Gauja. The strong, swift river that
flows through north central Latvia. For some, the lifeblood of the
culture.
My first trip to Latvia was in 1969 with my sister & mother. (My father was afraid to go to Soviet-occupied Latvia because he had fought in the Latvian army against the Russians--it would not have been unheard of for him to have been found out and arrested and jailed for an indeterminate period of time--even until death.) We were required to visit a Russian city and see the “sights” such as standing in queue for hours to catch a glimpse of Lenin's waxy corpse. We mistrusted the hotel walls--we could sense cameras spying on us. I couldn't sleep, becoming irrational and argumentative but dozed off after my mother gave me half of a sleeping pill.
In Latvia, I became known as “Saulite” among the members of our tour group because of my sunny disposition. My sister scoffed saying: “If they only knew! Saulite! More like “Makonis!” (cloud).
“Saulite” was known for being wild & impulsive. The Latvian citizens certainly didn't know what to make of my paisley pastel bell bottoms which were mod in the U.S. but unseen & bizarre behind the iron curtain. The men in central Riga would whistle at this chubby, young self: “Hey Calite!” (little chick). My sister & I hung out with my cousin and her boyfriend in the back stairwell of some large store as they alternated flirting, making out & taking swings from a strong bottle.
Before the end of Soviet rule, non-citizens were severely restricted to only approved “tourist” areas. (One middle-aged male member of our group, “Bubulitis” because that was what his young girlfriend called him, was forced to leave the country because he had traveled to an unauthorized area.) I remember the feeling of fright and daring we had when we got into a relative's car & drove into the countryside to see places from my mother's childhood. We had to remain restrained in our gestures and expressions so as to not be detected by the omnipresent “eye.”
One of the few approved tourist areas was around Sigulda where the Gauja flows and the “Turaida’s Roze” castle & tower stand. As we stood on the sandy banks gazing at the swift river, I ran suddenly into the water to swim with all my clothes on. “Saulite!” I didn't care. The current was strong, the water was cold as it swept me along. Swimming hard, I reached the shore again, exhilarated and soaked to the skin. I had made contact with the heart of something. There is a photograph of me standing in the adjacent woods in my red pullover, dripping wet and grinning madly.
On my third return to Latvia, Z & I were given the opportunity to take a canoe trip down the Gauja. Our hosts stocked us with delicious birch juice and other food stuffs, set us in the water and agreed to meet at a specific dock many kilometers downriver late that afternoon. Z argued endlessly of course about how to paddle, and who should steer and sit where as the sandy, red cliffs and caves snaked past and the river shot us forward. It was hard controlling the rather cheap canoe in the swift current which was even stronger than usual because of recent rains. We had to paddle hard to reach the shore when we stopped for lunch. There was a steep, wooded hillside next to the grassy, sandy shore; as we climbed up the path we found several half-eaten carcasses--young deer perhaps. I took a small skull with developing points of horn blades jutting above the eye sockets. Z was nervous about predators. It could have been bears. Or lynx.
Back in the canoe, the fast, winding river. It seemed time that we should be reaching our dock. We looked for signs...pulling off again & again, asking the few people we saw if this was the one, but no one knew. We became convinced that we had gone too far downriver and had to turn and go back.
Turn and go back. It makes me laugh now. How we fought against that current, beating our oars in the water, gaining only a few feet per stroke only to be driven back. Instinct kicking in and animal determination being the force that made us, inch by inch, make progress. If you could call going against that river progress. Desperate, because if we did not reach our dock we would be lost in this land far from home. We would be swept out to sea and blanche in the sun & salt.
There were two young boys fishing at a dock, looking amusedly at us as we fought and shouted in our manic battle. I called out to them: was this the dock we wanted? They laughed. It was downriver yet a ways. Oh. Sheepishly, foolishly, we turned the canoe around and gave in to the current, resting our strained & sore muscles. We let the river take us having beaten all the fight out of us--the sun dancing on the waves, the shore sliding past.
Later on this journey, I was earnestly asked by a Latvian fellow about my positive nature, my “sunny disposition.” I explained it was only the external self...that a storm raged in me at times... My sister was right.
1/19/2001
Ingrid
Karklins