Blogger putter stadig tilfældige kommentarer i spamfængsel. Jeg lover at slippe dem ud hurtigst muligt.
Blogger is still randomly putting comments in spam-jail. I promise to free them as fast as possible.
onsdag den 31. januar 2024
Words for Wednesday :: Travel Log ~ 2 ~ Rejseberetning
This challenge started a long time ago. Now it has turned into a movable feast with Elephant's Child as our coordinator; and the Words provided by a number of people.
The general idea of this challenge is to make us write. Poems, stories, subtitles, tales, jokes, haiku, crosswords, puns, ... you're the boss.
Use all Words, some Words, one Word, or even none of them if that makes your creative juices flow. Anything goes, only please nothing rude or vulgar.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
The prompts for every Wednesday in January are provided by Elephant's Child, and made public at her blog.
For today we had these words:
Destined
Remarkable
Lure
Aware
Rules
And this picture she took at a Hyper Real exhibition in Canberra.
The picture reminds me of many of the despondent women, I met in the countries behind the Iron Curtain. I did not use any of the words, so I have an excuse for writing more.
This is a continuation of Travel Log 1 We're still in Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia and Hungary. Our bus had broken down, and we were slowly travelling through said countries and Greece bound for Turkey and eventually through Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan to India.
We had to talk to people as part of our research. This was made difficult by the fact that only older people - specifically those who had completed primary school before 1945 - could speak anything other than Russian and their mother tongue. The 'old ones', roughly our parents' generation and upwards, spoke excellent German, many adequate French, and only a few English at a level that allowed for conversations on more than basic topics.
In our studies before travelling, we had read that there was no unemployment behind the Iron Curtain, that people ate well and that children and young ones were well educated and everybody worked for a brighter future.
I couldn't really reconcile this with the queues at the soup kitchens, the lack of goods in the shops and much more.
For example, a lady on the train - she could very well have been a sister to the one in today's picture - asked if we were from West Germany. After we explained that we were from Denmark, but that it looked a lot like West Germany, she asked us to come back and bring her knitting needles and crochet hooks. We had to promise to try before she let us go.
While we waited for the bus to be repaired, we were distributed to the other buses. We went shopping. As I said, we didn't know the language, so when we saw a queue we linede up - same as everybody else, but without being able to ask for what was available in the shop at the end of the queue. After queuing for umbrellas and fake wool suits, we learnt to send one up ahead and look what kind of shop it was.
Once inside the store, we queued up again. First in one queue to place our order and get a note with the price, then in another queue to pay and get the note endorsed, and then in a final one where we handed in the note and got the wrapped item. Guaranteed full employment, sure, but what a waste of time.
We also stayed at a cheap hotel for a few days while we waited. The reception desk looked like nothing I would ever let my guests see; half-dead weeping figs that should have seen some care the day before yesterday, the carpets were stained, and in the dining room the curtains were askew, and not able to bu pulled either way because the rods had come loose. We asked if they should be repaired, but were told that complaints were to be be written in the complaint book. We looked and saw that guests had been writing complaints about the curtain rods for at least three years.
The system in the dining room was also a story in itself. Behind a counter sat a lady, responsible for signing our meal tickets before we could eat, but she was doing crossword puzzles or filing her nails or reading, and it could last a long time before she bothered to attend to us.
We wondered and puzzled over all this - remember we were told we were going to see a workers' paradise - but slowly we realised that the hotel, the shops and everything were state-owned, not just the farms and the land. That is, the people who worked didn't feel responsible, they had no incentive to being energetic, nice, service-minded or anything else. Just like the grocer-couple with their sauna told us. Everybody were paid their wages, no matter what, and they didn't get more if they did better, and they did not get fired either, except when criticising the system. All tips were also collected and went to the government, or maybe some fund. We saw the exact same thing happening on our researches in agricultural places and in factories. People did the bare minimum; things that broke were not repaired or were repaired poorly; and in general, no one cared about making things better. I think the yields of the highly industrialised Czechoslovakian farms were pretty much the same as in pre-industrial Denmark.
We ended up adding a rather critical verse to our Red Star over Czechoslovakia song for our presentation. It earned us more points than we expected.
Hang the red flag on the school building,
Put the star of communism into our culture.
Everyone keeps cadence, just like Franklin Bean*.
Paper still can bend, but the system is rigid.
We sang a lot o this journey. Songs written by others and songs we made up ourselves. We made up songs like Tyrkie ingrediensi songasi (Mock Turkish meaning Turkish ingredients song), and We roll down the mountains, The Flea Song and then we sang The Bus Song - probably the most romantic and materialistic tribute to the life in a bus:
One engine throbbing, six pistons beating,
six tyres against dusty tarmac.
In time with the farmers' goats and sheep,
is it a world set apart?
(I'm sorry for once again giving only a word-for-word translation of the songs, and not making them into poetry)
- - - - - - -
* Refers to the 1990 Eponymous movie Wikipedia
Vi skulle tale med folk som en del af vore undersøgelser. Det blev besværliggjort af at det kun var ældre mennesker - helt nøjagtigt dem, der havde afsluttet folkeskolen før 1945 - der kunne tale andet end russisk og deres modersmål. De 'gamle', groft regnet vores forældres generation og opefter, talte fremragende tysk, nogle hæderligt fransk, og et fåtal engelsk på et niveau der muliggjorde samtaler om andet end helt basale emner.
I vores studier havde vi læst, at der ikke var arbejdsløshed bag jerntæppet, at folk spiste godt, at børn og unde fik en førsteklasses undervisning, og at alle arbejdede sammen for en lysere fremtid.
Det kunne jeg i hvert fald ikke rigtig få til at passe med køerne til suppekøkkenerne, med det manglende udbud af varer i butikkerne og meget andet.
For eksemplel var der en dame i toget, der spurgte, om vi kom fra Vesttyskland. Da vi havde forklaret, at vi kom fra Danmark, men at det lignede Vesttyskland, bad hun os om at komme igen, og tage strikkepinde og hæklenåle med til hende. Vi måtte love at forsøge, før hun slap os.
Mens vi ventede på at bussen blev repareret, blev vi fordelt i de andre busser. Vi gik på indkøb. Vi kunne som sagt ikke sproget, så når vi så en kø, stillede vi bare op - lige som alle de andre gjorde det, men uden at kunne spørge, hvad der var at få i butikken for enden af køen. Efter at have stået i kø efter paraplyer og habitter af celluld lærte vi at sende en op og kigge efter hvad det var for en butik.
Inde i butikken stod vi så i kø igen. Først i én kø for at afgive bestilling og få en seddel med prisen, så i en anden kø for at betale og få seddelen påtegnet, og så i en sidste, hvor vi afleverede seddelen og fik den indpakkede vare. Garanti for fuld beskæftigelse, javist, men sikke et spild af tid.
Vi boede også nogle dage på et billigt hotel, mens vi ventede. Receptionen lignede noget, der var løgn, halvdøde stuebirke, der burde være vandet allersenest i forgårs, gulvtæpperne var plettede, og i spisesalen hang gardinerne og dinglede, fordi stængerne ikke sad fast. Vi spurgte, om de ikke skulle repareres, men fik at vide, at klager skulle skrives i klagebogen. Der kunne vi så se, at der var blevet klaget over de hængende gardiner i hvert fald de sidste tre år.
Systemet i spisesalen var også et kapitel for sig. Der sad en dame, der skulle påtegne vores spisebilletter, før vi kunne få mad, men hun sad og løste krydsord, eller filede negle eller læste, og det kunne vare endog meget længe, før hun gad tage sig af os. Vi undrede os, men langsomt gik det op for os, at hotellet, og butikkerne og i det hele taget alt var statsligt, ikke kun landbrugene og jorden. Det vil sige, at dem der arbejdede, ikke følte at de fik noget ud af at være energiske, flinke, servicemindede eller noget som helst. De fik deres løn, lige meget hvad, og de fik ikke mere hvis de gjorde det bedre. Alle drikkepenge blev også indsamlet og gik til staten, eller en eller anden fond, tror jeg. Det helt samme så vi gentage sig på undersøgelser i landbruget og på fabrikker. Folk gjorde det absolutte minimum; ting, der gik i stykker, blev ikke eller kun nødtørftigt repareret, og i det hele taget var alle totalt ligeglade med at gøre det bedre. Jeg tror udbyttet af de højt industrialiserede tjekkoslovakiske landbrug var stort set som i det før-industrielle Danmark.
Det endte med at vi lavede et temmelig systemkritisk vers til vores Rød stjerne over Tjekkoslovakiet-sang til fremlæggelsen. Det bragte os flere point end vi havde regnet med.
Hæng den røde fane op på skolens mur,
kommunismens stjerne ind i vor kultur.
Alle taler kun om retning, kæft og trit.
Papir kan stadig bøjes, systemet er dog stift.
Vi sang i det hele taget meget. Både sange, andre havde skrevet og hjemmelavede sange. Vi sang "Tyrkie ingrediensi sangasi" (Vrøvle-tyrkisk titel) og "Vi ruller ned af bjergene", "Loppesangen" og "Bussangen" ikke at forglemme - nok den mest romantiske, beton-materialistiske hyldest til livet i en bus (Den har vi ikke selv lavet):
En motor der banker, seks stempler der slår,
seks dæk mod den støvede vej.
I takt med bøndernes geder og får,
er det mon en verden for sig?
The general idea of this challenge is to make us write. Poems, stories, subtitles, tales, jokes, haiku, crosswords, puns, ... you're the boss.
Use all Words, some Words, one Word, or even none of them if that makes your creative juices flow. Anything goes, only please nothing rude or vulgar.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
-- ☭ --
The prompts for every Wednesday in January are provided by Elephant's Child, and made public at her blog.
For today we had these words:
Destined
Remarkable
Lure
Aware
Rules
And this picture she took at a Hyper Real exhibition in Canberra.
The picture reminds me of many of the despondent women, I met in the countries behind the Iron Curtain. I did not use any of the words, so I have an excuse for writing more.
This is a continuation of Travel Log 1 We're still in Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia and Hungary. Our bus had broken down, and we were slowly travelling through said countries and Greece bound for Turkey and eventually through Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan to India.
We had to talk to people as part of our research. This was made difficult by the fact that only older people - specifically those who had completed primary school before 1945 - could speak anything other than Russian and their mother tongue. The 'old ones', roughly our parents' generation and upwards, spoke excellent German, many adequate French, and only a few English at a level that allowed for conversations on more than basic topics.
In our studies before travelling, we had read that there was no unemployment behind the Iron Curtain, that people ate well and that children and young ones were well educated and everybody worked for a brighter future.
I couldn't really reconcile this with the queues at the soup kitchens, the lack of goods in the shops and much more.
For example, a lady on the train - she could very well have been a sister to the one in today's picture - asked if we were from West Germany. After we explained that we were from Denmark, but that it looked a lot like West Germany, she asked us to come back and bring her knitting needles and crochet hooks. We had to promise to try before she let us go.
While we waited for the bus to be repaired, we were distributed to the other buses. We went shopping. As I said, we didn't know the language, so when we saw a queue we linede up - same as everybody else, but without being able to ask for what was available in the shop at the end of the queue. After queuing for umbrellas and fake wool suits, we learnt to send one up ahead and look what kind of shop it was.
Once inside the store, we queued up again. First in one queue to place our order and get a note with the price, then in another queue to pay and get the note endorsed, and then in a final one where we handed in the note and got the wrapped item. Guaranteed full employment, sure, but what a waste of time.
We also stayed at a cheap hotel for a few days while we waited. The reception desk looked like nothing I would ever let my guests see; half-dead weeping figs that should have seen some care the day before yesterday, the carpets were stained, and in the dining room the curtains were askew, and not able to bu pulled either way because the rods had come loose. We asked if they should be repaired, but were told that complaints were to be be written in the complaint book. We looked and saw that guests had been writing complaints about the curtain rods for at least three years.
The system in the dining room was also a story in itself. Behind a counter sat a lady, responsible for signing our meal tickets before we could eat, but she was doing crossword puzzles or filing her nails or reading, and it could last a long time before she bothered to attend to us.
We wondered and puzzled over all this - remember we were told we were going to see a workers' paradise - but slowly we realised that the hotel, the shops and everything were state-owned, not just the farms and the land. That is, the people who worked didn't feel responsible, they had no incentive to being energetic, nice, service-minded or anything else. Just like the grocer-couple with their sauna told us. Everybody were paid their wages, no matter what, and they didn't get more if they did better, and they did not get fired either, except when criticising the system. All tips were also collected and went to the government, or maybe some fund. We saw the exact same thing happening on our researches in agricultural places and in factories. People did the bare minimum; things that broke were not repaired or were repaired poorly; and in general, no one cared about making things better. I think the yields of the highly industrialised Czechoslovakian farms were pretty much the same as in pre-industrial Denmark.
We ended up adding a rather critical verse to our Red Star over Czechoslovakia song for our presentation. It earned us more points than we expected.
Hang the red flag on the school building,
Put the star of communism into our culture.
Everyone keeps cadence, just like Franklin Bean*.
Paper still can bend, but the system is rigid.
We sang a lot o this journey. Songs written by others and songs we made up ourselves. We made up songs like Tyrkie ingrediensi songasi (Mock Turkish meaning Turkish ingredients song), and We roll down the mountains, The Flea Song and then we sang The Bus Song - probably the most romantic and materialistic tribute to the life in a bus:
One engine throbbing, six pistons beating,
six tyres against dusty tarmac.
In time with the farmers' goats and sheep,
is it a world set apart?
(I'm sorry for once again giving only a word-for-word translation of the songs, and not making them into poetry)
- - - - - - -
* Refers to the 1990 Eponymous movie Wikipedia
-- ☭ --
Vi skulle tale med folk som en del af vore undersøgelser. Det blev besværliggjort af at det kun var ældre mennesker - helt nøjagtigt dem, der havde afsluttet folkeskolen før 1945 - der kunne tale andet end russisk og deres modersmål. De 'gamle', groft regnet vores forældres generation og opefter, talte fremragende tysk, nogle hæderligt fransk, og et fåtal engelsk på et niveau der muliggjorde samtaler om andet end helt basale emner.
I vores studier havde vi læst, at der ikke var arbejdsløshed bag jerntæppet, at folk spiste godt, at børn og unde fik en førsteklasses undervisning, og at alle arbejdede sammen for en lysere fremtid.
Det kunne jeg i hvert fald ikke rigtig få til at passe med køerne til suppekøkkenerne, med det manglende udbud af varer i butikkerne og meget andet.
For eksemplel var der en dame i toget, der spurgte, om vi kom fra Vesttyskland. Da vi havde forklaret, at vi kom fra Danmark, men at det lignede Vesttyskland, bad hun os om at komme igen, og tage strikkepinde og hæklenåle med til hende. Vi måtte love at forsøge, før hun slap os.
Mens vi ventede på at bussen blev repareret, blev vi fordelt i de andre busser. Vi gik på indkøb. Vi kunne som sagt ikke sproget, så når vi så en kø, stillede vi bare op - lige som alle de andre gjorde det, men uden at kunne spørge, hvad der var at få i butikken for enden af køen. Efter at have stået i kø efter paraplyer og habitter af celluld lærte vi at sende en op og kigge efter hvad det var for en butik.
Inde i butikken stod vi så i kø igen. Først i én kø for at afgive bestilling og få en seddel med prisen, så i en anden kø for at betale og få seddelen påtegnet, og så i en sidste, hvor vi afleverede seddelen og fik den indpakkede vare. Garanti for fuld beskæftigelse, javist, men sikke et spild af tid.
Vi boede også nogle dage på et billigt hotel, mens vi ventede. Receptionen lignede noget, der var løgn, halvdøde stuebirke, der burde være vandet allersenest i forgårs, gulvtæpperne var plettede, og i spisesalen hang gardinerne og dinglede, fordi stængerne ikke sad fast. Vi spurgte, om de ikke skulle repareres, men fik at vide, at klager skulle skrives i klagebogen. Der kunne vi så se, at der var blevet klaget over de hængende gardiner i hvert fald de sidste tre år.
Systemet i spisesalen var også et kapitel for sig. Der sad en dame, der skulle påtegne vores spisebilletter, før vi kunne få mad, men hun sad og løste krydsord, eller filede negle eller læste, og det kunne vare endog meget længe, før hun gad tage sig af os. Vi undrede os, men langsomt gik det op for os, at hotellet, og butikkerne og i det hele taget alt var statsligt, ikke kun landbrugene og jorden. Det vil sige, at dem der arbejdede, ikke følte at de fik noget ud af at være energiske, flinke, servicemindede eller noget som helst. De fik deres løn, lige meget hvad, og de fik ikke mere hvis de gjorde det bedre. Alle drikkepenge blev også indsamlet og gik til staten, eller en eller anden fond, tror jeg. Det helt samme så vi gentage sig på undersøgelser i landbruget og på fabrikker. Folk gjorde det absolutte minimum; ting, der gik i stykker, blev ikke eller kun nødtørftigt repareret, og i det hele taget var alle totalt ligeglade med at gøre det bedre. Jeg tror udbyttet af de højt industrialiserede tjekkoslovakiske landbrug var stort set som i det før-industrielle Danmark.
Det endte med at vi lavede et temmelig systemkritisk vers til vores Rød stjerne over Tjekkoslovakiet-sang til fremlæggelsen. Det bragte os flere point end vi havde regnet med.
Hæng den røde fane op på skolens mur,
kommunismens stjerne ind i vor kultur.
Alle taler kun om retning, kæft og trit.
Papir kan stadig bøjes, systemet er dog stift.
Vi sang i det hele taget meget. Både sange, andre havde skrevet og hjemmelavede sange. Vi sang "Tyrkie ingrediensi sangasi" (Vrøvle-tyrkisk titel) og "Vi ruller ned af bjergene", "Loppesangen" og "Bussangen" ikke at forglemme - nok den mest romantiske, beton-materialistiske hyldest til livet i en bus (Den har vi ikke selv lavet):
En motor der banker, seks stempler der slår,
seks dæk mod den støvede vej.
I takt med bøndernes geder og får,
er det mon en verden for sig?
tirsdag den 30. januar 2024
Poetry Monday :: Flight
Today's theme for Poetry Monday is Flight. Poetry Monday is a challenge, normally hosted by Diane at On the Border.
But from Monday, January 8, 2024, Messymimi
and I have conspired to keep the chair
warm for her, as she's taking a break due to
health issues. We will each set the topics for one month, I begin with
January, Mimi is gong to tackle February, and so on until Diane returns.
Yesterday I was caught by a dizzy spell - neck muscles playing tricks, so nothing serious - but still not compatible with writing poetry. Hoping it's still Monday somewhere, I present the shortest poem ever:
Flight - it means to run away
Return to fight another day
- - - - - -
Next Monday's topic: Basket
Yesterday I was caught by a dizzy spell - neck muscles playing tricks, so nothing serious - but still not compatible with writing poetry. Hoping it's still Monday somewhere, I present the shortest poem ever:
Flight - it means to run away
Return to fight another day
- - - - - -
Next Monday's topic: Basket
torsdag den 25. januar 2024
Words for Wednesday :: Travel Log ~ 1 ~ Rejseberetning
Dansk længere nede
This challenge started a long time ago. Now it has turned into a movable feast with Elephant's Child as our coordinator; and the Words provided by a number of people.
The general idea of this challenge is to make us write. Poems, stories, subtitles, tales, jokes, haiku, crosswords, puns, ... you're the boss.
Use all Words, some Words, one Word, or even none of them if that makes your creative juices flow. Anything goes, only please nothing rude or vulgar.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
The prompts for every Wednesday in January are provided by Elephant's Child, and made public at her blog.
For today we had these words:
Camel
Bone
Carving
Application
River
And/or
Journey
Shock
Family
Crown
Colours
Today's writing is a little different than usual. Firstly, it's totally autobiographical, and secondly, there are memories from a not-so-nice time.
I haven't used the words in the order in which they were given, or indeed all of them, as I usually do.
These stories - which I hope to continue over the coming Wednesdays - have been lurking in my head for a long time. And some days ago I realised that most people I know no longer remember the days when the Iron Curtain was a normal part of everyday life. And that many young people have a glorified image of life behind the Iron Curtain.
That's why I've told small sections of this story several times to several different people. Now I had to write it down.
I went to the International High School. The thirst for adventure and the desire to travel were my main motivational factors, and then the atmosphere of belonging, of being safe, and having a place in the bigger sceme of things. These were people you felt you could trust.
The first time at the school was euphoric, I was finally part of a community, we sang and drank endless amounts of tea. We studied for driver's license together, and as I was one of the first to pass the theroretical part, I continued studying with the others until everyone had passed sometime in October! I memorised the theory, including the difficult part with hydraulics and vacuum brakes.
There was a "go home" weekend every third weekend. I don't remember much about them, but I do remember the feeling of coming home to school. The guitar music, the songs, and the hot tea in the dining hall after the cold bike ride from the station warmed me to my bones. Even though after a while we were divided into two groups - the ideologues and the rest of us. You had to watch your words when an ideologue was around, so most of the time we sat in small groups with those we trusted around the rooms.
Fortunately, in my group there weren't many ideologues. There was one of the other groups that was really bad. The worst of us was probably one of my roommates, Anniken. Most of the others were pretty "normal" - and had a thousand different reasons for going there.
We got our driving licence, read about the countries we were going to visit, brushed up some languages, repaired the buses, packed, and were ready for the big journey. On a sunny day in October, we finally left. We said our goodbyes to parents, siblings and friends who had come to see us off. We travelled through the GDR, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, etc. to experience the communist paradise.
It didn't seem very paradisal to me. It was as if the colours of life were gone. In Prague, which was otherwise a beautiful city, there were still bullet holes in the walls from World War II and people were queuing for a meal at the local soup kitchen. We went to the Revolutionary Museum, which was in an old mansion, but we didn't see the Charles Bridge or the Tajn Church or any of the other beautiful things.
What I tell you in this chapter applies to Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria, Hungary, Romania and to some extent Yugoslavia. Czechoslovakia was just the country we spent the most time in, so most of the examples are from there. In Yugoslavia, things were a bit better. People were more optimistic, more active. Tito's manoeuvring between the US and the SSSR gave more wiggle room and thus hope to the people.
Red Star over Czechoslovakia (a song, we wrote - literal translation)
Czechoslovakia is a country in the east,
we crossed the border, time has turned into autumn,
We croosed beautiful mountains, but then we got no further.
When we reached Prague, our dear bus broke down.
There is a lot of industry in this country.
The farms are big with many big machines ...
As the song tells, one of the buses broke down when we reached Prague and there was a big fuss to get it repaired. The local ČSAD (bus lines - still existing today) workshop was unwilling to lend us any tools to repair it - the bus had broken down right outside the workshop, so it wasn't like we had to go far with the tools. In the end, a West German couple on a family visit ended up helping with the repairs.
While some of our group struggled to repair the bus, the rest of us went on "investigations". That is, we travelled on a local train with wooden seats and were dropped off in small towns along the line in threes. We then had to be at the station again the next day at the same time. My group went to the local grocery store and found a German-speaking, motherly-looking lady who very insistently invited us to the sauna when we started questioning her about political issues and daily life in Bulgaria.
Inside the sauna, she told us that she and her husband had built it themselves, so there were no microphones. And then she went through the system from A to Z. It killed all initiative by cancelling private property rights, it destroyed families with mistrust and espionage. And so on and so forth.
Dagens skriverier er noget anderledes end de plejer at være. For det første er det totalt selvbiografisk, for det andet er der minder fra en ikke så vidundelig tid.
Jeg har heller ikke, som jeg plejer, brugt ordene i den rækkefølge, vi har fået dem, eller den alle sammen.
De historier - jeg håber at fortsætte de kommende onsdage - har længe ligget og luret i mit hoved. Og forleden gik det op for mig, at de fleste jeg kender, ikke længere husker den tid hvor jerntæppet var en normal del af hverdagen. Og at mange af de unge har et forherliget billede af livet bag jerntæppet.
Derfor har jeg fortal små afsnit af denne historie flere gange for flere forskellige. Nu måtte jeg så hellere få det skrevet ned.
Jeg tog på Den Internationale Efterskole. Eventyrlysten og udlængselen var de to største faktorer, og så trygheden. Der var folk det føltes som om man kunne stole på. Den første tid på skolen var euforisk, jeg var endelig en del af et fællesskab, vi sang og drak uanede mængder af te hver aften. Vi læste teori sammen, og da jeg bestod som en af de første, læste jeg videre sammen med de andre til alle havde bestået en gang i oktober! Jeg kunne teorien, også den svære del med hydraulik og vacuumbremser udenad.
Der var hjemrejse-weekend hver tredje weekend. Dem kan jeg ikke huske ret meget fra, men jeg husker følelsen af at komme hjem til skolen. Guitarklangene, sangene - for vi sang virkelig meget - og den varme te i salen efter den kolde cykeltur fra stationen varmede helt ned i tæerne. Også selv om vi efter et stykke tid deltes i to grupper - ideologerne og os andre. Man skulle vogte sine ord, når en ideolog var i nærheden, så for det meste sad vi i små grupper med dem vi stolede på, rundt omkring på værelserne.
I min gruppe var der heldigvis ikke så mange ideologer. Der var en af de andre grupper, der var virkelig slem. Den værste hos os var nok en af mine værelseskammerater, Anniken. De fleste andre var ret "normale" - og havde 1000 forskellige grunde til at gå der.
Vi fik taget kørekort, studerede de lande, vi skulle rejse til og lidt sprog, sat busser i stand og pakket. Så var vi klar til den store rejse. En solskinsdag i oktober tog vi så endelig afsted. Vi tog rørende afsked med forældre, søskende og venner der var kommet for at vinke. Vi rejste ned gennem DDR, Tjekkoslovakiet, Jugoslavien, Bulgarien osv, for at opleve det kommunistiske paradis. På mig virkede det nu ikke særligt paradisisk. Det var ligesom farverne i tilværelsen var væk. I Prag, der ellers var en smuk by, var der stadig skudhuller i murene fra 2. verdenskrig og folk stod i kø for at få et måltid i det lokale suppekøkken. Vi var på revolutionsmuseet, der lå i en gammel herskabslejlighed, men vi så ikke Karlsbroen eller Tajn-kirken eller nogen af alle de andre skønne ting.
Det, jeg fortæller i dette kapitel, gælder for Tjekkoslovakiet, Bulgarien, Ungarn, Rumænien og til dels Jugoslavien. Tjekkoslovakiet var bare det land, vi brugte mest tid i, derfor er de fleste eksempler derfra. I Jugoslavien var det hele lidt bedre. Folk var mere optimistiske, mere aktive. Titos manøvrering mellem USA og SSSR gav mere frihed og dermed håb til befolkningen.
Rød stjerne over Tjekkoslovakiet (en sang, vi skrev)
Tjekkoslovakiet er et land i øst,
vi tog over grænsen, det var blevet høst,
over flotte bjerge, men så var det slut
da vi nåede Prag var motoren kaput.
Her i landet er der meget industri.
Gårdene er store med maskiner i ...
Som sangen siger, gik en af busserne itu, da vi nåede Prag, og der var stor ståhej med at få den repareret. Det lokale ČSAD-værksted (busselskabet) ville ikke på vilkår låne noget som helst værktøj ud, så vi kunne reparere - bussen var gået i stå lige uden for værkstedet, så det var ikke fordi vi skulle langt væk med værktøjet. Det endte med at et Vesttysk ægtepar på familiebesøg hjalp med reparationerne.
Mens nogle stykker sled med at reparere bussen, tog vi andre på undersøgelse. Det vil sige at vi tog med et bumletog med træsæder og blev smidt af i små byer langs vejen tre og tre - i treere blev det kaldt. Vi skulle så være på stationen igen næste dag på samme tid. Vi gik til den lokale købmand og fandt der en tysk-talende moderligt udssende dame, der meget insisterende inviterede os i sauna, da vi begyndte at udspørge hende om politiske emner og dagliglvet i Bulgarien.
Inde i saunaen fortalte hun at den havde hun og hendes mand selv bygget, så der var garanteret ingen mikrofoner. Og så gennemheglede hun ellers systemet fra a til z. Det dræbte al initiativ ved at ophæve ejendomsretten, det ødelagde familierne med mistillid og spionage. Og så videre.
This challenge started a long time ago. Now it has turned into a movable feast with Elephant's Child as our coordinator; and the Words provided by a number of people.
The general idea of this challenge is to make us write. Poems, stories, subtitles, tales, jokes, haiku, crosswords, puns, ... you're the boss.
Use all Words, some Words, one Word, or even none of them if that makes your creative juices flow. Anything goes, only please nothing rude or vulgar.
It is also a challenge, where the old saying "The more the merrier" holds true.
So Please, remember to follow the links, go back and read other peoples' stories. And please leave a comment after reading. Challenges like this one thrives on interaction, feedback and encouragement. And we ALL need encouragement.
-- ☭ --
The prompts for every Wednesday in January are provided by Elephant's Child, and made public at her blog.
For today we had these words:
Camel
Bone
Carving
Application
River
And/or
Shock
Crown
Today's writing is a little different than usual. Firstly, it's totally autobiographical, and secondly, there are memories from a not-so-nice time.
I haven't used the words in the order in which they were given, or indeed all of them, as I usually do.
These stories - which I hope to continue over the coming Wednesdays - have been lurking in my head for a long time. And some days ago I realised that most people I know no longer remember the days when the Iron Curtain was a normal part of everyday life. And that many young people have a glorified image of life behind the Iron Curtain.
That's why I've told small sections of this story several times to several different people. Now I had to write it down.
I went to the International High School. The thirst for adventure and the desire to travel were my main motivational factors, and then the atmosphere of belonging, of being safe, and having a place in the bigger sceme of things. These were people you felt you could trust.
The first time at the school was euphoric, I was finally part of a community, we sang and drank endless amounts of tea. We studied for driver's license together, and as I was one of the first to pass the theroretical part, I continued studying with the others until everyone had passed sometime in October! I memorised the theory, including the difficult part with hydraulics and vacuum brakes.
There was a "go home" weekend every third weekend. I don't remember much about them, but I do remember the feeling of coming home to school. The guitar music, the songs, and the hot tea in the dining hall after the cold bike ride from the station warmed me to my bones. Even though after a while we were divided into two groups - the ideologues and the rest of us. You had to watch your words when an ideologue was around, so most of the time we sat in small groups with those we trusted around the rooms.
Fortunately, in my group there weren't many ideologues. There was one of the other groups that was really bad. The worst of us was probably one of my roommates, Anniken. Most of the others were pretty "normal" - and had a thousand different reasons for going there.
We got our driving licence, read about the countries we were going to visit, brushed up some languages, repaired the buses, packed, and were ready for the big journey. On a sunny day in October, we finally left. We said our goodbyes to parents, siblings and friends who had come to see us off. We travelled through the GDR, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, etc. to experience the communist paradise.
It didn't seem very paradisal to me. It was as if the colours of life were gone. In Prague, which was otherwise a beautiful city, there were still bullet holes in the walls from World War II and people were queuing for a meal at the local soup kitchen. We went to the Revolutionary Museum, which was in an old mansion, but we didn't see the Charles Bridge or the Tajn Church or any of the other beautiful things.
What I tell you in this chapter applies to Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria, Hungary, Romania and to some extent Yugoslavia. Czechoslovakia was just the country we spent the most time in, so most of the examples are from there. In Yugoslavia, things were a bit better. People were more optimistic, more active. Tito's manoeuvring between the US and the SSSR gave more wiggle room and thus hope to the people.
Red Star over Czechoslovakia (a song, we wrote - literal translation)
Czechoslovakia is a country in the east,
we crossed the border, time has turned into autumn,
We croosed beautiful mountains, but then we got no further.
When we reached Prague, our dear bus broke down.
There is a lot of industry in this country.
The farms are big with many big machines ...
As the song tells, one of the buses broke down when we reached Prague and there was a big fuss to get it repaired. The local ČSAD (bus lines - still existing today) workshop was unwilling to lend us any tools to repair it - the bus had broken down right outside the workshop, so it wasn't like we had to go far with the tools. In the end, a West German couple on a family visit ended up helping with the repairs.
While some of our group struggled to repair the bus, the rest of us went on "investigations". That is, we travelled on a local train with wooden seats and were dropped off in small towns along the line in threes. We then had to be at the station again the next day at the same time. My group went to the local grocery store and found a German-speaking, motherly-looking lady who very insistently invited us to the sauna when we started questioning her about political issues and daily life in Bulgaria.
Inside the sauna, she told us that she and her husband had built it themselves, so there were no microphones. And then she went through the system from A to Z. It killed all initiative by cancelling private property rights, it destroyed families with mistrust and espionage. And so on and so forth.
-- ☭ --
Dagens skriverier er noget anderledes end de plejer at være. For det første er det totalt selvbiografisk, for det andet er der minder fra en ikke så vidundelig tid.
Jeg har heller ikke, som jeg plejer, brugt ordene i den rækkefølge, vi har fået dem, eller den alle sammen.
De historier - jeg håber at fortsætte de kommende onsdage - har længe ligget og luret i mit hoved. Og forleden gik det op for mig, at de fleste jeg kender, ikke længere husker den tid hvor jerntæppet var en normal del af hverdagen. Og at mange af de unge har et forherliget billede af livet bag jerntæppet.
Derfor har jeg fortal små afsnit af denne historie flere gange for flere forskellige. Nu måtte jeg så hellere få det skrevet ned.
Jeg tog på Den Internationale Efterskole. Eventyrlysten og udlængselen var de to største faktorer, og så trygheden. Der var folk det føltes som om man kunne stole på. Den første tid på skolen var euforisk, jeg var endelig en del af et fællesskab, vi sang og drak uanede mængder af te hver aften. Vi læste teori sammen, og da jeg bestod som en af de første, læste jeg videre sammen med de andre til alle havde bestået en gang i oktober! Jeg kunne teorien, også den svære del med hydraulik og vacuumbremser udenad.
Der var hjemrejse-weekend hver tredje weekend. Dem kan jeg ikke huske ret meget fra, men jeg husker følelsen af at komme hjem til skolen. Guitarklangene, sangene - for vi sang virkelig meget - og den varme te i salen efter den kolde cykeltur fra stationen varmede helt ned i tæerne. Også selv om vi efter et stykke tid deltes i to grupper - ideologerne og os andre. Man skulle vogte sine ord, når en ideolog var i nærheden, så for det meste sad vi i små grupper med dem vi stolede på, rundt omkring på værelserne.
I min gruppe var der heldigvis ikke så mange ideologer. Der var en af de andre grupper, der var virkelig slem. Den værste hos os var nok en af mine værelseskammerater, Anniken. De fleste andre var ret "normale" - og havde 1000 forskellige grunde til at gå der.
Vi fik taget kørekort, studerede de lande, vi skulle rejse til og lidt sprog, sat busser i stand og pakket. Så var vi klar til den store rejse. En solskinsdag i oktober tog vi så endelig afsted. Vi tog rørende afsked med forældre, søskende og venner der var kommet for at vinke. Vi rejste ned gennem DDR, Tjekkoslovakiet, Jugoslavien, Bulgarien osv, for at opleve det kommunistiske paradis. På mig virkede det nu ikke særligt paradisisk. Det var ligesom farverne i tilværelsen var væk. I Prag, der ellers var en smuk by, var der stadig skudhuller i murene fra 2. verdenskrig og folk stod i kø for at få et måltid i det lokale suppekøkken. Vi var på revolutionsmuseet, der lå i en gammel herskabslejlighed, men vi så ikke Karlsbroen eller Tajn-kirken eller nogen af alle de andre skønne ting.
Det, jeg fortæller i dette kapitel, gælder for Tjekkoslovakiet, Bulgarien, Ungarn, Rumænien og til dels Jugoslavien. Tjekkoslovakiet var bare det land, vi brugte mest tid i, derfor er de fleste eksempler derfra. I Jugoslavien var det hele lidt bedre. Folk var mere optimistiske, mere aktive. Titos manøvrering mellem USA og SSSR gav mere frihed og dermed håb til befolkningen.
Rød stjerne over Tjekkoslovakiet (en sang, vi skrev)
Tjekkoslovakiet er et land i øst,
vi tog over grænsen, det var blevet høst,
over flotte bjerge, men så var det slut
da vi nåede Prag var motoren kaput.
Her i landet er der meget industri.
Gårdene er store med maskiner i ...
Som sangen siger, gik en af busserne itu, da vi nåede Prag, og der var stor ståhej med at få den repareret. Det lokale ČSAD-værksted (busselskabet) ville ikke på vilkår låne noget som helst værktøj ud, så vi kunne reparere - bussen var gået i stå lige uden for værkstedet, så det var ikke fordi vi skulle langt væk med værktøjet. Det endte med at et Vesttysk ægtepar på familiebesøg hjalp med reparationerne.
Mens nogle stykker sled med at reparere bussen, tog vi andre på undersøgelse. Det vil sige at vi tog med et bumletog med træsæder og blev smidt af i små byer langs vejen tre og tre - i treere blev det kaldt. Vi skulle så være på stationen igen næste dag på samme tid. Vi gik til den lokale købmand og fandt der en tysk-talende moderligt udssende dame, der meget insisterende inviterede os i sauna, da vi begyndte at udspørge hende om politiske emner og dagliglvet i Bulgarien.
Inde i saunaen fortalte hun at den havde hun og hendes mand selv bygget, så der var garanteret ingen mikrofoner. Og så gennemheglede hun ellers systemet fra a til z. Det dræbte al initiativ ved at ophæve ejendomsretten, det ødelagde familierne med mistillid og spionage. Og så videre.
mandag den 22. januar 2024
Poetry Monday :: Teachers
Of course we have teachers in school, but elsewhere as well.
In my neighbourhood lived a man called the watchmaker. Either he just went under my radar as I was a child, or he was very shy, or worked very much, because I never remember seeing him around. He was known for writing songs to the yearly Revue in our town (Revues in Denmark are/were more satirical, political and funny than daring). His songs taught me much of rhyme, metrics and so on.
In my youth many poets and writers lived 'normal' lives, and were poets on the sideline, and often under a pen-name. The author of today's poem The Evensong Bells are A-tolling. was more of a public figure. He ran a newspaper, was co-editor of another and owned a theatre. This does not prevent me from only discovering him recently - he died in 1899, so I might be excused.
For many years I thought many of his songs were old, anonymous pieces, maybe because he sometimes recycled old folk tunes or modern instrumental pieces for his lyrics. But for this one he actually wrote both words and score.
The evensong bells are a-tolling.
The snow gently falling, the days short and dark
The nun in the chapel sings praise like a lark.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
The knight in a jousting was wounded and bled,
His cheeks were so pale and his tunic all red.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.
The knight in the abbey must stay into spring
The nun tends his wounds and she prays while she sings.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
She prays at his cot, gently easing his plight,
Alone in the chapel she weeps out of sight.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.
The flowers were blooming, and everything grew
The knight had his horse saddled up, bade adieu.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
He rode from the abbey with songs of renown.
The nun in her cell quiet sat, not a sound.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.
The flowers are wilting, the leaves turning brown.
The knight in his keep let his wedding be known.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
The nun picks the roses, the last to be found
Binds them to a wreath, for the bride as a crown.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.
The Danish original:
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave
Og sneen den føg så vide om jord,
men nonnen hun sang i det hellige kor:
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Og ridderen kom fra den blodige leg.
Så rød var hans brynje, hans kind var så bleg.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!
Og ridderen blev derinde til vår,
og nonnen ham plejed' og lægte hans sår.
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Hun bad ved hans leje så mangen en bøn,
hun bragte ham trøst, men selv græd hun i løn.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!
Da løvet blev grønt og fuglene sang,
sig ridderen atter i sadelen svang.
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Han jog gennem lunden med jublende røst,
men inde i cellen sad nonnen så tyst.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!
Da blomsterne visned' og bladene faldt,
hans bryllup på borgen man fejrede alt.
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Men nonnen hun plukked' de sidste, hun fandt,
til bruden, den glade, i krans hun dem bandt.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!
- - - - - -
Upcoming topics:
January 29: Flight
February 5: Basket
February 12: Toes
February 19: Spice
February 26: Ants
In my neighbourhood lived a man called the watchmaker. Either he just went under my radar as I was a child, or he was very shy, or worked very much, because I never remember seeing him around. He was known for writing songs to the yearly Revue in our town (Revues in Denmark are/were more satirical, political and funny than daring). His songs taught me much of rhyme, metrics and so on.
In my youth many poets and writers lived 'normal' lives, and were poets on the sideline, and often under a pen-name. The author of today's poem The Evensong Bells are A-tolling. was more of a public figure. He ran a newspaper, was co-editor of another and owned a theatre. This does not prevent me from only discovering him recently - he died in 1899, so I might be excused.
For many years I thought many of his songs were old, anonymous pieces, maybe because he sometimes recycled old folk tunes or modern instrumental pieces for his lyrics. But for this one he actually wrote both words and score.
The evensong bells are a-tolling.
The snow gently falling, the days short and dark
The nun in the chapel sings praise like a lark.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
The knight in a jousting was wounded and bled,
His cheeks were so pale and his tunic all red.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.
The knight in the abbey must stay into spring
The nun tends his wounds and she prays while she sings.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
She prays at his cot, gently easing his plight,
Alone in the chapel she weeps out of sight.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.
The flowers were blooming, and everything grew
The knight had his horse saddled up, bade adieu.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
He rode from the abbey with songs of renown.
The nun in her cell quiet sat, not a sound.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.
The flowers are wilting, the leaves turning brown.
The knight in his keep let his wedding be known.
In the cloister the roses are growing.
The nun picks the roses, the last to be found
Binds them to a wreath, for the bride as a crown.
The evensong bells are a-tolling, a-tolling.
Lyrics and music: Erik Bøgh (1860).
Translation: MotherOwl 2024
Translation: MotherOwl 2024
The Danish original:
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave
Og sneen den føg så vide om jord,
men nonnen hun sang i det hellige kor:
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Og ridderen kom fra den blodige leg.
Så rød var hans brynje, hans kind var så bleg.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!
Og ridderen blev derinde til vår,
og nonnen ham plejed' og lægte hans sår.
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Hun bad ved hans leje så mangen en bøn,
hun bragte ham trøst, men selv græd hun i løn.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!
Da løvet blev grønt og fuglene sang,
sig ridderen atter i sadelen svang.
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Han jog gennem lunden med jublende røst,
men inde i cellen sad nonnen så tyst.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!
Da blomsterne visned' og bladene faldt,
hans bryllup på borgen man fejrede alt.
Der er roser i klostrets have.
Men nonnen hun plukked' de sidste, hun fandt,
til bruden, den glade, i krans hun dem bandt.
Hør klokkerne ringe til ave, til ave!
Erik Bøgh, 1822-99, var som forfatter, komponist og meddirektør
for Kasino i København en flittig leverandør af lystspil og vaudeviller.
Desuden var han redaktør af Folkets Avis og medredaktør af Dagens Nyheder.
for Kasino i København en flittig leverandør af lystspil og vaudeviller.
Desuden var han redaktør af Folkets Avis og medredaktør af Dagens Nyheder.
- - - - - -
Upcoming topics:
January 29: Flight
February 5: Basket
February 12: Toes
February 19: Spice
February 26: Ants
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