupon it is time to put the kettle on and face the day. And the day definitely feels more approachable with this little routine completed. Except those days when I practise the Amnesiac. Those are the days when I am on my way to work and it dawns on me that I have completely forgotten to do my gecko yoga. Just as well tomorrow is a new day…

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Wherever I go, I meet myself

I am reminded this week in particular, through Global Village Storytelling, that I have many stories to tell, and many stories that I am already forgetting. So this evening, when I was looking for a photograph on my original Feisty Blue Gecko before cancer came along Blog, I was gently scrolling through old posts, and remembering many details and incidents which have become hazy and buried in my memory. Of course, I did not reach the destination in my mind, and was soon distracted just a few posts into the blog. I was taken by a story I had almost forgotten, and which made me smile in a room full of strangers who were busy drinking coffee and who fortunately did not notice this strange woman at another table.

As a way of capturing and sharing these stories, I thought to share this tale again here, though if you were of a mind to be distracted by stories of a time before cancer, there is a whole other life over there

For now, this is a tale of a chance conversation on a flight to Pakistan over ten years ago. Fasten your seatbelts and you will find me there, wherever I go.

As I boarded the aircraft from Doha for Islamabad, I realised I was squeezed into a tiny seat on the huge airbus. Hope that I would have the 2 seats to myself for the 4 hour flight which would arrive in Islamabad at 3 am was soon dashed as a fellow traveller arrived at my row, gestured towards the seat and started to settle in next to me. He was a really interesting looking character, in very traditional Afghan attire but as I hoped to grab a short sleep before the crazy arrival time and anticipated stress at immigration, I kept my guard up and didn’t make an effort to engage in small chat. Neither did he.

As the plane took its passengers on board and prepared for departure, my sputnik (fellow traveller in Russian – literally someone who travels on the same path as you do) also prepared for departure. He donned his traditional head scarf and started a gentle chant accompanied by a rocking motion. His mantra took several minutes and accompanied the security announcement of the flight crew. At some invisible signal the prayer was over, our safe passage assured and the chanting ceased and his scarf was removed.

As we prepared for take off we exchanged pleasantries and names. He told me he had been in the UK and was the head of an NGO working in Pakistan and Afghanistan. He asked me about my job and when I gave vague details of my organisation, he immediately named it and asked if that was who I worked for. This eroded part of the awkwardness between us and we soon started a warm discussion about work in the area. I told him about our work in India and Sri Lanka and he told me about the challenges of working in Pakistan and Afghanistan.

When I said I was from Scotland he said that he had worked with a colleague in the UK who was from Wales. “Is that like Scotland?”, he asked – meaning not England! ”Yes” I replied, ”very much so! ”

He wanted to know about Scotland, he said. I anticipated the usual questions – our national food, industry and history. And bagpipes.

Sure enough, I found myself describing the delights of haggis, detailing how it is prepared and its origins a staple of the rural poor in Scotland. He described the different regional specialities of Afghanistan and dishes of meats marinated in spices and yoghurt and served with exotic fruits and vegetables. If I ever visited Afghanistan he promised to make sure I tasted the most delicious of traditional dishes, which varied enormously from area to area.

”So”, he asked, ”what are your main crops then? ”

Not too difficult, I thought. “Barley, wheat, oats….”I recited.

”And what about livestock – what animals do you farm? ”

Also an easy one.

”Cows, sheep, chickens, pigs and a few goats….”

”Ah. So what is your livestock population then?”

Silence. I have absolutely no idea. And at 38000 feet I have no access to Google to find out.

I resort to one of the most useless facts I have at my fingertips, which is at last useful.

“I don’t know about Scotland but do you know, that Mongolia is half the land size of India, and the human population is only 2.6 million. Isn’t that amazing? And the most interesting thing is that the large livestock population is 28 million. Incredible, isn’t it?”

But I have no idea about the livestock population in Scotland. Absolutely no idea at all.

“So what would be the price at market of an average sized sheep then? ”, he asks.

Please ask me about rocket science, I think to myself – at least then I wont feel so bad that I have no idea.

I guess wildly “well, I don’t really know, but I would think you would pay around £500 at least for a good sheep”. Quite what the basis is for that guess, I am not sure.

”Aaah. And what would the weight be of an average sheep then? ”

My eyes scan the aircraft and passengers for inspiration. My brain develops a sudden ability to operate some desperate sift, sort and search action. With no result. Sheep are heavy. Heavier than a grown man? Groan – I just have no idea.

I blurt out the first figure that I can think of.

”50 kilos”. Where did that come from? No idea, but that is what came out of my mouth.

”So it must be around £10 a kilo for sheep meat then?” He calculates.

My silence and stupid smile tell him that it must indeed be.

I am rescued by the arrival of our in flight catering and both of us are unable to chew our Qatari cuisine and talk at the same time.

The lights are dimmed immediately after eating and conversation is replaced by a companionable silence and attempts to doze before arrival in Islamabad.

We exchange cards at the airport and I make a firm promise to find out the answers to his questions. I have been reminded of a very different set of priorities and feel an sudden and urgent need to know more about my country.

Gecko by Gaslight

It might be Bus Pass Year, but I am not that old. Not really. Not in today’s terms. However, a passing reference in my last post about the lunar eclipse prompted surprise from a reader, that there was no electricity supply to the house I was brought up in. The reader herself was a school friend and therefore she was familiar with both the location and the era. And her surprise in turn opened a whole area of memories of my own, of times not so long ago in a place not far away, but incredibly distant and hazy.

This was not a century ago. This was only the 70s, the time of David Bowie, Slade and the distant strains of the pirate Radio stations – Radio Caroline and Radio Luxembourg – beaming out the latest chart hits on tiny, tinny transistor radios. The time of bell bottom trousers, platform shoes and flowery patches on our jeans. A wonderful time to be a teenager.

My childhood and teenage home was in idyllic setting, nestling on the shores of a Perthshire loch, two miles from the nearest village where the primary school, three hotels, a garage and the sole shop were located. The main road ran outside the front door, the village two miles to the north and the town with the secondary school seven miles to the south. In front of the house sat the loch, with a forested mountain behind the dark waters and another tree lined hill behind the house.

The bus route and main road with the twice daily buses passed right outside our door, but the electricity line did not. At the northern mouth of the loch the electricity cables veered off on the other side of the loch, only to re-join the main road at the southern end of the loch, just as the first cottages of the approaching town appeared. We were on the ‘inhabited’ side of the loch – we had two neighbours to the south as the road wound its way to the town. But the electricity supply had been laid on the uninhabited side of the loch. There was a dirt road alongside the electricity poles and the stone track which had once held the Callander and Oban Railway Line. The line had opened in 1870 and ran between Callander and Glen Ogle/Killin closing in 1965 – a couple of years before we moved into that house.

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Old postcard of Strathyre Station

The house had no access to electricity, but it was “piped” for gas and for the first few years that we lived there, the house was solely powered by gas.

There was a gaslight in every room, suspended from the ceiling. A fragile mantle set in a plaster frame would be placed into the setting housed within a bell shaped glass. This glass was like a shade, and served to shelter the delicate flame from any breeze as this would make the light flutter. Within the glass bulb, the protected lit mantle would glow brightly, lighting the whole room, until weeks of daily use would render it too fragile to continue and a new mantle would be placed in its socket.

Lighting these mantles required enormous care. We would use a long match, or more frequently a wood shaving spill. We would have to hold the flame close enough for the gas to ignite, but not so close that it poked into the mantle and damaged it, causing the bright light to dim and the wrath of my parents at wasting a precious mantle. It was equally important to ensure that the spill was not too far from the mantle, or the smell of gas would quickly fill the room. This was an exact science that I seemingly became expert in during those years.

One mystery to me was our fridge. We had a calor gas fridge. Initially that made no sense to me at all. How could gas, which created warmth, go on to produce a chill? I never did totally understand the precise science behind it but had a simplified explanation that the ignited gas caused a chemical reaction, which eventually produced a finely regulated coolness which kept the fridge interior at the right temperature. (If you are interested in some of the science it is explained on how stuff works.

After a number of years fiddling around with mantles, and candlelight if the gas supply ran out unexpectedly, and with no prospect of mains electricity in the near or distant future my father decided to install electricity into the house. The only way to do this involved procuring a generator. As an engineer, there began a long research and discussion phase which brought us to the point of deciding to move forward with this plan. Next came a similarly long, and meticulous process of wiring the house. In fact, this was made easier by using the lines of the existing gas piping to install electrical wiring.

I was intrigued by the thought of a generator and surprised to see when it arrived, that it was rather a small beast. It would be housed in an old out building beside the house and this also involved a period of setting up a suitable home for this wonder. It sat on a kind of platform in the middle of the concrete floor.

I could not imagine how this unassuming machine could possibly conjure up enough electricity to light and power the house. But eventually, everything was in place, and the first light was switched on to great excitement and celebration. And it did manage to produce an electricity supply, but it had its limitations and quirks. The generator would be silent until it was woken by switching on one of the electrical switches. When it was running it would hum away in the distance, like a car idling on the roadside. Which is not surprising really, because the generator was just that. A small engine, We became used to the noise quickly.

When the last light was switched off at night, the generator would slow down and be silent in a few minutes. Switching on a light would start up the generator, so there were certain unwritten rules. No turning on lights for night time trips to the bathroom. A flick of the light switch would start up the generator engine, sending thundering reverberations into the silence of the night. The fluorescent light in the bathroom was not “heavy” enough to fire the generator up properly though, and it would struggle to gather a steady speed, sounding like a car revving and then slowing. Only a regular light bulb would start the thrum of the engine in a nice orderly manner. Similarly, a kettle required too much energy and would upset the generator by demanding too much power as it started. We continued to use the gas fridge because an electric fridge with its thermostat and need to switch on and off to maintain the right temperature would mean the generator being woken up at all times of the day and night and that was not acceptable. To this day I have a keen, and accurate sense, of the amount of power which the various appliances use which is rather useful.

It was also important not to allow the generator to run out of fuel as that meant that the fuel tank would have to be drained and that was a Big Job which could only be carried out by my father. That meant regular trips to the outhouse to check on the level of fuel, and alerting my father to a need to refill in plenty of time. If he was out, then we would be very cautious with our electricity consumption if the level dropped to near the minimum level.

Coincidentally, in addition to the lack of electricity, there was also no television signal at the lochside so my childhood and teenage years were devoid of TV. It was many years later that I realised that I grew up without many of those cultural references, or conversation topics which TV provided.

The house is still there today, with a few more neighbours than there were all those years ago. I visited the village a few years ago and was able to stop off briefly at the house and chat with the new owners. I believe that there is now mains electricity but I didn’t think to ask.

The setting is just as idyllic as my childhood memories suggest with pine forests, the hills and the loch on the doorstep. But I do wonder if the walls remember the days of gaslight and generator with the same fondness as I do.

frangipani candle