A piece of England forever Philippine

<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp94eckjLXZ5AN_rkKCrRFp8PVqFKYOoO8Xcy398gemMs8gqCgKudcxxmEW2QJ-wVSr94pnN4PiA2dlDlOFTI5w8jGyzz-o916P5XKM6iFbX93I6eH7MIteRa7m87y-EvBjdyFy-cWlZXE/s1600/885896_4184267143063_7919875874249902112_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp94eckjLXZ5AN_rkKCrRFp8PVqFKYOoO8Xcy398gemMs8gqCgKudcxxmEW2QJ-wVSr94pnN4PiA2dlDlOFTI5w8jGyzz-o916P5XKM6iFbX93I6eH7MIteRa7m87y-EvBjdyFy-cWlZXE/s320/885896_4184267143063_7919875874249902112_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">— by Gene Alcantara</span><br /><br />There is a bit of London that will forever be Philippine.  It is a house on 37 Chalcot Crescent NW1, on Primrose Hill, just off Regents Park, owned many many years ago by the Beckett family.  One can approach it from two tube stations, southward from Chalk Farm or westward from Camden Town.  If one happens to be visiting the London Zoological Gardens, it will just be about 10 minutes walk across the road in a northerly direction.<br /><br />The three-storey, white painted house with spear-like metal fencing in black, is easy to spot in the rows of identical terrace houses on the crescent.  For it is the only one with a blue circular plaque to the left of the black front door saying that Dr Jose Rizal, Filipino hero, lived there in 1888-1889.  The way though that the house has become for all intents and purposes a pilgrimage site for Filipinos visiting the British isles, one would think Rizal lived there for a long long time.<br /><br />I suppose he did not have to live there for very long.  For whatever period of time he spent in that house had been absolutely productive for both the birth of the Philippine Republic, and the pride of Filipinos nowadays not just as a nation of heroes, but as one with a rich cultural heritage.  The house was of course Rizal’s base when he came to England for scholarly pursuits.  It is important because under its roof he undoubtedly contemplated the state of his country and what he was going to do to bring about a better future.<br /><br />While he was a boarder in the house, Rizal worked on three major literary undertakings–his annotations of Antonio de Morga’s Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas, his philological studies with a view to producing a Philippine dictionary and grammar book, and most importantly his sequel to Noli Me Tangere.  During this time he was prolific in political writing as well as correspondence with family and friends.  Rizal was supposed to have done some sculptures during this period too although I have never set eyes on any of them at all.<br /><br />Chalcot Crescent is located fairly centrally and is a stone’s throw away from the residence on Elsworthy Terrace of his good friend, Dr Reinhold Rost, librarian of the India Office Library and who gave him access to Morga’s book.  Across the park, the British Library would probably have been a good hour’s walk away.  The major sites of attraction of London would have been also mere walking distance from where he was staying.<br /><br />It is a pleasant surprise therefore to find that Rizal had also actually traipsed from there to London’s more distant but less affluent East End to continue his work with Filipinos.  He apparently set up a Filipino young men’s club in the Dalton area near Hackney to ensure that his kababayans of that time were always conscious of national issues.  Rizal should probably also be given the title of ‘Father of Filipino Community Organizations in Britain’.  A lot of Filipinos nowadays own houses in London’s East End where prices are generally cheaper, but I do not think many of them realize that the hero was active in their community a hundred years ago.<br /><br />I wish I had a copy of the second volume (1888-onwards) of Epistolario Rizalino which the Biblioteca Nacional de Filipinas published in 1930.  It ought to have details of Rizal’s community organization work in London.  It would be fascinating to see which Filipinos were here then, what they did, what they talked about and possibly where they met regularly.  Maybe the Filipino community can discover another historical site in London.  But this time, maybe the government or some rich Filipino benefactor could purchase the property and turn it into a Philippine center or museum.<br /><br />The Filipino community continually seeks role models for their children born or growing up in Britain.  The Philippines however is strangely bereft of credible modern heroes who could be turned into icons of role model proportions, and whatever Filipino breakthroughs are made to date in Britain relate usually to the theatrical stage.  So looking back to the heroes of a century ago, with their imperfections and individual tragedies, is a safer bet.  For theirs at least are monumental achievements with which it is less difficult to identify.  However, one cannot simply identify with these heroes in scholarly books or in newspaper articles.  What they need is a place to go to where they could see visually what these heroes looked like and what sort of things they did when they were here for the country.  One solution is to have a house devoted to Filipino heroes who lived in London.<br /><br />The Chalcot Crescent house is apparently owned by an American lawyer who rents out the property to visiting Americans.  Apart from the Philippine Ambassador, his wife and embassy staff and the Knights of Rizal  who every June 19 pay tribute to Rizal with a floral offering at the house, I know of nobody else who was ever let into the house to feast his or her eyes upon whatever historical artefact remains inside, particularly the two rooms Rizal occupied as bedroom and receiving room.  This is a tragedy for the Filipino community, and a shame indeed for the Filipino nation.  How could the nation allow such a historically valuable property slip through its hands?  Its non-Filipino tenants probably cannot even begin to appreciate how much this landmark means for Filipinos around the world.<br /><br />This property (and the Dalton one, if it ever gets discovered) ought to become more than just a site to pose at for souvenir photographs.  I would like to see it as a testament to Anglo-Filipino relations, to the ties that bind both countries to each other in the spirit of friendship, trade, cultural and even political cooperation.  That is my fervent hope for Filipinos in Britain who have long been in need of an enduring place to meet with pride.  A place where people can bring their families and friends.   A place which can showcase the best of Filipinos, old and even new.  A piece of England forever Philippine.</span><br /> [2003, London]<br /> <br /> Photo credited to Mr. Ronaldo Samson Adoptante <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=3629012486930784822&postID=3546242783260174679&target=facebook" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8VZfdyGqGxYxPWoelwmGbf0QFLIKAuJeUY4gkUrOuG0ypMqSfMCY5oXqRyQNoFBeMj4-rf3fO2HSZuuzFh6RfAhiQUOB0mhu1FMnZNnkfdasfJ-Tjd3cZm3lh88B0ouKAVkPXVh278OA/s1600/sharefb185.png" /></a> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=3629012486930784822&postID=3546242783260174679&target=twitter" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3bfhc90-5xenm9-eqI_ICgI5V8KPl28Gu8oXZsvNDA_oIk8ioAazonJE38acYIiOnSDyuPWj6zn-8wCMPPY5TMVVENEoNk2PfH73eNX5qkEIkvLossHYwU848ikKXjhyr1MRuJIjmFo/s1600/sharetw185.png" /></a></div>

Articles Cribs History News Travel Travel-Europe UK A piece of England forever Philippine

— by Gene Alcantara There is a bit of London that will forever be Philippine.  It is a house on 37 Chalcot Crescent NW1, on Primrose Hill,...

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Ghosts at Wrobla

<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody> <tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDKeLjizhOlMoFMnryOFkbQNp2VljqKIRZBLLfdciLgZuRuWDqMlk2CLnkvLvN6WvCg78GE84W1n-7sO_EZ2XYV4gfOtmSLlZENHtKOtYLrCEzNrwHcPSZFmAaqtws8w4cVjaDxmVTkd5/s1600/Gda%25C5%2584sk_ulice_Wr%25C3%25B3bla_i_Kurza.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDKeLjizhOlMoFMnryOFkbQNp2VljqKIRZBLLfdciLgZuRuWDqMlk2CLnkvLvN6WvCg78GE84W1n-7sO_EZ2XYV4gfOtmSLlZENHtKOtYLrCEzNrwHcPSZFmAaqtws8w4cVjaDxmVTkd5/s320/Gda%25C5%2584sk_ulice_Wr%25C3%25B3bla_i_Kurza.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr> <tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from <span class="_r3"><a class="_ZR irc_hol i3724" data-noload="" data-ved="0ahUKEwj04sqvrtLKAhXFGKYKHUnjCc4QjB0IBg" href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gda%C5%84sk_ulice_Wr%C3%B3bla_i_Kurza.JPG"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr">commons.wikimedia.org</span></a></span><span class="_r3 irc_msc"><a class="_ZR irc_msl i3591" data-i="1" data-noload="" data-ved="0ahUKEwj04sqvrtLKAhXFGKYKHUnjCc4QhxwICA" href="https://www.google.com/search?tbs=simg%3Am00&tbnid=UZg4AJ_Joy5UfM%3A&docid=OR4JzmwsWv8HAM&tbm=isch"><span class="irc_idim"></span></a></span></td></tr> </tbody></table> — by Gene Alcantara<br /> <br /> <span style="font-size: large;">Not many people believe in ghosts.  This much I know.  Or perhaps many people would rather deny the possibility of the existence of ghosts for whatever reason, than having to deal with the scary prospect of seeing a spectre.  They would say, “Hmmm, hard to believe.  Are you sure it was not the wind or just your playful imagination?”  Well, if only. <br /><br />As for me, well, I do believe in ghosts.  Or rather I have to believe because I have experience of them first hand.  Right in the very house I lived in on Wrobla Street in Warsaw for the last three and a half years.  If anybody had told me before I came that there was a ghost in the house I would probably have treated the matter with some skepticism (Oh, ok, trepidation, but only a bit!).<br /><br />My first experience of the ghost at Wrobla happened in the first year of my posting when I was on my own, about three years ago.  I was facing the oven about 10-11 pm at night heating up one of those frozen packets of Spanish Paella or Mexican chicken.  Suddenly at the periphery of my left vision I sort of detected a faint movement in the archway leading to the dining room.  Naturally I turned my head to look and when I did, all my hair stood on end.  I felt my scalp tingling as my hair rose of its own accord, and I knew fear.  For there was this white woman peeking at me with a smile, long dark hair flowing down.  My stomach was suddenly filled with ice but although the terrifying vision only lasted perhaps a second, it is permanently imprinted in my memory.  I am normally a brave man but I was scared and had to call my family in London to seek some comfort.<br /><br />That was really the first and last time I had an encounter with the apparition until in April this year, a female friend, Normie Lopez de la Rosa, who transferred from Turkey and had some psychic talent, attempted to treat another friend, Fe Grzybowski, whom she believed was being bewitched.  This she did in the house apparently through some sort of prayer and ceremony.  I did not witness this myself as I was away in Berlin at the time competing in an international public speaking competition.  Somehow the ceremony seemed to have perhaps opened some mystical doorway or triggered some psychic phenomenon because when I got back from Germany I started having strange and scary nightmares.  And my family, who had since joined me in Warsaw, started hearing strange noises at night.  No one would venture down into the basement laundry room alone once dusk fell, for Normie said that this was the place where the ghost seemed to hang around.<br /><br />To deal with the problem once and for all, we called in a priest from the huge Catholic church on Dominikanska Street who came, prayed and blessed all corners of the house.  Unfortunately I don’t think it completely got rid of the ghost but we somehow got reassured that we have involved a man of God.<br /><br />As for me, I tried to deal with the ghost also.  Normie said it was a young woman she saw in our laundry room.  I went down one evening to “talk” to  the ghost and ask that it not bother my family.  But the minute I stepped foot on the basement floor, my head was enclosed by a cold presence and my hair stood on end again.  So I beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs (I mean, I ran back upstairs!).  Since then the family ended up leaving the lights on on the stairs all night, and the radio on on low volume.  We even had a few icons hung around although they seemed never enough.  Somehow I would still be woken up at night by something touching my face or a noise or a bad dream.<br /><br />When my children Giselle and Terence visited from university in May and June, I deliberately did not tell them about the ghost that haunted the house at Wrobla.  But I did not reckon on my youngest daughter Melissa telling them not to enter the first floor bedroom because apparently that was where she once saw her electronic piano playing by itself.  They were skeptical at first, my teenage kids, but when one night Giselle woke up hearing and feeling footsteps in her room in the middle of the night, they became firmly aware of the ghost.<br /><br />Two friends of mine, Dee Calmel and Edyta Ganczarczyk, said perhaps that the ghost was interested in me, liked me, and probably was protecting me and the house somehow.  Carmila, my spouse, tried to be brave about it – she was not about to give me up for a ghost!  For if it was an unfriendly ghost it might have done us or our relationship harm.  It could even be apparently a naughty ghost who moved things around the house because  sometimes we ended up not finding things where we were supposed to have left them.  This last was true because looking back over the years, I have indeed lost or misplaced items of clothing and other small things and I had always suspected my cleaner Pani Grazyna of hiding them!<br /><br />Actually Wrobla was not my first experience of ghosts in Poland.  About two years earlier I went to attend a series of classical and jazz concerts sponsored by the British Council in Zabrze and in Tarnowskie Gory in the southern part of the country.  In winter it was, late in cold November.  The Zabrze event went very well and the following day I travelled to Tarnowskie Gory and looked for my hotel in the town.  It turned out that my hotel was some distance away in a village called Rybna.  It took the taxi about 20 minutes to get to the village across white fields.  The hotel was in fact a 200-year old palace called Palac Na Rybny, a magnificent green building right in the middle of this snow-covered estate with leafless trees around.  My room was a huge apartment on the first floor with impressive original 17th-18th century furniture and a palace room feel to it.  Only I could not sleep a wink, the bedroom felt very strange indeed as if there was somebody there watching me, and I kept hearing all sorts of peculiar sounds.  I thought there was a ghost in the bedroom.  I spent the night with all the lights on watching BBC World.<br /><br />So was I perhaps simply sensitive to supernatural things?  Well possibly.  The presence of a ghost in the house was further confirmed by an independent person.  At the end of July I ran an international health and safety course in Warsaw and hosted dinner at home one night for the participants.  A  Brazilian colleague, Alexander W, who was into yoga, psychic stuff and out-of-body experiences confided in me the following day while having lunch at the Patio Restaurant that he saw two manifestations in the garden of the house at Wrobla.  One was apparently a yellow circle of light/energy  normally associated with Buddhism.  When he asked if I was a Buddhist or have anything to do with Buddhism, I said no but that I did have a collection of amulets and charms from the Philippines, Hong Kong and other places which might emit such yellow light.  The other thing Alexander saw apparently was the ghost of a young woman standing in the backgarden.  He said that he did not feel anything negative about the ghost so it was possibly a friendly one.  In a way I was pleased by the fact that the ghost appeared a friendly one, but I was even more pleased to get confirmation that it was true that my house was host indeed to some supernatural presence, considering the skeptical tones some British colleagues made when they heard my story .<br /><br />My landlord, Jerzy Buczkowski, was sympathetic but adamant that nobody had died in the house.  It was a relatively new house and my predecessor and I were the only tenants.  So perhaps the ghost was of someone who died a long time ago, for who knows what the place was like over the long bloody course of Polish history?<br /><br />Another psychic friend in London, Diana Reed, gave me a smudge wand made of Taos sage, cedar and juniper, all sacred Native American herbs, to smoke the house out one night to clear it of the ghost.  The term ‘smudging’ is supposed to be the practice of cleansing ritual spaces, altars and tools with the smoke for purification and protection.  Well, I had not managed to do it despite repeatedly wanting to, with something else always happening, and so I eventually left the house with it undone at the end of my posting.<br /><br />The house at Wrobla was a lovely six-floor house, and I have many fond memories of living there.  Sharing the house though with a ghost did not really inspire much confidence especially at night when all one wanted and needed to do was to have some sleep.  Perhaps the female ghost was indeed looking after me and protecting the house, but it was not the kind of caring that I really would like to have.  Not in Poland.  Not anywhere else if I could help it.</span><br /> <br /> Written in 30 September 2002. Revised 9 October 2012. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=3629012486930784822&postID=7696288176499286902&target=facebook" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8VZfdyGqGxYxPWoelwmGbf0QFLIKAuJeUY4gkUrOuG0ypMqSfMCY5oXqRyQNoFBeMj4-rf3fO2HSZuuzFh6RfAhiQUOB0mhu1FMnZNnkfdasfJ-Tjd3cZm3lh88B0ouKAVkPXVh278OA/s1600/sharefb185.png" /></a> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=3629012486930784822&postID=7696288176499286902&target=twitter" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3bfhc90-5xenm9-eqI_ICgI5V8KPl28Gu8oXZsvNDA_oIk8ioAazonJE38acYIiOnSDyuPWj6zn-8wCMPPY5TMVVENEoNk2PfH73eNX5qkEIkvLossHYwU848ikKXjhyr1MRuJIjmFo/s1600/sharetw185.png" /></a></div>

Continent Gene Alcantara Journal Poland Stories Ghosts at Wrobla

Photo from commons.wikimedia.org — by Gene Alcantara Not many people believe in ghosts.  This much I know.  Or perhaps many people wou...

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Russian Market

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFMiMzUWgUX4uamIQNVkshfirGhbpS9TJRdx2EOZa0S0Sf6CEXW_a58k6kiT4q5-s54D7LEB3wmQLluZQ9du8iXWoMFvxYn1DrJxo2m0J5hszsiyShwFV3VYCYgZRCdWBp8CgoZ6Tvzq3h/s1600/6633915161_30f7c78723_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFMiMzUWgUX4uamIQNVkshfirGhbpS9TJRdx2EOZa0S0Sf6CEXW_a58k6kiT4q5-s54D7LEB3wmQLluZQ9du8iXWoMFvxYn1DrJxo2m0J5hszsiyShwFV3VYCYgZRCdWBp8CgoZ6Tvzq3h/s320/6633915161_30f7c78723_z.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">When I tell Polish friends and colleagues that I go regularly to Warsaw’s Russian market, many of them react with horror. They might look at mewith incredulity, perhaps to see if I was joking or whether I had simply gone bananas. Their response would inevitably be, “Oh, it’s a very dangerous place.” “It’s all fake, you know.” “It’s run by the Mafia.” Or some other equally unfavourable phrases. Even some of my British and Irish friends react negatively to the idea of going to the market. But have they actually been there? Many reply, “Never!”<br /><br />I am afraid that they are all missing something. The Russian market, whatever its reputation, is something that needs to be experienced by every visitor to the Polish capital. It is part of the landscape, the tapestry that makes Warsaw one of the liveliest capitals in Central and East Europe. I cannot speak for the Poles who obviously decide what they want to see of the reality of their own city, but for fellow Brits especially I don’t think one can say he or she has lived in Warsaw without seeing its most famous market.<br /><br />There one can find colour, stumble upon drama, catch a whiff of poetry, and obviously grab a good bargain. CDs abound, very good copies of the latest releases which I understand get shipped over from farther east, and are sold for just 10 zloties (that is about GBP 1.50 – try comparing that with prices in Virgin or HMV music stores in the UK!). Sure, you might want simply to look but, just in case, there are swords, medals, gloves, busts of Lenin or Stalin, fox stoles, matrioshka dolls, lacquer boxes, pistols, knives, fur coats, cheap socks, shoes, shirts, clothes, pots and pans, tea urns, coffee grinders, books, African carvings, vegetables, fruits, drivers license, M&S plastic bags, mobile phone cases, CD-Roms, software programmes, games, puppies, shower heads, whisky bottles and more besides. True, there are lots of fakes—one can get his and hers colour-changing Calvin Klein watches for 25 zloties (GBP4) each.<br /><br />Actually the place is not even called Russian Market by the Poles. Its full name is Stadion Dziecieciolecia, since it is an old football stadium. The market sits atop the circumference of the disused stadium, with different sections scattered around the ever-widening base of the circular pyramid. The top is the best bit to head for, with its magnificent view of the Warsaw skyline, as well as the tragic view of the stadium’s decaying bleachers. One particular spot to the right presents an excellent photo shoot, with the Palace of Culture in the background.<br /><br />The market is located on the left hand side just past the Poniatowskiego Most (bridge) which spans the Wisla River. It is walking distance from Centrum, the centre of town, and therefore very accessible; otherwise it is the first tram stop after the river. It is open very early, some old timers claim from 6 am, and then closes around 1-2pm when business dwindles to nothing. There might be Russian traders there but the sellers of CDs sound very Polish. There are black Africans, lots of Orientals (mostly Vietnamese, I believe), and a handful of Asians from the sub-continent.<br /><br />I think the stadium rynek in Warsaw is quite unique. There is not a similar market elsewhere in Poland or indeed in Europe in terms of size and setting. I was for example in the black market in Riga’s Russian district in Latvia recently, and I was very disappointed by it. I wanted to see colour, bustle, and lots of merchandise to choose from. What I saw was gray and rusty brown, a boring rectangle of low small huts arranged in rows with little corridors, but only selling all sorts of metal, electrical, and machinery parts although I did see a child’s bike. Yes, there was a book stall and pirated CDs, porno and computer games, touted by black leather-jacketed young Russians, but somehow it did not have the same pulse, and the odours were overpowering..</span><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5kuZYxJQdTk45VoWEMTQvUmUF-RZQ8y7qny7AJL3o_r3LTouY1QNHNIV_1SZfgtQ9K48GDQpmJvyF2ro6h7DgPghLxQ4OCF6QB4wK0WHeKE7vMZIx-9J9EHJ3xI1ImA-7XqkJoZh40rDG/s1600/flag150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5kuZYxJQdTk45VoWEMTQvUmUF-RZQ8y7qny7AJL3o_r3LTouY1QNHNIV_1SZfgtQ9K48GDQpmJvyF2ro6h7DgPghLxQ4OCF6QB4wK0WHeKE7vMZIx-9J9EHJ3xI1ImA-7XqkJoZh40rDG/s1600/flag150.jpg" /></a></span></div> <span style="font-size: large;"><br />Going to the Russian market requires some planning, of course. You don’t just go there on a whim. You must not dress to kill and you do not go there bedecked with jewelry, or with piles of cash in your pocket. Just bring enough for the odd bargain—if you need more cash then there are bankomats around the corner on Francuszka. One must consciously avoid bringing expensive cameras. You do not want any come on from potential muggers. And of course you cannot bring young children with you, for the Russian market is very crowded indeed on a Sunday morning. How crowded, you ask? Imagine the rush-hour in the Warsaw metro at 8 am during school term.<br /><br />There is an art to going to the Russian market too, or should I say an art to getting a good bargain. A visit to the market is never complete until you emerge with something you successfully haggled over. Basically one does not jump at the first cheap-sounding offer for a chunk of amber with fauna trapped inside for eternity, or for the most dramatic, original looking silver-surrounded ikon you have cast your eyes on. Remember that the stall-holders are experts at spotting dupes, and I understand that there will always be a higher starting price when it’s a foreigner asking. Try bargaining first by cutting the price to half then work your way up slowly—if it is really expensive, you won’t get any more than 10% reduction. But it is worth a try. A few pretend about-turns might just net you a few satisfying extra zloties in savings.<br /><br />Punters can watch operators transform their questionable wares into respectable lines say in handbags or shirts at the flick of a hand. Somehow if a police inspector arrives, everybody knows it and one moment a stall is full of pirated CDs, the next moment it only sells bags or branded t-shirts. My friend Javed Iqbal from Pakistan was equally fascinated by this ‘magic’ trick as well as by my linguistic skill at bargaining in my passable Russian-Polish with a Lithuanian amber-seller who it turned out knew English after all. If you get thirsty watching all this palaver, there are trolleys selling hot drinks, but it is best to avoid the wasp-surrounded mounds of bread.<br /><br />I think the stadium rynek in Warsaw is quite unique. There is not a similar market elsewhere in Poland or indeed in Europe in terms of size and setting. I was for example in the black market in Riga’s Russian district in Latvia recently, and I was very disappointed by it. I wanted to see colour, bustle, and lots of merchandise to choose from. What I saw was gray and rusty brown, a boring rectangle of low small huts arranged in rows with little corridors, but only selling all sorts of metal, electrical, and machinery parts although I did see a child’s bike. Yes, there was a book stall and pirated CDs, porno and computer games, touted by black leather-jacketed young Russians, but somehow it did not have the same pulse, and the odours were overpowering..<br /><br />Going to the Russian market requires some planning, of course. You don’t just go there on a whim. You must not dress to kill and you do not go there bedecked with jewelry, or with piles of cash in your pocket. Just bring enough for the odd bargain—if you need more cash then there arebankomats around the corner on Francuszka. One must consciously avoid bringing expensive cameras. You do not want any come on from potential muggers. And of course you cannot bring young children with you, for the Russian market is very crowded indeed on a Sunday morning. How crowded, you ask? Imagine the rush-hour in the Warsaw metro at 8 am during school term.<br /><br />There is an art to going to the Russian market too, or should I say an art to getting a good bargain. A visit to the market is never complete until you emerge with something you successfully haggled over. Basically one does not jump at the first cheap-sounding offer for a chunk of amber with fauna trapped inside for eternity, or for the most dramatic, original looking silver-surrounded ikon you have cast your eyes on. Remember that the stall-holders are experts at spotting dupes, and I understand that there will always be a higher starting price when it’s a foreigner asking. Try bargaining first by cutting the price to half then work your way up slowly—if it is really expensive, you won’t get any more than 10% reduction. But it is worth a try. A few pretend about-turns might just net you a few satisfying extra zloties in savings.<br /><br />I have heard of people getting really good buys, with one or two gems of a find. One claims to have purchased an antique Russian watch for a song which turned out to be genuine and belonged to some aristocrat before the Russian revolution. When the Inocians (Junix, Annie and Ynaqui) came to visit with my family (Carmila and Melissa) in the summer they bought lots of lacquer boxes. I myself am very proud of a raw amber chunk I bought for 70 zloties (about GBP10) which has a pre-historic mosquito and another tiny insect in it. And sshh.. don’t tell anybody but I have also purchased one or two religious artefacts which appear to have survived the cultural conflagration of 1917 Russia, although my teacher friends at the British Council have always insisted they are of very recent vintage.<br /><br />One can get attached to this Polish manifestation of the free market economy. I have experienced it now in all weathers to savour its various hues and sounds and flavours. I have sloshed there in the snow, got wet in the rain, sweated under the sun, and once almost got blown off the top by howling winds. Whatever the weather, the market remains true to its attraction as a seething cauldron of bargain-hunting humanity, young and old, rivalling the magnificent covered souks of say Bahrain, Istanbul or Rabat, except that nobody wore exotic costumes.<br /><br />Having gotten used to the magnificent setting of the Warsaw market atop the pyramid of the stadium, I know I will never be satisfied by other markets in the same way again. It’s not quite Portobello, I know, but the area is not Notting Hill either. I always show Warsaw’s historical Old Town Square first to visiting relatives and friends, followed by an hour or two in the Russian market and they are always staggered by the experience. I know that it could equally dumbfound my local friends if they would only venture forth. And just wait till I tell them about the Kolo antiques market…<br /><br />[This article was written by the author during his British Council assignment to Warsaw, Poland 1999-2002]</span> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=3629012486930784822&postID=3513935863895845304&target=facebook" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8VZfdyGqGxYxPWoelwmGbf0QFLIKAuJeUY4gkUrOuG0ypMqSfMCY5oXqRyQNoFBeMj4-rf3fO2HSZuuzFh6RfAhiQUOB0mhu1FMnZNnkfdasfJ-Tjd3cZm3lh88B0ouKAVkPXVh278OA/s1600/sharefb185.png" /></a> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=3629012486930784822&postID=3513935863895845304&target=twitter" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3bfhc90-5xenm9-eqI_ICgI5V8KPl28Gu8oXZsvNDA_oIk8ioAazonJE38acYIiOnSDyuPWj6zn-8wCMPPY5TMVVENEoNk2PfH73eNX5qkEIkvLossHYwU848ikKXjhyr1MRuJIjmFo/s1600/sharetw185.png" /></a></div>

Continent Gene Alcantara Poland Stories Russian Market

When I tell Polish friends and colleagues that I go regularly to Warsaw’s Russian market, many of them react with horror. They might look at...

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