Stick with it

Today was just a rotten day. Standing in the sun for hours, waiting, waiting. First waiting for traffic, on a road cutting straight through the dense Yucatan jungle. Often not one vehicle for five minutes, and still some genius figured that they needed pedestrian bridges across this road. Not just one, but two, utterly overgrown and disused, in this town of no more than 200 souls. Some of them, have become dear friends though. Later, here in Escarcega, again the sun beat down on me, my arm outstreched, my thumb almost limp, but no one who thought they could help me with a ride. Screw it, I left the roadside and made for a cheap inn nearby, an old wooden shack of a place, now covered in a rich layer of candy pink paint, in and out. 

But that is today, to relate to you the events that have passed since my last post, we return to the old hills (250 + million years) of the Appalacian range, in sweet north Carolina. 

 

With the usual stroke of luck my host in Ashevill went to visit her boyfriend one day, who lived near the trail. So after stocking myself and my bag to the point of bursting I got to the trailhead in a deep valley where a powerfull river formed a set of rapids bridged by suspencion. The weather was fair and the air fresh with the smell of leaves, life and the late summer. The trail went straight up the hill, as I had been told for a few miles, winding between colouring groves of oak and various types of maple, that were still desperately trying to deny the advencing autumn. The first 800 meter climb was the longest to come in my 10 days on the trail, but it seems that the makers of this epic 3000 km path were fervent lovers of the incline, applying it wherever possible. It was beautifull, yes, and very quite. Usually sleeping alone, in half open shelters or simple campsites, always under the eaves. Only rarely does one get a chance to gaze over the endless green and roling hills of the Nantahala forrest, and so you quickly start to treasure them, because when one does, it gives you the air needed to continue through those green bowels, of nature.

I was starteled by the way it seemed so untouched. At one rocky outcropping, not a single patch of clearcut could be seen as far as the eye reached, which, was a good many miles at that point. Sometimes I would camp with others, many veterans were on the trail to hike away their wartime traumas. 

The trail becomes a way of life. Hardships or not, painfull bones and hard sleeping. It is enchanting. Water was a rare comodity at some parts because of the summer drought, especially once I hiked my way into Georgia, but luckily some trail angels often left water at where the trail intersected with roads. Everyone kept talking about the turning of the leaves. I can not say that I feel I really saw it, but than, something was definitely changing. A certian type of tree, whose name is lost to me, turned not red or yellow, but a sweet warm pink, and as it was very common, thats the hue a lot of our world became. 

Inicially I became a bit bored with the somewhat monotomous landscape, same woods, same trees, same rhodondenderon tunnels, up and down, endlesly. But as the days went by, the actual walking became the main focus, and it was all good. As the trail mostly runs across the tops of the hills, shops are extremely rare so going to the town of Hiawassee for my first resupply I suddenly realized how special it was what was going on up there in the mountains. How the hikers form a kind of moving community, even if you only meet them once. It took me 10 days to hike the roughly 200 km to the southern end of the trail at Amicolola Falls, from where it was an easy hitchike to Atlanta.  

To Atlanta I went because it so happened that the very morning after I had decided to get the heck out of that crazy country of America, Tamara, my stepmother messaged me that she wanted to see me in Phoenix, and I should come over. Okay, well, Alright. So in a mad act of bizar eventness, I also booked a flight to the dessert, just 10 days before I was bound to fly to Cancun. Im usually not one for airtravel and after all these strange hops ive decided I definitively dont like flying anymore. Its so weird and ungrounding, and it takes me days afterwards to fully come down back on earth. Anyway, still smelly and fresh off the trail I hopped to Phoenix, where a very happy Tamara awaited me. What joy to see her again after more than a year, and how well we do get along. She looked really good, and I was shown into her American life.  First thing we got in her Suburban and drove to the aptly named Hole-in-the-Rock. The dry afternoon heat engulfed me like a cocoon, but I like it.

 How dry this place, how different from the juicy woods of the east, Oh yeah, Were in the Dessert. She welcomed me into her beautiful house of a castle, with high ceilings and arches, white pillars along the walls. In the garden ran her dog Bellum, and the turtle made it a true home. For a few days we mostly worked in the garden, in the mornings when it was not yet too hot, or went for walks. The area of phoenix is a vast valley where westeners share the dessert with various native tribes, that own large swaths of reservation. Vegetation is all very stark and hardy, but when left to itself, definitifely abundant. The kings of that dessert however, are the great Suguaro Cactussus. They tower over everything else, and form a forrest of sorts. Just have to alter your idea, of what a forrest is. They crow up to 8 meters tall and can easily survive a century. She even has one in her garden. Tamara lives very near the edge of her Suburb and so little wild pigs and all kinds of other wildlife regularly swarm across her the front lawn, nibbeling at even the spricklyest if plants. 

Halloween also happened while I was there, and we went to a friends house where we decorated the whole drive and watched classic halloween movies while all kinds of kids usually in great outfits came by

to trick and treat. Ofcourse, no one had to worry about rain.....

We were all in mysterious dress too and even the two dogs there had little strap on batwings on their backs, to the great pleasure of all the passer-bys.

 Next morning Tamara and me loaded the car with anything we thought we might need in the dessert and set off for the grand Canyon. Soon we rose out of the Phoenix valley and the suguaros disappeared. Insead, sagebrush now filled the high plains, and an occasional forrest of pine made itself known in the distence, by the intensity of its green. soon we were driving through some real forrests, be it dry, before hitting the village of Grand Canyon. as we left the car we were met by a bone chilling cold wind and realized we were utterly overwelmed by the rapid change of climate. Wearing all we had, we shuffeled to the edge of the canyon just around sunset, and saw the orange and reds fade into the beige and grays of the night. I camped in the bushes, while Teak made her bed in the car. Luckily I had a warm sleepingbag, because man, it was neigh near 0 degrees that night. Having both slept surprisingly well considdering the circumstances we again set off for the cliff, and after a warm beakfast brought the dog to a kennel for the day so that we might decend into the canyon where animals other than Mules are not allowed.  Mules yes, because since many a year, muletrains have been servicing the lower lying homesteads down near the bottom of the Canyon, where the blue Colorado river rushes by. We did not make it that far though, and were content after just a few hundred meters down. The bright angel trail led us past astonishing ancient rockfaces of white and red, eroded over the millenia by wind, rain and ice, into stunning shapes and towers, with desperate vegetation hanging on to crack and ledge. I was surprised by the charmingness of it all. I had expected it to be cheesier, more of a tourist circus, but it was ok. The shaddows on the Canyon are always changing, and it seems impossible to gauge its dept, in meters aswel as in years. 16 km across you say, alright, it means nothing to me. Wonderfull how someone in the history of that place has named all the rocks and turrets after mythical gods and deities. Shiva Templa, Vishnu Schist, Walhalla plateau, Thors Throne....etc.

  We stayed another night, in a different place, where one can see the canyon wind away into the northern plains of yellow bison grass, where the wind ever blows, and the spirits of the original inhabitants of this land still roam free. The longer I stayed in the US. The stranger it felt to me, the situation there, with the Natives. How must they feel, having been turned into a secondary kind of citizens, caught

 between keeping to their traditions and intergrating into mainstream american scociety. 

Driving back, we passed through several distinctly different vegatation zoned. All dessert like, but so diverse. The red mountains, a lush rocky mountain like valley full of leafy trees and a big fresh river, the bare high plateau, the hills of old mining town Jerome, now taken over by some very talented artists. 

As we got closer to home, the clouds thickened and the wet blessing came down from the sky. We didnt mind, as dessert people, we were celebrating! 

Just back home before dark, the clouds burst, and one could hear the plants sing in the twilight. This was my last night in the dessert for now, as next morning I packed my stuff again, now much lighter, and headed back to the airport. 

The next 72 hours were a blur of different vehicles and airports, with a little oasis of rest in New Orleans, where, by pure grace I met a fiendly Lawyer in a wacky bar in Bourbon street that let me stay in her nice house, and gave me breakfast too. How lucky I am, most of the time, and when I feel Im not, the universe usually has some other plan hatching for me. 

From that cradle of Jazz in at the mouth of the Missisipi I made it to Mexican Cancun, where the heat again greeted me, but now of the humid tropical kind. I did not linger in cancun though, to the beach, the beach, the beach.....In Playa del Carmen it was, I stayed that night, and loved the climate. I repeat it to myself at  least several times a day, Oh , I love this climate! 

Down the coast of the Yucatan it went, visiting crumbling Mayan ruins and powdery white sandy beaches. Palmtrees were again my companions in the midday sun, as were some pretty mad traveler folks. Im not sure I can really unite myself with the backpacking cause right now though, and so feel somewhat lost between all these holiday makers. To the lakeside town of Bacalar than, swimming in the gorgeous clear blue waters, warmer than the already mild air before sunrise I can assure you. 

From there, I cut straight across the Yucatan peninsula, through the huge natural reserves that contain some of the largest abandoned Mayan cities so far discovered. Coming to the town of Becan, or, town, outpost more like, outpost on a asfalt river surounded by an ocean of green. 

The ruins of Becan inspired me a lot. The energy there was very quite, and the many great temples rose up from velvet green mossy grounds where imposing trees still stood tall. In on of those human built mountains I found a bare room, and sat. I felt the ground pull me into a deep awareness of that place, felt I was going into the minds of those that had once lived and died there. Of the rituals and relations thay had. So strong it was, that I didnt even want to leave. So I stayed another day. With great guidence I met a friend called Guilermo who surprisingly has a art studio where he lives, and also does camping. An interesting combination of his own contemporary but anciently inspirered work mixes with thousand year old stone axes, ceramics and other artifacts he has collected over time. Litterly every stone around there has been turned over twice at least, so finding things is not hard. We had a really good connection and so next day I spent all day at the ruins, untill the sun set, and I was watching some highspeed butterflies circling the top of the highest pyramid. Towering over the jngle, this mountain of stones was completely moved by pleople. How many loads?

 Higher up means less stone to carry, but it also means carrying that whole top of the pyramid up those incredibly steep steps. The temperature was still awsome up there, even as the full moon came out, big and bright. Man that white thing sure gives off a lot of light!

Than it was time to decend, and with the Jaguar and the serpent on my mind made it through the blackness back to Guilermos place.

 And than, it was today. A rotten day, maybe, but Im still assured that all that happens is in the will of the universe. So when I dont get a ride, or when I do bump my toe, When the sweat runs down my face or hunger consumes me

I do know, its the way it has to be.

The Land that Rules the World

Indian summer days were sweet at the farm of Great song. Where every Tuesday and Saturday featured a breakfast feast shared with the owners of that beautiful land, and we harvested and lived, in the abundance of nature. Yet, that travelin' bug kept stirring inside me, till at last I decided to go. Planned my way out west, first visiting my old friend Rachel down in Philly. So with a heavy heart I walked away from it all, left them behind, and met the open world. Hitching south brought me in contact with various interesting folks, among whom the police, who didn't much like me trying to get rides of their fellow countryman. Rides were not too easy to come by anyway, so that that night I had hardly covered 300 km, and found myself sleeping on a playground under some kind of castle against the possibility if rain.

I was on the outskirts of Philadelphia so next day early a commuter bus took me into the north of town.
There I decides to walk to my fiends house in the west, and what a walk it was.
Rows upon rows of dilapidated homes, overgrown and collapsing, poverty was rife, mounds of trash covered abandoned lots. It was a true ghetto, and yet, I did not feel unsafe. The cops in a passing patrol car gave me odd looks as they passed. Either they thought I was a lost tourist, looking for drugs or committing some kind of obscure crime. Why? Well, guys with my skin color just don't venture that far into the Ghetto. In the 3 hours that I walked there, I saw no more than 5 white guys, most of whom were Latino. It was a real trip, but I was also happy to arrive to the welcoming porch of Rachel's house. Soon we met, after 12 good years, and I met her friends and family, now including two of her own kids.
I was on the journey though, so after a day of rest I walked south, to the great black road, and put out my thumb again.
Some people stopped, mostly to give me money. Hitchhiking is seen as a form of begging here, only for the impoverished, not something any sane person would do. And so I waited.........
Thinking of Sarah, Thinking of what I wanted, What I felt was right.
I was definitively at a good spot, but was this really what I wanted?

Oh America, land that rules the world. Yet, they cannot even manage the dirt and poverty in their own country. Pinnacles of riches border on places of utter decay. Place of extremes, you keep challenging me. Why do I keep hanging on to those plans that I even then unwillingly devised, when I yet knew nothing of the situation here?
Oh it's different than I thought it would be, at that I was right.  
REBIRTH.   I cannot waste one day........What am I doing here?.........Life is precious.........This is the time to learn into something......  
Sun set after 8 hours of hitching without success. Koan's Eddur scrolls and Asura in my hears, smoothing out the ride.
I'm Going back to Philadelphia

Some days more we spent hanging out, and because they are Jewish, when Friday came, they invited me to their Sabbath meal. Candles were lit, bread broken and a cup of sweet wine passed around, and than we all partook in a bonanza of delicacies both local and foreign. Happy I could contribute some of the Amish butter I had bought that day at the farmers market, where they still sell their country goods in traditional costume, although now sometimes augmented by a whirl of high tech fluorescence.
Doubt about my decision to leave the road was heavy upon me though, but I still felt I had to go on.

I cannot explain it.
Rarely have I heard God's voice within me so clearly.
Days of doubt and endless reasoning,
but no matter the arguments it did not feel right,
to leave her.
Only returning gave peace.
I can't believe I'm doing this! Where the hell was I going?!
So many thoughts, but the heart knew all along.

So at last minute, at the bus station I changed my ticket, and returned to NYC, instead of continuing south to DC. and than beyond on a craigslist ride to distant Colorado. Instead, I soon found myself rolling back into the familiar sights of Manhattan downtown, now bathing in a passionate orange glow of the last rays of sun, gosh, it is beautiful. Odd reflections of the mirroring facades bejeweled the late blue sky and soon we were engulfed in the broiling flow of sparkling traffic winding it's way down to Chinatown. I do like this city, especially Manhattan. The energy is just so high here. And the buildings, ever startling. The lofty heights of Park av. 432 always keeping a cool watch on you wherever you walk. "Look, there she is again, and she never stops to amaze me."

All my plans,
just useless obstructions.
All these thoughts,
but a veil to the mind.
The true Tao
is known through the Heart.
It can be denied,
but not avoided.
Going against the Tao,
One gets to know the Tao.


I know why this city attracts such a staggering amount of homeless people. There is just so much free food flying around, everywhere. One needs not go hungry here, even with a flat pocket. Scavengers tend to be obese there, and can be real picky choosers, what a strange form of poverty. I made for Central Park, down to the rocks and strawberry fields, and there, found my resting place under a nice tree. I was not alone though, and several roaming flocks of raccoons passed by curiously sniffing in the city gloom. Awakening to chattering gray squirrels and birders, binoculars and all, I felt not even slightly out of place. Oh whatta town. If one cannot find it here, than perhaps nowhere. A lot of fatboys around in the buzzing AM. streets, as steam rises up from roadside vents from a hidden warm world deep down below.

Yes, I came back. And it was good. So many moments I would not have wanted to miss. Endlessly floating on her inner ocean, and getting to know here in a different way. I was welcomed back at the farm like family, and now had a chance to let our relation come into maturity. Much more stable it felt now, less dramatic. And we spoke a lot. By now Summer had gone south without me though and a real robust autumn weather made itself known. There was storms and cold rain, for days, and night frosts had also made their appearance. Trees in our valley obnoxiously refused to turn their leaves apart from one bright red ivy bush up in a tree. All around us though, the foliage was starting to turn a gorgeous yellow gold with streaks of red copper, and some had already shed a bunch of leaves.
This fall stuff did not much agree with me, and my bare sandled feet turned numb and red while harvesting beets or carrots in the early mornings, dew heavy upon the eaves.

Sarah and I went through a lot of processing, so that after another 10 days, things where nowhere near what they were when I had left her, the first time.
Because yes, there came a second.

When I went back to the farm, I had surrendered my faith to the will of the universe, and made no plans beyond return. Now however, we both seemed to feel that time was ripe for me to move, without drama, and so much richer than before. Now I feel I have gained a sister, a friend, a daughter, a teacher and lover, that will outlast the time we spent there at Great Song Farm.
The intention that had been there before though, to cross the continent, had been much weakened, and I was now much more open to just going with the flow, without having to achieve anything. To get anywhere special.
I am just a floater, in the Palm of God's hand.

Back to New York than, for the 3rd time, that city, that crazy city, bound for Roanoke.
Yet, it was not to be, not as I had imagined though. The bus I wanted to take was sold out, so I turned, and rode to DC. Where I spent the night right off the National Mall, at a stones throw of the much contested white house, and all that other famous stuff. Sleeping outside in capitals seems to be becoming a real hobby of mine, so far Stockholm, Copenhagen, Paris, Vienna, New York (not really a capital of course, but hey!) and DC top the list.

Looking back from where I am now, Asheville North Carolina, the trip here actually went pretty smoothly. But at the time, it seemed like a real big deal. first a ride by a Mexican guy wondering what the hell I thought I was doing hitchhiking in the US, (this seems a recurring theme, I even had a 4 year old girl ask me yesterday why I didn't have a car!) Why I didn't take the bus etc. etc. Than, a Republican with a car full of guns, on his way to a hunting trip, trying to explain me why the candidate for their Party (I will not use his name) was at the same time very stupid, but also clever. Just before he dropped me in Roanoke, we drove into the outer rain skirts of hurricane Mathew, which meant constant drizzle for the next 24 hours. Once again, I waited...... and waited..... and promised myself that this was the last time I would ever make a hitchhiking trip in the USA. So when i was getting pretty wet and had my fill of; "nope, Going North".
I retreated to the porch of an abandoned house nearby, and camped there for the night.
At daybreak, the drizzle was still there, but the gods were good, and I soon found myself in the comfortable surroundings of a dry car, driven by a friendly dready, headed directly for Asheville.
The clouds parted as soon as we turned west, all going counter clockwise and he dropped me just a few hundred yards away from my destination, and I felt truly blessed once again.
So it was that I stepped into the life of Liz. A bright red haired woman I knew from my old wwoofing days back at the Hobbitstee in Holland. We met a a friend's tiny house and soon more people started to show up. We were preparing for a double birthday party that night at Liz's boyfriend's house, and so cake had to happen. It took hours before we left the door, the proud creators of a double layered, lemon custard cake with white and purple icing.
The party seemed nice enough. Most of the guests were dancers, so Contra dancing was a real thing.
There was old fashioned punch and cocktails and later on we all moved to the Jacuzzi in the garden, with a view of the city lights beyond the hills.
Things went awry though that night, which meant that the morning was filled with heartbreak and despair for my friend Liz. Trying to consolidate her has not been easy, even though we went on a few walks in the woods of the lovely hills that surround all of Asheville. This is a truely hip town, and our first cafe we went to had me wondering if there is anything but gorgeous interesting people living here. Wow, what a change!
I have somehow stumbled upon a whole other Balfolk scene it seems. Yes it's called Contra here, but Man, the atmosphere is exactly the same. Yesterday: dance at the Gray Eagle, oh and Man was it nice!

I'm staying it my favorite American house so far. Just outside town, on a small hill backed by lush groves of timber stands a wooden castle. From the classic veranda, including swinging chairs, you enter a home created with full love. Plants and crystals line the walls, regalia from it's owner's many travels embellish the window sills where one may gaze out over the edible garden, the railroad tracks and distant green hills. There is a smell of old tarnished wood and many rooms harboring great friendly kids, roommates and kittens, large and small. Sleeping on the best couch ever, and feeling so very at the right place.
So happy to be here, so happy to be alive, on the road and ever home, in America.

There are the magic 

years.... and therefore

magic days.... and 

therefore magic

moments

Turtle Island

Full of amazement I started out, from the lively colourfull city of Porto. Lively down at the street, but dying at heart. From the bridge, the great bridge of Porto it may be seen. An entire neighborhood, overgrown by blue flowering morning glory, consuming house and town and street alike. Expansion lays at the root of this decay it seems, or was it the recession? No matter, from our tower house room I found a ride in a bus full of boom volunteers next morn. The angel of good luck upon my shoulder, we sped away from the lush coasts of the Atlantic foam and made for the drought stricken hinterlands.

And sky turned a strange yellow and before long we were greeted by a wall of smoke rising up in menacing pillars from one of the many Forrest fires that raged in this land at that time. Many seem to be lit on purpose, but the fire fighters are lame struck by the eternal jittering within the political arena over whose responsible and who's going to pay. The hills turned a scorched yellow where all the grasses had been touched by the sun for way too long and ecaliptus trees were all that was to be seen as far as trees went. Yet, it was beautiful. From the refrigerated air in the gut of the bus regurgitated into 40 plus degrees of toasted air, at the backdrop of what would be boom 2016. My goodness, what heat! But I'm not complaining, I love this! I made my way to the pre-parking of the festival, which was like a crazy chaotic anarchistic jumble of randomly parked hippy vehicles in a sloping grove, dusty as hell. Dust seems to be one of the predominant companions throughout the whole Boom experience, it's a fact of life. One night I camped under the plentiful stars near by, the steady beat of psychedelic already within earshot. The next, getting closer to the festival entrance, was spent upon a largish straw bale, a lavish luxury for sure. 

And than it started. In the dark we, some other hitchhikers and me walked to the gates, there we met the cycles, who were alowed entrance before anyone else. We, as vagabonds, had to wait the arrival of the vehicle posse, to walk in dust and disgrace besides them, hell no that I wouldn't! So when a camper an passed, I saw my chance, and jumped on back, hanging on for my dear life, bumping and swaying, down the dusty road. But I got there, in time, and that made it all worth it. So I was banded, authorized and supplied with a map, and than got cruising down to lakeside. After a while I found a very nice spot, set up my camp and as soon as I was all done, security came and send me away. "No camping here" was the verdict, "But I asked' I said, to no avail. Slightly despairing after after trying another 3 places, that all quickly turned sour because of noisy neighbors, thorns or too much sun, I was welcomed into Michelle and Luke's great camp, I struck down under a majestic old oak tree, and made my base, from which to explore. Rain was not really a danger, so just a tarp and a carpet sufficed. They where the nicest gentile American couple of cyclists, and there was a jounger Frenchman in their group too. We soon bonded and our camp became ever more beautiful as we houled in rocks for a table, several tarps for shelter, and a mandala garden out front as a road mark for lost boomers on their nightly ways home. The grove around us quickly filled up as more and more people arrived and we were soon winding and jumping our way out every time we went down to 'the festival' The opening ceremony was still two days away, so we swam in the warm waters of the lake, explored, and simply enjoyed being there, with still a whole Boom before us. 

Six days it would last, and already after the first, I was completely beyond. The vibe, the many thousands of amazingly beautiful people, the amount of devotion that had gone into creating any little corner. New wonders were there to be discovered every moment. So much love, all around. And it was only day one. I went on a candy flip, a whirlwind trip, all over the place, from the floor to the base. Meeting familiar faces everywhere, colueges, friends, long lost aquintences randomly or  intended. The free world meets at Boom it seems, and I was just a part of it. Where are you? Right front, left front near the speakers, see you at the dance floor, BOOM!!

Deafening noise. 

The energy never came down, for six whole days. There ware so many nice workshops, so much to do, hear and see. I was determined to do all kinds of things, and I did, dust not by far as many as I thought I would.  For every time I got near that dance floor, our Dance Temple, I was drawn in, dancing away the days, nights and mornings, not knowing why, but simply seeming to answer a Devine command within me, to move my feet. 

Of all the different areas, perhaps the magic Forrest amazed 

me most. Formerly The sacred fire area, it was rife with nice little corners, glowing mushrooms, multi person swings, cute sits and chai shops, magical ground art and twinkling lights that turned the whole place to sheer magic every night, where one could dream away till the break off day, or drift off to distant lands. Meeting with a good friend of mine, Annelinde, 

and meeting her lovely crew put me in touch with the I lustrous herb of changa.

 The magic captured within it takes one to change its perspectives on this world

 to such an extent that it looks like another world all together. Sitting near a frog filled pool, all I could see became so unreal. Like the crispest oil painting, filled with wonderous light. You can not believe that such a thing can exist, it is such a miracle, and....it is real.

Five more days came to pass, in which all corners of the festival were explored, and yet, there always seems to be something new, that you haven't seen before. as gnome in a hole, a lurking dragon, some elves giggling on a bridge, another cosy chill out area. The actual sacred fire, was on a peninsula in the lake this year, where each night the fire would be lit at the hands of a solemn shaman, accompanied by enchanting acoustic music and singing from those present all around. 

The last two night I spent in the straw under the wisdom tree, huggeling the body of a South African female friend, so welcome after the loneliness I often feel, even in such a beautiful crowd. 

The end came, soon nor late it seemed, but just right. For a few days I hung around in the area, together with a bunch of other Boomers, winding down from the high vibes at the lake. Oh the lake, the amazing water, without which, Boom would surely be impossible.

 I was America bound now though, and soon followed that calling. Two days spent in Lisbon, feeling sickly, got me on the plane, rather un-impressed of the cities proposed glamour. Alas, perhaps another time. Please get ready, a loud rumble, and I was in Morocco. Three star hotel, what the heck?! Provided by the airline, for my 20 hour overlay. There was a pool. A pool?! 

Yeah, like a real pool, and high beds, and satellite tv, dude, are you for real! 

Whatever, sun set in the dessert like everywhere else. Luckily I did find a crack in the facade of all this un African ness, and somwhere, behind a mosque, at a parking lot, under some trees, there was tea, real Moroccan thee, and sugar cane juice at 50 cents a glass, no, two glasses, oh wow! Then, over the great waters, west beyond the west, to the big apple I came. And not a half hour in the country (really, they let me in, just like that, just like 9 passport checks away from Casablanca),  and I was treading the American soil, free and wild.

I managed to locate Kate's place in Brooklyn, where I could stay for a few days. A nice condo shared with some friends, and rooftop view of the whole shwebang! Manhattan, Statue of Liberty, and all the rest, fu#*ing crazy! 

So what did I do? Walk and be amazed. Not really any objective but to experience it. 

I have been dreaming of New York for a few years, different dreams, but usually something to do with bridges, wanting to be there or wondering why I already have to go back. So it's giant bridges I walked, and especially the queens borough bridge amazed me. So much steel, so much traffic, such a huge town, since such a long time. Everything here is just big, it cannot be denied. Cars, bridges, buildings, fridges, everything is huge. Not usually a city person, but for some days I could appreciate. The giantness of it all. From central park to the Empire State, from Park avenue to Chinatown to Wall street to Ground zero, from Grand central to Times Square. By metro, foot, over, under,  mayhem  everywhere, so many people, such crazy tall buildings, so many lights, so much........ HOW can this place EXIST?!  Marveling in unbelief. Without judgment, I am perplexed. Oh so happy, to have a safe haven at Kate's place to withdraw to, to digest, at least a bit of it, before heading out again.

Of course, this would not last, luckily for my sanity. So I took the train out, along the Hudson River, to Poughkeepsie, from where I hitched the rest of the way to the camp. At  the sweatlodge camp in the woods at Ashokan, where also Carl would be arriving soon. How nice to meet another whole Bigheart family here across the ocean, as dear as the ones at home. Such wonderful people, and funny characters. And together we build the camp. In a tall pine grove it stood, perhaps 50 or 60 heads in all. The harmony in the camp was remarkable. Again, so much love, so much devotion to our shared objective, of the ceremony. A lot of knowledge was shared, and there was music around the campfire in the chilly nights. Yes, here they say they labourday is the end of summer. Could it be true? It sure doesn't feel that way. However, down by the creek the lodge took place, and one of the days, the fire was again my place. Great to be able to works together with these bears of men, in this Forrest of bears. Don't leave your food out, or they'll get you. Even for toothpaste. For some reason I felt much more connected with the ceremony than I have in several years, perhaps because it was all new here, well not all, but it was a very conscious choice to come here. When it's weekend drew to an end we disbanded, again, in such harmony and smooth cooperation. That night there was a Kirtan  at the Omega Institute, the place where Carl and Stephany both work a lot, and I was invited to stay the night, at Justin the lodge gnome's place. 

How l lucky am I? Invited to the most delicious food, for cayaking on  the lake, to wander around in that place that's been created with so much love. Sweet flute music rises up through the trees, by a Tibetan master, watching the tiny tree frogs at the pond of the sanctuary on the hill, all, by the grace of the universe, and the help of friends. 

One thing led to another and an option arose to stay at a local organic farm for some time, with a woman named Sarah I'd met at the lodge. We really connected during the kirtan and so, after spending two days on the lovely grounds at a Omega, I was given a ride to Great Song farm not far away. And there I still am. Sleeping in a one of this characteristic silver trailers, working in the field again, oh it's been so long since I woofed, and it feels great. Cleaning unions, harvesting beets, weeding parsley, I get to know Sarah better and better. She is a mystery, and I do not know here it will lead me. Yesterday we were at Woodstock, like, the village. Funny hippy town with  the most amazing candle shop you have ever, ever seen. Things you didn't even know existed, Crystals everywhere, and pretty clothes. Oh no problem to spend 500 bucks here in an hour, starting to feel like a proper capitalist maybe? Luckily, as soon as I'm outside, my desires are greatly diminished. 

Inside there is a real tickle now. To strike out west, across the Great Plains, to unknown horizons.

Looking at the statue of Buddha at the Tibetan monastery here my heart yearns for the Far East, or is it the far west, from where I stand? Gandan, Mongolia.

But for now, I am here, experiencing something,

Very special.

Epic Fearytrails to the Funky Beach

So, Pamplona, yes, that's where we stranded. Crowds of red and white clad folk in every direction. Streets buzzing with the vibes of San Fermin, the great party, or family feast. All afternoon I wandered through the streets in amazement at all of this. Such a good feel, so friendly it all was. Adn when the sun had gone, and the sky turned aubergine, thousands made for the open spaces around the old fortifications of Pamplona and sat us down in tumultuous anticipation. And then, with a deafening salvo of white fire it started. Stars of red and blue rose up to the nightly sky to explode in arrays of avery colour imaginable. Glittering showers of golden sparks gave way to green rockets shooting higher and higher to end in fountains of silver. The batteries seemed to fire their load in ritmic order, making me believe every time again that it could not become more impressive, until it did. More, yes more shots, circles, ovals, start within green fiery masses of sparks. At different angles they reached their summits, to explode, again and again, above the eyes of the eager crowd. It ended in sheer violence. Giant bombs made me feel the fireworks, inside my chest, it was so impressive! Awestruck I reposed, until most of the people had departed, and the plastic bags moved across the field like ghostly silent tumble weeds. Filled with thankfulness to have witnessed this spectacle I laid myself down upon a bench, now in the lucky possession of two whole pizzas, flotsam from the nightly shore, and was at peace.

When the morning came, so did the bulls. At 8 I had positioned myself near the start of the course, and waited. After the runners were blessed, newspaper in hand (I do not know yet why) the bulls were released with a air shot. Now, to me, the bulls seemed rather calm. Their large bells tranq'ly ringing in the morning air as they made their way up the street. They did not seem bothered that the street was full of exited humans, running along with them. Nor did they seem to care that they had 10 times their counterparts weight and were equipped with some fierce looking horns. Why should they? They were just running, like any cow would do in a running crowd, they are herd animals after all.
It was over really quickly, like, in minutes, and all returned to normal. Pamplona could go and sleep out their hangovers, and I made my way to Oviedo, by way of thumb.

Now there are many ways to Santiago, called Camino's. And the one I had chosen to walk is known as the Primitivo, as it was the first way to be walked, or so I've been told. As oon as I arrived, people were really friendly to me, asking if I needed help with anything, so sweet. After San Fermin I needed a day in the city to recuperate and prepare for the Camino. I got my Credential stamped at the local Albergue and got a bed in a huge building resembling a nineteen 40ties hospital. Albergues are inns, often funded by the local council, and vary from renovated barns, to fancy guesthouse like things to ancient monasteries where the caretakers often lovingly cook for you and treat you with great respect.
And so I started. Every day, the same activities repeated themselves. Getting up before the first light, meditate, eat, exercise, pack my bag, put sandals on, walk, rest, walk, drink water, walk oh man its hot, walk more, eat, walk, in silence, with others, walk on, until you get there. Somewhere, a bed, it doesn't matter, a place to rest. Shower, cook eat, stretch , sleep, repeat. Two weeks I walked, Mountains, lakes and forest pass by in a harmonious flow. from the high hills of Asturias to the lower lands of Galicia. Rugged sometimes, gentile at others. So many deserted villages one passes through, where only old ladies and men keep little gardens so cute. Am I still in Europe, is this really the EU? People ploughing a field by hand, not as some traditional crafts workshop, but for real, because they cannot get a tractor there. Guys moving hay by oxen, men using scythe and cickel, because its the way they've always done it, and it still works. Sometimes I felt like Spain is still coming out of the dark ages, having been contained in the Franco area, there is something quite heavy there that is hard to express but often felt. On an average day I would do between 30 and 40 km a day. My feet weren't too happy, but much better off than op many of my co pilgrims wearing shoes, with feet full of blisters. I had just one, which, to this day I do not understand why it was there, because it wasn't touching anything.
My sandels died though, after about 200 km. I tried to keep them alive for two days with string and electrical fencing wire, but in the end, it just went too far. Their replacements weren't half as good though, and were suffering their own complications rather too soon for my liking. I reached Santiago though, and that's what mattered. There is some real magic in this walking. Everyday, you walk, and every step brings you closer to the end. But every step, is just as important. The longer I walked, the clearer it became that this wasn't just another long walk, it had it's things to teach me. Santiago had never been my goal, actually, I hadn't had one. I just wanted to hike in the north of Spain, and the Camino seemed like the easiest way to go. But after Santiago, walking just another 88 km to Finisterre, I really started to feel the importance of this way, this walking, and the life that it encompasses. Finisterre is a long Peninsula jutting into the Atlantic ocean once believed to be the end of the world.
These days, for many it is still the end of their journey west. Some have walked for months to get here. And than suddenly, one can go no farther. Sheer cliffs dive into the deep blue water, challenging one, further, still further. But, there can only be peace. Those many weary feet may now rest, limbs dangle and float in the mild waters of the inner bay. Wandering, now without backpack, aling the white sands of the strand, looking for.......that one familiar shell. That shape that we've been following for weeks, and now we understand. Yes, it's the centre, our own centre that we have reached, and from the silence we find there, we radiate back into the world.

Finsterre is a interesting town, where interesting people seem to stick around longer than others. Three days I made myself rest, for my body's sake. Fires at the beach at night, bathing in the Starlight, the large galaxy brightly overhead as we sang our songs of freedom. So lucky I've been, no rain in all those days I've walked, once a bit of refreshing fog, and such beautiful sunsets.
I can only recommend to go and experience it yourself. This was my first Camino, in this life, but I strongly doubt it will have been my last.
Day by day, I'm realizing that in a way, this is only a preparation, the beginning of a much larger voyage. But what? No, this in itself is already such an experience. Every moment, is precious, if we live it that way. Every day, a gift.
But, my way, goes ever west, south and west. So now, from Finistere, to Padron I hitched, and stayed in a wonderful Franciscan convent where I was the only guest, and drank, from one of the three medicinal springs in a valley full of peppers. Herbon, the actual village where I was, is known for it's small green peppers, that are always a subject of discussion. Will it be spicy, or not?!
I've reached the subtropics now it feels, with dade palms and banana trees here and there, and the cicades singing thru out the night.
Another day on the road and I found myself on the border of portugal, walking across a long brige into the most awsome entry to any country (this being number 64 or so) I've ever had. Entering a long gateway you rise up into a castle like fort of immense proportions. Truely medieval the whole thing, and so well maintained. Gosh, this Portugal is so much richer than Spain, look at all those fancy cars! But yeah, that entry was sooo nice, thick granite walls overhead and all around you. A winding tunnel with no less than 5 doors and formerly a portcullis.

I did another 3 days of walking here in Portugal. How better to expirience a country, than to hike through it. Endless winyards intercropped with cornfields. Many an hour one is walking through well odorous forrests of tall and aged ecalyptus trees. At times the connection to the other celtic lands can be strongly felt in the way even simple houses are built with just gigantic menhirs of stines and many a field is ringed by tirelessly stacked drystone walls.
So in the end, one comes to the suburbs of Porto. It was hot, it was monotomous and absolutely the most unatracctive part of the camino I've seen. Three hours of nothing but depilitated houses and industry, and not a shop in sight. Ok, a cafe than, one bunn with butter, 30 cents, two drinks, 1 euro 60, wow, this country is so cheap, amazing!
So to the last Albergue I came, a small house, surounded by modern office buildings, in a little valley. Beneath us gardens, and a spring where people wash clothes by hand. Seagulls, oh yes, so many. Can anyone doubt that they are surely very closely related to dinosaurs? Their akward skreaming, the way they open their lower beak only, oh surely, they be Dragons.

Porto, than, is a nice town, as is Portugal. It feelf much lighter here, The churches are full of happy tiles and colours, and people seem to be freeer than in Spain. I cannot understand what people are saying to me, but at least they mostly understand me when I throw my bastard Spanish at them.
Coming from a city where no patch of ground is left undeveloped very long, it strikes me as so strange that the old center of Porto is mostly abandoned, crumbling, and being overgrown by thick blankest of lovely purple flowering Bindweed. It' a bit like those lichen on rocks, that start as a spot, and than grow ever more outwards, to form circles. Only the tourists like the center now, while the real life of the city seems to play itself out in the fancy suburbs.
However, it's still got it's beauty. The narrow alleys forming a labyrint of amber walls and red tiled roofs, climbing the steep cliffs bordering Porto's natural harbour. The heat is getting to me, at times, while it's only 33 degrees yet. So I retreat, to one of the most amazing dorm rooms I've ever had. In a three tier bunk I'm sleeping right under the high rafters of a true tower, making me think of Hogwarz. High the beds, but higher the round and bare stone walls, rising high over the city.
Why does it give such a feeling of satisfaction to look down on other people in the street, going about their business? Is it the orange sunset, amplified by some of the many forrest fires at the moment raging not 20 km north of here? Is it the odd safety of hight, as I sit in the window sill? Oh silence, you are a true teacher indeed.

And now Boom is calling me in. In the Albergue, I met a fellow Boomster, and today the day we spent, washing, chilling, and getting ready for the great party.
It's getting so close now. And how much am I looking foreward to it. To be among the loving crowds, to make my feet dance to the music, and be in harmony with all that is.
The funky beach is calling me, and tomorrow, I will, for the first time this journey, hitch East.

Courage and Apprehension

All these worries

Are but a learning

Cause really

I'm living in 

the hands of the Gods.

All this is meant to be.

And so it went. About a month before I planned to leave a quite but unsetteling feeling of apprehension crept over me, about what exactly it was I was going to be doing, what I was giving up and how it would all unroll. I felt cornered by my own desire to travel, without a real clear vieuw as to where, how, what. But as I carefully packed my gear, said goodby to those in my inner circle, my shiatsu buddies and collegues, flashes of future adventures kept me going together with the deep longing for the wild, the open and the Jungle.

And so I left, on the 17th of June 2016 my dear mother offered to drop me off at the nearest petrol station towards the south. I can only start to imagine how hard it must have been to push the one you love so much into an uncertain world, knowing you will not likely see him again soon, and still to stay with it, smiling, from the inside. That to me, is a sign of pure devotion and strong will I deeply admire.

To plukkrijp it was, a community I'd been coming back to for the last six years, seeing it evolve and grow from a happy woofing farm to something bordering on a commune with sect like qualities. If that sounds extreme, that's how it felt, this time. I did not feel as welcome as I have been in the past, although Martine and Frank were as open as ever. There was a circle that afternoon where a native colombian couple of the Kogi tribe shared their philosophy and way of life, which was very touching and interesting. For some five days I worked there, trying to understand the group dynamics, but feeling somewhat excluded because I did not wish to share in their Tantric vision of self deployment. There was abundance as ever though, and after sorting through boxes and boxes of mouldy fruits, I made my way to Gent. Ghosh I do like Ghent and that night there was a Boombal in the centrale. A kind of folkdancing night in perhaps my favourite venue ever. The high, high glass ceiling supported by green iron shod metal rafters, gracious walls of coloured brick, and space enough to dance for more that 300! Well, so you'd think, but after the inicial introduction more and more beautiful people kept joining in until even this dance floor seemed to small. Hours we jumped and whirled, intimately shuffeled and bathed ourselves in sweat untill at last I found place to hide from the advancing daylight in a room with three jolly student girls, where we all made our own beds. The sun admonished morning saw me making me hitching a ride to Paris, Two rides in fact, before I checked in at Rojwan and Lory's place on the lower slopes of Mont Martre. They made me a warm welcome in their tiny appartment and showed me around town next day with paris's great Velib Bike system, where, if your clever, switch bikes avary half hour, and so travel cheap. For a few days I hung about this ancient Town, staying some days at one of their friends house in a more casual part of town, with african cafe's lining the streets and a familliar ghetto like feel reminding me of my own home. Home......No longer My home.....But A home non the less. What is it like, to live without a home? Let's find out (again?) As Rojwan went to Amsterdam the weekend I was in Paris he brought me back some handy supplies from the home front (what! I'd only been away for a week and already.....? Yes, My backpack was falling apart rapidly......and ofcourse, I had way to much stuff..... You only really start to realize the truth of what that means, of what really IS essential gear, when you have to lodge it on your back over hill and mountain days on end. )  Paris got to me though, like any big city does, and so as soon a s I could I let the big black road carry me southward, to the summits of the puy the Dome. This is a string of extinct vulcanoes covered in thick woods surroundes by lovely french country side. You didn't know there was vulcanoes in Fance? Well, neither did I untill some two years ago, when I passed them by car and told myself that if ever I had a chance, I should go and hike them. So now was that time, and great was my appitite for nature. Stocking up in the town of Riom, I set of along a beautifull path up, up and up again. A lot of climbing is what lingers in my mind about that time. Some gorgeous wild craters filled with wildflowers, buzzing insects and tall grass. Walking along a ridge from peak to peak one gets a lovely vieuw of the old beasts and the lands beyond. A patchwork of yellowing fields and forrests, with cosy herds of brown cows here and there. The tallest Puy in the chain was known to the Romans too who built a huge temple devoted to mercury on the top, mad people, absolutely mad. The remaind are still clearly visible. Huge blocks of black stone, which they (or rather, their slaves) towed up the hill by man and donkey! Covered in clouds as high hills tend to be I did get a chance to observe how the clouds play with the mountains, mixing and stretching, a lovely sight indeed.

Making it a habit to bath every day after hiking I camped by a clear blue lake that night, protected from the chill of the wind by a grove of tall pines and my loyal rain poncho. More hiking and lovely landscape ensued, bringing me to the puy the Sancy area where bleak and open roling hill got me feeling in scotland, or wandering through the forlorn landscapes of westeros, only a few knights were lacking, albeit not in my Imagination....

That night, it was the fourth after leaving paris, I hit the road again and by sheer wonder and great friendliness made it to Le bellet in seven (magic, yesss) rides in under two hours. Le bellet is a set of three cottages and a largish barn on the wodded slopes of the Dordogne river in southern France. Thay have been inhabited by two good friends of mine, Karel and Kristien, who'm I have knows since my early wooffing days in Belgium. Kristien works with kids and pony's and Karel always has something or other to build, fix, along with growing vegatables in one of their three lovely gardens. So for a week I stayed with them, helping where I could, sweeping, playing horse, pulling weeds, mixing cement, cooking, you know, the usual kind of stuff. They recieve a lot of guests over the summer who come and rent the cottages and so aside from the daily work I took this as a chance to practice some Shiatsu, and make some people happy. Le bellet is truely a lovely place, at some 300 meter above the dordogne on a side stream, they have their own waterfall, 4 natural springs, 6 goats, acres of super wild forrest, and a natural swiming pool. Because all this was not enough we also went kayaking on the clear and virulenty delicious water of the Dordogne river one day, after the cosy market at Argentat. All the houses in this region seem to have been torn out of a fearytale with brown rough walls, chunky slate roofs and flowery creepers up every wall. After a week of delicious food, homemade pizza, sun and lots of laughter I packed myself again, and went south further still.
Toulouse way my inicial destination, than Lourdes, which, again by wonder, I reached that same afternoon. But what was more. The kindly man who took me also offered me to stay in his house, and join the barbecue with his fammily. How lucky am I again!!? What kindness all about me. He even dropped me of in the center of town so I could wonder around a bit between all the fervent Catholics in the chaos of this holy shrine. I could only marvel at it all. Especcialy the social side, with openair sermons near the place where Bernadette is said to have seen the Virgin, and water sprouted from the rocks ever forth. It had it's beauty, I must confess, yet I feel more attracted by the temples of Nature, the sacred groves, the lofty abodes on the barren peaks of mountains, that I was about to enter. In the morning the kind family even drove me a distance into the right direction, as they were going for a pick-nick there anyway, and so I started walking from the town of Luz-St. Saveur.
A deep sharp valley I climbed as I set out, past the thermal springs, past the bridge with the bungee jumping folks, past Noortje, a girl I know from years back in Amsterdam that I bizarrely just met there, on the road with her boyfriend, in the mountains, yes of course....
Trying to walk in the GR routes, I quickly became frustrated with their leisurely ways. Not seeming to care how much useless climbing and descending one must do to advance only a little. So I chose for the road down in the bottom of the valley, even though there was cars, it was a great improvement. At times the river pushed itself through deep cuts in the gray rock, so deep that it disappeared all together from sight. Green walls rose up on either side at just 44% percent angle to prevent rocks from choosing for the abyss, and I went higher. Choosing the protective cover of a concrete bus stand seemed to have been the right choice that night as my sleep was disturbed by the rolling thunder and white lightning echoing off the surrounding peaks.

Sun on the mountain

Light in my Heart

I'm up for the walk now

So let's make a start

Let's make a start

Let us begin

Open your Eyes

Let the light in

Morning was clear though and soon I found myself in Gavernie, marveling at the power of nature there displayed. Over the simple roofs of the small town rose up the Cirque de Gavernie. A full, or even more than semi-circle of towering rock capped in the late winter snows, adorned by no less that 20 separate waterfalls dropping their white content hundreds of meters through thin air before exploding upon the green and weathered valley below. The majestic of this whole spectacle must truly be personally beheld, but I can say I was deeply impressed, and marveled for a good while as the clouds from the valley tried to catch me until I finally left them behind.
 Than over green and juicey pastures of the high valleys I passed, walking there where once glaciers had their ways and creeping between stones and boulders of house size or more. For the Pass I made, quieted by the purity and sauvage of the place. Deserted caves and barren rock all around, none but me for a human to be seen. But overhead, two different eagles circled, one brown spotted, the other black and white, gracious at every turn, observing, hovering, seeing. Seeing the marmots that I was seeing too I'm sure, with their silly cute walking fashion and flappy fat tails. Trunching trunching, carrying the weight of that which I deem essential om my back, I joined my mind with Nature, and was. The surrounding stone opened me, tore my to pieces, unified my mind. There is such awsome power in the simplicity if those savage mountains, their perplexing folds, and obvious ancientness, that when I decended from the windyness of the pass, and reached the welcoming cover of the first trees, it felt as a true home. Having to choose beside the secrity of a refuge building, there, on the open mountain, or the cover of a green beech grove by a stream, I chose the latter, and tied my hammock in the crown of an woody elder of the trees. The clouds decided otherwise though and sent their full wetness against my plan, making me retreat to the refuge anyway. Much sleep I did not get that night though, walls of stone or nay, but rats I had plenty of, and they tried to nibble my toes and hair. Happily the morning was good and clear and once again by that delicious creek her water was irresistable, and I bathed in it's amazing clarity. Oh pretty rocks, of lovely water, how do I appriciate your song, the music you play without end, or effort. As a child I lingered there a bit, in full emersioun of the moment, the trees, the water. Than down again, to the valley, where this water joined more water, just as pure, effortless, without any resistance the two became one, and I followed. A beautiful rushing bubbeling white and blue river it was, flanked by the most amazing green woods, the subtle sunlight filtered through infinite moss covered branches and foliage, fallen truncs and giand marbles surely forgotten by some giant or other. The good water came from every side it seemed. The valley was a deep gorge flanked on both sides by majistic walls of stone. And on every latch and in every crevice there was some or other life growing, trying to hold on. As the day advanced, so did I, and there the first town came in sight. It was Torla. Really I had not the slightest incling that the pyrenees contained anything this wild. Three days without suplies got me biting into some amazingly juicy fruits right away. Ola! Ah si... I was in Spain.

I spent a last night in those mountains, camped by a cherry grove, and than made for Pamplona. Well, actually I didn't make specifically for anywhere but west, but Pamplona is where I ended up. And I wasn't alone in that respect. As soon as we hit the center ( my hitching driver and me) it seemed that red and white were the only colors acceptable to wear. I had to check this out, so I stayed on, and ended up right in the middle of the festival of San Fermin. Little did I know what that meant, and so much the wiser have I become ever since. Madness!  Imagine Kingsday in Holland, but than for days on end, all red and white! It was great. I just walked around all night in this rather beautiful city, soaking up the vibe, meeting some funny people and in the end ending up on a bench in the park with two whole pizzas in my posession. That was after the most amazingly spectacular fireworks show I've ever witnessed, as I sat among thousands near the Citadel, After seeing a mock bull full of fireworks charging through a dense crowd spouting sparks all over the place ( you would never, I repeat never, get away with that in Holland) But before seeing the devestation in the streets next morning, the tipsy tired amnesiacs still awake and making for the Bull running. In fact, the bulls, when released with a bang and a whip seemed relatively calm. The bells on their necks ringing mildly as they stampeded through the mass of men assembled (in red and white ofcourse) newspaper in hand. They seemed quite unconcerned that everybody was making such a fuss of this. That they had ten timed the size of the humans in front of them, and were armed with large horns did not seemed to bother them, they were just running, like any cow would do in a hurd when others start running. It was mad, it was over very quickly, and that was that.
Yesterday I hitched here, to Oviedo, well, almost, Bused the last bit. and am now getting ready for the walk....

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It feels strange sometimes, that with every step on this journey I take myself further away from those that I care about, and those that love me, from security and comfort. Yet I haven't felt so alive for years! It does'nt feel like a courages thing I'm doing, this voyage, But I admire the courage of those that are willing to let me go. Those two years in the city, the maze, feel like a bad dream I`m waking up from now, as I go deeper and deeper, into the internal universe. Sure it wasn't all bad, actually it was wonderfull in it's own way. But leading me so astray from what I feel to be the core of my being. Only now, sleeping in the mountains, waking up under a tree in the park of Oviedo do I feel I have the time and peace to do, and not do, those things I feel are important to me, to life.
Thank you, Thank you all....

Wanderer

Not all those who wander are lost. And even those who wander not, might still be lost. Sure I do not deny, that the city has it's benifits, and that it can be a great place to live in. At times I have enjoyed the vibrancy of the town, the strange anonimity it brings, and the great pool of possibilities at any one time to be enjoyed. Often I feel quite jealous, of those around me who seem to be able to effortlesly flow within the city vibe, go to just the right parties, and mix with all those curious and eccentric individuals that one does find wandering within the labyrinth of stone. 

Yet I feel a cannot. Am somehow not able to hit the right frequency, do the right thing, have the right mind to blend into that scene unnoticed, or well noticed, whatever is preferable at that specific moment.

So do I escape? Is that wisdom? Is that what I should do, need, and what will feed me most?

Where will this impending journey leed me, internaly? Surely it will not fix my city life, will not enforce the feeble bonds I've been forging here in the past few years. 

Oh and I do feel a mental tremor as the reality of my departure starts to loom overhead more and more. And I will miss the life I live, I'm sure. The fourth sally to the great round world will not always be easy, comfortable, warm, satisfying or rewarding. I think I can grasp that. Maybe not enough, but it's there. 

Recently I was reminded of the value of a Home. That that was one of the main causes for my latest landing here. The ability to be in a house, all alone, with a roof and a stove and the right to call it your space, and dicide all that goes on there. The peace of knowing that no one may bother you there, and that you don't owe anyone anything for being there (wow that's an illusion, as all is so connected, but never mind) really means much to me. 

And now I'm about to give it all up again. While I do feel al lot of love (whatever that means) for the nearest and extended fammily around me. And I really do enjoy the work I do right now. 

It will be weird no doubt, the day I walk away from it all, not knowing when I will return. 

It shall be stange a good days after too, as I see the paralel lives of my resident companions veering away. 

A deep sigh. A contemplative silence, and a blessing, from the late afternoon summer sun casting through the window of this funny old house. Only now do I really start to apriciate it again, for it's quirky ancientness. And perhaps that's exactly the motive for travel. 

A new and widened Perspective, on Life.

Looking Up

Images of the future coming in, moving back through time and mixing in my awareness of the moment. As the days before my departure dwindle, the more I start to recall the Life I used to live before I moved back into the city. How good it was and how often I used to smile and say what an awsome life I lived. Now I shake my head when I again see images of the woods and mountains I left behind in the wild. What madness, to choose this over them, the whole beautifull world is out there, why would I want to be here? The urge for a home must have been so strong.
That belief in the relation, the farm, the fammily, that drew me here, and made me stay. But I heve never felt like the city would harbour me. Do not feel there is ground to manifest myself. I feel like I keep trying to make a life here, but am unable to take root in the city stone. I feel turned back, like a child who, with genuine entousiasm, is told that his ideas are foolish and his dreams invain.

Eventhough this is the town I was born in, and I know it better than any other, I do not feel at home here. Perhaps traveling is a bit like time travel, one constantly has the oppertunity to re-vieuw ones conditionings. One has to learn, has to grow, and thus changes faster, without actually getting much older. Last summer, when I was on the road again to eastern europe. In just those two months, I gathered so many memmories, those warm days live withing me still, with such vigor, and inspire me daily. That seems like my real life, like the real me. Pictures of that time show me so much more alive and centered. And of those ten months since than? Feels like hardly anything happened.
In the mirror I see a empty shell, a white ghost of my former self, drained by the stress and monotomy of the city life.

Now that the temperatures have risen again, and I can sleep with the garden doors open I find myself thinking; 'Ahh, finally normal wheather again'! It always feels like I need to fight the winter, struggle, eventhough winters have become so mild these days. It's the light, the light intensity, the green life and relaxation of not having to worry about the teperature when going out.
Whereas some folks might feel estranged when traveling to other countries, I feel that that's where my life is. I noticed that I do not connect to the Dutch proverb of "Een te ver van m'n bed show". Nothing seems too strange to me, other than the willingness to permanently live in this crazy little over developed and cultured river delta called Holland.

Nomad Born

The City is dead to me. A growling hungry beast of dust and dimness. Life turned to stone in the eyes of freedom. Freedom truely is a great treasure. As is health, Freedom within the body. The world seems to invite me. There is a lively itching in my feat to wander. There is nothing I need to do. It is a matter of choise. This is the first day of the life where I will no longer do things because I have to. It is an illusion. Why do we do those things, that don't feel right? For fammily? For fear or Glory? For gain of unnessesary material gain? All my life, I was aspiring. Reaching for a goal, trying to prove myself worthy, able, good. Yet life is not about that. My father would rather plant Roses, and that is as good a porpose as any.

Iye do not consider myself a religious person, but deeply spiritual. Spiritual in the sense that I believe/feel/see a universal inteligent spirit that unites all beings, all things. I feel like a leaf on a tree. As soon as it gets separated from the tree, it starts to wither. The leaf cannot live without the Spirit. When life ends, some part of the spirit does not live on somwhere else. All that we recognise as spirit are just different manifestations of the same soul. Like tentacles stretching out. For a tree it must be so obvious that is it an integral part of the soil. Yet for us, as mobile organisms, we tend to forget that we are just as attached to the earth as the greens. The moment that we are separated from the planet, we start to wither too. We need constant nourishment in different forms like food, air, water, support, warmth. So I feel cradled, in the womb of Pacha Mama. A womb, that actually, have never left.
And so I wish to live where I can feel her precence most strongly. Surounded by her beauty. That is where I belong, and that is where Iye flourish.

There is nothing I need to do

Iye have this strange sensation. Moving on now no longer a question. Going south seems a repetition, looking for something that has Changed. Moving East feels like ambition and learning. The fullfilment of duties, yet looking West..... It fills me with an open feeling of freedom and uncertainty. Space to develope, to expand my Self, into the unknown, into true adventure. A great relaxation befalls me when I feel there's nothing I need to do, nothing to achieve. Within me has re-kindled that spirit of travel soley for the expirience, to see, that I deemed lost for years. 'America' I whisper to myself, the word itself an entrancing Magic. The oh so amazing Nature of the New world, the open spaces, the Dessert and mountainous woods. Oh you call me, and I must answer.