The follow link is for one to stay on top of new posts right after they are posted. This widget doesn't go to you email (some folks prefer that it doesn't), but allows you to read it on Google Reader, or on iGoogle or in many other places that you control. When you follow, It tells the site that you are one of us, therefore allows you to read and post commnets without any hustles or extra clicking of any kind. I recommend it highly. Also from there, when people click on your Photo, Blogspot brings them to your site--if you have one-- and like that you'll be getting your own subscriptions as well. It's a very nice setup as it is also very simple and convenient. Try it now, it won't bite you.
René
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
New York City and Vicarious Living
Two guys were at it. It all started like this:
"I got it, dude ! you're telling me that in New York anything can happen. I've been here since time immemorial, but you NEED to listen! I've seen it with my own eyes. People who sit by the fountains and pretend to feed the fish, steal their money instead. I have seen that, more than just once. And who are you? I mean, whoareya? Don't try to outsmart me or second-guess me. And what do you mean by 'I have an attitude?' You are the one with the attitude, not me."
And they went on and on...
And they went on and on...
That was a typical New York crazy, neurotic urban argument and all that, in lieu of conversation. Take no prisoners, that's right. Everybody is King of the Hill; but if you ask them any one single personal question, they will claim you're disrespecting.
And how about the brand new NY implants (a.k.a. newbies)? Boy,they keep on coming, don't they? Seeking glory in recognition, fame or fortune. But don't try to look for their backbone, 'cause you will have trouble finding it. And who can blame them? Before they even arrive, they've been hearing all the stories. I'd be scared too.
But as soon as they listen to a NYC inspired song, Voila!! they become instant, well... newyorkers. And they will tell you so, first chance they get. Tell me that ain't a good example of vicarious living.
I believe deep in my heart that all these migrant people who are here today lost, or are about to lose, their "from the cradle" cozy innocence. Of course that's not saying that they wouldn't have lost it in some other place anyway. But here, their metamorphosis is brutal. Going back to whatever tiny life they had back in their SmallVille bear-eating salmon cocooned small Americana town is absolutely not a choice. So they stick, grind and stay.
For that, and in my humble opinion, I feel they should be praised.
Most intelligent folks realize that NY is a living oxymoron. And a monster at that.
There are as many contradictions here as there are those famous NY cockroaches.
The happy-go-lucky Puerto Ricans are the toast of the town. Granted. But we also know that they hold dear The Great American dream of which they belong to. When you dissect it, you'd see,smell and feel a fantastic "Cinderella" type of tale-ending story. And what a story that is!
Oh heck! We all more or less know how the whole schlang went down for them about their independent (non-associated) state-hood. A very sweet, sweet, deal indeed. But boy! these guys really fought for us, not in one, but two World Wars plus Vietnam and Korea. Yes, the New York Puerto Ricans, otherwise known as newyork-ricans. A true American ferry tale.
Crime updates. New York's crime is rampant, anyone who can read, or choose to read newspapers knows that. The mayors are always promising the promised land. After all it sounded great when MLK said it, even made him famous for it, or in spite of.
Crime in the Big Apple is synonymous with New York. It's everywhere, but I have never seen it. Not once. In twenty or so years that I lived in NY, I've never seen a felony being committed, much less a misdemeanor. The only crime I see is the terrible offense that is shown everyday when manners are such a misunderstood human feature; like something weird that went out of fashion a long, long time ago. Worse, some interpret that as to mean weakness. Whilst some others think it could be some fancy French cuisine dish or maybe chow for the farm animals. MANNERS. Yeap, go figure...The Big Apple, gotta love it...
by René Volpi ~stillmind~
"Tales from The Amazon"
and Assorted Short Stories
POSTED MARCH 15, 2010
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Saturday, March 13, 2010
Tales from The Amazon and Beyond
A different kind of jungle
Shades (part 1)
Blasting us in the night.
We were all around the fire just outside a shack we had found entirely by luck. By the looks of it, seemed was abandoned, or at least not really cared for by anyone in quite a long while. As is usually done, and by the stimulus of spirits--of the alcohol type--conversations were abundant and crisp. Just like any other instant, it took no time for all of us to get truly blasted and, as one would imagine, the tales we all told were successfully colored and even dramatic at times, all depending on the creative form of the speaker. Not far away there was a swamp-like medium-sized lagoon where that night's moon looked as if it was alive and dancing by means of its own reflection. It was indeed a sight to behold, and I began to experience a dream-like epiphany, as the voices suddenly changed tone and rhythm and at the same time sounded elongated and far, the laughter deep and spacey. I felt as if my presence was there, but yet my mind wasn't. I went with the moon that by now was dancing in the dark waters of the pond. The wood from the fire marked the moment, cracking loudly, speaking its language like conversing to the breeze that understood, as the leaves provided an ever so subtle chorus of many, lingering there in an absolute perfect cacophony of sounds. The nightly hours felt timeless, and in essence everything seemed as in sync with the moon that at one point looked like it couldn't get any bigger, like it couldn't dance anymore. . . .
But the night was far from over and by no means the fire pit would end anytime soon. This night was a night that no one would ever forget. It was a time of uncontrollable, relentless fear. What started as a cozy evening by the fire, ended up being a time of desperation and despair by forces beyond our control or comprehension. Events that took place that night would make a mark in our psyche that literally ended up scarring the deepest fibers of our beings. But before that, we would have to fight for our lives to a degree none of us thought possible. Not in a million years. And yet we did. Some of us would meet tomorrow. Too many of us did not.
(to be continued in Part 2)
-----
Shades (part 1)
Blasting us in the night.
We were all around the fire just outside a shack we had found entirely by luck. By the looks of it, seemed was abandoned, or at least not really cared for by anyone in quite a long while. As is usually done, and by the stimulus of spirits--of the alcohol type--conversations were abundant and crisp. Just like any other instant, it took no time for all of us to get truly blasted and, as one would imagine, the tales we all told were successfully colored and even dramatic at times, all depending on the creative form of the speaker. Not far away there was a swamp-like medium-sized lagoon where that night's moon looked as if it was alive and dancing by means of its own reflection. It was indeed a sight to behold, and I began to experience a dream-like epiphany, as the voices suddenly changed tone and rhythm and at the same time sounded elongated and far, the laughter deep and spacey. I felt as if my presence was there, but yet my mind wasn't. I went with the moon that by now was dancing in the dark waters of the pond. The wood from the fire marked the moment, cracking loudly, speaking its language like conversing to the breeze that understood, as the leaves provided an ever so subtle chorus of many, lingering there in an absolute perfect cacophony of sounds. The nightly hours felt timeless, and in essence everything seemed as in sync with the moon that at one point looked like it couldn't get any bigger, like it couldn't dance anymore. . . .
(to be continued in Part 2)
-----
Shades (Part 2) A different kind of jungle
Shades
(part2)
Cambodia: A different kind of jungle.
We are in Cambodia. Here, anything can happen. And everything did. I am suddenly surrounded by the impoverished souls of terminally broken people. These, little did they know it then, would turn out to be the future monsters of this lost and tragic nation.They came silently in the night, protected by their tattooed darkened faces and, of course, the brush. My first raw instinct --since I had become an almost accidental photojournalist--was to announce myself as such, barely audible in a very shaky Khmer language, "Oh...Foreign Journalist!!...International Press!!!" (about seven vowels put together) hoping that would perhaps shield us from further danger, including straight out execution, a highly organized trait and preferred MO in the Cambodian jungles. They did raise their fully automatic AK's, which was to be expected, so we all did the only counter-maneuver possible and readily available: palms together to the forehead in a prayer gesture. We were all frozen with fear, our likeness pale and drawn, for an instant that lasted two lifetimes, maybe more.
Only when one of them broke into laughter I took the most difficult step forward of my uneasy life, not for a second deviating my eyes from the huge long barrel and the face that owned it. Hardly breathing, I managed to break a crooked smile as I continued to repeat the same words over and over, almost as if I had assumed they didn't hear me the first time nor the second. But I was a sorry excuse for a mantra-repeating terrified monk. Just as the moment came with a sense of a miracle in heaven, it dissipated just as fast. Not everybody was laughing, and just as the instant bore a promise, it immediately cloaked into another terrifying one.
He couldn't have been twenty years old, but his eyes were forever. And so he took a life forevermore, and didn't even change his expression. . . .
The count stops roughly at 1.7 million murdered Cambodians. Even more died in the aftermath of it, due to complications of the torture and subsequent maladies of the longest 4 years of that country's existence, also known as the Magnificent Angkor.
I still have terrible trouble even trying to put these horrible events in ANY kind of perspective; therefore, I will stop attempting to do so, just like then, and hope that it will not ever be forgotten or shuffled down in the annals of History. I do find it abhorrent, however, that we, the free people of the West, allowed that implacable Genocide to occur, even after we had made the now obscene claim of --Never Again--! And yet, it was allowed to happen. We let a monster named Pol Pot, himself a Cambodian, drive and push his own country towards one of the greatest catastrophes of the 20th Century.
On April 17, 1975, Pot himself--the monstrous leader of the communist guerrilla organization--transformed Cambodia into a virtual prison without walls. This extreme form of radical communism annihilated religion, culture, currency, personal property, hospitals, schools, the banking system and every other vestige of modern urban life.
Nearly half the population of Cambodia died in the four years that followed, many in the “killing fields” such as Toul Sleng, the slaughterhouse in Phnom-Penh. Those who survived emerged forever scarred by the four year nightmare of forced labor camps, starvation, brutality and mass murder.
But now it's December, 1989, and 15 years later. What has really changed? Khmer Rouge is still roaming the countryside with impunity. The Vietnamese liberated the country from the iron fist of forced labor and human atrocities in '79. And the only reason they left after 10 years of occupation was based solely on the fact that the Soviet Union stop supporting them--financially anyway.
The incredible thing is that, as soon as the Viets departed, Khmer Rouge decided to seek their revenge. Their own compatriots were killed, tortured and massacred. If there was a single unproven accusation that they cooperated with the Vietnamese in any way, shape or form there would be no trials, no defense; nothing but kangaroo courts, a circus, not a trial, and they would never be seen again. The US after taking a serious final licking by the North Vietnamese until '75, having to leave a country in ruins, did not do anything. So, what improved? We were all over in South East Asia, provoking the war against Viet-Nam on a single Gulf of Tomkin incident, betrayed almost everyone who trusted us, breaking promise after promise, sold out our own allies who were helping us, and left a mess so bad that it would take decades to fix.
Even now, things aren't back to normal; the countryside is full of unexploded bombs all the way from Cambodia to Laos, and all the stops in between. Children, those poor innocents who weren't even born when the war was at it's peak, are now getting blown to pieces from still active mines that all sides involved in the conflict, put candidly all over their countries. With the Khmer Rouge still very active, the Thais are the only ones who are helping out with the leftovers of a war that never really ended, by allowing refugee camps inside their borders near the small town of Aranyaprethet, working together with UNESCO. Having really nowhere to turn, Cambodians are trying to just make it, day to day, under terrible conditions due to overcrowding and lack of medicine and basic resources. The Cambodian's plight is by far one of the most--very possibly the the worst-- tragedy of the late 20th Century for SE Asia. And the sad saga continues on with a life of its own, when things that are bad are not getting any better, like some kind of Evil undead, where Bad is meeting Worse.
My friend and colleague Thung Miep swears the country is cursed. I look at him with an ironic stare, as I tell him, "Buddy, I could have told you that!"
And Pol Pot was still alive and well. He died much later ---in 1997--- alone and sick in the nomad jungle where he dwelt.
He was never charged with any crime
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
I have no Message....
The Pope of Greewhich Vllage
Seven years later, while I was living in NYC , I met a homeless man who could have easily portrayed Robin Williams character in "The Fisher King" He was what I would consider brilliant. Not quite a poet, the man could write some heavy duty prose. Alienated from society, he was always thinking outside the box and as I spoke to him, I would envision the man surrounded by voracious readers and would-be writers transfixed by the outstanding fluency of his rhetoric. I would picture him as a professor of academics in some fancy East Coast university and the "star" of such. His writings were not only fascinating, but also edgy, poignant and highly philosophical. He was worldly, knew Roman and Greek history to precise dates and even spoke some Latin.
I would share long afternoons with him listening to his arguments carefully, and learning much in the process. He didn't seem to want a lot from life, except for the tools he would use for his basic survival and the open opportunities, as he would call them, to learn something else, as a constant, everyday.
He said his name didn't matter but everybody knew him as "The Pope". His face was like that of a biblical prophet (some homeless people have a tendency to look that way); his weathered face told the tale of his hard existence, and his deep green eyes shone from the brilliancy within the frames of his glasses. Who was this so knowledgeable man? Was it my destiny to meet him? I don't think it'll be too soon before I will find the answer to that question. In the meantime, I keep on reading the manuscripts that he wrote and that he so kindly left behind. "For the kids that are yet to become whole"--he said, "and for you" as he went outside, back into the streets of New York City. He succumbed to pneumonia in that city on Feb 22. 2009. One year and one day today.
But he did leave in me a sense of wanting, a void that only pure knowledge would satisfy, even if I didn't know what that meant at the time. To never stop searching, never stop discovering. And to find out what really makes us tick. As human beings and as souls.
Maybe we'll meet again, Pope, in some other place, or alternate Universe...and I hope by then I'll have something to tell you that you would love to hear. Right now I have no idea what that is, but I have no doubt there's a secret on those pages. A message of some kind, a hidden treasure. And I will continue to try to decipher it. Perhaps then, I, too, will become what you meant by being 'whole".
Part 2
The Pope endlessly repeats -as I pressure him to elaborate on a deep philosophical premise- "I have no message for nobody." Yet, ironically, all the people who've had the opportunity (and the privilege) to hear him talk, feel otherwise and flock instinctively to his unique brand of discourse. But that isn't easy because he organizes no gatherings, gives no "speeches" --ramblings maybe--, pushes no method, peddles no mantras, has no organization, no office, no secretary, no telephone number, no fax and no fixed address. How could he? Our Pope is homeless. But he has became a fixture in Greenwich Village and as he grows more popular everyday, he has managed to become, very unwillingly some kind of local hero, a legend in his own right. Pope is everywhere and nowhere. He stays with the streets, and they have become the vehicle by which he delivers his message. But he insists that he has no message, so the man has become a human oxymoron, a beautiful contradiction and a sight to behold. There was a day when he just disappeared. He stayed away for two and a half weeks. I tried to locate him by checking with hospitals, the local jail, the police precincts. Nothing. I even checked the morgue with my heart pounding in my throat, and an awful sickening feeling in my stomach. Nothing, no trace of him anywhere. The streets were lonely without him. Even Washington Park was depleted of the beautiful aura it always had. Everything had suddenly changed. Many people were wondering what could be done. He had touched so many souls that even the ones who didn't know him like I did, were truly worried, restless, anxious. There was no Internet or cell phones in those days, so I gathered a couple of friends and we hung fliers and posters with the ubiquitous, "Have you seen this man? When he finally returned, he had the nerve to ask, through a smart-ass smirk on his face, "Why are you treating me like a criminal with all those FBI-like wanted posters, where have you guys been all this time? We could only chuckle away with him as I felt a great benevolent feeling of relief and inner-calmness once again. So, after a quick pro quo, he confessed to us that he felt, all at the sudden, the need to be near water. Not to wash up, oh no ! but he had the imperative call of the Ocean, as he put it. The beaches of Coney Island and The New Jersey Shore. He recalled for us how liberating that feeling was. I had to concur since I understood exactly what he meant. I came soon afterward to the conclusion, the magnificent realization, that I really, really loved this so strange a man.
by René Volpi
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Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The beginning
Monday, February 15, 2010
(Chapter 1)
The beginning
The jungle was overrun with sounds. There were little monkeys on the road, basking in the sun. So we decided to stop. They were as curious as we were: "Who are these people?", they surely must have thought. They allowed as to approach to just a few feet, playfully, but by the time we got too close, they just vanished. These were very fast monkeys. We had been on the road now for what seemed like the entire day, but the day wasn't in a hurry; it kept on pounding with incessant heat and glare. The road seemed to be going on forever. This was, after all, the Amazon. We left Cayenne traveling on the coast; a sneaky road making its way through the thick forest. It was indeed a sight to behold. Finally, we reached the river that served as the border between French Guyana and Suriname, Now all we needed was money to cross it. The Chinese dude in charge told everybody he was running late--like if anybody cared--and proceeded to show everyone inside the boat. We figured, hey, at least we are going across. What could be the worse that could happen?...and it did.
Okay, so, here we are; but are we? This China-man was in no mood to listen to our poverty rap, nor was he in a very generous mood neither. So he immediately called the police. Next thing we knew, we were sitting in front of this huge individual asking us questions that we didn't have any answers for; like, where is your money?...do you have a visa?... where are you going, or rather where do you think you are going? All that in a very strange dialect of Dutch and a whole variety of hand symbols and not-too friendly gestures. I couldn't understand anything he was saying, so I mumbled, shyly, "Sir, I don't understand you." Suddenly he stopped, stood and as he leaned towards me, he said: "Okay, do you understand THIS?" and a fist as big as a football appeared right in front of my inadequate face. I'm not sure what happened next, but we ended up a short time later crowding on a bus with a silent driver back into the jungle that we were trying so desperately to avoid. NO food, no water, no money, no talk. We were a bunch of sorry-ass hippies on the road...
We were going to jail, that was a fact. We were told in no uncertain terms that we were going to the lock-up for cheating the China-man at the border crossing. We then knew we were about to be fed; what, that was a whole different question.
The trip lasted for about three hours. No-one spoke a word, not us nor the driver. One thing we knew for certain: we were still on the road towards an unknown destination. We eventually reached a town called New Nieckery which was located, of course, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by absolute nothingness, just a muddy road and pure Amazon jungle. At one point, I felt as if the entire cacophony was just a choir of laughter as we were the joke of the whole region--people, monkeys and birds. In any case, everything was, to us, still a great adventure. Then we stopped. "We are here", the driver said, "now GO!" What?...who, us? --we asked, incredulously. He calmly responded, "Yes, you!, Go!! . . . GO!!"
We were not going to jail. Not only that, but as he closed the door after we descended, he threw a paper bag our way that had some paperwork with our names on it, plus two twenty dollar bills. We were absolutely ecstatic, barely managed to say thank you as we retreated into the fast approaching darkness.
We'd been on the road for four days now, little sleep, almost nothing to eat except for some rice and bread, but we had managed to go through four countries. Our destination was unchanged, Amsterdam or bust.
Two, sometimes three, hippies on the road hitchhiking through the Great Amazon jungle for days on end was more than we had ever expected, managing to fool "balseros", befriending cops and eluding jail, while our trip was an altogether exhilarating experience. This is why we took the trip in the first place, for the ones who were so scared that they couldn't or wouldn't, and for the stories we were going to tell our grandchildren. At those moments--I can recollect fully--I was wearing my heart on my sleeve and my soul as the suit. Now we were about to cross to another unknown land, British Guyana. I knew we were going to eat some great chocolates and I was really looking forward. At least the people there spoke a language that we kinda could somewhat understand. I felt as if we were the only white people on the entire planet; the culture shock had been amazing, except for the French Guyana, which was heavily populated with whites as well as mulattoes. But now, whoa!, this was definitely a black people's nation. "I want some chocolate," was all Raphael heard me say. Incredibly he wanted to go...to the movies!! So we ended up in the movies( outdoors) eating lots of chocolate.
It was an illuminating time, a very exciting experience. This was our first "English" encounter, but for the most part it turned out to be a demonstration of our abilities to combine sign language--our own invented kind--plus all the languages that we managed to express ourselves with at the time, and that was, in itself, a glorious thing. Or so we thought.
I hadn't spoken to my parents since the trip started. I thought of them fondly, but somehow I knew it was going to be a long time before I would see either of them again. So we carried on, without maps or compasses, meeting new people, sharing everything. I didn't know it then, but these were going to be the best years of my life, and as Rapha later confessed, they were his, too.
Here we are, thousands of miles from home, with a passport near its expiration. How in the world are we gonna get to Europe? On a ship? A plane? This was not going to be a cruel joke or a tease. No way. We were going to make it, how, well, that was going to be another story.
Ronnie was working happily in Caracas, Venezuela, when we abruptly came into his life. Since he was Rapha's brother, I knew he would persuade him to leave that life for a life of the unknown. Rapha was a master manipulator, a brilliant mathematician who left little to chance. We were destined to be three on our way to Europe, and he was gonna make sure it happened just like that. Don't ask me how, or what he was going to do to make it happen, but he figured three were better than two and that was that. I had no special argument one way or another, so I let the chips fall where they may.
For now, that was just the plan, since we were nowhere near Caracas, yet. There is more jungle to traverse, more rivers, more fares. We pulled silver plated wire from our backpacks and we continued doing what we did to get this far, making bits of money here and there by making these strange artifacts that Rapha designed to take the place of earrings, sometimes necklaces, other times bracelets. I said, "People aren't gonna buy THAT, c'mon!" As usual I was proven wrong. Again. We really amassed a fortune in Brazil with those ugly things; people were making lines to buy them.
Now he wanted to do them again. Sure. Why not?. So we re-started. There was no place to go from there, it really WAS nowhere. There were no roads even; we had to take a plane. But to where? Trinidad and Tobago seemed like a pretty good destination. Maybe we could pass as "tourists..."
A few days later we landed at Port of Spain, the capital of T&T. We quickly slipped into the city and found a cozy place to rest our tired bones. Since we were staying at this hippie's hotel, we started hurrying up our productions of those ugly items with the purpose of a Grand Sale. It worked. Soon we were at the main plaza selling the stuff to "other" tourists. Then we could be on our way to Venezuela and onto our final destination, Amsterdam.
We lived in Caracas without much fanfare, partying a lot, since Ronnie would know all the hot places and staying here and there with some friends and other acquaintances. It was really a sweet time; each of us found a girlfriend, so we really had it going. One day we decided it was time to check out that place in the mountains called Merida, where the magic mushrooms come from. Oh , boy! We certainly weren't dissatisfied. We were told if one takes them right after a full moon, the potency quadruples. They were not kidding, either!
We found out that there were charter flights to Europe from the Caribbean town of Bridgetown in Barbados. Since we couldn't afford round-trip tickets, we were prepared to go with a one-way. What could they do, send us back?. No one had a real idea how close they came to that.
Soon it was time to make the final assault on the senses. All the unprepared preparations were in place, passports were forged or checked, t-shirts and jeans were packed and we even shaved, although our hair was a spaghetti-like mess. We were ready for the Big Time.
No one in Luxembourg took a look at us without staring outright, the poor airport officials didn't know what to make of us. We were nothing but a bunch of no-money hippies in t-shirts with one-way tickets, while the whole nation was covered in three feet of snow. Unbelievably, they gave us 40 minutes to exit the country. It looked like they did those things back in the days. These were still innocent times, and anyone who has traveled in those times knows exactly what I mean by this.
Free. We are finally in Europe and we are free...who could have guessed it?
(continued on Chapter 2)
The beginning
The jungle was overrun with sounds. There were little monkeys on the road, basking in the sun. So we decided to stop. They were as curious as we were: "Who are these people?", they surely must have thought. They allowed as to approach to just a few feet, playfully, but by the time we got too close, they just vanished. These were very fast monkeys. We had been on the road now for what seemed like the entire day, but the day wasn't in a hurry; it kept on pounding with incessant heat and glare. The road seemed to be going on forever. This was, after all, the Amazon. We left Cayenne traveling on the coast; a sneaky road making its way through the thick forest. It was indeed a sight to behold. Finally, we reached the river that served as the border between French Guyana and Suriname, Now all we needed was money to cross it. The Chinese dude in charge told everybody he was running late--like if anybody cared--and proceeded to show everyone inside the boat. We figured, hey, at least we are going across. What could be the worse that could happen?...and it did.
Okay, so, here we are; but are we? This China-man was in no mood to listen to our poverty rap, nor was he in a very generous mood neither. So he immediately called the police. Next thing we knew, we were sitting in front of this huge individual asking us questions that we didn't have any answers for; like, where is your money?...do you have a visa?... where are you going, or rather where do you think you are going? All that in a very strange dialect of Dutch and a whole variety of hand symbols and not-too friendly gestures. I couldn't understand anything he was saying, so I mumbled, shyly, "Sir, I don't understand you." Suddenly he stopped, stood and as he leaned towards me, he said: "Okay, do you understand THIS?" and a fist as big as a football appeared right in front of my inadequate face. I'm not sure what happened next, but we ended up a short time later crowding on a bus with a silent driver back into the jungle that we were trying so desperately to avoid. NO food, no water, no money, no talk. We were a bunch of sorry-ass hippies on the road...
We were going to jail, that was a fact. We were told in no uncertain terms that we were going to the lock-up for cheating the China-man at the border crossing. We then knew we were about to be fed; what, that was a whole different question.
The trip lasted for about three hours. No-one spoke a word, not us nor the driver. One thing we knew for certain: we were still on the road towards an unknown destination. We eventually reached a town called New Nieckery which was located, of course, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by absolute nothingness, just a muddy road and pure Amazon jungle. At one point, I felt as if the entire cacophony was just a choir of laughter as we were the joke of the whole region--people, monkeys and birds. In any case, everything was, to us, still a great adventure. Then we stopped. "We are here", the driver said, "now GO!" What?...who, us? --we asked, incredulously. He calmly responded, "Yes, you!, Go!! . . . GO!!"
We were not going to jail. Not only that, but as he closed the door after we descended, he threw a paper bag our way that had some paperwork with our names on it, plus two twenty dollar bills. We were absolutely ecstatic, barely managed to say thank you as we retreated into the fast approaching darkness.
We'd been on the road for four days now, little sleep, almost nothing to eat except for some rice and bread, but we had managed to go through four countries. Our destination was unchanged, Amsterdam or bust.
Two, sometimes three, hippies on the road hitchhiking through the Great Amazon jungle for days on end was more than we had ever expected, managing to fool "balseros", befriending cops and eluding jail, while our trip was an altogether exhilarating experience. This is why we took the trip in the first place, for the ones who were so scared that they couldn't or wouldn't, and for the stories we were going to tell our grandchildren. At those moments--I can recollect fully--I was wearing my heart on my sleeve and my soul as the suit. Now we were about to cross to another unknown land, British Guyana. I knew we were going to eat some great chocolates and I was really looking forward. At least the people there spoke a language that we kinda could somewhat understand. I felt as if we were the only white people on the entire planet; the culture shock had been amazing, except for the French Guyana, which was heavily populated with whites as well as mulattoes. But now, whoa!, this was definitely a black people's nation. "I want some chocolate," was all Raphael heard me say. Incredibly he wanted to go...to the movies!! So we ended up in the movies( outdoors) eating lots of chocolate.
It was an illuminating time, a very exciting experience. This was our first "English" encounter, but for the most part it turned out to be a demonstration of our abilities to combine sign language--our own invented kind--plus all the languages that we managed to express ourselves with at the time, and that was, in itself, a glorious thing. Or so we thought.
I hadn't spoken to my parents since the trip started. I thought of them fondly, but somehow I knew it was going to be a long time before I would see either of them again. So we carried on, without maps or compasses, meeting new people, sharing everything. I didn't know it then, but these were going to be the best years of my life, and as Rapha later confessed, they were his, too.
Here we are, thousands of miles from home, with a passport near its expiration. How in the world are we gonna get to Europe? On a ship? A plane? This was not going to be a cruel joke or a tease. No way. We were going to make it, how, well, that was going to be another story.
Ronnie was working happily in Caracas, Venezuela, when we abruptly came into his life. Since he was Rapha's brother, I knew he would persuade him to leave that life for a life of the unknown. Rapha was a master manipulator, a brilliant mathematician who left little to chance. We were destined to be three on our way to Europe, and he was gonna make sure it happened just like that. Don't ask me how, or what he was going to do to make it happen, but he figured three were better than two and that was that. I had no special argument one way or another, so I let the chips fall where they may.
For now, that was just the plan, since we were nowhere near Caracas, yet. There is more jungle to traverse, more rivers, more fares. We pulled silver plated wire from our backpacks and we continued doing what we did to get this far, making bits of money here and there by making these strange artifacts that Rapha designed to take the place of earrings, sometimes necklaces, other times bracelets. I said, "People aren't gonna buy THAT, c'mon!" As usual I was proven wrong. Again. We really amassed a fortune in Brazil with those ugly things; people were making lines to buy them.
Now he wanted to do them again. Sure. Why not?. So we re-started. There was no place to go from there, it really WAS nowhere. There were no roads even; we had to take a plane. But to where? Trinidad and Tobago seemed like a pretty good destination. Maybe we could pass as "tourists..."
A few days later we landed at Port of Spain, the capital of T&T. We quickly slipped into the city and found a cozy place to rest our tired bones. Since we were staying at this hippie's hotel, we started hurrying up our productions of those ugly items with the purpose of a Grand Sale. It worked. Soon we were at the main plaza selling the stuff to "other" tourists. Then we could be on our way to Venezuela and onto our final destination, Amsterdam.
We lived in Caracas without much fanfare, partying a lot, since Ronnie would know all the hot places and staying here and there with some friends and other acquaintances. It was really a sweet time; each of us found a girlfriend, so we really had it going. One day we decided it was time to check out that place in the mountains called Merida, where the magic mushrooms come from. Oh , boy! We certainly weren't dissatisfied. We were told if one takes them right after a full moon, the potency quadruples. They were not kidding, either!
We found out that there were charter flights to Europe from the Caribbean town of Bridgetown in Barbados. Since we couldn't afford round-trip tickets, we were prepared to go with a one-way. What could they do, send us back?. No one had a real idea how close they came to that.
Soon it was time to make the final assault on the senses. All the unprepared preparations were in place, passports were forged or checked, t-shirts and jeans were packed and we even shaved, although our hair was a spaghetti-like mess. We were ready for the Big Time.
No one in Luxembourg took a look at us without staring outright, the poor airport officials didn't know what to make of us. We were nothing but a bunch of no-money hippies in t-shirts with one-way tickets, while the whole nation was covered in three feet of snow. Unbelievably, they gave us 40 minutes to exit the country. It looked like they did those things back in the days. These were still innocent times, and anyone who has traveled in those times knows exactly what I mean by this.
Free. We are finally in Europe and we are free...who could have guessed it?
(continued on Chapter 2)
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Tuesday, February 16, 2010
An unexpected visit
(chapter 2)
An unexpected visit
Back in high school I always dreamed of adventure. I felt it was just a matter of time before i could exercise my Great Escape. I KNEW it was just a matter of time, among some other small issues, like permission from the adults and things of that nature. And a passport.
The phone rang at my parents' house and "they" where asking for me. Then the visit came, and now they wanted me. Bad. They were all wearing suits, and they were escorted by two military supervisors. They had my name on the list and they were coming to sign me up." They" were the Army, and I suddenly had no friends. My Dad promptly offered them chairs to sit down as they engaged in discussing my future induction in the Service. Hell, no, I thought to myself. Why? Why me, why now, who is deciding? I waited, I paced, I sat, and my mind was racing. I was done; but I didn't want to accept it. If i was to make a move, it would have to be immediate and I would need some money, quick. Lots of money. So this is what I did...
************************************************************************************************************************************
The getaway
Since the military wasn't what inspired me the most, I quickly decided that it wasn't an option. After all, being 17 was really what counted since the world was out there, and all for the taking. No, I didn't prepare for much. I had a great backpack, had a passport (which was about to expire), got a down sleeping bag, got maps to all neighboring countries, jeans, t-shirts and a jacket, and in less than three days after getting some money from who else but Mom, I was ready to hit the road. I did my best to assure her that everything would be fine, like if I had any idea. Tearfully, she handed me the equivalent of a real fortune, something like $200 USD plus a huge bag of Mom-made sandwiches, a thermos full of coffee, home-made brownies and lots of candy and chewing gum...I kissed her while holding back the tears and I left. Many years would pass before I saw either of my parents again. I headed North towards the border with Brazil. I remember clearly that my head was exploding with excitement. I had been on the road before, this same road that now was gonna take me much further. So this for me was the Big Time and a whole new set of emotions were going through all the fibers of my being. It was almost as if I was destined to do this; born to run as they say. Indeed, I was just following my destiny.
************************************************************************************************************************************
An unexpected visit
Back in high school I always dreamed of adventure. I felt it was just a matter of time before i could exercise my Great Escape. I KNEW it was just a matter of time, among some other small issues, like permission from the adults and things of that nature. And a passport.
The phone rang at my parents' house and "they" where asking for me. Then the visit came, and now they wanted me. Bad. They were all wearing suits, and they were escorted by two military supervisors. They had my name on the list and they were coming to sign me up." They" were the Army, and I suddenly had no friends. My Dad promptly offered them chairs to sit down as they engaged in discussing my future induction in the Service. Hell, no, I thought to myself. Why? Why me, why now, who is deciding? I waited, I paced, I sat, and my mind was racing. I was done; but I didn't want to accept it. If i was to make a move, it would have to be immediate and I would need some money, quick. Lots of money. So this is what I did...
************************************************************************************************************************************
The getaway
Since the military wasn't what inspired me the most, I quickly decided that it wasn't an option. After all, being 17 was really what counted since the world was out there, and all for the taking. No, I didn't prepare for much. I had a great backpack, had a passport (which was about to expire), got a down sleeping bag, got maps to all neighboring countries, jeans, t-shirts and a jacket, and in less than three days after getting some money from who else but Mom, I was ready to hit the road. I did my best to assure her that everything would be fine, like if I had any idea. Tearfully, she handed me the equivalent of a real fortune, something like $200 USD plus a huge bag of Mom-made sandwiches, a thermos full of coffee, home-made brownies and lots of candy and chewing gum...I kissed her while holding back the tears and I left. Many years would pass before I saw either of my parents again. I headed North towards the border with Brazil. I remember clearly that my head was exploding with excitement. I had been on the road before, this same road that now was gonna take me much further. So this for me was the Big Time and a whole new set of emotions were going through all the fibers of my being. It was almost as if I was destined to do this; born to run as they say. Indeed, I was just following my destiny.
************************************************************************************************************************************
Monday, February 15, 2010
40 minutes to leave the country
(Chapter 3)
40 minutes to leave the country
Fine. So far so good. We figured 40 minutes is better than no minutes at all; hence, we couldn't be more happy.
Strange looks and stares came upon us everywhere we turned. It must have been way below freezing and we were in t-shirts, jeans and sandals. This was not good. We quickly unpacked and started putting on more and more shirts over shirts and jeans over jeans to the point that we must have looked ridiculous, because the people who were staring started to laugh and to groan about us and all around us. We needed to think, think, damn you! Time was passing and we were nowhere near getting a ride out of there. The cops were watching, oh, sure. They wanted to make sure we were leaving. So bad that they even gave us a ride to the freeway where we were now standing and freezing our asses off. Menacing clouds were threatening heavy rain as the late afternoon progressed. Our chaotic stand came to an end when a tip from a good man sent us scurrying into the city. Suddenly there was hope.
Maybe, just maybe, there was something like five minutes left on our exit clock when the man shocked us with an amazing solution. The plan was to try to get a vehicle from a rent-a-car agency that needed to be driven back to different cities throughout Europe. This was our chance, but a problem ensued when neither of us had a driver license--not a legal one anyway--so here we were, back at square one. As fate would have it, another hitchhiker showed up at the agency trying to get a ride out to Amsterdam. Wasn't that the place where we were going? I suppose "lucky" would be a humble misnomer at this time, because he did have a driving license. In less than two minutes, we filled out all the paperwork furiously, got the gas, the car and the subsequent driver and we were on our way to our destination. The cops who witnessed the whole charade were ecstatic and we left them very impressed with our hustling abilities and broad smiles on each of their faces. But no one was more amazed than we were. After all, if things would have turned out otherwise, we were going to be sent back to banana land in a hurry. That very same day. Lucky. Real lucky....
The End ?
********************************************************************************
40 minutes to leave the country
Fine. So far so good. We figured 40 minutes is better than no minutes at all; hence, we couldn't be more happy.
Strange looks and stares came upon us everywhere we turned. It must have been way below freezing and we were in t-shirts, jeans and sandals. This was not good. We quickly unpacked and started putting on more and more shirts over shirts and jeans over jeans to the point that we must have looked ridiculous, because the people who were staring started to laugh and to groan about us and all around us. We needed to think, think, damn you! Time was passing and we were nowhere near getting a ride out of there. The cops were watching, oh, sure. They wanted to make sure we were leaving. So bad that they even gave us a ride to the freeway where we were now standing and freezing our asses off. Menacing clouds were threatening heavy rain as the late afternoon progressed. Our chaotic stand came to an end when a tip from a good man sent us scurrying into the city. Suddenly there was hope.
Maybe, just maybe, there was something like five minutes left on our exit clock when the man shocked us with an amazing solution. The plan was to try to get a vehicle from a rent-a-car agency that needed to be driven back to different cities throughout Europe. This was our chance, but a problem ensued when neither of us had a driver license--not a legal one anyway--so here we were, back at square one. As fate would have it, another hitchhiker showed up at the agency trying to get a ride out to Amsterdam. Wasn't that the place where we were going? I suppose "lucky" would be a humble misnomer at this time, because he did have a driving license. In less than two minutes, we filled out all the paperwork furiously, got the gas, the car and the subsequent driver and we were on our way to our destination. The cops who witnessed the whole charade were ecstatic and we left them very impressed with our hustling abilities and broad smiles on each of their faces. But no one was more amazed than we were. After all, if things would have turned out otherwise, we were going to be sent back to banana land in a hurry. That very same day. Lucky. Real lucky....
The End ?
********************************************************************************
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
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