Pilgrims’ Progress

Krakow, Poland

What do you do when you turn up in a country where you don’t speak the language and very few people speak English?
Well, I don’t know what you would do, but we went from door to door in our neighbourhood trying to see if anyone would talk to us. We had a Polish student living with us and he would translate and record onto our state-of-the-art walkman, a little saying for us to then learn off by heart….and out we would go.

Hello.
My name is Robert (or Rachela – no, not a spelling mistake; just Polish) 
I come from New Zealand.
I am learning Polish.
This is all I can say.
Thank you.
Goodbye.

That was the first little speech!
A bit later, when we were in the thick of coming to terms with numbers up to the millions (just a loaf of bread cost a couple of thousand), we would carry a piece of paper with a dozen  numbers on it, and say our memorised phrase:

Hello Sir/Madam (we were also learning the way to address people by then)
Please tell me one of these numbers and I will point to it.
(WAIT WHILE THEY PERFORMED AS REQUESTED)
Thank you.
Goodbye.

Slowly, but surely the strange sounds became familiar.
Now they’ve lopped three zeros off each banknote and the numbers are a doddle.
But on the same day recently we both thought of that very “please tell me” sentence!
It was an effective method - our grammar was still perfect.

There were other advantages to our door knocking. We got to know our neighbours. We made friends. Good enough friends to exchange the three kisses on the cheek upon meeting (just the girls, that is!) We were given countless cups of tea and sampled all sorts of homemade Polish delicacies like bigos-off-the-balcony, cakes, sausages and even broad beans (no, really, an old man cooked them for me specially!!) We also met a couple, whose son owned a private language school, and in doing so solved our dilemma of how to make money during the school holidays (at the time we were working at another school, living hand-to-mouth day-by-day, and needed to work in order to eat). We worked the summer camps for the son that year (during which the gherkin exploding episode occurred) and came home with permanent jobs providing much better conditions.

We made contact with this son last week, and today met him at his parents’ place.
The father is now 79, a very spritely 79, too. His mother, a year older. I had thought she might now have grey hair, but no. She is still Pani Redhead, as we affectionately used to call her (Pawel, if you are reading, please use your discretion as to whether or not she should be told of this!!) She might be eight decades old, but there are no pastel colours for her! Their flat is still a vibrant blast of colour, just as we remembered it. As a painter, and a well-known one in Poland, she has plenty of artwork at her disposal for decorating plain walls. She is also fortunate enough to have embroideries stitched by her own mother and other trinkets with special meaning, all artistically arranged.

What a wonderful evening we had. Of course there was sumptuous food (pierogi, bread and ham, cakes and more cakes, apples, grapes – a real feast). Eat, eat eat! Older Polish folk are sure children are always hungry and if they are not, they should be eating anyway. How else do you get to be a nice big fat healthy Babcia? I thought back to sharing Easter lunch with this couple the first year we were here. Red beet soup was on the menu and to us it tasted delicious – our hostess was disappointed that the potatoes in it were not of good standard, not that there was any choice at the time. You bought what you could get.
Funny how little memories come floating back.
We talked and laughed a lot. Pawel found himself translating things we had said in Polish into English supposedly for the benefit of his parents!!! I guess we had never had cause to speak Polish with him, and so he no doubt expected us to be English-dependent. With his parents we had always struggled along with increasing degrees of success in Polish; they were used to us butchering their heart language and were some of the best language helpers, because they were not afraid to correct us. We made a million mistakes tonight, and could have just used Pawel to translate everything, but somehow it is more connecting to communicate directly. The translations to English were fun though! While we chatted, the children found a cat to taunt play with. And there were all the wonderful things hanging on the walls to just look and look and look at.

Upon leaving, Pan Z, the father, took my hand and kissed the back of it.
Ah, that’s right. Poland is so nice. So polite. So cultured. So dignified.
They don’t seem to do it as much now as they used to, but men even tip their hats to ladies in the street. Gentlemen.
It was easy to like living here.

PS We now have an enormous hard-cover book to add to our baggage. A record of all her work, it is signed by Pani Z. We looked through it together, her telling the stories behind many of the paintings, the children picking out which ones they could find on her walls. And then she gifted it to us. What a treasure, even if it is enormous and heavy.

Krakow, Poland

There’s an object lesson in today’s expedition. A Scripture or two to reflect on. But we haven’t yet. We were too busy writing a story. Jgirl15 came up with the outline and then frantically scribbled the main ideas and some sample sentences onto paper. Together we fleshed it out.

CLANG CLANG CLANG
The operator rang a bell and the lift I shared with eight other miners descended, plunging into instant darkness, rattling its way into the depths of the earth.
”Times have changed,” I murmured with ever-present relief. We do not have to fear a slow and insecure ride to the bottom of the shaft in a hemp swing-like seat hanging off a rope as fat as my growing son’s arm. So fearful of falling to the bottom and certain death, were the miners before us, that all the way down, prayers and hymns for safety echoed, bouncing off the walls before being consumed by the darkness. Even with their flickering candles, they couldn’t push away that close darkness surrounding them.
The creaking lift and helmets fitted with torches we are using now have put an end to that. The lift, what a fine piece of technology. It always threatens to drive us occupants into the rock at high speed, but, thankfully, it hasn’t yet. It IS safer.
Down down down……..some 327 metres underground. In earlier times the miners did not go so deeply, but we have dug down to a third level now.  

 

 

I start my work at 8am, using the original hundreds-of-years-old method used for mining salt. My companions and I hammer tar coated wedges into the rock. It’s hard sweaty work, but after much banging there’s an ear-splitting crack and a ten tonne block of salt escapes. It lies still, waiting to be chiselled into three or four blocks and then further chiselled into cylinders. It’s much easier to move a “log” of salt than a block – blocks don’t roll.
Despite being hard work, we proceed with enthusiasm; our wealth is in salt!
Four hundred years ago when this mine was just beginning, salt was being used as a currency. One log of salt could buy a small village – forty houses.
Before extensive mining, the white powder had been extracted from a large saltwater lake, pottery containers of water being boiled over fires to evaporate the water, leaving the precious trade-able commodity behind. But when the lake dried up, the residents of the region began digging, presumably looking for more water. What they found, instead, was salt. A Lot Of Salt. For five hundred years the area will provide both salt and work for many – over 300 kilometres of tunnels will eventually be excavated, a labyrinth extending under the whole town of Wieliczka. There’s wealth in salt alright.

Our work comes to a halt at midday. We’re Polish. We’re Catholic. Most of us walk to the big chapel of our patron saint, Kinga. You could be forgiven for thinking the floor is polished black marble, but, just like the steps we descend, the statues of the saints, the carvings depicting the life of Jesus….they are all made of salt. Of course, perhaps. Salt gives riches not merely measured in monetary terms.
The chapel itself used to be a very large mining chamber until it was transformed into this highly decorated place of worship – actually, it’s not even finished yet. The last carving will not be completed for another half a century, until 1963. People will stand in awe under its shining chandeliers, amazed that even they are made of salt. Pure salt is white or transparent, and special pieces have been taken to create these magnificent lights. They really do sparkle against the blackness of the rest of the salt, salt coloured by being mixed with other stones, rocks and metals.

Before heading back to work I enjoy a small jelly filled with fish and vegetables. I’m rich to have a caring wife, who after years of marriage, still shows her love, making special treats to eat. It’s not that I’d mind gnawing on a poppy seed bread stick like the rest of the crew, but these little delicacies do brighten the darkness.
Strolling through the different chambers, there’s always something new to see. Today I took a different tunnel and found an old unused winch. It had points for coupling horses to, and a seat. Round and round and round the horses used to plod, hour after hour after hour. Someone had to steady their pace and initially this person, too,  with the animals, would plod hour after hour after hour, round and round and round. That was before The Seat. It doesn’t look like much, but it was as desired as a throne. Everyone wanted this job – instead of having to walk at the horses’ side, they could sit, almost at leisure, a rich man.
Nearby was a feedbox, undoubtedly used by the working horses. You know what? When my Great-Grandfather worked as a miner, he helped to transport the horses. With the wealth of stories passed on from one generation to the next, I have heard how the horses were fitted into hemp harnesses and lowered into the darkness, just like the miners themselves. Unsurprisingly, plenty took fright. My predecessor, with a lifetime of handling these beasts, still had trouble calming them as they arrived at their destination. Occasionally, a horse arrived calm; usually it meant it had died of fear on the way down. Needless to say, this was no easy job. Eventually, my great-grandfather, yes one of my very own ancestors, came up with the bright idea in the midst of this darkness to build underground stables, to end the  necessity of daily hoisting. From that time on, once the horses were down, they were destined to live the rest of their lives deep underground. I can imagine hearing the hooves clip-clopping along the salt floors. I prefer not to think of the smell, the heat generated by so many men and animals in such confined spaces.
These days all that is left of those times are the impressive chapels, enormous old winches, crystal-encrusted ladders and tools, some of which are still in use. My favourite would have to be the wooden cart on wheels that is run along a track up and down the inclines – to prevent too many chunks of salt falling out, the front was designed higher than the back. It’s amazing to think that you’ll still be able to see these carts with their original wooden boards in another hundred years’ time. You could even say salt preserves memories.

 

I return to the chamber, where I’ve worked all my time. In the entire history of the mine, every single miner has worked in the very same chamber that they started off in, never changing to another one. Why would you leave a job undone? Sometimes even a few generations work the same chamber. It was – and is – a long slow task. Some say it must be tiring to always be working hard, monotonous to always be doing the same thing day after day, but it’s a special job, and seeing the cavern emerge out of solid wall makes it all worthwhile. Watching the carvers create birds clinging to the ceiling or monks kneeling at a cross or beautiful angels brings me a satisfaction I could not find anywhere else.
Besides, it’s a safe job. I could be mining coal or iron – in unhealthy dangerous conditions. At least I’m not breathing substances that can kill me. I can lick the walls here and it does me no harm! One could even argue it’s beneficial – I mean, we do use salt for preserving our meat and vegetables, and we gargle it whenever anything ails us. It’s funny to think of licking the walls, but I’ll tell you something. In a hundred years’ time people will be descending the same shafts, walking through these tunnels, these chambers, and clambering up the stairs, escorted by tour guides, who will inform them they may lick the walls, but not the carvings. And they’ll do it! Good thing salt kills germs, I say.

I work the afternoon.
I don’t lick the walls.
I take the lift back up again, hurtling through the darkness, towards the outside darkness which blankets our town by mid-afternoon in the winter.
CLANG CLANG CLANG

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SOME RANDOM FACTS, WHICH DID NOT MAKE IT INTO THE STORY:

• the mine is kept at 14 degrees celsius year round – which makes it much warmer than the outside temperature for most of the year, and cooler in summer
• every miner is (and has been from the beginning of the mine’s existence) issued with a special uniform. In times past they were also given decorated ceremonial axes; now they are given something else instead, which the tour guide told us, but which none of us can remember the details of!
• way back at the beginning of the mine being dug, hooded men would crawl through the tunnels carrying long poles with a fire on the end of them. It is believed the fire would burn up pockets of methane, ensuring the tunnel would then be safe for other miners to proceed into. Of course, this was a dangerous – or even deadly – job when a large amount of methane was encountered.
• when the miners had tallow lights, it made the black salt appear green, and so the salt was called, for quite some time, green salt.
• some of the salt crystals are perfect cubes.
• there’s a museum to visit at the end of the mine tour, but it was not mentioned by our particular guide. Like the mine tour, you are required to go through with a guide, and although they do hurry you through the exhibits, we would highly recommend the museum to anyone, who happens to go there. It was a pricey day (although a lot cheaper than taking a tour from Krakow – we caught the bus out to Wieliczka ourselves), but money well spent. We had heard the mine itself was awe-inspiring, and indeed it was. But no-one had mentioned the 380 steps down a mineshaft, the three kilometre circuit you end up walking, the hunks of salt that a miner will rip from the walls and ceilings to give children to take home, the underground lakes, the pre-recorded “performances” by statues, the light shows, the winches, the whole forest of tree trunks supporting walls, the paintings, the statues of famous visitors like Copernicus and Goethe, the dioramas….it was so much more than we expected.

 

 

Krakow, Poland Well, my dear boy, speak for yourself! YOU may have done nothing, but someone went to the market this morning to buy our food for the day. So I could write about the things I saw, the conversations I ... [Continue reading this entry]

Krakow, Poland  Letterboxes. You wouldn’t think there’s much to say about a letterbox, would you? But they symbolise today’s observations. Down in the lobby of our inner-city hostel, just like in all the other old buildings and new apartments in Poland, ... [Continue reading this entry]

Meteora, Greece

neither monks-n-nuns nor monasteries nor mountains nor magnificence

the approach along a long straight road across the plain

[Continue reading this entry]

Itea, Greece Main roads tend to get you places quickly. Time not being of the essence, we prefer the back roads. Then you get to see the Corinth Canal, and pull over and get out of the vans and take ... [Continue reading this entry]

Athens, Greece Is it plagiarism when you write an email to someone and then publish it on your blog? I think not, if it is your own work! Dear Dad (known on this blog as Grandpa), I'm sitting here struggling to find words ... [Continue reading this entry]

Paestum, Italy A quiet day at the beach with pictures of clear blue water reflecting clear blue sky, a heat haze shimmering on the horizon, just might be too taunting a post two days in a row. But looking through ... [Continue reading this entry]

Battipaglia, Italy As a child, neapolitan meant icecream to me. Chocolate, strawberry, vanilla. Of course, it is also “of naples”. And today that’s where we went.

 

We only spent a couple of hours in the historic town ... [Continue reading this entry]

by Rach hovering just above the coast near Narbonne, looking out at the Mediterranean Sea It doesn’t seem that long ago that we were desperately in search of sun. Today we, with the rest of the population in the south, looked ... [Continue reading this entry]