EVERYWHERE (at the same time) - 9 - Auckland/ Bangkok/ Toronto/ RioJaneiro/ Belgrade/ Kinshasa

I’m in Auckland, now getting out of the AKL airport, in Māngere, and at the same time, I’m in Bangkok, I’m in Toronto, I’m in Belgrade, I’m in Rio de Janeiro, and I’m in Kinshasa, at Port Huilier, by the Congo river. But, back to Auckland, here I am presently going across the Epsom neighborhood, say, a middle/upper class area in the central Auckland isthmus, this is, primarily a valley enclosed by four volcanoes: 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 - the 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 at the same time I’m in Belgrade, more precisely at the Beogradska Autobuska Stanica, this is, the Belgrade bus station, actually presently inside some kind of quaint coffee housse situated at the entrance of the station, the only establishment open at this time of the night. And then I’m in Rio again, by the Copacabana beach, and, as I go through, 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 now, I’m in Kinshasa, Africa, say, presently passing in front of the Gare centrale, where I meet some guys that actually 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 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, even so, 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 graffiti 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 again, I’m in Belgrade, this is, 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 there at the bottom, there are also some other strangers, say, sleeping or dozing over the tables, and, they are all Asian migrants, Afghan, Pakistani, Tajikistani, Turkmen, etc, then I get to know. Thus, at some point, as it goes, I start some kind of chat with this guy here 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 Phosphorus until the Black sea, I mean, this is how we have entered in the European union domain…” he says. And then, I’m in Rio de Janeiro again, actually at the Ipanema beach, the beach that gave its name to a world famous song named “the girl from Ipanema”. And 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 parlors, 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, being Dead Can Dance one of my favorite band from my teenage years, this is, 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 rickshaws 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 channel, 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 actually 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 colorful 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, approaching 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 parlor 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 an 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 and kids... say: tuxedos; 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 Center, 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 colored 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 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 center, 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, as we go through, “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 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 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 different 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 as it goes, I’m in Auckland again, more precisly, here I’m 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 scaffolding in front of it, and as it goes, I then see judges, lawyers, defendants, criminals and police officers passing under all this apparatus, and on the other side of the road, I also glimpse 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 Center 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 debouch 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 veranda 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 this 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 instantly, there he goes, with the lighter on his hand, 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, alternately. 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 ghosts…”, “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 ghost that sits on a person's chest during the night, it is believed that this ghost 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 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, this is, Davud the dwarf is actually playing his small darbuka for the masses while Zarak sings some kind of Afghan romantic song on the top of it, and me, well me, here I’m just hissing and doing some tap dancing, and as it goes, the passersbyes give us coins, bagels, and others, even give us some sort of lottery tickets. 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, 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 buttocks 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. This, accordingly, I’m back in Kinshasa, say, now at 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 colored 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) - 8 - 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 the Dal lake, one of the bigger lakes in the Jammu and Kashmir region. But, back in Athens, back to Syntagma Square, say, 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, actually 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 get to know. And I’m in Kampala, Uganda’s capital, this is, here I’m at some café, accompanied two other guys, actually the founders of the Nyege Nyege collective, say, 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 I'm in Havana, more precisely at the roof of a not so tall building located in El Cerro, a poor neighborhood that extends from the Bahía de la Habana until La Víbora, a neighborhood mentioned for exemple in the Broadway musical In the Heights. And 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 stretching until the harbor area. And afterwards I’m Srinagar, this is, by now I’m actually burying myself in the slime of the Dal lake. But, back in Athens, here I’m, at the Syntagma square, seated on some stairs on the side of the metro entrance,  this is, from here 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 they dress casual, not pretenders so, 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 burning 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, say, 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 in the meanwhile, 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. Even so, 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 well, as it goes, at some crossroad, I come to see some 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 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, say, 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... this is, apparently 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, 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, but, a tourist bait nowadays, I mean, here you can find all kind of tapas abandoned on the tables by these fumbling tourists, this is, not only tapas, but also, cocktails of various fruits and certain traditional sweets like Mató, Panellets, Xuixos, Catànies and also many kinds of stuffed churros. And, I'm in Srinagar again, say, 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 the hell 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, a stick that, apparently, is giving the needed propulsion that gets us on the move. And now, I'm coming back to the Syntagma square in Athens, this is, this square is not totally dry, as I said before, actually it has 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 are actually 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 their side, on the scarce grass of this garden. 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 say, some of them are even carrying baggage, like me. And so, as I wander through these groups of people, quickly I come to 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, so, we drink together and I share with them how was my staying in Kashmir years ago, and as it goes, I even boast some words in this Hindi and Urdu, words I remember from my travels, and even 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, what I accept. Thus, after dealing with this guys for a while, I just come back to the bottom of the big staircase on the side of the metro exit from where I came, and begin unpacking my music staff, say, my percussion  stuff, this is, buckets, some pots and pans, cymbals, some singing bowls, xylophone parts, a few contact mics, an effects box and some speakers. Thus, it takes me time to unpack all these trinkets and set everything, and I do it slowly and at ease. And well, as I do it, people, I mean, the passers-by, it seems that they do not actually care about what I’m building/exposing 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. And then, I'm in Beirut again, say, at this point, I’m actually walking by the southwestern part of the Gemmayzeh neighborhood, now passing on the side of an egg shaped building, apparently abandoned and 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 actually an unfinished cinema building that survived from the Lebanese Civil War of the seventies, a building that despite its derelict condition is still in function, they say “have recently been used as a center for talks and lectures by academics, artists, and others sort of petty criminals", and, as I hear this, I’m in Kampala again, more precisely going across Bukasa, an area in south Kampala, thus, 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, say, a road that is actually making the connection between the city itself and some sort of port, on the north branch of Victoria lake, I get to know. 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 just like that 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 really understand. And then, 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, 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 yells, 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 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 approaching the 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, we are already going up through some slippery wooden stairs, and soon reaching some kind of balcony, say, a balcony where we see a women seated on the floor, dealing with some plants, plants that I recognize from that swamp area on the other side of the lake…where I got all tangled up... but now, I don’t want to mention this happening, and so, “this is my wife Eshal” the boat man just tells me, and we actually exchange some mislaid smiles. And, after they have exchanged some words in their native language, say, the boatman is already conducting me to the main door of the house, therefore, 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, as me and his father approach, he quickly stands up and comes to great me in the kashmiri style. And so, after the first acknowledgments, here I'm, actually staring at the drawings spread over the table, and also the ruler and a set-square on the side, and thus, what in fact I come to 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, he just tells me he will tell me more about it later, once we are out, and, as he says that, he's already packing some of the staff that were there over the table, and then, said and done, off we go. And thus, now, I'm back in Athens, back in Syntagma square, this is, here I am, acting now, performing, this is, 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, some smiles, plus, some more complicated expressions… and then, as the sun goes down I even get more enthusiastic, say, the flow extends... and at some point, I actually spot, coming down through one of the sides of this square, a group of guys actually approaching... marching and protesting about something I can’t really understand, this is, 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 protesters, 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 -liui 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 soap, 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 where they live exactly, thus, we have to look for it, and so, there we go through some back streets, still hearing explosions and screams coming from the neighboring block, and as we go, we actually pass some interesting graffities like this ones here, say, 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, after several attempts of going inside some buildings, knocking on doors of people she claims to know, it turns out that 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 in the meanwhile, I'm 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, say, after disembarking, me and Maumoon walk past a huge white mosque they actually call 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, “hair that was brought from South Arabia centuries ago by some guys from the Mughal empire” he adds with a quaint smile, and then, I actually ask him if he really believes in all that, and “for me it's just a story, but…” he says, “they even went to court in the sixties because of that, and the Bengals or the tourists or the Indians from the south ended up being the culprits, but, in the meanwhile they found a way of bringing the hair back…”; “I seeeee”, and in the meanwhile 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 then 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 the so called plane tree, 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. And so, here, 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 as I see it, 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 guerrilla going on here since I born, a very slow guerrilla, sometimes it calcifies, and 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, and, “I like it” I say, but then Maumoon tells me that that,“it's a religious school and political center” as we proceed. And 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 continue on the walkway, here and there I see some inscriptions on the tin walls, thus “What is that?” I ask, and “political propaganda” he tells me. And then, here and there, I do some leapings, so I can sorta 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 villas 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…” and as we go by I can conclude that there aren't much people on the streets around here, just some, and, they actually pass by with their heads far away, hands inside their pockets, and their way of walking are too tender, and their expressions are scare-free, like someone who has seen it all, but we can feel the sadness, some amazement and lightness, still. And now here, at the entrance of a backer-shop, actually there are some young men and women laughing, and, I think to myself, these young people by the entrance are certainly taking the coming to the bakery as an opportunity for romance, and as I think about this, 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 just 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 bread-makers 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.