After the goats were rounded back in the barn, D and I walked down to the river.  We found a patch of čemaš, wild garlic.  We picked its broad, fragrant leaves until we had filled the wicker basket.  If only every day I could search for leaves – garlic and tea.  It is a compliment to call a Slovenian simple.  There is something to this life.

We spent a better part of a day working in the sun.  Everything dragged as we tried to stay awake on the ride home, me in front, D in back and P driving.  In a burst of energy, P turned off the road and parked alongside a river. “Nadiza,” she said.  We followed her, stumbling down to the bank trying to shed our sleepy stupor.  We stripped to our underwear and plunged in.  The water was like ice, but it pushed our blood back to our core.  We crawled to shore, gazing at the magical spot in content silence. I will back here, I thought, or maybe not. But it was perfect.

Her voice was deep and round, and his was deeper still.  But her voice was the important one.  The entire market crowded around the two singers transfixed by their dark simplicity.  No circus-like accordions, no light words.   Although I could not understand the words, I knew they were written by a poet, someone who saw the world in a way I respected.  After all, what is the difference between a farmer and a poet?

She was tan, in that way that shows she doesn’t care if she is or she isn’t.  Just from being outside and doing what she would do anyway.  Her eyes were bright and her hair was long, but tucked back for utility. 

They sang old songs from Resia, an area just inside Italy along the Slovenian border.  The dialect is not recognizable but the refrain sang out: 

            Op la la e lei lei, lom. 

It sat on our ears like warm, fat raindrops sit on your skin.   I knew I wanted to hear this sound again, and I shuddered for not having my recording equipment.  We scrambled to meet the singers after their songs as they melted back into their lives of other market-goers.  The song is an old dialect she told me: Uon ci nte de ode lipa mo.  It is impossible to translate, she said. 

Somehow she ended up in our car on the way home to Ljubljana.  She is younger than me, but feels much older.  She told me how she worked as a shepherd in the high mountain planinas, tending to cows and milking them twice a day.  She was the kind of woman who would not let a male-dominated workplace stop her.  They told me there was a lot of physical work, she said, and they wondered if I could do it.  Good, I like to work hard, she had told them, and that was that.   She is the kind of person whose cargo is a wicker basket full of herbs.  She grabbed the basket as she exited the car. Deep notes, hard work, and herbs.

A wonderful prose about the magic and humanness of keeping bees.

One of my great great great great grandmothers in the National Archives in Ljubljana.

Two weeks ago I was in the western-most town of Slovenia (Robidisce) and this week I was in the eastern-most town of Slovenia (Brezice).  I visited a smiley beekeeper named Rok, who had a singing voice as clear as crystal.  He sang a Slovenian classic for me in the cool inside of his chestnut-wood bee house.  Each of the wood panels on his bee house is hand-painted.  Many are depictions from the Bible, others are Slovenian folklore. After our interview we picked bright pregnant cherries and ate the most delicious strawberries I have ever tasted.  Of course we washed it down with homemade medica.  The hospitality in Slovenia is incredible.

Here are the goodies the bees helped along:

gdfalksen:

A map of the Slovene Lands from 1848, by Peter Kozler. The map was inspired by Slovene nationalism during the Spring of Nations (another name for the Revolutions of 1848), when national minorities and pro-liberal forces rebelled against the traditional order in Europe. Slovene nationalists called for the unification of Slovene Lands (which roughly correspond to modern Slovenia) into an autonomous state in the Austrian Empire.

Damien, a beekeeper near Maribor converted two buses into bee houses.  Actually, this is a common Slovenian practice, one that sets their beekeepers apart from others.  He uses the bee buses for tourism and honey production.  You can see the chalk marks on each hive that tell him the status of the hive.  He says many tourists (many Japanese) will meditate in his bee bus.  He opens all the hives and people can sit inside the bus surrounded by the noise of the buzzing bees. 

While I was interviewing Damien, a few other neighbor beekeepers arrived with news that their own hives were dying off that day.  Damien was nervous that something also might happen to his hives.  In the past few years colony collapse, and other forms of hive disturbance have been affecting Slovenian bees. 

A young beekeeper, Anze, shows me his hives.  He won awards for his chestnut honey.  His grandfather is also an award winning beekeeper, pictured below.

This is an old post from April during the national strike.  I was in Maribor visiting a few other Fulbright scholars and we decided to check out the strike demonstration in the center of Maribor.  We arrived several hours before the actual protest was to be held, but we spoke with some public educators who are concerned about budget cuts.  This strike was well-planned and basically half-a-day.  We spoke to a few others that day around Maribor, who simply felt that a strike would have no sway over anyone or any budget matters.  Either way, Slovenia is experiencing some intense budget problems that are only getting worse.  I will explore more in further posts.

After hearing the ability of the Spanish and Italians to put every single person out for the day of their strikes, this seemed quite mild and extremely monotone.