Frame 17 and Szombathely

First week of September, 2010

While many of my colleagues and friends are in Perpignan this week, I am in Hungary. This rather unique and long blog post will serve as an introduction to Frame 17 and a brief story on the protagonist in it. The reason for me to be in Hungary is because my father is originally from Szombathely (pronounced Sohm-bah-teh'ee , I have been corrected several times) near the Austrian border. My parents arrived in London, from Bolivia, some 2 weeks ago.

Shaving is part of a gentleman's daily routine. London, August 2010.

As a rather classic travel companion, I came with my father to Hungary. He is here for a couple of reasons. One is that he has to renew his passport (something that cannot be done in a Hungarian consulate) Second he wanted to come once more to his hometown and visit a long time friend of his, Mrs Pippy, aged 87. And third, something he missed doing last year, visit his family's grave stone at the Jewish cementery. His family's remains are not there as they all died in Auschwitz.

Washing up is not just for cleaning oneself up, but also helps in the rehydration of the skin (albeit temporarily) which can turn flaky, or even hard in certain places. London, August 2010.

Last year, the last time he came to Szombathely, he was 98 years old. This year, at the age of 99 and nearly 6 months before turning 100, I can see a markedly older man. Anyone at that age is old, but if one is to think of an older relative and their phisical and mental performance throughout a period of time, you may notice that there are times when his/her aging becomes more apparent, faster. I could comfortably say that from 93 to 98 there was a slow deterioration in his overall persona. Thinking back to 2009, 2010 shows my father for the first time as a real elder man. Last night, before going to sleep, he told me that this was the end of 'long journeys like this one'. That usually means, from Bolivia where he lives, to Europe. Traveling gets the better of most of us and more so those more fragile like my father. It has become increasingly more difficult for him to get up from a sitting position. Last year, he could have done without much help to accomplish this task many of us take for granted.

A typical night. London, August 2010.

Things like going to the bathroom can become a real task, especally looking for disabled access toilets. London, August 2010.

Dry feet. The tweezers next to his feet were used to clear the dirt between his toes. Those lucky enough to reach the elder age may have a chance of having toes which are inflexible with very hard nails to cut and plenty of dirt in between. We would all be going that way unless a tragic end comes our way. Budapest, September 2010.

My father pedalling his way to flexibility and balance. He is also doing his daily nebulisation to help him clear the phlegm in his lungs- heritage from 40+ years of smoking. Balance is the most notorious deterioration in him compared to last year. He could fall even if he uses a walking stick to help him. London, August 2010.

On the way to Szombathely. Somewhere in Hungary, September 2010.

And so we are in Szombathely now. On Sunday, or Monday, we will go to the Jewish cementery. Our visit to Szombathely was met with a great welcoming by Mrs Pippy and her family. She lives with her daugher, and grand daughter. We have been eating plenty, I assure you. The woman likes to cook a lot and she will feed her guests well regardless of their acceptable level of food intake.

Mrs Pippy and my father. Szombathely, September 2010.

After dinner chat. Szombathely, September 2010.

In a very heartfelt gesture, Mrs Pippy offered my father and I to stay at hers for the length of our stay. We accepted and thus we spend our first night in Szombathely sleeping on a sofa bed she kindly prepared for us. Unfortunately, due to the requirements for me to take good care of my father, along with a relatively cold room, humidity (after the rain on that day), and a sleepless night for him (due to a rather heavy duvet given to him) we booked a hotel room for the following night until the end of our stay. And so it is here where I am writing this post from.

A good two hour long mid-day nap after a sleepless night, under the sunshine, helped my dad regain his strengths for the remainder of the day. Szombathely, September 2010.

But not all was physical discomfort. My father's memories have begun to come back strong. It apparently started some years ago. It is with a mixture of guilt (for being unable to get his family out of the Ghetto) and sadness that he remembers the deaths of his family members. He is no stranger to sleepless nights because of his thoughts (say family disputes, business and the tax man), but the morale and psychological weight and analysis in the feeling of 'could have done more' that has begun to creep back to him that makes him truly loose his sleep. Sometimes, he wakes up at night and makes some moaning sounds, like someone experiencing anxiety and fatigue at the same time.

This is not just a cup of coffee after dinner. It is a cup of coffee that, because of Mrs Pippy's kindness and hard work, began to brew before any of us finished eating. That way it would be sitting next to your plate even before your last bite. It came in the company of a chocolate cake which I also photographed, but somehow misplaced the jpeg of it. Szombathely, September 2010.

I do wonder how will he be feeling like when we get on the plane from Budapest back to London. I think he is finally accepting he is old. After so many years struggling to be as independent as possible (especially physically), it is very hard for him to come to terms with his age. After all, he was 72 when I was born. I will have to truly consider all things I know of him to truly do justice to my memories of him, of my time with him and his time in this world. I have begun the long and hard task of scanning the negatives of photographs he took over his lifetime that he still has and have not been lost or destroyed. We, him and I, have also begun the other hard task of identifying what are those photographs of and the approximate dates when they were taken. That, along with a recorded account of his life, will form part of Frame 17, the body of work I will build about his life, and mine with him.

It is not going to be easy, or quick, but it will get done. Here, 6x6cm frames taken between 1942 and 1944. That was the time when he, and his then business partner, ran a quinine camp in the Bolivian Yungas jungle. They helped the war effort in the Pacific Theatre where American troops would be treated with quinine to cure malaria. London, September 2010.

Hopefully it wont be long when I will post something new here again. Apologies for those checking here often and seeing nothing new until now. All the best and until the next update.