Michael's Tower

I’ve been to rustic places. The first, a cabin in the Pocono Mountains called the Millstone, housed my grandfather and his hunting and fishing buddies. That north Philly crew chilled in the woods, trading stories, laughs and mammoth spaghetti dinners for decades. On a few occasions, I joined up. As a young boy in the shadow of those Pennsylvania pines I fished for trout, got into trouble with my brother and shot my first and last pistol (I remember being so scared at the sound that I ran inside and hid under the covers on my cot).

Of course, this prepared my for a much later trip to India that reminded me that dirt plays an important role in the turning of the world and should not be reviled. And water, no matter the color or contamination, still adds a little something to life on the planet.

Arriving at Ulla’s countryside in Mikeltornis (prounounced mee-shell-tour-niss) presented me with something I was not expecting: a true throwback estate. One of 13 fishing villages that line the Baltic Sea on the NW coast of Latvia, Piza (as its known in Livonian) holds about 10 small homesteads, a deserted school, a campground and an old church that the Soviets converted into a dance club during the occupation. Today, the locale looks something between an abandoned town and a rustic paradise. Most of the locals are quite old and only visit in the mild summer months. When we stopped into town at the beginning of the season, we saw only a few faces during our four-day visit.

Off the main road we traveled 30 kilometers on gravel to Ulla’s pad, called Vilumi. Her father, Teodors, greeted us and I quickly acclimated to the new scene. Ten hectares of field and forest, with birch and pine lining the two-minute walk to the sea. Three old building occupied the landscape. One, a delapidated barn housing numberless strange antiques accumulated over many years. Two, a small house for Teodors, who lives in the lodge year-round. Lastly, Ulla has another single room cabin with about 4 beds and a picnic table.

We unpacked and I immediately repacked all of my clothes onto my person. Everyone here seems to think its summer and I continue to freeze every night. What bums me out is that I just picked up a killer fall jacket at the Volcom sample before I left and I didn’t throw it in my bag. Ridiculous, thinking that summer in Latvia would be like summer in Va Beach. So now I freeze every night, wearing two t-shirts, a long sleeve t-shirt, a thermal and a sweater. If not for the constant evening bonfire, my hands would be to cold to type.

When we traveled together throughout Asia, Ulla told me about her countryside frequently, speaking of it the way one would write poetry about their beloved homeland. In a way, it is. Ulla is Livonian, an indeginous tribe from Latvia, and for hundreds of years her people have lived on the coastline. She is one of the few remaining people in the world who can still speak the language (about 20 total). Along with her brother, she is one of the forerunners of an ongoing movement to create and promote Livonian culture. A few of us recorded a song that she wrote. I’ll try and post it soon.

The Livonian flag, simple with striking colors, holds no symbolic reference to liberty or sacrifice or solidarity. Instead, it’s the view the Livonian fisherman would see from their boats. The Baltic water rising up to a white sandy beach, fading into the forest. We spent most of our days chilling in these confines. Sitting by the fire, wandering the completely vacant beach (as far as we could see in either direction) and playing music. I’ve also taken up a few important countryside activities:

Picking Up Amber. Everyday, the sea sweeps all kinds of debris onto the shore. Muscle shells, seaweed and most importantly, amber. From what must be some massive deposit of the stuff in the water between Latvia and Sweden, the pieces lap up onto the sand, all sizes and shapes. This semi-precious stone, for years, has adorned the people of Latvia as traditional jewelry. Any stop at a jewelry shop in Latvia will yield an eyeful of the stuff. Spotting amber is tricky (amber looks exactly like the iridescent yellow lady bugs that feed in the same space), and not that easy (a bit back-breaking), but the rewards are sweet. I’ve collected about a hundred pieces that I’ll carry with me as I travel. Folklore says that, if packed, they insure safe passage on a journey.

Building Bonfires. Now I’m no pyromaniac, but I love fire (well, except when the Breitenberg deck burned down, but that’s another tale). There’s something about the unpredictability of the flames and the feeling of communion with the ancients. People have been sitting by fires for thousands of years and I like that. Along with my love for chilling fireside, its with equal vigor that I build fires. This passion was reignited in Utah a couple months back and I took this task seriously each night at Vilumi.

I like to enjoy the preparation process and build slowly, so that (when possible) one match will do the trick, but my first effort was not quite up to Ulla’s standard for Latvian bonfires. It was just too small. The second night, I returned to the fire pit inspired, ready to create a blaze worthy of the landscape. After spending a few minutes gathering the necessary materials, I started small, cracking branches and creating a tidy little nest for kindling. Working at a gentle pace, I anticipated the future fire in the fleeting moments of daylight. Perfect. Abruptly, this peaceful moment ended; quickly and absolutely altered by Teodors. Who, in a flash, tore out from his abode, saw me at the fire pit, and grabbed a canister of fuel and some logs. Without hesitation, he crushed my paduan starter with the wood, doused the pile in petrol and flicked a match on. Instant fire. So much for my redemption and moment with the ancients…

Of course, I had one more shot at redemption. One last night. And it roared.

Battling Mosquitos. The forest and the dunes catch most of the sea breeze and can hold in a lot of sitting air. Coupled with some standing water on the land, it’s mosquito heaven. These are some serious bugs. Slashing through repellant and clothes. Each night the mosquito battles take on a sense of ritual. First the wind dies down. Then the first slap. On goes the repellant. Reapply. Re-reapply. Continuously apply as necessary. Cover most every inch of body with clothes. Prepare for the onslaught.

Gandhi is one of my personal heroes and I’m fascinated with ahimsa (non-violence), but I would very much like to have a conversation about mosquitos with Gandhi. There is really nothing in me that feels for a mosquito and its demise at my own hand. I feel much more for a dandelion that I might tug out of the soil. Or for a mug that breaks on the ground. A kernel of corn. A pebble on a gravel road. A speck of sand on the beach. You get the picture. Perhaps that’s out of balance with some of my beliefs, but I pounded away at the bugs night after night. Gandhi and I will have to catch up later.

Sasliks. Prounounced “Shashlicks”, this is the Latvian response to barbecue. And they get it right. Traditionally, you get the fire going for about 2 hours until the coals are large and white-hot. Then you strap the uber-marinated pieces of bone-in chicken into the sasliks-holding-device (essentially a wire trap with a long handle) and hold the meat over the fire for a while. Browning and perfect, pull them off hot, coupled with potatoes and Latvian beer. Perfect feast.

Life suits me at Mikeltornis. If not for the mosquitos and further adventures ahead, I might stay on till mid-summers. But that's a another story altogether.