In some of my previous blog entries I told about particular places on the geographical map of Latvia that one way or anohter are tied to my own destiny. In Vidzeme it is the village of Dikli, in Zemgale - Misa and Bene, in Latgale - Aglona and Kalupe... Today the turn is to confess my love to Kurzeme. In that part of Latvia I spent time not only as a vacationer. In Kesterciems (translated from Latvian - the village of vergers) I burnt a wood stove during winter evenings and wrote a book of short stories - "White dunes".

Being registered as a resident of Riga from birth, but never having a suitable place to live there, in the beginning of 1970's in order to be able to do creative work I had to rent somewhere a place with a roof over my head. In those days it was possible to rent a room in one of the fishermen villages on the coast of Kurzeme for a quite reasonable price. The villages were situated beyond Jurmala and to get there one had to take not only the train, but also the bus. One of those far-off villages was my blessed Kesterciems. The owners of a farmstead gladly rented out to me a separate wing for the summer: one part of the house was the living quarters of a former servant's home, the other - a rural bath-house. With autumn arriving I realised that the stove in the servants' quarter stood there not merely for decoration, but that it could be used for heating and that the house was suitable for living in during the winter, too. Having reached a deal regarding firewood, I brought my most valued treasure from Riga: a typewriter. Human kind had yet to reach the era of personal computers. In my youth writers created drafts of their books by hand. The drafts were subsquently rewritten and reworked and finally taken to the first reader and critic - a paid typist. To be independent from a typist and to have at home your own typewriter was considered luxury. This luxury item I installed in my little bath-house and all of a sudden felt as the happiest person in the world! For the first time in my life I had MY OWN HOUSE rented for a whole year ahead.

On the farm table made of wooden planks stood the Optima typewritter, fine fisheman net took the place of tulle curtains on the windows, instead of a Persian carpet a fisherman sail covered the floor to stop the drafts from coming in. In the kitchen, near the stove hung a bunch of onions given as present by the owner's wife and in clay pots covered with lids (a precaution against mice) strategic food supplies were stored: grits, sugar, flour...

Since the chicken coup stood only a few meters away from the bath-house I was awaken by a rooster in the mornings. After starting the stove and having had coffee I would sit down to work and usually by lunch-time had a pile of paper covered in hand writing. Then a polite knock would sound on the door and one after another wives of local fishermen appeared at the enterance of my house of creativity holding wrapped up fresh, often still live, or just smoked fish. This was the currency used to pay me for an exclusive medical service: blood preasure measuring. In the USSR it was impossible to buy a device for the measuring of blood pressure in a pharmacy and this second wonder of the world (first one being the already mentioned typewritter), which I got using highest connections, served as great bonus to the poor pay, recieved from newspapers and magazines for my articles and stories.

As the evening drew near I would go out for a date with the sea and then, on the way back stopped at some of my fishermen acquaintances. There I sat with a cup of herbal tea, listening to life stories in order to later, having filtered these stories though myself, put them down on paper - first by hand, retyping them later with the typewriter.

The most difficult task was publishing the written stories in a book. My literary heros, who were born and spent their lives in the white dunes of Kurzeme, did not fit at all the image of the cheerful builders of communism.

But this is a whole different story to tell.

Illustration: Aigars Bumburs