THROUGH THE EYES OF A NOMADIC ARTIST

DEPORTED FROM MOROCCO

2010-05-21T11:43:00.000-07:00

A letter recovered and turned into a real account of what happened to me in 1982

Brussels 29 June 1982

Dear John,

It’s almost four months ago since we were last in Marrakech. I can’t wait to write too much longer and I hope that you are well and healthy back in Jersey. Didn’t you say you were only going to stay four or six months in Morocco? How was Essaouira like? I guess you have done some lovely sightseeing over there and you must‘ve had your deal in adventure, but if you didn’t so I sure had some.

It took me a while after you left Marrakech to get settled in the crummy bus: Oh yeah, those boys working on the bus wouldn’t hoist my baggage on the bus unless I gave them a couple of Dirham. I was a ‘heavy’ trip all the way to Agadir: I felt very insecure; I was about to travel with only two-hundred Dirham in my pocket! A man from Marrakech advised me not to travel to Agadir, but instead I ought to travel to Rabat and see the Belgian consul. Then he said:

-You can always sell me your watch for thirty Dirham, he quickly added.

So I left on my own accord. Once arrived I pitched my tent in pay campsite which had showers, a shop, and a washing machine: Next morning I set out to try my luck at portraying the locals and tourists as I needed cash badly. I did five portraits (Germans, Dutch and English), at fifty Dirham each. I was about doing a sixth when I felt a hand on my right shoulder. A policeman in plain clothes arrested me for a reason unclear yet. But I thought it had to do with my trade here: He asked me what I was doing, I said nothing. When he looked the other way for just a minute I ripped the price tag from my drawing board and crumpled it my hand. I was lucky he hadn’t noticed that. I was taken to the police station: In the office my passport was confiscated and the chief told me to come and pick it up next morning at 10 am. What were the charges? : Working without a work permit and vagrancy. I was worried and at the campsite everyone who heard my story couldn’t believe me. In fact they really thought I had done something else like blowing a joint. But you know, I have never touched a joint in my life until I met you. I will never forget you passed me on that little piece of hash you called double zero and which I drank with a cup of tea. Most of them were sympathetic to my distress and told me not to go. The chief had told me to leave Agadir, but alas I was still around at 3 pm. eating in a restaurant by the harbour. I was going to leave but since they hadn’t given me a time table I figured the afternoon was still ok. How mistaken could I be when as on cue I turned my head around and saw the same cop who had arrested me the day before was sitting there just waiting until I had finished eating, I guess. He approached my table and told me to get up and ordered me to quickly pick up my tent and backpack and follow him back to the station.

It was 6 pm when the Belgian consul arrived to see me and broker a deal with the police. There wasn’t much he could do. Like yesterday when I tried to ask why I had to leave Agadir, the chief told me to shut up and collect my passport next day. Now annoyed with my protests against the order to leave Morocco, he snapped I shouldn’t say anything or he’d lock me up with the prostitutes in the cellar. But the Belgian consul said something and so it was decided I should be deported and escorted by the same police man who had just found me in the restaurant.

The man didn’t seem pleased at all; after all he had to sacrifice his weekend with his family to travel with me all the way to Casablanca. I was lucky I wasn’t to travel handcuffed, I thought. I thought he was a nice guy, not talkative but when we arrived in Casablanca he carried my backpack for which I thanked him. He said: don’t you thank me before you know who I am. The station here was quite different and much bigger than in Agadir. The chief here sat me down and told me not to worry. Those people in the south have made a mistake, maybe the chief was drunk he said.

I realized when I put my hand in my jeans pocket I had still a piece of double zero which I never used and had forgotten about. Oh, my god, I though. I got to get rid of it. So before I was walked down the stairs to the basement I asked for the loo and I flushed it away. Surely it wasn’t worth keeping that on me after I was never going to use it anymore? The rollercoaster I had been on in Marrakech. That one cup of tea I had with you and I wanted to dissolve it in the tea. I basically had drunk it like that and next thing I remember was that I was laughing hysterically and followed by thoughtful and depressing moments.

You know, John, when I left you and thought I was going to change my torn jeans at the Djemaa el Fnaa market? Nothing worked out, I still had my jeans on but they had sold me a pair of Arabian trousers, with a crotch so low that it hung between my knees. Hilarious, it was as if they were made for men with horse dicks. But I am digressing. I was taken to a basement where the cells were. I was going to spend some time in there, but even the chief didn’t tell me for how long. He just said that I’d soon out on my way. Then I was searched by the guard downstairs. He put his hands in my pockets, my heart skipped a beat. I had been so wise to listen to my intuition just a few minutes earlier. The man looked teasingly at me; He winked at me, pulled out his hand and pushed me through a door at the foot of the staircase. He found my instamatic camera in my backpack and laughed at me about it. What was the big deal I thought? I wasn’t rich and only twenty-three years old. What was I supposed to have that would gain his respect?

Then the door of the cell swung open and he pushed me inside. I quickly counted the number of cells next to mine: there were five more. Inside mine it was dark; our door had only a small window not bigger than my hand. Here I was sharing a cell with seven other young kids, me being the only white one. I thought I had a nice suntan where in reality my skin looked still as whit as milk next to a Maghrebine one. My thoughts ran wild now that I knew I was locked up here. Only two weeks ago I was still in Spain in Torremolinos, sketching tourists for money, enough to feed me. My brother who had dropped me off in Taragona (North eastern Spanish Province of Costa Blanca) to pick me up much later he had promised. But I didn’t want to go back to Belgium that fast. I still had some money left after 3 weeks in Peñiscola, a tourist resort and so I had hitched hikes all the way down to Valencia, Grenada, Guadix, Malaga, Torremolinos, Marbella, Puerto Banuz, Algeciras and down to Morocco. I had just followed my instinct, drawn by posters in travel agencies luring tourists to Morocco. I had grown tired of Torremolinos and the fat ugly tourists flaunting their beer addiction, besides the tourist season was over now for artists to do portraits. I should have listen to an artist I knew, though, how said that I could make money on the Canary Islands with Scandinavian tourists who poured in around October. But the desire for adventure and North Africa fit the bill. The guard looked through the small window and asked me:

-Ça va?

I nodded and leaned my head against the wall. That’s when I noticed the plastic bag with loaves of bread. I turned my head and asked the other boys:

-How long have you been here?
We don’t know, they answered, some days maybe a week, we don’t know.

-Who are you and what are you in for, the same boy who had answered asked me.
-Making portraits, I answered.

He smiled.

I didn’t smile back; I had been some horrible time, more than I could chew already. And every time I gave them the honest answer no one believed me.

-You like hash? Another one asked me.

-No, I lied.

I had come to like it after my escapade in Marrakech, but I wasn’t to tell anyone or even admit, now that I was here in custody with no idea of what was going to happen to me. I yelled for the guard but I only heard laughter. I was here since early morning and since I had first spoken to the chief I hadn’t been seen by anyone. In the cell with strangers equally apprehensive and hostile to any newcomer; I felt cold, as I was only wearing a very thin short sleeve shirt, a pair of jeans and Spanish leather boots, which were two sizes too big for me. It was crowded in here already.

After the small talk of where-are-you-from? and what do you do and my name it remained somewhat silent, until we heard harsh shouting and cries emanating from our corridor. I couldn’t see anything through the little window, but it definitely came from our floor. It sounded like somebody being lashed or whipped followed by wailing. The boys, seven in all pushed me aside and wanted to look too. But no one saw anything.

It must be girls picked up from the street.

-Do you think so, I asked in my best French.

-Yes, there is a curfew out in Casablanca. No minor is allowed in the streets after 8 pm. That’s why we got picked up by the cops. The cops presume that we sell heroin or marihuana. But it is just repression. The people are starving and are coming out in the streets nearly every day protesting against the high prices of food. But the cops pick on the small fish like us.

-Girls, a voice said, though I couldn’t see who.

Imagine having one here with us, a nice virgin, how we’d enjoy it. Smooth skin and a nice pussy to get into.

You have a girlfriend? Another voice called.

I tried to adjust my eyes, but not much came of it, I still couldn’t see to clearly all the faces that were here with me. I was feeling fainter by the hour, the stale air and the smell of urine and defecation got to me. Yes, they wouldn’t let us out to go to the loo. The guard seemed to have vanished into thin air.

-No, no, not yet.

-Not yet? The voice echoed. I thought in Europe it is quite common to have sex with a girl before marriage.

You must be lying, a darker voice continued. I am sure you are lying about everything, including about the use of drugs.

There was something very eerie about this interrogation, something told me that I was here on my own and not with people I could trust.

I turned around facing the loaves and tried to ignore all of them, my heart beating faster. Behind my back something unintelligible for me was being said, followed by whispers and snickering.

I should never have turned my back, it was just a sign of weakness, I guess. God knows how long before the door opened up and the guard showed me his toothless smile.
-Follow me, he ordered.

Up the stairs back to where I had been in the morning. I took a seat and looked into the eyes of another face, another police chief. Next to me sat the Belgian consul, another one too. Before I could even utter a word, the chief ranted in an authoritative voice that he was a connoisseur of Europeans. They all came to Morocco to consume drugs and he would prove I wasn’t any different, he said.

The consul tried to throw in a word on my behalf but he was told to shut up. Like that. You have no experience, the chief said to him.

I asked the consul in my Dutch tongue to tell him there were elections in Belgium and I needed to vote at the embassy. But that also didn’t help me.

-No, the chief said, he has to leave Morocco. We will arrange a flight straight to Belgium.

Now first I didn’t want to go back that soon to Belgium and second there was no way I would let my mum pay for a repatriation journey. I had a luminous idea.

-Look, I said, I have family in Spain; my passport can prove that as it was issued in Malaga.

It seemed to impress the chief, but he remained as stoic and aggressive as ever. It was about 1 pm and the consul told me not to worry too much. I was promised I would leave the police station by 3 pm. The consul wished me good luck and left me with the cop who led me downstairs. I was taken back to my cell.

At the foot of the stairs I was in for a shock, a warden stood there with his belt and a few young teenage girls lying on the floor. He was whipping them, but stopped abruptly when he saw me. A man lay on his back with blood oozing out of his neck. Where was I?

The warden who led me, urged me to move forward.

-A tout à l’heure (soon), the other warden said, and locked me up. The warden with the whip resumed his job, and for half an hour I heard the girls wailing. Then he left. Not a sound was heard anymore for maybe an hour. Perhaps they had gone to have lunch or so. I was hungry too and worried about my fate. I crouched and tried to forget where I was. That was not long before a heard the clonking of the keys, somebody opened up the door. I rose to my feet instinctively and stared into the light that entered my cell.

It was 6 pm when a young employee from the embassy collected me on a moped from the police station. I complained to the consul about the lack of power and the uncertainty of nationals in custody.

-There is nothing we can do, he said, if we help you, and then the next arrestee will face worse treatment. This is a dictatorship, he added and we as diplomats have to be careful. But he also said that ‘ I was in the friendliest of North African countries’.

My passport had a stamp of deportation; it read that I was not allowed to come back to Morocco for the next decade. I had paid a high price for my freedom. I wondered if the consul really knew what I had endured. By 9 pm I was on a bus to Ceuta and landed at 6 am on Spanish soil. I shouted: “Viva España!”

In Algeciras I reclined myself against a palm tree in a park by a truck parking lot. Some youngsters a few years younger approached me out of curiosity and we chatted for a while in very relaxed way. I felt I was safe in Spain; the ordeal was behind my back. No sooner had I thought this up or two of their peers arrived and spoke to my new friends. Thinking that I wouldn’t understand their lingo I heard they asked me whether I was a foreigner. Within a spur of the moment they turned toward me and demanded ‘plata’ (money) from me. I kept my wits about me and said: “Un momento”. I walked toward another tree 3 meters away from where I sat and hauled a big bread knife out of my backpack. “Come and get,” I threatened. I was going to sell my skin dearly, I reckoned. I couldn’t believe I had just dared to say this, but I did! The idea of sleeping on the beach, or elsewhere to avoid paying a Guest house did not strike me as safe any longer, yet I did move away to an unfinished apartment. The two boys hung around all night waiting from me to come out of flat skeleton where I had stayed for the last three hours, hoping for them to go away.

This was ridiculous and so I went -after they had disappeared- to the train station and booked a seat on the express to Madrid. That was a nice ride, I managed to stay in a hostel dorm for three days and visit the Prado where Picasso’s Guernica had just come back from the USA. I was left with a meager hundred fifty pesetas (maybe five Euros). No one was interested in getting his portrait done by me. I did manage to find another T.I.R where an Englishman agreed to take me aboard his truck; he dropped me off in Irún at highway eatery where I found another Briton who took me all the way to Ghent with my last hundred Belgian Francs (3 Euros), with which I bought a cone of French Fries and a train ticket home. My mother did not find out about my adventure until I saw her face to face.

PROVINCE OF JUJUY ARGENTINA

2010-04-09T11:49:00.000-07:00

September 20th 2007

I am three hours away from Tilcara in the Northern Province of Jujuy where Incas built places. It will be a week of shamnic rites with elders or abuelos in Spanish to denominate Indian sages. Others are called pilgrims, I don't know where I will be put in the sacred circle of worship. There is not going to be any ingestion of hallucinogenics and recording or photography is not allowed.

I travelled from Buenos Aires on the 12th -where we stayed three days- to Rosario, where Che Guevara was born, along the rio Parana. But only just four nights ago we arrived in the most scenic area of Argentina in Cafayate where once the Calchaqui confederation of Indian nations lived. They included the Diaguitas in Cafayete, Ululas in Santa Maria and the Quilmes in Quilmes.

The confederation numbered about 100.000 people, but after they had resisted the Incas they they waged a war of 135 years, against the Spanish conquistadores. The Spaniards succeeded in cutting off the water and the food suplyafter the confederacy fell in their hands. They were tortured, raped, enslaved and marched away on foot to different areas, but the majority went on foot to Buenos Aires, which by bus is about 3 days drive...imagine.

In 1812 with independency they were assimilated into Buenos Aires' population. The place where they had been kept by the Jesuits in a reduccion was called Quilmes, and so Quilmes still exists today, but the real Quilmes Indians as well as the Diaguita, I was told, have perished or have fused with the Argentinians.

Just on my departure today, a friendly old woman asked me where my poncho came from - my Q'uero one if bought in Cusco-, I had a hunch she was Indian. She said she was from near the Chilean border near the Atacama desert. That rang a bell and I got interested.

"Are you Mapuche?" I asked her to avoid asking her if she was an Indian. She said:" no I am a Diaguita."

POKHARA 14 AUGUST 2007

2010-04-09T11:43:00.000-07:00

Erwetegem 17 august 2007

Dear all

I am back in Belgium since yesterday, and safe at a friends home, recovering from my grueling experience in Boudanath (see 'Trashed in Nepal'); but fortunately I had some beautiful moments too.

I lived in Asia for about eight months; five of which I spent teaching English in Pattaya. Out of my three months unpaid school holidays I chose to travel for a month in Laos. Out of that month I spent two weeks with the Akhas who lived in a protected area. It was my most memorable stay of all.

Now for a shamanic meeting I will soon be travelling to the village of Tilcara in Northern (Jujuy province) Argentina. From there, after a week of rituals, I will move to Peru with a travel companion. But now there is a huge earthquake, I figured I could have been there too and gotten killed.

Below you can read what happened to me after the mugging. And for more recent updates you can surf to www.Kathmanduspeaks.com

I haven't sold a painting due to the general arts crisis in Bangkok for Thai painters and the fact that the average tourist only buys copy art. But the gallery here in Pattaya is run by an Irishman called Liam who has lived in Thailand since he was eighteen. He has become my agent so to speak and I left my paintings I had brought from Belgium with him. He happens to have a online website too. But alas I haven' been able to paint during the months I was teaching (my survival job). Among the many obstacles I acuse the climate, a depression that hit me hard.

Now here comes a previously e-mailed account of my Nepalese (mis)adventures.

"I don't know if it is a test or his style of cleansing but I certainly don't like to be called a drama queen when all those things happen to me, whereas in Thailand all went fine as long as I was teaching.

The wound in my knee won't heal, it is so damp and although I liked Pokhara and I have met up with a few old chums I have been greatly tried in the last 3 days. I didn' see Krishna at all as he was working every day. So I just strolled through the dusty streets and (re)discovered places. Only yesterday, by coincidence of picking up a newspaper of the 6th of August, did I find out that the Royal Nepalese Airlines are in big problems and due to that they stopped flying for a week.

I was told in a travel agency that they couldn't confirm my flight back to Bangkok and I had to go to Pokhara airport to find them. There also they said I had to go to Kathmandu and wanted to give me a phonenumber; 2 employees were sleeping. I certainly did not accept to the making of a phone call to Kathmandu on my account and I wasn't going to take another taxi to another place. However, after insisting (In India either you cry, moan or blow your top, before the bureaucrates think it is serious business and (here they didn't think any different) they hung on the phone for 40 minutes to KTM, because someone picked up and then they hung up or maybe the line was broken, etc.

Anyway, in the mean time I keep reading the newspapers in which I read how day by day the law and order is breaking down, especially in jungle and terai areas where young communists have made their own militia after they broke away from the ones who got a seat in the government. The latter is feeling the heat too as the majority of the general public want to oust them, because they can't get the thugs of their own troop under control due too abuse.. As a result desertion witnin the Maoist cadre is on the rise.

In this climate everyone fears the worst is yet to come. My friend Krishna ( whom I finally met) told me just this morning that hotels in Pokhara were booked up to 80% for November, but nothing was sure as civil war could start anytime soon, he said).

So here I am with my stories of four youngsters who had mugged me and you have the commies raiding a village and leaving a mother with 5 children jobless and hungry because they pushed her husband from a rock, just like that).

Oh yes I also got pickpocketed of 3000 rupees by hungry streetkids while I was buying biscuits for them.
.

This morning as I got walking to find the bus and have breakfast first, Hindu god Indra (rain god) opened up the sluices for the whole day and it has been pissing from the sky until now. It was horrendous to arrive in Kathmandu soaked wet and having to bear all the medieaval traffic and noises emanating from screeching buses who horn at random. It makes me go berserk and wanting to kill the drivers. instantly.

The moment I got myself a seat in the bus I realized I didn't have my small digital camera anymore. It was hanging from my belt with a velcro clip. All those weeks in Thailand it remained attached and now it was gone? Another fast hand or had it simply dropped on the ground?

The sun got a little too mean through the window, hence I change seats and promptly banged my wounded knee (the thugs in Boudanath had kicked me about, remember? See the article trashed in Nepal) on one of those sturdy metal corners that make up the base for the seat. I was bleeding like hell but no one who'd reach out or asked me if I needed any help; they were all too busy watching another violent gun toting Hindi movie.

I went ballistic thrice about it and yelled at them what I thought about the bsu company shoving their violent movies into my throat for hours on end. The passengers remained passive, smiled and oblivious, until we stopped for a break. I thought I'd get some help for my wounded knee from a couple of Italian girls I had just spotted in another bus. I did get help at last in dressing the wound. Then barely after our bus moved on I realized that my precious South American hat with my gorgeous red featherheaddress fI had purchased from the Txucahamei tribe in Brazil had gone. This was the straw that broke the camel's back. Again I went mad, I couldn't take it anymore; It dawned on me how much I hated poverty now and how I hated myself for having come over here having to endure this ordeal. Was this what Lord Shiva had in mind for me?

What was the message here? Did it come from him or was I as ususal in the wrong time and the wrong place?

I arrived back at my cheap budget place where my full suitcase had been kept for two weeks and I am not too sure to have a quiet night as everything is so noisy. I had no private bathroom and two cockroaches on the rug seemed to be waiting for me...

My trip to Nepal had been both a success and a disaster.

My friend Krishna from Pokhara, told me that the reason they might have beaten me up was that they were either jealous or had a hatred for people who look like they are connected with something like divine forces or some spirituality of some sort, something still very much dreaded in this feudal and tribal society."

Alann

Malicious approach

2010-04-08T16:03:00.000-07:00

Kathmandu Monday October 22, 2001 Kartik 06, 2058.

Malicious approach

Last week, I was approached for an interview by a journalist working with one of this country’s vernacular dailies about my complaint: "How I was being swindled by the immigration office in Pokhara?" I was also asked for my views on other matters in Nepal such as travel safety and hygiene for travellers in restaurants and so on.

The article I couldn’t read, of course, started with the lie "I will never come back to Nepal" something I never said. Also that the immigration office had scolded me and that they demanded 2000 rupees in order for them to give me a receipt of the payment for an extension visa is not correct. Many other things were put in my mouth. Now I face an angry mob of people in Pokhara. Through e-mail one friend advised me not to come anymore to Pokhara because they are very angry with me.

No one will believe my story. Everyone will believe the press. I went to their office yesterday and they refused to print an apology or the admittance of their mistakes, neither did they want to write an apology for me that I could show the people in Pokhara, nor would they give me a copy of the tape with my interview. I am appalled... and don’t know what to do. Not only did I face corruption at the immigration office I also have to face corruption of my words by a daily which said they would be behind me if any problem arose after the interview. I was so confident they were allowed to take my picture.

Alann De VuystKathmandu

Muang Sing Laos 2007

2010-02-05T09:23:00.000-08:00

Muang Sing Laos 2007

From being a Thai territory in the 16th century, a French protectorate from the 19th century until 1954, and then being squabbled over by the British, Chinese, and Vietnamese, Muang Sing ended up in Laotian hands. Now, it is a laid back village visited by backpackers and the occasional tour bus. Some of the lone travelers though come this far for the mere kick of getting to smoke opium, which has maintained its aura of the real McCoy for the few, despite the communist government cracking down on it.

The local market was a riot of colourful tribals selling exotic game like coati, bats, and jungle fowl. Laos isn’t Thailand, but here also one can see the impact of luxurious goods on the lifestyle of the nomadic forest dwellers. Children are sent to schools and one has to be able to get there. Pressure to give up the traditional way of life comes from all sides. The last straw was to lose their forests, and yet on this one too they seemed to have yielded to capitalism.

Among the hill tribes I visited, the Akha were the most impressive. Like the Hmong, they entertained a deep connection with the forest spirits, who channeled their energy through the village shaman. One needed a trained eye to find out which village belonged to which tribe. Some houses looked so similar. They were nomads, but with the ever increasing pressure from the government to resettle (read: to be deported to as far as the capital), to close towns like Muang Sing which become detrimental to their culture.

The Chinese corporations have had no qualms telling the Akha, that it is better burning their (primary) forests, and then to plant rubber trees instead. They are persuaded that this will make them millionaires for in ten years from now they would be able to sell the rubber to the world. Everyday, as far as I could see, the forest was going up in smoke; I wanted to cry.

It was not difficult to romanticize their way of life when you met them. Having hitched a ride with the Langten, I was back in town, in time for the Loket festival, which would start the following morning. From my Guest house room I had a view of the preparations and show of colourful dancers, young and old, who arrived from all over the place. A shaman was present to officially inaugurate the festivities. A racket of gunpowder launching arrows out of bamboo guns straight into the sky, marked the end of Songkran, (in which native and tourist have water and flour thrown at them), the Spring festivities. Many of the ethnic groups showed off their skills under a blazing sun, the children bathing in the nude in a brook nearby. Being the only foreigner was a true blessing, as everyone treated me with the most exotic food and drinks, and which lasted into the wee small hours of the morning.

A visit to el Porcón in Cajamarca, Peru

2009-12-12T11:50:00.000-08:00

In the month of July I travelled with my companion to Cajamarca, it was the city know as the last refuge of the last Inca Atahualpa, a half brother of Huascar, who ruled Cusco in Peru. Atahualpa was put to death by Francisco Pizarro.

You can still visit the ransom room, which he had filled with gold in return for his freedom. The only freedom he got from this Christian son of a bitch, who had only gold an silver and fame on his mind, was to be strangled to death.

From Cajamarca one can visit many scenic places. One of that was El Porcón, a domain owned by the Adventist Church. You have many natives working there, making a living by producing textiles and other pretty handicrafts. But getting down there with other Peruvians from Lima was not quite what I thought I was going to see.

Lots of wild animals in captivity like jaguars, ocelots, hawks and eagles, the rare Andean fox, the bespectacled Peruvian bear (nearly brought to extinction, I heard, as for hundreds of years people shot it down everywhere where they saw it). But hang on in there, the sight for me to behold was the King Condor, also known as the White Condor, who contrary to its name, has all the colours of the rainbow.

On our way down to the valley I got the Bible lesson of my life because every 30 meters there was a quote to be read.

I hated it, why not leave nature alone? Surely, they didn't miss the opportunity to christen any visitor, Indian or Caucasian. I couldn't help posing in front of one of those quotes pointing the phallic 'up yours' finger to the sky.The literal translation of that quote sounds like this: "It is of utmost necessity that the gospel be taught to all nations of the world!"

Oh yeah, and why?

I, for one, think it is the biggest crime against humanity to take a people's religion away, taking advantage of their poverty. And some indigenous leaders have started to take the Church to court for that via the UN.

I WAS TRASHED IN NEPAL

2009-12-03T02:42:00.000-08:00

Dear all,

I arrived on the night of the 31st in Kathmandu, a country known as the Shangri-La. Despite its name it has turned into a chaotic place and anarchy is rampant. Police forces in remote villages are still being killed or punished by the YCL (Young Communist league), which here in the press are dubbed “the young criminal league", because of their violence. The cadres, who are in a coalition government as the Maoist Party, seem to be unable to rein them in.

Anyway, I came here on a mission, believe it or not, for Lord Shiva, from whom I got the vision in a trance about 5 months ago. I was told to go to Pashupatinath in Nepal. Then it would have been appropriate to go, it was still dry season, no floods and one day of Shiv Ratri (worship of Shiva allover the country in India and Nepal.

I couldn’t go as I was still teaching in Thailand.

Came what came, I had to go and to my pleasant surprise, I found out that the month of August is an entire month of Shiva worship. I had to go to Pashupatinath, which means protector of animals, which Shiva is. No wonder I thought, why I see so many animals in my trances or I turn in one, ranging from cobra, python, to wolf or eagle and condor. Even owls, mustangs, you name it are part of the panorama of traveling in the 4th dimension.

So, after one sleepless night in a budget guesthouse (noise the whole morning for they had a wedding party) I headed for Bauda, known as Bodanath.

There you visit a stupa erected in 15th century and now worshipped by Tibetan monks, Nepalese, and the to Buddhism foreigners converted, who just like the Tibetans and Nepali prostrate themselves on the ground and make the prayer wheels turn clockwise for good fortune.

To my pleasant surprise I met a bunch of Rajasthani nomads who live in tents in a muddy place behind the stupa. Two shoeshine boys accosted me and took me to their tent dwelling and that’s how I got to know them. Pleasant, ‘because I dreamed of going back to Rajasthan one day to meet those nomads again, and look I found them here. Thanks Shiva!!!

Now many of my friends are not Hindus and nor am I, but I have turned into this jangri (Nepali for Shaman) and I go where the gods and spirits send me. I waited 3 days, still on antibiotics for a very resistant lung infection and feeling weak and feverish, I decided that I could make my move to Pashupatinath, which is a 15-minute walk over a street, which leads through meadows. Before I went I decided to buy two postcards, one of Shiva and one of Hanuman, the monkey god whom I had seen in a vision in Cuzco in the Sacsayhuaman Inca area. I told the friendly vendor in the shop, that one of my names was Wayra Inti (Wind of the Sun given to me by a Peruvian Shaman on the Island of the Sun Bolivia). "Oh, he said, "Hanuman means wind and Hanuman is also Shiva in another body."

So I would be “Hanuman Surya “ (the latter means sun) and thinking of this I got really startled to find out about the so many signs and messages I received in Thailand, too many to tell, though. It confirmed time and time again my connection with Shiva. "And you know", the vendor said: "Today is Hanuman day."

The very same day I went to Pashupatinath on Hanuman day, could it be more enlightening?

At last I stood in front of the Baghmati River; it was a concrete gray with a rapid spewing from my left. I saw children playing and bathing in the nude on an islet in the middle of it. Despite the color I shed my clothes and went down the stairs into the river. The water was not freezing and reached just below my knees. I had a couple of adult Newaris (Nepalese) following my every move with an approving smile. Soon many more got interested and stood on the wall that separated the river a bit from the road. I enjoyed playing with the kids and instantly I was one myself, we splashed water and mud from the river at one another. I let my self float in the strong current and submerged myself followed by rubbing the silted mud over my face and body.

Then I faced the sun and made my vows and sun worship and asked His Lord to continue to guide me. I got out after having sprayed myself with some diluted detergent that a Nepali boy gave me. And I walked on not knowing exactly where the Pashupatinath sacred Shiva temple stood. Following my nose and instinct I ended up following a young Nepali who said he went to a Shiva temple up there where I was warmly welcomed on top of the stairs by elder Hindus. I left my sandals behind and entered the premises. I found a shrine right in front of me, a square building with a huge lingam (Shiva’s organ) cut out in rough rock red with Hindu powder. I took some and made a tikka on my forehead (a red dot on the third eye place). I felt so exhilarated.

When I left the shrine I saw more men sitting on the right side, one was reading the puranas (Holy Hindu texts) and another one was making a fire. Another young guy invited me to sit and we started a conversation. He had seen me as others had. He said they had wondered about why a foreigner was bathing there? What is he doing there? They felt foreigners should be more sophisticated, but then they didn’t know of my spiritual mission. Shambu who then became a new acquaintance, is a Brahmin and told the guys he could see me worship the Sun and so he knew I wasn’t doing the swimming for fun in that river. He heard my story and believed me. We have seen more and more westerners like you who have come here and said they had spoken with Shiva. Shambu itself means Shiva too!

He called his friends to come over and we discussed the many facets of spirituality. Then as it got later we went down to the other side over the hill to face the burning ghats in front of the Pashupatinath temple. A band of starved monkeys found me when I ripped open a banana and stole it from me. A big macaque took place on my head and when satisfied of his domination over me jumped away again. Later in the evening a group of women dressed in pure orange moved in single file from the left to the stairs that lead to the temple. We waited and it seemed the doors would only open around 7 p.m. We got to see a range of shrines built by the Mala dynasty, a maharana, kind of king who had 13 wives and built a shrine for each, with a lingam and bull facing the lingam for every deceased rani (queen).

Then at last it was nearly dark and the temple doors opened up, but we sat from a distance of about 100 meters and the crowd inside the temple was blocking the view of his lingam, we couldn’t see anything. I’d come back tomorrow with Shambu. Before we left we went to see a sadhu (Holy man) with a white long beard who gave Shambu a 15 minute lecture on what the ego (atman) soul and God is, basically rebuking my vision quest.

Shambu and I left him for what he was, an orthodox man who clung to his taught beliefs and could or would not accept that anything can happen outside of the Hindu doctrine. It was nothing but a dream I saw, he had said, as this life is a dream too. I didn’t want to debate with him. I knew what I had seen months ago and what it meant. That was more than enough.

Barely had Shambu dropped me off near the stupa and I walked home to my guesthouse Kailash (the sacred abode of Shiva in the Himalayas) -where else would have stayed but I lodge with the appropriate name?

But my happiness turned very ugly when I was bothered by a drunken guy flanked by three other intoxicated youths, sitting like him on the pavement in front of the small restaurant where I was going to eat. He obviously sought to provoke me just before I entered it at around 8.30 pm. He asked me imitating an American accent: "Hey, man whassup?" I ignored him, but he continued: “You look like some kind of Baba (a holy man) - I was wearing my red Karen sarong and a Cambodian scarf on my head, something I had done for premises of Pashupatinath.

I ignored his last one-liner with a smile. After I came out again, three of the four who sat near the restaurant carried someone away who could barely stand on his legs. The guy who had spoken to me was with them and they were either drunk or drugged or both.

I passed them just in front and met with fellow traveler from France who stayed in my guesthouse. Barely having started our conversation, the guy approached us and stood nearly face to face overhearing our conversation. I told him to leave us alone, as it was private. Three times didn’t work and I got really worked up about him, I told him that I would call the cops if he didn’t leave right away. He said: “Let the cops come!� So then I pushed him away by his shoulder. During this my lady friend was pushed brutally aside and others in the street just looked on.

That’s when he punched me and I instinctively punched back. Before I realized I saw fists and feet from blowing from all corners and feet kicking on me until I fell on the ground, more kicks hit my head, face and body. In the end I managed to escape and screamed “POLICE!" at the top of my lungs. I found what I thought was a teenage policeman, near the stupa, (I found out the day after, he was only a security guard with no power).

I was bleeding from my eyes which were now seriously swelling. My entire body was aching. The young policeman with a lathi in hand warned his colleagues. In five minutes they arrived at the scene but did nothing but watch when the tough guy attempted to attack me again, though some people withheld him. I had run for my life to the cops, but no one, even a group of monks and tourist who passed buy seemed to be bothered to offer some assistance. No doctor was found and I ended up in the guesthouse where I felt safe but in awful pains.

That was my day; it had started so beautifully, I wonder why it ended this way. I am now at the press, but no one seems to be willing to publish the assault story. I haven’t gone to the cops, as from my experience I know they won’t do anything.

Laatst bewerkt door alann (2007-08-04 09:02:41)

A PRESS STORY/INTERVIEW WITH ME (in a Nepali daily in 2001) THAT WENT WRONG-CAN SOMEONE TRANSLATE THIS?

2009-12-01T13:27:00.000-08:00

CREATING ART IN THE INDIES

2009-12-01T05:27:00.000-08:00

I believe it was the year 2000 that I ended up in Mahabalipuram, a little tourist village south of what was then still known as Madras. Madras, now known as Chennaí is quite a big city, hot and steamy, where the scents of flowers and car exhausts mix with the sweat of the many backpackers lost in the turmoil of the traffic.

I was going there for my first time, a stopover on my way from Kathmandu to Trivandrum, to meet my Dutch colleague-in-the-arts Jan Dames, who enjoyed his time as usual with the ladies on the Kovalam beach.

In 1994, I was supposed to end up in Madras with an onward ticket from Sri Lanka, but I ended up in a hospital with a slip disc instead. So, now I could make up for my failed visit.

Besides the archaeological museum which I visited for its huge Gupta buddha art collection and dozens of war paraphernalia, I managed to see Madrassan young artists at work, who were busy creating a bas-relief of scenes from the famous Mahabarata epic. I nearly took a course, I was so impressed with the work , but the fees and visa restrictions didn't really encourage the idea.

The heat was getting oppressive and so I sought refuge in a cinema, where they happened to be showing Mrs. Doubtfire. I cried my eyes out with this tragi-comedy, as it reminded me so much of my own two darling children I had left behind in Belgium.

The next day I moved on to the town of Mahabalipuram; a historic place by the seashore. Busloads of domestic tourists and backpackers, used to hang out there (and still do so today) for a few days or even weeks, clicking their cameras away or simply enjoying a evening stroll on the beach.

Mahabalipuram's beaches are kilometers long, quiet and desolate. The village was so picturesque it made me want to stay. However, most bungalows or guest houses were booked months beforehand. But, I managed to secure a room for myself and within a few days I started painting on rice paper which I had bought in Kathmandu. I used my brushes and paint like a madman, outside on the patio, where the acrylic colours dried too fast in this heat. I had to create a whole body of work for an exhibition I would stage in April in Kathmandu that same year.

Between my frantic creative spells, I went out to discover the village and its people. I loved the Indians, especially those from the South, who are so much more easy going than their northern fellow Hindus. After all, they are the aboriginal Indians (having said that, many of them do look like their aboriginal brothers from Australia), the Dravidians, (with a black complexion, a broad range of white teeth when they smile, it is only a matter of seconds to thaw a frosted westerner) who were pushed to the south by the invading Indo-Aryans from the West.

Mahabalipuram, however, was known and still is, for its carving in soap stone. It didn't take me long to realise that I could have them carve my designs out of that soft stone. I decided to create some tribal good luck charms with a shamanic appeal on paper.

Everything worked out fine although here and there I had to retouch some of my pieces with a keen interest in learning the trade.

Still, I had no idea of what exactly I was going to do with them. Until I was back in Kathmandu with about 2 dozen paintings under my arm to show in the gallery. As if everything had been planned, it dawned on me I could have cast them in metal, so I went looking for a blacksmith. I found two smithies, but neither were really interested or they were too busy to accept any order of mine. At last one young smith accepted, but he wanted money up front.

So I gave him what he wanted as a down payment. But guess my surprise, when next day he wasn't there. I had ordered one hundred pieces and he had been given eight different orignal designs in soap stone. Another day went by and still he was not at his post. I started panicking, thinking he had run off with the originals and the brass pieces. His colleagues tried to calm me down by telling me not to worry. Don't worry, no te preocupes (in Spanish), mai pen rai (in Thai) are key phrases in business to soothe anyone who wants to do business in a culture he is not familiar with.

The third day he was back with a hangover. He had spent all the money on booze and was now ready for the job.

I liked the first batch, but I still wanted more copies, this time with my name engraved at the back of the pendant. However he couldn't do that straight away, as he was caught up with more important orders. So I had to wait until after the show. It took weeks, time was running out and so was my visa. Just 2 days before I had to leave he had told me to come and pick them up the day after. I did so, but he gave no show. The last day was the day I had bought my bus ticket, and I had waited 2 hours at the smithy, alas, he never showed up.

He had my originals which were very dear to me. I suspected, he could make as many as he could and sell them to the local shops catering to tourists. How would I know? I wouldn't. I simply hopped on the bus and said Namaste Nepal, hope to see you next time.

PS: Oh, one thing more...my show was at the Siddartha Art Gallery, and despite Maoist activities I did get a large number of visitors.

To see some of my pieces, please go to:

http://www.artists.de/81308-1-1-alann:dancing-shaman

Namaste

Alann

I AM NEW TO THIS

2009-12-01T04:06:00.000-08:00

Dear visitors of this blog,

I am a polyglot and would love to write in 6 different languages, but alas it is so time consuming. I have decided, though, to start up some writings here about my past travels.

Fifteen years ago there were no blogs, but fortunately I sometimes kept a diary.

Out of the very few diaries I will publish some anecdotes or fragments. You will be able to read and hopefully enjoy some of the read, even if it happened back in 1989 or earlier.

It is hard to find a publisher for my book, which I have finished last year, about my experiences with Brazilian Indians.

Not many people in the Old World care to read about the indigenous peoples of South America, I was told by an English publisher, and so perhaps, some of the content here maybe of interest to someone in the field of travel literature, short stories or cultural anthropology?

I am new and hope for the best that my blogs will generate enough interest to be followed and read.

I used to be very fast, -my mum used to call me the Flying Dutchman, because I ran her errands so fast.

Nowadays, I have slowed down a bit; that comes with the wear and tear of thirty years of travelling, however my lips still tend to speak quicker than my my mind can think...so bear with me if I stumble sometimes over unexpected hurdles.

Until later

Yours

Alann