Spanning three generations, 'Share The Moon' is the family saga of one girl, one moon and three lives; one Spanish, one English and one Finnish. Blended together into a captivating life journey and infused with tenderness and humor, each post can be read as an individual stand-alone piece. To read the complete adventure start from the very first post, 'Share The Moon', and simply work your way upwards. Welcome to my journey on the first Sunday of every month!

Sunday 23 April 2017

Automatic Transmission

My thoughts are rudely truncated by the lady behind the counter renting me a car, and she duly brings me back to the present in San Juan, Tenerife, and out of my moment of reminiscing (see post A Tibetan Story).  Looking up from her screen, she tells me that there are no automatics today or tomorrow. It's the last few days of my vacation, and if I want a car today and now it will have to be manual. She has one parked just outside and it is mine if I want it. I tell her that it must be automatic and I explain why; after my divorce the house, the car, the life that went it, was all washed away and I now only have a car at home in Helsinki when I rent or when a friend kindly loans me theirs. But the vast majority of these have had automatic transmission, putting a string of delectable vehicles all out of my yearning reach. You see, I have only ever driven cars with manual transmission.

 


I want to tell her that I return to driving school where I take a series of lessons to correct this shortcoming. My instructor called Henrik spends the first lesson teaching me the basics from scratch as I accidentally mistake the accelerator for the brake and hopelessly search for a non-existent clutch. He tells me to feel no shame, that many women my age newly-widowed or divorced return to driving school to brush up driving skills never implemented during years of marriage where this task was largely left to the husband. Once faced with no driver they have no option but to relearn the driving skills long ago forgotten. By comparison, I am an easy case; I can drive perfectly well and have over twenty years of experience behind me, just not with an automatic. By the third and last lesson I have nailed automatic transmissions. It's a hot summer's day and I am in heaven as I effortlessly reintegrate myself into the busy traffic, enjoying my beautiful city and everything that passes by me as the radio gently hums in the background. I have missed my cars and it feels wonderfully liberating to drive again.



 

What a world of easy driving, I think to myself as I wait for the lights to change on the maritime Pohjoisranta Avenue with the imposing Ice Breakers on my right and the red brick Military Museum on my left. Once you lose the gears and fiddly clutch, a new world opens up at long traffic lights; You can put on your make-up, straighten your hair, even write a review on Trip Advisor about driving instructors. In theory, you could put on the kettle and make yourself a cup of tea, even make a sandwich if you have a small kitchen facility installed in the central unit between the driver and passenger seats. Uncle Fernando has all the gears on his disabled vehicle transferred to the side of the steering wheel (see post Columbus And The Missing Gravestone), so I see no reason why they cannot do likewise for vehicles with automatic transmission. The possibilities are endless and I am now done with manual cars. 


The Henrik now happily seated next to me is a completely different person from when we started out just three lessons ago. My diligent instructor has been replaced with just another passenger immersed in his phone, just as passengers usually are. He is now coordinating with his wife what to pack for the forthcoming weekend at the cottage, browsing his on-line banking, and generally telling me about the sauna he will have at the cottage and the friends he will invite. He has even switched on the radio and that is the ultimate sign that he has forgotten that I am the student and he the instructor. I need not be told that I am certified competent, for I know this from his relaxed demeanour. But he does and advises me to rent only automatics in future. That way I do not revert back to ingrained manual behaviour. So sorry, Madam-whoever-you-are, this is why I must rent a car with automatic transmission.





But, where was I? Oh yes, let me continue telling you about the Cars With Memories in our family. I still have to tell you about the first car in our family. Before The Tank appeared in our life, there was a metallic-blue car called ANH-549, or the Saab 900 as it is better known. ANH-549 arrived alongside my marriage in much the same way as an already existing child, and I have only hazy recollections of it, for the fear of Finnish winters were too much for an inexperienced driver fresh out of English driving school. I never drove this vehicle and it never really felt mine. This was a time when Hugo still insisted on wearing his slippers so that he could marry the Prince, Sofia had not yet joined our family and we were just three (see post Cars With Memories). If we were to meet for coffee, we could perhaps become friends and talk about cars, family, husbands present and past, children, dreams, the art of living a life you did not sign up for, and so much more. But I guess that you are not interested in this, you just want to rent me a car.




I have no idea how long we have been here searching for my rental car with non-negotiable automatic transmission, but I think that at least an hour must have gone by, and I sense that you are beginning to get tired of me and my stories. Finally you wearily look up from your keyboard, and politely but firmly inform me that THERE ARE ONLY MANUALS available for renting today. The automatic option will take two days. I sensibly capitulate, sign the rental agreement and pay the fee on my credit card. After collecting the keys for the vehicle, I walk out into the bright sunshine to search for my new travel companion: Four door, white. Manual. Henrik is not here so I logically reason that he will never find out. Now I am a Woman with Wheels.





To be continued...

Next post 7th May : Woman With Wheels

 Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn from a combination of Pixabay with occasional additions from private family archives.

Sunday 9 April 2017

A Tibetan Story


I am in the village of San Juan in Tenerife attempting to rent a vehicle for the remaining few days of my vacation (see post Cars With Memories), and inevitably my mind wanders to one of the many recollections encapsulated within those Cars With Memories.




We are approaching the end of the 1990’s, and on this winter's day in Helsinki Hugo, aged six and Sophia, aged two are seated in the back of their Mama's Tank, otherwise known as the Toyoya Land Cruiser (see post Tanks And Treasure). I am running an errand, to where I no longer remember for this detail is no longer of significance and a winter storm has arrived in Finland's capital city covering the streets with immense snow drifts. We are in a European city, yet looking around me it feels like Alaska, so deep is the snow, so cold is the wind, and so singularly beautiful is the surrounding landscape of trees and bushes all heavily laden with snow. My precious cargo seated behind me is happily occupied each with their own matters, and as I drive through this captivating arctic landscape I switch on the radio to accompany me on my journey. Sofia is blissfully sucking her thumb, whilst Hugo is transfixed with his collection of ice hockey cards, and the delicious tranquillity that reigns invites me to listen into the discussion which comes out of the radio channel I am tuned into. 

It's an in-depth interview introducing the Plan International sponsorship program which promotes the education of children in all countries and in all corner of the globe, via a simple and small monthly donation made by adults who become godparents to a child of their choice and in the county of their choice. I am intrigued by the entire concept; Mama always instilled in us girls the importance of an education, a career and a driver's licence. In this way, a woman is able to ensure her complete self-reliance and financial independence from men. Just like my Sister, Sis, I have achieved all three and the program I am listening to makes me realise that there are children in certain parts of the world where this first critical stage is still largely unattainable.


Now I am mesmerized and listen avidly, and as soon as I arrive home I unload my cargo of children and continue following this fascinating topic on the kitchen radio. At this moment I realise that I too want to participate in this marvellous program and so help a young child somewhere on this planet to achieve what this little girl from an Island off the coast of Western Africa has attained and more (see post Share The Moon). After the program is finished and I have duly noted the contact details, I send an e mail to the organisation informing them that I would be honoured to join their sponsorship program and that I have a few simple requests; I wish to sponsor a young child who is a girl, and in addition to this she must come from a part of the world where her gender puts her at risk of possible discrimination. Aside from that, they are free to assign me whoever they wish and from whichever corner of our diverse Planet they see fit. And I duly let fate take its course and allow the River of Life to freely flow along its own path. 



Around this time, in a far away place from Finland, a nine-year old girl and her five-year old brother are in Lhasa, the capital city of Tibet with their father. The children have already bid goodbye to their mother in their remote village home of Eastern Tibet, and the father is now preparing his daughter and son for the unforgettable journey of their lives. For along with her brother, this nine-year-old will join other Tibetans and leave their precious homeland, trekking across the snowy Himalayas, into Nepal and finally onto India. As with many other rural families, the parents have decided to send their children to India in the hope that they will receive an education not attainable were they to remain in Tibet. If indeed blessed, they may well be fortunate enough to also meet with his Holiness, The Dalai Lama. It's deep winter and the Himalayan mountains are covered with snow so making it the best time to escape; with these difficult conditions underfoot, the chances of being discovered and detained by the Chinese Authorities are minimalised. 





Known as The Roof of the World and rising to over four-and-a-half kilometres above sea level, Tibet is home to the World's largest and most elevated plateau. Surrounding this plateau are the imposing mountain ranges that harbour the world's two highest summits, Mount Everest and K2. Whilst the world's top mountaineers regularly attempt to summit their forbidding peaks, the remote area surrounding these peaks is home to ethnic communities living lives largely untouched by the passing of time. One such area is the Buddhist region of Tibet, home to just over three million inhabitants. Now a part of The People's Republic of China since its annexation in 1951, every Tibetan dreams of the day when their country will be liberated and just as it was before this date. For now, it is but a Tibetan dream, but the possibility of giving their children the possibility of freedom and an education is an attainable reality. But this reality comes at a price, and for this reason this father is in Lhasa with his children on this day, at this moment and at this hour. 


Tears stream down the father's face as his bids his daughter and son goodbye. They have never seen their proud and noble father weep in this uninhibited way. Unlike them, he fully understands that they might never meet again, for he will not be joining them on this journey. 
The brother and sister join a group of twenty-five persons amongst them adults and children, and together they begin the long trek crossing the snowy mountain range to freedom. Sleeping in the day time and moving at night, they embark on a tortuous journey that lasts over forty days; confronting cold, hunger, soaring mountain peaks, sweeping rivers, and also death. Yet they never give up on their goal of reaching the safety of Nepal, and in moments of great distress the nine-year-old girl comforts her frightened younger brother. For she must, she is now his only family.  


 The relief of reaching Nepal does not last long, for they are swiftly detained by the authorities and faced with the stark reality of being returned to Tibet, but fortune looks upon them. A Tibetan hears of their plight and they are soon rescued by a humanitarian organisation. Finally they have reached freedom. The children of the group are assigned to Tibetan children's villages in Northern India just on the other side of the border from Nepal, and so their parents dreams are realised. Amongst these children is the same nine-year-old girl from the small village in Eastern Tibet.
   
Six young girl pass through my life as sponsored goddaughters since that cold winter's day when I first become aware of this program. First from India, and then later Thailand. Some fall away due to life's natural attritions and are then replaced by newer ones. I still sponsor two today. One of these six girls leaves an indelible mark on the course of our family history; she grows into adulthood, duly leaves the program and our lives diverge, only to be brought together years later by an unexpected friend request on Facebook. Once again our life rivers slowly converge, and on a warm and sunny September afternoon nineteen-years after the initial sponsorship program began, the Finnair Delhi to Helsinki plane delivers our family a twenty-eight-year old young woman and unbeknown to us at that moment, a sister for Hugo and Sofia, and for myself a daughter. She was the nine-year-old girl of this Tibetan Story and our family of three once again becomes four.





 

To be continued....

Next post 23rd April: Automatic Transmission


Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with occasional additions from private family archives.