ON THE ROAD - Istanbul / Srinagar

 I’m now advancing along Galata bridge, a bridge over the Golden Horn, say, an urban creek, or branch of sea, here debouching on the Bosphorus on my right side. And therefore, as I go by, I watch the groups of fishermen leaning over the bridge railings, this is, men casting their hooks down there, just on the side of recreational boats constantly passing by, and then, while they watch their lines, they drink tea, just prepared on the portable cockles installed on their sides, and as it goes, I reach the east-end of this bridge, and I get to know that here is Karaköy, this meaning “the dark neighborhood”, someone informs me, and then, after the passage of the tram, I can already hear some kind of street singing going on, this is, down there, on the space between the access to the bridge itself and the Kadikoy iskele(quay), I see a young girl with a portable microphone in her hands, actually singing some kind of melancholic romantic songs to the passersby, plus some seated here, their backs turned to me, on a natural balcony placed between the tram line and the access to the quay, and then, as she goes on, in a very lame kind of tone, some stray dogs are now arriving from the sides, circulating around her, and as this happen, I also pay attention to the building on the back of this scene, some kind of art-nouveau building, crumbling, and, its facade is actually covered with a semi-rotten awning with some deformed mobile-phone publicity whatsoever… and, then, as I look the people on the small amphitheater, the ones with their backs turned to me, a drunk guy approaches, down there, now staggering in front of the singer, but soon we understand that, he is not coming for her, he is coming to the dogs on the side, and so, there he goes now, feeding them with crumbs, or something the likes, and then, he is even holding one of this creatures against his chest… and, as he does that, the singer keeps with her show, opening more her arms now, this is, singing with even more depth and lament on the voice, and in the meanwhile, the people on the balcony on her front begins to whoop and to grunt, this is, I do not know if in a way to support her or in a way to disapprove, but, whatsoever, I myself, I like what she’s doing, it feels real, even if lugubrious, it feels very real… and then, there I go, already leaving, following the tram line, this is, advancing along Kemeraltı avenue, I get to know. I pass the port of Kabataş, the Dolmabahçe Palace, and I go under he First Bosphorus Bridge, officially known as the 15 July Martyrs Bridge (onbeş Temmuz Şehitler Köprüsü), one of the three bridges over the Bosphorus connecting Europe and Asia, and I keep walking by the water, going through the Beşiktaş neighborhood, and after a while I reach the Naile Sultan garden, and inside this garden I find a guy leaning against some kind of tree, an ottoman era Mansion house on his back, and some lame dogs around. This is, this guy is the gardener, and he tells me that Naile was the daughter of a pasha, and this groove, which is still private property today, is not open to the public, and so, I shouldn’t be here, anyway, after a while he is already presenting me to some mahalebs, some buckthorns, and some turk magnolias. And then further, I reach Bebek, a middle class neighborhood, and here, by the water, I get in a conversation with a girl sitting on a bench, she is looking at an open book on her lap and at the same time to the sea on her front, and so, I decide to ask what is that book about, and she instantly says that “the protagonist is an Istanbul lawyer named Galip, he finds one day that his wife Rüya ("dream"), has mysteriously left him with very little explanation, and so, he wanders around the city looking for his clues to her whereabouts. “Hum, I see…” I say, “but is it a dark story?” I ask and then she tries to explain, but I can't get it because a couple of tourists are coming on our side to ask things. And then I go under the Second Bosphorus Bridge, the “Fatih Sultan Mehmet” Bridge. Then, I’m making my way to Kireçburnu bay, which is already part of the Sarıyer neighborhood, the last neighborhood of Istanbul before reaching the black sea. And so, there I go, wandering through this green area called “Milli Parklar Kuş Gözlem Kulesi - Bird Observation Tower hill”, I go down, I go up, I lose myself and finally I reach Garipçe (strange makers)... a small isolated village at the mouth of the Bosphorus. I wonder about the ruins of the old fortifications by the black sea, I go down the cliffs by the water and I make my prayers. Then, I come back to the village being followed by black eyed dogs. And now, I’m sitting on the esplanade of an old cafe with a view over the port, staring at the men moving the containers, down there… while getting drunk. And then, it’s late, it’s night, so the bar is about to close, but the barman, a skinny man with a thin mustache, aware that I’m the last client here, decides to invite me to his house, and so, there we go… together we drink rakia all night long while speaking about women, and, at the same time, playing some kind of table games, mixing the pieces, recreating the rules, changing the symbols, exchanging the amounts… This is, in the morning I manage to cross the mouth of the Bosphorus on a small fishing boat and once I get in Poyraz, I instantly get a ride with a gas delivery man, a funny guy that will drop me close to the Kuzey Marmara Otoyolu, a big motorway going east. And so, as I walk on it, I get a ride with another car, the driver introduces himself as Mustafa, a retired police officer now running a chicken farm. And so, there we go, talking about eggs, chicken, cocks, turkeys and the reason why Turkey is called Turkey. And thus, about one thousand kilometers later we reach the Sümela Monastery, in the Altindere Valley and I don’t know what exactly happens there, but next morning I’m waking up in a posh room with a disconcerting hangover. There are carpets on the walls with geometric-abstract motives and a huge golden candelabrum is actually hanging from the roof, right over my head, moving slowly… and so, instantly, I jump out of the bed and there I go, running out of the room, and into the toilet I go, vomiting. But, there is no materia coming out, just that disgusting yellowish fluid. And then, I get back to the living room, still cleaning up my mouth and blinking like someone that has just awakened for the new world. This is, there is too much light entering this rich furnished room enclosed with geometric labyrinth patterns, and on my front is a man with a thin mustache and a knot on the collar of his white sleeve shirt, and he talks without looking at me, looking to the walls, in a soften polished tone, as if he got honey under his tongue. “I’m Haji Bektaş Veli, the Sultan of Hearts, the Derwish of the Dervishes, the pilgrim saint, a descendant of the seventh Shia Imam Musa Kazim, also called Abul Hasan, Abu Abd Allah, Abu Ibrahim, al-Kadhim, the one who controls his anger… I have rained with the rain and I have grown as grass… I was Bektash, who came from Khurasané'' he says, and then I’m feeling sick again, so I'm running back to the toilet, and once there, while looking at my paleness in the mirror, I still can hear that pastiche voice from the man in the living room, this time even more groovy “Seek and find… coz, to search and investigate is an open exam... but, be in control of your hands, tongue and loins... and whatever you do, do it for the Truth... coz there exists in you a “there is” to replace every “there isn't.”... and If the path appears dark, know that the veil is in your own eyes... all blessings upon the one who overlooks another's shortcomings.... all blessings upon the one who makes a secret of secrets... do not hurt others, even if you are hurt... one hour of meditation is better than seventy years of piety... and never desire fame, fame is disaster...” and then, I’m coming back the main road by the black sea, and in the meanwhile, I get a ride in a old fashion Kuba motorcycle that take me to Trabzon, and then another ride in a small car, a Mazda, being driven by a young Greek/Turkish couple, and so, we cross the Tea-Growing region of Rize, and then we reach the border with Georgia. And so, already inside the Georgian territory, I get another ride with a camion driver, a turk man that tells me a lot of bullshit about turkish politics and then I get another ride in a car with the driving wheel on the right side, and the driver, a Georgian middle age pop-eyed man, explain me that Georgia is a major re-export hub for cars. Dealers purchase second-hand cars from Japan and Europe, ship them to Georgia and then sell them here or transport them to neighboring countries, “this is my job”, he says with that harsh tone proper from the Georgian language. And so, once in Tbilisi, I get the sensation that I'm in some northern city of Greece, I see Georgians as shy Greeks with a touch of the Russian thing, that’s my first impression of these people. And as it goes, I end up in the sulphuric baths, in Abanotubani, a hill on the suburbs of the city, where according to a legend, the falcon of the King Vakhtang Gorgasali have fallen, this, leading to the discovery of the hot springs and, subsequently, contributing to the founding of a new capital. This area, “not to be mistaken with the Iberian peninsula of Portugal and Spain, coz, in the Greco-Roman geography, Iberia was an exonym for the Georgian kingdom of Kartli, known after its core province, which during Classical Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages was a significant monarchy in the Caucasus…” someone here tells me. And so, at the top of the hill, on the back of Sulphuric baths, I manage to find some young Russians actually making some kind of picnic, and well, straight away I would join them in their meeting, this is, we would actually talk about European-Russian politics while actually smoking that grass embedded with sulfur. And eventually, in the meanwhile, someone would even ask me if I want some chacha, this is, “a kind of Georgian vodka,” they say, and “Yes” I say, thus, in the meanwhile, as we all drank it, down the mountain we would go until reaching the Kura River, and then we would even continue walking by this river, eventually reaching the Rustavi Forest, where we would actually lose each others, and so, after being asleep on the vicinity of this forest during some hours, I would see myself aboard some sort of mini-bus packed with some villagers actually putting water on my head while giving me some kind of curated cheese they would call Guda. This is, some of them, mainly the ladies, would even smile to me along the way, but the man, punchy, would give me despicable looks I wouldn’t understand. Anyway, once we reached Ruisbolo, the last village before the border with Azerbaijan, I would go across the border walking to actually be very welcomed by the Azerbaijan customs personal, this is, one of them would even put me in contact with a friend that accordingly, would give me a ride in his old Lada until the Ganja city, and so, many teas and ganja conversation after, I would eventually reach Baku,  the capital and largest city in this country, as well the largest city by the Caspian Sea and in the Caucasus region, I got to know. Said and done, in the morning, I would eventually board some crappy ship made of rotten cans, and there I would go across the oily Caspian sea. This is, we would moor somewhere on the Türkmenbashi Gulf, the west coast of Turkmenistan, Awaza, that before was part of the Khanate of Khiva, now a deserted tourist zone commissioned by President Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow who sought to imitate Dubai's development boom and Las Vegas pedantry. And so, I wander around this area with pyramidal hotels in the middle of the nothingness and then, as I enter one of them, I speak with the receptionist, a bored man named Pürli. He tells about the great wall Iran is building on its border with Afghanistan and Iran, its consequences and policies, and so, I decide to avoid Iran, I advance by the Amu Darya river that makes the border between Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Afghanistan, and then some new-age talibans take me to Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan. And so, once in Islamabad, I go to visit the Heritage Museum or the National Institute of Folk & Traditional Heritage, a museum that has also a Sufi section, and here there are pictures of musicians standing in performing postures, this is, the sufi saints Lal Shahbaz Qalandar, Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai and Sachal Sarmast, among others. And when I ask about these saints, they tell me that “Lal was a contemporary of Rumi, he traveled around the Muslim world and settled in Sehwan, close to the Manchar lake, where he performed his miracles… and Shah was a poet and musician that made his instruments talk… and then there was Sachal Sarmast, that wrote poetry in seven languages, and they tell me about his famous book Shah Jo Risalo, that is, "The Message of the Truthful", a book with thirty Surs, accordingly named: Kalyaan; Yaman Kalyaan; Khanbhaat; Suri Raag; Samundi; Sohni; Sassui Aburi; Maazuri; Desi; Kohyari; Husain; Lilan Chanesar; Momal Rano; Marui; Kaamod; Ghattu; Sorath; Kedaro; Sarang; Asaa; Rippa; Khahori; Barwo sindhi; Ramkali; Kapati; Purab; Karayal; Pirbhati; Dahar; Bilawal and Sur Kamod. And plus, I got to know tha these Surs contain Bayts, which Shah Latif used to sing in a state of ecstasy, were concerning the life-stories of his heroines, Suhni, Sassui, Lila, Mumal, Marui, Nuri and Sorath, which the Sufi Poet in the state of "Wajd" or ecstasy, used as allegories to express their mystical experiences. Then I’m aboard a dugout flowing along the Tawi River that crosses Pakistan into India, and so, I’m actually being taken by a pair of boatmen who transport exotic goods between the two countries. In the meantime we reached the suburbs of Jammu city, and from far away, right on top of a hill, I can already spot a huge pink building with some black spots, and so, as I approach it, the upper part of the building get more and more evident, and then, what I thought to be big windows, are actually holes, big holes on the pinkish walls and a burned kind of roof. And, as I ask around, I get to know that actually, this building in ruins is called Mubarak Mandi. And the word Mubarak is not strange to me, I already knew that “Barak'' comes from Arab and means something like “blessed”, and so, the I ask in the streets around about the meaning of Mandi”. and someone tells me that “Mandi” actually means “rice”, others tell me that it means “dew”, and then someone tells me that it actually means “market”. So, yes sir, now I see, this crumbling pink building must have been some kind of royal market, or rather a palace with a Victorian touch, certainly hosting a market with worldwide products brought from east and the west. Then, as I approach the city, someone tells me that this building had been the royal residence of the last Rajah of Jammu and Kashmir. And plus, this old man also helps me to find where the City Chowk is, this is, the city market. And so, here I’m, now going through some alleys with a series of tiny shops with their merchandise sprouting out of the front windows, that is, barbershops, fruit shops, colorful plastic stores, clothes shops and steaming foods, etc. And then, I get into small conversations with the customers queuing up in front of a street vendor stirring a yellow paste inside a large silver pot. This is Halva, a dessert that I already knew from other countries in the Middle East, but here it has a more yellowish tone, and they add roasted sesame seeds and pistachios to it, and almond and vanilla. “The halwa is cooked in pure ghee”, clarified a man with gold teeth, approaching us; and then the clarification continues like this “The ghee is made with buffalo milk, not cow's milk”, he says turning to some kind of tourists on his front and then to me, and I look away. That is, without wanting to know, I find out that these tourists are actually on their way to the Vaisho Devi, an important Hindu temple located about fifty kilometers to the north, in the Trikuta mountains, these mountains being considered the second home of the goddess Durga. Result: I drink mint tea, eat roasted onions with caramel and soon I'm at the bus station buying a bus ticket to Srinagar. And so, as I get in the bus, I find a book by a certain Mushtaq Ahmad Mushtaq, and as the bus take-off, I begin to read a snippet from this book, actually a snippet from a short story entitled “The Scar”, and it goes more and less like this: “...for the third time Piari climbed the ladder to clean the floor from the porch, meanwhile Saeb left his room to come here and sit for a while. Piari was irritated, but even though she threw him an angry look, she didn't say a word and went back inside. It was late afternoon and the compound was covered in evening shadows, and only the top of the bush, a pomegranate tree, was bright with the setting sun, the lower part was devoid of foliage and flowers. And many times Piari insisted with her husband to remove that thing looking more like a battered scar, but Lala Saeb refused. Piari used to have discussions with Lala Saeb about almost every petty issue, like cutting the withered bush, even though they lived in the same house… Lala Saeb had been retired for over twelve years. That is, initially, after his retirement, he used to leave almost on time from the office. And, in addition to taking care of many household chores, he would go to the library to read the newspapers, or gossip in the barber shop, paying thoughtful visits to all his relatives, as well, or even help his wife in the kitchen… But then, when his wife died, he contracted the "sugar disease" and eventually would become weak to the point it was impossible for him to move. Still, he couldn't get the state to give him a pension. So, he would usually either stay in his room relaxing, or sit quietly on any other side of the house. And occasionally, he would turn on the TV to entertain himself a little, or else he would sit on the porch and watch this withered bush, the branches of the pomegranate tree. So, under the setting sun, Lala Saeb had the momentary illusion that the withered bush would sprout again and become a bright flame with its red flowers. And it reminded him of a scene from another time, when a pomegranate orchard had blossomed around his old mud house. There was even a house party because, finally, a boy was born after three daughters. And before the baby was old enough to go to school, he used to play and play with his sisters and cousins by the same pomegranate grove. They called him Shahzadah, the prince. Lala Saeb and his wife felt that they had achieved all the joys of life; they were neither deficient in anything nor helpless in any way. Shahzadah continued to grow, and Lala Saeb's brothers decided to build their new houses where the old one was, starting by cutting down the pomegranate bushes. Saba Lala had been the first to build her separate house, then Ghulam Rasool, and finally Lala Saeb, who spent whatever he saved, after marrying off his daughter, on building his present home so that Shahzadah would never feel poor compared to his cousins. And all the remaining pomegranate bushes were cut down when the house was built; and the current bush, withered in a corner of the compound, was saved by Lala Saeb's wife as a keepsake. The bush had been blooming every year, even though it was close to the cement fence, yet strangely enough, it began to wither shortly after his wife's departure for the heavenly abode. Lala Saeb's eyes were now fixed on the withered branches of the pomegranate tree, and he was lost in his ruminations. Suddenly, Piari turned on the TV inside the house; it was the evening news bulletin. Lala Saeb was startled when he heard clearly: "Nomination orders have been given to two hundred youths today for compassionate reasons." So the government finally started to do something, he thought, and “God willing our Shahzadah will also settle down in life. Each day of my old age is as heavy as a mountain, and I would rather leave for the other world right now than stand all this… but what will happen to him? He, that just opened a store, but was not successful in it. I would like him to get a job soon, so that I could take my last breath in peace.” With these thoughts he cast a glance again at the withered bush, and twilight was almost done, so the cluster of dried pomegranate leaves really did look incongruous with the green grass and the beautiful variety of flower beds. Then, letting out a deep sigh, he pushed himself up against the wall and walked into his room. Shortly after, Piari came in to ask if he had run out of medicine, but Lala Saeb said nothing about the medicine, instead he asked if she had heard the news. “The government is said to have issued appointment orders for two hundred youths'' she said with a frown. “Then why don't you tell Shahzadah Lal to get some money and start his life. It would make my death easier”, said Lala Saeb albeit shyly. “What nonsense are you saying? Those two hundred jobs were distributed to those people who lost a relative during the riots” Piari says, and giving a tug, she continued: "Altamash, do you know that friend of Shahzad's, who also got a job contract, his father, was killed in a shootout while he was on his way to the bank to collect his pension. Not only did he get a job, but also got an ex-gratia compensation of one hundred thousand rupees" she said, and as she said it, she gave another shudder and left the room. Lala Saeb, having heard what Piari said, was stunned, his whole body now drenched in cold sweat, and so, he advanced to the semi-dry pomegranate tree, and embraced its trunk with all its force”.

ON THE ROAD - Nouakchottgo / Mogadíscio

I depart from Nouakchottgo, the capital of the Western Sahara, taken by some Tuareg caravan, and so, as we go across the big desert, across a series of sandstorms, across uninterrupted oasis, I hear stories about mythical creatures that used to live around these oasis, stories about a certain kind scorpion living inside a crumbling palace with a troupe of enslaved mermaids surrounding him, stories about Zerzura, a city guarded by black giants who would keep anyone from going in and coming out, stories about Jinns wandering through the desert, waiting for caravans where they could immerse themselves inside the bungle, and stories about Marids, this is, water spirits that are believed to dwell under springs, beings that tend to be associated with fertility and abundance, and stories about Ifrits, spirits that are believed to inhabit the hottest parts of the desert, this is, beings associated with the destruction and chaos, also invoked for protection against evil spirits, and stories about Ghuls, malevolent spirits that are believed to prey on humans and animals, often depicted as shape-shifting creatures that can take on the form of a hyena or a jackal, and so, still on the move, I’m now watching the sky, counting the stars, and as it goes, I sleep and I awake as the devils rubs the eyes. And so, in this dream I see myself running through the desert, rolling on the sandbanks, falling on the pit, and then, as I look up, I have this impression that the sky is actually approaching, getting closer, this is, apparently, falling over our head, but then, there I go again, dragging myself on the crest of the dunes, and thus, as I advance, I’m visualizing some kind of towers appearing and disappearing on the horizon, and so, as I stare at it, I feel a great attraction, a strong desire of getting closer to it, even if it may be just an illusion made of sand and smoke, it doesn't matter, I really wanna get there, and so, here I go again, on the prowl of it, and, thus, as I’m apparently getting there, they tend to disappear, to change place… and so, all in a sudden, I’m already being engulfed by a sandstorm, and, while I turn in the sand, there are various shadow beings coming closer, twirling, dancing around me… mumbling, hollering, yelling, freeing quaint laughs… and then, I don’t know how, some of these shadows are already entering inside my body, tickling my bowels, and thus, as it goes, I have a palette of voices babbling things inside my head, like “I’m the true-truwe, and I will guide you through the stars…”; or, “I’m the real-reel, and I will carry you to the matter…”; or “I’m the freeda-free, I will take you wherever you wanna go…” and then, there I go again, running through the crest of a dunes, still trying to approach these towers… now looking bigger and closer, but, well, after a while, they are gone again, changing their locations… and so, I have to change my directions too, thus, down another dune I go, and while descending, again, I fall on the fold, and then yes, while looking up I see that the sky is actually getting really close and as it comes down, in between the dark clouds, I see, some sort of blinking numbers becoming blurred faces with pointy teeth or… numbers that are also running and toppling over, changing its form and then, the voices I was hearing inside my head are actually incorporating these blinking faces coming closer, and closer, and... then, there I go, already being sucked by this magnetic sky, this is, probably my body and existence being choked by the jobbery of numbers and their nonsense. This is, now here, I’m just a prey being analyzed by the matrix, electricity and dysfunction running through my veins, meat and bones… Though, in my mind, or, in my conscience, while rolling through these tunnels at the speed of the light, I mean, while being sucked by the tentacles of these ultra-technological machinery, I still know who I am, or at least, I pretend that I know. And then, while being engulfed by this meta-mathematical sky, I’m having emotions like misery, hope and contentment fighting inside myself, and so, I feel like fighting against the wind and making love with the sand at the same time... anyway, I’m falling through a hole now, a deep hole, softly, and then, as I go down I see images of the world’s history passing by at high speed, this is, I see images of big explosions, spaceships, flying crocodiles, and then, the primitive man naked in the hoods, under some big rock, rubbing two pointed sticks… trying to make fire, and then, in another groove, I see the sons of Adam all fighting together because of … well, I don’t know the reason why they are actually fighting, but, then, as I look up, to the ceiling of this same cave, I see a lot of dollar notes falling from the ceiling, and then, landing on the bodies of the fighters, and further, I also see some spiders making their webs on the sky, and then gods fallen into these spider web-shaped traps, and I also see ugly sea monsters licking these webs where the gods are locked down, and I see myself falling from the sky, passing on the side of all these webs, that now look more like whirlpools, and so, then, as I go down I see images of the world’s history passing by at high speed, this is, I see images of big spaceships, big explosions, flying crocodiles, the primitive man naked in the hoods, under some big rock, trying to make fire while rubbing two pointed sticks… and then, in another cave, the sons of Adam all fighting together, because of… well, I don’t know the reason they why they are actually fighting, but, then, I see a lot of dollar notes hanging on the ceiling of this same cave, and after… I see all these people working on the pyramids of Egypt, and while they work, I also see the gods up there in the sky, laughing, drinking whiskey, making toasts with it, and while they do it, some drops of their drinks are actually falling down over the bare back of the workers/slaves now looking up, and then escaping their service, fighting with big bears on the side of the road, dancing in circles with cobras around their necks… and so, as I go down, I keep having more visions, I see the pilgrimage of Jerusalem, and I see the medieval man inside big ships, arriving at other continents… and then, naked man/ women trying to stop bullets with their own breasts… and I see the outbreak of the first great World-war, and the aftermath of the second great World-war… this is, I see the men inside Auschwitz concentration camps, choking, and I see the atomic bomb falling over Hiroshima, children screaming in the suburbs of the city, and then, I see the advent of internet… people stuck inside computer screens, and then, I’m already passing through an opening between some roofs and in a while, I’m landing precisely on the chair of the defendant/accused inside a big courtroom, just in time to hear the verdict from the judge, now staring at me, half smiling, his silly wig falling a bit on the side, and then, as he bangs the hammer on the table he shouts “Acquittal!”, afterwards, the public are clapping their hands, and, then, as I look back, at the assistance, I can see their vain expressions, and, at this point, all them are actually looking at their phones, not at us at all. And, in a while, the judge is no more here, and, at some point, I’m already being seized by a couple of security/policemen, this is, they pull me through corridors that lead to another corridors until reaching a big door, and then, as this door opens automatically, I’m being shoved outside, down this big marble staircase, and so, when I reach the bottom of the stairs and open my eyes again, I see a bunch of heads with turbans on the head, big eyes on their faces staring to me, and as I look around, I also see camels under awnings, some bundles piled up on a bank of sand and here, the man around, drinking tea, are actually asking me what was I dreaming about, and I say that I was dreaming with cobras falling from the sky. And then next morning we depart again, and so, I do not know how many days later, we reach Agadez, in north Niger, one of the traditional Tuareg–Berber federations, they are coming here to pick a shipment of salt, and so, as they do their dealing at some kind of markets specialized in many kinds of desert salt, I wander through the city, this is, at this point, I’m passing a row of crude mud houses and shops with colorful tarps over the main door, and then, at a certain hidden terrace, I see the groups of the sub-saharan migrants, gathering there, talking loud and drinking teas, and so, I seat with them for a while, and then, they take to some open-air market on the suburbs of the city, and so, here, I see men with all kinds of turbans on their heads, wandering round through this maze of stalls, actually not stalls, just some rough pieces of tarp scattered in between the groups men, goats, and camels, and then, over these pieces of tarp, I see some king of huge pumpkins and other vegetables, like, red onions, pods from the Moringa tree (someone tells me), plus some kind of dry grains, dates, and some kind of pinkish salt -.apparently mixed with some kind of gemstones, animal hides, broken mobile phones, and other outdated gadgets brought from Europe. And watching around, the clients are, mainly, Tuareg women with broad rings swinging on their noses, and Tuareg men with embroidered daggers tied to their waist, and so, as it goes, I stop by a tarp covered with jeans and leather jackets full of patches, and here, I get to know some guys coming from countries like Eritrea, Sudan and Chad, guys with the intention of crossing the Sahara and then getting into European lands, but there are several routes, one leading to the Algerian/Moroccan border, other leading to Sfax in east Libya, others leading to Tripoli, the capital of Libya, and many others going east, in the direction of the Valley of the Nile, through Egypt and Sudan, and so, it is one this, the longer one that I take, for the ones that do not want to get into Europe via the Mediterranean sea but via the Middle-East and Turkey, that makes border with the eastern branch of Europe. And so, said and done, here we go now, this is, me and a bunch of nigas, pressed against each other, aboard some kind of pick up van, and, as the hot wind passes by, a mixed up conversation about international football comes up. This is, names of African football players (playing in Europe) are being pronounced with different tonalities and accents, and then, like a game, other guys aboard are matching the clubs where these footballers are currently playing. So, at this point, the thing goes more and less like this: “Salah: Roma/Liverpool. Sadio Mané: Bayern Munich. Yaya Touré: Manchester City/Olympiacos. Édouard Mendy: Chelsea. Felix Afena-Gyan: Roma. Romelu Lukaku: Chelsea/Inter Milan. Aurélien Tchouaméni: Real Madrid. Daniel Ola: Lazio/Chievo Verona. Aaron Wan-Bissaka: Manchester United. Cher Ndour: Benfica/ Paris-Saint-Germain. Aaron Wan-Bissaka: Manchester United. Alfred Duncan: Fiorentina. Paul Labile Pogba: Juventus. Pape Abou Cissé: Olympiacos. Simon Ngapandouetnbu: Olympique de Marseille…” And then, further, while sleeping, I see myself running on the crest of some dunes, and while advancing, I envision some kind of blurred towers appearing and disappearing on the horizon, and, as I stare at this vision, I feel a great atraction, a strong desire of getting closer to it, but, as I’m apparently getting to some of them, they tend to disappear, to change place… and so, all in a sudden, as the devil rubs the eyes, I’m already being engulfed by another sandstorm, and, while turning in the sand, there are various shadow beings coming closer to me, twirling, dancing around me… shadow beings that, somehow, mange to enter my body and soul, goshes, sprits, jinnees, whatsoever… mumbling, hollering, yelling, freeing quaint laughs while turning around… and then, I don’t know how, babbling things inside my head, things I identify as “I’m the trow-trow-true, and I will guide you through the stars…”; or, “I’m the reel-reel-real, and I will carry you to the matter…”; or “I’m the free-free-freeda, and I will take you wherever you wanna go…”, and then, somehow, when I wake up I’m inside a fluca, going down the Nile river, and so, soon we reach Khartoum, the capital of Sudan, a city situated inside the vertice where the blue and the white Nile meet, and so, here I go through the city center now, more precisely, going along the Nile street, just on the side of the Blue Nile. And, on my right side, along the banks of the river I see, some “posh restaurants”, some cafes, some boat tour agencies, and then, up ahead, rising on the horizon, a blue fat building shaped like a bean, and so, as I envision it, I decide to ask some janitors around what is that, and quickly they tell me that “this is the Gaddafi’s Egg, a five-star hotel located in front of the Tuti island that dwells inside the triangle where the Blue and White Nile converge forming the main course of the Nile itself”. And so, then, they also ask me if I wanna go on some excursion along the Nile, but, “which one is bigger, the Blue or the White Nile?” I ask, and instantly I get to know the answer, “the White is bigger, it born thousand and thousands of kilometers away from here…”, and then they also try to ask me something else but I run away from them, this is, I keep going across the Nile Street and then, I turn left and right, and at some point I’m going across some narrow streets on the city center itself, and so, describing it, I pass some small shops selling trinkets of all kinds, things like, beaded necklaces, plastic fruits, pots of spices, spark plugs for motorcycles, shiny candles, sugar oil, muslim hats, tailors specialized in leather, sweet corn stalls, barbers that also repair mobile phones, some banks with the showcases full of dust, some crumbling governmental buildings, and then, under a big guava tree, a tea stall with women in colorful dresses wandering in the middle of a tangle of kettles and water pans, making different kind of teas while babbling between each other. And so, after drinking my tea, a strong black tea infused with spices like cinnamon, cardamom, and ginger, I keep on the going along Isbitalia street and at some point I get to a big mess of people getting in and out of mini-vans, and someone tells me that I just reached the Souq al Arabi, one of the largest open-air market in Khartoum. And so, as I go across it I see that, at one of the sides of the market, there are a multitude of stalls selling gold pieces, perfumes, incense and oils stalls, and so, as I make a multitude of questions I get to know that, Humrah is one of the most famous fragrances around here, being Humrah a preparation of mahleb seeds, cloves, dufr, sandalwood, musk, and even orange peels, someone tells me. And then, there are innumerous kinds of clothes stalls, arabi, african and european style, leather shoes and crocodile bags, carved wooden masks, ivory pieces… men lounging in front of their shops, young men and women offering buckets full of cotton, gum arabic, sorghum and sesame, between other things I can’t understand. And, then, as I approach the food stalls, I get in touch with a body from South Africa, his name Mandla, a Zulu speaker, but he also speaks English, German, and some French, etc. And so, as it goes, he invites me to seat and eat on his side, with the hands, like people do here, thus, while we share a Ful Medame (this is, a fava beans stew served in a large metal jug), we talk a bit about South Africa, the war in Sudan, about our travels in Africa, coz he is also a traveler, etc. And he is also disclosing that his family sent him to study in Europe, “but, in truth, I didn’t like it that much, and so, some months after I would come back to my country and then… then yes, I would go and traveling all around Africa, this is, north, south, east, west, all around… and yes, yebo, I got to understand a bit about all the different African cultures, about African history in real, about the problems that came after the colonialism, the African fauna and flora, but above all, the African people… and how resistant we are…”, and so, as I listen to him saying those things, I ask which countries in Africa after all afteralls are his favorites, and he, without losing time, says that “Ethiopia and Madagascar…” are his favorites, and then, when I ask why, he says that “Madagascar, this Island country, has many rare species of fauna and flora, species I haven’t anywhere else, I mean strange birds with wonderful chanting, etc”, and “Ethiopia because… well, Ethiopia has the most versatile people in Africa… its people are African, Arabian, Indian and European at the same time, and you know, Ethiopia is the only country in Africa that refused to be colonized by Europeans and plus… you also know, all that reggae kings and queens from Jamaica that see Ethiopia as a promised land and, as a matter of fact, the Emperor Haile Selassie granted land to Rastafarians of all kinds in his country, have you heard about that?”, “No!” I say. And then, it’s his time to ask “But, what about you, why are you in Africa? I mean, from where you came from? And, what’s your purpose here? I mean, where do you want to go after all?” and here, I delay my answer a bit, until that “I don’t know…” I say, “I’m not even sure about my name, all I know is that… from the Sahara I came and… I’m not sure how I got here, I mean, I really don’t know!”; “Oh, and about your destination, do you know?” he insists, “Well, I think I wanna go south, but I’m not sure, maybe east, maybe north… it all depends on the people I meet on the way…” And so, now, Mandla wants to take me somewhere, it doesn't matter to me if it is north, south, east or west… well, we go across the Al Sunut forest now, a forest inside the city, and here we see some people playing basketball, the baskets installed on the stems of some big acacia trees, and also there are some monkeys around them that come after us, but, we run away from them. And then, in the meanwhile, as we get to some kind of marsh land, where we can see a big group of pelicans landing on small muddy islands, and “this is already the White Nile '', my mate tells me. And so, as we go across the river banks, walking along a hard mud path, after a while, we get to one area with a lot of fishing gear, some wreckage, some fishing boats and some recreational boats as well, and it's onto one of these boats that we mount. This is, straight away, Mandla introduces me to the captain, Abdô, his friend, and this captain also introduces us to his assistants, a couple of smiling boys dressed in basketball jerseys and baggy shorts. And, as it goes, after sharing some jokes about crocodiles, the boys are already bringing a bottle of wine, and so, we make a toast, and, as we take off, half of the bottle is spilled in the river stream. And, as this happens, Mandla says, “Actually this is not a port, this is a shipyard, the real place where they live, and this man, Abdô…” he says pointing to his friend, “...this man here, he is an experienced fisherman that also makes recreational trips, if we give him the means…” and so, as he says this, I nod my head, this is, at this point we all nod and smile to each other and then the boys also run to the bow, laughing. And so, here I’m now, floating along the White stream of the Nile, blaring arabesque music coming from inside the boat shed, “not arab, this is Sudanic!” the boys say, while exercising some dance paces like, jumping without taking their feet off the floor, and then rotating in a crouched position, while wielding a stick with their right hand they say, “and this is the “Hadandawa dance… it’s the dance from our people, the Beja people, do you know about the Beja?”; “no” I say and then they explain. “The Beja are people native from south Egypt, eastern Sudan and north Eritrea… and our language is Tigre, not Arabi…ok!” And so, after some more tribal dance demonstrations, a couple of hours later, we reach the Jebel Aulia Dam, and so, here, would be my first checkpoint, this is, I had to get out of the boat, go across the banks of the river, and get in another boat on the other side. And it was also here that I would say bye bye to Mandla, even so, he left with me a paper saying (in several african languages) that I intended to reach the Victory Lake in Uganda/Tanzania, by boat only and not by any other transportation. And thus, many fisherman boats after, I would reach the Lake Albert in Uganda, and after the Lake Albert it would come the Murchison Falls National Park, a place with innumerous wild animals, like leopards, buffaloes, elephants, hartebeests, waterbucks, warthogs, orbis, kobs, grey duiker, and occasionally, crocodiles… and how I have crossed all that, I’m not sure, the sure thing is that I was over the influence of some local drugs applied by the wizardry people I met on the way, and then, finally, I would reach Kampala, the capital of Uganda, and so, here I go now, along the Namuwongo road, and as I go trough, I see a bunch of people cooking in the middle of the train line, and then, as I ask around if there is no trains coming, I get to know that this train line is actually the one making the connection of freight trains between the city itself and Port Bell, a bay belonging to Lake Victoria, and so, “I’m on the right way” I think to myself, and then, as I look around, this people cooking in the middle of the train line, they are already bringing me a small stoll where I can seat, and, straigh away, they invite me to have lunch with them, and so, as I seat, I observe what they are actually cooking in these grills over old oil cans, and so, what they have here, is, some kind of Indian chamuças, also called Rolex here, someone tells me, fried banana with some kind of hot sauce, Namungodi, this is, deep fried rice balls, actually a combination of boiled rice, mashed potatoes and flour dipped in whisked eggs and some unknown herbs; G-nuts Luwombo, a paste of grinded seeds and beef rolled in banana leaves; Tv chicken, a dish that gets its name from being cooked in a rotisserie oven that looks like a television; Nsenene, this is, roasted grasshoppers that are actually cooked alive in a frying pan or pot with oil, and, Kassoli, that is Roasted Maize/ Corn. And then, after trying all this, some kid takes me in some sort of four wheel bicycle, this is, three wheels on the floor and one up, rolling in the air, on our back. And, as it goes, after passing a bunch of people doing their stuff in the middle of the train line, in less than thirty minutes we reach Port Bell, already on the shores of lake Victoria, and then, there we go through the margins of this same lake, appointed as one of the possible sources of humanity, but the stench of these waters is so intense that we quickly move away from the shores of this famous lake. And then, we went through some forest roads, this is, the boy takes me to the main road heading to Jinja, where actually the Nile river debouches. And so, as I go through Jinja, I get to know about the Nyege Nyege festival, a festival mixing traditional central african music, and modern experimental free improvised and electronic music, and so, as I go to visit the place where this festival happens, I meet some guys that actually take me to Malab, a city on the border with Quenia, and here, I get a ride with some truck guy that will take me to Nairóbi, the capital of the country, and so, as we go through we see some huge giraffe, some zebras, some rhynos, and even some Wildebeest, also called gnu, that actually are antelopes from the Bovidae family, I get to know. And then, about ten hours later, as we reach the suburbs of Nairóbi, I get another ride with another truck, this one transporting Kerosene, soap, and bottled water into Kismayo, a city by the Indian ocean, in southern Somalia, and so, there we go, listening some kind of muslim praying in somali language, going through a series of bumpy, unpaved roads with hungry goats crossing here and there from time to time, and then, once in Kismayo, I go to wash my face on the waters of the indian ocean, and, as I come back to the road, I get another ride with another truck, this one transporting lubricants, waxes, candles, etc, to the capital, Mogadíscio, and so, as we go up by the ocean, slowly, constantly wobbling, we listen to serie of Turkish pop music artists, and then, next morning, once we reach the big city, there we go, through a maze of crumble but colorful buildings, bare wires running over us, and some empty squares, and so, once I reach the Suuqa Bakaaraha, this is, the Bakaaraha Market, I look for someone that wanna buy my shoes.

ON THE ROAD - Panama city / Rio de Janeiro

Thus, from Panama city I would take a mini-bus to Yaviza, a small town in the southern part of this country, say, a town that actually marks the end of the Pan-American Highway, yeah, a highway virtually running from North America (they say) until here, then continuing (after the Darien jungle), on the east side of the Urabá Golf, after a city called Turbo (Colombia). And so, what we have here, after this village, is actually the end of the road, the so called Darién Gap, say, a remote road-less rain-forest stretching across southern parts of Panama until the Chocó department of Colombia, say, an area that acts as a natural barrier between Central and South America. And so, advised by locals, I would not go to walk in the middle of this forest, in fact, I would continue by boat, yeah, this is, firstly I would jump onto a private launch that should take me along the Chucunaque river until the mouth of the Tuira on the vicinity of the Real de Santa Maria village, where I would get on a Piragua, say, a hand-carved wooden dugout canoe traditionally used by the indigenous to travel across this sort of jungles, but, in this case, being conducted by a couple mestizos, that, accordingly, as we depart, would actually advise to put some extra clothes, to cover all my body because of the mosquito bites that may pass malaria or induce the dengue fever, they say, and so, then, already on the go, floating across some water lilies actually they call “lechugas de agua”, I would see my colleagues on board attaching this sort of visors in the front of their faces, a thing that is also being given to me in the meanwhile... this is, “put this now,” my mentor says, “and do not remove it please, coz, remember, this is very important… muy importante, si… porque… this will actually protect us from the spit of poisonous frogs we will encounter ahead...” this middle aged man with a hollow face actually wearing some sort of oilcloth suit, informs. And so, there we go, winding through this dense green forests, upstream, I get to understand... and while I talk about my travel since the United States until here, and they talk about their life here in the Darie jungle, the greens are becoming yellow and then the yellows are becoming brown, this is, in the meanwhile we are actually reaching an area occupied by large swamps, and so, as I keep looking around, at some point I spot, over there, maundering across these muddy banks, a bunch of animals that look like pigs, but actually, as we get closer and closer to them, I already can see that their snout is actually curved down, more like a half trunk, what makes me remember the African ant-eater… and so, “this is the dantas”, my captain says, “a silent animal that appears and disappears without leaving a trace… they are excellent swimmers and often flee into deep murky waters to escape land predators like jaguars…. I mean, they can actually fully submerge themselves for several minutes, using their flexible, trunk-like snouts as built-in snorkels to breathe safely beneath the surface… plus, the Guna people that are inhabitants of this forests, worship them… I mean, they consider its appearing to be a good omen…”, one of the mullatos says. And so, after a brief talk about the Guna people and other native ethnics from the Darie Jungle, like the Emberá and the Wounaan, soon we would eventually “cross paths” with other vessels coming in the opposite direction, this is, vessels actually cramped with some sort of dark skin individuals that I can easily identify as not being local Indians… and so, as they go by, our captain even wave to them, and some of them also wave back to us, and then, our catain would explain like this… “well, I may inform you that these are actually illegal migrants coming from Brazil... I mean, they are not exactly Brazilians, they are actually Africans that first fly from Africa to Brazil, as we know, and then, after crossing all the Amazonian forest, then reach here… intending to continue even further, until the border with the United States...” and so, as my colleague keeps talking about the possible trajectories made by this illegal people and the Migrant Reception Stations that actually give them bus tickets that permit them to travel across the country toward Costa Rica… I would sleep and accordingly, dream with leopard eyes actually prowling on the margins of this same river… this is, on the next morning, we would actually dismount this sort of canoe, pack our staff, and follow along some sort of muddy paths following in the middle of a very humid forest filled with haze, actually going across some mountains they actually call Cerro Tacarcun, the mosquitoes producing a deafening drone that would turn us into zombies, even so, in a couple of hours we would manage to reach the vicinity of the Urabá Golf, where we would find some villages with houses raised on stilts, and around these houses, a mix of local indigenous people and the so said African migrants I talked before. Therefore, after resting one night with them, we would get into some sort of vessel that would take us across the Urabá Golf until the Turbo city where I would get in a bus due to Medelín, and then another one to Bogotá. And so, after visiting the Monserrate Sanctuary, aka, la Basílica del Señor caído de Monserrate, I would leave the city again by bus, continuing eastwards, in the direction of the Tuparro National Park, and so, accordingly, after I get to Puerto Carreño, a small vilagge already on the border with Venezuela, actually a village situated in the place where the river Meta and the river Orinoco get together, and so already on the other side of the border, I would follow along the Troncal route, going south until Isla Raton, where the route would end, once more. And so, once again, I would jump into some kind of local vessel that would take along the course of the Orinoco river, going south until the Brazilian border, and then, already inside the Amazonian forest, a forest dominated by towering trees and high canopies that often keep the deep interior understory more open… I would continue along the stream of the Rio Negro, passing villages like Missão Boa Vista, São Joaquim, Bonfim, Juari, Barcelos, Carvoeiro, Taucapeçaçu, and then Manaus, the Capital of Amazonia.  that I would visit, walk along plazas with traditional Portuguese cobblestone patterns, and here on, from the negro river, we would flow along the Amazon river properly saying. This is, once in Manaus I would disembark at the Balsa Azul harbor, where I would see a constant influx of double and triple-decked regional wooden boats loading passengers and food supplies like, big sacks of grains, exotic fruits, fish and meat… and so, in the meanwhile, following some of those porters, I would reach the Adolpho Lisboa Municipal Market, where I would get into conversations about the colonial past of this country, this is, they actually tell me that this city was actually founded by the Portuguese in seventeenth century as the Fort of São José do Rio Negro, then elevated to town two centuries after with the name of "Manaus", an altered spelling of the indigenous Manaós peoples, I get to know. And plus, this man, actually a fish sellers here in the market keep explaining, “Amazonia was the only place in the world where you could find this tree, the seringueira, also known as rubber tree or rubber plant, a flowering plant belonging to the spurge family, and the most economically important member of the genus Hevea, because the milky latex extracted from it… this is, the nineteenth century, Manaus would become the major rubber producing center in the world, and so, during that they, it was like this… one rubber baron would buy a vast yacht, and another would install a tame lion in his villa, and a third one would water his horse on champagne… the city built a grand opera house, with vast domes and gilded balconies, and using marble, glass, and crystal, from around Europe...  in one season, half the members of one visiting opera troupe died of yellow fever, and so, this opera house, then called Teatro Amazonas, was effectively closed for most of the twentieth century, however, after a gap of almost ninety years, it reopened… you can visit it, it’s only a couple of blocks away from here, located on the Ten of July street... and eventually, as he keeps talking about the Brazil imperial history, there I go, along Rocha dos Santos street, a street that is home to several clothing stores, all packed inside, stores seemingly focused on resale, and then, at the end of this street I would do right and left and now I go along the Floriano Peixoto avenue, being this name a remembering of an army marshal that fought in the Paraguay war, “elected vice president by the end of the nineteenth century, he rose to the presidency after the resignation of generalissimo Deodoro da Fonseca, the first president of Brazil…” someone tells me as I hit the cross with the seven of September avenue, an avenue that accordingly commemorates Brazil's Independence Day that as it seems, happened on the seventh of September of eight hundred twenty two, tells me the shopkeeper of one of those all-in-one retailers selling a wide variety of home electronics, small appliances, cosmetics, and groceries under one roof… and continuing, further ahead I would quickly reach the ten of July street, I would do left, walk for some five minutes more, and then, on my left, I would finally meet this pinkish palatial building, the so mentioned opera house, the ex libris of the city, a building actually surrounded by some peddlers and streets sellers of indigenous appearance, some selling caju and peanuts, others trying to pass their herbs and roots from the amazonian forest, like this bearded man, now proclaiming, “Exchelchior Elixirs, Exchelchior Elixôr” while actually shaking his hand kit of maracas, rattles and bells… and then, after several turn around the city center, wandering through this single-storey buildings with palatial verandas on the front, then, I would eventually see myself following along a very long avenue actually named Av. Constantino Nery, this is, at some point, after passing the Bilhares park, and the stadium Arena da Amazônia, I wound see myself entering the Terminal Rodoviário de Manaus, this is, the Manaus bus station, where I would beg people to buy me a ticket, and so, “a ticket to where”, people would demand, and I, well, “anywhere east, anywhere in the direction of the Atlantic sea!” I would say, and so, accordingly, some smiley lady wearing some sort of flared dress, would actually pay me a ticket to São Salvador da Bahia, “original name, the great savior of all saints’ bay” she would say, and so, I would even kiss her as she presented me this offer. And thus, after a two days half trip, passing along the enormous states of Rondônia, Mato Grosso and Gôais, I would finally reach the capital city of the Bahia state, São Salvador, this is, a city with the largest number of African descendants in the world, they tell me, still inside that bus… And accordingly, as I arrived in the Aguás Claras bus station, I would walk through the city advancing in the direction of the city center, passing neighborhoods like Pirajá, Campinas, Calabetão, Bom Juá, Barbalho, Pelourinho, Barroquinha, Graça, and then I would reach the Barra beach, a beach on the southernest part of the city, just on the side of an old light house, The Barra Lighthouse, that, I got to know, was the first nautical signaling system to become operational in the Americas, plus, “it used to be fueled by whale oil…” this old man actually wearing some sort of waistcoat over his naked trunk, actually says. This is, after some days going around the so mentioned All-Saits bay, talking to some quirky characters on the was, masculine and feminine ones, I would come back to the road… this is, as I was leaving the city, going through the Nazare neighborhood,  I would first get a ride with this guy from Minas, a guy that came to visit his family here, he says, and so, as mote for conversation, here he goes, already asking me “what kind of Brazilian things are actually famous outside Brazil?”, and well, straightway, “the hips of Brazilian women, for sure, plus, the Carnival and the Brazilian heavy metal band Sepultura”, I would say, and by its turn, he actually would remark that he also was a big fan of of this band, but “just until the album Roots, then, they exchanged the vocalist, this American guy came to be the front-man of the band and, I didn't like him, I didn’t like and I still don’t like… for me, he looks more a pugilist than a musician…” he says. And so, in the meanwhile, I also tell him that “I’m in fact a big fan of the album Roots as well...” plus, I avow that I very much appreciate this crossover of heavy-metal sound with the Brazilian rhythms that are evident in some tracks of the “roots” album, and then I remember “What about this tribe that participated in one of the tracks from the album… are they from Amazonia? If yes, it's possible that I have just crossed paths with them, coz I’m just coming from there…”; “Oh, no, no, they are not from Amazonia, the Xavante tribe are actually from east Brazil, from Mato Grosso, the interior… not only the Amazonia has Indian blood…” he says. And then he explains to me that the expression “Mato Grosso” actually means “thick bushes” and we exchange smiles about that. And, as it goes, we then speak about other bands that cross heavy metal with folk music, the folk-metal genre. He refers “Mago de Oz”, a Spanish band with some sort of Celtic influences, and other northern European bands that mix viking music with heavy metal, and I say that “I’m not a big fan of Celtic or viking music but… I used to listen to the American death metal band Nile, a band with an Egyptian imaginary, mainly in the lyrics…” And then we start to speak about soap operas, another thing that Brazil exports to the world, I say that last time I was in Turkey they were watching a Brazilian soap opera in the prime-time, and he says that “here is also happening the same… we are importing a lot of Turkish soap operas in the recent times, they are getting popular here… it looks like the Turkish are so or more dramatic as us, that's why this is phenomenon is happening… I guess”, and I ask him if he is following any of these soap-operas and he says. “Yes, I watched a bit of Kurt Seyit ve Shura, just to understand about it… it’s about the adventures of two people in love who are forced to leave their lives and family behind and escape, more precisely, it’s about the journey of Kurt, a handsome lieutenant from Crimea, and Shura, the beautiful daughter of a noble Russian family, and it shows the days of magnificence in Petrograd-Russia, and then the occupied Istanbul, during the war time, it's a very dramatic thing” he says and then, “but, have you been to Turkey?” he asks, and “Yes!” I say, “a couple of times… I wanted to go to the middle-east, to see the Arab countries, but it happened that I got stuck in Turkey, and, just then I understood that Turkey is not an Arab country at all, rather the opposite, nowadays the young Turks hate Arabs” I say. And “beside Turkey, where have you been more?” he asks. “Well, I have been to a lot of countries…” I say, “But where?” he insists. “Well, I have been to almost all European countries, minus the Nordics… I have been to Syria before the war, Egypt, Iran, India, Indonesia and also some countries in Africa…”; “and South America, only Brazil?”; “No, as I was telling you, before Amazon I have been to Colombia, Panama and other Central American countries…” And so, then we start a conversation about the Central American countries and Mexico and the United States…   and as it goes, when we actually get close to the state of Minas Gerais, the man arrived at his destination and I just got another ride, this time with a middle aged guy, wearing a tie, his face more swarthy than the previous one. We started to talk about international politics, and then, just to contradict, I said “So, Lula is in power again!”; “Yes, indeed!”; “Directly from the jail to the power… hum”; “Yes, this is Brazil… but, by the way, do you know what the word Lula means?” he asks. “No idea… isn't it just a name?”; “No, it's not just a name”, he says, “Lula actually means squid, yes that tubular thing from under the seas, ahah”. “Oh, is it!?”; “yes, but his real name is Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva” he says, and then, just like that, he actually begins to explain me his biography… and, I let him talk…“So…” he starts, “Lula began his career as a metalworker when he was still a teenager, and later he would become a trade unionist… then, during the military dictatorship in Brazil, he led major workers' strikes, and helped start the Workers' Party during the eighties… his first presidency was marked by the consolidation of social welfare programs such as Bolsa Família and Fome Zero, which propelled Brazil to leave the United Nations' Hunger Map… so, during his two terms in office, he undertook radical reforms in the country, which eventually led to growth in GDP, reduction in public debt and inflation, and helping twenty million Brazilians escape poverty… I mean, poverty, inequality, illiteracy, unemployment, infant mortality, and child labor rates fell significantly, while the minimum wage and average income increased, and access to school, university, and health care was expanded… he also played a prominent role in foreign policy, both on a regional level and as part of global trade and environmental negotiations... so Lula is considered one of the most popular politicians in the history of Brazil,  but, despite its popularity, his first term was marked by notable scandals, such as the Mensalão scandal and the Sanguessugas scandal, also known as the “Mafia das Ambulancias!”; “oh, Ambulances Mafia, funny, what was that about?” I ask. “That was, actually, a corruption scandal based on the discovery of a gang, were Lula was involved, whose objective was to divert public money intended for the purchase of ambulances...”; “ahah, funny” I say, “What about his last imprisonment and subsequent release!?”; “That is a big story, but to cut it short, it was more and less like this… Lula was convicted on charges of money laundering and corruption in a controversial trial that was later nullified by the Supreme Court Justices, due to the court lacking proper jurisdiction over the case… and, before the annulment of his cases, Lula was actually sentenced to nine and a half years in prison, and after an unsuccessful appeal, was arrested and spent almost two years detained... until that, the Supreme Court ruled that the federal judge presiding over the case, Sergio Moro, who served as Minister of Justice and Public Security in the presidency of Jair Bolsonaro, was biased, and all of the cases Moro had brought against Lula were actually annulled… then, following the court ruling, Lula was legally allowed to make another run for president, defeating Bolsonaro in the runoff and would became the first Brazilian president to have been elected to a third term, and the first to have defeated an incumbent president in an election…”; “oh, but, I can’t still understand what he was accused of!”; “it’s difficult to explain… say, it all started with an accusation referring to the concealment of ownership of a triplex penthouse in Guarujá, on the coast of São Paulo, received as a bribe in exchange for favors at Petrobras, the main petroleum industry in this country… and then a series of minor cases linked to passive corruption and money laundering would follow… cases without conclusive evidence, that later, would be taken to international court… more precisely to the United Nations Human Rights Committee, that would consider his arrest illegal…  and then,  a long ideological struggle would ensue between the international court and the national government until his release…”; and, as he actually finish to say those things, some silence would follow… until my intervention, “What about Dilma Rousseff?”; “I don't like her…” he would say, and then, I would actually be damped somewhere in the suburb of a small town in the middle of Espirito Santo state… and so, now, as I walk along some secondary road with a few warehouses and small patches of forests I'm actually listening some kind of bird singing, some kind of owl or, probably the so-called night-jar, sometimes also called goat-sucker, due to an ancient folk tale saying that this kind of birds used to suck the milk from goats during the night and so, that was a warning… a warning for something that would happen with me later that night… thus, as I walk, some car would actually stop in the middle of the nowhere, a car with a few guys inside...  this is, thinking that I was a gringo, say, American, they would give me a ride and try to steal on the way, but, I had nothing valuable to steal, so, they would actually take me to the beach and... try to suck me, to rape me, but... they were actually ineffective in their efforts… this is, I managed to escape, I would run along the beach, and, eventually, on the going, I would somehow reach some kind of yamanja ceremony, and well, I participated on it and then I would run away from it… this is, when I came back to the road it was already morning … and so, this time l wouldn't go with anyone, coz, now, I wanted to choose the driver that would take me, and not be chosen, thus, I would hide myself in the middle of the bushes in a roundabout, and there I would wait during some time... until that… meandering in the middle of the road, a brand new Jeep would finally approach, this is, as it comes, popish-electronic-dance-music is actually blasting from the insides, and well, on the approach, I can already understand something like “U kiéééé kié… essê amor dá-á-água… deve sentir muit… o queém ki ééééé… esse amor dá-águá... deve sentir muit… underwater love... underwater love…”, this is, actually a song from Smoke City, I mean, a trip hop band I actually know from places, I mean, a band actually mixing electronic music with homey styles such as samba and bossa nova, and so, as the car turns around the roundabout, it would continue like “O qui-é qui ééééé… esse amor dá-águá… deve sentir muit-uh… aiiii... O qui-é qui ééééé… underwater love… so deep... aiiiiii… underwater love… aiiiiii… so deep… esse amor con muitá paixau!!… aiiiiii” and, at some point, from the back of the bushes I would finally get out, this is, here I go, at this point already appearing in the middle of the road with my arms turned up, and, well, as the car brakes, inside, eventually I would see two young females with freaky hair wobbling in the air and bulgy eyes now getting lost, this is, as the car stops, almost on the ditch, straight away the back door opens, as if automatically, and, on my I approach I'm actually receiving grumpy bidding to get in. And so, after a couple of “sorryies”, once inside, the girls are actually unleashing their anger on me, and then, as the music comes back, here we go, already hitting the road again, this is, after a few questions, a few suppositions, the driver, this is, the one with red hair and a slender face, just says “never-mind it OK, we are also fugitives like you OK, I mean, we just stole this car from my parents, and… ker dizer, we are actually on the going to the big city...” she says, while the other on the side also says something, I mean, actually something in Portuguese language that I can't really understand, and so, as the sound from the stereo comes back, here they go, making their head and shoulders shake, this is, now, we are actually listening to some jungle, some drum n’ bass music… this is, British styles of music... and so, in the meanwhile, the other girl, I mean, the one with bluish hair and a more chubby face, is already asking me, now in some kind of broken English, “But... if you no Brazil, ueare you, and, uere you go?”; “well, from uhere I'm from... I'm not sure” I say, “but, my name is Shima, they say, and actually, I just came from Amazonia, this is, I was there living with the natives and stuff…”; “oh, you really mean it?” the driver kinda asks, “yes, I mean it!”; “Don't you tell me that you, also got tired of that kind of monkey life and, you are also on the move to the city!?”; “Yes, I'm telling you that, it's actually something like that, yes…'' I say, and so, both of the girls softly laugh on this one and then... the driver speaks again, “My name is actually Mila and I don't like boys Ok, but, it looks that my inner-self is actually accepting you…” she says. And then, the other one, say, the one with  blueish hair, also advances like this “My name is actually Daphne, and, but, I have nothing to do with Greek mythology OK!”; “Okkkkkkkkk!” I just say and then, “but, are you sisters?” I manage to ask. “Yes, Criminal sisters” the driver actually says while turning up the music volume again. And so now, I even have to grab myself on the back o the front seat coz Mila's driving style is turning uooouuuh. And so, at this point, Daphne begins to speak louder, again in portuguese, and then, it's Mila's time, again, probably making the translation “But, what's this story about Amazonia, where have you been before that?”; “Oh, I'm not sure, my memory is actually fucked up, something is missing… that's why I'm on the road, I mean, I do not know who I'm and from where I'm actually from! I mean, I have been to countries I no longer remember, but, I still can recall that, the time I spent in Amazonia was actually wonderful, thinking about that now, it looks like that was ages ago, but, in truth, it was just some days ago, I guess… “What?” says Daphne, and then, “so, just tell us where have you have been in Amazonia?” Mila asks. And I, well “I remember names like Porto Alegre, Bom Futuro, Nova Vista, Aqui Perto, São Lázaro, Santarém, Leitoso, Marabá, and obviously, São Salvador da Bahia de Todos os Santos” I say, and they, I mean, they even clap hands as they listen to this, and then, Daphne even pass me some kind of rolled up joint, and so, I take some deep puffs on it, some deep puffs that make me stick against the back of the seat, and so, in the meanwhile, they even tell me that they want to know nothing more about my persona, and then, the music volume is turned up again, and, actually, the selection goes from goa-trance to dubstep, and then, from dubstep to afrobeat, and then, from afrobeat to tekno-punk, and then, from tekno-punk to acid-house, and then, from acid-house to lowfi-electro-ethno-something or whatever... and, further, as we relax ourselves, "Aren’t you tired of traveling?” Mila just asks, and, “no, never!” I say, and then “mentirozo” Daphne  just says , this is, as we leave the main road we take another smaller roads by the coast, and on the going we actually pass small towns like Quissamã, Macaé, Rio das Ostras, Cabo Frio, Marica and so, at the end of the afternoon we actually arrive at Guanabara bay, just on the other side of Rio de Janeiro, and, accordingly, while crossing the Niteroi-Rio bridge, a bridge with almost ten kilometers, down there on our right hand, I actually see a big island, this is, as it goes, they tell me that that is the “Ilha do Governador” or “Governor's Island”, and “it is on this island that lays a famous house of correction, to where the social actually send the worst vagabonds in the country…” says the voice of the experienced… and then, “around there, there are huge fleas and ticks everywhere, I mean, at the houses, in the supermarkets, on the beach… it’s disgusting… you should never go there…” she voice of experience finishes to say. And so, then, as we reach the end of the bridge, we actually pass a decrepit portuary zone, they call Caju, then it's the São Cristóvão neighborhood, a neighborhood with numerous early colonial-period buildings, and then Maracanã, “a middle-class neighborhood where is Maracanã stadium”, one of them also says, this is, “a stadium used for major football matches between the main Rio’s football clubs, like Flamengo, Fluminense, Botafogo, and Vasco da Gama...” and then, we reach Tijuca, “one of the most traditional districts of Rio de Janeiro…” Daphne says, and then Mila clarifies “Tijuca is a name from the Tupi (Brazilian Indians) language and means "rotten water", this is, “ty” means “water" and “îuk-rotten", and the name actually refers the Tijuca lagoon, a big lagoon that has some islands where some freaks live, including our grandma, and so yes, it’s there our destination… it’s there we are going…” and then, as we reach the top of the hill, also called “morro da boa-vista – hill of the good view” we can already see the just-said lagoon and the atlantic ocean on the back. And, then, as we go down the Itanhangá neighborhood, “a name also of tupi origin, meaning stone devil, a combination of “itá” meaning “stone” and “anhanga” meaning “devil…” Daphne just explains. And then, at the bottom of the hill, we take a small boat with other local tourists and soon we are actually getting to the Gigóia island, an island with no cars, only barren walking streets… and not many houses also, some over the water… and so, in the meanwhile, I get to know their grandma, Dona Aparecida, who owns a small cafe in one of these areas, on an embankment between the forest and a swamp area…  and well, later, Dona Aparecida, actually a Cowrie-shell reader, a practice taken from the Yoruba religion, in Africa, would start read my future, so, the shells are thrown and the number of shells that fall with the opening facing up is associated with a certain Odu, and, accordingly, each Odu is actually associated with a certain Orisha that says who we are and what we are doing here in this world and what's our destination…  and so, as it goes, Dona Aparecida tells me that my name is “Shima… and you are here because you have something to learn here, on this island, but, your destination is not here, you should continue your travel, you should go even further south… were the sea and the sky mixes” she says.