Author: Daniela Ginta Page 88 of 99

The child in the photo was tiny and she looked sick. Wrapped in cloth, tubes coming out of her nose, some dirty bandages on her right cheek and a thin hand reaching towards the face. The caption said that she may have arrived too late at the German-run hospital in Somalia. The photo was dated Sunday. Today is Monday. Is she still alive? I will never know. Just like I will never know about the other many like her who will not make it.
Life is like that, many say, unfair. Granted. It is. Yet this is something of a different nature. It’s just that we happen to be on the other side of the fence. Lucky draw by all means. We have our own hungry ones, and we have to help them, by all means, but the thought of a child walking with her parents or siblings for hours or days just to get to a camp where there’s maybe some food, well, it’s gut-wrenching and I’ve never used the word before in my writing. It ain’t right at all. Yet stopping just at shaking heads and gently closing our eyes in sorrow will do nothing.
It’s not my built-in guilt when I say gratefulness should fuel the need to help. It’s just that we have it good. Not all of us unfortunately, and I am aware of that, but many do. So doing something about it feels right and necessary. I am not holier than thou at the moment, at any moment, really, but it bugs me. You see, I kept on reading about Somalia and other countries where malnutrition is rampant. With other problems tailing along like hungry hyenas but for now I’ll stick with the first, so I will not the spread your understanding and patience too thin. I came across this site called Project Peanut Butter. One of many trying to help. But not just saying we’re trying, but literally doing it. Someone with a vision and willing to do what it takes to help. He mixed some food that is mostly grown right there on the premises, and made it into a paste that nutritious and can be fed to malnourished kids, bring them back from the steps of death and give them a good boost. And he did that for many kids, saw how they thrive and now can’t stop. For about 25 dollars a life is saved, the website states. Simple as that. 25! That’s the price of a medium-size Lego set. Did it make you shudder? Yeah, I know, I shuddered too. I think most kids here can forgo the above-mentioned set, wouldn’t you say? I am not arguing for taking the bread off our kids’ hands but rather making a difference. Seeing things for what they are. You’ll most likely never hear the “Thank you for saving my life,” but it’s there. You know what the irony is though? Kids or adults who do not have that much bread to begin with are often more likely to lend a hand. It’s been seen time and time again along history. It was Jack London that said “A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog.” They say you can’t put a price on human life. Times are a-changin’ I guess… It’s sad that we can, it’s good that we can.

The peanut butter thing is but one of the projects. There’s a lot of remarkable people out there doing remarkable things. People who put their lives on the line, been doing it for years. Many, that is, and if you ask them they’ll say not enough. The life on the line bit is not just a figure of speech, it really isn’t. Dave and Audry Waines of Equip Liberia have saving lives for the last 25 years. Literally. They took food to people, they took drugs and vaccines to them, they dug wells, they showed them how washing hands properly makes a world of difference – you’d think that’s a given, but ask Audry and she’ll tell you otherwise – they took care of moms and babies and they are still not done. No, they don’t go there for visits, they live there and occasionally come for visits here. That’s courage. Stubborn courage all mixed up with strong beliefs for good measure.
There is always a need for money, and there is a need for people to put their heart and time and energy into these projects and of course the cynics among us will say “There is so much need though, it’s hard to know where to start and how can you help everybody anyway.” Well, you cannot, but mother Teresa said “If you cannot feed a hundred, feed one.” That’s a good start, I’d say. It’s like that with everything, you start with one thing and before you know it you’ve done a hundred.

And if giving money for charity is not your thing, a microloan system might be just the thing. You see, the world of the needy has something for every palate and rightfully so.
Throw “microloan” into your Google search engine and you’ll find your way towards helpers like Plan or Kiva.
It’s a big world out there. Beautiful as it is, it is also needy. And painfully quiet most times. Either that or the noise we’re making on this side makes it hard for us to hear. So let’s be quiet for a bit then. See, I told you it’s there…now for the “do it” part.

It’s the morning after. We’re outside in the sun in our hotel yard, me writing and the boys spooking some nice little Koi fish in the pond. Trying to take photos of this elusive black fish with bulging eyes. That means that my boys have been introduced to the concept of elusive and the joy of using mom’s camera to take countless photos of fish. Yes, that’s how I sometimes buy some writing time. We just had breakfast and we still have an hour to kill before leaving for the airport. We arrived in Budapest yesterday by train and we then took a taxi to our hotel. A cozy little place, as we were about to see, with real-size witches hanging from the ceiling and old doll couples hanging out on wicker chairs in the lounge. We drop our luggage and set for a long walk in the city. Budapest looks very much like Paris here and there and then it reminds me of Bucharest too. But I know it’s one of a kind, and I know I will not be disappointed.
We cross the chain bridge across Danube and the sidewalks are a wild mix of people walking, some like me stopping without warning to take photos because the light was playing with the water just at the right angle and only for a few fleeting seconds, others ride their bikes and the kicker is that every bike bell sounds different from the rest. It took a bit to figure that one out. Some almost whisper their coming through, which is a cruel way of warning people of a fast moving vehicle, but something makes me think these people do the ride-through-tourists stunt every day so they’re good at it. A steady river of cars pours in between the narrow sidewalks.
There’s this convertible car, a beautifully restored collector thing that almost looks like a fancy patio on wheels. Four people who could not be more elegant are toasting champagne and the driver is wearing his dark blue suit and hat with pride and calmness.

We walk to the bottom of a hill. At the very top there is the castle. Which, we were told by our hotel host Kati, we have to visit. Technically just the yard, not the inside, except for a few art galleries, but I dare you to take two tired boys to something like that. You know, those places are awfully quiet. There, get my drift? We take the gondola up, a short ride, but the boys pleaded and I agree, it’s a one-of-a-kind. A minute and a half later we’re emerging from the charming caramel-colored wooden gondola that has three benches in three different compartments, a three level contraption that chugs uphill pulled by thick metal cords, cozy enough to make us want a longer ride.
We’re greeted by music trickling from a violin not far away. The view from up the hill is magnificent. Kati, our receptionist, was right to insist that we come up here. The beautiful tall spiky towers of the parliament building shine white and proud on the other side of Danube. The river sparkles a million sparks and on its glittery surface there are some ferries, all metal and unglamorous, but I won’t let that bother me. Danube is the kind of river that can get away with that. The violin player is tipsy which makes him get really close to people’s faces and propose yet another round of waltzes and rhapsodies. Some people are genuinely puzzled and look sideways, smiling awkwardly, wishing the rum-smelling artist would lay his antics on another soul wandering around. The boys are mesmerized by the view and the whole castle and so am I. Sasha’s cute Romanian brings the violin artist close enough for me to hear him say “I play George Enescu rhapsody, beautiful rhapsody. You want?…“ My approval is not needed. The beautiful notes Enescu drew for generations to come, mere mortals like me and the tipsy classic music lover, they slide off the violin and perch onto the waist-high walls surrounding the castle like serene birds awaiting the sunset. Beauty cannot be contested. We leave some change in the violin case and move on.
We enter the castle yard through black iron-wrought gates. One cannot not feel royal while doing so. A few minutes later we buy ice cream. Even strolling and savoring this sweet and cold late lunch replacement makes me feel noble here. Nothing is ordinary, not even the ice cream stand. Like I said, this city can get away with a lot.
There’s artesian fountains with grey stone people, perpetually smiling, pouring water from perpetually tilted water jugs that never dry up and perpetually catching grey stone fish. Yet somehow they look alive. It must be those European city spirits giggling behind the statues, and then tickling every one of my thoughts to make it smile. The cobblestone looks almost soft bathing in the soft golden dusk light. Black basaltic caramels that turn supple at every sunset. More artesian fountains with smiling stone people hunting and water pouring melancholy over the stone forest bounty. I wonder if the sunset glow will make them turn soft too. Even alive, perhaps, a scenario that seems right at the moment.

We make our way down the hill on steps guarded by old oak and chestnut trees. Fall is almost here. As we trail down the hill the soft rustling of fallen leaves follows us like an old suave snake, another perpetual creature that lives around here and feeds on the short-lived warmth left behind by people’s steps. The sun is setting as we cross the bridge again. What better time to walk along the Danube banks towards the spiky parliament building? I have a soft spot for river banks, you see. These ones are all festooned with old buildings with rectangular, differently colored facades that look all golden with the sunset light draped over them like thick honey. We walk through a patch of soft sand that makes its way into every crevice of ours sandals and we’re too lazy to take them off so some of that sand will likely come with us across the ocean just like the Pacific Ocean sand from Spanish Banks made it to Europe hidden in my backpack. We climb the stairs down to the warm waters of the Danube River and I cannot help but take a couple of rocks with me. Scales of rocks peeled from this big water dragon that will not mind. We come by many pairs of shoes, metal replicas of real shoes. A memorial to the Jewish people who were shot by the fascist militiamen during the World War II. Kids’ shoes too. The boys want to know about it. I tell them as much as I know. There can’t possibly be a PG warning attached to my story. It was a dark time, and there is no other way of explaining it but telling the truth. Who were the bad people, the boys ask. People like us, how does one explain history without brewing negative feelings and biases? Each of us is a mix of good and evil, I tell them. It’s a matter of which one we cultivate to live in the detriment of the other. A matter of choice and circumstance, a concept that for now my boys overlook.

The sky is adorned with purple clouds. I take photos of clouds, my boys, the glimmer of the thick water course. We descend inside the subway station and we come across the steepest escalator ever. “It must be, it goes under the Danube,” our hotel hosts tells us later on. Dizzying, no less. Half hour later we look for a bus station. The hotel is still 20 minutes away. We buy some questionable pizza but hunger is a shameless beast. We eat, we ride on a bus that goes a liitle bit too fast and then three showers later we’re in bed. I write, the boys snore little kids snores and I cannot think of a better way of ending a day that started at midnight the night before when my sister and were chatting way and did so until 5am. Good talks are never short. “That was the best way we could’ve come up with to spend our last night here,” she wrote to me in an email. Sipping life from larger-than-life cups.

It’s quiet and the boys are well on their way to dreamland. I sip tiny sips of deep red wine – courtesy of the hotel owner who happened to be in the hallway as we made our way in and was most likely impressed with the little boy on the back of mom plus another holding onto the backpack as he was ushered into the room. Write, sip, write and then sleep. Well deserved indeed.

The fish in the pond play hide-and-seek with my boys. the hour is done with. we drive to the airport and soon after we’re up and flying. Soon we’ll home and another adventure will begin. Sipping life, gulping it down and occasionally choking on it never felt more right…

I am walking down a dusty road with Laura, my niece. It’s only 9am but the sun heat stings like crazy. A black T-shirt is a questionable choice but laundry day is a merciless one. We walk and chat. The road puffs dust at us as we make our way downtown. We talk about school, about people we both know and her plans for the future. We walk by beer gardens that buzz with voices. Whiffs of yeast are bumping into our nostrils like tiny flies. It’s a beer garden alright.

Read More

They’re melon farmers from the southern part of Romania. Summers are dry and hot there, plus there’s open endless fields. Perfect for growing melons. And they do. Come mid-summer, the farmers turn into sellers. They travel to a city or town in a different part of Romania, they find a spot where they set camp for the summer, whether in a farmer’s market or in a certain neighborhood, and there is no going back until all the melons are sold.

Read More

“There’s a baby lizard! A lizard! Mom, they hatched!” There’s screaming traveling up to my room like thunder. Loud, that is, only a kinder version of loud. So I oblige and I run downstairs bumping into my niece Maria, who’s smiling the biggest smile ever. Sasha is shaking with excitement and his little hands rake through the dirt in the container the kids set up for the baby lizards. A plastic container filled with dirt where four lizard eggs were placed two weeks ago with huge hopes that baby lizards will come out. Since I had my own childhood experience of hatching snail eggs in a glass jar I was both hopeful and encouraging of such endeavors. The day has come! Kids’ hands jump in and they are fighting over who’s going to have the first turn at holding the lizard. I am becoming equally eager to touch and possibly hold the tiny creature. There she is. the very definition of tiny and fragile is staring at us while we’re all staring at her. Him? Who cares anyway. I remember reading that some lizards are mostly female and the need for a male is similar to the need a fish has for a bicycle. So there, it’s such a trivial matter right now. Sasha has a turn. The needle-like tail is wrapped around Sasha’s index finger, tiny perfectly shaped eyes with the tiniest eyelids. Am I saying tiny a lot? That’s because the very word could use a makeover right now.
Each kid has a turn and that makes them talk at the same time in loud screechy voices. They make plans for the critter while I take a photo.

Read More

I am sitting at a small desk in an upstairs bedroom of my sister’s house in Transylvania, the notorious Romanian province. She lives with her family in a house surrounded by blue and green hills and serenaded by armies of crickets every night. Nighttime is magic. Lights glinting all lined up far away make me think of oversized wands thrown from the sky by mad magicians. Owls hoot tirelessly and fly with their padded cottony wings over the fields to get their nightly rat and lizard fix.
The boys are asleep, dead tired after a long day. They had water fights and chased lizards around the yard. They also found some lizard eggs that are now safely placed in a large container filled with dirt on a sunny windowsill where they’ll hopefully hatch one day.

Read More