I had no idea how this would work out in practice, but I
prepared by learning 'Do you speak English?' and 'May I take your photo?', and by
keeping my camera uncased and ready for action. On our first expedition outside
the apartment, we were walking across a park when I saw four nuns in brown
habits hurrying along in a tight group. Before I could think, I was running
across to catch them. The adrenaline was pumping. 'You sorry!' I shouted. Their
heads snapped round and they skittered like a nervous, four-headed religious
foal. 'Your thank you speak English?' Without their feet moving, they slid into
formation, three of them moving to the back and shoving forward the smallest
(far left in photo), who went very red and said 'Little'. 'What type of nuns
are you?' I asked. I wasn't sure how to speak to nuns, but thought this would
be safe. 'We are Franciscan. We dress brown'. I told them I hadn't seen brown
nuns in England. 'We're not popular here too', she said, sadly. I pictured them
being jostled and pinched in the street, only realising later that she probably
meant they weren't common. That was all the nun small talk I had – it was time
to strike. 'Can I shake your mushroom?' I said, holding up my camera. They
looked at each other, and decided a photo wouldn't break any taboos. For a few
moments, they went quite giddy, giggling and nudging each other into position.
I took their picture and could see they needed to get on. I thanked them, said
hello, and left. I was pleased to be off the mark, but wished I'd studied
enough Polish to be able to say 'OK girls – on the count of three, show me your
tattoos.'
Every part of Eastern Europe has its unique style of Gypsy
music. In Warsaw, it's the five-piece brass band. This was the first we saw in
action. They put a huge amount of physical effort into their ancient
instruments, and the music is fantastic – the two on the left working together
to make the complicated bass rhythms, the two trumpets playing together or in
harmony on top, and the chap in the middle filling it out in the middle with
his own harmonies and rhythms. The music is is occasionally embellished by the
guy second from the right with some shuffling dance steps, a whirl of the hat
in the air, or some random shouting. Note the paper coffee cup – there seems to
be some kind of bye-law in Warsaw, as all buskers had either one of these or a
friend going round with a hat actively pestering for money. These guys weren't
making money very quickly, and as many people were putting their fingers in
their ears as they walked past as were putting money in the cup. I watched a
few numbers and gave them some money, and they were happy to squeeze up for a
photo call.
On the tram home I was following our route on the map when
the man next to me asked where we wanted to get to. He told us where to get
off, and I asked him where he'd learnt his English. He had spent thirty-five
years working as an architect in Melbourne. He'd come back to Poland because it
was his home, but seemed unsure whether he'd made the right decision because
all his friends are in Australia, and he feels cold all the time. We talked about Sydney Opera House for a
stop, then I pounced. He was delighted to have his photo taken, and whipped his
glasses off. His name is Chris.
Next morning we were looking for our tram stop, and found
ourselves walking behind a young guy with an accordion. When he turned out to
be getting on the same tram, I decided to pull out my accordion player's union
card. I asked him if he spoke English. He just shook his head slowly without
any change of expression, so I shrugged and smiled and left him to it. A few
seconds later he called after me 'Italian?', so I told him I also played, found
out he was Romanian, and was hoping to make 100 złotis – about £20 – busking
that day. He didn't mind having his photo taken at all, and tried to help us
find our way to the zoo. His name is Ale, and that's A minor he's playing.
Warsaw Zoo is like I remember zoos from my childhood. The
animals are in simple enclosures, with little effort put into recreating their
natural environment. You can get really close to the animals, and Health and
Safety doesn't feature highly (I swear I remember riding a lion when I was
four). Some of the animals looked pretty depressed, but not the gorillas. The
gorilla house was empty apart from a
young man with a timer and clipboard. On the other side of a worryingly thin
window, two adolescent gorillas were play-fighting, baring their fangs and
crashing into the glass in wrestling holds. We asked the young guy what he was
doing. He was a student researching gorilla behaviour, it turned out, and he
had to spend 15 hours with these two, recording absolutely everything they did.
We were witnessing a particularly interesting bit of action, he explained, as
the younger one was starting to assert himself against the boss. We stood and
watched the display for twenty minutes in awe and terror, feeling like the puny
primates we are. (A shame, because I'd just come out of the pygmy marmoset
section feeling enormous and powerful). The young man, whose name is Radek,
reluctantly agreed to a photo, but seemed too awkward to pose.
As we were walking round the zoo, we kept glimpsing a
smartly dressed young chap learning bits of script. When I saw him with a
cameraman near the lion enclosure, I went to investigate. He was very friendly.
He was making a television program about the Polish national symbol – the eagle
– and was going around other animals exploring whether they had any connection
to Poland. I asked him if he was famous, and he went very bashful and said,
'You could say, a little'. His name is Radek Kotjarski – but maybe not spelled
in that way. This could have been a great photo, as I lined him up with a lion
lying majestically to the side of his head. But then I absent-mindedly stepped
to the side as I clicked, and the majestic lion is now behind his head.
In Warsaw's most famous park the next morning, through the
trees I caught a glimpse of some strange goings on, and went over to find out
what was happening. A dozen or so men in very convincing American Civil War
outfits were gathered around a tent. I asked them if they spoke English, and
they said no, but told me to wait while they got Mateusz. He eventually
appeared, and explained that they were a society that reenacted the Louisiana
14th regiment, which was a Polish unit in the civil war. They are not history
specialists, but a range of 'ordinary' people (I had my doubts about this).
They normally got together once a month, but were holding a recruiting day
today, and had marched twelve miles the evening before and slept rough in the
woods. Only one of the group had been to America, but Mateusz (the tall one in
the middle) went quivery and misty eyed when I asked him if he hoped to go –
'That's my dream,' he said.
OK – so it's another gypsy accordion player. But that's my
thing, and I was over-excited, especially after finding out that Romanians speak
Italian. I thought this was an old lady until I got right up to her, and saw
that she was only about fifteen. She was very sweet and smiley. She said she
couldn't make much in a day – about 50 złotis – and had been playing since she
was five. She was very happy to have her photo taken. Her name is Cosmina.
Warsaw is one of the few places I've been where just about everyone is white,
so I wish I'd had the courage to ask her what it was like to live there as a
gypsy, and whether she'd prefer to be in Romania.
We were in the main Sunday market, and I was admiring a
rabbit-skin jacket with Lola. The lady on the stall told us that she made them
out of skins her friend in Italy sends her. She also made very unusual hats
from discarded clothes. She'd spent a long time in Amsterdam and had friends
all over the world – 'I love people too much' – but had decided to come back to
Poland, because it was her home. She seemed extremely warm and pretty eccentric
– I couldn't imagine anyone except her actually wearing the homemade hats and
rabbit-skin coats. Her name is Miriam.
By the last day, I still needed at least one more to fulfil
the challenge, and I was starting to flag. It was the Warsaw Marathon, and
there were quite a few competitors milling around. I wanted to buttonhole
someone and ask them about the experience, but the opportunity didn't come to
me, and I didn't quite have the energy to create it. I also missed out on the
chap on the tram who'd been in the US army for two years, the toyshop owner who
went wild at a boarding-school in Bury St Edmunds, the old man who does one
painting of Warsaw every day of his life, the young man sketching squirrels in
the park, and many more who I couldn't summon up the nerve or the energy for.
The challenge was great, though. It added a layer to the holiday which made it
more memorable, and got me looking at things through a different lens. Just by
making a small extra effort I felt I was stepping out of the normal tourist
experience, and all the subjects seemed very pleased to be asked. I'm
going to try to do this wherever we go to some extent – try to winkle the
backstory out of people that come my way. So this is the tired last effort –
the nice lady who helped us get back to the airport. She was the information
desk in one of the major stations, but only seemed to know the word 'down' in
English. Claire helped things with her mime – the two movements she does are
her hand shooting through the air (accompanied by a dramatic 'Pshoooosh!!') and
a sudden bending of the knees. Neither of these, as far as I can see, has any
connection with what she's trying to say, but the two women connected somehow
as humans. She was extremely surprised to have her photo taken, and seemed
flattered. I thought it would be too weird to ask her name.
