Krakow Days Part 2: Flathunting

Copyright John Marshall 2008

First broadcast on Ex-Pat Radio, Radio Alfa, Krakow, 3^rd February 2008

As an English teacher in Poland, I should be enjoying a four-week, although unpaid, holiday right now. Not so. I have, in fact, been rushing ‘round Krakow faster than a bout of influenza.

Why? Well, let me first say that there are two ways to get to know any Polish city really quickly. The first is to become a taxi driver. Unfortunately, this involves a command of both the Polish language and Polish roads – both notoriously difficult to navigate and both beset with traps for the unwary foreigner.

The second way to get to know the city is to buy a flat, or at least to see 99 unsuitable flats in the hope that the 100^th just might be ‘the one’, rather like speeddating, in fact. It’s Sunday night. You look in your diary at the week ahead. It’s a tabla rasa just itching to be filled with appointments, viewings, and scrambled tram journeys from Krowodrza to Pradnik Bialy, Salwator to Grzegorszki. Then Monday morning and the phone never stops: there’s a flat just for me, apparently; no, this one I’ll like; and then another even better; can I make it at 3? Suddenly the whole world wants to be my friend, or at least to be on speaking terms with my bank balance. I’ve never felt so wanted. Apparently, there are old people who go to strangers’ funerals, pretending to be an old family friend, just to get out of the house, meet people and drink free wine. They probably got the taste pretending to be flat hunters when they were younger. You enter the flat and say ‘Dzien Dobry’, smiles and handshakes all round. For 5 or 10 minutes, you’re the king of someone else’s castle, inspecting and inwardly judging another person’s life. You peer into bathrooms and reemerge smiling politely or, secretly, frowning at the orange and green paint scheme.

The trouble is, I’m very picky when it comes to property. I was in picky in England – where there’s a wide variety of properties – and I’m picky in Poland – a country where Henry Ford could have made a fortune selling flats (any colour you like, as long as it’s grey). Of course, we blame the Communists and the pile-em-high, sell-em-cheap school of architecture. I suppose it makes the business of flat hunting simpler for the average Pole, but I long for a bit of character, some small mark of individuality.

Of course, for the people who live there, the flats are all individual, as the owners are too. And I’ve been on the other side in my time: that unique combination of welcome tinged with suspicion as you open the door to the invited, yet uninvited and unknown guest. And how do Poles feel when an Englishman steps foot inside their hallway? Most, no doubt, see me as nothing more than another in a long line of passing bank accounts; a smiling, nodding head to be endured for 5 minutes? Others may be glad, believing me to have a larger bank account than most, whilst a 55-year-old ex-miner may be smiling through gritted teeth, knowing that by selling his home to a foreigner like me, he is making it even harder for his son and his new wife to afford a place of their own.

But shoot the messenger, and two more will come in his place. Poland has made its decision. The future is now. The European Union, emigration, money coming back from England, the football and the Euro in 2012. These truths point in only one direction: bricks and mortar. It’s as safe as houses, as we say in England.

And so that’s why I continue to run around the city, dividing my days into 15-minute blocks, like a not-so-young man at a speed dating event, hoping that perhaps this will be the last time and he can finally hang up his hat and get off the merry-go-round. If you happen to see such a man jumping on or off a tram somewhere this week, say hello, won’t you? Unless you’re an estate agent, that is, ‘cos I’m not sure I’d believe you.

Krakow Days Part 1: Jogging

Copyright John Marshall 2008

First broadcast on Ex-Pat Radio, Radio Alfa, Krakow, 26^th January 2008

In the crisp January air, I warm up for my morning jog. It’s a short jog: I’m 40 years old and out of condition. But the sun’s shining and I’m feeling good, so off we go!

On the paths around the block, there’s a pleasant dusting of snow from the first snow that Krakow’s seen for weeks. I miss the snow this year. Two years ago, in 2005, was the coldest and whitest winter many Poles can remember. Minus 27 degrees centigrade. I still hear it, two years later. Every time you breathed in, your nostril hairs crackled. Another ten degrees, an American doctor told me, and the water in your eyeballs begins to freeze. ‘Think about that!’, he said. I tried not to. For, in my eyes, Krakow was a fairytale that first winter: the Planty, Main Square and Wawel all alive, looking down benevolently at my wide-eyed innocence in those heady days and nights. I miss the snow and I miss seeing things for the first time, too.

A small but angry dog snaps at my feet as I jog blindly around the bend. His babcia owner admonishes him as I slip on the snow. I regain my balance and quickly turn my head to see the little sausage dog looking up blankly, yet kindly, into the woman’s yapping mouth. She probably doesn’t know that her dog doesn’t understand Polish. But then she probably doesn’t understand dog either, and yet they couldn’t be happier: inseparable, their very presence giving each other happiness and a reason to be.

I’m trying out a new route this morning. This new neighbourhood of mine needs exploring. I need to put my mark on it – the dog would understand that. I come to some traffic lights and do something I’d always thought looked faintly stupid: I jog on the spot, waiting for the green man. He duly appears and I find myself trotting along a cycle track, lined with bare winter trees. Soon, I see a flash of colour. A long wall of concrete graffiti: not quite art but some good attempts; imaginative and a welcome improvement on the usual football-related inanities spat out in a black fuzz. So much talent waiting to be channeled: thoughts to be shaped and moulded in essential, primary colours.

The wall fades behind me. I check my watch. Good: half-way through my jog already. Another street crossing and suddenly there’s a bright yellow and red block of flats. It stands tall and proud in an otherwise dull and seemingly lifeless sea of concrete and grey. I slow up a moment, drinking in the colour through the crisp, sharp air. If only more of Krakow was like this, the pastel colours around the Main Square – like Venice or Lwow, even. Unfortunately, the production of coloured paint didn’t figure highly in Communist Five-Year Plans, only heavy industry and subservience to the party. If a nouveau riche Pole wants to do something for his people, he could do worse than paint all the blocks in his town. Colour is light and light is life.

But until that happens, a foreigner like me is forced to look past the cold reconstituted stone and childhood memories of steroid-filled women breaking Olympic records for the glory of the people. It’s been nearly twenty years since ‘the breakthrough’, as Poles call the downfall of Polish Communism, and, despite having embraced Capitalism, many have yet to feel any warmth at all.

As the trees and the blocks and the shops trot slowly past me in their turn, I force myself to notice them, to really take them in. There’s something fresh, unique, about something seen, or someone met, for the very first time. It’s a strangeness, which, try as you might, can never be recaptured, once the moment becomes part of our inner landscape. The first impression should be crisp and sharp, and therefore all the sweeter in later remembrance. The whole of reality really is in this first moment.

I’ve turned the corner now and I tell my aching lungs we’re on our way home, although I’m not exactly sure where that is. ‘Though a newcomer to jogging, I feel sure that, like hill-waking, it’s a golden rule never to return by the same route, to double back on yourself. I tried that a few times before. You think it’ll be easier that way. Maybe, but the trouble is you end up back just where you started. It seems we: me, you, the Poles, we all have this need for new and fresh experiences, good or bad. So, again, I turn around an unknown corner and hope that home’s not too far away now.

John Marshall's Oskar Acceptance Speech

Copyright John Marshall 2008

First broadcast on Ex-Pat Radio, Radio Alfa, Krakow, 24^th February 2008

Friends, and I feel I may call you my friends, I sit here this morning in this wonderful, luxurious radio station, a grateful recipient of your unconditional love and votes. For, yes, you have, in your love, kindness and wisdom, voted me the best John Marshall on Polish radio Oskar. It is a great privilege and I thank you from my bottom … from the bottom of my heart.

This year, the competition was fiercer than ever and, dear, dear listeners across Krakow, Poland and the world, there is no way you can understand the maelstrom of feelings that I am experiencing right now. Pride, embarrassment, arrogance, modesty; I could go on. But, as always, there is so much I wish to say and so little time in which to say it. The clock on the studio wall patiently ticks away the seconds of my life, seconds which I would share with you, you beautiful people.

Some of you, I know, will recall my earliest days on radio, working first with the legendary radio pioneer, Guglielmo Marconi. I learnt many things from old Gugli, not least of which was how to swear at old ladies in Italian. Shortly after that, I was introduced to Henry Morse, who would later find fame with his Morse code and his extensive collection of flamboyant hats. It was, in fact, after an all-night drinking and arm-wrestling session with Henry in Shanghai that he gave me my big break: appearing with him on his ground-breaking ‘Dot dot dash dash show’, where, for eighty-three happy years, I played first dash to Henry’s dot. Of course, things were very different back then. I remember, for example, that there was only one microphone in the whole of the country. You really had to do it all yourself in those days!

It was in programmes like the ‘Dot dot dash dash show’ where I served my apprenticeship, as it was called then. And I worked with them all: Chaplin, Churchill, Gandhi, Disraeli. What a great bunch of lads! What a shame none of their zany radio comedy exists to this day. As it is, they shall be remembered only for their contributions to social progress and, in the case of dear Winnie, in helping defeat National Socialism during breaks in rehearsals.

And yet I digress. There are many people I wish to, nay, must mention. People without whose help up the greasy pole that is radio stardom I would not be sitting here now receiving this wonderful Radio Oskar. Of course, I must begin with my mother. A strong woman, my mother was the North Of England All-In Ladies Wrestling Champion from 1965 to 1982 and, if I don’t mention her now, she will kill me, but slowly, over nine three-minute periods, three falls or a submission. So, thank you, mother. Similarly, my father. I’ve never mentioned this before, but, when I was very young, father would often be sent home from school for secreting cherries in the biology teacher’s undergarments. Perhaps it was the stress of being the only Christian in a family of twenty-five Buddhists. But there was never any shame in father’s eyes. Never. And I learned something very important from that man.

Now, of course, no radio personality, certainly not one of my stature, would get very far without the help of a loyal, faithful, understanding partner. So here again thanks are due to my pet sheepdog Sandra who, as many of you know, has been my faithful companion for over forty-five years. I couldn’t have done it without you, Sandra.

As I look back, I see that, more than any other radio personality, I have, uniquely in this profession, worked with all the great public figures over the last hundred years, and quite a few bad ones, too. My professionalism bars me from naming names, but you know who you are, Andrew, George, Mary, Mishumi, MayFan, Bertrand, N’goumo, Big Chief Sitting Down and, of course, Adolf.

Radio, my friends, is a demanding business and even we media personalities must let off steam once in a while. But to call, as some ministers have done, for the temporary restoration of the death penalty just because of what I did in that night club seems somewhat of an over-reaction. However, I feel I should take this opportunity to apologise for any distress that either I or my actions may have caused.

So what of the future? Letters continue to pile up in all of my houses imploring, not to say begging, me …to retire. But I know it’s all meant in fun and, instead, I intend to go on and on. So, once again, thank you all awarding me the Oskar For The Best John Marshall On Polish Radio and here’s to the next hundred years.

Chaos, Fear & Terror

Copyright John Marshall 2008

First broadcast on Ex-Pat Radio, 2007

For as long as I can remember, the media has misused and overused the words ‘fear’ and ‘chaos’, usually in screaming headlines and usually unnecessarily, hyperbolically. And whilst I can only comment on the British media, I am pretty sure the situation is the same in other, principally Western, countries.

This predilection for extreme, scary words can partly be explained by the media’s apparent need to grab our attention, to excite and shock: as our blood pressure rises, so, it seems, does newspaper circulation. In Britain, at least, we are all used to such headlines as “Transport chaos as two inches of snow fall in a single day!” Now, whilst I freely admit that the combination of a little inclement weather and Britain’s inadequate transport system can indeed cause sudden problems, the use of the precise word chaos is nothing more than an over-worn cliché and we, the reader, can usually make up our own minds about the real meaning of the word chaos (the snow causing you to arrive at work an hour late, for example, as opposed to being plunged suddenly into a primeval state of disorder and inherent unpredictability). But then why do the media love this word so much? Is it merely because they can’t help sensationalising news stories or is it also because the word ‘chaos’ unsettles us, frightens us?

The second scary word beloved by the media is ‘fear’. Fear, it seems to me, is quite different from chaos in its effect upon the listener or reader. To be sure, the use of the word ‘fear’ is sometimes entirely appropriate to the article. But usually it is used with the sole intention of generating fear (or anxiety) itself: literal, physiological, emotional fear. Take another sample headline: “Fears continue to grow over the whereabouts of a missing teenager”, or this: “A group of mountain-climbers are feared to have died last night” (in passing, we may note the media’s use of the abstract noun ‘fear’ as a verb, thus allowing its use in an ever-widening range of situations). Such anxiety-inducing headlines as these are everyday occurrences and we are passively complicit: we hand over our money, pick up a paper and spread the virus in pockets and briefcases or allow these disturbing words and emotions to be transmitted and broadcast onto our TVs and laptops.

And, in the end, are these ‘human interest’ stories in fact fearful? I don’t think they are. Yes, of course I am sorry that a young woman may have been abducted or that a party of mountain-climbers have perished several hundred or thousand miles away but I would argue that many such quote “news items” unquote are of little or no interest to the rest of us. Do you really wish to be notified of every distant abduction, house fire, murder and cot death in the country – or world, for that matter? Yes, knowledge is indeed power and in many ways the global village is a beneficial reality. We may choose to send a loving thought or donation to the disaster appeal fund but, be honest, more often, we don’t. Most of us, most of the time, simply allow a flow of sentiment to wash steadily over us, tut-tutting as we are led by the hand to the next apparently necessary piece of chaos or fear.

And even if we did wish to keep informed of every sad, tragic and fearful global occurrence, we simply don’t have the time or the attention-spans. The media is well aware of this: notice how they all seem to agree upon a certain story to be fed to us: hourly, daily, weekly, relentlessly.

The thing about ‘fear’ is, that like forest-fires and lies, it spreads quickly and easily. It has long been commonplace for fear to be inserted into what would otherwise be a much more mundane news story: for example “It is feared that several hospitals may close this year” et cetera. What’s wrong with using another, more expressive and accurate verb? “It is thought, believed, rumoured” etc. The answer, of course, is that it wouldn’t be as sensational, not so … scary. Someone, somewhere, it seems, wants you to be afraid.

And yet it would seem that it’s not enough any more to be merely afraid. You have to be terrified. Yes, ‘terror’ is the new word, the new thing. Suddenly, terror is on everyone’s lips. For the media, for politicians and advertisers, fear is … sexy. Open your paper, turn on your TV, check the net: what do you see? ‘Terror!’ Of course, terror’s been around for quite a while. Terrorists. IRA terrorists, for example. Us Brits grew up with that, got used to it, even. And they were real enough, those terrorists. In Northern Ireland alone, there are thousands of gravestones, ruined lives and families to testify to the reality of the terrorist’s bullet and bomb. But the trouble with terrorists is that they can be beaten or negotiated with. The terrorists, at some point, stop being terrorists: they die, grow old, renounce violence or become politicians. History shows that there is always an end to terrorism. But the need for terror - in some minds, at least - is never-ending. The vacuum in our minds must be filled – by those in power, by those with power, by those who want - and are determined to keep - their power.

‘The War On Terror’. Every day for the past four or five years, we have heard about the war on terror – terror which is not an army, not flesh and blood, but ‘terror’, grammatically, an abstract noun. Like stupidity or deceit. Soldiers and civilians die every day. And what killed them? According to your government, according to your media, terror: an undefined, unknowable, unbeatable force. You see, as soon as you defeat terror here, terror pops up over there! And how do you know? Because you’re told, you’re told to know, by the media – sorry, by the government.

There is real fighting and real bloodshed every hour of the day: in Iraq, in Afghanistan, in a dozen other ‘terror-filled places’ of the world. In fact, the war on terror begins anew every morning: at every breakfast table, every sitting-room and every tube-train and tram in the land. It’s a mighty battle, to be sure. The Long War. It’s a battle for hearts and minds, principally minds – mine and yours. Every time you read, and accept without questioning, the words chaos, fear, terror, the war on terror, you unconsciously help strengthen the concept, and a concept, if believed in by enough people for a long enough time, becomes and stays a reality.

Terror is a state of mind. Choose your own state of mind. Do not believe in terror and certainly do not believe in the thing called the war on terror. These things simply do not – cannot – exist, unless you, by your thoughts, words and actions, choose to give them life. Remember what the man said? “The revolution will not be televised”. The revolution, the battleground, is in our heads, in our minds, and not, ultimately, on the streets on Basra and Baghdad. What we all believe to be true and necessary things in this world, these beliefs, opinions and attitudes are where the real battle takes place. It began the day you first opened your eyes all those years ago, is influenced by every thought, word and deed and will continue, for as long as you are capable of free and independent thought – and not a moment longer.

In George Orwell’s dystopian novel 1984, an elite member of the ruling totalitarian party sets out the desired mentality of the everyday citizen …

‘It is necessary that the Party member be a credulous and ignorant fanatic whose prevailing moods are fear, hatred, adulation and orgiastic triumph. In other words it is necessary that he should have the mentality appropriate to a state of war. It does not matter whether the war is actually happening and, since no decisive victory is possible, it does not matter whether the war is going well or badly. All that is needed is that a state of war should exist.’

In 1984, there exists a state of perpetual, but carefully-managed and orchestrated warfare between three global power blocs. Such a situation is uncomfortably close to that of ‘The Long War’, George Bush’s short-lived re-classification of the war on terror, a war which cannot be won either by grammatical definition (terror being an abstract noun) or because, in fact, it is not in the interests of a small yet hugely powerful section of global society. And why is it not in certain interests that the war be won? 1984 again: quote “If the High … are to keep their places permanently – then the prevailing mental condition must be controlled insanity.” Unquote. In a world where foreign forces invade and continue to occupy sovereign nations in breach of international law and on the pretext of what have long turned out to be lies, fuelled in reality by the desire for a consolidation of regional power, well, I think that we too exist within such a controlled insanity.

This article is not meant to be a polemic or rant against the Western presence in the Middle East. It is, rather, a gentle and, I hope, timely reminder: always to think for yourself, to remain alert to what exactly you do and don’t believe to be true, to keep the media, the government and its many systems of misinformation well at arm’s length. And most essentially, I mean to be positive. This is not 1984, this is reality. And in reality, you get to write a new page every day. Choose your words with care.