Colonists, eh, colonists. God forbid you drive them into a gas station while you’re looking for a restroom. Pilgrimages of pensioners are better, more disciplined. Colonists, eh, colonists. They will block the restrooms for half an hour, each one will think over the choice of chewing gum for a quarter of an hour, paralyzing the functioning of the cash registers.
When they see an ice cream shop, a beach, a carousel, they will make sounds that the inhabitants of ancient Rome probably heard recently, when their walls were stormed by the Vandals. Colonists, eh, colonists.
Sometimes identification scarves around the necks, sometimes badges or T-shirts, always the tired look of carers that tells us: “This is what hell looks like”. Although when I was kayaking from Sorkwit along the Mazurian Krutynia trail, I passed cool big canoes on which teenagers were bravely shuffling with short Indian oars, and behind, leaning on his hands behind his head, a hipster-looking young guardian contemplated nature.
“Nice job!” I called happily across the water. “I’m not complaining!” he shouted back with a smile.
My seven-year-old son really wants to go to summer camps. He listened to his friends, he listened to his father. We agreed that next year, after first grade. I wonder if a tear will come to my eye when I wave my hand after a departing bus or train, or rather hum “All our charges went on vacation …”. Well, no, it’s only when Gucio is joined by his two-years younger sister, Basia, on his summer trips.
My parents had to take me from the first colonies. I was six, seven at most, and I cried all the time. But a year later it was all downhill, and for the next few years I loved going away. I wonder if my parents didn’t have mixed feelings that I like getting out of the house so much? The “walker” function has been on for decades. And in the colonies, the first pipes, kisses, not the first fights, epic matches in the summer dust and on frozen lakes.
There were camps that sunk deep into my psyche, like those in Jarosław in the fifth grade. It was the full time of the so-called scarcity, that is, there was nothing in the stores. Real socialism at its peak. And the educators took us to the local San cookie factory, the same one that made these long iced biscuit marvels in red boxes. We got permission to taste everything from cardboard boxes and – the best! – straight from the conveyor belt while the pastries were still warm. Well, as life will show later, moderation has never been my strong suit. I ate so much that I puked all night, almost lost my soul, I was weak for a few days and for the next twenty years I couldn’t even look at the noble Jarosław cakes and biscuits and similar products. Luckily I passed. Anyway, I had a twin action at cub camps, or maybe it was already a scout camp by a lake in the summer of 1980. The team members excitedly told that Władysław Kozakiewicz showed the shaft to the Russians at the Olympic Games in Moscow, and for some reason they threw raisins to a nearby village shop.
I bought a bag, ate everything, went to Riga and to this day I haven’t completely straightened my relationship with dried grapes and that’s why I always choose nuts from the “student mix”. The strangest from today’s perspective were the colonies in Pieniny Sromowce. Until I find, and I keep them all the time, letters from my parents, I will not remember whether they were Sromowce Niżne or Wyżne. I think Wyżne. Maybe one of you was there then and can help? Well, as part of the health examinations of children in Warsaw’s primary schools, those who were ill for this and that (I think for the lungs) were selected and sent to the beautiful Pieniny Mountains for a month and a half to repair their bodies. The people’s state paid. I’ve been twice, in third and fourth grade. We had two hours of Polish and one of mathematics a day (in the afternoon, when it was already dark), and all day we were chased through the mountains, floated down the Dunajec, tortured by nature. Once a week a dance party was organized in the evening, I still remember the shame when it was necessary (well, it wasn’t necessary, but you know it was necessary) to ask a girl to dance.
At that time, I was obsessed with Edmund Niziurski’s Book of Rascals, and upon arrival I asked my tutor to call me Wiktor, after the main character of the novel. What was going to the first phone call of the parents, which was answered by someone uninformed and when asked about Marcinek, he answered honestly that there is no such person here. The panic of the parents is probably priceless. [Lipiec 2019]
Three cans of broad beans – cover WAB promotional materials
Three Cans of Bob is a collection of articles by Marcin Meller from the years 2019-2023, which was published on May 17 by WAB. Here, everyday problems are mixed with big, or rather small politics, and everything is covered by the fascination with pop culture and the author’s specific sense of humor.
Source: Gazeta
Bruce is a talented author and journalist with a passion for entertainment . He currently works as a writer at the 247 News Agency, where he has established himself as a respected voice in the industry.
