Scotland and Aye

by Sophia Wasiak Butler

  It is definitely time to call William. He thankfully has a half-day at work and although he sounds surprised, agrees to meet me at the pub. By the time he arrives, the scotch has taken effect and the tears are flowing. I explain what has happened through sobs and confess that I am not sure I can cope with pets who can paddle across the stream, negotiate barbed wire and release cows! “Thank goodness for that!” he exclaims –“I’ve had the worst month, all my time’s gone to catching the goats, untangling them from their tethers and reinforcing their house! In fact, I feel they have taken over everything and I’ve been using the front door so I don’t have to listen to their neurotic noise and see their destruction!”

  The bear-man is walked over by Kasia, he knows some Christian nuns in the area who run an addiction rehabilitation centre for adults utilising animals for the process. The farmer has been phoned and will reclaim Daisy, who has hopefully not battered in the kitchen door and squashed the dogs, so we are free to jump into William’s car and follow the map, drawn on a napkin to the nun’s centre.

  The grounds are enormous and chickens run free, pecking the dirt around our feet. It could not be better we think to ourselves. The nuns are amicable and we seize our chance. Before they have a chance to object, we are halfway home. Approximately 10% of the potato patch which William planted remains, the broccoli has been decimated and the courgettes are a urinating favourite for the dogs – still, not bad for a first attempt I think to myself, spirits high. The farmer is doing something at the fence, I go over to help him and he swears his cows are docile. Daisy is reunited with her companions and the rogue goat Horns is cornered and marched into the trailer. Little Ears is still bashing her head into the fence and trying to get out – strange creatures – always wanting to be one step further away than is possible. I walk her for the last time to the trailer. A sadness envelops us as we take the last pictures and say our goodbyes. We don’t bother giving the dogs this opportunity, seeing as Caine and Blue are very much a hunting pack now and Caine likes to impress his lady with death-grip ninja moves on Horns.

  The Sisters poured over us with thanks for such a generous gift, promises to feed the goats only from their organic vegetable garden and invitations to visit whenever we like. The dogs scout round at home, looking for the sergeant majors of the garden. In their absence, they roll in the grass and reclaim their territory. William and I walk hand in hand around the house several times, marvelling at the lack of manic energy and discussing the experience. In the end, we had saved animals, had a go at small-holding and dedicated them to a good cause. Clearly, we are not cut from goat-farmer-cloth and the idea of free-range chickens is put on the backburner until the advent of next year at least.

  William and his son spend a couple of days dismantling the goat house and soon, all traces of their presence have faded. I sit outside with my coffee most mornings, listening to the babbling stream. My timing coincides with a neighbour it seems, an old man I have seen wondering around the vicinity barefoot, with the uncanny ability of suddenly appearing. One morning, I watch him as he turns to my gate and walks in. It is like a scene from a surreal film because I do not stir, or even manage a greeting. The dogs walk to welcome the visitor but uncharacteristically quietly (and we are talking about two fully grown Dobermans). I am puzzled when he sits down next to me on the sun-soaked bench. The man says nothing, we do not look at each other, resting in a comfortable silence. He stays until my coffee is long cold.

  After a couple of days this scenario repeats itself, only this time I smile to myself and recognise how liberating it is to sit in human company without any social pleasantries or the need to maintain a stimulating conversation. I am touched by the visits and I wonder if this old man has been the deliverer of the canvas pouches which contain the sprouts I have been germinating on the window sill and sprinkling over each meal. I have absorbed something from my nutritional studies (thankfully) and sprouts help the body to produce the enzymes it needs for digestion which are more readily stimulated by raw foods.

  Even if my companion is completely mad, I am touched by his visits. I wonder quietly if this is what it feels like have grandparents (having never really known mine). I imagine them as a benevolent presence, a fountain of knowledge on traditional methods of life which are being called upon to regain sustainability. This time he says “Goodbye Miss” before leaving and I look him in the eye for the first time, my eyes meet an unwavering glacial-blue piercing gaze, surrounded by wild eyebrows and a shocking-white mane of hair. His clothes look handwoven and curl at the hems, he is barefoot again and has an unshaven face. In some way he seems ageless, a facet of nature, seamlessly emerging from the elements; the dogs are almost sedated in his presence and birds dare to investigate the wild flowers in the garden at close range.

  I construe wild tales in my imagination as I walk the dogs early the next day. Perhaps he is the last ‘Shaman of Scotland’ come down from the hills, to observe our dissociation from nature and collective fall from grace. I feel I am being observed like the fox in The Little Prince who teaches the Prince that wildness can be tamed a little at a time, until a need for the other develops, leading to companionship. Whilst mulling all this over, I realise that I must have become reliant on the mysterious visits, why else would I be walking the dogs at the crack of dawn each morning?!

  Two mornings later my visitor returns. Just as I am relaxing into his silence, he begins to speak in a meandering tone, “I have become bored with my life,” he says, I stay staring ahead of me, afraid that if I turn to him he may disappear. “I was waiting for your romance with the goats to end, you city people come out here with your grand schemes, thinking you can control nature. First my friend, you must surrender to it.” Too stunned to speak I let him talk on. He has decided to help me restore my garden which the goats destroyed. Sitting quietly on the bench with my companion now chattering away like a Brazilian parrot, I am content in the knowledge that I am regaining something which I did not even know I had missed.

  Although William has not yet met our guardian angel, he is pleased this presence has appeared in our lives. I am curious to see how this learning will unfold, as I bask in the comforts of home and we all wish the goats well on the next leg of their journey through life. I made a few batches of foolproof muffins, following a recipe acquired from William’s mum and my companion savours them with a warm smile, looking far into horizon. He does not need to say it, I know: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly: what is essential is invisible to the eye.”39

  31 Pink towelled dressing gown

  32 Beetroot

  33 Oh God Marta give me a whisky quickly!

  34 What happened? You look awful?!

  35 Wait

  36 String of expletives

  37 Grandma, in a mountainous region of Poland

  38 Zosia, it’s not good

  39 The Little Prince, Antoine De Saint-Exupery

  A Wish for Joy on the Journey

  The wilds of Cananda

  It is often said that before a couple venture into the lifelong commitment of raising children, they should first attempt dog keeping. Without consistency and commitment from the parents, those irresistibly cute angels become cheeky adolescent monkeys – a lesson William and I are quickly learning. We are model parents, scoring high in exercise levels, quality of food and love. After my Lesbos adventures, it was William’s turn to pursue further steps in his development as a therapist. He was getting ready to go to Hawaii for his graduation from a 100-day programme. I was happy for William, however, over tea with my father, he noticed my sadness. Hours later he called, “Darling, I feel you need to complete your training in self-development. I hear there is a course in Hawaii…”. This is the moment when a father becomes his little girl’s superhero and off I went, to join my tartan-clad darling.

  Being met by a towering Scotsman clutching twelve coho salmon under his arm by any airport standards is quite a scene! Having befriended a First Nations’ man on the Qu
een Charlotte Islands, William fished these beauties out of the water within half an hour. My clever sweetheart seemed to have everything organised, very fresh fish dinner and a romantic ferry ride across the water to Vancouver Island, where I could relax into the Canadian pace of things. The plan was to drive from Vancouver to Los Angeles, via Seattle and San Francisco, fly to Hawaii for his graduation and return home. The car was a ’97 blue Buick Regal purchased for the modest sum of $50 which was effectively free because it came with a full tank of gas. We swiftly christened him Benny, stuck a huge insurance cover on him in preparation for the ‘sue-crazy’ culture of the States and hit the road.

  As we entered America by water to Port Angeles, I was reminded of the paradoxical reality in this land of super-sized proportions. On the one hand it is possible to order a vegan take-away at 3 am and yet on the other it is impossible to obtain something vaguely healthy most of the time, especially on the road. In an attempt to make everything easier, most things can be done from the comfort of your car from drive-thru bank machines to car mechanics called ‘Mr. Lube’, which got our British humour going. You sit in the car while your oil is changed. However, filling the car with petrol becomes a travesty if you do not have a zip-code.

  There is a sense both in Canada and the USA that the land is vast and expansive, one feels dwarfed by its magnitude. Perhaps this is the reason for the enormous compound-like shops which are impossible to walk between, huge homes and enormous cars? However, these border-lands differ greatly in feel. The States feels like an unsafe environment and everything is done from the comfort of the car; models of luxury in cruising (basically extensions of the sofa), even our old Buick has many modern gimmicks. A Range Rover stands out as one of the biggest cars on the road in the UK, not so here, where everyone seems to need a pick-up truck, often placed on enormous wheels which make them look like ridiculous toys every little boy dreams of. Bigger is definitely better and many Hummers – grotesque army style jeeps can be seen on the road, which frankly, look as though only someone with a huge inferiority complex could justify driving around a city. William is in heaven as he delights over these fuel-guzzling monsters, “Is America recession proof? How much longer can they afford to do five-mile to the gallon?!” we wonder, not to mention the total disregard for depleting the planet’s resources…

  Ordering something simple is like going head-to-head with the Spanish Inquisition: “A coffee and a sandwich please,” it begins; “Sure, black or white? Regular milk or soy? Which size? To go or to eat in? Which loaf…(lists ten choices)? Mayo, butter or margarine? Special, deluxe, supreme or regular size sandwich? Fries or a salad with that? Regular fries, wedges or crinkle? Vinaigrette, thousand island, Caesar, balsamic or blue cheese dressings??” It is enough to make you think twice about ordering anything!

  As we make headway down Highway 101, from Seattle to Los Angeles, I imagine that living in the wilderness of America, it would be easy to become strange, bordering on mad; whereas in Canada there is a sense of loneliness. It is certainly calmer that side of the border and although many of the systems are the same, there is more sincerity in the plastic ‘Have a nice day’ style of the Americans. The difference between the people is clearly illustrated with a visit to Vancouver; a big city on water which is safe, calm and more harmonious in feel than any city I have ever visited. However, there is something to be said for the simplicity of the layout of American cities given that we were able to complete a 2,000 mile trip without one single map containing the entire journey! The road inspires William, “Soph, what do you think about letting the shining BMW bike loose out here on Route 66?” My look speaks a thousand (uncensored) words…

  The reports from home over Skype go from bad to worse; the dogs understood the teenage ‘free-house’ scenario. Blue (the young temptress), proved herself a clever minx who could: open doors with her mouth; rip apart duvets, spewing fluff all over ‘Grandma’s’ house while she was at work; eat wallpaper off the walls and forget her toilet training. On walks, Caine and Blue seemed to have contracted selective deafness. When I was in two minds about going home due to the disastrous dog situation and a complete drought in funds, a roadside diner waitress said to me, “Honey, ya gotta think like this; in ten years time which decision would ya have ratha made?” This was the clincher, I decided to stay out for a little longer (and get a loan), as we took the flight out to Hawaii, looking forward to piña coladas in the sun; a well-deserved break from the road.

  We arrived into Honolulu expecting the post card dream: a woman in a grass skirt with garlands of flowers and a beachside lodge. Instead, the heat was dense and close, I felt as though I had jumped off Marlowe’s boat in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Daytime mosquitoes and sludge brown water – expectations are a terrible thing! Stuck in the back waters of the Hawaiian Bronx, far off the beaten track, I wonder if this is what is necessary to raise my social conscience? Anywhere you go, the world has two faces: one is for show, happy and colourful. The other is hidden, sad and full of shame. The reality of Hawaii is a fast food joint on every corner and $5 for a loaf of bread. My observations would certainly not sell dream holidays! I encountered people with very little who would offer you anything they could, whilst paradoxically wandering through neighbourhoods full of men in wife-beater vests and huge dogs gnashing their teeth at the end of chains. I will never forget a local stopping his pick-up truck to advise me that walking around in a (long) maxi-dress would get me into trouble.

  There were days when we made it to pristine Hawaiian beaches which were beautiful, ate shrimps and drank cocktails. Although the overwhelming impression was of a place become America’s playground, full of cheery locals, Starbucks and McDonald’s, it felt more like it’s dustbin. The locals, a naturally welcoming people, veil a deep unhappiness: another casualty of the white man. The Hawaiian Queen was imprisoned by the Americans, their culture and language was outlawed. They are a people disempowered; expected to be happy about the A-list owning million dollar homes and the advent of tourism as the main industry.

  It is easy when one encounters Native Hawaiians, wonderful warriors and Shamans connected to the earth, to feel disgusted with our white heritage. From NativeAmericans to Indigenous Australians and New Zealand’s Maoris; native peoples have been decimated and forced to live in the social gutter. When I found myself at the First Nations summit in Canada, I shared a cigarette with a woman who had eyes greener than the jungle itself. She said “All my people had these eyes before first contact.” This means before the coming of the white man. Later they were all but wiped out, when they were given blankets impregnated with smallpox.

  It is an awful moment when you realise that even if you have achieved an A* in your studies, you are only regurgitating the history of the victorious. These people now live on reserves which are depressing and not at all representative of their past territories. They cannot hunt or eat seasonally. The loss of old knowledge and language to a large degree has crippled them. The sham of residential schools would need an entire historical chronicle to explain function and effects. Suffice to say that each person should educate themselves in order to understand the state of the native peoples, as a result of conquerors’ machinations. I remember a wonderful meeting with Aleksandra Ziółkowska-Boehm in my Kraków days when I attended a presentation of her book: Otwarta Rana Ameryki ‘America’s Open Wound’, about the plight of the Native Americans. Let’s hope that the ancestral spirit returns to enough of us, to make a difference.

  The Psychology of Vision seminar began. The leader had some fun with William and I, as we were the only couple there together, prodding us and finding out our ‘issues’. Thankfully, we are both self-aware enough for this not to cause an uproar behind closed doors. Can you imagine standing up in front of a room full of people and announcing what you do not like about your partner while they are sitting next to you?! After the honeymoon period is over, your partner learns to drive you crazy in a matter of seconds. Everything which annoys you about them is wha
t you have repressed in yourself and they are simply a mirror. Would you forgive yourself for being thoughtless, forgetful, grumpy etc…? The only way to deal with these things is to keep loving the person, rather than closing down.

  In our case, William announced that indecisiveness was a quality he did not accept in himself, therefore my common ailment annoyed him. I on the other hand do not think of myself as an angry woman and I find his temper to be an unattractive quality. However, denying that there is an angry witch inside me is ridiculous, because something only needs to happen and I am immediately a drama queen, calling friends and family. This is ‘closet’ angry behaviour or passive aggression. When I look at things from this angle, I think I would prefer a short, sharp burst of anger which is over quickly, instead of a prolonged sulk. Unfortunately, a frequently used strategy of mine is burying myself under the smallest shell, at the bottom of the ocean, which my partner can never reach. The planet is entering a new paradigm and partnership is the only way to get through it, we are all being called upon to take the next step in working together in relationships, business and transnational communication.

  Post-Hawaii, on the eve of our flights home, we decide that Benny – the $50 buck wonder – is too good to scrap and accept an overnight invitation with a friend of William’s. An interesting Halloween evening transpires with a Shaman in L.A. We ingest some plant extracts and journey the universe, guided from one bliss bubble to the next – whether in the jungle or in a concrete metropolis – shamans certainly know how to party! For the next two days we drive for fourteen hours to hit Canada. At this point it is clear that the driving has interfered with our brain functions. We are faced with a militant female Immigration Officer at the Canadian border, just past Seattle and the simple question: “Where are you headed?” when met by our catatonic expressions and mono-syllabic replies lands us in a drug search! Following a quick check of the car which contains nothing illegal, we are let into Canada and I realise how worn down we are from the road.