All posts by wievielfarbenhatdiewelt

Schreibgarten

Vielleicht so etwas wie Liebe

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Auf der Terrasse hattest du mich gefunden.

Zersplitterte Freude klebte auf dem Boden.

Ich saß an diesem Tag ganz unten ,

zwischen den feuchtmoosgrünen Grassoden.

 

Aus tiefen, zugeklebten Abgründen

rotzte ich Auswürfe oberflächlicher Heiterkeit.

Du sagtest, du wolltest mich nie wieder traurig finden,

du sagtest, es sei jetzt an der Zeit.

 

Du sammeltest mich auf neben dem üppigen Rucola,

zwei Krümel und ein schüchternes Lachen.

Du sagtest, Sorgen wären immer da,

es lohne nicht sich einen Kopf zu machen.

 

Loszulassen hatte ich lang vergessen.

Es schwirrten abendlichttanzende Funken.

Wir haben eine Weile dort gesessen,

haben uns in zeitlose Laken gewunden.

 

Sich in dich zu verlieben war nicht schwer,

in dir zu versinken war ein Traum.

Wie die Januarsonne war ich völlig leer,

wie hungrig ich war, merkte ich kaum.

 

Zwei Raubtiere drinnen ohne Außenwelt,

kopflose Traumstunden verbrachten wir dort.

Du sagtest, dass dir meine Wortlosigkeit am besten gefällt –

Wie echt sind Gefühle ohne ein gesprochenes Wort?

 

Des anderen Welt konnten wir nie verstehen,

uns nicht mehr vor- oder rückwärts manövrieren.

Wir konnten keinen Schritt gemeinsam gehen,

uns nur am Ort der Kirschblüte verlieren.

 

Und maßlos fielen wir in den anderen ein,

folgten einem verzweifelten Triebe.

Und mit den Worten kam das Schreien.

Vielleicht war es so etwas wie Liebe.

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Schreibgarten

I can`t have you to stay

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I`m on the road, I`m on the run,

I just wanna freak, I wanna have fun,

no boundaries,

no responsibilities,

wanna make at least

something special out of every day,

and therefore I can`t have you to stay.

 

I do need someone who cares

though, who shares

the same thoughts and longings

without becoming

more than a good friend.

Because I know how such things end,

with me –

I will always flee

into the free

as soon as I start to see:

you caring too much.

You know what sucks?

I really liked you, liked the us,

but you started wanting too much.

You building cages, you always wanting to discuss

what is “us”

and all this further fuss

that goes with anything more than friendship.

 

So I can`t have you to stay, I`m sorry friend,

You know how it ends,

with me.

You should be able to see

I have to be free,

I have to watch my fringe

I have to spread my wings,

and my hormones all over the place,

so don`t try to track and trace me

It doesn`t work this way.

You can`t make me care more,

that`s for sure,

because I don`t even know what I`m looking for,

I think, probably for nothing, really, so far.

Too many times I`ve felt the pain

of having met someone in total vain,

I just don`t ever want to feel it again.

So don`t you complain,

you should be grateful I don`t obey you,

because I am the one here saving your heart, too.

 

And at the end of the day

we won`t find in each other what we are looking for anyway.

So I am sorry but you just can`t stay.

 

Observing daily life

Beards with men – a victim`s view on facial hair

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To all men out there who have not started to grow a beard yet: Don`t start! To those who recently have: Stop it. Right now! Stop the growth. We do have plenty of beards now! (To those few who already had beards before the big hype: You are allowed to keep them.)

Of course, guys, it is no question, they are the most sexy thing e.v.e.r. about men. But all of you now suddenly realizing it still doesn`t make it a must-have for everyone! Beard-beginners, you are too late! Don`t bother to get started now. Evolution went on. Women are not used to so much visual sexiness. It`s meant to appear in small doses only. We can`t cope with it.

Did you ever take a break to think about what it does to us? Do you even know how many women secretly suffer from uncontrolled sweating, speechlessness, fainting and other psychological based physical threats? Imagine the majority of us walking around naked! Tossing our long hair over skinny shoulders and our bare, sunlit breasts. How would that feel, huh? Yea, probably you`re smiling now, childishly wishing for it to be true! But I bet after the first excited week you`d get pretty annoyed by getting distracting fantasies and a hard on at every. single. corner.

Also, guys, this one-type-restriction doesn`t really fit into the free market economy. We get to decide from over 30 types of toothpastes but only between beard, beard and … beard? (And, well, some without any.) What happened to all the variety? It`s not fair. It`s not clever. From the marketing point of view it gets pretty boring, for us. For you it gets pretty exciting now though. Suddenly there`s beard wash and beard oil and beard combs and beard conditioner and beard everything! I do understand you are getting tempted. But despite what media tells you, beards are still not an appropriate accessory for everyone. A beard is meant to show the man. Not the other way round.

Some time ago there were some men with beards. You knew what you got with a man with a beard, back then. They were men who didn`t give a shit about skin care or their online reputation. They were men who didn`t have facebook. They were men who had landline phones, which they were strong enough to let unanswered sometimes. And they were men who loved to spend their time outside in the woods, who went camping and rented rowboats for a laugh. They were men who didn`t have hay-and-milk-and-gluten-and-cat-and-whatever-allergies! They were men who knew how to make a proper bonfire. And they were men who had a secret blanket for a woman when it got chilly.

Nowadays there are thousands of beards with men. There are thousands of beards on top of suits, beards on full wifi, beards on expensive-gluten-free-smoothies, beards on crammed tubes chatting on headsets, on whatsapp, on instagram. They are urban indoor beards. They are beards who never rest, beards who have never made a bonfire. And they are beards whose brains have been too busy to think of a blanket for the woman when it gets chilly.

Beards forget the men they hang on nowadays. And we women are left in a cold heavy sexy rain shower of too much facial hair, that looks all tempting but only on the rarest occasions meets the expectations we have of men with beards. Where are the male beings to collect bonfire wood with? To cuddle up to under the blanket when it gets chilly? (In peace and silence and romance.) You know, we are still wishing for proper knights, bandits, princes, taking us far away on horses, no matter if they have beards or not. But it seems we are mostly left helplessly in a modern world of assholes hiding behind fashionable face-haircuts, pretending to be what most of them aren`t. Please, men, be yourself! Conquer our hearts with honesty, not with beards! Don`t let you get carried away by a trend. Don`t show what you don`t have. Think twice (at least!) if a striking bunch of hair is really necessary for you or if you still know other ways to impress us. Please, stop being so boring by relying on your beards. And, please, for fuck`s sake, stop being so goddamn sexy!

Observing daily life

Abenteuer Müllsammeln. Lieber gefunden als überflüssig.

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Discounter sind ja der Tod von allem. Ist ja bekannt. Der Tod vom gesunden Preis-Leistungs-Gefühl, von guter Sitte und Ethik, von Bescheidenheit und Qualitätssensibilität, von unzähligen unglücklichen Schweinen und nicht zuletzt immer wieder auch von armen Menschen in fernen Ländern. Sperrmüll hingegen ist gut. Sperrmüll töten niemanden. Meistens jedenfalls. Seitdem Müll als Recyclingmaterial etwas wert ist, kleben – zumindest vor freistehenden Kleinbürgerhäusern auf dem Lande – gerne diese roten Zettel an rausgestellten halbdefekten Kühlschränken und brüchigen Keramikkübeln. Darauf steht: „Eigentum des Abfallunternehmens ASO Kreis Osterholz. Mitnahme verboten!“ – oder so ähnlich. Vielleicht auch noch etwas anderes, denn eigentlich lese ich diese Zettel nicht so genau. Genaugenommen ignoriere ich sie gerne, wenn ich mein Auto nachts leise auf mondscheindunklen Straßen parke um schnell und heimlich ein paar marode Haushaltsgegenstände wegzuschleppen, einzuladen und mich dann mit quietschenden Reifen breit grinsend wie ein Held fühle, davongekommen zu sein. Ha! Mich kriegt ihr nicht. Jedenfalls bis neulich nicht, als ich vertieft halb im Müllhaufen verschwunden war und dabei nicht gehört hatte, dass sich ein Bauer mit seiner Forke herangeschlichen hatte, bis er brüllte „Hey! Was soll denn das werden? Kommen Sie mal ganz schnell da raus!“ Da ich im dunklen nicht so gut argumentieren kann – vor allem nicht mit Menschen, die Müllmitnahme als illegale Aktivität ansehen – sprang ich aus dem Haufen und hielt wegrennen für das Beste. In seiner Rechtsauffassung bestärkt, rannte mir der Mann in seinen Gummistiefeln natürlich speerschwingend hinterher, aber Ha! Mich kriegt ihr nicht! I am the queen of getting by on the cheap. Und meistens funktioniert das auch ganz reibungslos.

Noch besser als Zufallsfunde sind nur geplante Plünderaktionen. Meine Müllsammelaktivitäten haben inzwischen professionelle Züge angenommen, sind längst kein Zufallsprodukt mehr, sondern werden gezielt angesteuert. So wie viele andere junge Menschen, die sich in rotzigen Turnschuhen gegen den Wohlstand verschworen haben, es heutzutage auch tun; sie sind vernetzt und sprechen sich ab. Somit groove ich also geradewegs auf einer Nebenspur des Sharing-Hypes vor mich hin. Wobei meine Strategie weniger das Teilen, als das schlichte an mich Reißen ist: Müllsammeln nach Flohmärkten! Flohmärkte sind ja oftmals gruselige Frauenklischees, in die hilflose Männer, loyal wie sie sind, mit hineingezogen werden: Übertöpfe gucken! Ooh, guck mal ist der schön! Für einen Mann gibt es wohl kaum etwas langweiligeres als Übertöpfe. Aber zur Endzeit der Veranstaltung aufkreuzen und nehmen, was übrig bleibt, ist für beide Geschlechter toll. Manchmal beobachte ich, wie ein regelrechtes Bonding stattfindet, wenn ein Pärchen gemeinsam kopfüber in einer Mülltonne hängt und entscheidet, was für die gemeinsame Wohnung noch gebraucht wird oder nicht. Solchen Paaren lasse ich dann doch immer, romantisch mitfühlend, den Vortritt zu Tonne oder Haufen. Was nach Flohmärkten weggeschmissen wird, ist eine beschämende Menge brauchbaren Zeugs. Zu den Schmuckstücken meiner letzten Funde gehörten eine Sackkarre, eine Hängematte, ein Tisch, ein roter Mantel – alles Dinge, die hervorragend in Lücken passten, die mein Hausstand noch zu füllen hatte. Und was ich wirklich nicht brauche, kann weitergegeben werden. Alles besser als wegschmeißen.

Das allerbeste am Müllsammeln ist allerdings, dass einem die Entscheidungen der Überflussgesellschaft abgenommen werden. Vor ein paar Tagen bin ich in der Waterfront – Bremens hipstes Einkaufzentrum – an gefühlten 3 Kilometern Glasscheiben vorbeigelaufen, die im Grunde alle dasselbe zeigen: Mit (teilweise viel) Geld zu erwerbendes vermeintlich gutes Aussehen für Menschen oder Wohnraum. Diese Fenster machen mit mir genau drei Dinge: Sie wecken in mir Bedürfnisse, die ich eigentlich gar nicht habe, sie überfordern mich gedanklich mit potentiellen Entscheidungen, die ich ohnehin nicht treffen werde und sie stoßen mich ab wegen der beiden ersten Gefühle. Als ich meine Begierde wieder unter Kontrolle und mich aus dem Sog der bunten Glitzerwelt befreit hatte, habe ich mich in meinem roten Flohmarkt-Müllhaufen-Mantel in einem der Schaufenster betrachtet und war zufrieden mit dem, was ich sah, aber vor allem glücklich darüber, dass ich durch diesen Fund keine Entscheidung hatte treffen müssen. Der Mantel passte zu mir, sah gut aus und er hatte mich gefunden. Nun besaß ich eben ihn statt einem anderen aus diesen endlosen Fenstern. Warum sollte es komplizierter sein? Und warum sollte man für etwas bezahlen, das sich im Überfluss von den Bäumen pflücken lässt?

Vielleicht weil es Läden wie DEPOT gibt. Hallen von Teufelswerk. Weil jede Frau, die durch dessen gläsernen Tore tritt entweder einen unmenschlichen Willen von Eisen oder einen vorangegangenen Portemonnaiediebstahl braucht, um dort leerhändig wieder rauszukommen. Dieses schreckliche Gefühl, alles plötzlich zu brauchen, diese Schmacht, alles plötzlich schön und schnuckelig zu finden, ist, fürchte ich, wieder mal Frauensache. Männer haben andere Probleme. Eines davon sind zum Beispiel Frauen, die sie zu DEPOT schleppen. Unglücklich und völlig fehl am Platze stehen sie zwischen den bunten Geschenkschleifenspulen und Glasperlendöschen und gucken sich verzweifelt nach irgendetwas Interessantem um. Sie finden nichts. Verkrampft klammern sie sich also an die vielen vollen Einkaufstüten ihrer Frauen. In solchen Läden besteht ihr einzig sinnvoller Zweck darin, diese Tüten zu tragen, um sich in diesem Meer aus Überflüssigem nicht noch überflüssiger zu fühlen. Irgendwann erreicht der bettelnde Blick nach Hause zu gehen durch den Wasserlilienvorhang dann doch das Herz der Frau. Sie stellt seufzend ein rosa Glafläschchen wieder ins Regal und hakt sich in den freien Arm ihres Mannes unter.

Gut, dass Männer uns Frauen rechtzeitig aus Dekoläden betteln. Gut, dass besonders verlockende Einkaufszentren oft an den Peripherien der Städten liegen. Gut, dass viele Menschen erkannt haben, dass neu nicht immer besser ist. Und gut, dass ich auf dem letzten Flohmarkt eine Heugabel gefunden habe, mit der ich dem nächsten Sperrmüllmuffel nun Gegenwehr bieten kann. Es lebe das Abenteuer Müllsammeln!

Observing daily life

Prioritäten – Scherben auf dem Badezimmerfußboden

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Seit zweieinhalb Tagen – also ungefähr 35 mal Pinkeln – starre ich jedes mal, wenn ich auf der wackligen Klobrille sitze, die zerfransten Ränder eines Glases und seine fortgeschleuderten Scherben auf dem Badezimmerfußboden unter dem Waschbecken an. Auch wenn ich zum Zähneputzen, Händewaschen, Haarebürsten, Wasserholen, Tasseausspülen oder Abwaschen hereinkomme, funkeln sie mir entgegen.

Zur Zeit läuft alles, das mit Flüssigkeiten zu tun hat, durch das Badezimmer. Es ist der einzig funktionierende Wasseranschluss. Da passiert es schon mal, dass beim Abwaschen aus der Hocke vom schmalen Rand der Duschwanne ein Glas abrutscht. Es ist nur das allerletzte, das man in so einer provisorischen Gesamtsituation gebrauchen kann! Deshalb liegt es immernoch dort und glitzert unberührt vor sich hin. Obwohl ich den manchmal stärkeren, manchmal schwächeren Impuls es wegzuräumen nicht leugnen kann, hat dieses kaputte Glas in genau dem Moment, als es klirrend auf seinem neuen Platz zu liegen kam, seinen Rang auf der Prioritätenliste zugeteilt bekommen. Das muss es, wie auch ich, akzeptieren.

Im Grunde funktioniert hier alles wie in einem Amt: Wenn jemand hereinkommt, der etwas will, zieht er eine Nummer und muss sich – egal wie dringlich das Anliegen zu sein scheint – gedulden, bis er an der Reihe ist. Andere waren vor ihm da. Die traurige Gastherme, die aus allen Löchern rostet, das modrige Holz, das vor Feuchtigkeit hustet, der Stromversorger, der am Wochenende telefonfrei hat – sie alle guckten nur kurz gelangweilt von ihren Wartesitzen auf, als das Glas hereingescheppert kam. „Hups, tschuldigung“ stammelte der Scherbenhaufen verlegen und setzte sich leise auf seinen Platz mit dreistelliger Wartenummer. Alle anderen sitzen schon lange dort.

Natürlich gibt es hier einen Schalter für Notfälle: Kotzende Katzen, Funkenflug vorm Ofen, kollabierende Wände und Trockenholzanlieferung bei Hagelschauer – also existenzielle Happenings – werden immer mit erhöhter Priorität behandelt. Dennoch, auch sie der Reihe nach. Sachbearbeiter von flinkem Verstand stellen dafür zu jeder Stunde ihr logisches Blitzabwägen unter Beweis: Ruinieren Katzenkotze oder Glutklumpen schneller den Fußboden? Tragen intakte Fensterdichtungen oder Schamottsteine im Ofen schneller zu überlebenstauglicher Raumtemperatur bei? Und dann müssen sie schnelle und richtige Handlungen einleiten.

Jedenfalls muss das kaputte Glas mit seinem Papierwartenümmerchen in der Hand seufzend feststellen, dass es keine Chance hat, annähernd mit Schimmelflecken oder Stromausfällen zu konkurrieren und wohl noch eine ganze Weile auf den kalten Kacheln vor sich hin glitzern muss, bis seine Zeit gekommen und es an der Reihe ist.

Observing daily life

Sonnenscheinillusionen. Sitzenbleiben ist realistisch

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Schönes Wetter wühlt mich auf, hetzt mich. Anders als das sichere beständige Grau in dem nichts Eile hat.

Quietschfröhlicher Sonnenschein trägt die Stimme meiner Mutter. „Ich versteh´ gar nicht, wie du bei solch einem Wetter drinnen sitzen kannst!“ Doch ich verstehe nicht, wieso schönes Wetter für andere plötzlich ein Zwang zum Rausgehen ist. Dinge zu tun, die man sonst auch nicht tut.

Die hellen Strahlen gucken mich erwartungsvoll an, wie eine aufgebrezelte Freundin, betteln aufgeregt „Nun komm schon, komm schooon!“ Sonnenbefleckte Blätter zappeln und jauchzen „Komm, mach mit!“ Unangenehme Eile frisst sich in meine Zufriedenheit. Ich bin schwach für Erwartungen, will immer Folge leisten. Ja, ich komme schon. Obwohl ich gar nicht weiß wohin und warum.

Ich bleibe sitzen. Einen Moment lang gehen mein Gewissen und die Stimme meiner Mutter gemeinsam potentielle Schönwettertätigkeiten durch. Dann tragen mich die sanft zwischen Licht und Schatten wehenden Halme fort. Zu einer Kette von Kitschbildern, die an Sonnennachmittagen entstanden sind. Zu Hollywoodhappyendszenen mit dramatischem Orchesterklang. An ferne Orte in herzzerreißendem Abendlicht, die ich niemals erreichen würde, selbst wenn ich sofort losrannte.

Sonnenscheinillusionen. Sehnsucht. Seufzen. Sitzenbleiben ist nichts Schlechtes. Sitzenbleiben ist nur realistisch. Das Jauchzen der Sonnenflecken aushalten. Überzeugung finden, sein zu dürfen ohne tun zu müssen.

Observing daily life

Aufbruch – Magische Muster unter weißem Staub

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Langsam bewegt der Fensterrahmen sich im Hauch des Nachtwindes vor und zurück. Manchmal kommt er der leeren Bierflasche bedrohlich nahe. Doch sie scheinen Respekt vorenander zu haben – unausgesprochenes Einvernehmen. Jeder lässt den anderen sein.

Zerknautschte Tücher liegen auf der staubigen Tischplatte, dahingeworfen mitten im Tun, nicht wieder angefasst, weil etwas anderes gerade wichtiger war. In die Staubschicht auf dem Tisch sind Muster gezeichnet – Muster, die beim Hinschauen zu Bewegung erwachen. Der verwackelte Rand einer Flasche, lachend abgestellt, hastig wieder aufgenommen. Die Aufmerksamkeit lag bei etwas anderem, hat den Raum mit Energie erfüllt.

Große, klare Kreise sind gemalt – weiße Eimer standen auf den Spuren, in denen jemand mit einem Stab Masse geschlagen hat. Schweiß und Musik liefen dabei. Ein bisschen Staub rieselt auf den Boden. Der Nachtwind grinst verschmitzt. Müde Imbusse verschiedener Dicke liegen schweigend in einer Kiste und ruhen sich unter einem Hauch weiß aus. Wer weiß, wann das nächste mal jemand nach ihnen greifen wird. Wer weiß, wann sie wieder zu tun haben werden.

Der Rand der gelben Spritzflasche lässt in der Ecke des Zimmers leise einen Tropfen fallen. Er sickert in einen Putzbrösel, der neben vielesgleichen auf dem Laminat gedöst hat. Niemand stört sich. Verschlafen blinzelt er hinüber zu dem erschöpften Staubsauger, dessen silbernes Rohr im fahlen Licht glänzt.

Sie alle haben heute hart gearbeitet. Und dabei nichts beanstandet. Sie haben funktioniert. Haben getan, was von ihnen erwartet wurde. Haben Gelächter und Frohsinn aufgesaugt und eine gute Behandlung erfahren. Nun schlafen sie alle, nebeneinander, wissend, dass sie wertvoll sind, wertgeschätzt werden. Zufrieden ziehen sie die Decke aus Staub noch etwas höher und träumen von morgen.

One year Asia

Lucky, in theory (a Burmese kidney-infection)

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Have you ever had a kidney-infection? I do not hope so, because I can tell you it hurts like hell. Your brain is empty, apart from the permanent pain, the shivering and the desperate wish for it to stop. I am very glad though it wasn’t my first. Because when I felt the strange, slowly rising pain in my back, as we were walking just out of Nyaung-Shwe-village for some days of trekking and camping, I got suspicious. I knew I knew that pain from somewhere! It was not just the shitty mattress and the weight of my backpack. We sat down for the Burmese version of Spaghetti-Bolognese and I suddenly remembered that I´d had a light version of a bladder infection a week ago and hadn´t cured it properly. But I had thought it had gone away. I knew what nightmare was about to happen now. I told the guys I was with to go on and don´t worry because I was sad enough I couldn´t do the camping-trip now – I didn´t want to spoil theirs as well. They hesitated, but went after I forced them to. I tendered my back and sighed while I watched them and their carefree laughter becoming smaller and smaller in the distant of the dusty road, whirling sand swallowed their shapes eventually.

I sighed again and stood up, asked for the next doctor. There was one close by. I entered an open shack, looking like all the other shops and businesses at the side of the main road, only with a white desk and chair in the middle of the empty, shabby room. A very nice female doctor asked me to take a seat. I told her about my pain, my past bladder infection and supposed kidney-infection, and she listened carefully. By then my pain was already quite alarming and let me quite incapable of much complicated brain activity. We realized our common language was not enough to understand entirely. So she pulled out a dictionary, I looked up “kidney” and “infection” and showed her the beautifully written Burmese equivalent. She understood. She said it was likely to be possible. Yet she told me she had no “machines” for testing it and couldn´t prescribe medicine in such case. She wouldn´t have that medicine here, anyway. My heart sunk. My pain rose with every minute. Paralyzed me already. And now my help and hope faded away. She recommended to drive to Taungyii – the nearest bigger town – and see a doctor in hospital. I got scared. A hospital in another town is really far away, when you are in Burma with the syndromes of a kidney-infection. I didn´t have any energy left to do so. But apparently, it was the onliest choice. She said she was truly sorry, and I saw it in her calming smile and encouraging eyes. I realized that this was how things were in Myanmar. There was not always a doctor for everything immediately when one was needed. And I was probably still very lucky because I had, in theory, the money to pay a taxi to drive me to hospital, I had, in theory, the money to pay for medication…

Now traveling is no theory. Traveling is one of the most practical things you can experience. And when you do it well, you get sucked into the local circumstances and realities so much, you totally forget about your privileges and further options as a tourist. Which is mainly good. So despite feeling very weak, I asked around for a bus (which is in Nyaung Shwe village always a cramped pick-up with two wooden benches, bumping its way to wherever, at the speed of 50 km/h…). But as it was already 4 pm, people told me, the next one was going only the next morning. Don´t ask me why exactly I didn´t consider taking a taxi for 30 Dollars. I don´t know. It simply was a lot of money. Even in that situation, it seemed so out of place, spending that much money (five nights sleep in a comfortable hostel or 20 proper hot meals) on a diagnosis I already knew and could also have tomorrow while I was still able to fight the pain with a lot of painkillers. So that was what I did. I returned to the hostel, said I was back already because I was sick, and spent a fevered, shivery, restless night until I cached a cramped, bumping pick-up-ride, lasting two-and-a-half-hours of pure pain, in the morning.

"Bus" to Taungyii

Taungyii was bustling. The whole city was an open market place, people were bargaining and screaming, car drivers pushed their horns. Tired and far from understanding what was happening around me, I asked my way from the bus stand to the hospital and finally arrived after half an hour foot walk at a middle sized, once-white building that looked kind of like a hospital. Mainly because it had a big red cross on its outer wall. When I hung over the reception, complete lack of energy, the young nurses – white caps on pretty faces – giggled behind their hands. Burmese girls always did, I think because they were shy and totally flattered to see and serve a foreigner. In the pale, morbid waiting hall people sat with worried faces in silence. Pain was tormenting me, but I was still a lucky sick person. Within five minutes I was sat on a white bed with an enthusiastic young male doctor asking me in fluent English what my problem was. I suspected that many of the other people had to wait longer.  After I had told him, what I had already told the doctor in Nyaung Shwe, he pressed my belly, back and side, asked for pain and, nodding, began to write down something. He wrote into a small, cheap children´s exercise book – which was meant to be the professional file for every patient here – diagnosis and treatment. After a log silence, still writing without looking up, he said “I prescribe you another antibiotic for seven days.” His fingers were carefully forming letters, phrases, signatures. I sat up. “Eehh, but you haven´t tested anything. How do you know it´s really a kidney-infection? Don´t you want to test anything?” – “Your syndromes speak for themselves” he answered, relaxed, looking up now. “You said you had a bladder infection. And you say you have taken Ciprofloxacin for five days. That antibiotic has, unfortunately, a habit of not being strong enough to kill all the germs in only five days. It seems that was the case here also. So your infection has not fully gone away. Now it is very important you take another kind of antibiotics, a strong one, for the whole of seven days so we can be sure all of it gets killed.” He closed the booklet, handed it to me, smiled and wished me all the best. And that was it. – Could it be that easy? Irritated I spluttered a “thank you” and went out of the room to the counter in the waiting hall with the nervously smiling nurse-girls. They pointed to their left, to another counter with a woman behind it. That seemed to be the pharmacy. I handed her my “file” and two seconds later she placed three single plastic packages of small pills on the counter. Next to it she laid a hand-written bill. Now I had a big problem!

In theory, I had a lot of money on my bank account. In practice, none of my credit cards were working on Burmese cash machines. We had already taken a lot of US-Dollars in cash with us into the country. It was said, that there were not many ATMs at all, and even if, it was not guaranteed, that it was really possible to get money from them. We had smiled at the overly-careful advices from the two-year-old travel guide after the ATM in the capital had worked fine. Yet we had what we thought would be enough cash for our stay.  But then we finally realized that it would get tight after all. Luckily we had a friend with us, who´s Visa credit card was working on some ATMs, so he lent us money. Still our financial situation remained tight. Sometimes the machines were working and sometimes they were not. And sometimes they had limits. When my friends had left for their camping-trip, I hadn´t thought about money. I had enough for the daily life, enough to pay for food and some nights in the hostel. I had not thought about “expensive” medication.

The bill said 35 Dollars. About the same that antibiotics would cost in Germany. – A fortune in Burma. Also for the standards we had immersed into. I emptied my purse on the counter – all my remaining Dollars and Kyatt put together, removing the money I would need for the bus home, another night in the hostel and some basic food. Left was half of the money I had to pay. Delirium and fever of a painful kidney-infection overcame me. I stood in a shabby hospital in a strange city, far, far away. Realizing, that it was Sunday and all the banks were closed. That my pain was killing me and I had no opportunity to get relieve. Simply because I had not enough money to buy medicine to cure my serious illness. And my friends were somewhere in the faraway bush with no mobile phones on them. I felt like in a proper, evil nightmare. For a moment I think I felt the desperation, that for many thousands of people must be constantly real. (Although I was still a very lucky sick person, in theory.) I was devastated. I broke down. I think I cried. But the woman on the pharmacy-counter was kind and smart (and beautiful), like many Burmese women are. She understood and tendered me, wordless. We had no language in common, so she showed me, taking a part of my money from the counter, holding it, and handing me two of the three packs of pills. Gestured, pills 11 to 14 would stay here until I would come back, bringing the rest of the money. I was baffled. I smiled. Bloody cultural civilization! People just stick to it like fat blue flies to the shit because they don’t know about alternatives. I would have never ever considered such an easy solution to be possible! In Germany, or other western countries, you either can pay for medication or you can´t. Ripping apart a prescribed dose, buying single tablets, is just not a concept to think of, for us.

Delirious nights

I took the packed pick-up home, happy now, relieved (even bought new pencils at the market on a dose of antibiotics and painkillers!), between all the smiling people transporting goods, belongings, market shopping, helping me onto my place on the wooden bench. Back in the cozy comfort of my hostel I again had shivery, fevered nights with bad dreams and often lay awake in pain staring at the lizards in front of my window. But it got better with a lot of sleep. And the pills 1 to 10. Then some warm tea. Then the western breakfast on the terrace (Pancakes). Then the beloved three-in-one-coffee-mix and when I could think again, I started writing. I didn´t stop writing for three whole days without a break. Sitting on the terrace, watching guests from all over the world come and go. And on the fourth day, after a huge thunderstorm, which I watched from my comfy shelter, anxious because of my boys out there, somewhere, they came back, happy as ever, with many stories to tell. And with money for my second trip to Taungyii.

 

New run

The ozorian mind – thoughts on a psy-festival

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Culture flash, arrival, Budapest. Rich, decadent empires, Rome, Paris, high-above balconies, beautiful ladies waving their satin handkerchiefs, men, dazzled, loose their perfect manners on shiny horses, nervous, in stuffy evening sunlight.  Everything is melting into the other. Crumbling facades, birches on ruptured sills. Dour observers behind blinded windows, old widows carrying their shopping on cracked pavements, bored Roma kids playing on dusty roads, father’s fat bellies, pondering on doorsteps.

Cut. 140 kilometers. Speeding on the highway, bumping about back roads, through dozy villages, immersing into endless corn- and sunflower-fields. Arriving suddenly, in the middle of nowhere at what it says to be the official gate to Paradise.

Everything that comes behind this gate arose from pure love. It sounds like a quote, but it is true. We entered the Ozorian world! You feel it, everywhere, within everything. It’s baffling. All the little creatures and decorations made devotedly and everything human beings need for a week of camping and having the time of their lifes has been thought of carefully. Joy and Happiness, peace and love and harmony literally inflates us. People are curious and fraught and excited and overly friendly. A party, a gathering arises, with colors, cushions and comfort dotting it. Bass, lights, ecstasy. Power and abandon breaking loose. Food is plenty, music is on, everyone being exhilarated and nice.

When you’re looking for a one-week-paradise the Ozorian valley is definitely the place to be. There’s everything a more or less hippie-minded person could wish for. A full-on party, arts, workshops, finest international food, relaxing, inspiration, fun. It is a place of beautiful people and good spirits.

But after seven days of the “oh-so-beautiful-One-Love” you also see the facades crackle. People start getting tired of it. Not everyone is always smiling, always happy and caring anymore. After some days of having worn the full-psy-hippie-costume it becomes obvious that not everyone honestly has the inner peace and hippie-mind we were all pretending to have when the festivities where still at their beginning. People are littering. They get careless, get ensnared in their own problems, scream at each other on the campsite. Shopkeepers get grumpy, people in queues get annoyed and reckless and 200 plugs are full of smartphones.

We all came for the nature and the love-one-another-experience. And it has been amazing. But in the end most of us are still normal people from luxury backgrounds who get tormented by permanent baseline, the lack of retreat and comfort. That even the beautiful bees and fairies and pixies can’t turn into a happy smile all the time…

 

New run

Liebster Award – 11 surprising answers, 5 excellent bloggers

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The team of the great surf- and travelblog saltinmyhair was so kind to nominate me for the Liebster Award (“favourite blog award”). Thanks a lot! With that, they asked my 11 questions which I am going to answer in a minute. But what is the Liebster Award actually and how does it work?

The Liebster Award is passed forward from blog to blog for the reason of connecting and getting to know new blogs. Great thing! 11 questions are asked and after having answered them, the award is passed on again to different new blogs with new questions.

So these are the questions I got and my answers:

1. What drives you forward?  My natural curiosity to see places I couldn’t dream of to be real and to meet people whose lifestyle I couldn’t imagine before. My longing to feel, what I have never felt before, to be surprised and challenged in my mind by things that are far apart from the “norms” I know.

2.  What is your favourite post?  It’s China – a parallel universe. After many strange feelings for this fascinating country and not knowing how to define the reasons for it I finally managed satisfyingly to get it black on white. I like it to have some founded (political) criticism – or at least reflection – in posts, which is not often with me but worked quite well with China.

3. At which spot on earth did you think “this is paradise?”  It’s hard to admit (because I wasn’t totally convinced from Thailand as travel-destination and we disliked the existing tourist-patterns for everything) but it was on a small Thai island on the west coast, named Koh Phayam. Palms, fine sand beaches, warm crystal-clear water, colorful jungle bursting with life, very few people and a hut next to a beach bar with fresh-fruit-yoghurt, Phad Thai, beer and a kayak rental! It was a place where everything was given to feel comfy and not to worry about anything.

4. Which languages do you speak?  Unfortunately my laziness overtakes my motivation when I get to the point in a language, where I can make myself very basically understood and understand the other. I always feel it’s enough when I know the most important nouns, verbs, adjectives, one simple past, simple future and just put it all together.  That’s what it’s like with my Spanish and French. (I am a little more eager on English.) On our trip through Kyrgyzstan I learned a few basic words of Russian and I would like to continue learning it until my personal level of “making myself understood” is reached.

5. Flip Flops or Trekking boots and why?  Definitely Flip Flops! (If not even bare feet.) Trekking boots get smelly and wet in rain and make me a lot of blisters. And they’re heavy. I experienced that even worst paths can be walked carefully in Flip Flops or bare feet. (Watch how the locals do it!)

6. What is your treatment against homesickness?  a) If it’s possible: connect with back home. Skype with a friend, post a blog or read facebook posts of friends. Otherwise b) distract myself and get drunk with locals or fellow travellers. c) If alone in the wilderness: Make fun of myself. Sing stupid made-up songs about my feelings in another language flavored with a saxonian accent and record it on cam, look at it and laugh my ass off. Or, always welcome: Make friends with little animals or plants and talk to them.

7. Did you ever get stuck in one place?  Quite often! Mostly because of laziness after exhaustive traveling. I got stuck in Goa for a month because it was just too convenient after two months of Indian hustle-bustle and again in Kashgar, China, for two weeks, almost not leaving the hostel, because of the security, comfort and the laziness after 9 months on the road, just enjoying internet, fellow travellers, story-sharing and no need to rush on and “having” to see new things.

8. What was the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten on a journey?  It was probably the dog we accidentally had in Yangshuo for breakfast because of the lack of common vocabulary. In China we often just pointed at pictures of meals that looked good. And although the restaurant owner was reassuringly asking whether we really wanted that dish, we were only making an effort to understand what it was about, when the unusually high bill came. Some young passing-by Chinese guys took the time to stop and translate because we were loudly complaining about the price. In the end the surprising answer was ”Well, it is that expensive, because dog is that expensive…” After the meat had already been really disgusting and chewy so we had to leave half of it (what we NEVER do), that information really turned our stomachs.

9. What was your most impressing encounter while travelling?  It’s really hard to tell. Impossible in fact. I remember, letting different faces of people I met slide in front of my eyes, that I very, very often thought: This person – his lifestyle, his story, his responsibility – is so impressive! In a way, most of the encounters left me baffled and in deep thinking.

One of them was surely our friend in Nyaung U, Bagan, Myanmar, whom we met down by the river when the sun was rising beautifully behind thick haze. We shared not a single word of the same language, but he was really patient and generous. Living in a tiny straw-hut with his three children and wife, he let us store our luggage in the hut and promised to take care of it (again: wordless) while we were looking around. After he had fetched us with gestures from the village square for dinner, he and his family were rapidly improvising a pure luxury dinner-set: They were getting chairs and pillows (sitting on the floor or standing themselves), installed a light bulb out of nowhere and provided a reach traditional meal while they were not eating themselves but smiling about our happiness and giving….

Another impressive encounter was our selfless friend Mr. Li in Guangzhou, who lend us bikes and showed us around town for two days, inviting us for dinner, insisting on paying all the bills, and revealing after we had got to known him a little better, that he had another “hidden” child, living with his relatives some hundred miles away, because of the strict one-child-law in China. He showed us a video of his hidden daughter, sighing, because despite he and his wife were working fulltime they couldn’t afford to pay off the government for the second child, which is about 40.000 Euros.

We met many “children” in Kyrgyzstan working as responsible shepherds already, looking after siblings and earning money for the family, having big dreams in their heads. So did many youngsters in India, working hard, selling, making business, being clever and focused and very responsible at a very early age. There were woman with heavy burdens of poverty, responsibility and husbands they didn’t love, sometimes couldn’t even stand but they never complained and never neglected their responsibilities.

And then there is our friend Alek Leka, who is traveling the world on his bicycle since 20 years. Living on nothing, not having a bank account, nor insurance but being one of the happiest and funny and wise guys I’ve met.

10. Where is your “secret spot” in Europe?  In the wilderness of the Scottish Highlands; in its history and mystery. Somewhere between… nah, I wouldn’t tell 🙂

11. Catchword “Eco-tourism”: Do you travel thinking about sustainability?  Sure whenever it’s possible we rather leave kids with a repair-kit for their bike than with a handful of candies. Eco-tourism is a delicate topic. It’s much talked-about and definitely difficult to place oneself in it. When it is possible, we rather take a bus or bike than a plane. But we are no Messiahs – when the duration and expenses of an overland-journey overdo the price of a flight by far, we still take the flight. We always eat at small unknown places, stay in the hidden hostel and don’t necessarily follow the number one recommendations of the lonely planet, so at least we naturally spread the money around community.

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For the next Liebster Award I nominate Alek Leka of aroundtheworldnomad, Helen of Helenstakeon, Sara & Matthieu of aveloversl’orient, Thom of ThomsTravelTime and Stefanie of Kurzvordersonne.

The questions are:

  1. Three places you want to travel (no matter if realistic or not)?
  2. Which feeling does blogging give you?
  3. What differs you from others?
  4. What is always with you on journeys?
  5. How important are travel-companions to you and why?
  6. Something you wouldn’t recommend anyone to do?
  7. A situation you doubted to be real.
  8. What are you doing while traveling when you want to withdraw and switch-off?
  9. How is your relation of planning and spontaneity while traveling?
  10. Did anyone ever say anything to you about yourself on a journey, that is still lasting until today; that changed concepts about yourself?
  11. Something you experienced on a journey that you decided to never forget.

 

And the “rules” for enjoying and getting connected are:

  1. Show on your blog that you’re taking part in the Liebster Award.
  2. Name the person who nominated you and link him.
  3. Answer the 11 questions.
  4. Nominate another 5-11 people for the Liebster Award.
  5. Create 11 new questions for the nominated bloggers.
  6. Write this rules in your Liebster-Award-post.
  7. Inform your nominated bloggers about this post and their nomination.