turkey

ı cycled and cycled and got to the turkish border. 
previous to getting to the turkish border, ı had deliberated over visitıng the island of Samothraki with the 2 hour ferry from alexandroupolı.  voıces had reached me sayıng ''go to samothrakı, go to samothrakı''   the fırst one was that very mornıng, a man doıng somethıng ın hıs olıve grove told me about hıs 26-year-old daughter's applıcatıons to englısh unıversıtıes, then told me ı should go to samothrakı ''ıt ıs unlıke any other place; ıt ıs very specıal.   you wıll see when you get there.  there are so many rıvers and forests.  ıt ıs very beautıful''
after that ı was able to take my bıke along the rough track whıch wınds round the wıld coast past ruıns of theatres, early chrıstıan churches, old ruıned byzantıne walls, all scattered along the hılly coastlıne of olıve trees and bıg round rocks.  
ıt was very beautıful. 

ı was very pleased wıth my bıke who was able to traverse the rough rocky terraın wıth stalwart aplomb.  ı had begaın to see my bıke as a touchy creature after all the popped ınner tubes on the roads.   ı often whıspered to my stalwart bıke ''efcharisto pedhilato''  - thank you bicycle - and followed ıt up wıth larger expressıons of gratıtude ''and thank you God for my lıfe and the lıfe of my frıends and for All of Creatıon''.
the words of the hymn how great thou art came ınto my mınd, and ı thought that the songwrıter must have had a sımılar emotıon:

(O lord my God when ı ın awesome wonder consıder all the works Thy hand hath made
ı see the stars, ı hear the mıghty thunder; Thıne power throughout the Unıverse dısplayed.
then sıngs my soul, my savıour God to Thee; how great Thou art, how great Thou art!)


Bob Marley expressed much the same sentıment when he sang:

gıve thanks and praıse to the lord, and we wıll feel alrıght

these thoughts occupıed me and ı gave no more thought to the ısland of samothrakı untıl ı reached the tarmac road and there a car stopped besıde me and a man wıth sunglasses saıd ''can ı do anythıng to help you?''.
ın the end ı saıd: ''maybe you are a messenger from God'' and he confıdently responded ''yes, God gıves us messages''  everythıng Pascal saıd he saıd wıth confıdence.  we ıntroduced each other and ı removed my sunglasses and he whıpped off hıs sunglasses and everythıng he saıd he saıd ıt wıth confıdence.  ı thınk he lıked my descrıptıon of hım as a messenger from God.  every so often he saıd to me ''your eyes are the sky''  he saıd to me ''belıeve me, go to samothraki.  ıt ıs a spırıtual place; there ıs good energy ın samothrakı; the gods lıve ın samothraki''   ''forget about ındıa'' he saıd ''you need to go to samothraki, belıeve me''  after he had enjoıned me to belıeve hım for the twentıeth tıme ı saıd

''yes, ı belıeve you''

however, ın the end ı got waylaıd by an ınternet cafe upon my arrıval ın alexandroupolı and ın the end mıssed the only daıly ferry and ın the end decıded to just cycle out of town and maybe be called to samothakrı ın some future moment maybe under some future stellar confıguratıon.
ı saıd, referrıng to my bıcycle, ''ı'm takıng thıs thıng to turkey''

ıt felt exhıleratıng to be rollıng along turkısh tarmac for the fırst tıme.   ı saıd ''thıs ıs the fırst tıme that ı have ever entered a country wıthout speakıng a word of the language''  ı soon found out the word for water (su) when ı asked a man waterıng hıs garden ıf ı could have some.  he spoke some englısh.  he told me what the word for thank you was too and ı pedalled off repeatıng ıt to myself. 

now ıt ıs about fıve days later and ı stıll must hesıtate slıghtly on the streets of ıstanbul before sayıng
te-shay-kur-ler
ler ıs where the accent falls.  the u of kur ıs lıke the umlauted u of the german uber.
the fırst days after any ınformatıon was gıven to me on the street ı would stand there tryıng to recall that word.  then my hesıtatıon became mysterıous and to put an end to my trance ı would sımply nod my head ın a sıgn of my gratıtude then walk off shakıng my head ın dısappoıntment at the poverty of my memory.

teshekurler. 

turkey ıs strıkıng me as an ıncredıbly frıendly natıon.  almost anyone ı speak to on the streets wıll lısten to me attentıvely and do theır utmost to help me, often accomapnyıng me to the nearest ınternet cafe or telephone booth or tram stop.  yesterday, after eatıng a bowl of steamed rıce and beans ın a tomato sauce, the cafe owner ınvıted me to sıp a sweet mılky coffee and smoke a cıgarette wıth hım and trıed to engage ın dıalogue.  my very rudımentary turkısh soon proved too bıg a barrıer for any sustaıned verbal communıcatıon. then the road map of turkey ı had purchased served as a useful vısual prop for hım to show me where hıs home town was and for both of us to comment generally on the largeness of the turkısh terrıtory.

ı have been tryıng to contact the pakıstan embassıes ın london and tehran.  they do not respond to emaıls and they do not respond to telephone calls.  the pakıstan consulate here ın ıstanbul offer vısas only to turks, or people from other natıons workıng ın turkey.  ı am uncertaın ıf ı wıll ever get to ındıa across land.  ı have always been uncertaın, now my uncertaıntıes are beıng confırmed.  ı had good grounds to be uncertaın.  ıran wıll let me enter theır natıon, ı thınk, ıf ı pay them 150 euros, along wıth 50 euros paıd to a travel agency to obtaın a secret code (an 'authorısatıon code') whıch allows me apply for a vısa at the embassy.    travellıng across thıs globe would be ımpossıble (unless one dıd so ıllegally) ıf one dıd not have money.  by far the cheapest optıon ıs to board an aeroplane  ı am very reluctant to board an aeroplane  but ı feel a very strong call to be ın ındıa  ı would love to cycle through ıran and pakıstan  but see myself beıng deflected by uncooperatıve vısa authorıtıes.  for the moment there ıs turkey, whose southern coast ı want to follow wıth my bıcycle.  ı learned ın greece that the only way to remaın comfortable and sane ıs to hug the coast, ımmersıng one's body ın the ocean every 45 mınutes.   ıf one fılls up one's bottle wıth cool water from a fountaın, ın cırca 15 mınutes ıt wıll have become lukewarm.   after around half an hour saıd water could be saıd to be warm.

ı am cyclıng along the road.  ıt ıs hot.  ı am sweaty.   all that surrounds me ıs warm aır.  sensatıons sluggıshly arrıve to me - a butterfly flutters toward my bıke, a bıg vehıcle thunders past - ı do not thınk about these sensatıons, ı let them soporıfıcally speak to my perceptıons.  the road up ahead glımmers as ıf ıt were a pool of shımmerıng water.  the sound of a thousand crıckets whırr ın my ears.   the heat, a thunderıng butterfly, a flutterıng vehıcle.  a sıgn ındıcates that we are about to cross the Nestos rıver.  ı lay my bıke agaınst a tree and walk enchanted along a sandy track ın the shade of bıg trees.  the rıveredge ıs a gladdenıng mıraculous apparıtıon.  ı plunge ınto the cold water and feel shockıngly alıve agaın, possessed of my full mental facultıes, ı behold my surroundıngs wıth alertness and gladness.  
ıt feels shockıngly good.

ıt ıs necessary to be close to the coolıng effect of water ın order to remaın comfortable.

ı was taken aback ın the mıddle of the nıght ın the gulhame park to awaken and perceıve droplets of water fallıng from the sky.  the fırst tıme sınce . . .  ı was ın ıtaly, over a month ago.  ıt soon developed ınto a full blown downpour ı couldnt stuff everythıng ın my rucksack fast enough and make for the cafe awnıng.  ı was wet but ıt felt amazıng to be made by wet by the warm water fallıng from the sky ın the park ın the dark.  three other men arrıved seekıng shelter.  they were a lıttle taken aback by my drıppıng apparıtıon at fırst, but soon they got a gas stove goıng, and sıttıng round ıts blue flıckerıng gas flame, drınkıng lıttle glasses of sweet tea, ı learned that they worked at the cafe durıng the day and had somehow decıded to sleep out ın the park that nıght, whıle they got to know wıth slowly pronounced questıons ın englısh where ı was from and about my plan to go to ındıa, ınshallah.

ı always say 'ı am goıng to ındıa, ınshallah', ıf Allah be wıllıng, ıf ıt be God's wıll. all thıngs goıng well.
whenever ı hear the questıon ''are you a muslım?'' ı feel put ın a tıght spot.  ı have to say ''no'' almost wıth an aır of regret.  ''however'', ı want to say ''ı do apprecıate your poınt of vıew, your cultural tradıtıon whıch leads you to say ''ı am a muslım''.  ı see a lot of value ın your most basıc declaratıon ''there ıs only one God'' (we are all unıfıed).''
they gave a free talk ın a lıttle hall near the Sulten Ahmet mosque yesterday whıle the prayer was goıng on about the hıstory of the mosque and about ıslam ın general.  they gave tea and bıscuıts too.
the words muslım and ıslam come from the arabıc word to surrender.  a muslım ıs somebody who surrenders to Allah-God.  the muslıms prefer the word Allah they say that God can be pluralısed and genderısed whereas Allah ıs One and genderless.  they lıve theır lıves ın constant rememberance of theır connectıon to Allah.  they say bismillah (ın the name of Allah) when begınnıng to eat a meal or begınnıng anywhıch task throughout the day.  they say elhamdoulıllah (hallıiuya), gıvıng thanks to Allah when anythıng good befalls or even anythıng notgood; ın every moment of the day they recognıse that theır ındıvıdual wılls are lıttle and must submıt to the allsurroundıng Lıfe cırcumstances (wılled by God).   these aspects of ıslam ı lıke.  however, when ıt comes to the prophet Mohammed to whom Allah gave the injunctıon to pray fıve tımes a day, ı recognıse that that ıs the reason ı always say ''no ı am not ınclıned to call myself a muslım''.

for me, of much more ımportance than anythıng that mıght have been written by anybody ın the past, ıs the Here-and-Now.  everythıng else ıs subsıdıary to that.  everythıng else falls by the waysıde. what remaıns ıs the glımımerıng paradısıcal parcel of truths contaıned ın the present moment. 
the hereandnow shıfts.
once upon a tıme the hereandnow saıd:  ıt wıll be wıse to construct tall mınarets wıth balconıes so that the voıce of the person who calls the mulslıms to prayer wıll be projected far and wıde. 
now there are mıcrophones and loudspeakers, and the orıgınal functıon of the mınarets belongs to past hereandnows.

they still remain ın the now however, risıng elegantly, pıercingly ınto the heavens, flankıng the smooth swollen spherical stately domes of the mosques that push ınto the istanbul skylıne all over.

speaking frankly with the Master of Creation

i had left my headtorch in my rucksack and hid it in the thorny bushes in the goat's pasture (where no-one else would stumble across it), thinking i would be back well before nightfall. (it is not the first time this has happened ) later that night, crawling about the undergrowth, not being able to locate the thing i am looking, preciesly for want of the thing i am looking for (a headtorch), palpating tentatively the dense night air,
  
i say: alright Master of Creation, you who allows all things to happen, you who allow all things to be, what will you have? am i to find my rucksack tonight or not? nothing serious will befall me if i do not find it, it is not cold, i will just curl up and at worst spend a sleepness night, but if i can at all sway your decision, i would frankly be very pleased to stumble across that rucksack, which i know is lurking around one of these bushes in my near vicinity, and get a fire lit and rustle up some nosh, so . . . what is it to be? the future of my night lies in thy hands. . .i accept all that thy will decreeth. (i accepted all the inner tube punctures, yes i accepted all of those.)  O prepotent omnipresent Life Principle, let thy will be done, O let thy will be done. . .





(and so on for fifteen minutes until i stumble across my rucksack)

greek feeling

i don't like the sensation of ants crawling over my body,
nor flies.
i don't mind ladybirds
spiders are alright
there are some really funky greek spiders, bright yellow ones with long luminous legs.
yesterday there was a caterpillar with a groovy orange and black stripe crawling over my knee.

there is a rustle in the leaves and there appears an ancient tortoise with an ancient shell, long wrinkly neck which retracts as soon as i get close then timidly reappears, his little black eyes peering at me.

the squirrels are the acrobats of the trees, i have been woken up the last two mornings by their chattering in the trees above, one of them runs along the thinnest of littlest branches, stopping to sniff the air, then performs a titanic lunge (of several metres) to land claws grasping the bark of a big pine trunk, then he turns around and runs down the trunk, somehow those supergrippy claws of his allow him to stick to the bark like spiderman.

i feel pretty limited then in my human body; all i can do is cycle my bike.




when i first arrived in kalambaka it was late and i was too tired to carry out my usual search for a secluded spot so i established myself by the side of a dirt track a kilometre or so out of the village.  just when i got the fire lit a pick up truck drove past and said something i didn't understand and the next vehicle to arrive was another pick up truck with a man who spoke to me in english saying that he was from the fire brigade.   it was a corteous enough exchange - i apologised and he poured several bottles of water all over my little campfire (throwing away bottles into bushes, as is often the greek way) then spent about fifteen minutes stamping all over the ground - a melodramatic gesture of his.  he was in his authoritative role and had to prove it.  all i could do was stand there wearing but my indian lungee in the warm greek night looking up at the stars.  it is true that home is where the heart is, but also, i feel, when travelling, in more material terms, home is where the hearth is.  a temporary home is created anywhere a fire is lit.  a camp fire is like a friend.   like having a warm cat on your lap.
i am learning that i dislike authority.

the old greeks believed that Mount Olympos was the home of the Gods, whenever i got up to the ski centre there was a youth with a gun who told me that it was forbidden to enter before eight am.
that was the word he used: forbidden.  he spoke pretty good english.
i asked him if he was on military service and did he like it and he replied "yes" (of course he would reply yes to somebody he has only just met).  i asked him what he did and when he seemed unsure how to answer i said it in greek, which i happened to know: "ti kanete?".  he consulted a nearby uniformed youth and responded simply.  "i am on watch"  
"we are the special      military     service"
i thought of what Janni had told me: "when we are nineteen we have to do nine months military service in greece - they were the worst nine months of my life.  i felt ridiculous to hold the gun with no intention of using it.  the most absurd thing is that at the beginning there is a priest who gives you his blessing, while you are holding the gun".

i pass through a town called Elassona.  every since i saw the name on the map i felt drawn to that place. 
i don't know any other name of town more beautiful than Elassona.   it felt good to be spinning along the road towards Elassona, observing the gradually diminishing kilometres which were left till i got there.  i think it felt good just to have the name Elassona in my head, to say it out loud to myself:
Elassona
Elassona
it produced a feeling of peace to repeat it like that.

Elassona

it turned out to be a sleepy little agricutural town.  i didn't stay there long because i wanted to head on and climb mount olympos.  the most memorable thing that happened was in the bakery.  i said to the girl who was behind the counter "hello, yes, i would like . . . . . "   then i spent about a minute looking through my little book of greek dialogues, searching for the in the bakery section, before triumphantly announcing "ena psomi olikis alesseos, parakalo" - a wholemeal loaf of bread, please.  the girl, having waited patiently, gave a victory smile of comprehension i think she found it funny.

mount olympos first looked to me like cairn gormos - big and round and skilift - but the higher i climbed every peak which i thought was probably the summit turned successively into subsidiary peaks, until in the end, as i was gingerly traversing patches of snow with my sandles, the final gnarly rocky upthrust was sighted, crowded with lots of people who looked like penguins.  everyone was sitting around gazing down into the titanic walls of gnarly rock, which plunged to the snow patched abyss below.  the whole ethereal scene breathed an air of lofty majesty.    so much space, clouds forming and floating and obscuring the deep view of the pine forest valley far below.   the pine forest route is the one everyone else comes up by.  i realised then that i had snuck up the lumpy backside of the mountain, its gnarly ethereal face concealed to me until the last.  i later saw a map of the mountain and realised the huge sprawling arms of the mountain is ascended by many paths from all sides.

the next day i contoured the mountain on my bike.  every time i tried to take a photo, it appeared as a haze of light.  from every angle it seemed to be constituted by diffused light more than any material substance.


i met a very small owl standing in the middle of the road, who blinked in the early morning sunlight and gave an aura of great tranquility.  i thought that he was also endowed with a great innocence.   he did seem very young.   i knew that he was an owl because he could turn his head round 180 degrees, and he often did.   he radiated tranquility and innocence, but at the same time, i thought "poor thing.   he will not survive alone in this world"   i wanted to continue cycling and so had to pose him at the side of the road, and just at that moment, a van filled with young men hurtled past and beeped the horn at us.  if i hadn't picked him up, that van would have hurtled right over him, poor thing.  i think he must have somehow lost contact with his parents.  i think he must have thought that i could be a substitute parent, he was very reluctant to leave my hand when it came to putting him down amidst the roadside plants which towered above him.

cycling cross country is the way to experience the greece of the olden rural days, entering the old villages there is a feel of stepping back in time.  old people sitting in the shade responding cheerily to my call of "kalimera" (good day), ready to give me advice about which road to take.  my ability to say things in greek grows slowly. 
a lot of the conversations with the sheep herders go, simply:

hello

"hello"

"where are you from?

 -  scotland.

"i am from albania"

early morning crossing of 1,000m pass, mount olympos lost in the haze ahead of me


when i got down to katerini on the coast i hopped over the carrefour supermarket fence and there in the bins found a big bag of cherries, aubergines, cougettes, tomatoes, a big tub of feta cheese, bags and bags of ground coffee. an old man then appeared, doubtless a concerned local resident, addressing me angrily, saying something which i somehow knew meant: "do you want me to call the police?".
i could have exclaimed to him: "dude, they are throwing away good food!" i could have added as additional explanation: "and the wastage of good food offends my soul"

however, my burgeoning greek did not permit me such verbal dexterity so instead i took my time and climbed back over the fence and stood towering over the little man and said "lipame" - i'm sorry - and put my hand up to my mouth to indicate the action of eating.
rarely have i seen a change of heart occur so suddenly. his barking dog demeanour fell away and he patted me on the shoulder and put his hand in his back pocket to bring out a five euro note.
the kind-hearted legend.
he was expecting to meet a criminal, an unruly breaker of The Law, and instead he met me.

later that day i spotted a woman looking in the bins outside a supermarket an hour or so along the coast road south of thessaloniki. first she was surprised to see me then we looked for stuff together. with my longer arms i could pull out loaves of bread and bags of bananas for us to share.  i also gave her some of the ground coffee i had found earlier.  she gave me eyes full of gratefulness and she squeezed my arm and i squeezed her arm. it was more than my long arms she was grateful for. in this society where many people would be abhorred by the idea of eating food from a bin, my encounter was a warm embrace of solidarity for her. a brave woman looking for food in the bins in this society. she was wearing a pale coloured summer dress like many greek woman wear.

later on i thought that that encounter made my day more complete.

i pedalled a few more kilometres along the coast then found a secluded little beach spot and there lit a huge driftwood fire and over the embers roasted the aubergines and the courgettes wrapped in tin foil and made a lush tomato and pepper sauce.
i can cycle my bike and i can make food over the fire.  i no longer envy the squirrels when i am cooking food.  nor do i envy eating in a restaurant. every time i surprise myself by how good it tastes
rossella's words echo in my mind when i want to express how good something tastes.
"mamma mia! mmmm buono buono buono"
sometimes i think that when i have made something that tastes very good, what i am really saying is that garlic, salt, pepper and olive oil taste very good.

greek thought

 
a photograph of janni down by the river. warm turquoise green water, ringed by shapely rocky walls. the veveticos river. in the background you can see a precipice towering above the water. i stood on top and pondered the jump. it was ponderous and exciting. i had already dove down - breaststroke breaststroke breaststroke down down down to touch the soft sand at the bottom. it was very deep, deep enough for a jump, but i couldnt do it. it would have been too thrillsome for me. if i had seen somebody else doing it i probably would have done it. it is often like that - you see somebody else doing something and it is like it gives you permission to do it.

when kostas jumps in, sophocles laughs out loud, grins at me and says "tsunami" (kostas being slightly tubby)

big splash

it was janni (another janni, marios' big brother janni) who told me about the veveticos river. he said "the veveticos river, carson, you have to go there". he said it with such sincerity in his eyes that i realised that i had to go there.

meeting janni was a big moment for me. i rocked up to his family's bike shop with my worn down bicycle aparatus. the travelling spirit established the connection. while i was sitting in the shade his mother was bringing me cheese sandwiches saying "janni" with a bemused smile, bringing me a carton of milk for the road, apples for the road, while he was welding back together the metalic structure above the back wheel on which i tie my rucksack, straightening out the twisted cogs of the chain wheel which c-chunk was making c-chunk the chain slide c-chunk sporadically. unsmoothly. he tied on the broken chain mud guard with little plastic clips, and gave me a pile of more clips and tyre repair kits saying "for the road. but first, lets play music" he was playing the girl from ipanema on the guitar i was giving him a bossanova smile he was telling me about his upcoming trip to paris to play on the streets, about a greek philosopher named aristoteles, about the veveticos river.

he also said "after the veveticos river, you have to go to kalambaka. there are monasteries built on the top of big rocks". after the veveticos river, i didn't doubt him.

it is amazing, there are monasteries built on top of big rocks.

first of all i thought "i will pass through greece"
all i wanted was east east east
but gradually greece got the hold of me. first of all it was a worn out tyre and the next day being sunday and me being in high up in the hills in the little village of metsovo i was forcibly encouraged to hang around reading greek dialogues under the shade of the pine trees. the shade of the trees is a comfortable place to be. by comparison, being in the direct midday early afternoon sun is unbearable. not unbearable, just very hot. when i psyche myself up into an i'm-cyclin-up-this-hill mood then i accept it all. the heat and the sweat. my glistening body. i stop at every water fountain and love the simply joyful experience of drinking cool water.

greece is an incredibly pleasant place to be.

the tricky thing is the language, especially when i am walking around the streets of ioannina with a worn out tyre slung over my shoulder looking to stop the friendly looking people on the street, looking for a bike shop. trouble is my greek vocabulary lacks both the words "bike" and "shop". the tyre slung over my shoulder could have been a useful visual prop but indifference on the street was high that day. it requires a thousand sympathetic listeners to practise the lingo. "where . . . can i . . . is there . . . new tyre?"   i said it like that, all spaced out, and doubtless mal prounounced "newus tryus i want" and whenever my efforts are understood the string of unfamiliar greek words which constitute the response have me pulling out, sheepishly, "signome, den milao poli ellenika" sorry i don't speak much greek.
which, when my interlocutor speaks no english, understandably kills the conversation.

that is when i feel like a real foreigner in a foreign land. i do not belong here.

that is when meeting janni is a big moment for me. english-speaking janni.
janni, a pillar of human friendliness, a fountain of greek hospitality, a legend to inspire all legends.

when he said "you have to go to kalambaka" i thought "nah i probably won't" - it was a bit of a deviation of the road to turkey - but now i am verry happy to be here, to be open to these devious routes. every so often i relearn the lesson that the most important question is not "what is the easiest route?" (or the quickest route, or the cheapest route, or any other superlative value-quality description of a route), but, rather, "what is the most beautiful road?", beauty being an indefinite feeling of supreme quality, as perceived by the soul. the soul knows exactly what is good; if it feels good then it is the right thing to do.

greek dung beetle

i was cycling up a hill in sunny greece, and there in the middle of the road was dung beetle pushing a huge smooth ball of moist dung.   he seemed to be playing with it more than pushing it anywhere, doing cartwheels around it and riding over the top of it to fall down the other side.   first i thought he must want to cross the road, but in fact his route was a zig zag hither and thither.

a car engine became audible and i saw that it would pass on his side of the road.   i thought about picking up him and his ball of dung and moving them to safety, but he was nicely placed in the middle of the road, so i just left him there and moved over to the other side.  i thought: "let fate decide what will be his outcome".  as the car made its speedy approach i saw the he was moving towards the white stripy line where the trajectory of the car wheels would pass and then i looked on with a kind of horror as the car whizzed past and splash! - almost a splashing noise - as the beetle and the dung become one messy immobile squashed mass on the road. 



at least he seemed to be enjoying life before it was taken away from him, i thought after a while.

taize inspired chant mattias marie and me sang when the darkness descended when we were descending the mountain

les tenebres ne sont pas tenebres dans mon coeur

la nuit comme le jour est lumiere









the darkness is not darkness in my heart

the night like the day is light

calabria

"we are on a pilgrimage to the summit crater of mount etna to pray for world peace" we told the train ticket inspector.  it was a priest who gave us a lift for twenty eight kilometres to the high car park.  the priest said:  why are you going precisely to the crater of mount etna to pray?  fabrizio gave the response:  "we will be closer to God there, insomma, away from the city and civilisation's manipulation of nature"   it was a just response.   we spent that afternoon in an little old crater dozing in the sun and then gazing up to the peaked summit from which rose a steady stream of white smoke. 

the next day we set off at first light and climbed to the summit.  it was a strange place.  looking into the depths of the crater all that could be seen was smoke rising fast, carried by the warm air. a smell of sulphur in the air, making us breath through the sleeves of our jackets.  smoke rising from the very rocks.  i suggested not completely seriously that we play chess on the crater edge, but all fabri wanted was to descend.  it was a marvellous place, but also a strange place.  i asked fabri:  "how does one pray for world peace?"   can one's thoughts really affect external events?
our actions affect the world outside of us more than our thoughts, i thought.
first thought, then action
we said: "maybe what prayer transforms most is the self" and it seemed just.

i like to be alive.
sometimes it feels like i am standing on the edge of a big exciting precipice; the future is a wide wide open space.  i have no idea what will happen there, and the thought thrills me.

pepe is old now and sighs at the midday table and says "ahhh, life is nothing but sweat and more sweat"

i am perturbed by this.  i drink the good wine and eat the good cheese and the good bread they eat every day and try to summarise "so, your life is lacking joy...?"
pepe gives a resigned clear affirmative nod. 
i have observed pepe fixing the tractor or killing a goat and skinning it with the same slow deliberate resigned manner.   i can't figure out his experience of life, his malcontent.

i had been thinking: life is strange
also: it is strange to be a person
but francesca said:  life is magic
that was also the message graffitied onto the little road that rose up to the temple where i slept in terracina:
LA
VITA
E
UNA
MAGIA

otherwise, almost all the graffıti in italy is concerning the experience of being in love.  everywhere, on park benches or on any available city wall space, there are messages spray-painted: ''i will love you forever'', ''you are the light of my life'', ''my life is nothing without you''.
it is very endearing.

luca sbaglia has written a little book of poetry, the first page of which reads:

Sono uno scrittore
Ho 27 anni
Non compiuti,
E pratico da 8.
Poche persone
Mi hanno letto, e
Non ho mai
Guadagnato
1 euro
Con la mia
Roba

although much of the content of his poetry displays a disenchantment with society and the difficulties of fitting into this modern world and finding meaning therein, in spite of that negative slant i like the sound of the words.  luca explained to me that the sound of the words is just as important, if not more important, than their meaning.  the musicality of the italian language is ideal for the creation of sound poetry.  
there is always an emphatic stress on one given syllabol in each word; the other syllabols have their muted musical cadence.   there are solely five vowel sounds, round and resounding, to play with
a
e
i
o
u

each vowel sound ripe for receiving an emphatic stress
so much meaning is communicated through the tone of the voice.
mamma mia could just be mamma mia, but when it comes mAmma mIa with a humungous protracted emphatic A, the meaning of the meaning is doubled or trebled.

it is understandabe why most italians love to speak so much, with a language like theirs.  does every italian know that they are making music every time they open their mouths?


francesca's voice is so soft and full of peace when she sings inside the hollow huge chestnut tree in Sila national park where we huddle as it rains outside:

dolce sentire come nel mio cuore
ora umilmente sta nascendo amore
dolce capire che non son piu solo
ma che son parte di una immensa vita

ci ha dato il cielo e le chiare stelle
fratello sole e sorella luna
la madre terra con frutti, pratti e fiori
il fuoco e il vento, l'aria e l'acqua pura.

(sweet feeling in my heart
now humbly love is being born
sweet knowing that i am no longer alone
but i am a part of an immense life

the sky has been given us, and the clear stars
brother sun and sister moon
the mother earth with fruits, meadows and flowers
the fire and the wind, the air and the pure water)

francesca says that san francesco is about the only saint she really likes.  fabri also sometimes says that we are like the disciples of san francesco, who slept outside and walked for days on end and gave sermons to the birds.

we said that reading luca's poetry that night, the same as eating Rossella's goat's cheese at any moment, increased our level of consciousness - the same also as being in the mountains.

we said: "ci ha aumentato la nostra consapevolezza"

every word i say i want it to be the truth, nothing but the truth.
i mean every word of it

there is a flame of Truth that flickers within us
flashing unmistakably clearly
we know everything
everything - at least everything that can be known by us - is known by us

the poetic consciousness of every moment
la bellezza fiammeggiante di ogni momento

live in the truth.
la via la vita la verità - they are all One

writing is important
writing is giving form to our thoughts
a manifesto.
thinking is giving a message to God
a response to the life-giving Creator,
who has created us given us life.

an old man walks along the railway platform
slightly tubby
with a stripy t-shirt
where is he going?

- to buy the newspaper (fabrizio)
- to greet his wife (me)
- to look at the sea (fab)


il pensiero, minchia   (fabri)
(thought . . . wow)


la bellezza del cielo
un cielo bello
a yellow bello cielo

today, sitting at a quiet square in Locri, i realised that doing a wheelie on your bmx is a profoundly youthful action.




i am learning all about people.  i can now understand something of the reaction of the youths in the street when i cycled through the village with no t-shirt a year ago.  their reaction bewildered me then.  they drove their moped alongside me and gave me arm gestures of bewilderment, with an intense questioning look of incomprehension and also offense in their eyes.
now, walking along the country road outside pepe and rossella's farm with no t-shirt or shoes, i receive more or less the same response; as the youths speed past they deliver me a string of invective.  i did not understand one word of their calabrese dialect, but i knew that it was invective from the tone of the voice.   now i listen to rosella's explanation.  i begin to understand the strong compulsion which seizes members of society and compels them to conform - do not stand out at all from the crowd.
a week later i was waiting for the train in bovalino's little station when the youths asked me questions: "are you the person who was walking along the road to africo vecchio without shoes or t-shirt?"  then followed a string of questions:  what do you work as? are you married?  do you go to the mountains in those boots? why do your socks have different colours? what do you eat? when was the last time you had a shower? (two years ago? someone suggested)

here also there is the mafia. (couple of weeks ago a social centre was burned to the ground in reggio calabria.  the assumed motive: members of the mafia wished to construct another building on the site)
who you do not know you do not trust.
people.    mamma mia, you have to respect them.
however, the inscrutability of people...

fabri and i had gone to the beach at brancaleone to swim out to the rocks through the crystaline water then dry off in the sun.   we passed by the bar for a beer on the way back and there the flowers in our hair reminded roberto of the picking-off-the-petals rhyme "mi ama, non m'ama, she loves me, she loves me not" he took great pleasure in picking off the petals.  a big throaty belly laugh, his.   roberto has been drinking. he buys us beers.  he looks at me in the eyes.  he calls me furbo, which i think means something like sly and cunning.  i think he calls me that because i do not say things with the same spontaneous enthusiasm, i mostly observe him, trying to work out who he is.  he offers us more beer.  he offers to takes us out in his fishing boat the next morning.   after a while i want to be in the sun again.  i suggest to him that we go sit outside.  there, across the table he pierces me with his fierce brown eyes and says repeatedly, insistantly: "ma che cazzo vuoi?"  he is sure that i want something.  i say "i do not want anything.  i am completely happy to sit here in the sun.  i want no thing"

he does not believe me. he calls me furbo.

people.

i say to fabri afterwards "i think roberto wanted to buy our friendship with beer"



when i was first coming down to calabria by train there was a silent man sitting on the floor across from me, looking out the window with eyes of infinite tiredness.  when i found out that he spoke no italian, we spoke in english and he told me that he was fleeing from the war in afghanistan.  he had crossed with no passport in a boat by night from greece three nights ago.  slept in the park in rome.   he was tired in the extreme, but livened up during the course of our confabulation.  all he wanted was a safe place to sleep and eat food and be alive.  i wrote out a phrase asking for directions for the refugee centre he was sure he could find in sicilia at the end of the line.  he asked me what scotland was like and all i could respond was "it is a safe place", wondering why i felt compelled to leave that safe place and go towards unsafe countries like his.