Visit to an Ostrich Farm

Mario Marici is an ex-naval officer in the Navy of the former Yugoslavia, who once during shore leave in South Africa was so fascinated by an ostrich farm, that he promised himself he'd also raise ostriches once he left the navy.

And that was what he did. In the beginning he thought that he'd only be raising the birds for meat for his family's use. But as word about his ostriches spread around, he started fulfilling orders from friends and acquaintances. Ostrich meat is classified as red meat and even tastes like beef, but with a big difference: it is low in fat and rich in iron. Soon, Mario had a bestseller on his hands, and he went into farming ostriches full-scale.

Last summer we visited Mario and his wife on their farm in the village of Majoli near Kanfanar in Istria. He was having some construction work done on the house and on the grounds, and because of this he had to cull the number of his birds. Normally he has as many as 120 ostriches on the premises, but at that time there were only about twenty. As we walked down several enclosures where families of two hens and a male bird each were kept, Mario told us that the young birds were raised until they were 24 months old. After that they would be ready for the dinner table.

After the tour, we were shown into a hall on the ground floor of the house, as we came through the patio. As we sat down, Mario's wife Liliana set out to serve us a four-course meal featuring the specialty of the house. For starters we had a creamy vegetable soup, accompanied by bread and a platter of various home-made sausages and hams. The main dish was a pot of ragout with potatoes, washed down by glasses of Istrian wine. For dessert we moved out to the terrace to enjoy the evening sunshine, as we were served a round of sweet sticky cakes and fresh figs. Topping this off were tiny glasses of Mario's special brew - lovingly referred to as "sixty-two - percent" - which he guaranteed was "good for the inside and the outside".

All products produced by Mario and Liliana are organic, and even the hams and sausages are made without any preservatives. Guests who come for the tour followed by dinner may also buy samples of the hams and sausages, ostrich eggs (one egg would amount to about 25 to 30 chicken eggs), and various cuts of the ostrich meat that they also deliver to several hotels and restaurants in the area.

For guests who wish to enjoy authentic country life in Istria, Mario and Liliana have guest rooms for rent for 25 Euros per person with half-board. The only downside with this bargain is that you have to share a common bathroom with other guests, and finding the place would be a problem if you don't have a car, as it's located in the hinterlands south of the Limski Canal. If you are seeking a gastronomic experience, Mario and Liliana also offer an all-you-can-eat and-drink deal for a flat rate of 120 Kuna. Reservations ahead of time are requested.

An Istrian Interlude

Camping holidays remind me of my girl scout days from a long time ago. What a fun time! Sleeping out under the stars, having cook-outs, making do with less, living close to nature. And what could be closer to nature than a campsite where everybody else romps around in their birthday suits?

I'm talking about the FKK facility called Koversada in Vrsar on the Istrian peninsula in Croatia. FKK is German for Frei Körper Kultur. Unfortunately, the English "nudist" doesn't quite capture the essence of the German term. Puritanical minds may associate being nudist with prurient activities, but nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, this camp is absolutely family-friendly.

Whether you want to stay in a tent, a caravan, a mobile home or a bungalow, Koversada can accommodate your needs. And even if you're not a regular camper with your own caravan or trailer, you can rent one for the duration of your stay. The Gebetsroither company in Liezen, Austria always sets up a number of caravans on the site each year, and you can make reservations with them. That's what we did last year, and we enjoyed our stay so much that we booked with them again this summer.

Each caravan has enough room for two adults and two kids (in the bunk beds) to sleep in. The tiny kitchen is equipped with pots and pans and dishes so you don't have to bring your own, and the dining area converts into an extra bed in case an unexpected visitor drops by. In front of the caravan is a tent with a full-sized refrigerator as well as garden furniture.

Within the campsite are restaurants, shops where you can buy provisions, newspapers and beach paraphernalia, tennis courts, an area for beach volleyball, a special shower area for dogs, and a hall where special programs for guests and their children are held. Of course, at a nudist camp the general rule is that you do without clothes throughout the day, except when you eat out, participate in common activities or go shopping. Coming from a tropical country as I do, I used to not comprehend the seemingly European propensity for going swimming topless or even naked on our beaches in the Philippines. However, having lived through many winters in an Alpine country, where you insulate yourself from head to toe for more than half a year every year, I was glad to just sit out in the open air every day, soaking up the sunshine and getting a healthy dose of Vitamin D.

The campsite's beaches are typical of Istria in that they are rocky or riddled with pebbles and rather uncomfortable if you like to go barefoot. However, the area fronting the adjoining island of Koversada - from which the camp gets its name, and which is connected by a bridge to the mainland - is specially filled up with sand, and is a favourite of kids and sunbathers.

When we were there last year, our camp area was located near the building that insiders call the "Gräfin", or countess. There used to be a pub there where a band played every night and guests could go dancing. This year however, they moved the pub's premises to the guest services area near the sandy beach, and the restaurant specializing in Istrian cuisine moved to the Gräfin's facilities. Last year, we got to know the band's repertoire so well that we could predict that "Tequila" would play at around 9:30 p.m. Guessing the next song to be played was our evening recreation then, and we had a lot of laughs about it. Too bad we couldn't do that this year.

Saturday Night in Schärding

Last Saturday Gerald and I drove down to Schärding in Upper Austria to meet some acquaintances for dinner. I hadn't been there before, although I had heard that it had lovely, photogenic architecture on the city's main square. And so we set off to do some photography as well.

The weather was warm and sunny, and upon arrival we went to locate the restaurant where we would meet our friends. It turned out to be an easy find, and as we turned left in the one-way street coming from the old city gate, we found it at the end of the street.

After parking the car, we scouted around for interesting subjects to shoot. A few meters behind the restaurant was a medical center, and a small courtyard fronting it. Just off the courtyard was a staircase leading down to a garden in what was in effect the old city walls. A fenced-in area bordering the lawn enclosed some deer that were feeding on some fruit lying on the ground. At the center of the old walls was a building that housed a cafe and restaurant, where some guests lingered on the terrace. Then, on one end of the garden was a huge steel sculpture in spiral form - a perfect subject for some photos.

We took our time taking shots of the sculpture, before heading back to the restaurant where we were to meet the others. A funny thing was the name of the restaurant: Zur Bums'n. Earlier, we met a group of people headed our way, who started giggling as they espied the name on one side of the building. That's because "Bums'n" in the local dialect means making love.

Our group had reserved the Jagdstube, or the hall where the hunting trophies were displayed. On the menu that night was Bratl, or roast pork with potatoes, cabbage, and dumplings accompanied by a side dish of pickled radish. A good old hearty meal that reminded me of the roasts that Gerald's Oma and Opa used to make - and they even served it in the same roasting pans that we know so well.

I only took one helping of a cut of ribs and taters and dumplings, and heaps and heaps of radish and gravy. It didn't look much, but there was a lot of tender juicy meat wrapped around those ribs. Mmmm! At that moment, I didn't care how many calories were packed in that meal, but it sure tasted like heaven. Rounding off the meal were tiny glasses of Schnaps for everybody. Gerald, who never takes alcohol whenever he has to drive, just wet his lips with it before passing his glass on to me. It used to be that a shot of Schnaps would pop my eyes out as well as burn my throat. "You should always drink it in one gulp," my father-in-law said to me once. "When you do that, it wouldn't burn." So there. Two shots of Schnaps, and I'm transformed into
Indy's friend Marion in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Going back to the name, it turns out that it origins aren't even salacious after all. The restaurant or Wirtshaus is also a brewery, and the word Bums'n is related to this history. In the old days when brewery workers would load and unload beer barrels on their horse-carts, they would make a banging sound on the cobblestone floor, hence the onomatopoeic Bums'n.

Another interesting detail is the opening hours. Sometime in the 1990's after the Wirtshaus was renovated, they decided to hold their opening hours every day from 8:00 a.m. to 12:00 midnight. That's sixteen hours every day. We were only there for a few hours, but it was packed full the whole time. When you're passing by in Schärding, be sure to make reservations ahead of time.

Back from Vacation

What I did on my summer vacation.

This phrase always comes to my mind whenever a new schoolyear starts. Our teachers always made us write themes on this topic year after year. I don't recall having written anything special about the summers we spent, especially since we always did the same thing year after year. Go to the beach with family and friends, have a picnic, swim and get sunburned, or even, if it was that kind of summer, get jellyfish "burns". But mostly we did what we always did when school was out: woke up late, had breakfast on the terrace, read comics and books at all hours of the day, made experiments in the kitchen, played with the dogs, played basketball or badminton in the backyard, entertained friends, watched late night movies on TV, went to bed late, and do it again in the morning.

Well, this summer I mostly worked, but I also had fun with my family. It began early in June, when the UEFA European Football Championships kicked off. Salzburg was one of the host cities, and I was one of the volunteer workers for the tournament. Three group games were held in Salzburg, and the arrival of football fans from all over Europe brought a festive atmosphere in the old city center where my office is located. The throngs of Swedish fans were an absolute delight to see. The city swarmed with yellow and blue shirts, flags, scarfs, and painted faces. They took over biergartens, sidewalk cafes, the fan mile, precious few parking spaces, the narrow streets and sidewalks, the banks of the river, and even whatever green traffic islands there were. And the nicest thing about them was that they were an orderly, disciplined, fun-loving bunch of merrymakers who were always ready give a welcome hug to the fans of the opposing team. And then that unforgettable "Swedish March", when all the fans made the journey to the stadium on foot, painting the town not red but yellow and blue.

In July the school year ended, but a week before that we had an end-of-the-schoolyear party for Nicole and Nadine's school friends on the roof deck, where we grilled home-made hamburgers. Then, after a hiatus of about two or three weeks, the Salzburg Festival began. The kids went camping for four days with Gerald, and I was left home alone with the dog. I bought theater tickets for "The Sound of Music" at the Marionette Theater, and "The Year of Magical Thinking" with Vanessa Redgrave playing at the Landestheater. We went to Croatia for a week, where we were blessed with wonderful, seemingly endless summer days. While there we met an acquaintance of Gerald's, who invited us to join him and his family on his boat, which he drove to the Limski Canal where he dropped anchor. Sitting in the sun with a cold drink in the hand, diving into the cool water from the hull of the boat, and then speeding through the water into the sunset - what a feeling! Back home, Gerald and I joined a photo club, and then we went out for a hamburger at the riverside Salzach Grill terrace of the posh Hotel Sacher Salzburg, and then roared off with the motorcycle into the rainy night.

Well, summer has ended, the festival is over, the public swimming pools have closed, the nights are becoming somewhat chilly, and school starts in less than a week. How I spent my summer vacation? In four words: Having a great time.

Another Writing Exercise

Songs are the soundtrack of our lives. Over the years, songs come and go and define a particular moment in time. A fragment of song may capture a sentiment we held true at the time we heard it. And songs can bring back stories from the past, along with the emotions associated with it.

Today I went back to where I left off in the book “Writing the Natural Way” by Gabriele Rico. Midway through Chapter 3, there is an exercise related to a song heard in childhood. The task involves clustering a phrase from this song, and building on the images evoked by this phrase. Doing this should lead you to what wants to be written. Then you write a vignette based on this cluster for four or five minutes. After that, you rework your vignette and add to it or cut out whatever is necessary.

For this exercise, I recalled passages from the song “Beautiful Dreamer” by Stephen Foster. My dad liked to sing this song when I was growing up, while my mom or my sister played piano. The following vignette was the result:

UNDER THE STARS

Under the stars,
by the light of the moon,
is where I go
and dream.
When the noises of day
fade away,
and all of life’s cares
are still.
Away from the throng,
I come to this silence
To dream.
Music plays,
and the melody soothes,
like balm for a wounded
soul.

Let me have this time
and place,
let me find some
some peace.
I do not wish to hurt you,
my love
but I need you to let me
be me.

Let me go
to this sacred space,
and help me find
my way.
For I need time
to heal the wounds,
and I need time
to grow strong.

So let me have this time,
this place –
under the stars
by the light of the moon –
and let me dream
my dreams.

Where Did You Learn to Write Like That?

Over one long Easter weekend, an old friend of mine found me again. I’m still writing, I said, and gave him the link to my blog. He e-mailed back this question: “Where did you learn to write like that?”

I have no easy answers - it takes a lifetime to become a writer. As a child I always made up stories in my mind, but I wanted to be a doctor. Then at fourteen, I had an epiphany. I loved reading, languages and writing, and I realized they’d been shaping my destiny. I was meant to be a writer. After that, it was all that mattered – in school, at home, in my hobbies and daydreams.

Most writers I know are readers, and I grew up in a house full of books. They lined up a wall in the living room, filled up the shelves in the bedrooms. We kept them in drawers and musty old trunks. We had a virtual library - of bestsellers, references, literary classics, science books, whodunits, children’s books, newspapers, magazines, comics and schoolbooks, including those that belonged to grandfather. At our house, we spent our free time reading for fun.

As a family where both mother and father were teachers, discussions over the dinner table were inevitable. And so it was with us. At these times, we all shared what we knew, asked questions, had arguments, and settled them. It was done in the spirit of give and take, and to their credit my parents never lectured down to us. We were equals all learning from each other.

Bookworms we were, but not bookish. Fortunately, our knowledge of things and ideas was tempered by the wisdom of experience. Our parents and elders had lived through hard times, and survived a great world war. They told us stories from the past, and we listened. Soon we realized that books don’t tell the whole story, and that life’s best lessons can come from those who’ve lived it before.

Writers learn to tell stories, because they once heard stories told. This is true because I once wrote a story, based on a something I heard as a child. It was a classic trickster tale, where the hero outsmarts his antagonist by talking his way out of the crisis. I took this oral piece of literature, and embellished it with new details. To my amazement, that story later won a literary prize. The trickster had done it again.

Writers learn to write by writing. It’s a no-brainer, but it can’t be said enough. You learn by doing it, like carpentry. All you need is a pen and some paper, an idea, and some research. Then you string words and facts together like beads, and form a logical, harmonious whole. Of course, it helps when you’ve mastered the language you write in. But this is no problem, if you’ve done a lot of reading, listening, observing and discussing in your life.

For a writer, no task is too small or too great. I began with theme-writing in the second grade, and at ten started keeping a small diary. As you grow up and expand your vocabulary, you work your way up to difficult topics. And you start using bigger notebooks. You join your high school paper, contribute to the company newsletter, and move on to a wider audience. At first you may do it for free. Later, you can do it for pay. But whether or not you get paid to write, you do it above all for love.

It also helps to have the right mentors. I had teachers who encouraged me to join contests, and express myself in writing. I became editor-in-chief of my high school paper. In college I took up Communication Arts, and became a better writer in Professor Espanto’s English Prose Styles class. He introduced us to Strunk and White’s “Elements of Style”, and William Zinsser’s “On Writing Well” – books I still use to this day.

And then there are mentors who teach things greater than writing. Things like integrity, the pursuit of truth, peace and justice. Or using your God-given talents in the service of a higher good. Once when I was a high school journalist, I attended a conference where I met a remarkable man. He was good-looking and intelligent, and was a charismatic speaker. As governor of a small province in the Visayas*, he spoke of his people and heritage with pride and unbridled passion. His words moved us all in the audience, and I never doubted his sincerity. Seven years later in 1986, Evelio Javier** was gunned down by assassins, in the aftermath of an election stolen by a desperate dictator. Life changes forever when someone you know gets martyred on the altar of freedom.

But this is a long, winding tale of a writer’s beginnings. Writing takes a lifetime to learn, and I can give you no easy answers. I learned to write by reading, and I learned to write by listening. I learned to write by discussing, and I learned to write by observing. I learned to write by following, and I learned to write by imitating.

I learned to write by living, because without that I have nothing to write about. I learned to write by doing, and I learned to write by writing. Then, when the writing is done, you learn to write better by revising. I learned writing from a lifetime of learning, and it’s a task I still work at everyday. Because practice, as you know, makes perfect.

__________

*An island group in Central Philippines.

**Former governor of Antique province in the Philippines.

(Special thanks to Allan Encarnacion)

Writing About Myself

My mother wanted me to become a doctor. My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps and become a lawyer. My piano teacher thought I was good enough for the conservatory of music. Growing up, I alternately shared my mother's dream, empathized with my father's wish, and trusted my piano teacher's judgment. But in the end I followed the beat of my drum, and decided to become a writer.

When I was fourteen I had an epiphany. I suddenly realized that all my life, I had stories running in my head all the time. I loved to read, and had always kept notes of things that struck me as special. I wanted to tell stories too, and write them down. So what could be more logical than pursuing my love for language and literature? Forget about med school - I was born to be a writer!

Once I decided to pursue this path, things started working my way. I started joining writing contests in school, and more remarkable than that, I also started winning prizes. I became editor of my high school paper. Then I went on to study communication arts and literature. And all the jobs I held after graduating from college had something to do with writing one way or another. I was accepted into a well-known writers' workshop, won a national literary contest, became a freelance contributor for a magazine, and published a children's book.

Then suddenly, my winning streak stopped. Work-related reasons brought me to another country years later, where I met and married my husband. I forgot about writing for a while, because life's other struggles got in the way.

It's been twelve years since I set the tools of my trade aside. Three years ago I picked up my pen and notebook again, and now I write everyday. Sometimes I sit at my computer, let my fingers fly on the keyboard, and pick up my thoughts on the way. I am a working writer, but I don't have many products to show. Instead, I focus on the process. It's been a long road to becoming a writer. And it's a journey I take every day.

__________

Note: This essay is another exercise from Writing the Natural Way by Gabriele Rico.