sexta-feira, 23 de maio de 2025

EVERYWHERE (at the same time) - Auckland/Bangkok/Toronto/RioJaneiro/Belgrade/Kinshasa

Auckland-Bangkok-Toronto-RioJaneiro-Belgrade-Kinshasa

I’m in Auckland, presently getting out of the AKL airport, in Māngere, and at the same time, I’m in Toronto, I’m in Bangkok, I’m in Belgrade,I’m in Rio de Janeiro, and I’m in Kinshasa, at Port Huilier, by the Congo river. And then, I’m Auckland again, now going through the Epsom neighborhood, a middle/upper class area in the central Auckland isthmus, primarily a valley enclosed by four volcanoes of the Auckland volcanic field: the Maungawhau / Mount Eden to the northwest, the Tītīkōpuke / Mount Saint John to the northeast, the Maungakiekie / One Tree Hill to the southeast and the Te Tātua a Riukiuta / Three Kings to the southwest. And then it’s night, and I’m back in Bangkok, more precisely, going through the Khao-San road, in Banglamphu, an area with full of Farangs, or foreigners, this is, here at the Khao-San road, local merchants would pull out your arm and impose their products on you, stuff like: roasted centipedes, discounts to get in massages parlors and local clubs, traveling packs to places like Pattaya, Phuket, Chiang Mai, etc. And then, I’m in Toronto, at the Harbourfront, this is, I’m here speaking with some guy from Mohawk ethnicity, he says that the word “Toronto” or “Toraton”, “ refers to 'The Narrows', a channel of water through which Lake Simcoe discharges into Lake Couchiching where the Huron, this is, ancient Iroquoian speaking people, had planted tree saplings in order to corral fish, and so, “this narrows were called tkaronto by the Mohawk” he says. And then I’m in Rio again, already going through Copacabana beach, and so, as I go through it, there at the top of some cliffs, I already can see that big statue of a man with his arms wide open, a scene from the City of God movie. And at the same time I’m in Belgrade, more precisely at the Beogradska Autobuska Stanica, this is, the Belgrade bus station, actually inside some kind of quaint coffee situated at the entrance of the station, the only establishment open at this time of the night. And then, I’m in Kinshasa again, now passing in front of the Gare centrale, where I meet some guys that wanna sell me some golden teeth with caries, “french gold, not African”.they say. And then I’m in Auckland again, now going along the Mount Eden Road, a neighborhood with many parks and jogging trails leading to views over the Hauraki Gulf, and also, a hub for vintage clothes stores, mainly when you get to the north section of the road, like this SuperTrash store, just off the junction with the Symonds Street and the New N road. And I’m in Bangkok again, still going through the Khao-San road, a street with many clubs aligned one after the other (clubs blasting some kind of hip hop beats mixed with some sort of luk thung or mor lam melodies), and as it goes, a small group of Thai boys armed with giant water pistols, are already coming in my direction, actually shooting some sort of green liquid at the American tourists (girls) around, and in the meanwhile, there will be a big mess, this is, people running to the sides, ladies screaming, some shouting, and then, outraged by these event, some of the american guys are even showing off their fists to these homies standing in front of the the travel agencies and other shops along this streets, laughing at all this. And so, as I go by, I’m also being pushed by all these guys, but, I quickly manage to escape through a narrow lane on my right, which turns out to be an alley with many tattooists working on the sidewalk, just in front of the massage parlors. And so, as I advance along this lane, I’m in effect staring at the graffitied showcases on both sides, I mean, looking at the figures depicted on it, that can actually be described as, gray humanoids with green brains and pink guts spilling out, one muscular guy passing as a DJ, many kinds of colorful worms jumping from his hands around the turntable, and, there is also a big octopus with a woman's head, their multiple hands(tentacles) doing massages on the body of the many tourists around, northern european flags on their head, and then, an image of Buddha looking at all this, his mouth full of dollars notes. And as it goes, I’m in Toronto again, now going through the Skywalk tunnel-bridge, a walking bridge connecting the CN Tower square, one of the bigger towers in the world, they say, with the Union Railway Station, a main station located on Front Street West. And then, I’m in Rio de Janeiro again, at the 8 its name to the world famous song named “the girl from Ipanema”. And then, again, I’m in Belgrade, still inside this quaint coffee house inside the Beogradska Autobuska Stanica, and so, as I said before, it’s late night, thus, there aren’t many people here, just a couple of middle aged guys seated at the front tables, smoking big cigarettes, in silence, and here at the bottom, there are also some other strangers, sleeping, or dozing over the tables on my side, this is, they are all asians migrants, Afghan, Pakistani, Tajikistani, Turkmen, etc, I get to know. And so, at some point, as it goes, I start some kind of chat with this guy dressed as Elvis, apparently, the only one awake, a guy named Zarak, now telling me that “If you wanna come from Pakistan to Europe, first you have to cross all Afghanistan, this because Iran have built a three feet for ten feet wall between Pakistan and their country, a wall with observation towers and fortress-style garrisons for troops, and so, nowadays, if Iran police catch you on their land, they will beat you and drive you back to Afghanistan” he says, and then, continuing, “so, what we actually do nowadays is… we have to pay to taliban merchants that take us inside their vans across all the country until reaching the southern part of the caspian sea, and then, once there, following on the beach, or through the forests by the sea, we would go across all Iran, and, once we reach the border with Turkey, with the help of some Kurd insurgents, we would go across that icy mountains they call Ararat, and then, once in Istanbul, we would follow the Bosphorus until the Black sea, I mean, this is how we have entered in the European union domain…” he says. And then, I’m in Kinshasa again, now following along the dusty sidewalks of Boulevard du 30 Juin, and so, at this point, a handicapped girl with a SonGoku t-shirt comes to me and try to sell me some plastic flowers, “ils peuvent faire des miracles, il suffit de les sentir”, she says. And quickly, moving back in Auckland, now going along the Karangahape Road, currently stepping over a large larvae graffitied on the sidewalk, and then passing in front of some comic-books stores, some tattoo parlours, some drag queen cabaret-style restaurants, some indie bars, and as it goes, as I look through the showcase of one of this bars, I actually see a big postcard from an old band I know, this is, The Scavengers, one of the first punk bands from New Zealand, actually a band where Brendan Perry (Dead Can Dance) played in the beginning of his career, and, being Dead Can Dance one of my favorite band from my teenage years, I know that the multi-instrumentalist Brendan Perry despite have been born in UK, have passed his teenage years in New Zealand and Australia. And then, I’m back in Bangkok, again going through the Banglamphu area, currently going along the Chakrabongse Road, and so, as it goes, after passing a small group of ricksaws waiting for clients, I’m actually surpassing places like, the Coffee Madness, the Oriental Princess Cosmetics, the Konnichipan Bakery, the Mind Day hostel, and then I come to a bridge over a chanel, the Norarat Sathan Bridge, and at this point I stop, lookin down at the greenish waters of this channel, its margins equipped with some kind of small gardens full of junk of all sorts, this is, junk squeezed between the back of buildings and the barriers of the channel itself, all very quiet and perfect, it looks, and then, as I stare at it, I spot some kind of pathway under all that mess, and so, as the devil rubs their eyes, there I go, already entering this sort of tunnel, and then, advancing in between some huge plants with fruits like bats, and there are also some colourful lamps around, lamps blinking in the middle of all this rubbish… and then, after having passed through some barriers, at some point, it looks like I’m entering someone's house, but no, I end up debouching at some other narrow path, this is, another path also flanked with some more junky gardens on both sides, and just then, I come up to the main street, the Soy Lamphu, and as I go through it, down there, I see a lighted placard on the front of some kind of venue, it says, “the Ordinary Bar”, and there I go, aproaching its porch, where there are some last clients, drinking in front of it. And as it goes, I get in touch with this tall guy drinking and smoking alone, and so, soon I get to know that he is a russian, and, as we smoke and drink together, he is already telling me that he has come all the way from his country riding some kind of motorcycle, and, after some brief commentaries about all the countries he have just crossed before arriving here, this is, kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, tajikistan, kashmir-India, etc, and as it goes, he also reveals to me how he got into a series of problems with the local police here because of some brawl he was involved on a massage parlour nearby. And, after passing me the big cane, he even reveals that “actually I’m stuck here now, I mean, the police is actually holding my passport and the documents from my motorcycle because, well… to give it back to me they want no money, what they want is, it is ridiculous to say this, but, what they want is actually the motor from my motorcycle, actually a Ural sidecar, built for the Red Army during world war two…” he says. And then, as this happens, I’m in Toronto again, now going along Bay street, following on the middle of some skyscrapers, like this one on my right hand side, actually the TD Canada Trust Tower, with the Chotto Matte on the ground floor, a Japanese-Peruvian Restaurant & Lounge, where I see some bizness people eating while staring at their mobile phones, and just in front, on the other side of the road, we have the Brooks Brothers, a clothes store that sells luxury clothing for men, women & kids, smokings, polo & rugby shirts, sport coats & blazers, casual pants, and even, turkish cotton bath towels, etc. And then, still on my left hand side, another tower, actually the headquarters of the RBC Royal Bank, and in front of it, the Brookfield Place, home to offices of various companies including Merrill Lynch, RBC Capital Markets, Nomura Group, American Express, Bank of New York Mellon, Time Inc. and Brookfield Asset Management, among others. And then, after crossing the Wellington street, on my right hand side, we have the Walrus Pub & Beer Hall, just in front of the Arthritis Society Canada, and the Dominion Centre, an office complex of six skyscrapers, the headquarters of the Toronto based Dominion Bank. And then, on the right hand of the road, another huge building, its ground floor covered with giant coloured butterflies, actually the Commerce Court West, and then, after the tramway, on the left side of the road, we have the BMO Financial Group, just in front of the Bank of the Nova Scotia where some guy dressed as clown, with a gazunder on with hand, offering candy to the passersby. And then I’m back in Rio de Janeiro, now going through the Leblon neighborhood, a pretty posh neighborhood that, apparently, has the most expensive price per residential square meter in Latin America, they say. And then I’m in Belgrade again, now getting out of the Beogradska Autobuska Stanica, accompanied by Zarak, my afghan friend, and so, it’s late night, thus, there aren’t many people on the streets, only ghosts, even so, as we try to ask around how to go to the city centre, we make a new friend, actually a dwarf holding some kind of goblet drum tied on his waist, and thus, as it goes, “my name is Davud” he says, “and you can follow me, I will teach you a shortcut to the uptown,,,”, and there we go, first across some kind of park in front of some massive building with a germanoid style, Z serie, and then, up some narrow street with some skewed buildings on both sides, and so, “this is the Kamenička”, he says “and there on the top is the Zeleni Vena, also called the Turkish Market” he adds, “and then, after crossing the Terazijski Tunel, we will be at the Knez Mihailova Street, a main pedestrian street already on the city centre itself…” And now, I’m in Africa again, coming back to Kinshasa, presently going along avenue du marais, passing just on the side of the Botanique Gardens, where I see like ten diferent religious troupes congregating inside the park, each troupe with a leader holding a megaphone, praying loudly, as if in competition, each one of them trying to be more loud and dramatic than his neighbor, and as it goes, those who are watching, at every moment wanting to touch the leader's megaphone. And then, I’m in Auckland again, at the Aotea Square, now going through the Waharoa gate, a fancy gate/sculpture incorporated with representations of the spirits of the Māori, like the Tāne Mahuta, this is, the god of all forest creatures, the Tāwhirimātea, the god of wind and storms, the Haumia-tiketike, god of uncultivated food and fern-root, the Rongo-mā-Tāne, the god of Agriculture and Peace, the Tangaroa, the god of the sea, the Tūmatauenga, the god of the wars, the Rūaumoko, the god of earthquakes, and the Whiro-te-tipua, that is the god of darkness, evil, and death. And then, as I go through the Albert Street, I’m actually passing on the side of the Auckland District Court, and it happens that there is a lot of scaffoldings in front of it, and then, I see judges, lawyers, defendants, criminals and police officers passing under all this apparatus, and on the other side of the road, I see the road improvement workers, giggling, while staring at this scene, and then, after passing the crossroad with the Wyndham Street, I’m actually passing in front of the Shakespeare Hotel, a victorian style restaurant & bar & pub & hotel, and the Ellice Road Social Lounge, a pizza place with some billiards tables, and the Sumo Sushi, a japanese restaurant, and then, after some more road constructions, we have the Albert Leather Factory, where you can get your sheepskin boots or your shearling coat made from lambskin, and then, the Sĩ Lashes and Nails, a beauty clinic where you can do your eyelash extensions, and then, after the Galata Kebabs & Grill, a turkish/greek restaurant, it’s the New Zealand Trade Centre and the JW Marriott, a five stars hotel with a glazed facade, and then, after the crossroad with the Mills lane, it’s the CityMed, a clinic where you can make your IUD implant insertion, and the Up Cafe, after the crossroad with the Customs Street, I continue through the Lower Albert Street that will debouche at some kind of Ferry Terminal, from where I can take a boat to the Rangitoto, the Motutapu, or the Rakino islands. And then, it’s late night, and I’m back in Bangkok, this is, after been walking through the labyrinth of roads and alleys between the so called chinatown and the Chao Phraya River, I have just reached this kind of triangular hexagonal building/shrine installed on the middle of some kind of park by the river. And so, as I’m getting closer to this kind of building, to my surprise, now, I see someone jumping out from the first varanda of it, and landing right here on my side, just like that, and then, we also can hear some kind of whispered voices coming from inside thais pyramidal building, some sort of hoarse yells... And as it goes, the guy that just landed here, is already asking me something I can't really understand, and so, “What, do you need something?” I say; and he, in some kind of broken english, “Yes, I need something!” he says, “can you give me something!?”; “Hum, yes, I can…” I say, and as I say this, I’m actually passing him a lighter that I had in my pocket, and he, instantly, with the lighter on his hand, he is already going through the park, collecting some remains of dry grass, and then, engaging in the process of lighting up a small fire by the trunk of some fat tree… and then, as the fire starts to burn, he begins to sing some kind of song, softly humming it. And so, as it goes, the guys that were inside that fancy castle are now coming to the top of the surrounding walls, still rubbing their eyes, and then, one by one, they are actually jumping out from there, and here they come, slowly approaching the place where we are, and as they approach, they are actually verbalizing some small words in Thai language and then, as they get closer and closer, some of them actually shut up, now staring at me, at the fire, and at the one that just lighted this small fire, interrelatedly. And then, one of them come to me smiling and just asks my name, and I, well, “I just forgot my name” I say, and he, still smiling, he says “I’m Rattana… it means gem or jewel something like that…” he says. And then, as I got aware of his english capabilities, “but what is your friend doing, why is he singing a song to the fire, is this some kind of exorcism?”; I ask, and “exorcism, what is that?” he says. “Well, is he calling the spirits or sum?”, “hum, the spirits…” he exclaims, “well, in Thailand we have no spirits, here we have only goshes…”, “hum ok, so, what kind of gosh do you think he is invoking?”, “hum, I’m not sure, we have many in Thailand, and many of them have no name… for example, we have the Phi Am, a ghosh that sits on a person's chest during the night, it is believed that this ghosh may cause sleeping paralysis; and we have the Phi Hua Khat, a kind of headless male ghost that carries his head on his hands: and we have the Phi Ka, a kind of crazy ghost that can do anything. And we have Phi Lang Kluang, a kind of ghost from Southern Thailand with a very large wound on his back, a mutilated one. And we have the Phi Ngu, also known as Phrai Ngu or Ngueak Ngu, a kind of ghost related to snakes that may appear in snake form, in human form or in a combination of both forms; and we have the Phi Phong, a malevolent male ghost having an unpleasant smell, that lives in dark places under the vegetation; and we have the Phi Phrai, the ghost of a woman who died together with the child in her womb and lives in the water; and we have the Phi Pop, a kind of ghost which eats raw meat, this is, humans and animals can be possessed by this Phi Pop which eats their internal organs without killing them; and we have the Phi Pu Thao, a ghost appearing as a very old man… And we have the Phi Song Nang, a female ghost that first lures and then attacks and kills young men. And we have Phi Tabo, a blind ghost with hollow eyes. And we have the Phi Tai Ha, that are ghosts of persons that died in car accidents. And we have Phi Tai Hong, the ghost of someone that suffered a sudden violent or cruel death. And we have the Phi Thale, a ghost from the sea, whose name is also used as a slang word for naughty men. And we have the Suea Saming, a male or female transformed into a tiger as a result of black magic. And we have the Phi Tai Thang Klom, that is the vengeful ghost of a pregnant women who died during childbirth… and we have the Nang Kwak, that is a ghost deemed to bring good fortune, prosperity, and attract customers to a business, commonly dressed in red Thai style clothing, this is, the Nang Kwak may be an incarnation of the Mae PoSop, the Thai rice goddess”, he says finally, as all his friends surround us and that guy around the fire. And then I’m in Toronto again, now at the crossroad between Bay street and Queen street, actually passing in front of the old Toronto City Hall, a Richardsonian Romanesque building, this is, a style of architecture that combines Byzantine, Romanesque, and Renaissance architecture, actually a building made of sandstone, also called arenito, a kind of stone with a reddish colour, and then, after passing in front of the new Toronto City Hall, on the opposite side, I get to the crossroad with the Dundas street, and then the Edward street, and then the Elm street, and then the Walton street, and then the Gerrard street, and at some point I’m going through the Queens park, where I meet someone that takes me to visit the statue of Queen Victoria, and so, as we turn around the statue of the queen, this someone is actually talking about Ilona Anna Staller, known as Cicciolina, a Hungarian-Italian former porn star, politician, and singer. And then, after leaving the Leblon neighborhood in Rio de Janeiro, a neighborhood that, apparently, has the most expensive price per residential square meter in Latin America, I see myself in the Rocinha neighborhood, one of the biggest Slum Towns in Brazil, now going through some overpass, where bananas and papayas and spicy mangoes are being sold side by side with some alarm guns, and then, I’m actually passing in front of a “pet shop” that also repairs televisions; a satellite dishes workshop that also sells branded tennis; bakeries that also sell gas bottles and funky cases for your cell phone, and afterwards, I’m passing in front of some shops displaying worms with shiny colors, and then going along a narrow street formed by a row of small restaurants with names of national soap operas like “Tieta”; “As Cinco Panelas de Ouro”; “Pic-nic Classe C”; “O Pátio das Donzelas”; “Dona Xepa”; “Plumas e Paetês”; “Água Viva”; “Feijão Maravilha”; “A Gata Comeu”; “Brega & Chique” etc… and so, as I go though this street, I pass some flabbergasted tourists, all them coming with personal security, and then, I’m actually going into a maze of alleys with cans hanging from the electricity cables, and I see kids throwing stones at it, and then, as I go deeper and deeper, I see hawkers of various styles and shapes, I mean, I see pinocchios selling home-made ice-creams, d’artagnans announcing lottery tickets, haughty ladies quacking sweets with names of european and american cities, mulattoes climbing roofs and releasing birds or whatever, unfinished buildings converted into anonymous societies converted, shacks on the side of the shrines, potter houses, copper artisans, street vendors of strange costumes, storytellers of all kinds, sportive butchers, sharpeners, bakers of astrological bread, and then, as they make me enter through some kind of garage, there is an old man with dreads until the butocks playing some kind of horn, and a group of semi-naked kids playing some tambourines, and some brunette girls tap dancing and singing, and then as I move up to the rooftop all becomes dark. And then, it’s early morning, and here we are in Belgrade again, more precisely, at the Knez Mihailova Street, a main pedestrian street on the uptown, and so, here we are in front of some closed down shop, this is, by we I mean, me, Zarak, the afghan, and Davud, the bosnian dwarf, and so, we are actually standing in front of the window of a closed down shop, and so, Davud the dwarf is actually playing his small darbuka, Zarak is actually singing some Afghan romantic song on the top of it, and me, well me, I'm just hissing and doing some tap dancing. and as it goes, the first passersby, they give us coins, they give us bagels, and some, they even give us some second hand lottery tickets. And then, I’m back in Kinshasa, now at the the Marché Central, colloquially referred to as Zando ya Monene, going through a mesh of stalls selling fruits and vegetables like cocos nucifera, mangostana, mangifera indica, cavendish banana, rambutan, passiflora edulis, various kinds of maize, rice, cassava (manioc), sweet potatoes, yam, taro, plantain, tomatoes, pumpkins, different varieties of nuts, and in the middle of all this fruit/vegetable stalls there are also some meat stalls, this is, the dead animals hanging on big skewers, their dark blood falling over the just said fruits and vegetables, some big flies constantly landing on it… and then, on the halls around this main central area, there are also other stalls selling coloured fabrics, leather shoes, sandals and household goods like, many kind of baskets, plastic containers, pots and pans, perfumes and detergents made in china, and even some traditional medicine, this is, some devilish teas, some powders made from the bones of certain animals, some ointments to treat problems like, high blood pressure, cholera, venereal diseases, ebola, epilepsy, asthma, anxiety, depression, gout, gonorrhea, urinary infections, female infertility, and other kinds sexual dysfunctions.

EVERYWHERE(at the same time) - Athens/Beirut/Kampala/Havana/Barcelona/Srinagar

Athens-Beirut-Kampala-Havana-Barcelona-Srinagar

I’m in Athens, at the Syntagma square, and at the same time, I’m in Beirut, I’m in Kampala, I’m in Havana, I’m in Barcelona, and I’m in Srinagar, now going around Dal lake, one of the bigger lakes in the Jammu and Kashmir region. But, back to Athens, back to Syntagma Square, the Hellenic parliament on my back, a huge pink building that I have nothing to talk about. Then Beirut, now going along Rue Gouraud, Gemmayzeh neighborhood, and then going up the Saint-Nicolas stairs, taking a look at some graffities, including a heart being trespassed by eighteen huge bullets, each of these bullets representing one of the eighteen recognized religious sects of Lebanon, I got to know. And I’m in Kampala, Uganda’s capital, this is, here I’m at some café with two other guys, actually the founders of the Nyege Nyege collective, they are Arlen Dilsizian and Derek Debru, this is, Debru was born in Burundi, grew up in Belgium and moved later to Uganda to teach at the Kampala Film School. Dilsizian is actually Greco-Armenian, studied ethnomusicology and philosophy in the UK before relocating to this city. And then Havana, more precisely at the roof of a not so tall building in El Cerro, a poor neighborhood that extends from the Bahía de la Habana until La Víbora, a neighborhood mentioned in the Broadway musical In the Heights. And then I’m in Barcelona again, now going down La Rambla dels Estudis, this is, the upper part of a long pedestal street starting at Plaza de Catalunya and going until the harbord area. And afterwards I’m Srinagar, this is, by now I’m actually burying myself in the slime of Dal lake.  But, back in Athens, here I’m, at the Syntagma square, seated on some stairs on the side of the metro entrance,  I face the people now getting in and getting out of the stairs for metro entrance, not many, and their expressions, surprisingly, doesn't look so bored, this is, actually, they express some equilibrium, and about their pose, they are dressing casual, not pretenders, judging by the looks. Thus, as it goes, I think to myself, from where is this feeling of boredom coming after all, perhaps from the openness of the place itself, or, who knows, maybe the heaviness of the walls containing the square, plus this sun, full of empty promises… and therefore,  while thinking about that, I have no problems about sprawling my loneliness here, like a viscous, pouring from the top of this imposing staircase in front of the parliament, and then, spreading through the veins of this marble floor down there, this is, blazing veins that will debouch around that neoclassic fountain installed in the middle of the square, fountain from where some kind of yellowish water is being projected, from time to time, randomly. And so, from here I also descry this old bearded man, hanging around this same fountain, a man actually murmuring or emitting a kind of speech more like a cry. And, I also may say, that, he carries a  stick with him, a stick with some plastic bottles and other sorts of plastic packages attached to it, holding it over his shoulders, or waving it around, and some kind of flag is hanging from the tip of it, a flag where I read the word “cancer” written with big letters, and jointly other smaller letters from the Greek alphabet that I can’t understand. And so, some tourists are actually approaching the fountain from time to time, but when they see the man, they stand back and leave the place, scared. But the locals passing by his side, they do not look shocked at all, this is, they just pass by informally, smiling, this is, some even act out small conversations with him, but not for long.  And then, I’m in Beirut again, still going along the Gouraud street, a street crossing the bohemian neighborhood of Gemmayzeh, and then at some crossroads, I see, there are motorcycles converted into stalls, and under some huge parasols, some guys are actually selling Baba Ghanoush, this is, some kind of eggplant and tahini dip; Fattoush, some sort of mint-garnished salad; Foul, a bean and lentil dip; and Labneh, some sort of creamy cheese with hummus. And then, I’m in Kampala again, still at this cafe accompanied by the two founding members of the Nyege Nyege collective, Arlen Dilsizian and Derek Debru, and as it goes, this is, as we talk about the activities the Nyege Nyege collective have been developing, we are actually drinking cocktails of tonto, ajon and omuramba, being tonto a cocktails made of rotten bananas, ajon, a cocktail made from  millet, and omuramba, a cocktail actually made from brown sorghum and… And then, I’m back in Havana, still on the roof of that not so tall building in El Cerro, a poor neighborhood that once was, this is, by the end of the 19th century, home to palaces and sumptuous villas now fallen into a certain decay. And so, the facades of the buildings that I can see from here, have faded paintings; and a labyrinth of black cracks crossing the dry frontages and potholed sidewalks. Whatsoever this is the neighborhood that holds the key, "El Cerro tiene la llave" they say. a recurring statement around here. A phrase linked to the fact that the water source for the city and the headquarters of the aqueduct that still exists are located in this territory. The entrance channel of “La Zanja Real” is located around here, in this neighborhood, and that was the first aqueduct in Havana that brought water to the city by gravity from the founding of the city until the 19th century, aqueduct already deactivated, being nowadays just a huge pipe covered with moss, I got to know. And then I’m in Barcelona again, still going down the main pedestal street of this city, La Rambla, this is, after the Carrer del Carmen, I enter the Mercat de la Boqueria, one of the oldest markets in this city, a market that is still somehow traditional, and very well frequented by tourists, and so, here you can find all kind of tapas abandoned on the tables by the fumbling tourists, this is, not only tapas, but also, cocktails of various fruits and certain traditional sweets like Mató, Panellets, Xuixos, Catànies and many kinds of stuffed churros. Srinagar again, and, well, I just got rescued from that swamp area by a boatman mounting what they call here a shikara, this is, some kind of canoe  with a small shed in the middle, and, as it goes, Rahul, the canoeist, is already asking me what was I myself doing there in the middle of that mud afterall afteralls, and well, after some silence, “Looking for Eels,” I manage to say, and as I say this, the canoeist, looking to me at a glance, just scoffs, this while pushing a long stick into the water, the stick that, apparently, is giving the needed propulsion that gets us on the move, and then, he says. And now, here we go, coming back to the Syntagma square in Athens, this is, this square is not totally dry, as I said before, actually it has two two “green” areas, one on my left side, where the metro exit is, and another on my right side, an area with with much bigger trees and even some benches under it, where some people seated now, I can say, mainly alone, one per bench, some looking inside themselves, some looking around, and some others dozing while eating that kind of circular sesame bread you can buy at any square here, the koulouri. And as it goes, at some point I’m already approaching some youngsters and sitting on the scarce grass of this garden on their side, and well, they offer me beers and we talk, informally, a shallow conversation, about nothing. And then, at some point, for some reason, I see myself moving to the gardens on the other side of the fountain, I mean, that one with the big withered trees. And, well, as I’m actually reaching it now, I can already see that the ones wandering through this part of the garden have darker skin, and some of them are even carrying baggage, like me. Plus, everyone looks kinda lonely here. And so, as I wander through these people, quickly I can understand that they are Georgians, Armenians, Albanian migrants, some with an inquisitive attitude towards me, so it is not with them that I end up creating relationships, but rather with a small group of Pakistanis, Indians and Bangladeshis that I  will sit down, we drink together and I share with them how was my staying in kashmir years ago, and then, as it goes, I even can say some words in this Hindi and Urdu, words i remember from my travels, and one or other sentence, like “ek bahat khoobsurt aurt”, I say, and they all smile, and then, they even offer me some kind of tea, and as it goes, after dealing with this guys for a while, I come back to the bottom of the big staircase on the side of the metro exit from where I came, and begin unpacking my stuff, I mean, my music staff, I mean, my percussion  stuff, this is, buckets, pots and pans, cymbals, singing bowls, a xylophone, a few contact mics, an effects box, some speakers. And, it takes me time to unpack all these trinkets and set everything, and I do it slowly and at ease. And well, people, I mean, the passers-by, it seems that they do not actually care about what I’m building here, so I can do it without any pressure… this is, there are no questions and almost no looks, what is good. And as it goes, then, after doing some body exercises, to warm up, here I go, already sitting properly over some kind of  bucket in front of my percussion set, and, despite the soft headache, I'm ready to start my performance. Beirut again, and so, at this point, I’m actually walking by the southwestern part of the Gemmayzeh neighborhood, this is, now passing on the side of an egg shaped building, apparently abandoned, graffitied all around, and so, as I walk about it, I ask what this was, and well, the answers I get are peremptory, they tell me that “The Egg, or Albayd”, it’s an unfinished cinema building that survived from the Lebanese Civil War of the seventies, a building that despite is derelict condition is still in function, and have “recently been used as a center for talks and lectures by academics, artists, and others sort of petty criminals". And then I’m in Kampala again, more precisely going across Bukasa, an area in south Kampala, and so, here we go, this is, by we I mean, me and my friends Arlen and Derek Debru, now walking along the Namuwongo road, a road following on the side of some kind of train line, that, as we get to know, is actually making the connection between the city itself and some sort of port, on the north branch of Victoria lake.But, back in Havana, back in El Cerro, this is, from this balcony here I can watch all the havana vieja, the Ensenada de Atáres and the Ensenada de Guanabacoa, and the Máximo Gómez avenue, that goes from the Calzada del Cerro until the Museo de Los Orishas. But closer, at some back streets, now, I’m actually watching some kids playing football at an improvised pitch with beacons made of metal drums, bidons, where the goalkeepers make some percussion from time to time, an act done to prompt the strikers wearing Ronaldo, Messi, Raul, Osvaldo Alonso and Onel Hernandez shirts, etc… and then, in the meanwhile, as they play, some street vendor comes by with his scooter, invading the makeshift field and the players get disoriented… looking for the ball that has just disappeared… and others, already surrounding the scooter men, and, as it goes, the driver is already offering jugs of colorful drinks, fried malanga, coconut yam, bags of various seeds and American brand chocolates… and then, as the kids come back to the pitch, they begin spitting seeds in each other's faces, and another kind of game is being developed there, this while the plump-faced trader, still mounting his scooter, begins to shout some interjections to the confuse players, things we can’t understand.  And I’m Barcelona again, coming back to the Ramblas, the main pedestrian street on this city, and so, after getting out from the  La Boqueria market, I pass the crossroad with the Carrer de l'Hospital street, and,  in front of the Restaurant Rei d'Istanbul, there is a circle of tourists surrounding what I come to see, I mean, there is man dressed as a Sevillana making tap dancing on top of some kind of door, and as he taps and taps, he also sings and dances, this is, he turns around raising its arms, hands folded down, and, as it goes, at some point, he even pushes his dress up showing the padding on his underwear, and well, tourists are actually clapping, flashes going off, etc. And then, I’m Srinagar again, still aboard this small barge going across the Dal lake, a barge being conducted by Rahul, and so, after some time talking about the fauna and flora present on this lake, here we go, now mooring on a bank on the other side of the lake, a bank where there are some houses, cottages, supported by thick stilts raising, apparently, from the bottom of this lake. And so, in between those  sticks we pass, and then, after disembarking, there we go, already going up through some slippery wooden stairs, soon reaching some kind of balcony, a balcony where we see an women seated on the floor, dealing with some plants, plants that I recognise from that swamp area on the other side of the lake… but, I don’t mention this, we just exchange some mislaid smiles as we meet, and then “this is my wife Eshal” the boat man tells me. And as it goes, after they have exchanged some words in their native language, the boatman is already conducting me to the main door of the house, and so, as we go inside, into some sort of kitchen/living-room, I instantly come to meet his son, Maumoon, that is actually just here, seated on the main table of this room, apparently working on some drawings, and so, as me and his father approach he stands up and comes to great me in the kashmiri style, and then I also stare at the drawings spread over the table, and also the ruler and a set-square on the side, and thus, what I actually see in those sheets here spread over the table, is some sort of architectural designs, straight geometric lines over another straight geometric lines and in the middle of all them some sort of very small abstract bodies, and, as I look at it, after the father has left this room, I ask what is this what is that, and he, well, in a while, he tells me he will tell me about it later, once we are out, as he says that, he is already packing some of the staff that were there over the table, and then, said and done, off we go.  And then, back in Athens, back in Syntagma square, here I am, acting now, performing, this is, I’m actually rolling my hands and arms over a bunch of  plastic buckets with different shapes and sizes, hitting some pots and pans located around the kit of buckets, plus some cymbals elevated on the air, and also, making some intermediate melodies on a mutant xylophone installed just here, in between my feet. And so, as I play, people bring me coins, people bring liquids... some even bring me smiles, complicated expressions… and then, as the sun goes down I get even more enthusiastic, the flow extends, and at some point, I spot, a small group of guys are actually coming down one of the sides of this square, this is, they are actually marching, protesting about something I can’t really understand, something political for sure… but, as they come by, I just keep banging. This is, I can see that they have flags with slogans and that, some, are actually carrying traffic signs with them… and then, on their back, it looks like the people that are coming out of the metro exit are now moving in their direction, no more in my direction, and so, no money coming to me by now, because of them, anyway, I don’t care too much about this, and so, well, I keep on banging, hitting this fucking buckets, this fucking pots and pans, this fucking cymbals, until that,  then, at some point, some youngsters are actually running in my direction, coming to give me their support, this is, as they come, they are actually making enthusiastic gestures while saying “yeah, yeah, yeah, synéchise”. And then, as the marching protest continues, the police are arriving, coming all armed with sticks, helmets and armors, already advancing in the direction of the guys protesting on the other side of the square, and so, as they reach the protesters down there, I keep hitting my percussion paraphernalia here, making as much noise as I can. And so, as it goes, I see that, there are more people coming out of the metro exit now, some coming here, some moving in the direction of the protests, and in the meanwhile, the protesters are even moving around the square, forming different groups, and the police does the same, dividing themselves into small groups, walking around the square, circulating the protestors, and as this happens, I keep on banging, I mean, no one told me to stop, so, I must continue, already throwing the cymbals on the concrete, and then, as this happens, one tiny girl with some holes on her leggings comes closer, running, already catching the cymbals I’m actually throwing around, and then, joining me in this musical allegory, and yes, I may say, she really knows what she is doing, this is, she is able to catch my rhythmic patterns and impose her own way of playing. And so, as we jam, after a while, I notice, some of the protesters are actually leaving the demonstration groups now and coming here, already dancing around us. But then, as it goes, we can hear some kind of explosions, screams around the square, smoke, and well, in a jiffy, all the public dancing around us disappears, and just then, when we start to get really intoxicated by the smoke coming from the so-said explosions, we stop. And so, as fast as I can, I’m already packing all my stuff inside a big camping bag, I mean everything minus the plastic buckets, that this girl, Hera, is already kicking around… and then, there we go, laughing, while leaving this square, and then, going down Ermou street, the street with all the multinational cloth stores, where there are more protests, some broken showcases, and so, as we run through it, I see people being arrested, screams from upper windows, claims against capitalism coming from the other end of the street,  and then, we even have to take care to not step over some piles of horse shit spread around the  Panagia Kapnikarea square. And then, I’m again in Beirut, this is, by now, I’m actually inside that egg shaped building I have referred before, the so-called Albayd, some kind of rotten ovni landed in the middle of the city, and so, at this point, I’m here inside some dark rooms with some piles of papers stacked from floor to ceiling, and a skate track in the middle of it, and so, as it goes, I’m actually talking with some of the skaters here, this is, we are actually chatting about Hezbollah, rap music made-in middle-east, and some lebanese philosophers like Mikhail Naimy, Said Akl, Charles Malik, etc.  And then I’m in Kampala again, more precisely, walking along the train line on the side of the Namuwongo road, still accompanied by my local friends Arlen and Derek Debru, and so, as we follow along this train line, we pass some groups of people cooking food here on the side of the tracks, and so, as we advance, we are actually snacking here and there, as people make us stop, picking some roasted sweet potato from here, some rice with with roasted locusts from there, some roasted beans with honey from over there, some roasted bamboo shoots from a next stall, and then, there also other things like, fried crocodile legs, ostrich eggs omelette, larvae stew etc. And then, I’m in Habana again, still at the El Cerro neighborhood, now attending some kind of Santeria ceremony, this is, at this point I’m already joining the circle of musicians and dancers touring around some guys and girls crawling on the floor, and then, I get to know about the Orula, a middle age man seated here, on the lotus flower position, being fanned by some maidens, and the babalawo or priest, now moving between the guys crawling on the floor, listening what they have to say, and then coming to the Orula, and whispering things on his ears. And then I’m in Barcelona again, now arriving that the bottom of the big pedestrian street called “las ramblas”, being this last part of the Las Ramblas called Santa Mònica, ending just in front of the Colon, this  is, some kind of square with a tower in the middle, tower honoring the navigator Christofer Columbus. And so, as I cross the road, and then move around this tower, there are some beggar guy stopped here, speaking with one of the angels located at the bottom of the column, and so, he is actually saying something like, “Sí, yo pienso que pienso y tú crees que yo creo que todo es una ilusión… todos pensamos en esto y en aquello… más precisamente, pensamos innumerables planes para engañar al mundo… pero,  no quiero saber quién soy… el caso es que puede que necesite un guía, o más bien un guía con pechos, no importa el tamaño de la agenda… preferiblemente, alguien con un sentido del humor espeluznante, es decir, un fugitivo que todavía sepa hacer cálculos... quizá, alguien a quien le guste bailar cuando se trata de escenas sucias... si, déjame soñar con langostas y campos de amapolas hasta donde alcanza la vista…” Then I’m back in Srinagar, and so, here we go again, aboard this shikara boat across the Dal lake again, this is, Maumoon is guiding the barge now, guiding it while pushing this big skewer into the water, like we have seen his father doing before. And then, while we float, he reveals “I got into a private university in New York, to  study fine art, but I didn’t get along with all that pretentiousness of the Americans and a year later I was back here”, and so, I tell him I have never been to America, “but I have been to Tijuana, a Mexican city on the border with the state of Texas”, plus I tell him about my staying there, and as I recount that, he tells me about his Mexican friends in the university he has attended. We even discuss some similarities between Mexican and Indian culture. And then, we get into a conversation about the kashmiri language etc. And so, I ask him if there are some Chinese words in his mother language, as Kashmir makes a border with China, and he says this “but between Kashmir and China there is also Tibet, and the borders are closed since long time, so there is no real communication or transportation between these two countries, since my birth”. And so, I ask why, and he tells me that is “because there is a territorial conflict around the borders going on, primarily between India and Pakistan, with China playing a third-party role, the conflict started after the partition of India in the beginning of the 20’s century, as both India and Pakistan claimed the entirety of the former princely state of Jammu and Kashmir…”, “What about Tibet?”, I insist, “Tibetians call us Kachëy! That's what I know… there are different kinds of theories about the origins of the kashmiri language, and some even say that it has a Jewish origin, but as I can see, for me it's a mix of Sanskrit, Urdu, Persian, Arabic and some english”. And then, he even tells me that kashmiri is also spoken in the east part of Pakistan, “but there is some difference between the Kashmiri Hindus and the Kashmiri Muslims, in language terms, say, Kashmiri Muslims have more Urdu words while Hindu Kashmiris have more Sanskrit words, as for example the word “water” is "aabh" for a kashmiri muslim, but hindus say "pooyan"… anyway, in my point of view this language doesn't sound Hindi at all, I find it more persian  related, say, when I watch some Irani movies I always find it sounding like Kashmiri, not a single word is the same but I fell that the tone-pitch and the way persian people speak is similar to kashmiri…”; “OK” I say. And then I tell him “Can you teach me the meaning of some kashmiri words”. “Êen” he says, “means yes… and for example, Varakara, it means Good luck”; “Thought that was Hindi” I say. “No, actually it comes from arab, they say Al Barakah, and it means “blessings”; “Uooouh!” I say, “in spanish language "Barraca" means "cottage" or "hut”. “Kus Tavaan!” he replies, “is what we say for ‘What a hell’ or ‘what the fuck’” he explains, then adding “I’m exaggerating a bit, just for fun, but whenever you see any Kashmiri getting angry, this is the most used expression”; “ok” I say, “that looks the turkish expression “a bird in the ceiling”, coz “kus” or “kush” is the turkish word for “bird” and “tavan” is the turkish or ottoman word for “ceiling”. “Tha Saa Wen – Let it be” he says, and then we make some silence for a while, just watching the bubbles bursting in the dark waters of this lake.  Back in Athens, this is, after leaving the Ermou street area, and go along the Stadium and Panepistimiou streets, we reach the Exarchia neighborhood, where Hera claims to have some radical friends, but she doesn't know exactly where they live, and so, there we go through some back streets, looking for her friends location, still hearing explosions and screams coming from the neighboring block, and so, as we go through, we pass some interesting graffities like, some figures of androids asleep in the middle of exuberant gardens, monsters with broken wings carrying suitcases, childs crawling through the city, with money on their mouth, etc. And so, after several attempts of going inside some buildings, knocking on doors of people she said she knew, it turned out they didn’t open or do not show  any sign of recognizing my friend as a relative of them. Thus, like this we follow, stealing decoration stuff from the entrance halls of this and that building, like if we were playing some kind of game, and so, as we go through this or that stairs, this or that hall, at some point, Hera begins to make some explanations about Cretan mythology. Like, she says that Zeus, the father of gods and humans, was born in Crete, and “it was there, that secretly he copulated with the beautiful nymph Europe, who gave her name to our continent…” And then I’m in Beirut again, now going through the Bechara El Khoury avenue, an avenue taking me to the seafront. And then, back in south Kampala, this is, after having been walking along that derelict train line we (me, Arlen and Derek Debru) have just reached the Murchison Bay, already a branch of the famous Victoria lake, the biggest lake in Africa, considered one of the main sources of the Nile River, and so, here we are now, already at the immigration Office in Port Bell, asking about connections between this bay here and Buvuma island, an island on the mouth of Jinja, the city where the Nyege Nyege festival will happen. Havana now, walking in the direction of the old town town, I go around Ensenada de Atarés, I pass the La Coubre Train Station, Av. de Bélgica, San Isidro, Leonor Peréz, Santa Clara, Calle Sol, Desamparados, and then, I’m in front of a dilapidated building with circa five hundred years, officially the building of the Aduana del Puerto de La Habana, where I meet Mr Cheche, a clone of the famous Che Guevara.  And then, I’m back in Barcelona, now at the top of the Montjuïc, a broad shallow hill overlooking the city center, the harbour, and the surrounding coastline.And then, I’m in Srinagar again, this is, after disembarking, me and Maumoon walk past a huge white mosque my mate calls Hazratbal Shrine, “a local landmark, popularly called Dargah Sharif - the Holy Shrine… they say it contains the Moi-e-Muqaddas, which is believed to be the hair of the Islamic prophet Muhammad''; “Aluuu'' I say, and he continues “hair that was brought from south arabia centuries ago by some guys from the Mughal empire” he says with a quaint smile, and I ask him if he really believes in all that, “for me it's just a story, but… they went to court in the sixties because of that, coz some hair strands have disappeared… and the Bengals or the tourists or the Indians from the south were the culprits, but they found a way of bringing the hair back and…”; “I seeeee”, and I kinda ask him if he’s really religious person, to what he says “not sure, and you?”, “same-same”. Then he tells me that the name of the place “hazratbal” is a combination of the Arabic word “hazrat”, meaning 'respected', and the Kashmiri word “bal”, meaning 'place'. “Hum… Bal in french is an old word for a dance event, and the root for the world Ballet” I say. And 9then we get into moving, so, we enter the Dargah Market on the side of the Mosque complex, and there we go, passing all that stands with religious artifacts, passing the carpet stands that also sell colorful shawls they call here Pashmina, and as we face it, Maumoon says that “they used to be made from goat fur but now…” and then we approach some shops with wood items, items that are decorative and functional at the same time, some with very detailed patterns carved out, Maumoon says “It's walnut wood, it can last for a very long time.” And then we approach some other shops with  papier-mache artifacts, cooperware, spices, flowers, fruits and vegetables and off we go. We walk through the Nasem Bagh Park now, which is still on the side of the Dal lake. And here I see women behaving very softly, and men looking a bit childish in their way of playing. Then we cross the main road and go through another park with the floor covered with dry leaves, leaves of platanus trees, I can see, being Chinar the kashmiri word for Platanus, Maumoon tells me. So, as we go through, I can say that around here the scenarium looks kinda  romantic, old school romantic, that is,  we can see couples seated on the grass, or leaning against the trunks of these same trees, enjoying the silence, or playing with the amounts of dry leaves all around them. And as we beckon to some of them, they smile back, sometimes. “This garden belongs to the university campus,” Maumoon tells me, "I know some of these people''. And then we approach some light green shacks, and on its facade it's written with big letters, Microbiology CORD, so, we go inside and drink coffee and off we go through another door. Then, we pass the Human Resource Development Centre, and the Woman Study Center, and the Institute of Islamic Studies, and the Institute of Music & Fine Arts, and finally we are in front of another shack entitled Mir Hamid Restaurant, that actually is a Xerox place where students make all kinds of copies. So, Maumoon introduces me to one girl that is here making copies of drawings of hands and feet, only that, hands and feet, realistic style, and off we go. Now going along Durgah Road. This is, further the road is half barred with a bunch of military men, and military gear, and so, there they are, speaking between them, their equipment unattended. And as we pass by I can notice that they are approaching none of the passers-byes or the passing vehicles, and so, “What is this'' I ask. “It's the stationary Indian military sent from Delhi'', Maumoon says. “As I told you, there is guerilla going on here since I born, a very slow guerilla, sometimes it calcifies, they become statues, rusty monuments, mummies, let’s say… but they can wake up anytime, just one button need to be pressed, and another button and another button, and in the end they are fighting between them because they need more buttons.”; “What do you mean” I ask. “It's because of the borders, the borders between Kashmir and Pakistan, the borders between Kashmir and China, the borders between Kashmir and India, they seem not to agree with the real function of these borders, but that is only a political subject… we live!” And so, as he says these things, we turn right to the Mughal Lane, and there is a huge dark green villa here, it looks stiff and fantasist at the same time; “I like it” I say, and Maumoon tells me,“it's a religious school and political center” as we proceed. And then, as we go through, I see that on both sides of the street there are walls either made of concrete or tin, and it looks like some of these houses have no door to the street, and so, I wonder how they enter these houses. “Through the back” Maumoon tells me. And as we follow on the walkway, here and there I see some inscriptions on the tin walls, so “What is that?” I ask, “political propaganda” he tells me. And here and there, if I do leap I can see what is on the back of these tin walls, this is, some inner gardens with  blooming trees and mounds of rubble, and people walking their ghosts in the middle of all that. “Many abandonments in this city” I say. “Half of the population left…” Maumoon says, “and from time to time they come back, this is, after the big insurgency from the eighties, a great majority of Pandits felt threatened and left the Kashmir Valley for other parts of India…. some emigrated Uk, the United States, Canada, Singapore, to never come back...” And as we keep walking, we pass some other big vivendas and then he points out some windows apparently covered with spider webs and says “probably these were the houses of the Pandits, they left, and now, no one wants to live inside, we are a strange kind of muslims around here…” and as we go by I can conclude that there aren't much people on the streets around here, just some, and I see, they pass by with their heads far away, hands inside their pockets, and their way of walking is too tender, and their expressions are scarefree, like someone who has seen it all, but we can feel the sadness, some amazement and lightness, still. And now here, there are some young men and women laughing at the entrance of a backershop, and as we are getting it, I think to myself, these young people by the entrance are certainly taking the coming to the bakery as an opportunity for romance, and it looks like Maumoon can read my thinking. So, already inside, I can see some middle aged men knelt on the beaten earth floor, managing big bulbs of dough over large trays placed just above the ground, and “we call them Kandurus” Maumoon tells me, whispering. And more, against the wall, on our back, there are big wood stoves, and over these stoves there are trays covered with the semi-cooked pieces of bread, and on the other corner of the room there are large clay pots for cooking the traditional round bread shaped like a flying saucer, swollen in the center, that here is named Kulcha. So, by now I’m being presented to the breadmakers by Maummon, and so, they ask my name and what am I doing here. Thus, I say a name and also ask their name. And, in order to answer their question about what am I doing here I say “ask Maumoon, he knows everything”, but “he knows how to paddle”, is what some guy says, and softly they laugh, like if a bad taste joke has been said. And then off we go with our bag of Kulchas. “This thing is stuffed with cheese, potatoes and onion, please try” Maumoon says, and then, still munching, my comrade makes a strange kind of hissing sound, and seconds after, we can spot an head over the gate on the other side of the road, a head and a face with some big black eyes and a long beard, orange, and so, as it appears, quickly Maumoon tells me in a low tune that “This is Aga Syed Ruhullah, doorman, cooker, courier, gardener, boatman and bad actor, don't forget his name, he lives and works here… and this is the Kilab, the Kashmir Innovation Laboratory, a kind of art residence and seclusion place if you get me…” he says.  





EVERYWHERE(at the same time) - Amsterdam/Budapeste/Buenos Aires/Tanger/Pokara/Osaka

Amsterdam-Budapeste-Buenos Aires-Tanger-Pokara-Osaka
I’m Amsterdam, inside some kind of coffee-shop, and at the same time, I’m in Budapeste, I’m in Buenos Aires, I’m in Tanger, I’m in Pokhara and I’m in Osaka, at the Osaka-wan, this is, the Osaka bay. And then, I’m back in Amsterdam, and so, here I’m, at the Babylon coffeeshop, this is, I’m here drinking tea with some friends, one guy from Kashmir, Salim, another from Argentina, José, and one American girl, named June, from Des Mones, Iowa. And, while we smoke that shit, we are sharing our stories, Saalim says that he is actually working in Berlin, “at various humanitarian organizations for the defense of human rights, animal rights and alien rights too”. June, the American, says that she came for a small trip in Europe, “London, Amsterdam and Paris… this is, I visited London already, and so, to come here, I took a ferry from Southend-on-Sea to the Hook of Holland, which is close to Rotterdam''. José says “I myself, I came to Spain to work in a restaurant, saved almost all the money I did in one year, and I’m now traveling around Europe… and then I wanna go to Australia”. I say, “I’m from Africa, and here I came by mistake”, and well, there is some giggling after my words, and then we continue,  And then we start a conversation about the difference between the British, the Australians and the Americans. Saalim called the English hooligans. June called the Australians lazy and too laid back. José says that “the Americans are too presumptuous and ignorant” and me, well, I give them some examples, like “between Harry Potter, Crocodile Dundee and Slipknot, I prefer the last ones, it makes more sense to me…” Then I’m in Budapest, more precisely, going across the Széchenyi bridge, also called the Chain bridge, a bridge that makes you cross from Buda to Pest, and then, as I lean against the bridge railings, 2 staring at the river flows down there. Now at Retiro, in Buenos Aires, and then at La Recoleta cemetery, where I see some shabby girls and shabby boys doing some weird tango steps in betweens the graves and the tombs, and then, as they notice my presence, instantly, they start to throw broken jars of flowers in my direction, and I, in order to protect myself, I have to hide in the back of some tombstone, and so, while I’m hiding here, I see the tombstone of Eva Peron, an important character in this country, it seems, and thus, while I analyze this big tomb I’m already reading an inscription that says “Los hombres de gobierno, dirigentes políticos, embajadores, hombres de empresa, profesionales, intelectuales, etc., que aquí me visitan suelen llamarme “Señora”; y algunos hasta me llaman "Excelente o Honorable Señora", pero los descamisados sólo me conocen como "Evita". Por eso, cuando un niño me llama "Evita" me siento madre de toda la gente débil y humilde de mi tierra, y por eso, incluso después de muerta, quiero que así me recuerden, Evita de los Toldos”, what can be translated as “Government men, political leaders, ambassadors, company men, professionals, intellectuals, etc., who visit me here usually call me "Madam"; and some even call me "Excellent or Most Honorable Madam", but the shirtless ones only know me as "Evita". So, when a boy calls me "Evita" I feel like a mother to all the weak and humble people in my land, and so, even after death, I wanna be remembered like that, Evita de los Toldos”.  Now going through the Grand Socco, in Tanger, a piazza/night market, at the top of one of the city's central hills, an intersection of rue de la Plage with rue d'Italie with avenue Sidi Bou Arraquia with rue Sidi Bouabid with rue d'Angleterre and rue de la Liberté. And so, here I go, tripping over old trinkets displayed on the cobbled floor around some kind of broken fountain, and then, analysing some old magazines written in arab and berber, magazines about the personal life of european royalty figures. And then, somehow, I’m landing on the shores of the Phewa Lake, in Pokhara, Nepal. This is, after wandering a bit through some muddy areas watching the water buffalos, I just sit here at a terrace overlooking the lakeside, a terrace decorated with the some sort of triangular flags hanging from 3 bamboo canes, that kind of flags with tibetan writings, and so, I’m here with Rama, a local personage that spent the bigger part of his life in Europe and America, this is, after some acknowledgements, here he goes, already exposing his life path to me, “Well, as many…” he says “when I was a kid, I was some kind of shepherd, this is, I passed my time wandering through these mountains, guarding sheps and water buffalos, then, with the experience i got from that wandering, in my teens,  I started working in the trekking business, thi is, I guided groups of tourists through these mountains, along the banks of the Evarest, until the border with Bhutan and Arunachal Pradesh, in India… and then, in my early twenties, when I could already speak some good English and German… they would take me for a tripin  Europe, and so, I tried to live there, I mean, it was difficult in the beginning, I mean, German was too cold for me… and I also found that people too big, I mean, I couldn’t get a proper girlfriend… and so, here I came back, but then, I would return, I mean, not to Europe this time, I did try the United States of America, but, that would even turn worse than my staying in Europe, even so, I tried to work there, this is, I passed trough many cities, Boston, Philadelphia, Memphis, Dallas, Phoenix, but I hated Texas, and so, I went down, into Mexican lands… i would appreciate more that people, even so, I tried to go more down,this is I was missing the mountains, I couldnt stand the deserts, so, I would visit almost all central american countries, Colombia, Ecuador, and then, when I already could speak some proper spanish,  it would be in Peru that I would find my house and family, more precisely in Cusco, a mountainous city that would remind my home-town here”. And then I’m in Osaka, this is, after getting out of the Imamiya Ebisu train station, I’m passing in front of the Jinja-shrine, being Jinja, they say, the god of the business, and then,  I also get to know that, worshippers come here to seek the Fukusasa, a lucky bamboo branch that is tied with a small treasure called the “Kitcho”, a thing awarded by the shrine. And I’m in Amsterdam again, still here with Salim, José, and June. This is, we are properly stoned now, and so, after getting out of the Babylon coffeeshop, we walk by the channels, more precisely the Singel channel, we pass the Torensluis bridge, where there is a statue of Multatuli, a famous Dutch writer from the eighteenth century, better known for his satirical novel Max Havelaar, June just checked it on her mobile phone, and José wants us to take photo of him strangling the neck of mr Multatuli. Then we go along the narrow street Oude Leliestraat, on our left is Puccini, a chocolate shop, and on our right is the Grey Area coffeeshop, the front wall around the display case, totally covered with sticks, and inside almost the same, the walls almost totally covered with papers with small notes, in many colors, and a punk with red mohawk, red leather jacket, shorts and slippers show us some kind of sardonical smile. Then 4 we pass “Pane & Olio”, another delicatess store, followed by “Sari-Sari”, a Filipino store, and on the opposite side is “Pho Hanoi - Vietnamese cuisine” and “Samui - Thai streetfood”. Then a couple of cafes more, and at the end of the street on the right side, the “Amsterdam Duck Store, a gift shop with small Rubber ducks of all shapes and colors, many personalities and attributes. José and June go inside, looking for their side personalities. Me and Salim stay outside, on the entrance, commenting on the people passing by. Then we go across another bridge, many bicycles attached to the side rails, as usual, and we enter Leliegracht, a street parallel to another chanel, the first store is a hairdresser and then, the “Cow Museum” a gift shop with all kinds of handmade painted cows, with different expressions and capabilities. Then “The Otherist”, another gift shop with small insects made of coloured glass. Then an art gallery, followed by a couple of chic hostels with small gardens on the front, a pizza store and “Cafe Brandon”, offering a large range of wines, beers and spirits, and José is making questions to home English guy, drinking a pot of beer, and after he call June to clarify something the english guy is saying, and me and Salim are already leaving, crossing another bridge over a different channel. We pass “Solitude”, a jewelry store and “Café Sandro”, then a couple of restaurants plus, and we get to another crossroad and another bigger channel. We pass the Tulip Museum, and the Amsterdam Cheese Museum, turn left, pass the Café 't Smalle and go along Egelantiersgracht, pass a couple of art galleries more and then we reach the Electric Ladyland - Museum of Fluorescent Art, and we make another join, before entering. And then, at the end of the Széchenyi bridge, in Budapest, I begin a chat with this guy selling Lángos, a kind of deep fried flatbread, and then, at some point, he’s actually saying, “The siege of Buda by the Ottoman Empire, occurred on the 4th of May 1541, and was led by Suleiman Pacha… this is, John I of Hungary had just died, and his son John II, who was at that time a minor, was crowned king under the regency of his mother Isabella Jagiellon and bishop George Martinuzzi. This was accepted by the Ottomans, under the condition that the Hungarians would continue to pay tribute to the Ottoman Sultanate... The new king was however not accepted by the Habsburgs. Then, Ferdinand I, Austrian Archduke and a Habsburg, sent an army of fifty thousand, composed of troops from Austria, German Principalities, Bohemia, and Habsburg Hungary to besiege Buda. The army besieged Buda in Summer 1541. But… Suleiman the Magnificent took personal command of an Ottoman relief army which included around six thousand Janissaries… and so, the Habsburg army was defeated, their men were slaughtered or drowned into this river… down this bridge…” he says with a smile on his face. But, coming back to Buenos Aires now, this is, after leaving the Recoleta cemetery, I go through the city, and at some point, I enter a garden with the statue of two men, one with open arms and the other with an open mouth, a statue untitled “Monumento A 5 La Duda - Monument To The Doubt”. Then I’m Tanger again, this is, after leaving the Grand Socco, I go through the Bab Al Fahs, this is, the inspection door, coz yeah, now I’m entering the so-called medina itself, and then, as I go down down Rue d'Italie, I pass some shops selling hats, belts, bags, scarfs, leather goods, small shops specializing in Argan oil, and then, across the street there is this small snack bar, here called kantina, or hanut, a place where you can get some cheap traditional meals, like the Harira, a chickpeas lentils soap;  the Harcha or Harsha, a popular Moroccan pastry made of semolina, honey, goat cheese, zitoun (olives), and Bissara, a Egyptian dish that contains split fava beans, onions, garlic, fresh aromatic herbs and spices like  cumin, ginger, turmeric, paprika, cayenne and chilli (harissa). And then, as I pass by on the side of the Mendoubia garden, this is, the gardens around the the Mendoub (a ceremonial mansion of the representative of the Sultan of Morocco in the Tangier International Zone from 1924 to 1956) I pass a series of fruit shops, selling a range of fruits like persimmon, black figs, mandarins, pointy plums, nectarines, dates, strawberry, lemon, apples, pomegranate, huge watermelons, grapes, bananas, cherries, dragon cactus-fruit, avocado, mangoes, and also you can drink ready made juices made of sugar cane, kiwi or carob ( (which Morocco is leading the world exports), and then as I follow along Rue de la Kasbah, I pass a couple of clothes shops more, with some more shawls, some more carpets, and then some bijoux stores, stores with fancy decorative stones that also sell nail clippers and kettles, and then after the salon the thé Excelsior, there is the Medina Media that can sell you many kind of analog camcorders, almost all in second hand, the restaurant Hammadi, the Western Union office, the bank Popolair, this is, the Alshaeb bank, the Dar el Kasbah hotel, the barber Chez Mounir, and then as I turn right I go through a series of narrow streets with small grocery stores, souvenir shops, small cafes, men sitting at tables playing games like the felli, the fetaix and the blackgammon, everybody drinking mint teas and smoking non stop, and then, as I go down through this tangle of narrow crooked streets, chased by kids selling eggs and hard candy, at some point I reach the Bab Albahr, this is, the sea door, overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar. And then, I’m aboard a small rowing boat going across the Phewa Lake in Pokhara, still accompanied with my friend Rama and his sister, Binsa, and so, we are actually getting to the Tal Barahi temple, being Barahi one of the Matrikas of a group of seven mother goddesses in the Hindu religion, Binsa tells me, and then, more explaining, “Barahi, or Varahi is bearing the head of a sow/wild-boar/Sus scrofa, and representing the feminine energy of Varaha, an ultimate representation of Vishnu… Barahi, is worshiped in the Matysa Varahi form as an incarnation of Durga… devotees usually sacrifice male animals to the goddess on Saturdays night… and so…”, she says. And then, I’m back in in Osaka city, Japan, this is, I just walked from the Imamiya Ebisu temple, where is the Jinja-shrine, to Nanbanaka, where is the Namba Bears, a venue place that have hosted most of the noise/punk/avantgarde famous bands from this country, bands/projects like Hanatarash, Shonen Knife, Acid Mothers Temple, Merzbow and Otoboke Beaver, for example, being the first cited example an old project from  Yamantaka Eye, a famous character in the western world, and then, still here at the door of this same club, I strike up a conversation with some local punks, and there we go, actually talking about chinese beer, strange lizards, Mitsubishy guitars, tamagotchis and the Tetsuo trilogy, I mean, Tetsuo the Iron Man, Tetsuo the Body Hammer; and Tetsuo the Bullet Man. And then, somehow, the conversation changes into the medusa topic, and so, this guy with blinking lights on the top of his 6 mohawk, is now telling me about a certain kind of medusa that apparently live in the Ogasawara Islands, islands situated about five hundred kilometres south of Tokyo, and so about that he says, with his funny tamagotchi accent, “The caldera is a hydrothermally active deep-sea volcanic structure with a diameter of about ten kilomtres and a depth of eight hundred meters, and…” And then, I’m back to Amsterdam, now inside the Electric Ladyland, the Museum of Fluorescent Art, I disappear through an exhaust port and I’m landing directly in Pest, I mean, the opposite bank of Budapest, more precisely, on the eastern bank of the Danube, and so, it is here, on the Stephen Széchenyi Square in front of the city hall, that I find Ivan, now playing some kind of spinning top game, alone, here on the lawn, a tradition left by the Ashkenazi Jews, and so, then, about the name Pest, that until now I thought to be related with the latin word “pestis” meaning “plague” in english, he says that no, “Pest simply means fish in romanian language for exemple, and in bulgarian it means "furnace" or "oven", and peć in Serbian and Croatian, is an expression related with the word meaning "cave", probably with reference to a local cave where fire burned somewhere, around here…” And as it goes, then I’m in Buenos Aires, at “Villa 31”, a shantytown, now eating homemade Alfajores, Garrapiñadas and Pastelitos criollos and then I’m in Tanger again, this is, I’m not really in Tanger city now, I have walked about ten kilometres by the sea, this is, the western part of the Gibraltar Straight, and so, along the way I have passed through iconic places like the phéniciennes tombes, the Ami Mounir et Madjda Hotel, the Merkala Beach, also going by the name Cove of Jews, the Sidi Masmoudi cemetery, and then the Rmilat Forest, formerly known as Villa Aidonia or Perdicaris Park, named after Ion Hanford Perdicaris, a Greek-American author, professor, lawyer, painter, and playwright, who fought for the rights of Moors, and would end up kidnapped from his house, actually situated somewhere in this park, and then, eventually, I would reach the so-called Cape spartel, where is the Hercules' Caves, already by the Atlantic coast, where I meet a group of young French guys on their way to the Gnaoua music Festival, a festival taking place in Essaouira, a city seven hundred kilometers down from here. And as we talk about that, then, I’m already landing at the Tal Barahi temple, a temple in the middle of the Phewa Lake again, in Pokhara, and so, at this point I see some pregnant women around, some crying flowers from the water to the temple itself, others burning incense, others bringing oferends like  Kwāti, a soup of different kind of beans, chhoyalā, buffalo meat marinated in spices and grilled over the flames of dried wheat stalks, wo, lentil cake, mye, boiled and fried tongue, sanyā khunā, jellied fish soup, and Thwon, some kind of rice beer, and so I try some of this things while I see women, rubbing themselves against the pillars of this same temple, spreading their secretions around. And then, coming back to Osaka, this is, now I’m inside the Namba Bears club in Osaka, I meet its proprietor, Seiichi Yamamoto, who was one of the guitarists from the Boredoms, until circa 2000’s when he left and founded Rovo, with Yuji Katsui (Bondage Fruit), Yasuhiro Yoshigaki and Youichi Okabe (on drums and percussion), and Jin Harada on bass guitar. And so, we talk about the Phoenix Rising LP, his last collaboration album with Steve Hillage, a guitarist associated with the Canterbury scene, Steve that has worked in experimental domains since the late sixties as a member of Uriel, Khan, Gong and System 7, his last project. And then, we would talk about others projects he have collaborated with, like Omoide Hatoba, Rashinban, Live Under The Sky, Most, Para, Novo Tono and many, many others, and I may say, Yamamoto-san has an very enigmatic, opaque way of speaking, that can feel simultaneously very warm and somehow off-putting.