The Giants

Land of Giants, crazy Emerica. I had not expected to be back here, one year ago. 

Yet here I am, Back in that City, that crazy city, that I love, along the Hudson.

The rush of people, the vibrant buzzing energy down on the street. The high vibe of the high life in Manhattan, creativity is so abundant and even the homeless seem ambitious. 

Everyone wants to make it here, score in New York, and make it Big. 

Coming out of the alloy tube, time traveling across the Atlantic, screened and mangled I was thrown out once more onto the night lit streets of Brooklyn. Sirens ever howling somewhere in the distance, and suspicious fellas hanging out on the corner as I exit the subway station, which is actually overhead. The train rushes on, right through the night, and I make it to the safe haven of my dear friend Audrey's house That I know from the volcanic shores of lake Atitlan in Guatemala. We spoke and shared our adventures since our last meeting till the wee hours before a much needed sleep. Only one night I reposed there however, before heading to the sweat lodge camp in upper state New York again near the beautiful lake Ashokan.  

The dear family I had gotten to know one year back gathered under the tall eaves of green maple and hickory again, and we made camp for the weekend of Labourday. 

These are some wonderful friends, and even though our last meeting was brief, I felt immediately part and welcome to this new world Bigheart Tribe.

It got real cold real quick that weekends, but with the help of my family, we all stayed warm and cosy, and the warmth of the lodge and the clear river water we were cleansed of many an unnecessary issue, before moving on. 

Back to that big city than, to hang out more with my Australian friend, I got to know her life in the borough, where she was building up a cacao and yoga flow studio, in the middle of the bustle of the city. I got to know some more interesting spots of Brooklyn, made it to the House of Yes one late night after a cacao ceremony party. A crazy cool mix-up of many scenes of my past and maybe future, the House features things like a swinging cage where any stripper can wing her arts if the call comes. Super tall cross dressers and a glitter ball dance floor plus dancing pole, people of every color and creed, and even a pinball machine!

In the ecstatic masses I encounters a being carrying a tray full of dice-like beads. And the one I picked up read: "Gentle" on one side and "friend" on the reverse.

Was this an omen for what was to transpire in the days to come?

Having tried to get out of the city by ways of ride share for a few days now, the very next morning after the House I received I call from my dear big heart brother Rick, who offered me to ride with him on a moving truck up to Buffalo, NY, right on the shore of one of the great lakes, right near Niagara falls in fact.
One night I stayed in the house of this gentile bear of a friend. I helped pack the truck and next day early we drove right across the green and blue state of New York, north and ever west till we reached our destination; a white American house in a forlorn suburb of a middle size town, with a veranda of course. 

After offloading all our carefully wrapped wares, the day drew to an end. But we, Rick, his well spirited Mexican employee and I, none of us ever having been to the falls, couldn't resist the urge, and so made the 20 minute drive to Niagra as the dusk settled in. We reached the thundering wall of falling water with the last light of day, the cascades already lit up in changing shades of colored light, amazing us and the rest of the crowd that had gathered here, even at this unlikely hour.

Across the water rose a full sparkling city in the land that is Canada.
It did not matter that darkness fell upon us now, as we had seen the falls, for now and forever, and carried them in our hearts.

 While driving up to Buffalo, I was already planing my advance, strongly determined to reach the west coast this year, in the light of last years events. So I got on the bus next morn, a ride from Chicago down south already seemingly acquired. But as usual, the universe never quite is what it seems. And so my ride evaporated even before the sun had risen, and I was now on my way to Chicago without the promise of shelter for the oncoming night. The gods treated me kindly though, so after skimming the shores of lake Erie and Michgan the whole day, riding through the wide open plains, we rolled into the wind city, great old Chicago. The lake shore provided me with a most hospitable shelter that night though, and I found a dry patch of green grass under a shrubby bush, near a dear rabbit and the concreted shores of this vast expanse of water, that the eye is unable to cross.
Next morning, I discovered that some kind of grey aphid had painted almost all of my belongings a fierce orange upon touch, that I now still carry as a tribal marking, whatever that was I can only guess at. I wandered along the lake's coast for a bit, this water, which has all carateristics of the sea, apart from being salt.

Than I took the train. The texas Eagle. And let it carry me across this vast continent of America, with it's grandesque mountains and vast open plains. The first day was all cultured land, becoming ever more desolate and arid. An occasional red barn might split the great open sky in two parts, but otherwise fields went as far as the eye could see. Night fell, still rolling down the tracks, and when the morning emerged we were in northern Texas.
We had crossed straight through the heart of America, and the landscape was now distinctly different from the north and east. This was the South, and getting dirtier. All day we drove through that Lone star state, and as dusk settled in once more, we were still in it. That night we stopped for a few hours in fine San Antonio, where I discovered a beautiful system of low lying canals weaving through the modern city grid, where huge old ceder trees grew from the original river bed, now flanked by bars and restaurants, but still with a very charming feel, quite unlike anywhere else in America. I sat there for a while, with my feel swinging in the cool water, as the evening heat was still on, and watched the ducks peacefully drifting by in this Western faerytale of a city. On it went, and next morning we were still in Texas! So huge this once upon a time country, but now quickly approaching New Mexico.

Now the land was dry and scorched. Much more like the Texas I had imagined before witnessing that in fact it has some really lush and green parts. We came to the weird outpost of El Paso on the Mexican border. I knew we were at the border at once, because there across the Trump fence, there was hill upon hill of chaoticly organized but colorful slums, rising up like a wall. The fence, still under construction, is an 8 meter high array of iron spikes along a ditch on the Mexican side, cutting right through the heart of this border city, Gosh, doesn't this remind me of something....

The land became drier and drier, and now there were almost no fields to be seen. Only the occasional ranch or fertile valley, fed by vast irrigation schemes that made the yellow dessert bloom, and rows upon rows of Pecan trees greeted us with their shiny green leaves.
Now the sky turned pink, and huge thunder clouds filled the wide expanse. No rain would ever come of it, but the purple towers of highly charged water vapor were a majestic sight indeed.
Openness, emptiness, desert by name and actuality, this is what we now witnessed, enormous long valleys, much resembling mongolia's rolling plains now engulfed us, and it was upon the third night that I gathered my stuff and left this rolling metal island, and was warmly received by Teak and her Husband Gijs, who picked me up in Tucson, Arizona, and took me home to Phoenix.

Here I was, back again at that strange and comfortable life in the dessert city. Returned to this cool and wonderful castle on the outskirts of nature, the strange Cactei and Havelinas all around, warded by the Suguaro.
Coming back here had been one of my objectives, this time by land, and now it was time to plan the rest of my journey to the west. Only a short jump really to LA, a mere 6 hour drive. First however, I was in Phoenix for a few days, and helped my stepmother with some jobs around the house. I made a few nice hikes through this ever baffling landscape and than one day we drove up in Teak's very comfy Subaru to the Meteor crater at Flagstaff.
A huge hole in the ground, like a valley, but perfectly round. Hardly eroded through the conserving atmosphere of the dessert, in that aspect at least. Some 2 kilometer across, and several hundreds of meters deep. The scale and power of the impact it had is hard to grasp. And this was only a small piece of debris it is said, no larger than a colonial age trade ship, but infinitely more dense.
Would it impact now, all within sight would instantly be destroyed.
But now, after some 50.000 years, it seems quite peaceful there, surrounded by a vast cattle ranch as it is, and pretty dead.
What I found most impressive was the sight of it as one drives up to it from the highway. Where one may witness how the crust of the planet was torn open, liquefied for an instant by the immense heat and pressure, and a whole mountain ridge created.

All that I write more than 40 days ago, while hiding from the fires in northern California where I than found myself. Since than, I have fallen in love, made many new friends, and learned a bunch of new skills. But let us now continue with the story in correct order....

Coming back to Phoenix, I soon found a ride to LA.  One of the last nights there I took the red Ford pickup truck again and parked it somewhere in the nearby dessert, made a bed in the bed of the vehicle and slept under the open stars. The next morning, upon making a little hike, I met with a lovely cactus that produces some kind of death balls. As soon as you touch them they attach themselves to your bare skin, any skin, even your fingers, and work their needle like barbed spines deeper into your flesh with every movement. You have no defence, Shaking only makes it worse. It is vicious. Taking a rock and painfully tearing this little monster from your flesh is the only solution, and avoid them in the future at all cost.

My LA ride was a young student girl with whom I chatted straight through the dead dessert and down to the orange country. She dropped me somewhere 1.5 hours drive outside the center of the city, and we were already in it's suburbs. It's that big! After being told by various people that there was no way to get to my destination (Venice beach) that night even though it was only 6 in the evening (American public transport is grotty). Not giving up. I finally managed to get to a greyhound station that would take me through the night towards Sequoia NP.
Screw it, No Venice beach than, Let' just ride! So, as the sun rose I found myself in the sleepy town of Visalia, where I stocked up on food and made for the hills. Only two rides later I was cruizin' up the mountain in a extra low Audi A8 with a Canadian Chinese guy who took me from 500 to 2000 meters altitude. Gosh, sure was a change of temperature, even in the bright sunlight of the afternoon.
I said goodbye to him on the park parking lot, now surrounded by giant red furry baobab like Sequoia trees.
After gathering some information, alone I headed out onto a trail through the woods. Not all sequoia they were, but interspersed with many a respectable old pine and fir, that would certainly catch the eye in any regular forest. Here they were like children though, dwarfed by the immense dinosauric branches of the ancients. They just keep on growing, century after century. Never die unless they fall over or burn, and than still their blackened stumps are colossal, the size of a house or more and higher. The play of life and fire, of the green and the red. So solemn some of them, standing in small groups, perhaps once, thousands of years ago sprung from one root, or one tiny seed. These are the absolute mammoths of our planet. If we cut them, they will never come back, not in 20 generations on men. They are like living fossils.
High and cold is what they like, where life is slow and long. And cold it became.

My body remembering a chilly night, next morning I packed my tent in between showers of icy sleet, my neck still cramping from looking up at the trees all day. I was not prepared for this, I was coming to sunny California, what the heck!
I planed my escape, but as I stood hitchhiking to get out of the place, I was picked up by two young park rangers on their day of, and I was to be their entertainment. They bought some beers (10 am) and after dropping my gear drove me to another grove of giant trees where we hung out a bit and explored the hollow inside of a giant fallen one, laying like a tunnel uo the hill, I felt like in the belly of a great blue whale. We than took to cruizing the countryside and visiting a rocky knoll that supposedly had a great view, but it was closed. One of my new friends did proceed to steal a plastic garden chair from there though, which surprised me, being a ranger...
I spent the nigh in one of their cabins, but not after my very girl oriented companion had managed to convinced the 2 lovely french girls Yuna and Anna to join us to a shared dinner at his co Ranger's house. This great character was part of the bear team, that tracks bears and makes sure they stay away from humans for their own good, as you might imagine, he had some interesting stories to tell, and the warmth of his house was most welcome as there was now 5 cm of snow covering all that was outside.
Yuna and Anna shared one bed that night, and my ranger friend and I both had our own, much to his dislike.
The girls were much of my own kind, traveling Psy-tribe on their way up from Guatemala to northern California. We immediately got along very well and so next morning I left with them in their rental whip (car), going to Yosemite NP.

I had given up going to Yosemite this year round because of transportational complication, but now I was super happy to get there anyway.
It was just gorgeous there. A narrow valley with huge grey boulder like cliffs on either side. A home to a small native tribe once, the entire valley is now tastefully designed for Eco-tourism.
We made some stunning hikes that day still and the next, climbed up past several powerful waterfalls, sometimes climbing up steep rocky shelves full of tame chipmunks and rocks carved by countless aeons of wind and water
That night I slept on top of an enormous boulder that time had once deposited here and was now deeply embedded in the soft valley soil. Natives had carved small grinding holes out of its flat top for grinding acorns, one of their main foodstuffs. Yet now it lay forgotten, and I lay on top of all that. The girls slept in the car down on the hotel parking lot, and next morning we sneaked into this massive wooden wonder of a thousand trees, where the fireplace was lit and all the western comforts provided amidst art deco pleasantry. Free hot choco warmed our hands, and we were on our way down to the bay. They dropped me right in downtown San Fransisco, bewildered even though I was, at the sudden change of scenery.

It had been 17 years since I had last been at this side of the Pacific, half a lifetime for me.
Yet I found my aunt Sophia all the same, across the magnificent rusty red expanse of the golden gate bridge. Se received me warmly in her super cosy one floor home, with thick carpets and ceiling lights. She showed me the Poekynook, the business she has built up, where kids can come and create their own beany baby dolls and paraphernalia, amidst a sea of created objects dangling from wall and ceiling, in the fancy town of Mill Valley.

Once again, I did not linger too long, as her life is busy, and so was mine about to become.
She connected me with some friends of hers that lived in the country side about 2 hours north of the Bay, and next day I got another ride up there, crammed into a small car full of household stuff, a baby and it's mother, who had to hold a big wooden statue of some kind of eastern deity awkwardly across her lap to make it all fit.
We got there though, and so I ended up with this lovely family and their cute baby daughter Mila that live in a small richly wooded valley with thick oaks and Madrone trees in a red house
under the eaves.
They let me stay in their trailer for a bit, and I enjoyed the beautiful lands around there while helping them out a bit in the garden.

Soon I was connected to a community nearby, and without further due moved there, high up on the hills overlooking a beautiful valley. One of the first people I met there immediately asked me if I accepted hugs, and me and this lovely woman soon became close friends. Her name is Peace and we spend a lot of time together while doing our daily community chores. Community life engulfed me whole, and the days were filled with taking care of each other, cooking and eating wonderful meals, tidying up around and inside the house, having meetings, playing hacky sack, burning excess stuff from the garden, talking, lots of talking, and than once a week we would all be silent for a day, to give rest to our ears and and focus on what is ever inside of us all.
Than one night, as Peace and I slept in one of the living yurts, we got woken up in the middle of the night.
"There is a fire on the mountain" Spoke Sam, we must all gather in the house. The wind had been crazy all day previous, with strong sharp blasts whipping up dust wherever we went.
Once dressed and back at the house, we could all see the fire, and how quickly it spread and took the whole now darkened mountain in front of us in less than 30 minutes
New fires sprung up in several places, and joined together to make one giant sea of flame across our whole horizon.
We decided to all get some essentials together in case we needed to make a sudden evacuation.
It never happened that night, but we all slept huddled close together for what remained of this weird night.

Next day passed, and we started to hear reports of how many other counties had been affected by the nightly fires. 
We had been lucky with the wind blowing away from us, but two days later, the fires still not contained, the police made us evacuate nonetheless.
So 11 others and me, plus 9 dogs, big and small piled into Sam's Moms house a 45 minute drive away, for now spared from the flames. It were a crazy few days. Not knowing what was going on, when we could go back or what would happen. Luckily we had each other. And I started to grow more and more fond of Peace.
Eventually the fires died down, with the help of firefighters from all over the world, and all that remains are scorched hillsides. Now that the rains have come is seems strange to think about those dry times. Cause once it starts raining, it almost doesn't stop for 3 months.
So we moved our lives mostly inward, made fires in the stove and made sauerkraut or delicious sugar free treats.
Often in the morning, when Peace and me would come into the house (we slept in a big tent in the forest) someone would be doing yoga, or meditate. There would be collective planking sessions or house cleanings. It was really wonderful, and I have learned so much.
I feel thankful for having met Peace, who has enhanced my life in such an unexpected way. Our interaction has been a true catalyst for personal growth, and she made me dared to be in love against logic.
Time passed quickly this way, and so it happened that my permitted stay in the US came to an end. I said goodby to all the beautiful beings there all of them memorable, like Johnny with his amazing morning Beatologic exponentiations of vedic mythology and ancient politics, and his jazz style bamboo flute play on the balcony.
Or David with his amazing vitalizing morning cacao, maca, macha, mate, date, coconut butter bliss smoothy concoctions or other scrumptious creations.
Most of all, though, I will miss Peace, as a part of my heart stays with her. Luckily I also carry a part of her heart with me as a treasure, and I feel so enriched because of it.

Than I returned to the home of Sirius and Rose, together with my aunt, and we shared the Thanksgiving meal with them and some 15 of their friends in that cosy red house under the eaves.
Now back down it went, and after a quick browse through San Fran, with its many homeless and tents on the sidewalks, continued down by Chinatown bus straight to San Diego, right on the border of Mexico, Tijuana.
Yes, it may be hard to get into this country at times, but leaving is so easy that I managed to miss the American immigration all together. Simply because there isn't one. They don't care if you leave, only if you try to enter. Mexico welcomed me most warmly though. What a stark contrast, one side of the wall, it's completely Emerica, other side, taco vendors, dramatic Latin music, sidewalks broken up, uniform chaos everywhere. I love it!
Bienvenido, a Mexico!

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.