Round and round

I feel my feet moving very rapidly, while marching slowly amongst the feet of others, of donkeys and mules, of bike and cart wheels, running away from exhaust pipes that blow warm air against my shins warming up further an already heated atmosphere. While I wander around random streets which way I ignore, I deviate from people who approach me, many sellers, friendly strangers who insist I come from Spain, France, even Argentina, ignoring my Lusitanian soul which I rarely disclose. “Closed!” More out of necessity than out of taste, I learn to ignore the overflow of useless information with which I am confronted, after someone tries to convince me for the fourteenth time the street I’m walking down has no exit, this one out of them all, one of the few I already know. I stop, resting my eyes for a jiffy in a bit of sky, returning rapidly to the narrow ground which I’m covering and that out of a sudden widens up in an immense opening, an enormous uncovered square, which unfortunately is covered today by a grayness which steals away the colors from moments I want orange, like the endless juices engorged by my faithful squire, or maybe of the intense blue wore by the Berber snake oil sellers, bearers of potions probably made from the enchanted snakes I find further down, or maybe from the monkeys who enchant the staring passerby. I stop again, staring myself at this claustrophobic expanse which engulfs and chokes me. And I run away fast, very fast, in a flash that takes me out of the immense mess into an oasis of tranquility, a small den among plants of a garden where my poorly slept mind finally manages to think for a bit, mostly about nothing, and where out of the blue I find the colors which I was missing, all gathered in this small nook someone planted someday. Enough. Invigorated once more I run back to the mess, now made of lights and smoke and more people and strange tastes and beheaded goats who, boiled, smile at me and more juices and new friends who continue insisting in mistaking my origin. I stop once more in the middle of the square, but now invaded by a sense of freedom while the whole world around me goes round and round, sensing my clothes absorb rare tastes and feeling my skin wrapped in travelling and in this Marrakesh that surrounds me and spins around like a crazy merry-go-round entrenched in the memories of old days but soaked in a mist of eternity. And yet again I run, just because, taken away by the sole yearn to run around endlessly.

Marrakesh, Morocco, October 2010

On the other side of the straight - interlude, or the restart of an endless journey

Once more I feel the breeze of strange odors, unknown flavors that populate the savoring of miles of road that I devour again in an interlude of a bigger journey, my endless journey. Suspended in the memory of itinerant days that went by rapidly, I return once more to the road, this time southbound, on the other side of the straight. I land here abruptly, fallen from the sky, after going up and down in an instant that brought me from known land into medieval narrow streets that twist and turn and make me stray in the midst of times long gone and that I renew with each step. Lost inside a time machine, I ignore the path I trail after passing the blue gate which marks its entrance, letting the long narrow alley slowly dip me in a meander of people, spices, tapestry, animals, clothes, food, too much stuff all clogged up and sold in too little space. Stopping for a while I am engulfed by those who surround me, looking at them while they walk up and down, pushing and pulling me, trying to sell to me, looking at me, ignoring and hosting me, latticed in a slick and narrow thread made of people who walk around wrapped in rare garments and who, as myself, move around towards themselves, towards everyone, towards no one. A bit further down I hear the Mosque calling me to prayer, feeling in my body a reminiscence of what I must have been some day in lands of the western Al Gharb, the very same territory from where I come and which was long liberated from an ‘infidel’ enemy who in fact looks a lot like me. Without noticing I ended up taking little steps towards my past life, towards what I could be right now if that crusade older than the memory of my noble nation had never taken place. I walk a bit further, to get lost again, on purpose this time, but chance twists my intentions taking me away from time and into the comfort of my riad, that house which becomes my own at the speed of smiles from new friends who open their hearts to me. I’m feeling alive. From the top of the terrace the rare smell of spice fills yet again my nostrils, my mouth, my thoughts, while the calling of the imams invades the horizon of the sunset in Fez to renew the certainty of my presence in foreign land, distinct from my own even though the sky has the same tone of blue. I’m alive, eager to feel more, taste further, absorb it all, know everything, be mistaken, wander aimlessly, simply live. Feeling once more blood rushing through my veins, I know the road is my friend.

Fez, Morocco, October 2010

Half World, World in half

Ecuador, the World’s half... I’m going up this country towards the line that divides the planet in two without knowing yet what I’ll find in this mythical place. But what’s there after all, in the World’s halfway? In the World’s halfway there is above all bananas, many, never-ending forests of countless banana trees that feed the whole World with this scrumptious fruit, a present genetic memory of our primate past. There is also heat, a humid heat that dampens my body while I walk the streets of Guayaquil hunting for fish and refreshment, which I always seem to find near the river where I like to rest my eyes. There is also people, many, of variable friendliness, maybe due to the natural human shyness, maybe not, after all in these latitudes this personality trait seems to vary according to the altitude you’re at. I verify that when I climb up to Cuenca, Andean village of affable people but somewhat calmer and quieter, a place crammed with streets narrower and darker than the ones near the coast. This is a sort of Spanish Andalusia or Extremadura countryside village lost by chance in the Andes. I do not stay here long, after all I’m on my way to the equator and that line is further ahead. I keep going north through the Andean inland, surrounded by valleys and volcanoes in a greener landscape than the one found in the southern Andes, nevertheless rugged, restless, similar. Listening to the roaring motor of the bus that faces the turns linking Riobamba and Quito, I start to remember many other turns and straight roads, paved or made of dirty and sand which I wandered since January, since Brazil where this adventure started. I remember each day, each hour, each bump of the way, each splash in the water, each smile and friend I made, each strong hug I gave, each sunset and aurora, each music heard and sang, each nostalgia I lived, old and new, each sun beam, raindrop and snowflake. I remember each minute passed and lived in company, human or non-human, in my own company most of the time, the whole time after all. A little smile starts to pop from the corner of my mouth despite the weight of my legs being too heavy already. Quito also pops up in between thoughts, little by little, along the valley. In the city centre I see some of the most beautiful churches and building as I lose myself in its cobblestone streets, but at the same time I feel I’m walking around a sort of zombie city, where many wander the streets clearly with little in their pockets, less in their bellies and too many ideas on their minds. There is something wrong about this country of too much oil and bananas and too little money and food, but in the end it is just one more, this country is not alone, this is not only found here. All this I find in the World’s middle, at least here in the country that bears the name of the magical line where South meets North. I also arrive to the middle. If the end of the World was not the end of my trip, the middle is not the end either, while being an end at the same time. It is a midpoint, one of the halves of my bigger journey. I reach the globe’s half-point and in it I find the time to stop, to rest. It is time to start drowning my ‘saudade’ (nostalgia) every day in the drawings of a Portuguese cobblestone street, in the eyes of a sardine which overlooks a glass of wine while it is grilled, in an ‘bica’ (espresso) which flirts with a ‘pastel de nata’ (Portuguese custard pie), in the chat of a Portuguese guy who complains about life during football’s half-time, in a hug given by old friends and family. It is, after all, the time to breathe again the Portuguese salty air of my homeland Algarve. Looking at the magical line I think of all the land to roam ahead, but I do not cross it, not now, not yet. With the ticket in my hand and the backpack on my shoulders I head towards the plane that will take me across the ocean, always with a wee smile on the corner of my mouth, after all I crossed half World already and the end is no more than a pause, a deep breath I take before starting all over again.


Quito, Ecuador, October 2009

Dune

Still. Finally still. I live inside a dune, under its white sand that is constantly blown by the light breeze and pushed, moistened by this sea of constant and vigorous waves, not too many or too strong, just perfect. Like a crab, I dig my way to the sea, dipping my body in its water, letting me float lightly, weightlessly, wrapped in a sense of freshness that counters the sun, who insists in warming my body, gladly. My eyes are shut. The light-filled reddish darkness I see hurts my eyes, hallucinating my blood, which is boiled by the sun and by the whole road wandered in the last nine months. Dipping my head, I hear the sea whispering softly to me the shells that come and go, the tide and waves moving, the cadenced dives of fishermen with wings, who fish uninterruptedly, as if the world ended tomorrow. The sea whispers to me its whole bottom, softly, as if I was one more fish, an old friend who returns after a long time. And I am. If doubts subsisted I lose them as I open my eyes and see an old seal floating, swimming next to me, looking at me, joining me in this aquatic moment. Shy, he winks at me and dives when he sees I noticed his presence, going away, throughout the sea. I lose him in the waves, but it does not matter. Instead I just stay here, still, forgotten, looking at the sun who wants also to be a part of this sea, sinking slowly into it, while my body sinks as well as it returns to the dune. My shut eyes listen to the sea rocking my sleep from a distance. I know I am in paradise. I breathe it slowly, once and again, without any sort of rush of breathing it all at once. There is no rush at all, I live inside a dune, still, shackled to the freedom of living paradise.





Vichayito - Mancora, Peru, October 2009

Further ahead, in the north

Back on the road, I feel a strange hitch under my skin that makes me move from place to place, unsettled, on my way north, and south, towards all directions at the same time, I just can’t tell anymore... After a while I decide to follow my disorientation and leave the south, heading first towards the sea, after all I’ve always found its water relaxing. I drown my nostalgia in the winding earth’s boarder, drawn bellow by the sea, while the speeding bus contours the dunes, winding up the road. Along the way I stop. I stop here and there, in no men land, or in the land of men other than me. I stop in villages made of fish and boats, and in the land of the ‘Nazcas’ as well, where I find in their strange lines the answer to no question. I linger in the capital Lima, lady of all shades of grey, where I find the music, the noise, the mess, and from where the greyness of the sky expels me slowly, swiftly. I resume my way north, through the land of ‘Moches’ and 'Chimús', people of many tombs and pyramids built with mud and sand, lords of a land of too much dust and all shades of yellow, of scrumptious ‘ceviches’ and of more beach and more curves and more road. "Lambayeque, Lambayeque!", is shouted to exhaustion in the ‘combi’ that brings me to the eternally lord of the lands of Sipán, these lands I travel up languidly, on my way north, “What about the South?”, on my way to so many directions, too many, making me doubt if I’m still following any. In the end I’m following just one and I’m not sure where it is taking me... But I keep going up, heading up north. After all the weather gets warmer further ahead, in the north, and it feels good to have the sun burning my skin once more.














Chiclayo, Peru, September 2009

Static

Sitting in a rock, static, motionless, I look around. But I look without seeing, with my eyes wide shut, looking around with all my senses, as if just one. And I can feel each rock, each hill, each house and ruin, each and every accident in the landscape of this lost and found place, sacred, magical, from a world other than ours, certainly. Crossing my legs like an Indian Sadu, I feel like levitating while my hands wander the mountains around me, left and right, from the mystical white peak of the Salkantay in the distance to the green mountains close by, on my side. My hands end up in the middle, outlining the face and the nose of the Inca who has been sleeping here for a long time, laying down here, watching over this place and waiting for the day he has to wake up from his hibernation of centuries, millenniums, probably not waiting for anything, certainly. A fresh breeze blows into my face. I breathe in and also fall in the Inca’s sleep, lighter than his, almost awake, but still asleep like him. I sleep and I feel each rock of the path to here, from Cuzco and beyond, the whole trip’s path, my whole life’s path. I feel the long and slender paths travelled by you before laying down here, Inca, as my own paths travelled throughout this world, as everyone else’s path. I feel the tiredness, the long nights with little sleep, the pain all over my body, the dusty roads, the rivers’ fresh water, the dark cold of the night spent climbing up to here. I feel the warm rock underneath my body, while I turn into rock as you did, Inca, laying down here forever, tied to this place by rock and heart, my heart which will stay here forever, rising from here, departing from here to wander around the world, to never leave this place again. A light rain starts to pour, bringing me back from this trance. I open my eyes, breathe in, get up, walk a few steps towards the way out and turn back for one last goodbye, but I’m still there, sitting, looking around, stuck in the landscape, stuck in this place. I see myself there, sitting, static, here, there, everywhere, static.

Machu Picchu, Peru, September 2009