Jamie Stokes: the first time I saw an 'Uwaga, sople' sign
I remember the first time I saw an 'Uwaga, sople' sign. I hadn't been in Poland very long, and my Polish was even worse than it is now. I knew what 'uwaga' meant, but had no idea what a 'sople' was. I considered the sign for some time, unsure of what form of peril I might be facing, or even which direction it might come from.
As I stood there, completely unaware of the sixteen tonnes of razor-sharp ice trembling in anticipation above my head, I wondered if a 'sople,' whatever that was, might be capable of chasing me, or if I should bribe someone in order to mitigate the danger. It pretty much summed up the experience of my first year in Poland.
I probably didn't wonder about the 'uwaga sople' sign for very long. There were too many other mysteries to ponder, such as why my sink had a hot and a cold tap, but only one spout, or how to avoid getting seriously injured every time I tried to cross the road.
Even more pressing, to my mind, was why all the buildings had sticks leaning against them, and what all the red-and-white tape was about. Innocent in the ways of a Polish winter, I assumed it was some kind of local festival.
I imagined the patriarch of every household solemnly taking the family stick down from its place above the fireplace and braving the cold to perform the sacred Leaning of the Stick. The red-and-white tape, I assumed, was a recent addition to this ancient tradition to mark Polish independence. I noted that not all households bothered with the tape, and mentally labelled them traditionalists.
It was while I was standing there like a suicidal idiot wondering about the significance of the angle at which sticks had been leant, that I discovered what a sople was. What I initially believed to be a large meteorite plummeted to the ground in front of me and shattered into six million pieces. When I recovered from my faint, I observed citizens calming walking around the area as if this kind of thing happened every day. It was only when I looked up and saw how close I had come to be being pinned to the pavement like a giant English butterfly that I understood ‘sople.’
I'm not sure if it was the influence of this experience, but I've been fascinated by the Polish attitude to icicles, and winter ice in general, ever since. It’s fascinating because it seems to be the only hazard that Poles take seriously (that and standing on concrete with bare feet.) At any other time of the year, citizens will happily stroll past all kinds of dangers without feeling the need to warn other people about them.
There is a broken manhole cover near my house that could easily swallow a small child. It’s been there for months, and not once have I seen a leaning stick or scrap of red and white tape anywhere near it. Last month I went to a bar and almost electrocuted myself when I hung up my coat on what I though was a coat hook, but was actually a light socket. It’s still dangling there, just waiting to light someone up like a late Christmas tree – nobody cares.
The sople threat has also taught me a new respect for Polish courage. No wonder the citizens of Warsaw weren’t particularly bothered by Nazi artillery barrages in 1939 – they just treated it like any normal February.
