The Way of Ben by Tony Brown - HTML preview

Romania

Next morning, as he was locking the door to Ferri's city apartment, with no plans or expectations just an idea that he could surrender effortlessly to the experience of whatever came along, Ben decided to try and spend some time in Romania. He caught the bus after only a short walk across the main bridge over the Danube

And the journey had been quite amusing! Fellow passengers all seemed to be Romanian nationals and so casual and relaxed that for them it was no more than a usual bus ride between the city and outlying villages. But for Ben, as they trundled along sometimes he felt he was on another planet not able to understand a word of what was being said but nevertheless he shared the laughter and shared the smiles, or lazily settled back in his seat with eyes closed, let his mind meander and settled into a charming route through narrow lanes, across rickety bridges and past farms and even more acres and acres of sunflowers, a couple of hours later it pulled to a halt in the little square of Arad, a small traditional village lying in the arms of Romania and not far across the border from Hungary. It was mid-morning and the bus back to Budapest would leave around four in the afternoon. No time to waste.

Eventually, the bus pulled to a hissing halt and once the passengers had climbed down from the bus onto the little round stones that covered the surface of the little village square and shaken hands and thanked their driver, Ben began his wanderings through the comfortable homeliness and relative calmness that seemed to fill the air that is, until he saw a cinema no bigger than a cottage with a sign over the door in very large yellow letters on a black background that said, 'DRACULA'. As soon as he saw the sign Ben burst into delirious laughter, assuming, 'So, that's where he lived!' No doubt it was permanently on display to attract the visiting customers.

Still smiling and laughing to himself, he wandered through the village until he came across what appeared to be a small museum. Crossing the threshold he was quite startled when confronted with the complete skeletal remains of a Baby Mammoth complete with its enormous curving tusks standing just inside the doorway and within tempting touching distance as he walked past. Ben resisted. In the main room, at least a dozen beautifully carved marble and stone life-sized statues spread themselves around, possibly Roman or even Greek, and also easily touchable. They were fascinating. This time he could not resist and had to stroke the hair of a stone lady sitting with a baby on a bench. Even as a child, he had been drawn to stroking ancient stone whether it be bricks, slabs, statues, walls or tools. They made a positive connection to the very distant past and he just had to make contact. On his way out, he passed a lady and a man sitting behind the desk at the museum entrance and he thanked them in Hungarian, 'Kosonom', on his way out. They smiled and nodded as he patted the baby Mammoth on its head and whispered farewell, 'Viszontlatasra'.

There was a track lined with fir and plane trees that gradually led him into a rambling forest, alive with the sound of tumbling water and startled birds darting through the air. Purple heather and unfriendly gorse snatched at his bare legs as he wandered along until, to his great surprise, the track became an ancient narrow road paved with large oblong granite slabs that eventually took him to a solemn architectural dig.

A well-worn stone stairwell led him down to a small enclosed yard from where four arched, subterranean tunnels ran for about three metres or so at right angles to each other. It was hard to stand upright inside the tunnels because they were no more than a little over a metre and a half in height and about a metre at the widest part. There was no sign of any other people there although among the steel and wood scaffoldings, some tools and gauges had been stuck to the walls probably to measure subsidence or any growth in the running cracks. It was fascinating but exasperating as to the 'what and why', and his best speculation led him to assume that they were shaft graves as they were far too small for dwellings and far too smooth for storage. Suffice to say after a short while he grew a little uneasy and the feeling suggested it might be time to leave and he could not wait.

On on the way back to the square Ben came across the ruins of an ancient chapel built from black and grey pebbles having a floor of an uneven mosaics describing a central circle around an eight-petalled flower head and surrounding this in turn were scroll shapes and smaller flower heads giving an impression of an ancient Pagan temple rather than the usual Christian chapel. On the rich blue wooden partition that traditionally separates the clergy from the congregation were three framed icons above a window niche where an old lemonade bottle stood in half full of oil for refuelling the lamps. And in the corner of the chapel stood a large, brass candelabra tray containing sand, presumably useful for devotees in which to stand their lighted candles during prayers.

At last the clouds cleared and once again the sun beat down. Ben was at a loss as to the best way back to the square until he met a thin black cat sheltering from the heat in the shade of some bracken when, as if it had been waiting for him, it stretched, joined him on the track and started trotting along in front. Ben decided to follow and before long he could see the clear road ahead. They exchanged 'goodbyes' with nods when the lucky black cat stopped for a second, then slinked off back toward the dig.

Being a little early for the return bus ride, Ben sank into the chair outside a house selling coffee and tea with biscuits and as the relaxation took a hold he lifted his head and became fascinated by the range of a distant mountain. It seemed to spread right behind the treetops as far as he could see. It was a little confusing. Then, of course! The tail of the Carpathians! Ever since his teenage years when first he started climbing on trips to Wales with his father, hills and mountains had held him in wonder as to these natural land formations and how they rise out of the landscape over millions of years. Reading books and books drew him closer and closer and now here he was, at their feet. He knew he could not resist. He had to stay another night and even if only for a gentle climb, the sense of oneness would mean so much. He made his way back into the wood and was stunned to actually came across a climber's refuge, the basic wooden shed, a stop-over made available to climbers.

The following morning he stood on the base of Carpathian hills, chose a track, and stepped onto the yellow and white foothills of Magic Land, the view taking him by surprise with its gentle colours, the grey, the green, the rust, the wild birds and the smile from the ancient place that seems to say, 'If I've been here this long, I'll be here that long!' The mellow waterfalls and flowing streams, the mists in columns and the dazzling sense of beingness. Travelling across Europe had taught him how to listen to the silence by gently focussing on a mid-distance spot by relaxing, letting his ears hear all they wanted to hear without putting names on things until gradually the inside world and the outside world became one. That is when surroundings took him in and told him, not in words but as a feeling, that knowledgeability can be an undoing. Nothing knowing is a teacher.

Night time is silver-dotted blackness. Sleeping in a strange bed is exciting, totally disarming, giving all power over to imagination when lying in the darkness subject to all its unfamiliar noises. There are the wind noises and the corridor noises. There is the noise from unfamiliarity of the physical body in an unusual physical place but it's not hard to let go of familiar surroundings because of our inner being. Our inner is-ness that is never changing and always is ourselves. It watches all we experience with our senses and sifts and analyses and places each feeling in the perspective of itself. We really have nothing to fear at all.

The mountain knows all these things and more. He has been here a long time and nothing moves him. He makes no decisions, has no failures, only successes. He reflects the weather. He is two thousand, six hundred and thirty-one feet tall and at that moment, he's wearing a rainbow from across his left shoulder down below to his right hip. His waters fall on crag and cairn in silver grey stripes and drops. A thousand different faces does he show according to his mood and how he takes the changes. And what changes! The mountain sits and nature tries all her tricks on him. The rain, the hail, the wind, the sunshine, the light, the dark. As it was at the beginning of time when everything was tested for the first time. The colours fade in and out, pale grey to dark brown; deep heavy slate to carousing blue, orange leaves share an oak with the greenest green. The view from nature is constantly changing by the second. The overall appearance of the mountain gives way to the minutiae, the quarries of old, the wooden shelters, the meadows and pastures of rock and the roll of the ever-changing life we share. It's a way to be, without being rushed.

The feeling of insignificance can be quite exhilarating. The permanence and indifference of so much natural phenomena make us humans so perfectly placed in its perspective. We can never emulate this ordinariness even though we think we can. We build technological wonders and architectural monuments but they'll all be gone within time. We might even blitz the planet leaving nothing in its place, but nature would rebuild when it was ready, it simply doesn't need mankind.

The next morning Ben decided to tramp a fairly easy, well-trodden route a little less than half way up the mountain before it became riskily craggy. He plodded along, invigorated by the progress he was making and the surprise of not realising that it was gently raining. At last, he was adapting to being in the weather. The way led through the woodland steadily rising, and alongside becks gushing noisily and wildly, spurting and spraying over rocks as it surged downwards with all its merriment. It was easy going really and he took mental images of the splendour and beauty of the tall pines that framed the natural orderly chaos. He sang to himself and took side-long glances left and right just in case he was attracting irritated reactions from the wild ones, but as he walked there came a sense of the immense natural beauty taking repossession of him and soon he felt he was loving every step. Ben took a path instead of a track and found himself ankle deep in sludge on a farm of sheep who eyed him with disdain and only temporary curiosity. He had to negotiate slippery terraces and small pools hidden beneath the pastureland until he came to a gate leading into a lane that took him out through the saw mill that he had passed at the beginning of his walk. By the time he was trudging down the hill and on towards the village, the excesses of the climb were telling on his calf and thigh muscles. His legs had turned to lead and they were ready to have a rest. 

He began to think a little of the type of person who lives away from the cities and towns, who doesn't keep track of the time, complain about the weather, watch television or feel it necessary keep abreast of what they are told is news from the outside world. He rises in the mornings when he is rested and eats when he is hungry and drinks when he needs to. 'There is no richness but life,' as Ruskin once said.

All was wonder and strangeness. Amusing groups of sheep, steadily chewing their lunch, jaws working from side to side, mild-mannered and very beautiful. One with a small black and white bird on its back, probably drying off its feet, watched him stumble by. Another gentle waterfall tickling the pond at its feet, contrasting in sound and vision with its silent and still surroundings.

He made his way up a gentle road to a sad and gloomy, ghostly place. Very dark, like a misspent life. Old slate buildings, half derelict, stood against the remnants of a quarried piece of ground, the machinery of mining laying broken, damaged and unwanted. An abandoned effort all around. Then, a depressing cemetery and his spirit didn't lift until he was back amongst the crashing, tumbling, white water again and climbing down again towards his bus back to Budapest. Suddenly, within a couple of hundred yards, he stepped into a scene from his time long since passed. Washing on a line, a heavily set farm lady shooing ducks, geese, hens and a cat out into the yard from a barn, scattering feathers and squawks into the air above the cobbles and launching them right towards him on their way to an unhappy little pond. Priceless! The mountain was becoming less steep and craggy and his calves weren't so strained and soon it became much easier to walk. Ben felt more relaxed. A little while later he had reached the shoulders of the mountain and it was time to turn around. An hour after that he was back in the village. Almost two days without any worldly communication, no distractions – wonderful! And he was prepared to stay in the dark.    

His journey upon the mountain base felt like an achievement he would never forget. He had satisfied his curiosity. It was remarkable for the breathtaking visions such as the gentle soft and silver rain shower, and the perfectly curving, artful colourful rainbow reflecting all the symmetry of nature. So, with winged feet he descended the slopes through the squashed passageways and the small groups of cramped, wondrous happy homes.      

Leaving the Carpathian foothills was hard as the bus pulled him further and further away from  the protective bulk of the range high above the sweetness of the wilderness which seemed to counterpoint all the insecurity and self doubt that we humans hold within ourselves.

That 'nothing lasts and all things must pass' goes without saying and to his relief with that realisation Ben felt at one again and happy to be there at that moment, in that land.

But do we really leave each experience in the past? How can we? The past is past, gone. There is only now. Is each experience just an isolated page in our life's total? Or is each page part of our life story? Perhaps all our experiences are forever layered into our characters, woven into our subtle fibres of being, and they influence every step we take.

Time to Go Home

 And that is when something happened that changed all Ben's plans for returning to Britain.

Three days before he was due to return to England, he was staying in Kata's cottage in Solymar, sitting on the floor with her children, little Koti, Mischy and their cat, as Kata poured him an after-dinner Palinka, such a lovely name for Brandy, and they began chatting about air travel and how everyday it was now, almost like catching a bus or train or even riding a bike. Bobby, her friendly, mild-mannered husband, was a musician and for the next week or so would be playing away at a folk festival in Ferrara in Italy and the following fortnight, he would be in Sicily.

In two months time, Kata would be travelling to a business conference in Plymouth to do with her secretarial work. Ben was to stay with her for a couple of days, sleeping on the couch, before joining Andrea at Kileti Station for some final wanderings around the city before catching his flight home. Ben had invited Kata to make a visit to Falmouth if she had time and she said she would stay for a couple of nights if only to see if there really was such a thing as a beach!

As they talked, Kata asked him about his flight, how long it would take, whether he needed a lift to the airport to find out at what time it left Budapest. Ben could not remember the exact details so he unzipped his backpack to scan the return details, but try as he may he could not find the ticket anywhere. Usually, he kept his flight tickets in his passport for security reasons and all other important documents were kept securely locked inside separate pockets of his backpack. When he checked, although his driving license, cash and credit cards were still there, there was no sign of that crucial return ticket. Ben went through every pocket taking out leaflets and notebooks but still no sign. He went cold as he searched and searched but still, he could not find it anywhere. It had disappeared. With Kata's organised help, they emptied every single pocket, inspecting every possible nook and cranny but still there was no sign of that ticket.

His irreplaceable and essential return flight ticket was missing for sure. But where could it be? He could not afford to be wrong. Again and again, he checked everything thoroughly and carefully but there was absolutely no sign of it. Kata suggested they make a short visit to the little post office where they could phone KLM to report the lost ticket. This they did and received assurance that a thorough search would be made without delay. Ben promised to call back first thing the next day and even return to the city centre airline office and report his problem in person. In the meantime, he would do his utmost to keep calm, deciding most definitely that it would not influence his decision to volunteer again next year at the summer camp, no matter what.

The next morning it was frighteningly obvious when riding the elevator down from the fifth floor airline office to street level that he was in deep and serious trouble. He had misplaced his doomed return flight ticket and under no circumstances would the suspicious, straight-faced lady behind the office desk provide another because, 'Iz against the rules', which meant he was stuck in Hungary 1200 miles from home without a job and money was getting tight. He was up to his neck in the proverbial and sinking fast. As he and Kata slid through the floors Ben did his best to think of a way out but everything looked pretty bleak. At least Kata had offered to let him stay at her place for a bit longer if he needed to, but the last thing he wanted was to take advantage of her hospitality; it wasn't as though she had money to burn either.

Ben was not in a good mood.

Then it hit him! After he had scurried across at the airport tarmac to avoid the rain when he first arrived, he remembered handing over his passport, in which he kept the flight ticket for safety, to the Passport Officer and while preoccupying himself with signalling and smiling at Andrea, the officer had fumbled and dropped his documents on the floor behind the desk. Although he wasted no time in leaving his stool and bending down to gather them off the floor, that man had had every opportunity to pocket the return flight ticket. And even if Ben had checked his passport and noticed the flight ticket missing, the man could easily have excused himself by seemingly 'rediscovering' the ticket still on the floor and handing it back to Ben.

But he didn't.

And now he was stuck.

Out of the blue Kata suggested they contact Martin, the English teacher at the gymnasium class, a regular volunteer at the camp, who had driven over to Hungary from England and was staying in a house close by. They could ask him if there was any chance of a lift back to the UK. He would be returning home in two or three days time because the new term was about to start at the school where he taught in Hove. Martin! Of course! Ben had met Martin weeks earlier when he had first arrived for that wonderful sense of freedom and he had given him his phone number in Budapest in case Ben ever wanted to get in touch and, unquestionably, that day he certainly did. If Martin could give Ben a lift, he could side-step his problem and return home to Cornwall. Kata telephoned Martin with Ben watching as she waited for connection but there was no response. She put down the phone.

Ben sighed and looked out of the window, bitterly disappointed, 'He may have left already.'

Kata took him by the elbow, 'OK, Ben. Stop. Let's get in the car and go to his house. It's not far.' They jumped into the family Trabant and zoomed round to Martin's through the picturesque and fruity Hungarian lanes silently hoping he'd be home. 

And just as they pulled up outside, Martin came out of the house and waved. He had just returned and offered them some coffee. Could he give Ben a lift? He thought for a moment, 'Yes. It might be fun. Have you been on a 'bike before?'

'A bike? Do you mean a MOTORBIKE?' There was the faintest fluttering in the pit of Ben's stomach but it was more from fear than excitement. That changed when he touched the release button and roared into excitement and impatience. He couldn't wait. This would be the fitting finale to all his summertime adventures in Hungary.

In those last few days, Kata killed time by driving twitchy Ben to meet two musician friends of her husband, then entrusting him with watching over the children while she made a lightning visit to her office, then entrusting him with some weeding in her fruit garden and then even entrusting him to cook lunch for a surprise guest, Andrea.

Andrea and Ben went for a short stroll after lunch and, for the first time, she began talking about Bee, ''I still feel his presence. For me he is still here and always will be. I am sorry I could not talk to you about him but I hope you will understand and forgive me. I think the friendship we have, you and I, will grow in our letters and it will be very precious to us both. Ben, thank you for coming to Golop. The moment I met you at the airport, I felt I already knew you and I felt you would understand why I was so sad. These were very special times and I want you to know you will always have a place in my heart.' 

The time flew by, and just before Martin arrived to whisk him into the midnight, Kata took Ben by the elbow and walked him down the garden path to the shed at the front gate, 'I've put your backpack in the attic for safety. She opened the shed door and pointed to a nail just above his head high on the left, 'Here's where I hang the house keys, in case you come back.' 

'Kata, Egoshegedra. I will definitely come back.'

She gave him a warm hug and a disarming smile of friendship as she kissed his hand then suddenly wept. Looking back, Ben was full of gratitude to Kata that day. What a star! If she hadn't suggested asking Martin for a lift he had no idea what he would have done. And Martin had been a hero too. As soon as he heard Ben had lost his return flight ticket he said, 'Of course! But it'll be a bit of a race. Can't leave 'til Thursday night and the ferry is Saturday night.' Ben swallowed hard. He had only ever been on a motorbike once before, and that was when he was fourteen, on his Uncle Freddy's 250cc 'Beeza', and his uncle had been cruising at about 60 mph when he hit a dog that had ran out into the road. Ben recalled the dreamy, peaceful feeling that came over him as he sailed through the air, and the pain when he hit the road Jack, and slid on gravel for about a hundred yards. The dog just ran off barking. Mad.

Martin oozed reassurance. 'Ben, just lean into the bends when we make a turn and you won't fall off. Here's my spare helmet. Put your gloves on and any spare clothes, you'll need them. This is a Yamaha 1200 and we'll be travelling in excess of 100 mph when we can, but you'll get used to it.'

Ben would never forget their setting off at midnight. How the night the sky exploded in a rainstorm. He winced as he cocked his leg over the Yammy's pillion, it seemed as big as a horse with a beam as broad as a barge. His five feet four inches were almost split in two…lengthways, but as long as he kept his backbone straight, he could just about bend his knees. If he didn't, his legs stuck out like oars. The engine's thunder drowned any further instructions so, wrapped as he was in leather, metal, and boots, Ben turned to say farewell to Andrea and Kata but just as Andrea gripped his hand, their composure collapsed into floods of tears in the agony of their parting. Kata smiled sadly, and threw her arms open for one last goodbye and all at once, Martin and Ben were gone.

They raced from Hungaria into the future and the rain.

The Leaving of Hungary

Midnight. Budapest. Ben was wet. Saturated. Couldn`t get any wetter, so he relaxed into the rain like we relax into the sea. No resistance. He felt better. More calm, almost surreal. Place and time was irrelevant. He squatted on the pillion and shot through space with nothing to do but to be in the weather and the moment, and to think.

They drove in shadows. The cursory wave from the Bratislava border guards was like the starter flag at Aintree Racecourse and the race was on through darkest Austria. Vienna in the wet was almost as romantic as Spaghetti Junction but without the icicles. Nevertheless they resisted the temptation to dally and so pressed on towards the dawn over the Saltzak at Saltzberg, in the persistent rain. Even in the darkness of those early morning hours, they passed big, shiny cars containing executives playing with their laptops. Racing droplets coursed upward on Ben's visor. His knees were freezing and he swore he would never sniff at bikers in all their padded glory ever again.

He thoughts turned to Andrea and how she suffered her loss for so long. They would meet on their iPads and jotters but things were much harder face to face. When Ben first arrived they had traded photographs and little gifts and she had presented him with one of Bee's treasured books, 'The Road to Rembetika', a wonderful book by Gail Holst. Rembetika is the wonderful, soulful, passionate music of the Greek Mangas, those estranged people who live on the fringe of Greek society. Those tramps and vagabonds whose songs and melodies filled both Bee and Ben with the zest for adventure.

He recalled how Rita, elder sister of Andrea, had been convinced Ben was Bee's brother, 'But you look just like him,' she'd protested when he shook his head and that night he had had dreams where, indeed, they shared the same mother.

After his time at the camps, he hardly saw Andrea because the camps were taking up so much of her time. Towards the end of his stay, he thought she was avoiding him but it was not just being so occupied with the camps, it was just too painful for her to talk of Bee, so Ben borrowed a sleeping bag and took off. For the final two weeks, he swung through Hungary on introductions, acquaintances, sleeping rough and loving every minute. His only plan was 'no plan'. Once, in an old wooden inn, he could just make out the white capped mountains of north-eastern Hungary from his seat near the window. How the cold wind whistled through the town outside while he sat, warm and content, by a purring stove that squatted on four housebricks. It was the centre of attention and the only source of heat in there, apart from that coming from the open kitchen. Although late summer was still hanging on, autumn would be bleak so the tables and chairs had been gathered around the stove to make the diners a little more comfortable.

It dawned on him that for the first time in that part of the country, that he would be comparatively safe from dangerous wild animals, except for the ones in his dreams of course. He remembered a moment, while sitting against a tree in the woods on the slopes near Zahony,  he had heard sounds, coming from somewhere behind, of rustling and sighs and so casually, he turned his head to see what had made the noise. He actually came eye to eye with a real wild boar seemingly hunting for lunch. Needless to say, he froze until it moved on.

Deeper, on into Germany and on to Munich and Augsberg until Martin took a wrong road and realised they need sleep. There was a campsite at Karlsruhe and its commandant took pity, suggesting they ignore their tent and sleep in the games room. He put the heating on so they could dry out their wet clothes. Ben slept on the Ping-Pong table and Michael slept on the floor. But not before they visited the Alpine Chalet Restaurant for steak and fried potatoes and a few steins of local brown beer to wash it all down. An accordion trio played, 'Heartburn Hotel', leering in painted smiles. Next morning under the shower, Ben noticed his skin was itchy but luckily without any sign of a rash.

In Hungarian villages, every morning he had woken up confused. Never quite sure what century he was in because of noises of wheels on cobbles, rickety carts, farmyards and the sound of voices in a language he could never understand. Everything was so mediaeval. He was travelling in a time warp. The countryfolk might have very little money but they have boundless humanity. He had been told of this before he had left Falmouth. And everyday, he realised  how much he relied on that natural hospitality to ease him on the way to finding himself.

On one occasion he actually stayed with a shepherd and his family in their little cottage for three days, and they, like so many others, insisted Ben sleep in their bedroom. When he offered to sleep in the barn, the shepherd had protested in his fractured English, 'But sire, you are the guest'. The man's name was Zoltan, his wife was Maria, his little daughter was Judit and her younger brother was Fritzy. They always fed Ben well before he strolled off each morning. On his last night with them, little Judit, swathed in a towel, had marched into the bedroom carrying a big old storybook. She had stood in the puddle of bath water dripping onto her feet whilst she read Ben a bedtime story. He listened, honoured, as earnestly she enacted the tale with furrowed brow, raised eyebrows and the wagging finger. He smiled at her long golden eyelashes and the tiny beads of water left glistening as she blinked. At the end of the story she gently closed the book, leaned toward him, softly kissed his cheek and whispered, 'Yo eshakat. Goodnight', before padding out of the room. Zoltan smiled from the doorway, 'She seems to think she remembers you, but from some other place.' He shook his head at the craziness and smiled, before switching out the light. Ben closed his eyes and settled back. It was hard to believe he hadn't understood a single word little Judit had said.

En route for another border, Ben chanted a mantra to himself, 'Martin! Please stop soon. Please stop soon. Please stop soon.' Eventually, they did stop for resuscitating breakfast in a little café near a bridge. He was trembling from so much discomfort that when he spilled some coffee over his hand, he was actually too numb to feel any pain. In the toilet, he wrung out his gloves and removed his wet underwear and rubbed himself dry. It felt so good to be back in France.

Ben reflected on Romania and that morning when he rested by a deep pool, weary from hours of wandering through a wilderness of boulders and rocks and how startled he was when he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. He kept quite still until he felt foolish. Instinct possibly, and  so he sat there imagining other, earlier dawns and wondered what it might have been like for some innocent primitive being, travelling in isolation, calmly unaware yet completely enlightened. He wondered about the peace of mind that comes from scant imagination if unquenchable desire was perhaps the source of all human unhappiness.

He thought of Kata, her children and how she let him stay in her house, an incom