Emerika 2017 photos

For some more pics of this ongoing venture into the wild and
little understood American West, check out https://photos.app.goo.gl/kMBv9V47lWDWAzqP2

European Intermezzo.

Right. 

So many things that might have happened, did not. 

And not all dreams dreamed must become reality.

One late afternoon in sticky buzzing Caracas, I took a bus, from the delapitated eastern bus terminal out of town. A concrete colos of a structure stemming from the capitalist age of this country, now it's size almost mocking the many poor travelers waiting for their final destinations unknown.

After the usual late departing, the vigorous but seemingly useless bag search by an uninterested military police officer, the bus at last cranked it up and hit the highway towards Cuidad Bolivar. American movies screened the night and hid the uncoming darkness. Somehow I had become lax, too well trusting and careless, after the months in the relative safety of the Yoga forest. So it was, that in the dark, me snoozing on the molested bus seat, my handbag went wandering. For years traveling I had had my bag just right there where it was, slung over the seat in front of me. But I had forgotten, that this was Venezuela, that this country is in a practical state of civil war, and all go hungry on a daily basis.

So I lost my phone, passport, money, documents and most painfully, my notebook in which I have been colecting memories, poems and instructions for the last 5 years. It all got of the bus somwhere along that long dark stretch of starved road, and disapeared forever from my life. Those things that I valued most, the little things, have no value to them, where as the money, oh, that can be easily replaced. 

As the darkness lifted, we rolled into our port of destination, on the edge of the Amazone. However much I yearned to continue to that green place, that living mystery, that facinating jungle of life. It was all that I could do to make a direct U-turn, and with the last of my hidden money take the first next bus back to Caracas, back to that gruesome city.

Luckily, I had friends there, and Zeneida recieved me once more with open arms. Coming to the embassy for a new passport they imidiately asked me 'What are you doing here?' "Don't you know its dangerous". They where not surprised that I got robbed at all.
On the bus back from Cuidad Bolivar I went through many emotions. Had a serious conversation with myself about what I was doing, what the universe was trying to tell me, and about how to proceed.
Did I want to wait 2 weeks for a new passport in Caracas, with the chance that the country colapse into chaos in the mean time and I might not be able to leave at all?
Was my reason for going to the Amazone really justified.
What was I doing here?
Did this really give satisfaction, this random traveling?

That suddenly there was a voice in my head saying, "why don't you just go back to Europe for a while" Reset things, Have a good think about what you really want.

And so that's what I did.

Via Aruba and Curacao, the plane magic dropped me suddenly right back in the middle of the Dutch lowland madness once again, and I was home. 

Does it need saying that this was rather Bizar? Everything works, nobody is going hungry against their will, greenness everywhere. 

I had come back, even kind of against my own expectations, and many rejoiced over it. 

The European summer, Oh bliss, I was here for a while. But with the strong intention not to hang around. This was, a European holiday of sorts.

It didn't take long to regain most of the things I had lost in Venezuela. 

Only my diary, that would remail a sore scar on the face of my memmory for a long time. 

A good object of practice, of letting go those things most loved.

I felt like all those things written were now offered up to the gods, and it was up to me

to trust that the words of wisdom were always within me, and would surface in time of need.

I had a strong determination though to make back the money and value of the things I had lost.

So I quickly aquired a bunch of jobs here and there, while also tremendously enjoing hanging out with my friends and Mom against expectations, in this magical traveling intermezzo in my own home.

June came, and while on the bus I had made a whole list of things to do in Europe. 

One of them was to return to Wimereux with my Mom, to a camping where we had been in my late childhood on the pretty white coast of Calais.

So for 4 days we camped, walked along the beach and discovered wonderfull woods nearby. 

The changing weather added a lot of caracter to our stay there, to the point where, after a drenching beachwalk, we ended up driving around in our tiny car, while trying to dry our clothes on the blower, than hitting a central tavern for two cups of hot chocolate each!

June turned into July, and I returned to my old home on the Hobbitstee for a week to help them with the construction of their new passive house. The hobbitstee is Holland's oldest eco village and several years ago I lived ther for a few months serving as their veg Gardener. Now, aside from the building activities, I was involved in Wester Zwam. One of the small buissnisses onsite that produces oyster muschrooms from recycled coffee grinds they collect in their vicinity. 

Being a mushroom fanaticus myself, this was ofcourse facinating material. 

The hot July week sped by and that already almost concluded my time in Holland once again.

One of the things I had hoped to do coming back to the old world was to continue my journey south east, that I had started back in 2007, ever heading for the sancto sanctorum, the Aya Sofia, or the great Pyramids. A few years back I had left that path at the town of Wadern, in German Saarland, and that's where I would pick it back up. The hitchhiking journey there however was not without comedy, and it took me 2 days to cover the 500 km. there, passing almost exactly along the same route that I had hike all those years back, as if to remind me of what had gone before.

Of this walking, I always find it hard to say much of sense  Although the monents spent wandering the country side with only a map and my intuition as guides are by far the most memmorable of my life. Without a tent, I was forced to either sleep out in the open, or take for shelter in simple mountain huts, children's playcastles or a rocky cave. I did not complain. This is the life. This is true freedom. This is so beautiful  Bathing in a diferent river or pond each day. Meeting country folk, but mostly just walking in silence. Seeing the counrty change, as I trespassed from Germany into France and back, through these lands ravaged by almost every war that has scorched Europe for the last 500 years. These have become very weary people, building their fachwerk houses proud and strong, as anyone would be after surviving all that onslaught. Now all was quite though, and I passed through wood and vale undisturbed.

East and South it went. Over the mountains, through the great forest of Hagenau, to the wide Rhine river, calm and stready. There, across it's cool waters one can see the dark mass of the Swartzwald rising up from the lowlands. The next great chalange, the unknown, and for me, for now, the end of this journey on foot.

I spend the night in a grand castle. A playcastele that was, with many a slide and hanging bridge, from tower to tower. Achern bade me farewell in the morning with a nice refresching downpour as I once again waived my hitchhiking sighn for the grey stream of early commuters. I got a ride though, and than another, and soon I left the worst of the rain behind me and in but one day made it all the way to higher Austria where my friends Matze and Annelinde salvaged me from a cold wet night on a truck stop, just outside of Linz.

We stayed at His grand parents house, warm and cosy, washed everything, and felt like a blessed human being again to have such nice friends. We moved to his Parents amazing wooden mansion in the mountains, where we spent a few days gathering berries in the adjacent forrest of high pine and sunlit clearings, and prepared for the trip to come.

At last one early morn we drove off, the four of us, Matze, Annelinde, Matze's sister Marlena and me, tightly packed into a sweet old borrowed car, To Ozora.

Acros the Hungarian border we soon slipped, over the backroads, till we got to the big gate that announced in colourful letters : Welcome To Paradise.

Ozora is one of europe's biggest Psytrance festivals, and all of us but Marlena had been to these holy grounds before.

We magically set up camp, felt at home, and than hit the dance floor.

Eventhuogh the party was not officially to begin for another 2 days, the party vibe was already strong and music arose from many locations. 

For those who have never been to a Psytrance gathering it is hard to describe what it's really about. The mix of wonderful people, the many art installations, the long nights and burning days, the dirt and the beauty, the rush of the opening ceremony towards the dance floor and the thrill in the air is something that must simply be experienced. 

For the next 8 days the music never stopped. Always there was a crowd somewhere living it up, meeting people, being astonished, feeling amazing, going deeper. 

Possibly my favourite place at Ozora is the cooking grove. I never actually cooked anything there this year, but the ambiance is always so heartwarming there, full of cosy nooks and comfy corners. With many hammocks and magical surprises waiting to be discovered.

Music, dance however, was the main substance in use here, and I had plenty of it to go along with all the rest. The chill out dome, was enchanting, and it was here that after a whole week of little sleep and hot days I spent my last night here with Phillipine, under the high eaves ever moving and glistering and the waves of sound washing over and through my consciousness as we lay on the sandy floor, unwinding....

In other words, I had a great time. We had a great time. Our little tribe, but after all those transgressional experiences, it was time to go back home. My Austrian friends would soon leave to America, and I was headed back to Holland. 

Good to be in the city again, if only for a few days. That to me is the best way to there, a visitor, a Nomad.

In that magical warm cave at the wijttenbachstraat. In that home place, that is my safe haven, close to the one that bore me, and still ever showers me with her never-ending Love.

Party was not over though. And Yet another festival I was to attend. 

Closer to home this time. Up in the Northern Netherlands near Leeuwarden. Psy-fi kicked off barely 10 days after the final beats were sounded in the Ozorian valley.

The weather was very dutch, meaning grey and unpredictable. The land is gorgeous, with many islands and forest walkways and plenty of space to camp. where at Ozora you want to find a camping spot in the shade, here one looked to get a beam of sun on your tent, if at all possible. 

After the hive and madness I had just gone through, all of psy-fi felt a bit like one huge after party. It was beautiful too, and the vibe was good. The music was prime, with some of my favourites like Suduaya, CBL, Solar Fields and Ott playing in the chill out, where a fire burned right in the middle of the dance floor and one can have the stage behind you, standing with your feet in the water while making your moves. 

My friend Marloes came too, and we explored the quieter parts of the festival enjoying many a great cup of much needed hot chai to warm our chilly hands. Its just not the same, when you're standing at the main dance floor and the heavens open, water gushes down the ceiling and you have to wear a coat when dancing. Everything so well organised  but who can organise the weather (maybe the Chinese...)

Anyway. I was tired. Still recovering from my Post Ozorian attack of low Immunity  suffering all possible forms of low health in just one week. Could it be the Stardust? 

Now there was only one week left of this European Holiday. More than 3 months had passed since I left the Venezuelan crisis. And it was time to take flight once again. 

So carefully packing my few remaining possessions into crates, stowing them for I do not know how long, the room got very empty, and only those things that I was willing to carry on my own shoulders remained thoughtfully on the floor. 

What does one pack when one does not know when one will be back? What is wisdom? 

To miss, or to leave behind? To be freed from, or to crave. . . .

Luckily I had played this game many times before. And so I was really ready to go several days before the actual date. Which enabled me to spend more times with those loved ones, that I would not see again soon maybe. 

A final Cacao ceremony we had, and a final walk. In such moments it is often hard not to go into a finality mode. To see that all that has gone before is just as valuable as the last shared moment, and that they are often anyway the stuff they becomes memory.

As flights are cheaper from Paris, that is where I went. Spending a sweet two nights in the enormous castle of a house of my friend Phillipine's dad, spot in the middle of central paris, at a mere 10 minute's walk from the Notre Dame. A house so huge, that it took 70 steps from one end to the other, and with ceilings that would easily accommodate 3 men standing on each others shoulders. 

Amazingly thankful that had come back to my homelands. So unexpected, but just right. 

Yes, of course having been in south America would also have been right, would have been great. 

But, as one wise man once said when asked about the meaning of life; "Life is not inherently meaningful, but it may become so depending on what one does with it."

And what Have I done in these three months? 

I have connected with those close to me. I have regained things I had lost. 

I have gained clarity on how it is that I must move around, with purpose and a clear goal.

I have read some amazingly inspiring books, that I feel have set me back onto the track of self development, in a just and practical way.

I have come to accept that not everything goes the way that one thinks it should, but learned to trust that that is okay, and that precious jewels are found in many everyday moments

"There are no ordinary moments"

- From 'The way of the peaceful Warrior'

Phillipine was a contact form Ozora. And that turned everything into a perfect circle.

It's a big world, Its a small world. 

The world is round.

A lot of love

So for 3 months I lived the San Marcos life.  

The life of the expat half of the town that is,  Quite different from that of the local Mayan populus. Largely,  my days are spent at the webcast Yoga Forest, switching between working in the cafe,  to doing permaculture,  to managing the place while our actual manager was away.  An ever changing stream of guests, taking different courses passed through, from youngsters Re-wilding, to full-on woman rebirthing retreats,  as well as a whole yoga teacher training. 

The various other volunteers became dear friends during my time there,  and the spirit of conjunct grew strong.  Some nights we made pizza,  others we sang by the fire. Every other week or so there would be another crazy beautiful psychedelic party somewhere in town an we'd all go and dance through the night. Not able to ever fully comprehend how it could all be so beautiful and wondering if everyone here if just amazing, or all my friends are legends? 

The realms that have been created to host the San Marcos trim scene kept surprising me,  as does the lake,  like always. Some of the magic nights are facilitated by this amazing woman Asaya, creating magic tantric cacao infused dream states of harmonic union in different places.  She helped me break throug the mental barriers of separation and I found that I could connect to a deeper level. 

Madness in San Marcos culminated only after Semana Santa, the holy week with the Feria de San Marcos. The now distant memories of new years boms and random fireworks violently returned with all night music, robberies and drunks in the streets, and of course lots of bombs.

What happened to our more or less quite town? Stalls sprung up everywhere and the central squere features a bizare collection of feris weels and such, ´not a senic, but a thrill ride´, as one of my friends rightfully spoke. and the official 3 days were stretched into 3 weeks.... 

Sawdust streed deco for Easter Processions

The spring equinox came and went,  and the rains started moving in. Monsoon season was about to begin and I was ready to move on.  So I said farewell to all the dear friends, the brothers,  the lovers,  and took to the open road again,  in the Guatemalan chicken bus,  to that great open cesspit,  that is known as Guate city.  A night,  the first of three as free,  in a sleasy brothel, was followed by 48 hours in the de-humanizing flicker of 4 different airports,  waiting,  getting screened,  getting ripped off,  taking a flash walk through the old town of Panama city,  falling apart,  decaying,  devaluing itself. 

Such an uncivilized tree.
This ficus, the idea,  of them as urban....
A tree,  full of pelicans, 
They snap as they're landing,
As the city crumbles,
At the ocean, the great wide ocean.
Smooth and seductive karaoke,
Flows through the afternoon.
Lush, warm tropic air,
Strokes my fluffy hair.
I like it, and my skin breathes,
Oh a different side of Panama indeed.

Getting of the plane, seeming to be the only foreigner in the entire airport,  The first Venezuelan I spoke to seemed surprised to see me here,  ' why' he asked? A fair question. He bade me Goodluck as we parted. 

Money than.  I had read online that the official exchange rate for dollars is far lower than on the Blackmarket. This is not unusual,  but here is's over 4 times as high.  So I located a guy confusingly wearing a official blue shirt (Who appeared to be a porter of some sort and conveyed him my intentions.  He beconed me to a small table on the arrival hall's extremes and gestured me to put my 20 dollar bill on the round surface. He bent over his one leg,  fumbled at his pants sleeve,  and produced 3 fat stacks of 100 Bolivar bills,  600 in total,  making a staggering 60.000 Bolívares.  I didn't know how to feel with all this cash on me, but stuffed the paper bricks in my bag,  and made my way outside. 

Around 15 euro´s worth of Boli´s

Now these are not old scruffy little wads of paper like one may recieve in India,  but nice clean,  relatively new pretty bills neatly packed in rubber bands by the 200. Venezuela is going through a  case of hyper inflation.  Everyone has lost faith in the currency so a strong dollar highly valued.  To really understand the consequences of this. Imagine that there would be nothing in your country over 5 cent coins.  Imagine how that would change your life every time you buy anything!  Now imagine that those coins would be bills,  and that each bill would be a hundred euro bill. That's what these people are going through. 
Only years ago,  those 100 bills would have had some actual value,  now,  they are just a nuicence. To avoid the endless counting,  some places have started to weigh the money by the brick to estimate it's value!  the largest bill right now is only worth 4 dollars. I feel very strange carrying around such vast amounts of cash,  than again I smile,  yes,  this stack of banknotes is only worth a few quarters. And than,  in the last 2 weeks,  money devalued by 20 %. Yesterday I did the very ever cheapest thing in my life that wasn't free,  I took the Caracas metro for a staggering 4 boli's, costing me,  hold your breath,  € 0.00,01 cent. That is one thousandth of a euro!  That's because it's government owned,  so the price can not go up because they want to keep the impression that everything is okay.  

The city of Caracas,  I arrived in the first of may,  labor day. Grandesque manifestations covered every main Avenue and square, all in support if president Maduro and comandante Chaves. Hero status assured,  as their faces cover every facade and open wall.  Surprising they even left me in,  at this fragile moment of economic collapse.  The military,  omni present,  only served me once as I walked through the city,  trying to find my nonexistent hostel. More out of sheer interest I felt than anything else.  They sure didn't like how calm I stayed, showing them the meagre contents of my pack. Than sent me in my way.  Eventually,  with the kind help of an elderly Venezuelan, I did manage to score a room at hotel Inter. A classic city place seemingly stuck in the 1970ties. And the desk clerk typing away at a antique type writer defenitly deserving a place in the local museum of antiquities. My room than, with private bath,  towels and big double bed,  cost me a full 9.500 Bs. Our just over € 3. After the last 2 wearisome nights I crashed out on the soft matress and snoozed the afternoon away.
As the late orange light struck the grey apartment blocks opposite I headed down to the streets for something to eat.  Choices are very limited,  and for the last 3 days I've lived almost exclusively on a  diet of bananas,  mango and fried things  but I feel okay.  Shops do actually have food to sell, which 

is against expectations,  but it's often pretty far past is prime. Fruit is cheap,  bread is expensive.

Fuel goes for 5 cents a litre, but lentils are nearly unaffordable. This is a  strange place.  I do not feel particularly welcome here, because,  I assume,  they think I'm American. but maybe that's because these of the constant organized conditioning of hate by the forces,  as a tool to take away the focus of the problems they have internally.  Once we start to converse,  they are really warm. One can feel that only quite recently,  this country experienced relative prosperity. Smartphones are a rarity here,  and if seen at all,  are only of the smallest, simplest kind.  

Yet now,  it all crumbles,  and trash fills gutters and abandoned lots.  People hang out in the streets and protest,  but mostly in favour of the regime. Only at night,  when most hide inside because of the urban violence,  they are heard. Suddenly,  around 20. 00 I realized from my room that there was a selling sound coming from the outside.  Hundreds of pan lids and metal things being slanted together on a cacophonous orchestra to voice their discontent. Loud, strangely happy music being played from somwhere, and fire crackers going off in the abandoned streets,  to express their support for the opposition. In the daylight once could almost believe there is no such thing.  And the media surely only speaks about them to to remind you that they are the fascists, and the enemy.  But I felt a strange alliance, with these voiceless. Why does communism time and again lead to famine and repression? I do not support corporate, but am I really so conditioned by capitalism to see what is really happening here?

Really,  one might believe it is okay.  From where I'm starting now,  in a villa on the fancy,  safe and gated communities on the city,  with their private luxurious shopping arcades where the societies fortunate buy and eat under golden arches,  and no one walks home. Where it seems,  I'f one is very close eyes that everything is working fine.  But down in town,  on the guys of the modern looking metro system,  there was a young mother,  with a half naked baby cradled in her arms,  

looking lost, and with no hope in her eyes. 

How beautiful this country,  so green and lush.  The vipassana center where I went,  on a fresh mountain slope, views of distant lands. Sometimes rained, than there was sun,  but always there was named,  inside my head,  even though outside was usually still,  and full of crickets of every possible kind,  many of who probably weren't crickets at all.  the universe gave me a nice bunch of stuff to work with four this course. Helped me to get rid of my conditioned reactions or sankara's. From the very mundane of wanting a certain pair of pants I'd left behind in Guatemala,  to the building of a house,  it all passed,  and I struggled.  It never becomes any easier. The sixth course,  but still as hopelessly resisting as ever,  only the posture improved. 
Now south America lays before me,  and I am to figure out how to proceed.  Luckily a  friendly older lady from the course offered me to stay in her enormous house that is slowly falling apart,  as he husband and daughter have fled the Venezuelan collapse to Peru,  and she is pretty lonely. 

And I worrying about my petty things,  while my life is so great.  

Thankful we should truly be for every day,  that we are healthy and free. 

Blessed with prosperity and choices, 

and people to love.

Experience

Guess a few more days were needed....
Whatever happened with Anita and me in the highlands of Guatemala needs a serious recount.

So once more, I went and picked up my dear mother from some estranging and alien place, like most airports, and found her amidst the waiting crowd in the warm night air of Guatemala City. There she came purple suitcase in tow. Soon we were zooming of in our first ride together, and my first time getting an Uber. The empty streets of the capital were yellow and still. and we jumped out on the main square, right in front of the national whatever building, all tall and proud sculpted barok. We stayed in La Poeta, a fancy little guesthouse with two inner courtyards, fake plastic grass 'n all. Next morning, we made for Antigua, not caring to stay in "the hole" as some people uncaringly call the city any longer than necessary.

Antigua received us well though, The sprawling market we explored next day, together with Annelinde and Matzi, who stayed in the same hostel as us, on their way south to Panama. These were the days of the great cold wave that took the lives of several on the nearby volcano, surprised by fog and under equipped, they died in the dark of night, on the fiery mountain. The fire we saw, sprouting from the not too distant summit. A red fountain over the lights of the city, ever such a sweet reminder of natures awesome force.
We shopped for a woolen blanket, got electronically enlightened with a net headlamp and informed ourselves of what our next move might be and where. I remember much avocado parties of rich guacamole and crispy tostadas, topped with refried bean paste and fresh veg.
And making an excursion to a nearby hot spring which wasn't actually hot anymore, but rather cool, yet, the valley was nice and we met some real interested and friendly El Salvadorians, and a ride back in the back of a pickup for free as desert.

Next day we took several busses through the more untraveled parts of this Mayan land, coming to towns where few of our kind are ever seen. Crossing the homes of a proud and defiant tribe of Maya who have their capital in Rabinal.  We crashed not much further, arriving in the hustle and bustle of a market cleaning up after a long day. We Tok the first hotel we spotted and found a warm welcome by a friendly older man who spoke excellent English. All shine and glimmer our room, tiled and chromed adornments and a large fake ming vape to keep us company. Anita was to tired to still go out, so I want and fetched some empanadas and chiles rellenos. Filled fried things both, and slept well soon after.

Next day we rose early and took a bus to Coban, capital of the southern highlands. Af we were waiting for our micro to depart, some 6 big baskets full of turkeys were leaded on top, where they defied the wind, proud beaks and bald neck protruding through the mesh of their carriage. Before we got to Coban however, we passed the Biosfera del Quetzal. Thick cloudforest and mists surrounded us. And in a sudden whim, we jumped out and took a tub tub to the nearest eco lodge. This was a good idea it turned out, as many impulsive actions can be. Already as we were waiting for our room we saw 3 different kinds of hummingbirds and many butterflies. The Air was thick with moisture and smelled green and alive.

That day we walked to some beautiful waterfalls and even got to see a quetzal or two. A little green bird, nice, yet a bird still. The forrest here is full of vines and tree ferns, the soil meters thick and everything seems to breath. From yet another posh room we looked out over the green valley, big trucks tearing up the silence beneath us, but never the silence within.

On it went, to Samuc Shampey now. Or at least, close to it. So many plans I'd made before she arrived, they had not included to just be, sit and feel content.
We stayed in the last town before the road to Samuc turned to a dirt track. A broad valley with the great brown river winding its way through that also passes Samuc. We Shared a nice Cabana on a steep green hillside almost surrounded by the river, and had the unfortunate to have arrived on this hostels party night. Luckily next day everyone left and we were the only guests in the whole place.

We explored the huge caves here, the origin of the river. So adventuresque and awesome. A rocky path led up and over many stalactite and mite formations, come as large as castle towers, all under the high ceiling of this limestone expanded. Yellow lamps lit our path until it descended into darkness,
where it would continue for many hundreds of meters more, perhaps, but not to our eyes. Instead we picked up our papaya that we had left at the cave entrance that we had already acquired for our Bombastic Banana Boat Breakfast, and made for home base.

Samuc, Than, is a well known and much photographed natural miracle, so much in fact, that I will not attempt to add my visual impressions here. It is a Limestone bridge over a river, several hundred meters long, where the river water runs under, as well as over the bridge, in e series of clear natural pools most suitable for swimming and enjoying oneself at leisure in the midst of all the natural wonder. We were, of course, not alone there. This being one of Guatemala's main attractions, company was abundant, but it bothered us not. The ride there alone made it all worth while, over rugged forested ridges where people live in bamboo huts and cacao trees lined the muddy orange road. We swam, enjoyed, had a lunch of chocobanana ice cream and rice with black beans, and that was that.

Back to copan, away from the lush green lowlands that cradled Sampey now, back to the high reaches of the mayan heartland. The place also, where not too long ago the land was scorched and torn up bu the Guatemalan Civil war. Why it was called civil I know not. Because it was practically the army fighting the mayan population, trying to continue the regime the Spanish installed when they enslaved the locals for their own benefit.
This gruesome history was continuously with me as I looked at these people, heard their voices, saw their worn hands, and could only feel pity for all the ruined lives of these folks who have not been allowed to live and prosper for the last half Millenium, at the mercy of their invaders.

After two nights in Coban, where a sudden illness betook my mother, we crossed over westward. Luckily her dis ease passed violently but quickly, and we were able to continue to the remote town of Nebaj. All women were dressed in deep blue wraparound skirts and their Huipiles or blouses were beautifully adorned with patterns of birds and flowers, Deep red and purple the base fabric. They told us that it could take many weeks to embroider one of these miracles, and I soon believe it.
We went to an even smaller town one morning, known for its colorful market. And as soon as we got out of the micro, we were stunned. with our unnatural dutch hight even Aniet could easily look over the assembly, and we saw that is was good. Not a single woman wore anything but traditional dress. All red and colors we saw, and most men, even though not in Mayan clothes, anyway adhere to a very strict jeans, shirt and white cowboy hat style, that developed in war times so as not t be a target for the military. Look normal, don't look mayan, and maybe you'd survive.

We wandered and were gobsmacked by the beauty of all this color. The natural ness which which it all went. The busy market with it's many small stars. Old grandmas just sitting on the floor with a pile of carrots or Huiskil, the local vegetable resembling some kind of crossing between a cucumber, a zucchini and a potato. We did't actually buy anything.
It's not about the getting of stuff.
What is this life?
What is a life?
Knowing people?
Collecting stuff?
I believe doing is of much more importance.
And than the volition, with which what one does is done,
is paramount over all.
Live, for Experience

It was a journey, this, that we undertook together. And so, filled with appreciation for all this tribal beauty, we went on, to Quetzaltenango now, Once, apparently home to the illustrious Quetzal. We landed in Casa Argentina. A notorious travelers crib where I'd stayed before some 12 years back, No quetzals there now, but some incredibly loud talking parrots in a cage had taken their place. Being a extensive complex with many different rooms around a raised courtyard, we managed to score a room with city view. The volcano behind us, wrapped in shrouds of nebula, the same one we had come suddenly come out of as we entered the geological depression, in which Xela nestles. Not caring to hang around between the concrete too much, next day we made a trip to some hot springs. Still not very ho, butt noticeably warmer than our first try in Antigua, we sat in the iridescent waters looking up at the fern clad rocks and flowering trees that surrounded us in this narrow valley. A cafe was built almost on top of the pool and since it was weekend, it was loaded with Guatemalans on their family outing. It was an experience though, and as we drove back, the clouds lifted slightly to allow us a peek at the majestic cone of the local volcano and the valley that had been all but invisible to us on the way up.

No more straying after that. 

To the Lake. Yes, of course. 

The lake it must be. 

Why straddle if one can be in one of the recognized most beautiful lakes on the planet. Crater, 

vortex, 

sinking point. 

My home,

for a splinter of this life

What are we but wanderers, attracted to the light of god, the celestial center, without and within.

Nomads or castle builders, working at the manifestation of something beautiful.

A permanent house in Her lap, in the hand of the Buddha, within our own hearts.

To open that door. The portal of the heart truly is one of my greatest chalenges.

Again, every day. No breaks given other than those moments where one meets it's Creation.

This is something, that this hole in reality, hole in the earth, hole in time,

Helps, and has helped many with, and me likewise.

We were here for a few days. Staying in the lovely house of a friend, So quite, so peaceful. Swimming in the blue waters, warming in that crazy bright sun. It was January yes, But doesn't it remind one of early summer? 

How blissful those days. Last of this trip before I brought her back to the city. 

It had been a wonderful trip. Seems like we didn't do very much, but it sure felt like a lot. 

Walking in a nearby park on many a suspension bridge flying between the tall trees over a narrow canyon we saw howler monkeys and some kind of Makis those cat like things with long black 'n white tails and curious eyes, although I always thought those were from Africa.

No we did not climb any volcano, nor did we go rafting, or made it to the nearby Caribbean sea. 

We did't do many things we might have. But it was all good. We were happy and content, and when we said goodbye on the morning of her departure, there was only joy.

Airports.......so bizarre, so unreal, so unnatural. Why, do we create such strange places, where nobody really feels at ease?

...........

That. was almost two months ago. 

Why have I not written since? 

I have been absorbed. Absorbed into the Life at the Yoga Forest, where I now live.

A community yoga retreat space with a permaculture garden and an ever shifting crowd of students, volunteers, visitors and teachers. 

Starting as a Permaculture worker, I now have the honor to facilitate the operation of this place. 

Of course we all make this happen together. 

My task to make it run smoothly, so that others may manifest their full potential. 

Up here, in the valley, life is quite and dynamic. I'm eating as healthy as I ever have, and I am surrounded by an intimate group of dear friends.

Clouds come and go, inside as well as outside. 

Where is that hazy frontier gone, the separation of worlds? 

Unity I see, or least, I try to be open.

I feel love and love is shared with me,

Opening the Heart

 -    -  - -- --- -- -  -    -

Let go.

 Guate Guate! that was my destination. Trying to get out of the Yucatan seemed hard at first. But the morning was full of surprises and after getting a first ride of only a few hundred meters it was once again proved that those can often be the most essential. Soon thereafter a Mexican man in a battered white pickup truck gave me a lift, and as we taked more I discovered that he went practically to the border of Guatemala, and was willing to take me. He gave me food and drink, and the flat heat of the Yucatan slowely started to change into hilly greens as we aproached Palenque. It was tempting to get out here, but as thick clouds loomed overhead and I had already been here on my last time round, the ride waws just too good, and I decided to stay where I was, to continue the journey. 

 Palenque cradles at the foot of the mighty mountain range that form the Mayan highlands, which we presently acended. Slow and narrow was the road that wound itself a way through the thick green jungle of vines and bromeliads, dense fog and roadworks made our passage evermore pelirious, and as the dark came on tropical gushes of rain slashed against the cracks of our frail and fragile looking windshield with devine gusto. Late that evening we arrived at Comitan de Dominguez, where my driver had a house, a girlfriend and two sturdy looking boys. This was his second house we passed that day, and his second family. He had, so he told me, no less than 22 children, spread over a handfull of wives and concubines, my head whirled at the complications of maintaining such an extended tribe. What a strange house it was, The downstairs like a garage, but fully tiled with a kitchen. Hardly a piece of furniture in the whole place, but very clean. A yes, onder the stairs, lived their servants, who cleaned and looked after the kids, A medival situation at best, they hardly dared to speak with me. 

 Next morning we went to the veggie market, Not another gringo in sight, and piles of maiz, tomatoes and cabbage shone in the early light. We drank corn porridge and I found some red bananas again, my very favourite, a deep orange their flesh, and creamy dense their texture. We drove another few hours without speaking much.. The road became smaller and smaller, untill it decended into dusty dirt, winding its way through a large high plain full of dry cow pasture and corn fields interlaced by rows of gnarly old trees. We came to a large ranch, an agrocultural estate of mixed production, with goats and ducks running wild between barns and crumbling walls where old wooden carts had been parked and forgotten to be given over to rot ande decay. Many people lived in this place though, and my driver showed me a fancy new tractor shed he had recently built here. This was his friends place, kind of, he told me, but actually, he owned quite some land here too, and we went to his manderin trees and filled our pockets with different types of clementines untill they would hold no more. He built the road here too, aswell as the bridge, and yes, there were some more of his kids. We found one of his cousins who had the key. The key, to the fence, to the bridge, that led across a small river, that was the border to Guatemala. We crossed over, and found yet another family welcoming us. A small dusty village of ramshackle houses and gardens, chickens and kids everywhere, and the welcoming sound of tortillas in the making, klip, klap, klip, klap, corn tortillas, food of the nation. 

 My host had some bissnis to do in Guatemala, so he dropped me at another river near by, where he had some land, and I swam the heat of the day away. 

 That night an even stranger house was my home. Completely empty but for two matresses of desputible quality. A huge building, which my host had once built, now all but abandened. My flute, sounded great in the empty halls and courtyards there though, echoing on gray and flakey concrete, and soon a host of curious kids had assambled to listen to my play. 

 Surely none of these people had ever seen a foreighner in that place, and it did not take long before the whole town was aware of my precence. No matter their poverty, they shared me their food and table. They made me feel like one of theirs, not really any more special, which was just great. The moon was full, and I basked in its radiance as the dark fell again. Night was quite and sleep was rest, and the morning bright, and full of promise. 

For a third morning I got to sit next to my host as we drove hte country roads, back over the border bridge without as much as a sighn of control, back into Mexico and the great dusty plain, and onward, to the land of Quetzalquatl.

Soon we arrived at the road that was mine to take, and we parted there, next to where some woman where selling BBQ roasted chickens that looked like they had been squashed onder a trucks weel. 

 The border was still close now, and soon I got a ride to the frontier de Guatemala, it had been 12 years....   

 The very first thing you may notice as you cross the border into Guatemala is that suddenly practically all the woman are dressed in traditional dress. A wraparound skirt of colourful intricate waft, an embroiderd blouse often with flowery motifs or birds on the collar and shoulders, and interesting headdresses of various kinds. Men usually wear amarican style clothing, and baseball caps are a must. And than, there are the Chicken busses, oh how I have missed them! 

 Cheap, overcrowded and dangerously ronking monsters of the highroads, coughing up black plumes of soot from their rusty innards, they will take you anywhere, for relatively little. Confort is not of any concern, after all, you pay for the ride, not the seats. So we entered the highlands, and where the Yucatan is not more than 100 meters above sea level, I soon found myself at around 3000 meters, whirling around mountaintops and mega vulcanoes, on my way to Quetzaltenango, also known as Xela.

 I strayed the night in that overly poluted city, a valley full of soot and smog, from the hundreds of growling bussed decending upon it as a market town, from all directions. I felt sick, either from the quality of the air, or the absence of it, here, at 2400 meters. Luckily a good dorm bed found me, and that was all. 

 Now the lake was close, only a few more hours, and a destination that had been on my mind for many months would have been reached. A last bus, a final ride, and as we turned a corner once more the liquid expanse of Lago Atitlan once again reached my eyes. As beautifull as I remembered it, bigger, more pure, and ever tranquill. The last part I walked, decending into this vast crater on foot just somehow seemed right. It was like meeting an old friend, ever full of memories, sweet and sour.

 I moved over to San Marcos, where I had alreay lived once for over 2 months. Oh surely it had changed. And the inicial shock almost made me run away again. Much of the green jungle down at the lakeside had been converted into tasteless concrete. The rocks we used to swim at, now submerged onder 5 meters of poluted water, as the lake level ever fluctuates. Noise, so much noise, from the church, from the ominous tuktuks, the new basketball court with its industrial bbbrrrrrrngngng every few minutes. God boms, as we started to call them being set of all the time. One seemed not te be granted any peace here these days. The local polulation seemed openly hostile to the large foreign population here that has bought up a lot of the good land and are making lots of profits, while the common people here as poor as ever. I do not judge anyone, but it is a sore situation. 

 Anyway, I did stay, and found my grounding at the lakeside once again. For some days I lived and worked at Pacha mama Hostel, before moving up the hill to the Funji Academi. A comunity like learning place with a fammily of about 20 people from all over the world, inspired to spread the knowledge of mycelium and its uses. I had come to San Marcos again to learn more about therapies though, and so when I found course in Thai massage, I moved back down and for two weeks I spent every day practicing massage at Ananda healing center, while at the same time helping out at Fire,Fuego. A new place that was just starting in the middle of town, Centered around a public fire place with a small cafe to pay the rent. It quickly attracted a sweet bunch of folk stepping in as volunteers an we became a close knit group as the days got shorter and the end of the year drew ever nearer.  

 The thai Massage course was most informative and I was very happy to find how easily it blended with my Shiatsu practice. Many of the moves are similar and reversly aplicable, and I finished my degree with 10 cum laude. As I also had to practice on 10 different people and so ended up in the Yoga Forrest feveral times where I found many a willing body. The yoga forrest is a beautiful retreat center up in the valley of San Marcos clinched against the gray vulcanic rocks, built out of bamboo and natural materials and with a stunning vieuw of the lake. There is permaculture there, and secret hidouts, and many courses of yoga are tought there. Moreover, I just heard that I am accepted as a volunteer there startiung in February. So exited. While all this was happening, Fuego also merged with the Pirate crew of El Castillo, another community across the lake, to organize a smashing full moon party at their place. We rented the biggest boat on the lake, which was not all that big, but still considerably large enough to shake the whole old wooden pier to which it was moored while we got on, 

 80 jolly hippy folk strong. Music blasted from the woofers as we crossed the deep blue water of the lake after which a trance filled chicken bus carried us up to the rim of the crater where we danced and celabrated all night long. By firelight we sung and played, and the fuego crew served an Indian meal on banana leaved even in the adverse conditions of the castle dungeons, by sparse candle light and only two gas burners for a hundred hungry mouths. This was the week before Cristmas, and now every folowing weekend woud be party filled. 

 On the night of the holy birth we went up to the Funji academi again and danced now as the fireworks broke over the lake in the thousands. Sparks and colours sprung from dozens of villages around the lake and reflected in the dark waves deep down below.  

 

 This was also the time of returning friends and Anne-Linde and her lovely boyfriend Matsi came to the lake, as did Daisy whom I knew from my last visit here. One gathers friends easily here though, and I already felt myself surounded by a league of beloved new companions aswell. As I now feel I wanted to share my gathering understanding of shiatsu therapy a also tought a class on Shiatsu Basics up at the Funji academi, which was so much fun, and from which I also learned a lot. It was not just a massage workshop but also incorporated aspects of contact impro, dance and movement studies, to become aware of the hara and ones balance. 

 Now started the last week of the year of 2016, and we were preparing for the Cosmic Convergence Festival across the waters, between the three big volcanoes that shape the horizon here, at Santiago de Atitlan. I was accepted as a buildup volunteer, and so arrived three days early, together with Matsi, who shared my fate. On the way there, I argued with the captain of our boat to try and pay the fair price, but drove it to such a level that his boss took my picture, and now I seem to have been banned from taking boats........shoot!

 Anyway, for three days I worked with a cool Turkish sister named Krystal to put up a ceiling at the live stage called Batz, or monkey stage. More and more people gathered, and beautifull areas built with much devotion sprung up in every corner and niche. Bamboo, and palmleaves where everywhere and one of the dancefloors feautured a giant scull topped by a serpent for a dj booth. It was a Psytrance festival, but with a very chilled out tribal vibe. Lots of funky live music was there too, and yoga and workshops on many subjects. My favourite place on the entire festival was possibly the Mystical Yoga tealounge, where cuddeling and sharing of medicinal plant knowledge were on the order of the day. Festival prep flowed into festival start with the last night before the opening being a 16 hour workday for me. This is always the day that we must all shine, and we shone untill 5 oclock in the morning.  

 It was a beautifull festival, inundated with sacred cacao and good vibes. The trance was awsome, the food delicious and the fires bright. Some 200 gorgeous ones gathered here at the shore of the lake to celebrate the coming op the new year, and the closing of 2016. Everyone was there, most of San Marcos, the Fuego and Funji crew, the Pirates throwing a good bunch of chaos into the kitchen, but in the end all were happy and tired, full stary eyed travelers of the internal deep, entranced and unwound, such a family, so conected, in love with the universe and one another, and very very ready, for these times to come.  

The Fire Bender. What a curious manifestation of the cosmos.

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