Embodiments of Love

We Are Moving!

2011-07-14T22:49:00.002+02:00

Embodiments of Love!

We are making the move over to Wordpress! All our old posts will stay here for your perusing pleasure, but please head over to WeAreAllMadeOfLove.Wordpress.com to continue following our adventures!

Thanks Blogger, it's been fun.

See you on the other side!

LOVE!

Yage, Vine of the Dead Part 2

2011-06-09T16:13:00.005+02:00

The Lasting Breakthrough

“Serendipity visits at the most untimely times”, I say to Miin the day after, as we drive away from a ‘failed’ ceremony, clutching the details for our next pin in the map, Sibundoy, Putumayo. We had in fact been fantasising about the mystical valley before our arrival in Colombia, thanks to Wade Davis' "One River". We smile at the Universe's plans unfolding, once again.

Our Inspiration

Sibundoy

The highest concentration of all biological hallucinogenic plant matter is in Sibundoy valley, south of Cali and two hours north of the Ecuadorian border. Homeland of most of the Colombian Curanderos and perhaps a valley apart from this world. It is clear that different rules apply here, as Suzie’s nose dips over the rugged mountain range and into a green open space that promises to be something out of this world… we are not disappointed.

Taita Domingo is not hard to find in the town of Sibundoy, as his stature and reputation as an important Taita and Yage artist extraordinaire leads us directly to his door, where his family meets us with open hearts and arms. A peculiar life path of first Yage at 6, learning about the Mother plant from the Sionas in the Amazonian jungle for twenty years, living in Ireland for more than a decade, studying the Celtic arts, combined with the influence of the Mother Yage, eventually bringing him back to his birthplace, Sibundoy Valley. A proud and dedicated medicine man, he allows us the privilege of ceremony one of Colombia's most well respected Taitas.

Artistic Renderings of Yage Ceremony, Sibundoy Town

As we have come to expect by now, no Taita is on time and part of the process is waiting. This time we find ourselves with the Taita’s wife, Pastora, and her children, watching the sunset from high on a hill that presents a 360 degree view of the whole magical valley of intergalactic, inter-dimensional and trans-dimensional journeys. A golden hue lights our faces, while soft afternoon spray washes off the day’s traffic and city smog. Pastora eagerly shares giggles and laughs at the simple jokes we make in our limited Spanish. Again, the value of sharing in humour as a perfect medium in connecting with others, beyond cultural and lingual spaces, is more powerful than any perfect translation and correct etiquette.

Two more join us just before Taita Domingo arrives, equipped with his two suitcases of magic. One is a local Biologist and helper of the Taita and his family; the other a Finnish visual artist who seems to be in dire need of divine intervention, as she makes it drastically clear that she is very experienced with ceremony and a devoted follower of her personal Jesus and saviour Taita Domingo. Again, the smile and humour that transcends language and culture is shared between myself and Pastora, as the Finish devotee tells me that we are not supposed to sleep, while I unfold our blankets and sleeping bags on the floor.

Similar methods are used to bless and serve the Yage, but the actual tones and songs are different. As I mentioned before, the Icaros (songs) of the different lineages are earned after initiation into the spirit world and passed on through ancestral lines. This time, dance in combination with the Icaros are used to call and bless the spirits. Even more intimately than before, I have the opportunity to more closely watch the actual rituals and ceremonial language used. I realise how much control and power this Curandero holds between his whistling lips, singing whisps and trinket slits. His mere presence serves as a channel for the universal forces able to cure, heal and enlighten, while his suitcases of magic prickle my imagination of the very far off places he travels.

I want to see what he sees, I want to go where he goes. The night light turns to a shade of blue, as Taita finds a comfortable spot close by. He seems as interested in me as I am in him - I feel his piercing presence in my mind as he stares at me from behind soft pools of loving eyes. The psychic connection is a two way slide I slip down, into his construct where I dip, dive and sneak around his mind as much as he is in mine. For all of the time I am playing in his playground, I am convinced that he is not aware of me in his aura… only just before the last hour before dawn does he politely let me know that he has to break the connection to round-up and finish the night’s ceremony. I blush like teenager caught gawking at a beautiful woman and he smiles as a father understanding the nature of my childlike awe and curiosity of the views and thrills of his vast playground.

Taita Domingo & Me

Mere moments after Miin takes her dose she whispers in my ear that this is much more potent than before and that she might have taken a smidge too much. Her purging kicks in immediately after consumption…in fact, so quickly that I doubt that any of the medicine reached her stomach, but this is more than conventional medicine and no conventional healer.

In my case, it is only after the second dose that I am able to purge in two quick sessions. As a general rule, one is expected to prepare a question or request that one needs help with or insights into. With both of the previous ceremonies, it was clear that my questions were not adequate enough for the immensity of the Mother Divine. This time, I asked for what ever I needed, regardless of what I was mulling over in my head and heart. In addition to this, I asked for liberation from addiction. Addiction to thought process, to judgments, to nicotine, to ego, to all that is not serving my best interests. Little did I know that this meant a whole, full body scrub-down, head to toe, which would span more than just this once off ceremony. But in Her wisdom, beyond my limited vision, the Mother lets me sleep one night after the ceremony, waiting patiently until I am safe in a comfortable hotel room and in a position to deal with what was about to happen.

My fingers cruise over the small keyboard, in urgency of retaining as many details as possible before my mind twists it into a collage of tainted memories. The sun sets over the mountains, and as quickly as the temperature drops, my vitals start to race and I melt into the foetal position, trying to find a more comfortable space to attempt some deep breathing. But there is not much I can do to resist, as I slide into a feverous dream state of symbolic visions. She is back and my wishes are being granted. The Yage spirit has to finish what she started two nights ago, but this time, she left her soft, elegant gloves with Taita Domingo in Sibundoy. My intestines are hot and inflamed, half the night spent in a hazy trance, filled with symbols and scenarios particular to me and my understanding, battling my innermost dark, demons, while the other half of the night is spent next to, or on the toilet. Breathing is the only soothing ailment, as Miin does her best to keep me comfortable.

Like all the previous times, the final hour just before dawn is the deepest and most visual. Rank, sulphurous breaths pour slowly in and out of my inner sanctuary, as my tired and maimed psyche takes the stand for the final battle with the dark beasts, armed with my Japamala prayer beads from India. Dragged deeper into the depths of my consciousness, I focus and take aim at the first chakra, the red
chakra, the chakra of survival. But it is not a matter of surviving or holding on until the release of the sun comes so I can find relief in the warmth of the Father. It is about meeting the first rays of dawn in the glow of victory, emerging the lasting master over the dark forces that have been inhabiting this mind and body for so long. What a disappointment it would be if I fought only for survival and
the light of dawn saves me from myself, only to put the inevitable on hold until another day of battle.

In the heat and pain of the last round, I hear the message of Surrender! Surrender to the Light, and dive deep into the Sea of Compassion, to feel the love and warmth that is needed to drown the last of the dark warriors. I surrender and my being is filled with blinding Light… like promised, the first rays of sun brings the relief, painting the victory, sweet and permanent.

Sunrise Over Sibundoy Valley

Namaste Divine Mother Yage.

Yage, Vine of the Dead

2011-06-04T18:25:00.006+02:00

The Initiation

A light, dreamy slumber suddenly snaps into focus, my body pinned to the ground and pulsing with energy, pure and strong. The Female, or the Mother, as she is referred to by her children who know her more intimately and have an ongoing teaching program with her, meanders slowly, like thick mud through my organs. Then she seeps into the tissue of my inner body, constantly filling and aligning spaces I was not aware of, but now know are there.

She is warm and strong, like a mother tenderly bathing her child, cleaning out the impurities that stick to us. She demands my full attention as she coils around my spine, upwards, triggering tremors through the rest of my body as slides upwards towards my crown chakra where the bright white colour explodes in brilliance.

I open my eyes. For the first time I see and understand why forty strangers lie on a concrete slab like a pack of cigarettes tightly jammed, under a box shaped roof structure, a Catholic Priest blessing the night’s ceremony. To my right lies Miin in a sleeping bag, moving and groaning to the grinding Yage Mother. On my other side are a father, mother and their son, a boy who seems about ten years too young to be taking a hallucinogenic so strong that it is called the Mother of all hallucinogens. Well, that depends on the context and for what purpose we take these instant life- changing medicines, showing up across the planet, nodes of wise, biological plant teachers.

I don’t consider myself a drug taker or a hallucinogenic user and definitely far from a Psychonaut (Psychedelic Astronaut), as some experienced trippers refer to themselves. But I do think that in the context of a healing environment, under the guidance of one who knows their way around the outer and inner realms, there are opportunities for people to find and unlock inner wisdom, cleansing themselves of the impurities that take up so much of our precious time and space.

Image Courtesy of Alex Grey

Not five minutes after the first dose of Yage is administered, only candle lights are left dancing on the walls, licking at the faces of men and women as the big purge begins. Puking sounds echo into the night sky overlooking the city of Medellin, big fiery lights highlighting our helpers in this ceremony. Forty people, all of different angles, shapes and sizes, together endure a night of sick, with only one toilet to share and an open field to vomit in to their hearts’ content. What would usually seem like an unthinkable discomfort shrinks down to a mere formality in the candle and fire light of the ceremony, lead by the handsome one everyone respectfully refers to as “Taita Floro”- Taita Florentino Agreda of Sibundoy, Putumayo.

Taita Floro, Ever Smiling- Image Courtesy of Taita Floro

This short, but distinct, brown Indian figure, sits behind a table laid with ceremonial tools in a careful spread no one dares touch or linger over too long. Around his smiling, open face, radiant with light that comes from divine sources, hangs in sequence, from short to long, feathers, bones and long teeth strung together in patterned necklaces, transforming the already mystical experience into an Ideological Religious Experience. Long, deeply colourful Macaw feathers arranged in a crown around Taita Floro‘s head, leaving his big shining eyes, white smile and two bone studded ear lobes to chant and sing Icaros, the divine songs his lineage of medicine men earn from their Yage spirit guides. The Icaros are gifted to the Curanderos (medicine men) after initiation into the spirit world, granting them the power of the ancestors and the songs that heal wherever their vibrations touch. The notes, in perfect harmony, in perfect scales, combined with the drumbeats that bear a rhythm and vibration not from worldly percussionists. The animal skin, tight around the frame of drum the size of the torso of the medicine man, peacefully, skilfully, keeping the pace of the night’s movement. On we go, deeper into the night, deeper into dreams, deeper into the lessons of the Vine Spirit.

The strongest hour for me is just before dawn. I pull the blanket over my eyes, knowing that soon I will have to take charge of my faculties and make my way through city traffic, to a room where I can be still and contemplate the effects of this ceremony. The aftermath is just as important as the actual ceremony, Taita Floro explains, while dashing a flowery, herbal smelling mixture into the hands of the attendees to rub over their faces and heads. “No alcohol. No heavy, spicy or meaty meals. No sex and no showering for the next 24 hours,” he instructs.

I walk away, bleary eyed but awakened, into the Sunday morning sunrise, scanning my mind and body to see what has changed – the cleanliness of the spirit and soul make me feel lighter, clearer, the weight of the load I carry on my shoulders having been lifted. A couple of new, insightful visions that need more pondering and time to sink into the depths of my consciousness, before I start to form opinions about this unique experience.

The Understanding

Where the first group of Medicine Takers were all Colombian, the second group is more of an international spread of seekers. Taita Floro is once again the leader of the ceremony, a ceremony tailor made to our needs - enough toilets, warm sleeping spaces, privacy, a close knit group of friends, without the presence of the Catholic Church. But plans can never be perfect - Taita Floro arrives three hours late with an entourage of helpers and his own Catholic Representatives (the Catholic Religious presence seems to have more to do with the legality than anything else).

The second ceremony begins with the same customs - even the taste of the Yage is the same. In full dress, Taita and his helpers take their positions behind the ceremonial table, each with a different musical instrument in hand. The rhythms transform the house into a temple or sanctuary where all our problems are already known and all that is left is for us is to take the Medicine of the vine to relieve us from our prolonged human suffering.

Image Courtesy of Alex Grey

The night is filled with hearty laughter and good humour as Taita conducts the cleansing and rituals with his warm, wide smile and piercing eyes, as kindly and loving as before. An hour after the first dose is given, Taita offers another dose for those who need it – this time, I know I have to push further and gladly shoot back another Cappuccino (as Taita jokingly calls it) shot of Yage. It does not taste remotely like coffee, milk or sugar.

“Holy shit. Jesus Christ. Did you see that?” comes an exclamation from the tall New Yorker, in his deep voice.

“My first religious experience. I saw God, God is the Sun,” comes a revelation from the London based Television Art Director, who considers herself a sturdy, convinced Atheist.

“I felt like I was dying, I saw my Grandfather, he told me not to follow him,” from the sobbing, vomiting eighteen year old Dutch boy with a big chip on his shoulder.

Some describe the experience as the death of the ego, as well as the death of the body and subsequent resurrection. In folklore, the experience of taking Yage is described as dying a death more severe than the little death we experience every night as we fall asleep. But not as severe as exchanging this life for the next. Like the ego being pounded under the hammer for pretending to be our BFF and then leading us away from the Universal Truth.

Although I have been wanting to see the same massive visions and mystical impressions most people describe, Mother always knows best and what I need is what I get – a stronger connection with the divine, a direct line to the Mother Superior. A gift that does not last for one or two ceremonies, but rather a gift that keeps on giving. What more can I ask for? Why did I get this specific lesson or information? Because of the doubt that creeps in from time – to - time. The same doubt that convinces me that I am wasting my time and efforts cultivating my inner spaces and realms, the same doubt that has us convinced of our own inability to grow, help, prosper in the name of Love. As my defences are down and I am flayed out on the floor like an infant in full confidence of its mother’s ability to take care of our needs, I find the resonance in the inner sanctums of Self. We are all the Chosen Ones, and if we allow our hearts to be touched by the magical, graceful hand of the Universe, God, Yage Spirit, transformational spiritual evolution is inevitable.

Bringing Yage to the People- Every Week A Different Colombian City

To Be Continued....

Namaste
Love and Light
EnVy

Equating Balance

2011-05-31T00:19:00.003+02:00

Greetings, beloved readers, from both hemispheres of the Earth.

More specifically, Greetings from Ecuador, whose name derives from the word Equator, which also means Equilibrium and Balance. On the subject of Balance and Equilibrium, I want to share an experience with you.

With this new chunk of wisdom about Ecuador to chew on, we excitedly drive over the middle of Mother Earth's belly button, into the Southern Hemisphere, where I was born, as we head for the Capital, Quito.

Quito also means Middle (Qui) of the World (To) in the ancient, local indigenous language. Here, in the middle of the old town in the second highest capital city in the world, this vegetarian pacifist faces off with a thief.

In our marathon travel trek of two and a half years, this is a first for us, so imagine my surprise when I turn a corner and see a man carrying my backpack and shoes, which are both supposed to be locked up, safe and sound, in our beloved red Toyota van, Suzie Wong.

In a moment of perfect Universal timing, I am given an opportunity to face off with my own inner criminal. Clearly, I have to stop this man from taking our most precious possessions- computers and back up hard drive with two years' photos, writing and all our legal documents. Pennies to the pound at street prices and probably worth only two scores of dope and a bottle of forget- for- a- while. Action is needed and years of martial arts training as a youngster plus reflexes ingrained from living in Johannesburg, pushes all my philosophy, loving reasoning and rationality aside as I assume the first position of hand- to- hand combat, while calculating the first strike to the vital spot under the chin, and the second to the temple with as much force as I can manage. But before calculations transmute into actions that assemble on the timeline, never to be taken back, peace, clarity and reasoning douse my fiery aggression.

Instead, hours of countless episodes of "Law and Order" reruns come to mind; I take the man's hands behind his back in an arresting manner, struggling him to the ground. Perfect Universal timing again brings a Police car to a halt at the end of the street, and two of my loud whistles beckon to them for help. As they approach, the thief starts yelling, "Yes, help! Help! He is stealing my stuff! He is stealing my stuff, he is hurting me! Help! Help!"

Broken window and broken Spanish, but we get the police to cuff him and put him in the back of their car. But in all honesty, what good would it do to add to the load of a man who steals to fuel an addiction that has taken him to the gutters of a cold street. My wish is to bring light and love into darkness, even at the expense of my own comforts and safety. This was a perfect opportunity to practice what I preach and test my new positive conditioning.

As Miin gives details to the police, who are just going through the motions to keep us from insisting on action and a trip to the local cop shop, I get some bananas and find the man in the back of their car. I look at him; he stares back at me in in wide anticipation and expectation of my revenge, a trickle of blood on his forehead, eyes yellowed, face puffed from the scrap against the wall. I feel remorse for this violence towards another human being.

"Please sir, take the bananas." But he is cuffed and can't reach out. "You have to pay for my medical expenses! You have to pay me!" He keeps protesting his innocence. But his eyes are filled with fear as I come closer to him, offering the bananas, not sure what to make of me.

"Seek God and you shall find refuge," I make my peace with him and offer as much as I can in the moment.

I am sure the police dropped him off around the corner, as we head back to the Northern Hemisphere to have Suzie's window fixed and cleaned up...

I thank the Universe for this opportunity to have dealt with some old
training and conditioning that I thought was part of a different me in
a different life time.

Namaste
Love and Light
Niel

In Colombia...

2011-05-24T00:34:00.015+02:00

... everyone is Muy Amable (very friendly), and goes out of their way to help you. The number of times we've had people get us to follow them in our car when we ask for directions is unsurpassed- and that's just one example.

Everyone is Muy Amable.. Unless You're Colombian in Bogota

... as a vegetarian, you will eat way too many Comida Tipica platas of arroz (rice), frijoles (beans), ensalada (you can work that one out), tajada (fried bananas) and papas fritas (fried potatoes), and your "vegetarian" soup will always have bits of meat floating in it, no matter how carefully you explained yourself! Thank goodness for Arepa Chocolos (Antiquoia).

Too Many Comida Tipicas.. Have Beer Instead.

... hotels are often way cheaper than hostels, and include private baths with hot showers, cable tv and free wifi. But of course, they don't have communal kitchens/ areas, nor will you meet other travellers.. depends what you're looking for!

If the Hostel is LaSerrana.com.co, Forget About Hotels. Jon, the owner, and Miin

... you will be constantly surprised by each place you visit being more interesting and beautiful than the next. Seriously, the natural gorgeousness here blows my mind! Volcanoes, lush green valleys, glistening lakes, snow capped mountains, deep Amazon jungle, cold, misty rainforests, gushing rivers, barren deserts, thermal hotsprings, white sand beaches, massive canyons.. the list goes on!

The View from La Serrana.. Perfection!

... children are everywhere! Tiny babies, toddlers, school aged, teenagers.. teenagers with babies.. Colombians love children! Unfortunately, there are many fatherless children and single mothers, due to a complex mix of culture and religion. Luckily, the social and family structure in Colombia is such that there are copious female relatives to help you out. Children are loved here.

Giggling Schoolgirls!

... the Policia will always shake your hand first, ask questions next (usually only out of curiosity), look at your documents (just so they can see what a South African passport looks like) and wave you off with a smile. Always friendly, always helpful, especially if you tell them you are on your Luna de Miel (Honeymoon). Militaria simply hold on to their guns with one hand and give you a thumbs up with the other as you pass.

... Couchsurfing is the way to go! There is a huge network in Colombia, and as Colombianos are super friendly and generous, you are guaranteed to have an awesome time and most importantly, create long lasting friendships. We are so grateful for our hosts and hold them close to our hearts!

All Our Couchsurfing Hosts Together!

... there are Ecovillages galore, of all shapes and sizes, and joined by a very organised Red (network). People everywhere are becoming more aware about using traditional wisdom and new technology to live a more sustainable life. All worth visiting!

... Art in all its forms is spectacular, whether it be political graffiti on shops, walls and street corners, or valuable pieces housed in meticulously kept museums; buskers singing their hearts out, an impromptu drumming circle or salsa pouring out onto the sidewalk.

A Botero Bum vs. "I Dance On Your Grave"

... there is SO MUCH MORE!

Colombia, Te Amo! We'll be back!

With Love,
Miin and Niel

Eyes Wide Shut

2011-05-03T21:05:00.006+02:00

Travel should be for everyone. To see the world through your own eyes, unfiltered, untainted by others oft exaggerated anecdotes and endless photographs, is a precious opportunity, one not to be wasted on frivolities.

There are as many ways to travel as there are people on this planet; we all have our own travel style, determined by the myriad complexities that constitute a human being, an individual.

Unfortunately, some of those travel styles involve being inconsiderate, completely unaware and destructive. I have never understood the appeal of finding different scenic backgrounds, whether steeped in nature or in the shadow of high rises, in which to continue the behaviour you could easily undertake in your local pub. Though age does not necessarily have anything to do with this travel attitude, maturity always does.

Usually, this lot of cultural vultures explore in packs- loud, messy whingers who often have too much cash to throw at the local economy in return for their unforgivable conduct, courtesy of favourable global currency rates. All in search of some imagined cultural experience that will look good on some faraway resume- the Gap Year Which Changed My Life.

Despite dormitories in hostels being their accommodation of choice, they have absolutely no hostel etiquette. Just recently, at the hostel we have been working at, a large group of apparently well seasoned lollygaggers from the UK and Sweden rolled up in a jeep, shouting loudly about building bonfires and drinking copious amounts of beer in honour of some irrelevant Swedish party day. They come here based on a recommendation of a fellow hostel hopper, pegged as simply another stepping stone on the backpacker trail, a must see because "it's pretty". None of them know about the Valle de Cocora trail, or anything about the culture of this area, and are generally uninterested, zipping from activity to activity like sheep.

For the next three days, they continue to speak inappropriately loudly, complain about the hostel, take up all available space in the communal areas, drink store bought alcohol (which is not allowed here), leave their cigarette butts, sweet wrappers, pizza boxes and other accumulated mess strewn about the hostel, despite several reminders that this is not a party hostel and to please be considerate. All with innocent, bright eyed wonder, fags hanging from their lips, looking for the next natural or chemical high.

Huddling together in their pack, they rarely engage with others outside their little hostel network created world, completely detached from everyone else, not to mention their dismissive attitude towards the locals (further propagated by the fact they never try to learn the local language). And then off they go, onto the next hostel, cocooned by the allure of never having to change their point of view, challenge themselves or actually experience the country they are in. What kind of beer they can guzzle or whether the nightlife is awesome- that's what's important.

Far too often, we've heard stories about once difficult to find experiences that are increasingly becoming popular fodder for such tourists, eager to one up each other and be able to blab nonsensically about how it was "awesome" and "cool" (again, nothing to do with age- ranging from noisy, young backpackers, to oblivious middle aged list tickers with "1000 Places To See Before You Die" under their arms). The Galapagos Islands cruise from Ecuador, the San Blas Islands Kuna indian trip between Panama and Colombia, the La Paz Death Road ride in Bolivia, the Ayahuasca/ Yage ceremonies marketed expertly in Iquitos, Peru.. all once the sole territory of the true, eager traveller, explorer and adventurer, now simply something to boast about in exchange for overseas dollars. And this just in South America.

We too have contributed to the environmental damage of travel, not even counting air miles travelled- the dying coral reefs of the Palawan Islands in the Philippines, the bleached Hanauma Bay in Honolulu- our mere presence brings a little more destruction. Are we any different from them? Perhaps on a wide lens level we are not, but we hope that our awareness and small actions to alert others to it, including those running the boats or the eco- treks, undo a little of what perhaps cannot be undone.

Incorporated into this mucky mess of the tourist mindset is the lack of gratitude for their place in the world, reflected not only in the ability to leave one's country, but also a disease of blind prosperity across many levels of human life. How developed nations continue to exploit those less fortunate than them- tourism is arguably another symptom of the underlying root cause- oblivious greed and designed, inbred complacency.

Americans, Canadians, Australians and Europeans likely never wonder at the difficulty of a restrictive passport- the world is truly their oyster, and it is easy to fall into a danger zone of selfish spending, traps built especially for the unaware tourist and other such bumps in the long road.

I sometimes get caught up in lamenting that my fellow countrymen and women are unable to travel simply due to the weakness of our money and the comparative low rates for which they work. Throughout the world we have encountered enlightened, interesting, curious people who, simply due to being born in a country with multilayered plight, must make do with yearning for other shores. Meanwhile, hordes of spoiled, barely- adults gallavant blindly across the popular planetary spots, swilling beer, vomiting on foreign floors and generally giving their country a bad name.

I must sound like a Negative Nancy in this post, and I am not free from the poison I have done to the planet myself, but I believe mindset, intention and positive action are very important. Travel is an essential part of life and we should all be able to experience it, but let us do so with opened eyes and curious hearts, with consideration for those around us, and with Love in our every day exchanges.

"May the road rise to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
The Sun shine warm upon your face
The Sun shine warm upon face.."

Love
Miin

I Am Not A Hippie!

2011-04-30T18:23:00.002+02:00

"I am not a hippie," I find myself saying in defense, for the third night in a row, to a different accuser.

"What do you mean you're not a hippie? You have long hair, tattoos of pagan myths, you don't eat meat and you don't use modern beauty products. You do yoga and you meditate. You think fairies and aliens are real. You want to live in a place where you can grow your own food because you don't trust governments or big corporations. Peace and Love are what you preach!"

My accuser laughs heartily, throwing his mid- fifties, bald head back, opening his jaws so wide the metal crowns on the back of his last maulers shine in the candlelight.

A crowd of different faces surrounding us chortle wholeheartedly with him.

We are sitting around a large wooden table, in an old Colombian farm house. I gaze out into the dark depths of the firefly sky, silent mountains dipping and rising in the moonlight.

Deep breath.

"I am not a hippie. I am a human being. I don't have one creed, I like them all. I don't have one way of thinking, I consider them all. I don't preach love and peace, I live it every day. I have tattoos of mystical symbolism that encourage me to live in the mystery of this life, always realising there is more to astound me, and splendor in every raindrop. Yoga and meditation.. well, give it a try and see what it does for you, without judgment. Maybe then you will see that just because not everyone can see aliens or fairies doesn't mean they don't exist. It's a limited perception that keeps us from seeing all of life's possibilities on this planet. Perhaps when we detoxify our bodies of all the chemical build- up and our brains are not lit up by sugar and stimulants.. maybe then we can come to a point of rational thinking to start making decisions that are in favour of the survival of the human race, and possibly a thriving race. It's hard to trust any government or corporation with the last half century's obvious track record of 'serving the people'. When animals are treated like non- living objects on conveyor belts, feeding the massive machine we call society, I think it's clear why ancient, three thousand year plus doctrines are still applicable in the same models of society today."

A thick stillness fills the room, as everyone stares down at their thumbs.

Namaste
Light and Love
EnVy

With A Loving and Devoted Heart, Farewell My Love

2011-04-25T22:00:00.004+02:00

With Love Always

Bhagawan Sri Sathya Sai Baba
1926 to 2011

Embodiments of Love!

People have said and will continue to say whatever they want about Bhagawan Sri Sathya Sai Baba, the dearly loved Indian, yet universal, spiritual teacher who at 7:40 am on 24th of April, the apex of Easter, left His earthly body for other realms.

There will be wonderful words spoken, there will be scathing ones; heart rending shows of devotion and desperate scrambles for the Sathya Sai Trust; tears of sadness and tears of joy, all possible poles of emotion and being, as we exist in this Duality of the Third Dimension.

Personally, I can only speak from my personal experiences with Sri Sathya Sai Baba, for whom I have so much Love and the Utmost Respect. I do not believe in any religion, but spirituality is a focal point of my life. My views on life have definitely morphed since I first went to see Baba in 1999 as a naive 18 year old, but Baba has been a huge part of my life and will continue to be. He always reminded us that LOVE is the currency, the current, the whole answer to all.. He taught us the importance of service, of looking at ourselves and discovering our True inner beings, of realising we are all GOD, creators.

Baba always showered me with Pure Love, and there is nothing quite like being in His Divine Presence- you can literally feel the pink LOVE aura that envelops you. The manifestation miracles He performed are, to me, totally unimportant; the miracles He performed in my heart and being are much more meaningful and lasting, much more filled with love. I am not as "devoted" as many of my friends who I met through being involved in the Sai Organisation, but Baba will forever be part of me, as I am part of Him, my first great spiritual teacher who directed me down a fulfilling path.

He has chosen to leave us physically but He always taught us not to be attached to the Form, to any form... whether it be Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, His physical body or even OUR physical body. So He is Eternal, Boundless, Endless.. I shed a tear when I heard the news, but I know He is and always will be with us, Formlessly, His teachings always there for us to learn from and bring us closer to Realisation.

Babaji, Swamiji, My Beloved Teacher and Best Friend, I thank you for coming to this Earth to show us our True Selves, for selflessly ensuring that Your Divine, Beautiful, Generous, Loving Life will always be Your Message.

Remember:

Love Is My Form
Truth Is My Breath
Bliss Is My Food

My Life Is My Message
Expansion Is My Life
No Reason For Love
No Season For Love
No Birth, No Death

Prema, Sathya, Ananda
Shanti, Dharma, Ahimsa

(Love, Truth, Bliss, Peace, Right Conduct and Non Violence)

"Love All, Serve All; Help Ever, Hurt Never"

Om Sri Sai Ram!

Dear Human...

2011-04-25T21:40:00.001+02:00

Embodiments of Love!

Hilarious and true :) What more can you ask for?

Thanks to Jackson at Superforest.org and SMBC at http://www.smbc-comics.com.

Love and Light!!

Love In The Time of Plenty

2011-04-04T04:20:00.007+02:00

It has been a dry, barren, blog-less stretch, but what I lacked in words, I have been making up in experience here in Colombia. It has been these experiences that I feel, aid us to make much needed personal breakthroughs. Colombia is providing the perfect backdrop to our ever- evolving perspectives, as we constantly awaken to new truths and deeper realisations.

At gorgeous, undiscovered gem Minca (Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta)

Emerald Dreams

I don't know how one determines a statistic that says one country is happier than the next. But this (I suspect, made up) fact- that Colombia is the world's happiest country- slips into modern Colombian folklore, expounded all around the country.

Feeling the Happiness near Medellin

According to Forbes, of course, what constitutes a happy country is having enough money to spend on nice things- nice cars, nice homes, nice clothes, leisure, imported food and most importantly, striving to resemble a Western style model of democracy. But when Colombians perpetuate this happiest country boast, I smile and let it ring in happy conversation, settling thick and deep into the ears of everyone who cares to listen.

It is a strange thing that a country as Occidental and developed as Colombia has had so little exposure to foreign travellers or tourists, a result of Pablo Escobar's reign of cocaine terror and subsequent FARC intimidation. This is a conclusion I reach after the non-stop staring, most of it harmless, open gazes of amazement, the same innocent gawking that I encountered in Taiwan.

At Parque Nacional Tayrona, which hugs the Caribbean coast, we soak in the essence of heavy jungle, walking paths crisscrossed by highways of massive leafcutter ants, continuing the same secret rituals and customs since the Earth was young. We settle on the beach at one of the most northern parts of the South American continent, floating in all the energies channelled into the wildest ocean currents. Primitive and unhindered Creation comes to mind as we bask in all the vastness in diversity that accumulates at this huge continent's apex, reminiscent of the immense energies that collect and project from Mother Africa's most southern point. I see similarities between SA and Colombia that make me wonder about the metaphysics of this world.

It is easy to get lost and carried away in all Colombia's natural beauty, which She shines on her visitors and inhabitants like the green emeralds so highly concentrated in her crust. But there is another aspect of this Amazon woman that grasps my attention.

Amazing Sunsets- Never Cease to Inspire

Chinese Whispers

Allow me to indulge in a moment to reflect on what I have seen in the people of Colombia.

Even when I stumble around in error with my limited Spanish, soft words of correction are aimed at helping and assisting. A people drawn together by inescapable, mindless violence, they strengthen their bonds, instead of taking the easy option of building walls and bridges to separate, divide and break down basic human relationships. A people that are attuned to the gentler subtleties of each other and what it takes to make community work.

Great Political Street Art, Medellin

Like most countries we have visited, Colombia also has a Chinese community that have made their way to the outskirts of the world, in search of a better life. Most of them open Chinese restaurants, tweaked to appeal to local palates. One thing that stands out for me is the natural segregation and enclosed mindset that these Chinese immigrant communities often thrive in. Colombian Chinese seem to have a completely different mindset to the rest of their fellow expats: on more than three occasions, we have come into contact with ethnic Chinese who have accepted and integrated completely into Colombian society.

First, there was the man in the Afro- Latino- Atlantic port city of Buenaventura, whose shop sign proudly boasts his nickname, "El Chino" or "The Chinese Guy" in characteristic red letters. Dire circumstances lead us to change money with him and we are directed to his humble stall by several people in the know. Hoping that Mandarin or Cantonese negotiation will ease the situation, after several sentences in Spanish, Miin asks him where he is from. He announces, somewhat irritated, in fluent Spanish, that he is "Colombiano" and NOT Chinese, and, he might add, does not speak any of the Chinese dialects, despite being only second generation.

Thirty minutes later, around the corner, we find a Chinese restaurant, complete with all the kitsch frills and spills of any typical, traditional food business intact on the street of a largely Afro-Latino population. Three Chinese children bump and bounce around the interior and freeze in instant stares at Miin, and my long hair with beard combo. Not a single word of Chinese is spoken, solo Spanish whispered from behind covering hands, as we again try to entertain with White Man Niel asking them questions in Mandarin.

No reply, more stares.

Mama and papa are both second generation imports who stand firm in Colombian culture, explaining that there is no exclusion of anyone in Colombia. We eat the most non- Chinese, Chinese food ever, analysing this Twilight Zone we have stumbled into, in one of the most uncomfortable climates we have ever sweated in. A true integration of Chinese into another culture- what an absolutely out of the ordinary phenomenon!

As our time stretches longer, we pierce the soft layers of the Colombian people, and here it is evident that there is a deep understanding and respect for humanity.

Medelling in Medellin

In the city ravaged by Pablo Escobar (considered the richest criminal in history and declared the 7th richest man in 1989, by Forbes Magazine), we are invited to a somewhat formal dinner in Medellin. The door is opened by a lady dressed in a domestic worker's uniform, who invites us to take a seat.

The lady of the house is wrapped in natural colours that compliment her complexion- an elegant, graceful hostess poised in her own comfortable skin. She greets us amiably with smiles and the customary two cheek peck. We find ourselves amongst a collection of art and aesthetics that cannot be bought in any home designers’ catalog. Intimately arranged, precisely chosen, each painting, lamp and piece of furniture tells a story, items collected over a lifetime blessed by great taste.

An eclectic arrangement of people take their place around a table as the first dishes are served. Our hostess, the mother of the actress sitting to my right, informs us that all the food is vegetarian, with one side dish of meat. Next to the actress sits her designer/ photographer partner, known affectionately as El Bakero (the Cowboy). The lower front part of his left arm covered in the bright, rich colours of masterful tattoo ink, a modernised Japanese mural. In any other context, the natural pastel browns and greens engulfing our host in her home would dispel and reject this Japanese arm, but somehow it works, its contrast making perfect sense.

Our Beautiful CS Hosts, Sebastian (El Bakero) + ImprovQueen Cata!

More Amazing Art, c/o Cata's UberTalented Sister, Tere

Our 19 year old CS host from Cali who is roadtripping with us, a self taught English and French speaker who will go on to achieve greatness, rounds off the unusual group.

The mix of Spanish and English creates an even richer atmosphere of sharing, inspiring laughter between this small party of people. Dinner is remarkable and sticks deep in my memory bank of tastes. The conversation moves from one topic to the next, finally settling down after a strong coffee and cigarette on the balcony. Out of her own self, the lady of the house steals a quiet moment to tell me that El Bakero is one of the most loving people she has ever met and that she feels blessed that her daughter, six years his senior, has him as a partner. Later, El Bakero cuddles our hostess with affection that is pure and enduring, not bound by in-law stereotypes.

Bryan (CS Cali), Cata, El Bakero, Lady of the House y Moi!

Why is it that the most beautiful countries in the world have the darkest demons to battle? There is so much that Colombia is giving us, and one of these is that it makes me be proudly South African. Proudly South African to see how a country as beautiful as Colombia turns around and creates successes that all warm- hearted Colombians can be proud of. I feel a kinship with the most northern South American country that shares a past as brutal as the most southern country in Africa. A people that has embraced its diversity and crowns everyone Colombian.

It's easy to write about Colombia.

P.S. Best beer in Latin America (thanks Luis and Lacey at LostWorldExpedition.com) is... 3 Cordilleras, created at a Medellin microbrewery!

Colombia Muy Amable!

2011-03-05T21:59:00.009+02:00

Woohoo! We're Outta Here!

Embodiments of Love!!

Call it what you will- serendipity, coincidence, chance, fate, destiny, luck- somehow, events always unfold in the most perfect way, converging paths and bringing us to some unforseen point, which, it ends up, is exactly where you needed to get to. Time and time again this has been proven to us (and yet I continue to stress when things don´t seem to be going the ´right´way!), and the beginning of our adventures in the great Southern American continent is no different.

Having safely placed Suzie in a container at Corinto, Nicaragua (gong show!), with most of our worldly possessions, we were on our merry way.

Everything We Own!

Getting Suzie Up In There

Our flight from Managua- San Jose- Medellin- Cali is uneventful, other than the copious number of sniffing dogs. At Medellin, the immigration officials smile, ask friendly curious questions and give us 90 days on request. We easily find our Couchsurfing host, energetic, inspired 19 year old Bryan who lives with his powerhouse mum, Yenny, sweet Grandpa Bolivar and t-shirt toting rescued Malty-cross Bingo. From the first moment, it is a meeting organised in another dimension- we have so much to share with each other, and the warmth, love and generosity is evident in every one of their actions.

For a few days we relax, preparing for the day of reckoning- getting Suzie out of her container at Buenaventura, a massive port famous for drug smuggling, with a town centre often described as a ´shithole´ (which turns out to be slightly unfair). Staying in a seventh floor apartment across the street from Colombia´s famous outdoor shopping mall, Chipichape (so named as it used to be a railway station, and Chi-pi-cha-pe is the sound a steam engine makes) means luxuriating in all the spoils of superdeveloped society- hair cuts, movies and bookstores.

Early Monday morning, we take the 3 hour minibus to Buenaventura, venturing through the gorgeous green foothills of the Andes, past slums, small villages, huge mansions and changing landscapes, going from mild Cali weather to chilly fog filled roads and finally, sweltering, humid Buenaventura, a busy port town crawling with people wearing hard hats and fluourescent vests.

I won´t bore you with the details, but to sum it up- the shipping line and representative company only care about how much more money they can collect from you for pointless ´fees´, ´taxes´and other miscellaneous nonsense, including blackmailing us into placing a massive deposit in order to be able to collect our container and van. Luckily, the customs lot were helpful and provided us with the relevant form, though my lack of Spanish led to a few misunderstandings. After a few hours of to-ing and fro-ing (not this gate, that gate... go back to that gate etc) we are led, tired, sweaty and bewildered, into the offices of the Sociedad Portuaria de Buenaventura. Despite our terrible Spanish, our plight is explained and for the next few hours, our personal saviours take it upon themselves to help the poor turistos who have no idea what they are doing. It goes from the clerk all the way up to the big boss, who all show us kindness, generosity and tackle every obstacle to make sure everything is expedited and done quickly. By the end of the day, we have a terminal operator organised, our container will be moved in the night to the customs inspection area and a promise that our van will be out tomorrow. The evening ends at American Pizza with our new friend, Kelly, an employee of the Port Authority, who is the mastermind of our salvation- a new friend, a new story, a new gratitude.

Kelly from the Port Authority- Our Guardian Angel!

We sleep fitfully in a tiny room, comforted only by air conditioning and cable TV. The next morning, we coordinate ourselves to do the multiple tasks synchronously, but of course it is March 1st (in fact, a year since our purchase of Suzie in Oakland), which is pay day, so none of the ATMs will give us more money. Desperately short on the cash required to pay for all the services, including insurance, inspection, unstuffing and transportation, let alone gas, food and water, we depend on the kindness of strangers: the robust, giggly hotel owner and friends who walk me to El Chino, a middle aged Chinese guy who changes currency but can't speak any dialect of Chinese because, "Soy Colombiano"); the random gentleman at the Seamen's Centre who takes us to the Notary; the lady at Insurance who lets me have the policy despite strangely empty spots on my permit; the Los Jefes at the Authority who sign off documents, give permission despite lack of other documents and ask us curious questions about our trip. Everyone across the board is utterly fascinated, but continue to go above and beyond the call of duty to pull us out of shipping hell. One very wonderful thing that we notice is that the office culture in Colombia is exuberantly cheerful, employees have great relationships with each other full of affection and appreciation, and having a good ol' chuckle is just as important as getting the job done (though occasionally the joking around does slow down the process significantly!).

I Got Mah HardHat On..

At the end of two long days, Suzie is finally out of her container, clean, starting up on the first go despite 11 days of sitting idle, and ready to rumble. We shake hands with everyone again and head off back to the hotel for a good night's sleep, relief washing over us. The morning brings Suzie's first trek through the Andes, the start of her South American adventure which will take her through Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Chile, Argentina, Paraguay, Uruguay and Brazil.

Suzie Gets Out Alive!

CORINTO, Nicaragua

Stuffing Suzie into a Container, strapping her down and transporting her to the Port: USD195

Paying a Customs Broker (legally required) for doing nothing much in Corinto, Nicaragua: USD150

Shipping Suzie over the sea to Buenaventura, Colombia: USD1190

Printing an Original Bill of Lading (Waybill): USD25

BUENAVENTURA, Colombia

Unexpected Handling and Documentation Charges in Buenaventura: USD142

Transporting Suzie from the Port to Customs Inspection: USD180

Port Authority Fees: USD110

Terminal Operator to Unstuff Suzie and drive Container to Depot: USD310

Miscellaneous Costs (Phone Calls, another Shipping Lock etc): USD50

Driving Suzie in South America: Priceless!!

Love, Miin

Music Is A Basic Need of Human Survival

2011-02-03T23:34:00.003+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

I found this on our dear friend Bill Steen's blog, caneloproject.blogspot.com. It was so beautiful that I just had to repost it! Anyone who breathes can understand what Karl is talking about!

With Love!

Dr. Karl Paulnack, pianist and director of music division at The Boston Conservatory, gave this fantastic welcome address to the parents of incoming students at The Boston Conservatory on September 1, 2004:

“One of my parents’ deepest fears, I suspect, is that society would not properly value me as a musician, that I wouldn’t be appreciated. I had very good grades in high school, I was good in science and math, and they imagined that as a doctor or a research chemist or an engineer, I might be more appreciated than I would be as a musician. I still remember my mother’s remark when I announced my decision to apply to music school-she said, “you’re wasting your SAT scores!” On some level, I think, my parents were not sure themselves what the value of music was, what its purpose was. And they loved music: they listened to classical music all the time. They just weren’t really clear about its function. So let me talk about that a little bit, because we live in a society that puts music in the “arts and entertainment” section of the newspaper, and serious music, the kind your kids are about to engage in, has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with entertainment, in fact it’s the opposite of entertainment. Let me talk a little bit about music, and how it works.

One of the first cultures to articulate how music really works were the ancient Greeks. And this is going to fascinate you: the Greeks said that music and astronomy were two sides of the same coin. Astronomy was seen as the study of relationships between observable, permanent, external objects, and music was seen as the study of relationships between invisible, internal, hidden objects. Music has a way of finding the big, invisible moving pieces inside our hearts and souls and helping us figure out the position of things inside us. Let me give you some examples of how this works.

One of the most profound musical compositions of all time is the Quartet for the End of Time written by French composer Olivier Messiaen in 1940. Messiaen was 31 years old when France entered the war against Nazi Germany. He was captured by the Germans in June of 1940 and imprisoned in a prisoner-of-war camp.

He was fortunate to find a sympathetic prison guard who gave him paper and a place to compose, and fortunate to have musician colleagues in the camp, a cellist, a violinist, and a clarinetist. Messiaen wrote his quartet with these specific players in mind. It was performed in January 1941 for four thousand prisoners and guards in the prison camp. Today it is one of the most famous masterworks in the repertoire.

Given what we have since learned about life in the Nazi camps, why would anyone in his right mind waste time and energy writing or playing music? There was barely enough energy on a good day to find food and water, to avoid a beating, to stay warm, to escape torture-why would anyone bother with music? And yet-even from the concentration camps, we have poetry, we have music, we have visual art; it wasn’t just this one fanatic Messiaen; many, many people created art. Why? Well, in a place where people are only focused on survival, on the bare necessities, the obvious conclusion is that art must be, somehow, essential for life. The camps were without money, without hope, without commerce, without recreation, without basic respect, but they were not without art. Art is part of survival; art is part of the human spirit, an unquenchable expression of who we are. Art is one of the ways in which we say, “I am alive, and my life has meaning.”

In September of 2001 I was a resident of Manhattan. On the morning of September 12, 2001 I reached a new understanding of my art and its relationship to the world. I sat down at the piano that morning at 10 AM to practice as was my daily routine; I did it by force of habit, without thinking about it. I lifted the cover on the keyboard, and opened my music, and put my hands on the keys and took my hands off the keys. And I sat there and thought, does this even matter? Isn’t this completely irrelevant? Playing the piano right now, given what happened in this city yesterday, seems silly, absurd, irreverent, pointless. Why am I here? What place has a musician in this moment in time? Who needs a piano player right now? I was completely lost.

And then I, along with the rest of New York, went through the journey of getting through that week. I did not play the piano that day, and in fact I contemplated briefly whether I would ever want to play the piano again. And then I observed how we got through the day.

At least in my neighborhood, we didn’t shoot hoops or play Scrabble. We didn’t play cards to pass the time, we didn’t watch TV, we didn’t shop, we most certainly did not go to the mall. The first organized activity that I saw in New York, on the very evening of September 11th, was singing. People sang. People sang around fire houses, people sang “We Shall Overcome”. Lots of people sang America the Beautiful. The first organized public event that I remember was the Brahms Requiem, later that week, at Lincoln Center, with the New York Philharmonic. The first organized public expression of grief, our first communal response to that historic event, was a concert. That was the beginning of a sense that life might go on. The US Military secured the airspace, but recovery was led by the arts, and by music in particular, that very night.

From these two experiences, I have come to understand that music is not part of “arts and entertainment” as the newspaper section would have us believe. It’s not a luxury, a lavish thing that we fund from leftovers of our budgets, not a plaything or an amusement or a pass time. Music is a basic need of human survival. Music is one of the ways we make sense of our lives, one of the ways in which we express feelings when we have no words, a way for us to understand things with our hearts when we can’t with our minds.

Some of you may know Samuel Barber’s heart wrenchingly beautiful piece Adagio for Strings. If you don’t know it by that name, then some of you may know it as the background music which accompanied the Oliver Stone movie Platoon, a film about the Vietnam War. If you know that piece of music either way, you know it has the ability to crack your heart open like a walnut; it can make you cry over sadness you didn’t know you had. Music can slip beneath our conscious reality to get at what’s really going on inside us the way a good therapist does.

Very few of you have ever been to a wedding where there was absolutely no music. There might have been only a little music, there might have been some really bad music, but with few exceptions there is some music. And something very predictable happens at weddings-people get all pent up with all kinds of emotions, and then there’s some musical moment where the action of the wedding stops and someone sings or plays the flute or something. And even if the music is lame, even if the quality isn’t good, predictably 30 or 40 percent of the people who are going to cry at a wedding cry a couple of moments after the music starts. Why? The Greeks. Music allows us to move around those big invisible pieces of ourselves and rearrange our insides so that we can express what we feel even when we can’t talk about it. Can you imagine watching Indiana Jones or Superman or Star Wars with the dialogue but no music? What is it about the music swelling up at just the right moment in ET so that all the softies in the audience start crying at exactly the same moment? I guarantee you if you showed the movie with the music stripped out, it wouldn’t happen that way. The Greeks. Music is the understanding of the relationship between invisible internal objects.

I’ll give you one more example, the story of the most important concert of my life. I must tell you I have played a little less than a thousand concerts in my life so far. I have played in places that I thought were important. I like playing in Carnegie Hall; I enjoyed playing in Paris; it made me very happy to please the critics in St. Petersburg. I have played for people I thought were important; music critics of major newspapers, foreign heads of state. The most important concert of my entire life took place in a nursing home in a small Midwestern town a few years ago.

I was playing with a very dear friend of mine who is a violinist. We began, as we often do, with Aaron Copland’s Sonata, which was written during World War II and dedicated to a young friend of Copland’s, a young pilot who was shot down during the war. Now we often talk to our audiences about the pieces we are going to play rather than providing them with written program notes. But in this case, because we began the concert with this piece, we decided to talk about the piece later in the program and to just come out and play the music without explanation.

Midway through the piece, an elderly man seated in a wheelchair near the front of the concert hall began to weep. This man, whom I later met, was clearly a soldier-even in his 70′s, it was clear from his buzz-cut hair, square jaw and general demeanor that he had spent a good deal of his life in the military. I thought it a little bit odd that someone would be moved to tears by that particular movement of that particular piece, but it wasn’t the first time I’ve heard crying in a concert and we went on with the concert and finished the piece.

When we came out to play the next piece on the program, we decided to talk about both the first and second pieces, and we described the circumstances in which the Copland was written and mentioned its dedication to a downed pilot. The man in the front of the audience became so disturbed that he had to leave the auditorium. I honestly figured that we would not see him again, but he did come backstage afterwards, tears and all, to explain himself.

What he told us was this: “During World War II, I was a pilot, and I was in an aerial combat situation where one of my team’s planes was hit. I watched my friend bail out, and watched his parachute open, but the Japanese planes which had engaged us returned and machine gunned across the parachute chords so as to separate the parachute from the pilot, and I watched my friend drop away into the ocean, realizing that he was lost. I have not thought about this for many years, but during that first piece of music you played, this memory returned to me so vividly that it was as though I was reliving it. I didn’t understand why this was happening, why now, but then when you came out to explain that this piece of music was written to commemorate a lost pilot, it was a little more than I could handle. How does the music do that? How did it find those feelings and those memories in me?”

Remember the Greeks: music is the study of invisible relationships between internal objects. The concert in the nursing home was the most important work I have ever done. For me to play for this old soldier and help him connect, somehow, with Aaron Copland, and to connect their memories of their lost friends, to help him remember and mourn his friend, this is my work. This is why music matters.

What follows is part of the talk I will give to this year’s freshman class when I welcome them a few days from now. The responsibility I will charge your sons and daughters with is this:

“If we were a medical school, and you were here as a med student practicing appendectomies, you’d take your work very seriously because you would imagine that some night at two AM someone is going to waltz into your emergency room and you’re going to have to save their life. Well, my friends, someday at 8 PM someone is going to walk into your concert hall and bring you a mind that is confused, a heart that is overwhelmed, a soul that is weary. Whether they go out whole again will depend partly on how well you do your craft.

You’re not here to become an entertainer, and you don’t have to sell yourself. The truth is you don’t have anything to sell; being a musician isn’t about dispensing a product, like selling used cars. I’m not an entertainer; I’m a lot closer to a paramedic, a firefighter, a rescue worker. You’re here to become a sort of therapist for the human soul, a spiritual version of a chiropractor, physical therapist, someone who works with our insides to see if they get things to line up, to see if we can come into harmony with ourselves and be healthy and happy and well.

Frankly, ladies and gentlemen, I expect you not only to master music; I expect you to save the planet. If there is a future wave of wellness on this planet, of harmony, of peace, of an end to war, of mutual understanding, of equality, of fairness, I don’t expect it will come from a government, a military force or a corporation. I no longer even expect it to come from the religions of the world, which together seem to have brought us as much war as they have peace. If there is a future of peace for humankind, if there is to be an understanding of how these invisible, internal things should fit together, I expect it will come from the artists, because that’s what we do. As in the concentration camp and the evening of 9/11, the artists are the ones who might be able to help us with our internal, invisible lives.”

Jewels and Junk

2011-02-03T18:50:00.008+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

Isla de Ometepe, the Jewel of Nicaragua. The largest island situated in a lake, in the world. According to every traveller before us, a definite must- see, now a mainstay on the dreaded gringo trail, which we reluctantly follow- Leon, Granada, Ometepe, San Juan del Sur. We four console ourselves with some chill time in tiny, un-touristy Poneloya, and some rough road adventuring to smaller beaches along the East Coast of this fine country.

Just Peaky!

But Ometepe brings pleasant surprises. Suzie is to come with us on her first island trip, but the exorbitant ticket cost (all right, 30USD return but then the taxes started piling on) combined with the crazy fuel prices (all right, cheaper than Europe but .. never mind) leads to her having a solitary five days in a grassy parking lot with five sour looking guard dogs in Rivas, as we venture in a ferry over the choppiest lake we have ever experienced, complete with loud, non stop, bikini clad, butt shaking, drum thumping Latino Reggaeton music videos.

Not sure how Che would feel about this!

Oh those Tourists always have a few Cordoba to throw around!

It turns out Ometepe is way cheaper than anywhere on the mainland, and is still relatively untouched, with a regular chicken bus route that winds around the two volcanoes, Concepcion and Maderas, in a mobius figure of eight. Which means cheapie hippies and stingy Europeans galore (having read Paul Theroux's “The Old Patagonian Express”, it seems that nothing much has changed since 1977). And to top it off, it is home to many ecovillages, eco-spiritual communities and permaculture projects, and thus, the required number of dreadlocked, bearded, djembe toting foreigners coming to volunteer or just peace out, man.

Aw Rosita, you're a doll :)

After a few days exploring the Concepcion side of the island, we take a lovely bicycle ride through the isthmus to Ojo de Agua, a set of freshwater pools, unfortunately packed with Nicaraguans who have no respect for their natural heritage, happily throwing oil covered old car parts, watermelon rinds and food scraps into the crystalline freshwater, all but laughing at us silly gringos when we suggest such items belong in bins instead. It is something we have seen all over the world- people destroying their own countries, and wrecking the reasons that any travellers might come to visit, whilst blaming tourists for all their sorrows. Not to say that tourism doesn't negatively affect a country in many ways, but too often we've seen only two way exploitation and hypocrisy from both sides, and we are just as guilty as the next person.

Lovely Naomi Moran expressing her distaste!

We spend a night at the El Zopilote community in Santa Cruz, named after the magical blue bird with a tiny black headdress that is seen throughout their land. Bursting with a permaculture food forest, El Zopilote was started by an Italian father and son team, who came to Ometepe eight years ago, the first foreigners to buy land there. Their community is rustic but is obviously designed on permaculture principles, with several layers of forest, compost toilets, Japanese showers complete with greywater filtration systems, passive solar, herb spirals, seed saving and minimal use of electricity. Of course, there are also yummy organic products, amazing Italian tomato sauce, several types of bananas, the best bread we've had in a while (made in their awesome cob oven) and pizza night three times a week. There are volunteers and visitors from all over the world, doing work/ trade, relaxing in hammocks, sharing the communal kitchen and exchanging stories. Although we only spend a night there, it is such a joy to be among people who know what they are doing, working with passion, happily surrounded by the calm and chaos of nature.

Those Italians sure know their bread and pasta!

We do not manage to visit any other communities due to the state of the roads at the time, but we hear about Inah Itah, a spiritual eco community that is in its early stages and along with the usual permaculture perks, includes yoga, tantra, meditation and other practices, with a focus on healthy food. Then there's Projecto Bona Fide, started by two Americans who run a forty three acre permaculture farm as well as several educational and service orientated programs aimed at helping the local community to adopt more sustainable, healthier agricultural practices (most of the island's income is from agriculture, mainly bananas and coffee). There are a myriad more dotted around the volcanoes, Ometepe having become a haven for such projects, which is understandable due to the long growing season, tropical weather, agricultural infrastructures in place, easy access to the mainland, cheap land and the free titles that can be bought by foreigners with minimal fuss.

Be Water Wise

According to a new cafe owner in Moyogalpa (The Cornerhouse, highly recommended, owners Gary from the UK and Laura from Canada), the tourist business has picked up in the year he has been there, and a lot more ecovillages and communities are opening up. It used to only be the hippies who would venture to Ometepe to be involved in these places, as well as Nicaraguans on holidays, but now the more typical traveller (both budget and less budget minded) is also infiltrating this otherwise quiet island, as is evident by the super expensive hotels, overpriced collectivos full of over- fifty Europeans and Americans and young'uns with massive backpacks ready to party and tick Ometepe off their list.

Nicaragua, like much of Central America, has been stricken by poverty, mired in political upheavals, corrupted dictators and war for decades (as recently as the mid 80's), and thus the unemployment rate, especially on the island, is very high, and the educational systems in place barely perceptible in the scheme of things. The gap between the very poor and the very rich is extremely wide. Ortega, the current president, cares only for himself and what goes in his pocket, and after the tyrannical reign of Somoza, it is quite clear that despite the surface appearance of a safe, friendly, stable country, civil war or military coups could occur at any time.

We all have differing views on the effectiveness of NGOs in general, and a lot of foreigners we have met during our travels who have either started NGOs, worked extensively in them, or just had a business in a less developed country, have expressed their disdain at ideals being dashed and cultural colonialism creeping in. How much are you helping the local community or the country? Is that really your aim in the first place? Or does one move to a poor country in order to simply exploit it or more innocently, to have the lifestyle you cannot have in your own country? How do the locals relate to you as a foreigner and what is their attitude towards what you do? It is so easy to move somewhere, impose your ideals on others with good intentions, but the fact is that often we don't listen to each other, and behave like we are parents who know better than their children. Of course, there are many effective NGOs and projects, but it will be interesting to see the long term sustainability of such projects.

Better Niel than Daniel Ortega....

A lovely American chap we meet in Poneloya who has lived in Nicaragua since the mid 80's and worked in various NGOs, tells us he feels uncertain about such eco- communities and their true effectiveness, and feels that often cooperatives with local leaders, and only minimal input from foreign sources, often work best. The bottom line is that, as we see in spiral dynamics, everyone has to come to certain conclusions themselves.

This is best observed by a simple experience we have had. Walking along the beach here at Poneloya, we bring garbage bags with us, because the amount of plastic, styrofoam and other rubbish is startling. We could pick up garbage all day and never be done with it- it comes from the ocean and it comes from the communities, a vicious cycle. As it is Sunday, we approach an area with pounding Latin music, locals having a beer and families eating, swimming and playing on the beach. Just a note: Poneloya is basically a beachside holiday area for wealthy Nicaraguans, as is obvious by the huge houses along the beach.

Two little girls are picking up shells with their mother, skipping merrily along. We continue to pick up rubbish and the mother stops, tilts down her sunglasses and stares quizzically at us, with a tinge of annoyance. A lot of other people are staring rather angrily at us, as if us picking up the rubbish in front of them is a personal affront. They probably hadn't noticed it was there until we started highlighting it to them by our actions. No one came over to ask us what we were doing, no one offered to help or started to pick up rubbish themselves. Even the well to do, Church going family from Managua that stayed at our Hostal for the weekend left rubbish in their rooms, on the beach and dumped more rubbish in the laneway next to the property. We have seen this all over the world- we foreigners can come in with our ideas and our beliefs, and it is important that we share our knowledge where we can, but it is up to the people of that country to decide, make the changes and make them sustainable.

All said and done, we all have a lot to learn from each other. It is only with open minds and hearts that we as a human people can make positive changes in our consciousness and to our Planet Earth. It is easy to say this is your country or mine or theirs, but in the end, we are all citizens of this planet.

Blood Tests

2011-02-03T00:49:00.004+02:00

Some of the overly dramatised warnings about Central America are personified in the stereotypes we try our best to avoid, but with most of our time spent on the road, it’s easy to see why people take the overnight non-stop bus option from Guatemala or El Salvador to Costa Rica, unfortunately skipping Nicaragua. As travellers looking to avoid busloads of tourists, as well as eating and sleeping in overpriced establishments owned by foreigners, Nicaragua is what we have been looking for.

If roads are the veins of economic flow, the results of a blood work test cannot be hidden from scrutinising eyes. A black web of arteries push masses through this scarcely populated, dry land, leading to the base of touring smouldering volcano giants. White wisps of sulphur gas trace the upper echelons of warm winds, like factory chimneys testifying, the smouldering furnace in depths below. Hell too needs ventilation, as mother Earth keeps spinning.

Distances seem short on blue placid printed maps, and in comparison to the distances we travelled in one day on open American highways, Honduras and Guatemala could easily be mistaken for a leap and jump between an early breakfast and a late lunch. But since our steady progress south, the shorter distances have been the most challenging, with outright crazy displays of the macho culture the Wild West was known for. The same ‘wildness’ North Americans brag about to those back home when asked how their trip was volunteering with NGOs who specialise in saving Latin American souls for Jesus, or injecting babies with experimental drugs funded by big pharmaceuticals, while being hand led through the generic tourist traps.

The thick blackness and fresh wet paint of the maintained road to Leon from the frontier is a good omen of things to come. The instant we start driving beyond Honduran borders, it is evident that Nicaragua is more at peace within itself, than its troubling neighbours to the north.

War and Bloodshed have always haunted and taunted Central America, fuelled by North America’s appetite for narcotics at rock-bottom, wholesale prices- Nicaragua is no exception. Pro-American dictators, specialising in anti-empowerment of the masses, have always been on the US payroll, with families like Somoza of late and now Ortega. They are still nothing more than extensions of imperial arms, who gloss their henchmen in expensive suits, modern day gangsters in polished boots, rubbing elbows with the political elite. But a rose by any other name…

It’s not the politicians and ruling class hidden in their ivory towers, staring down at the pedestrians with the sun beating their foreheads for every bead of sweat that I am interested in, but the pedestrians themselves who have kept the crime rates down, making Nicaragua a whole lot safer than any of countries in its neighbourhood.

The first wave of foreigners that settle in a country have that air of sketchiness about them, their intents of exploitation clear from the run of the mill conversations around the cafés, bars and street corners. Money to be taken and opportunities to be exploited as the first concrete beds of giant houses were laid. Why is it that the first to show up in new emerging countries are always salty characters with a reason to never go back to their home countries? And why does fortune favour the bold, even when selfish capitalist outcomes are clear from the outset?

San Juan del Sur is a clear example of what happens to beach towns when under control of mostly North American investment. It is as if the foreign lobster clan got together and unionised the hotels, hostels and places to eat, before the workforce or travellers even arrived. Priced at rates that automatically shorten any budget traveller’s stay, changing travel schedules from a couple of beach laying days, into a quick sunset, overnight snooze and an early morning bus to Costa Rica. We stare at the trophy houses, which are immune to the international real estate collapse, calmly overlooking the private bay.

A pair of dangling leather bags with a blotch of sun faded ink, contained in a bra, covered in a black leather jacket and leopard skin tights, with an old, deep Southern accent pushes a rainbow bicycle cart up the road. A golden monkey in a baby diaper on a chain flashes its short teeth infused in pink gums at pedestrians - the whole contraption is a perfect time capsule of the first wave of gringos. Those first gringos who first invaded the beaches with their young, tanned faces, caught in the updraft of the hot volcano winds, and never left. Those first gringos who have always had the opportunity to leave, but never the ability, staying through wars, revolutions and cruise ship tourists.

Back to the North, back to Leon and then back to Poneloya, to wait for Miin’s visa to the “Switzerland” of Latin America.

Namaste

Niel

I Am A White Man in South Africa, I Am A Gringo in Central America.

2011-01-21T05:43:00.003+02:00

“There is no exit tax”, Miin says to the border official, who is dressed in a light brown golf-shirt and jeans. All the border staff are dressed in informal brown collar shirts, gun slung from their belts, name tag the only indication that they are affiliated with an organisation. Nothing is official and everything is dependent on a chance meeting with the right or wrong person who processes visas and car importations.

Miin ask for a receipt for the ‘export tax’ he demands. Of course, this leads to more squabbling. Frustrated, I ask with an official stern Spanish line for the receipt. “Shut up! Shut up!” he says angrily, in English, beckoning me to move towards the bread- box shaped, pelvis hight window.

“You are not in South Africa now. There are no black people for you to boss around here in Guatemala. Here, we are going to kill you,” he spits in Spanish, making a slitting motion across his neck and throat three times with his right hand.

I throw my arms in the air and burst out laughing, thanking God that I am leaving Guatemala. I want to say to him that he shouldn’t threaten a South African’s life unless he means it. But instead, Miin demands our passports, grabs them from his hand and we trek across no man’s land to get processed into Honduras, giggling at the absurdity that has just occurred.

Ten minutes over the border, our night draws to a close with our old travelling buddies, Naomi and Danny aka Danomi, cold beers and their San Salvadorian travel tales making up for the day’s shenanigans. Just before sunrise, we poke Suzie’s nose south on the Pan-American to get some miles under her new legs and out of Honduras as quickly as possible.

The driving in Honduras, with its killer road death tolls, the usual beachfront potholes, blind speed with blind faith around blind corners, lifts the veil on the underlying currents of pushing and shoving for better positions in traffic, to get ahead in the rat race.

A new hotel with no tenants, air-conditioning, safe parking and a Chinese restaurant walking distance has to do for a night’s sleep. The hotel’s guard holds a battery powered radio with long antenna in one hand and waves with the other, as his smile reveals three missing front teeth on the right side of his bite, a warm black knitted head warmer on his head. As we drive into the compound, he locks the gate behind us.

After a massive Chinese dinner, I step out onto the balcony to find, bathed in the light of a makeshift storage shack across the parking space, the guard staring back at me from thirty meters across the way. I pretend not to notice him and stare obviously in a different direction. Turn to look and he is gone. I sit down in the shadow of the tree on the shared balcony to have a better point of view. The guard emerges from the light with what appears to be a gun or an arm’s length cylinder pipe. He pulls the gun up onto his shoulder, taking aim at the tree above the hotel roof. He lowers the barrel, then checks to see if I am watching. Again, he lifts the barrel and aims at a further tree, trying to attract my attention. I slither back into the room on my back, in the shadows, barely cracking the door as I enter. After theorising and speculating on what he could have been doing, we concur that he we are probably better off not confronting or questioning his position or duties at the hotel.

Early morning rises and we are back on the highway. Of course, just as I thought we were going to crookedly sail straight through Honduras untouched, as if we never had been there, traveller’s karma comes at the most unforeseen time. Stones in the rice, chunky unknowns in the beans, cold tortillas and a thirty percent rise in price from the time we sat down to actual receipt of the bill, being stopped by police six times and each time asked to pay a ‘fine’, resulting in four upset stomachs all across the Nicaraguan border. But thankfully, we are processed through within forty minutes and in Leon before the worst of the Honduran stomach tax was due in the loo.

Leon

The constant pour of new tourists into the city of Leon, bursting at its seams, along with Central America’s largest university, obviously allows enough gap for restaurants to operate on the premise of business practices that don’t need to meet satisfactory levels to ensure longevity in their cash flow.

The restaurant of choice starts off with not having the broadest spectrum on their menu, including the taller, one litre Tona beer that soothes any hard nerves. Miin’s food comes, my food comes, but every time we ask for the waiter’s attention, he ducks away from our line of sight. Finally, after our veggie meals are in digestion and an hour of waiting, Danomi have the better mind to look for food somewhere else. Politely inquiring if we could expect any information that may clue us in to the possibility of a straightforward chicken and beef dinner, we are shortly told that they have no beef or chicken that night. Our friends rightly refuse to pay for food not received and three hopeful beverages that could have been enjoyed at an establishment that would at least attempt two plates of food. A mass of woman contained in tight pink spandex insists, in a screeching voice, that we settle their bill and leave. We leave!

We amble along the smooth road to Poneloya on the Nicaraguan West coast, a quiet setting with black volcanic beaches, playful warm waves and no gas station or internet, draws our attention for a few days of chilled out recovery, while we wait on the Bureaucracy Machine to process Miin’s Costa Rican visa.

Namaste, Love and Light

Niel

Truthtellers Abound (May be Controversial!)

2010-12-29T18:00:00.009+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

It is easy to be inspired in our current world- things are a- changing rapidly and we are blessed enough to be a part of it. But sometimes, our lingering apathy causes us to simply observe but not take action- I certainly am guilty of that. Niel and I have been deconditioning ourselves, educating ourselves with new histories and perspectives and casting away what no longer makes sense, something especially powerful due to the recent full moon eclipse winter solstice. It's literally palpable in the air around us, the shifts leading to other shifts, leading the a momentous shift. Are you ready?

Let me introduce to you three fellows that have been blowing my mind lately.

John Pilger is a highly respected Australian investigative journalist who specialises in exposing activities of war, as well as openly criticising and challenging damaging foreign policies (especially American). He has been at it for over 40 years, writing books and making documentaries on the Vietnam War, the Cambodian Pol Pot regime, the forced depopulation of Diego Garcia's Chagossians, the situation in East Timor and the US' terrible foreign policy and undercover behaviour in Latin America, under the guise of protecting their nation (sound familiar? "Terrorists"?).

This man literally seems to have no fear, and passionately fights for transparency as well as insisting that news sources/ media, which are often our only eyes and opinions into conflict, have more accountability and are not prevented from telling the truth by bigger influences (governments, corporations, the Israeli propaganda machine etc.).

His latest documentary, "The War You Don't See", is out now and available in seven parts on Youtube. Highly recommended. It is disturbing but I believe John is trying to penetrate through a lot of crap with which we are bombarded daily. Truly an inspiration to us! Here are some choice quotes from John Pilger (who interestingly enough, has never won a Nobel Prize).

"It is not enough for journalists to see themselves as mere messengers without understanding the hidden agendas of the message and the myths that surround it" (1998)

"We journalists... have to be brave enough to defy those who seek our collusion in selling their latest bloody adventure in someone else's country... That means always challenging the official story, however patriotic that story may appear, however seductive and insidious it is. For propaganda relies on us in the media to aim its deceptions not at a far away country but at you at home... In this age of endless imperial war, the lives of countless men, women and children depend on the truth or their blood is on us... Those whose job it is to keep the record straight ought to be the voice of people, not power." (2010)

"If those who support aggressive war had seen a fraction of what I've seen, if they'd watched children fry to death from Napalm and bleed to death from a cluster bomb, they might not utter the claptrap they do." (2005)

"The impact of the human tragedies I've reported on is that, more often than not, I'll be angry. I want to know why is this child dying? These are not acts of God; they're results of respectable politicians' decisions." (2005)

"The major western democracies are moving towards corporatism. Democracy has become a business plan, with a bottom line for every human activity, every dream, every decency, every hope. The main parliamentary parties are now devoted to the same economic policies- socialism for the rich, capitalism for the poor- and the same foreign policy of servility to endless war. This is not democracy. It is to politics what McDonalds is to food." (2009)

"We are beckoned to see the world through a one-way mirror, as if we are threatened and innocent and the rest of humanity is threatening, or wretched, or expendable. Our memory is struggling to rescue the truth that human rights were not handed down as privileges from a parliament, or a boardroom, or an institution, but that peace is only possible with justice and with information that gives us the power to act justly." (2009)

"There is no War on Terrorism; it is The Great Game speeded up. The difference is the rampant nature of the superpower, ensuring infinite dangers for us all." (2002)

Everybody knows (or should know) about Julian Assange. Wikileaks has been all over the news, but for the wrong reasons. A smear campaign continues against him, using the age old technique of sexual assault (all you have to do is look at the facts surrounding the case and the two women involved to realise it is all a scam). He is currently under house arrest in the UK, but continues his pioneering work. Julian is also Australian and attended my alma mater, University of Melbourne. An established hacker from a young age, his aim is to have transparency in the world, to have no censorship in the media, to expose government actions and to provide verified and investigated information/ leaks to the world via the internet.

He has had to go through extraordinary lengths to prevent the blockade of such information (which he edits as little as possible), by constantly moving around the world and finding safe havens for his staff and work. He has had his life threatened by such luminaries as Sarah Palin, who implied he should be hunted down like Osama Bin Laden, and even his son's life has been threatened. All because he is a truth teller, a whistleblower, who should be respected and protected.

Instead, the US government and the Pentagon have an open criminal investigation surrounding Julian and Wikileaks, despite the fact that he is not American and technically cannot be tried for treason. They'll probably have to make new laws just for him, this Cyber Terrorist. The Australian Government have, shamefully, actively put him down and refuse to support him, despite a lot of loud calls from other Australians that this behaviour is downright disgusting. We all know that governments around the world answer to the US, based on fear of this dying Superpower.

Wikileaks has its issues, but we should support it because it provides us with more truth and will lead to a change in consciousness. The information age exists because we need to open our eyes- technology will not destroy us, it will free us when it gets to a certain point. If you can, boycott Visa, Mastercard, Paypal and Amazon (which unfortunately are owners of Ebay, Skype and other very useful and free applications), which illegally stopped their users from donating money to Wikileaks (though they still allow donations to the KKK to this day). Obviously there is something smelly afoot here. (Note: I have Visa debit cards and admit that at this moment I need them for travel, but as soon as I am able, they are gone- see how difficult it is to get rid of these things we have become dependent on?).

Boycott BBC, CNN, Fox and even Reuters- there is rarely any real journalism any more. Listen to the excuses journalists make out of fear. Al Jazeera is flawed as well but at least slightly less so. But now that we have Wikileaks, watch this space. Wikileaks.org!

Sure, Jamie Oliver may be a strange choice to be on this list, but this guy truly has his heart in the right place. Sure, he approaches you from the gooey inside instead of the hard hitting in your face "LOOK AT THIS" way, but he is proof that one person, with enough effort, love and passion, can make positive changes in the world.

Perhaps my American friends are not aware of who he is, but in the UK and the rest of the world, he is the well known "Naked Chef". Having practically been a celebrity since he was 19, Jamie could have gone off the deep end and partied his life away. Instead, from the start, his aim was to teach people to cook fresh, and to show them that it's not difficult to make good food for yourself. In an age of processed junk, he was wading through and giving you the simple answers.

His latest project, "Food Revolution", was an American version of what he had achieved in the UK, transforming school lunches (or dinners, as they call them there!) from highly processed junk to freshly cooked, organic food (where possible). He directly lobbied the UK government to increase the budget for school lunches and has probably improved the health of children all through the UK. However, in the US, it was a lot more challenging and I do recommend watching the 6 episode miniseries- sure, it's dorky reality TV and sometimes gets overly mushy, but you can tell Jamie is a dedicated and real person with no false pretenses. It certainly was a wake up call in regards to how bad the situation is in the US food wise and how resistant to change some communities can be.

Jamie has also had his Fifteen project going for a while, where underprivileged kids were trained to be chefs and work in restaurants opened especially for them. He really puts his money where his mouth is! Go Jamie! You inspire us!

Side Note: Barack Obama

I cried when Obama was elected. I got sucked into the advertising and branding machine that surrounded him. Even up to the recent past, I was defending him, making excuses, "Oh, he hasn't had very much time, give him a chance, do you know how hard his job is? The Democrats don't have enough of a margin for him to make changes," etc etc. But now, I see that I was misled.

Obama has been the most aggressive warmonger in American history- he has NOT pulled out troops from Iraq and in fact sent more troops to Afghanistan, he has authorised the biggest military expenditure in history, and he actively supports the war effort, despite it being long proven that Iraq has NO weapons of mass destruction. Just go and read about the effect that the US sanctions had on Iraq, then you will realise these actions by both Bush and Obama aimed to kill innocent civilians. He has been perpetuating a lie and simply continuing Bush's work. People think it is wrong to say anything negative about Obama because he's the first black president and one could be accused of racism. That was a very clever trick by the elites to lengthen their ability to continue the war. Oh, Michelle Obama planted an organic garden- big deal! The Food and Safety Modernisation Act is a farce and will kill small organic farmers very soon. Obama has littered his party with ex- Monsanto staff and other corporate dogs who have done so much damage in the past. And don't let the health bill fool you (though I admit it's an improvement). Let's face it, Obama has NOT pulled through on any of the campaign promises he made. We're used to politicians lying but this takes it to a new level.

Obama, what a disappointment. You're just another cog in the corporate, elite wheel.

John Pilger on Barack Obama: "No one knew what the new brand actually stood for. So accomplished was the advertising (a record $75m was spent on television commercials alone) that many Americans actually believed Obama shared their opposition to Bush’s wars. In fact, he had repeatedly backed Bush’s warmongering and its congressional funding. Many Americans also believed he was the heir to Martin Luther King’s legacy of anti-colonialism. Yet if Obama had a theme at all, apart from the vacuous 'Change you can believe in,' it was the renewal of America as a dominant, avaricious bully. 'We will be the most powerful,' he often declared." (2009)

20 000/ 200 000

2010-12-23T23:40:00.004+02:00

As the 20 000 mile mark wavers in dusty wind from my rear view mirrors, it is time to pamper Ms. Suzie Wong. After a confrontation with a particularly angry topes/ speed bump, our new Canadian travelling companions, Danny and Naomi, do some first aid to curb leaking oil in the middle of nowhere- our Heroes! Suzie has a quick appointment to solder the oil pan but in San Pedro, she begins to protest by dripping water. It is obvious that her front legs (shocks) and more feminine parts (water pump) need some replacements and fine tuning at the local pamper shop (mechanic).

Her history records almost 200 000 miles on her life path, her strong character a testament to a colourful history. I piece together an an image of what Ms. Suzie Wong was before she was a champion Americana hippie traveller.

Minor cosmetic dents around her doors and headlights tell of a connection with another vehicle, though the obvious repair and original paint on all parts say it was a brief, light encounter with minimal impact. Her previous crazy Israeli driver, poetically names Moses, said that he had driven her to numerous summer festivals all over the USA. Three months after taking over the reins from Moses, during a good scrub down, I take off the front seat covers for a wash. On the driver's side, a perfectly rounded hole, just about where my hole is planted while driving. gapingly invites me for further investigation. I reach in and find an old tattered rag and a plastic bag with some suspicious white powdered residue from the substances used to fuel designer techno parties. I postulate. I don't want to believe that our dear Ms. Suzie Wong was used as a drug mule, or as an arms smuggling decoy, or that she has had any encounters with any other vehicles. But the theory stands, and we accept her with the same love that she has shown us, through her devout service and loyalty to this inter- American road trip.

In the second largest city of Guatemala, Quetzaltenango (or locally known as Xela "Under the Ten Mountains"), under trees and next to polluted roads, auto mechanics, tool makers and parts distributors line up within spitting range of each other. Seeing that Ms. Suzie Wong is from the Japanese Toyota clan, our first option is the Toyota dealership, which of course, is much more costly than local expertise. But a friendly reference by the salesman sends us to a dirt floor with gaping, open mouthed patients, awaiting the Maestro's attention, with seven pairs of eager, young hands and eyes, scrutinising his every move. An oil black, chained up Chow guards his space with Russian pride on his black tongue, and status in his lion mane, supervising the security of this pride of men. Most of the men are barely old enough to shave or drive, but in Guatemala, the driving age is when your feet reach the pedals.

In semi formal trousers, black leather shoes, open button up shirt and aqua- green pullover, Maestro Jorge Castillo plays the figure of Padre and casual professor for the youths eagerly dismantling parts under his guidance. This is more than a mechanic shop with dirt floors and limited tools. It is a holy space where pricelessly valuable trade secrets, life skills and camaraderie are exchanged for labour, not for report cards or grades. And what better way to spend a restless, frustrated youth than learning the skills that will ensure a steady income to build a better life, instead of falling pray to drug cartels hunting for child soldiers to protect precious South American narcotic merchandise en route to feeding the North American drug appetite.

Maestro Jorge is giving these young men more than education and a place to still nerves, hearts and minds everyday. While big black and yellow Police and Army vehicles pummel the streets, in search of some protection or peace of mind against the evil forces that rule the South and Central American drug trade, the apprentices of Maestro Jorge are kept safe by their own will, biding time with friends, brothers and the Padre.

Our presence in the shop draws friendly, inquisitive stares; Miin pokes the camera at smiling, blushing faces as Maestro meanders up and down the shop, hands in pockets, white cigarette in the corner of his intelligent, clean jaw, while six pairs of hands caress Ms. Suzie's under- parts.

At two p.m., Maestro announces siesta, and we are scooted out the door to find a warm spot to sit and read in the winter sun. In a quiet park, at the end of black suit pants, a pair of clean alligator skin boots is slightly turned to me, as if to hint at the desire for conversation. I look up and find a stocky, round figure, whistling good English through two front, gold teeth. The conversation takes the natural tone of where, how and why, but soon turns into a friendly international political discussion about the USA's role in developing nations, the Mayan prophecy, the quality of Guatemalan herb compared to Canadian, domestic violence, the gringo’s (white man) rule over the world and extreme weather patterns only affecting the "Third World". The debate ends abruptly as his bus pulls up and it’s time to see how Ms. Suzie Wong is doing on her spa pamper day.

As the sun hits the rim of the Ten Mountains surrounding Xela, the temperature drops faster than the locally named Chicken Buses, on a 45 degree downhill slope, foot flat to the gas, cellphone on ear. Maestro Jorge shifts the drivers' seat into place and I jump in for a rare ride in the passenger's side seat. With broken Spanish, I thank him for what he is doing for all those young men, all a part of his pride, but he can’t understand why anyone would thank him for something as normal as giving back to his community and perhaps changing the direction of some the lives at his shop.

280 USD exchanges hands for a whole day's work - finding the cheapest parts, three sets of hands worth of labour at all times, Jorge's expertise, service with a bright smile and the opportunity to see light brought to a darkness so large and engulfing, it encompasses a whole country’s culture.

Ms. Suzie Wong is now back at her best and ready for another couple of thousand miles of Americana adventures!

Namaste
Love and Light
Niel

More Than A Moonshadow!

2010-12-21T00:23:00.003+02:00

Embodiments of Love!

Tonight is the Gemini Full Moon Lunar Eclipse on the Winter Solstice!
December 21st, 2010, 12:13 am PST/ 3:13 am EST

A once in a lifetime skyward spectacular, complete with meteor showers and a red moon, tonight is also an astrologically important turning point in both our development as individuals and transformation of all beings on this Earth.

The Moon and the Sun wiill be at 29 degrees of their respective signs, as the Gemini Moon waxes to an Eclipsed Full Moon. In general, this heralds the importance of Change and the need for Endings, so that which is not needed is discarded and transformation can begin.

Eclipses are accelerators, speeding up events, situations, issues in our personal lives, triggering necessary change and can be harsh, but undeniable. There may be feelings of sadness, confusion, anger, worry and frustration due to the initial shock, but after moving through this, there is a bright opportunity to make definitive, positive changes and face the challenges before us with strength and courage. Full moons bring completion and culmination, to make room for progression. With the full moon and the lunar eclipse falling on the solstice, their influence is more powerful than usual. Solstice points are important nodal points in astrology and are symbolic of the essence of the life force.

The polarity of opposite signs Gemini and Sagittarius are highlighted,, focusing on the mental process, with wisdom being the ultimate goal, supported by knowledge. Communication, education, logical thinking and knowledge of Gemini are balanced by Sagittarius' more philosophically driven spiritual thinking, based in personal growth and experience.

So what does this all mean? It's time to take a good, honest look at the issues in our lives that are keeping us from being the highest versions of ourselves. It's time to make positive decisions, life affirming decisions that allow us to ably meet those challenges we may have previously ignored. It's time to go deep, to look into yourself with compassion and authenticity and to ultimately see that we are all One and the time for Change is NOW. Both on an individual and societal level. Externally, we can see that the transformation of our world, for better or worse, is rapid, mirroring our own internal conflicts- true convergence and progress always come from within.

Enjoy the visual magnificence that our universe brings us tonight, but also reflect on what it means for our personal growth and change. Take this opportunity to make amends with the past, to forgive and let go, to honestly discard what is not needed even though it may be difficult, and to make positive affirmations for the present and future.

I know I'll be making a list of affirmations, things I'm grateful for, and things I see for myself, releasing it to the universe and meditating on the joy that is life!

LOVE!

Miin

Born In A Storm

2010-12-20T20:48:00.007+02:00

On our marathon trek through the ups and downs of our Planet Earth, we sometimes bump into people who take my breath away within a couple of seconds. Edward and Nathalie are two of these people, found in one chance meeting.

In order for French speaking Edward, the sailor/ artist, to meet French speaking Genevan Nathalie, the herpetologist/ techno DJ jungle girl, a boat named SCARF had to be sacrificed just off the Florida Keys. A seemingly high price at the time, but pocket change in hindsight. Many times in life, what seems to be the biggest disaster with the walls tumbling down, turns out to be the universe arranging our lives into smaller baggage for quicker, more harmonious travel to places where we need to be, in order to reach farther and higher heights.

For Edward, losing his boat was losing his source of income, his home, a life’s music collection, his almost finished book and passion. The result of those few devastating minutes could almost have been the end of his hard won way of life. But, born with not one, but two hardworking timber thumbs, nothing seems impossible to build, fix or grow for Edward. The answers always come when we are awake and aware, as this sailor was when his whole life sank beneath the wet waves of chance, preparation and destiny in one quick growling storm. He looked to the heavenly stars for guidance and set course for the only place where the last masters of the almost extinct art of boat building and Mahogany trees live hand in hand in a time capsule, dragging thirty years behind the rest of the continent’s development.

Where the continent reaches out into shallow, hot waters for the Caribbean Isles, the deeper designs of the Spanish ships on conquest for the golden cities of the Americas could not breach the white powered beaches and kept them at bay in other parts of the Yucatan peninsula. This made Belize, Sartaneja the perfect place for international pirates, local Mayans in their magnificent cities and a diverse group of travellers and fortune seekers, boat builders and traders to stay out of the way of the Spanish and lap up the natural treasures (Mahogany and exotic species), so uniquely Caribbean.

In the aftermath of what must have been a very sudden, life changing moment, Belize gave Edward more than just a place to grow Mahogany and build a traditional shallow cargo boat haul – it brought him to Nathalie, the nature spirit with a cute French accent and a passion for animals, especially snakes. A match forged among the stars which have chartered our skies night after night, since oceans separated from earth and night from day.

Meeting Nathalie and Edward and sharing in their living experiences has shown me once again how good manners and awareness about solutions for our planets’ problems brings a whole climate of great vibrations to town and country. Simply existing as the natural light beings they are is not enough. Established and integrated deep into the tiny fishing community of Sarteneja, Belize, Edward and Nathalie have their community’s best wishes and positive development at heart.

The new dream is possible and personified in their organic food gardens which serve as an example to local farmers who still use slash and burn techniques, as well as supporting their eco friendly accommodation that also hosts couchsurfers, Backpacker’s Paradise (complete with horses, puppies, dogs and welcome snakes) and Nathalie’s Restaurant. Their sphere of influence spreads to locally supported businesses and farms, nursery projects for replanting Mahoganies for every locally hand built boat in Sarteneja, local seed saving and reforestation projects… the list of positive projects trails off into the goodness.

A project that we would like to highlight is about keeping the wooden boat building that is so unique to Sarteneja alive. Edward works closely with local builders who, for generations, have been hand crafting amazing boats using sustainable logging techniques. However, the skill is slowly being lost as the next generation has no interest in this beautiful craft, moving instead to the cities. This is a real threat to a way of life and culture, and Edward hopes to attract people from all over the world to learn this craft before it’s too late.

Helping Belizeans to keep power in the communities and prevent exploitation from within and without are big issues promoted on their website www.bluegreenbelize.org, among information about the rest of their projects and cool photo galleries.

All the best with all your projects and may all you dreams come true.

Namaste

Niel

A Stranger In the World

2010-12-20T00:03:00.003+02:00

Border crossings are not my favourite part of travelling. Traverllers' tales of horror about crossing Central America don't keep me up at night, but do stir the butterflies in my stomach every time. But the Quintana Roo/ Belize border is by far the easiest, friendliest crossing to date.

Where the continent reaches out into shallow, hot waters for the Caribbean Isles, the deeper designs of the Spanish ships on their conquest for the golden cities of the Americas, could not breach the white powdered beaches and kept them at bay in other parts of the Yucatan peninsula. This made Sarteneja, Belize, the perfect place for international pirates, local Mayans in their magnificent cities and a diverse group of travellers and fortune seekers, boat builders, and traders to stay out of the way of the Spanish and lap up the uniquely Caribbean natural treasures of Mahogany and exotic animal species.

The turn of the lower north American continent shouldered trade from Africa, Europe, native Americans and emigrants from across the Pacific. The last colonial power left the small bordered stretch of the Caribbean, then named British Honduras. In 1981, the independent country of Belize was born. The origins of the name Belize remain disputed mystery, but the small slice of Central America continued to be as ethnically diverse as its myriad former rulers. The numerous attractions of the Belize of old still draw many eccentric characters out of the mangroves of life.

A rhythmically jingled "Hi! Welcome to Belize!" and "How are you? Buy me some beer.." is the creed when obvious travellers bump into the mixed bag of Belizeans crisscrossing tar patched roads, lined with authentic Chinese and Taiwanese restaurants, next to fried chicken shops and stalls selling stew beans and rice, rice and beans and the occasional tamale. Beer drinking is a morning activity and begins with the early hustle and bustle of the town, serving as a constant Caribbean reminder not to take life too seriously. Even the fiercely conservative Mennonite men, dressed in out- of- place long shirts, wide rimmed hats and suspenders, slip into concrete bars and plastic restaurants for a quick beer, away from the suspicious eyes and constraints of their communities. And who can blame them for taking a quick refreshing pleasure after all their hard labor in the tropical sun.

Low- German speaking and blue- eyed, with Aryan complexions, donning traditional American- Gothic dress, the Mennonites have been sowing fertile tropical landscapes into lines of food producing veins. The overwhelming majority of produce, both vegetable and animal, is cultivated by these communities who live by the principle of "being a stranger in the world". As technology speeds up and soars brighter into an ever- changing world, some groups of Mennonites have broken away in order to have a more technologically friendly and adaptable lifestyle, whilst still maintaining their religious beliefs in Jesus Christ. Strange, mythical, mystical, but always assisting where help is needed, the Mennonites remain an anomaly in the sunny setting of Belize.

Reminding me of a young, hyper diverse, democratic South Africa, without all the juvenile rage and rebellion, I see some telltale signs of people keeping to their various cultural traditions and having preconceived ideas of neighbors. But with an ingredient that is lacking in most of the world - respect for diversity and each other- which is so visible in the open way Belizeans welcome almost anyone to help grow a society into something all the diverse ethnicities can be proud of. Belize, I will see you again.

Namaste
Love and Light
Niel

What Would A Superforester Do?

2010-12-19T23:05:00.002+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

A wonderful friend of ours, Jackson Nash, who we visited earlier in our trip at Zero One Permaculture project on Kauai, started the amazing superforest.org website a few years ago and it continues to grow and inspire with each day. Go check it out and read the Humanifesto! Here is a post I wrote for Superforest.. Enjoy!

What Would a Superforester Do?

Have you ever wondered about your relationship with money? Many people, and many cultures, have attachment to money, in fact their entire identity is connected to how much money they do or do not have. We consciously or unconsciously judge others depending on how much they make.

I know I myself have had a lot of guilt about having a well-to-do family and many others I have met express guilt about having more than others. As someone of an Asian background, I have been taught since birth to save and hoard money, as it equates to security, and money has been used to control my decisions and actions by others. In Asia, asking someone how much their rent is, or their house costs, or what their salary is, is a normal part of everyday conversation and is very tightly tied in with Face, or reputation, one of the most important parts of identity in our culture.

We have given money the power to determine many factors in our lives and for many, it is the centre of their existence, even though we may not be actively conscious of this. Being financially independent is a big part of growing up in most societies, and presents a certain degree of freedom from, for example, family expectation- why is this so connected to money and how we make it? Money was a huge part of why I did not make certain choices earlier in life.

I have always believed money is a tool (just as the Mind and the Ego are!), and we as humans have chosen to let it dictate our lives- we need money to be educated (in much of the world), money to obtain health care, we spend too many hours in the day working in order to earn money so we can eat, so we can own a house, so we can have a car and all the things we think we require. The system has been created to make us chase money, to distract us from what is really going on in the world.

How we view and use money needs to change, as it has in many ecovillages and communities that are off grid- but even then, they operate within and depend on a system that requires money. If we could grow our own food, know how to heal ourselves, educate ourselves and share this with others, money would not be as important as it is today.

The Universe, or my Higher Self, decided to send me a lesson about money recently, and I'd love to share this with you.

Last week, in Orange Walk, Belize, I was checking my bank statements for my Malaysian debit card, which holds almost all of our travel funds. I noticed some large purchases which were not made by me and on further checking, realised someone had obtained a way to use my debit card both online and in person, spending over 5500USD. Immediately, I cancelled my debit card and called my bank, who have as yet not gotten back to me as to whether they can send me a replacement or refund the unauthorised charges, even stating that bank policy requires me to return to Malaysia and present at my home branch in order to obtain a new card, despite the fact that I am in Central America.

Of course, the first reaction, for a split second, was a stressful sigh of unhappiness and some tears of frustration and guilt for not keeping an eye on my accounts.

Shoulda Woulda Coulda syndrome kicked in.

This was quickly replaced with a feeling of calm, as I thought, "What would a Superforester do?". The Humanifesto and the many amazing personal anecdotes that people have shared on Superforest.org ran through my brain.

Niel and I had recently discussed eradicating the world "Should" from our vocabulary and not regretting past actions or decisions.

So I took a deep breath.

I chose to be positive, to see this as something that needed to happen for my personal development and for a reflection on our travel choices.

I chose to send positive vibes to the people who will be helping me on a practical level to fix this "problem".

I chose to look into my experience which has, over and over again, shown me that everything really does happen for a reason, and that stressing or worrying about a situation ends up being a waste of energy, because it always works out as it should.

I chose to further explore my relationship with money and why such a development upset me so much. I have always been thrifty since I was a child and hate spending money, having a lot of guilt about doing it and scrimping when I don't need to, regretting it later. A ridiculous cycle of Guilt- Hate- Self Destructive Thoughts.

I chose to keep smiling and to enjoy our time in Belize and..

I even chose to send happiness and love to the person who went on a joyride with my debit card, hoping they enjoy the clothes, flights, hotel rooms and groceries that they bought. As my friend Chris said, "Think of it this way, you made someone's year!"

A much healthier way to react to this situation!

Who knows what the outcome will be, but it was joyful to have friends, who I know are not in great financial states themselves, to offer to send money, and others sending support and love. This unexpected expression of Love confirmed to me what I've always known- I have amazing friends and Love is the greatest gift!

Give and you shall receive, and receive graciously.. the Universe always provides. Superabundance, Superforesters!

Thank you Superforest for inspiring me to think differently, to choose happiness and to flow with the moment.

LOVE!

Dia de los Muertos, San Cristobal Style!

2010-11-14T01:16:00.022+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

So finally the rains subside, allowing us to move beyond beautiful Oaxaca. We say our See- You- Laters to our dear friends Juan, Marisa and Sol, knowing we will not be apart for too long. Suzie revs up after a recharge and onwards ho to Tehuantepec and San Cristobal de las Casas, high in the mountains of charming Chiapas. Tagging along with us are two intrepid travellers, Daniel and Amy, who we had met earlier in Oaxaca City.

We stop for a night near Tehuantepec, camping alone in a firefly- filled mango grove off a deserted road in a dusty little town- just the way we like it. Looking up into the night sky through our tent, we fall asleep to the whish of the huge mango trees and hum of cicadas. Perfection.

With open arms, Luis welcomes us into his all- wood cabin, complete with horses, cool misty air and joy! Before we know it, we are all best friends, sharing the light and love, through conversations, giggles, great food (best pesto and fettuccine of all time). Luis is a most endearing individual, who has travelled the world and opened his home to more than two hundred Couchsurfers; he regales us with many of his out there experiences and dispenses eagerly waited for advice on how to live a happy life.

San Cristobal is a lovely little music filled hippie town, resplendent with perfectly restored colonial buildings, nestled amongst single story buildings, cobbled streets and outdoor markets, reminding us very much of Dharamsala. We also visit surrounding natural sites like Canon del Sumidero with the amazing Arbol de Navidad (but unfortunately a lot of rubbish from upstream) and Cascadas el Chiflon, complete with rainbows.

One very unique feature of Chiapas is the high percentage of Mayan inhabitants, reflected in what we experience in town. Indigenous women from nearby villages, San Juan Chamula and San Andres Larraizar, fill the town, colourful ribbons entwined in their long, black hair, their round, moon faces strikingly similar to those of Nepalis, Tibetans and some Southeast Asians. Distinctive in their dress, their origins are easily recognisable. The Chamulan ladies don bright, shiny, high collared button blouses with intricate hand stitched embroidery, once made from silk and satin, but now often made from synthetic materials. These, they team with black woolen skirts folded and tied with wide, dazzling cloth belts- from the smallest child to the oldest grandmother, this was the uniform of choice, changing with the seasons and always with a personal touch. Meanwhile, the ladies of Larraizar wear richly embroidered huipils (straight sided blouses) with similarly embroidered skirts, often in startling purples, blues, golds and pinks on black, topped with an intricate shawl. Nowhere else in the world can you find the type of embroidery done in this part of Chiapas, as it is a part of their identity, culture and flows with time and space, as modernity impinges on Mexico's poorest state.

The Mayans do not like being photographed, so here is a photo of awesome pizza from La Casa del Pan instead! :)

Coca Cola = Exploitative Junk

However, this beauty is tinged with sadness. The Mayan indigenous peoples of this region are oppressed and lack the rights of all other Mexicans. Making up only a small proportion of Mexico's population due to their brutal slaying through violence and disease by Spanish invaders, they have lived in poverty for centuries, plying their trade amongst travellers and often being reduced to begging. The disparity between the rich and the poor is most obvious in Chiapas, especially as we travel through the countryside to visit tiny Oventic, the nucleus of the Zapatista stronghold.

The Zapatista movement was kickstarted by the somewhat mysterious Subcomandante Marcos, a mestizo ex- university professor from a middle class Mexico City family, and though his identity has been guessed, no one is quite sure exactly who he is. In the early 90's he brought a somewhat socialist stance (Everything for Everyone and Nothing for Myself) to the Mayan peoples in an attempt to gain rights to education, healthcare and a better quality of life for them. Though it was mostly a media based revolution, run through the internet, the Mexican army did use force to contain the mostly non- violent uprising. Today, despite much foreign support and a somewhat autonomous region, their anti- capitalist stance seems weakened by the fact that they are not sustainable and rely on finance from overseas and their ventures in San Cristobal and beyond, in the way of restaurants, shops and cute Zapatista dolls, complete with tiny AK-47s and black ski masks.

On a crisp morning we set off, via collectivo, with Daniel, Amy and new friend Alona, to Oventic. We wind through the deep green mountain, enjoying the sunshine and enchanting scenery. On arrival at the Zapatista stronghold, we stand behind a makeshift gate on a cement road and hand over our passports, whilst answering questions about our Nationality, purpose of visit, professions and associated organisations. The young man who is interviewing us wears a black ski mask that obscures all but his eyes, a beanie reading EZLN and a woollen pullover. An inquisitive girl keep peeking at us from behind her work of washing a shirt with a table as the washboard. Everyone else has masks on and some hold rifles, but the vibe we get is still friendly and more filled with curiosity than fear.

There are eight of us in total- two Mexicans and a Canadian guy who has pre-organised to study Spanish with the Zapatistas add onto our five strong group. For two hours we sit in the hot sun, dozing, eating cheap icy poles, taking photos of the vibrantly decorated buildings (lots of slogans, Chingas and such), watching as several pick ups drove into the gate of the community, which was once again shut. Finally, the gentleman who initially spoke to us arrives and informs us that we cannot be admitted today and makes up some vague excuse that doesn't really explain anything. Mitch is also denied entry and we all travel back towards San Cristobal in the back of an open air truck (with a quick stop in San Andres, where drunk men roam the square and entering the church garners only scowls and raised eyebrows).

Whatever our views on the Zapatista movement, they have good intentions and are trying to create a positive community. We have heard both positive and negative impressions of them from people living in San Cristobal, but always, we send them love and compassion, and hope that the movement achieves what it set out to do and does so sustainably.

We spend the days leading up to Dia de los Muertos with Luis and our friends, going to the market together to buy the traditional items, setting up a shrine with bright orange marigolds, pink and yellow chrysanthemums, laid over pine needles and with offerings to the dearly departed- a bottle of tequila, some hand rolled cigarettes, pan de muerte, alongside photos of those we remember. Candles flicker through the next few days as we both loudly celebrate and solemnly reflect on death and how much it is a part of life, how thin the veil between this world and the next is, fluttering in the wind. How important it is to live in the Eternal Now and without fear, for we all drift into the next existence when our time has come.

On November 2nd, we go as a group to the local cemetery, which is richly decorated with flowers, the grave sites lovingly cleaned and filled with festive relatives, drinking, smoking, sharing stories and eating. It reminds me very much of Ching Ming, the Chinese All Souls' Day, where we go as families to our beloved's graves, clean them, put fresh flowers out and eat a meal with those who are no longer with us physically. The mood is festive and jolly, friends and relatives embracing with wide smiles, mariachi bands jingling jangly tunes and the odd minstrel with a guitar serenading their loved ones with favourite songs of the past. The graves themselves are a sight to behold- from the simplest grave marked with only a cross, single room houses painted bold colours, to huge tombs the size of a small town's church, gothic, decaying and grey; it seems several of these homes for the dead would have rivalled those they lived in when blood ran through their veins. A somewhat ostentatious show of love and position carried to Mexico by the Spanish along with their faith, I have to admit these gaudy, kitsch tributes horrified me with their extravagance. I understand their significance, but they seemed more like something to show off with than a real display of affection. Bury my body under the welcoming ground and plant a tree over me, have a celebration with memories and laughter, and let me fly onwards to my next adventure.

With a final blowout of over 20 unexpected dinner guests on our last night in San Cristobal, we bade farewell to our dear host, Luis, and began our descent into the hot, sweaty jungles of Chiapas and the Yucatan. San Cristobal, we will never forget you!

Cuban Bookends

2010-10-25T05:06:00.006+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

Southern Mexican rains prevent us from advancing beyond our temporary home, Ciudad de Oaxaca, and we are forced to make alternative plans. As always, everything unfolds for a reason, part of some intricate web that we cannot fathom or understand until sometime in the future, with the 20/20 vision of retrospect. Within two days, we are on the six hour bus trip to Mexico City, a Couchsurfer awaiting us and a flight to Havana to catch.

It is at some ungodly hour of Saturday morning that we crawl into a taxi for the airport. It is now 6am and our Cubana flight leaves at 0845, but already there is a huge queue for this once daily flight to Cuba's capital. Being the diligent travellers that we are, we had checked regarding Niel's ability to return to Mexico with an American visa, thanks to a new ruling earlier in 2010. However, we want to make sure that he will be able to touchdown in two weeks in our adopted home, with no fuss, the idea of being grounded in Cuba not entirely appealing.

The woman at the desk is strangely serene, almost too serene, to the point of puzzlement on our parts. Having heard our explanation, she admits her ignorance of this particular situation and questions her compadres, as well as referring to an obviously aged airline handbook. The Verdict: you have to have a US resident visa (false) and please check with immigration, which, being Sabado, opens at 0800. Of course, the check in desk closes at the same time, but this observation brings only more blank serenity and a palming off to others in command. After a few sprints up and down the airport, many tears and desperate pleadings, they relent and say they will wait an extra ten minutes. Otherwise, the penalty is 180 USD to change each ticket or losing our tickets entirely- not a pretty thought. My frustration grows as everyone averts my gaze and continually tries to get rid of me without being too assertive about it.

0805. The immigration office's door finally opens, we run in and immediately get an answer: of course you can return with a US visa. We sprint up the stairs to the check in counter- it is now 0809. I didn't know we signed up for The Amazing Race. Hmmm. With the same blank stares, the staff issue our tickets, sell us both visas and continue to pack up for the day, with nary an apology or expression of surprise in sight. Again, we pick up our heels and rush through to the gate.

Ah, the woman who first heard our request, with her sleepy, ineffectual face, is sorting out seating in front of the gate. We walk up, show her our passports and tell her we managed to get on the flight. "Congratulations," she breathes, tiredly, with her completely fake smile spread annoyingly across her face. Well. Chinga comes to mind but not to the mouth. Ommm... Zen master opportunity.

Finally on the plane to Havana, I sit sandwiched between the Pan- Latin American Taekwondo champion, a gorgeous dark skinned woman-child from the Dominican Republic, in full American kitsch regalia, and an overweight middle-ager from Mexico City on a package tour. With our mixed Spanish and English, we keep up good conversation while Niel snoozes, red eyed, between two quiet foreigners clutching laptop cases.

When we arrive in hot, smoky Jose Marti International Airport in Havana, my immigration officer calls over one of her seniors, a young cafe au lait skinned gentleman, who along with his mini skirted comrade, questions me about why I am in Havana, where I'm staying and what my profession is. I sweat a little until he informs me that, "Your country, Malasia, and my country, Cuba, don't need visas". Ah, the Cubana staff had sold me an unnecessary 20USD visa. Phew.

---------------------------------

Oh you thought that was the end of that? No, these are bookends after all.

On our arrival back in Mexico, with more than a sigh of relief, we drink in the sights and sounds of capitalism in all its glory. Strange how Cuba's socialist capitalist mix had been so disconcerting that both of us encountered a degree of reentry culture shock- something we had never experienced before.

Determined to prove a point and get our money back, we head for the Cubana Airlines office, which has just opened and is manned by a single employee, who deals with our request by trying to fob us off to the office downtown, but we refuse and demand that she refund us. "Come back in half an hour please," she says, puzzled, never having been faced with such a problem.

After having a fresh fruit juice, which contains more nutrition than all the food we ate in Cuba, we return to the office, which we now cannot enter as it is filled with all the check in counter staff and a tall, intensely irate director- type individual who is bellowing scolding insults at our blank faced, smiling friends. Nervous smiling friends. A stout gentleman comes to speak to us, hears of our desire for a refund but sweetest of all, we get to explain our situation when we departed Mexico; "Please point out those involved to me, we want to know," he snorts, barely containing his growing irritation with those in the office. "Thank you," he says, handing over the refund for our unnecessary visa.

We're not ones for revenge, but we have to have a giggle when the universe unexpectedly sees that justice is served.

As bent as the Soviet sickle and as hard as the hammer which crosses it - Turkish (from “Snatch”)

2010-10-24T01:33:00.003+02:00

Most travel guides are nothing more than thick, overpriced catalogues with generic copy-and- paste descriptions of places, selling the romantic dream most holiday makers and tourists desire in a destination. In one of these massive glossy chunks of pulped rainforest tree, the description of a bar where Ernest Hemingway “bent his elbow” seems only applicable to the Lonely Planet and Rough Guide writers of Cuba. In fact, I doubt they ever left the safe sanctuary of their posh hotels, gawking at Cuba from air-conditioned marble lobbies and overpriced seafood restaurants, both elbows bent under the heavy weight of Cuba’s bloodline – Rum. In a stupor, they likely copied hotel and government literature directly into their travel guides. Simple propaganda, boasting the same writing style as the locally sold weekly paper, Granma, constantly reminding Cubans how hard their leaders fought for their current system in 1959’s Revolution.

I am too straightforward and uncomplicated to pretend I like a country, town or situation for the sake of selling people dreamy nostalgia of my travels, but I like Cuba for all the reasons people avoid it. It is one thing to go through all the bureaucratic red tape, endure long transit times of hurry up and waits, deal with lazy officials who refuse to do their jobs; but then to pretend I had a marvellous time being flogged, intimidated and scammed by the world famous friendly Cuban stereotype.

Cuba is changing fast and I am both fortunate and grateful for the opportunity to wallow, wade and drink in this colonial relic of Soviet Economic control, stabbing and twisting so deep into the side of the great United States of brutal Capitalism. This is why I find Cuba so uncomfortably interesting and stranger than fiction, especially all the dull macho fiction Ernest Hemingway wrote here, under many influences.

Cubans adore the natural rhythms of life. Their constant and spontaneous movement to any beat blared into the streets from every house, bus, establishment and taxi seems so effortless in a kind of ‘should be’ way. Being free from branded lifestyles and having broad economical equality is a luxury they take for granted, but don’t want any more. Striving to be and to have more than the neighbours is now well part of Cuban everyday life, clandestinely practiced under the strict ruling of stone faced Socialist equality.

Havana

On the first night, we wander around Havana in déjà vu of war torn ravaged Maputo in Mozambique. Crumbling under the weight of the Caribbean sun, picked apart by tropical winds and rains, from the outside, buildings seem uninhabitable, and a lot are. Gutted and stripped of all their soul, leaving empty towers of fragmented, dark cartilage, these shells stand with slumping shoulders, Central Havana’s once great and proud tenants. Steamy Sunday Havana afternoon churns into night as mucho black, white and all shades in between drape and slope in dilapidated doorways of once brilliant colonial feats of architecture, waiting for the night’s festivities to begin.

Clothes are a different story. Fabric and fashion are dependent on numbers and volume, conservative only with the amount of clothing used to cover bare essentials. Based on an imperialist economical principle of ‘least amount of input for maximum output’, arms, midriffs and legs are only covered by lusting macho eyes; bums and breasts are wrapped in cloth stretched tight, skimped on to cover more round starch - fed butts and boobs. I wonder if Cubans abroad keep to their sexy dress sense, or if it is a matter of essential sensuality.

The lack of technology, Internet, Facebook and online social networks pushes the people into the streets, where all generations meet to form real human connections and community. Community is what keeps Cuba from stumbling over the imploding edge of misery and depression, that and unlimited amounts of rum. In any society, the ruling elite create some form of distraction or control mechanism. Alcohol, Police, Processed Sugar and Starch with hardly any nutrition to keep bellies full, but minds quiet and dull, are the most obvious.

The family of the Casa Particular (Private Home) we stay in for the first week in Havana consists of rum - bellied Yuri Sr. (never wearing a shirt, but always a smile), Yuri Jr. (never with a smile but always with thick, slicked hair and studded earrings), and sweet, Michelin rounded Yuni, who stuffs his face with anything edible in front of the TV. Then there is the wife Mariela, who has two gears of personality – Wake Up Gear at 09:30 (translation: semi hung-over, very reserved and always with a white, filtered menthol fag in her left hand) and Obnoxious, Rampant, All Knowing Gear at 10:01 (translation: drunk, bombastic with a white filtered menthol fag in her right hand). During our introductions, Yuri Sr. proudly informs us, in Spanish, that his wife speaks excellent English and that there will be no problems. Soon, we discover that she knows maybe two or three broken phrases in Spanglish; though her father is a professor of English and Spanish, she is left short of his linguistic skills.

Yuri Sr. keeps offering alcohol, hinting at his desire for a drinking partner, apart from his slightly loopy, passionate drinker of a wife. And every time, in my most friendly, gracious manner, I decline his offers and requests. One evening, a plastered Mariela realises I can understand more Spanish that I speak and she insists that Yuri Sr. speak with me. Not having much to say, he asks me why I don’t drink. I answer that I don’t like the taste and rum is too strong for this vegetarian light weight.

“Do you smoke Marijuana?” he asks.

“I have puffed on a few joints,” I say, trying not to sound like too much of a party pooper.

“Here in Cuba, Marijuana is for small boys…,” he says, pointing at his eleven year old, slumped on the couch, watching American TV like he has the munchies. “… But when you grow up to be a man, Rum is the only drink!“ and with a slap on the belly, he probes me with a laugh like we are sharing the same inside joke.

Cubans don’t seem to regard beer as alcohol. Along with tobacco and rum, it has been part of their monthly rations since the beginning. Even during the 90’s Special Period, when the Soviet curtains fell, revealing that there was nothing left to loot and no one sober enough to half heartedly run the Communist machine, Rum, Tobacco and Beer were, and still are, part of Cuba’s staple diet. Early Monday, Tuesday, or any morning, on desperate excursions to the markets in search of greens and fruits, mums and dads stroll down the road, each clasping their second beer of the morning, nonchalantly holding a kid in the other hand, cigarette hanging sideways from clenched lips. Every night is a festivity or a celebration of something, and then there is the time honoured tradition of getting drunk at the Malecon, overlooking the sea, which seems to be a whole family affair of dancing, boasting, smooching, bottle breaking and illegalities like smuggling cheese or ice-cream. This is where anxieties, frustrations and opinions are uncorked, and poured through the hatch in to the sea o, a sort of casting problems to the sea and hoping they don’t return until tomorrow attitude. In all honesty, I would have drowned long before my twenty first birthday in a bottle of clear white Rum if I where born under the plight of Fidel’s regime.

In the spirit of Cuban culture, we decide to add fuel to the passionate fire. For Mariela’s birthday, we buy her a bottle of clear Havana Club rum, with the idea that it will speed up the weekend’s massive binge, in order for us to have a better chance of sleep that night. But, just in case, we book our bus tickets for Santa Clara for the morning of her actual birthday. Before three p.m., we hear her yelling obscenities to any and everyone in earshot from the roof, loudly singing Karaoke to her new DVD of jangling, modern Cuban Pop. By four thirty, a desperate looking Yuri hurries down the stairs, the bottle hidden in his pants, a quarter of its full potential still intact, trying to find a place to hide it from his wife.

The next night, with Miin out of the apartment, Mariela insists that I teach her English, but it takes me forty minutes to get her to slur the word “went”.

Mariela says to me, “Mi amiga says you are very handsome,” referring to her slender, attractive friend who visits every morning and stares at me unabashedly.

Thank you, it’s kind of her to say so.

“She want tell me for you. Fucky fucky you. How much?” she asks without batting an eyelid. I stare at her stunned and speechless.

“She fucky you for dinero (money). How much?”

I don’t fucky fucky for dinero. I fucky fucky only for love.

“Oh, how much love you give her?”

I excuse myself and lock the door to our room; keeping my nose in a book and eyes on the door, I wait for Miin to come home.

The greenery is wild and lush from my window seat, its beauty still intact from lack of deforestation, modern mechanised agriculture and general industry. Cuba’s green pelt has the logical growth patterns only Mother Nature can calculate and curve for perfect, natural balance. No straight robust red and brown lines, apart from the small patches of land cultivated by slim, hard bodies, with no excesses and no waists of waste. Hand held, low technology, designed during the Stone Age and made to last, are the tools of Cuba’s agricultural trade, not genetically modified food to bring up a yield fit for a whole kingdom of consumers; an age old method almost unthinkably difficult in modern times.

The price of my one way bus ticket to Santa Clara, only 200 kilometres away from Havana is more than what these family farmers get for a month of hard tobacco labour. The exploitation is obvious and in full view for everyone to see, but nothing tells the story of Cuba’s dictator’s attitude towards the people like the tobacco factories rolling out the famous arm length cigars at astronomical prices. A box of 25 medium sized, hand rolled Cuban pride retails for at least 200 Euros. At a good price, the farmer might get between 15 – 20 dollars for a couple of hundred kilos of organic, handpicked tobacco. A worker in a tobacco factory makes just enough every month to afford about three of these cigars at local Cuban prices. It amazes me that with all the sweat, long hours of suffering for something as trivial as a puff of smoke, they still taste superb.

Santa Clara – the grave of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara

Our arrival on Sunday afternoon is announced by a crowd of local touts refusing to leave us in peace, while we look for an address in a bureaucratically efficient box shaped suburb with no street names, given to us by a friend in Havana. The only catch – it is illegal for Cubans to host foreigners in their homes and a special license, paid for monthly regardless of how many guests, is needed. This license allows a home, no matter the size, to rent out only two rooms, with two persons per room. Any variation on this is illegal and constantly monitored by the police. But the entourage of Casa men on bikes draws so much attention that the police take interest in our motives and keep an obvious watch of where we are going. If we had entered their home, the consequences might have been severe for them. We keep walking unfamiliar streets and finally find a legal place to stay. Despite the multitude of legal Casas, Santa Clara is not a tourist town and its only attraction for foreigners is the Che Guevara memorial, which is closed on Mondays. Since we arrive on a public Sunday holiday, for two days, we wander around town, where the locals ignore our attempts at conversation, sneering at us when we try to find food at reasonable prices, and without fail, we are hissed at and touted by ogling local men, knowing only “China, I love you,” in English, followed by Guapa, Linda, Sabrosa (sexy, spicy, beautiful woman) and a wolf whistle in Spanish.

The son of our Casa owner and everyone who passes through her house, refuse to even return a friendly greeting from us. On our last morning, it is clear that the lady of the house has smiled and spoken kindly only for the fifty dollars she is making off us, showing how she actually shares the local sentiment by moaning about everything from us walking past the electrical cord of her washing machine, to Miin and I trying to have a private conversation in the bathroom while packing for the bus.

My childhood romantic fascination with Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara and Fidel Castro Ruiz came to a devastating crash and burn at the Santa Clara memorial, where the revolutionary’s remains have been buried and turned into an attraction. I hope Che haunts Fidel day and night for turning his ideals and charismatic persona into a commercial celebrity cash cow, using his carefully manicured image to further Fidel’s own socialist agenda. Che’s face has become one of the most branded icons of the last half century, while Fidel puffs on a famous foot long cigar, sniggering at yet another of many contrived luck shots meeting its mark on the target called Cuba. Fidel needs no more benefits from any doubts which have rained upon him so plentifully. He has turned Cuba into his personal piggy bank, hiding behind the veils of Socialism, stealing the rewards of Capitalist economies that rightfully, by socialist default, belong to and should benefit the people of Cuba, not his doctor’s bills in Spain, as one example. The very dictators of Cuba and constant resistance to change, now embodies the Psychopath Fidel Castro Ruiz. That is why, in my opinion, Che left Fidel to his evil ways for brutal, wild Africa and struggling Bolivia.

In memory of this death and life, not even the great Che Guevara could escape the imperialist, Capitalist system from which Fidel makes so much money.

Caribbean Beach Bliss in Trinidad

The big bus negotiates the old, cobblestoned streets and a memory of desperate northern India flashes in my mind, as tropically dressed women and men hold up cardboard signs with photos of their Casas. This is a tourist town, but the tourists trickle and blob in small groups around streets and restaurants, trying to find refuge from the hot afternoon sun in a cold beer. The economical downturn has affected even these small towns of closed- off Cuba, I think to myself, as women from the same childhood streets elbow each other out of the way, jockeying for tourist attention and money, friendship and dignity left behind. Even here, the basic free market principles of supply and demand drive down the prices and we get the cheapest room yet, even willing to allow three people to share, which is illegal.

The level of English, general mood and tolerance towards foreigners are as high as the restaurant prices. The difference between a vegetarian meal and a big full sized lobster tail is less two dollars. Which is the standard for vegetarians all over – we always lose out not matter how you slice the bill. While enjoying freshly squeezed lemon juice and a home cooked meal in a massive, old, colonial house, a testament of the wealth made from sugar cane, we marvel at high ceilings stone floors and door frames wide enough to drive a car through, as we question how we spend our money. Freedom of expression through our choices of how we spread our wealth has never burdened me as much as here in Cuba. To us, five dollars in any other county is the difference between a shared dessert or an extra beer, but to these people it is half of their monthly income. Then the factor of spending it in a way to ensure that it doesn’t get sucked into Fidel’s back pocket plagues my mind every time, and that means all the time. The kind of responsibility that comes with visiting Cuba makes the awareness of how much we have and how free we are to express ourselves, usually taken for granted, seem more of a luxury rather than a God given right, as so many defenders of pure capitalism would argue.

My trip to Cuba has been an education, a shock and forceful introspection into the things taken for granted – choice. The coffee is strong, the tobacco stronger, but not nearly as strong as the people’s ability to survive, while retaining some form of dignity and humility, as the long toothed corporations, a mere 90 miles away, wait in angst to exploit, ravage and remodel Cuba’s face, in the name of democratic, open market, global economy, solely for their own profit. Maybe not that much will change from the current situation once the multi-nationals get hold of their land, bank accounts and minds. That said, the people of Cuba are in the unique position to regulate, choose and pick from the whole basket of mixed fruits the world as a global village now offers. Cubanos, choose well and with your people in mind.

On our last night Havana, I try to gain some sort of perspective. My mind tumbles and fumbles the cause and effects I see here, not just in the systems but in the people, as we walk down lively Obispo street, where musicians play the same old Buena Vista Social Club hits over and over, for tourists who come for the romance of Socialist Cuba, refusing to accept any other reality. I realise that there is no renewal of Cuban art and that all the new music played and listened to by the youth, who will see the most change Cuba has ever seen, simulates American rappers, blaring on about money, women, cars and violence. The fall of the Soviet powers in the 90s caused a mass spill of artisans to leave the land of son and salsa, or find something else to feed themselves. And with this power spill, rich Cuban music now resides around the Caribbean and in far off Europe, where their preservation and evolution is more likely than in the home land.

Their interests and desires for a better life are nothing more than what every single country, community and most individuals spread over the Occidental globalised world want. Proudly South African, I can say that I have lived though an organic change, initiated and born deep within the people. No system of ideology can ever bring the changes we as humans want and need- we have to look within ourselves for the truth and for happiness, and there we will find the answers of what is good for us, not determined by the powers at the top.

Deathly Honest Kali Gore

2010-09-22T05:07:00.004+02:00

“One of the penalties for refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors" - Plato

Not many or much can push me from the balanced tower centre I have created to conduct the business of my life, in Half Lotus position. I have contemplated, studied and tamed the pushing forces to a degree of relative understanding and comfort. Even in dream states, I find my awareness stable and intact, always aimed at the highest truth. But, now for the big BUT...

In the quest for deepening of self and a fuller experience, there is no denying my shortcomings, no hiding from the humiliating in-capabilities and darkest movements within me. I admit that I findmyself in the proverbial shit storm more often than not, without a mask, compass or signs of the end in sight as the evolutionary spiral continues to tighten and speed up.

Instead, it's the internal pull which I find still invokes those emotions which bring my balanced towers of observation and rule crashing down, only to be built up again. The constant rise and fall of the thrones I place myself upon in order to have a better view of both the inner and outer worlds, remains the constant drama I struggle to untangle from.

The nature of these opposing forces are different, though identical in expressed symbolic Yin and Yang. The one force which still successfully tempts me into unbalanced self treason and emotional drama is - politics. Politics of nations, of international organisations like the UN, the testing vaccinations on Third World countries by NGOs, cataloging and branding of countries as First to Fourth World Westernised pigeonholes, medical syndicates, pharmaceutical drug dealers, genetically modified food, poisoned water, religion, multinational corporations that scam and exploit, insatiable consumerist culture, trade agreements (or fraternity style
exclusive pacts), international philanthropy for the good of the giver, propaganda disguised as entertainment news and fact, and most of all, those hidden agendas branded as fringe or conspiracy theories no one is supposed to know about, or maybe too tired or brainwashed to care about.

Things such as the inconsistencies of 9/11, 7/7, the Iraq and Afghan wars, Sudan, Western sponsored ethnic cleansing, suppressed technologies e.g. free energy, ruling bloodlines, UFOs, US military funding of most of the world's conflicts, the marketing machine conveying the interchangeable Democratic and Republican life- like dolls and all Obama's newly packaged bullshit sold with copious amounts of cancerous white sugar on top.

I see what is wrong with our world and feel the conflict arise inside. I feel empathy, sympathy, guilt and the whole spectrum of dramatic emotions tightening around my heart and limbs. Like a puppet being manipulated by the puppeteer, helpless to the whims of a darker existence. A cheap trick to pull, using the emotions we humans consider most noble, I accuse the puppet master when I want to place blame on something other than myself. A cheap shot and low blow which gets me to invest emotionally into causes out of my direct control.

How can I stop caring? Should I start disabling my emotional programs until I resemble the psychopath puppeteers of Enron, BP, Wal-Mart, McDonald's, FEMA, Monsanto and the worst of the lot, the banking cartels and governments designing and plotting mass human genocide, under the veils of population control, global warming and carbon taxing? My sanity escapes me as my eyes roll back in my head, the stir of emotion ripples into tsunamis, engulfing my pillar of strength, which I cling to at the sight of all the evils of this world. The doors to my hell are flung open and my entourage of daemons parade into the light of another day.

Loud Fuck You's and Fuck This's echo like trumpets, announcing the eruption of the black masses from the same mouth that blesses the world and thanks all of creation for every morning. Passionate, precise murder of all the inhumane players on the world stage and politics gathered in one UN assembly, or the plotting elite from behind closed doors in their child - sacrificing ritual meetings of the Illuminati, drops from fantasy to contemplative, cognitive, logistical reality. I draw from the same ethereal pools Shiva the Destroyer rises from, to bring an end to the madness at the end of the Kali Yuga. Given just a split moment to pull the trigger, push the red bomb button, or even better, sever every head and limb from every socket with my bare bloody hands, even the slightest moment's hesitation will be left far behind in the wake of blood and gore which I will bathe the Earth in, to cleanse Her of all evils.

Breathless, torn and tired, the cunning core of my ego collapses, to reveal the compassionate truth about the cataclysmic epoch I have dived into head first, eyes wide open. A breath of fresh air soothes my burning lungs as sanity pulls me from the tenacious muck, in which my fragrant lotus grows thick, strong and wide.

Whispered promises of the restoration of balance in our world buckle my knees back into Half Lotus, as my eyes, half open, rest on the vision of the distant battle, a battle whose outcome is already written. Tranquility washes over the dark pond under my perfect lotus.

I thank All for their roles in this worldly drama, but I thank the darkest and most evil for its role in bringing opportunity for change, light to darkness and growth. I thank the Light for its warm nature, in which darkness cannot exist, and I thank all the puppeteers for choosing the side of duality, which will always be defeated and turned to Light, in this rotating, continuous drama of life and death, the fallen and the anointed.

To all those players on stage, so convincing in their evil ways, I thank you for bearing the burden and load of Karma, darker and more heinous than my daemon parade could ever strive for. I realise that again, the only forces which govern us are the ones we allow to govern us... and of course, mostly the forces from outer sources, rather than inner. Gandhi summed it up with, "The rulers may have our land and bodies, but not our souls".

With free minds and open hearts, we chip away at the shackles of humanity, knowing that we need not fight for freedom, but merely realise that it has been ours for Eternity.

We are Free.

Namaste

Light and Love

Niel

detoxification station

2010-09-18T21:31:00.002+02:00

detoxification. a very vague yet popular term used by health nuts the world over, and first emphasised to me via the raw foods universe, but unsurprisingly, not something i often wrote in patient notes as a doctor. having approached this concept from many different angles, as a scientist, an alternative medicine supporter and a spiritual explorer, it has brought doubt and cynicism, as well as happiness and health.

raw foodies tend to attribute any negative symptom brought about by starting a raw food diet or doing a "detox" as detoxification, and at times i grew concerned about the seriousness of some symptoms and the far too flippant brush off as detox. however, in my own experience, this has seemed to be the case and the scientific side of my brain is losing the battle a bit! (my medical friends probably think i'm even more nuts than they did before!)

when i first started on raw foods, my gums bled more, my skin broke out, i had some issues in the toileting department and i had intestinal discomfort. after a week or two of this, my gums stopped bleeding altogether, my skin and eyes were clearer than they had ever been, my hair was luscious and everything in the downstairs department was in excellent working order. when i've done other cleanses like the master cleanse, the same thing happens. now that i'm doing some oil pulling and changing my dentifrice to baking soda, salt and hydrogen peroxide, i have gone through the increased bleeding gums, a weird coldness inside my ears and mucous in the porcelain goddess. but these are resolving quickly and my mouth is feeling great, my teeth are whiter than they have ever been and my skin is clearing up. sounds familiar :)

not that physical detox comes on its own either. with a good little juice fast or extreme healthy change in diet, emotional detox holds hands and does a little salsa with the physical side of things too. grumpiness, depression, irritability, anger, anxiousness.. all the little demons come to the surface (i am a true believer that our physical and emotional selves/ mind are very very intricately intertwined) and you are forced to deal with them, through whatever coping or cleansing or clearing mechanism you have available to yourself. this is the time when your partner or people around you have to be super understanding and you have to increase your awareness in order to function properly! it's a time to take care of oneself and devote time to reconciling with certain black bunnies that have been hopping around.

detoxifying your life includes slowly letting go of attachments to relationships that do not serve you anymore and replacing them with only love for that person, getting rid of all the material stuff we don't need as well. for me, this year has been an enormous detoxification in those areas too and has positively affected my emotional and spiritual well being, despite the hurdles that had to be overcome (and still need to be!).

then there's the all encompassing spiritual detox that drags the emotional and physical sides along with it. it's a different starting point but again, all are doing a dance together, sharing a bed and what not, so attention must be paid to all and messages from each must be observed. there was the time, when we were south africa, that a thyroid cyst grew exponentially. i had never had anything of the sort. traditionally, these cysts are often benign and can only be reduced in size by needle aspiration (yuck!) but are often left if they stop growing. however, they very rarely spontaneously regress. i went through the usual non invasive gamut of tests but decided to take no action, except to acknowledge that the thyroid gland produces many hormones including those to do with emotion and that in chinese medicine, the thyroid is associated with anger. so i did some deep cleaning and resolved my anger issues as best i could and within a week, the cyst had completely disappeared, and has not returned. my body was physically reminding me that my emotional state was hurting it and some spiritual work needed to be done. i feel blessed to be in a space where my body can immediately let me know what needs to be done and responds when i listen and take action. many of us are so out of touch with our bodies that even this is difficult to do (and i have definitely been there).

then there were the times that i actively sought plant teachers to address spiritual issues and detox all the crap that has accumulated menacingly in my inner being. all these experiences brought the relationship of the three into very clear view. in one case, would feel that i could easily stop breathing and die peacefully, having no fear of what would come after, but my both would jerk itself to remind me that we are still attached to each other and it needs oxygen. energy would be released through involuntary movements and afterwards, i always feel refreshed, though at times tired from the experience. there's also the all important everyday endeavours to chip away at the blocks of hard ice- intuitive yoga, meditation, painting, writing, co-creating a future, making music, making sweet love, dancing around in a frenzy to good music and hula hooping- all freeing, daily detoxifications.

detox is a word that can be used in many contexts, but the most important of all, for me at least, is that how we choose to live our life starts with a detoxification of all that does not serve our highest self on every level, then only can we continue onwards on a path of healing and no more accumulation of pain, unhappiness and fear.

LOVE!

The --> Point

2010-09-15T04:24:00.011+02:00

It all seems so simple. Nothing can be done, no amount of man hours, horsepower or strategic planning can bring us into focus. It just happens without any effort. No Effort- the hardest part of all. Why do I struggle with the most basic concepts of seeing, while I can't stop looking. The curtain has been drawn back too far and the mysticism has escaped. The only fundamental principle left is that we are truly alone on this dark, inward exploration of our own universes.

We are remarkable in so many diverse ways. So soft and fragile, yet so resilient in the face of mass change. We fear the inevitable changes and before we have a chance to resist, cry and hammer against the constant changes, we are already adapted and comfortable with our new changes. The lessons are always cloaked in cliches and nothing that we have not heard over and over. Change in the constant and resistance cause persistence.

Eyes closed, attention inward, the dot on the 'i', shades out until it is a far off dim view, and all that is left, what remains, is the journey; the point of it all is the journey. The fulfillment, the happiness and the point don't sit at the top of the mountain. Instead, they are the friends holding our umbrella while the rain creases our path, and when the sun in its full glory is too much for fragile human skins, they keep up in the shade.

They're not called avatars for no reason. They have paved the dark, lonely ways to fulfillment and fuller realisation, their warning and advice blessing us when we start our journeys; while we are in the depths of ourselves, their whispers tingle in our ears, as we choose a moment to listen, take a breath and try to make some sense in the uncharted labyrinths we tread every day.

Emptiness, the Nothingness- this is what we find in the mechanics of these worlds, inner and outer. The truths are that we need to experiment for ourselves with our truths, design and build new stronger truths, break down and destroy that which does not serve us anymore. I came to this realisation recently when turning an inner corner in the half lotus sitting position, eyes closed. The texts, scrolls and scriptures have been telling us this truth for as long as we have philosophised and looked to the starts, but the realisation became truth only when I experienced? or saw it for myself. As this became my Truth, I realised that we have to see for ourselves, and no one can paint that picture for us.

Yes, the mechanics of it all are cold, lonely, bare bones, and we are the ultimate observers of Emptiness. And from the Emptiness sprouts the whole of eternity, the universe, and all that has been, will be, and is, for eternity. Like the small seed of the massive oak tree, when opened to find its essence, Nothingness greets us. The point is Nothing... we design our trunks, flavour our fruits, and share our fragrance to make the forests.

They Are Everywhere!

2010-09-13T04:30:00.008+02:00

The fat brown Dachshund growl and barks as if it’s the end for his species, at the unfamiliar Spanish voices coming from outside our door. He never barks for no reason and is so mild mannered that I find it strange and pop my head out the door to snoop in the neighbour's business. The sweet old lady across the way is shooing two youngsters in black slacks, white shirts and name tags on their chests from her door. She greets me every time she sees me with a big hearted grandmother's happiness smile, but today she barks distorted insults at the two bearers of unwanted news.

Their attention turns towards me and clearly I am the next target of their unwarranted Mormon message.

Rain threatens to taint their crisp white shirts and glued straight hair as they ask in Spanish if I have a couple of minutes to spare. I respond with a typical "No sorry ,I don’t speak any Spanish" and they burst into capable English. “That’s not problem. Do you have some time to talk about the love and grace of God”, the shorter mocha creamed early twentysomething says. Miin growls from behind me in the house, as I invite them in for some fresh chamomile tea, as the usual banter is conducted in broken Spanglish. Both are open faced, straight eyed kids with crew cuts doing Joseph Smith's dirty work.

Straight from the hip, the taller disciple shoots, “Are you married?” and I see Miin’s Scorpio tail twitch with an itch and she fires back, “No. We don’t believe in marriage”. I pull up a stool, but she refuses to join the circle. Probably better for these two disciples that she stays behind the computer, I think. “We would consider marriage when gay marriage is legalised”, I drop some thorny bait on the table.

Why did I do it? Why did I let them in for pointless religious debate? Because it was about to rain, I love talking about God, spirituality and honestly, I wanted to see if my theories and beliefs stand the onslaught of missionaries trying to convince me of how shit my existence is, and that the bearded Ego on His throne is the only way to salvation.

Instead of ranting about Moronic Mormons (just can’t help myself to the silliness), have a look at these: after all, a picture speaks a thousand words, so here are a couple of thousand words crammed into something that will never see the pearly gates of Joseph Smith’s heaven. Thank GOD!

Joseph Smith, eat you heart out!

Just for laughs!

Dancing with Coyotes!

2010-09-03T00:38:00.005+02:00

Embodiments of Love!

In Aztec mythology, Huehuecoyotl (“very old coyote”) is a shapeshifting prankster god of music, song and dance, encompassing all that is colourful, energetic and playful. An apt name and mascot for an eco- community, borne of freedom and passion for the arts, ecology, social activism, true democracy and holistic health. Nestled at the base of stunning mountain cliffs in tiny, colonial Tepoztlan, Morelos this international community continues its almost forty year influence over the local, national and global network of conscious individuals.

We first heard of Huehuecoyotl during our Ecovillage Design Education course in the Philippines, and were determined to uncover its magic whilst travelling through Mexico. After a few initial mishaps, with much patience and kindness on their side, we found ourselves in a lush, green paradise of magnificent natural architecture and a constantly evolving, maturing group of truly inspiring people. Greeted by the lovely Sadie, who grew up on the famous Farm in Tennessee, we were free to roam and gawk, the only visitors during their quiet season. Later, we were honoured to meet Liora and Andrew, presidents of a new kind of education through Gaia University and long time residents of Huehuecoyotl. The warmth, love and genuine honesty of every single member we met gave us much inspiration to continue on our search for a sustainable and creative life.

We spent the next three days camping out, introducing ourselves to various members in residence and wandering around the property, amazed at the fourteen different houses, all of unique style and substance; the vegetable gardens, extensive garbage disposal system, and many examples of appropriate technology and natural building.

Not to mention the mind blowing art and creative spaces that dotted the property. However, what we valued most was the conversations with our new friends, their insights into community living and their brutal honesty about the ups, downs and twirly bits of “growing old together”, something they never imagined they would do.

Huehuecoyotl began as such: Thirty people from different countries founded the Illuminated Elephants Travelling Gypsy Theatre, a nomadic caravan of converted school buses which rolled around the world for ten years, entertaining, educating, recording important historical events, having children and basically spreading love across the planet. In 1982, they decided to find a permanent home, inviting others from social activist and youth groups to join them in their new community.

Today, some members continue the caravan tradition with lacaravana.org, Caravana Arcoiris por La Paz, while others travel extensively, teaching conflict resolution, playing music from Latin America and the Caribbean, leading Sustainability and Permaculture education on all levels, involving themselves in the Global ecovillage movement and expressing creativity via photography, natural architecture, writing, social activism, filmmaking, poetry, painting, holistic healing, gardening, designing clothing and teaching yoga and Indian dance. Huehuecoyotl also hosts ecology based workshops for the local community and beyond, as well as welcoming visitors from all over the world to intern or learn about different aspects of natural building and community living. Their integration with the local community is admirable and continues strongly to this day, educating, exchanging wisdom and supporting each other.

Twenty eight years later, all of the founders still live at Huehuecoyotl, though they are all uber- busy and travel extensively. As a maturing community, things have definitely changed, especially in the last few years. After over twenty years of constant community mealtimes, consensus decision making, meetings and community events, the need to commune has somewhat diminished. The family of people who live there are so close, and know each other so well that it was time for everyone to have more privacy and to do their own thing. As a result, Huehuecoyotl seemed a bit like a condo where everyone spent time on their own lives and projects, with the occasional get together or community project. Several members were in favour of this change, but others yearned for the community life they had led before, and started travelling with La Caravana again. Understandably, everyone had grown in many ways but not necessarily in the same direction. Honestly, this is where I believe most communities go, sustainable or not, because people change, and to pretend otherwise would be deluding ourselves! With Alberto Ruiz, the leader of the Caravana and one of the three Mexicans who first started the Illuminated Elephants, returning to Huehuecoyotl after thirteen years on the road, everyone was anticipating another change in the way the community would co-habitate. Like anything in life, communities flow and change with the times and with the people.

It was enlightening to visit Huehuecoyotl, to see another way of life, and meet such inspiring individuals who truly wanted something different for a fractured world. The next generation certainly has new ideas about how to be socioculturally sustainable and attract new members to a very tight knit family, having often grown up in communities themselves, but the most important message we received was that our generation chooses to live in super abundance- and this will be our ultimate saviour as we move into a new consciousness.

(We visited Huehuecoyotl in early August)

Don't Judge A Face By Its Profile

2010-08-30T17:50:00.007+02:00

Snarl at it, claw at it, live in it, fear it, don't deny the results and magnitude of Facebook. I sit back and contemplate the shift in connectedness when my mother and father send me friend requests on Facebook. It's not that I care if they see my party photos or the dirty comments under them, but I would rather not upset the "don't ask, don't tell" status quo we have maintained to keep them at a comfortable enough distance, to not share blame in case I fuck out later in life. But as incriminating as the photos might be, the albums are a sternly edited record of the biggest journey and kickstart of my life. My connection changed as Facebook started connecting my past, present and future, mushing them into one.

True to human nature, people want to present their idea of the best version of themselves to the outside world, putting up professional photo shoot photos of every weekend's drinking etc. I think of mind as more organic, kind of a public light or soap box we get into to see who is looking at us, what they are portraying to the world. Hear the drama, share the drama and make drama. But then I realise that generalisation of the matter is trivial in comparison to the amount of personal information available on one source of the internet. I know most people don't give this a second thought, and definitely don't lose any sleep over it, but I urge you to take a minute to sit by while I hash out my logic:

The amount of personal information disclosed to sources on the internet you have no human contact with (making you unable to judge for yourself if you want to trust this person or entity, or not). How many times do you think your personal, private information changes ownership in this space we can't even imagine visually? Email addresses, phone numbers etc. are all for sale to marketing corporations on the net, by search engines like Google.

PayPal refused to give Miin an account on the grounds of "suspicious activities" related to her bank account, when her bank has not said a thing in all her years of travel. How do they know this? Then after hours on the phone with various ranks of people who never thought of the idea that her private financial information is now the property of PayPal, she is excluded from their clientele permanently. One of the techies told us that there is nothing he can do to delete her information (including bank account details, copies of her passport, driver's license and Malaysian ID) from the system and that she can never use that account number again to open a PayPal account.

Why is it that even with the utmost respect for privacy of personal information when dealing with any forwarded emails, numbers, etc. I still get spam mail from Banks, Pharmaceutical Companies trying to smear Viagra off on me, porn sites advertising singles wanting to FUCK ME in the Ass in every town I check my accounts in throughout the world?

I wonder why I would give my money to a bank that has less ethics than a serial killing meth dealer selling to children at an unattended playground from the other side of the fence where No One can touch him.

Why would I take any chemically engineered substance to make me feel worth something, something like a slave praying for death to rescue him? Meanwhile, the Media has humanity convinced that they are not good enough for anyone unless you sell your soul to a brand and be part of the family of people who have achieved the lifestyle which brings so-called happiness. Because things equal happiness.

A manifesto from... what shall I call this? Do I want youthful rebellion and blood slaughtering revolution that so many leaders call for? No
But rather a manifesto of a human- No rebellion, only honest peace and harmony among all living beings, on all levels of existence and all spaces in between.

After the fall of the One World Order, when all has been revealed in the light of love, what will we do with the guilty? Hunt them? Murder them, kill them, burn them at the stake? Or will we be fair, just and sober about mercifully sterilizing the skin on their arms seconds before we pierce their veins with a lethal end? In this monotonous circle of birth and death, our fatal blows of hate on ourselves and each other bring us back to the destructive nature of humanity. But in humanity's thickest, densest depths, there is a counter point stretching back into the shades of gray, to a point of origin, past a little magical magnificence, past the point of abundance of light and love, to always almost reach infinity.

(Ended this one totally off the point. But hey, who knows that the point is to anything...)

7 Mushrooms

2010-08-30T03:55:00.015+02:00

I wait for the black smeared, dreadlocked local that I had seen loitering in front of the Internet cafe, in contemplation and awe of the connections made in the grid of time that brought us to this exact moment of buying hallucinogenic mushrooms.
Four hours earlier, in the early morning heat of the hottest time on the Mexican Pacific coast, a decision is made for us.

A flamboyant man from Mexico City is having a late breakfast in sleepy Puerto Angel with three generations of his family at an empty beachfront restaurant, tells us about San Jose del Pacifico, and promises to meet us there for a beer later in the day. Before they exit into a big air- conditioned SUV, he points to a brown tattoo on his daughter's left shoulder depicting a magic mushroom, cartoon style.

"There you can find very famous mushrooms," he says with a sly grin. "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds mushrooms," he winks a last time.

A metaphysical force pushes us towards the mountains, higher and higher up, through coils of the meandering serpent. A sudden open stretch of road clears, revealing a straight shot up to a living green peak on the Sierra Madre mountain range, home to a tribe of Hongos Sargados experts, more than 10,000 feet above this morning's sea level brunch.

"Seven mushrooms" is the recommended dosage. No matter the various sizes of dirty, slime- covered mushrooms in the black plastic bag, it is always recommended that you take seven. The man's dirty finger extends from an oversized black hooded sweater to count the magic stems.

I don't understand the logic behind the magic dose of seven, but maybe it's part of the inexplicable experience of travelling to the depths of the self.

"If you have any bad feelings, they will come out and change. Maybe if you are sick inside, you will get sick on the outside". The dirty hippie pulls back his more- than- a- decade- old trunk of dreadlocks from his shoulders and reveals his thin frame under his huge sweater. "If you are strong, you can take ten mushrooms, but it will break you down and build you up again. Maybe someone is scared of this, but it's good for the heart," he says, before sticking two black covered parcels, both with freshly picked spiritual technologies in the form of Mary Jane and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds Magic Mushrooms (TM) in his pants. Hunched over, obviously concealing something in his clothes, he joins three or four other figures emerging from the depths of the thick mountain mist, embracing him with smiles and yodels of joy, as they descend into the fog for an early morning treat.

The small cabin motif room with double bed and an excellent view of four or five mountain peaks is a warm capsule from the unusually drastic climate change we have had in the last couple of hours, a safe haven for the journey we are taking tonight.

The universe has conspired in perfect unison to bring us to this point of what we need, every time. Even if we don't want to admit it, the images and emotions we cultivate in the warm, moist depths of consciousness spawn and multiply until they are big and solid enough to manifest in our outer view of reality. I mull over this in my mind, as I wash off the slime and earth from the cold, hard, almost muscular stems and heads.

The fresh taste of organic mushrooms are pleasant under my molars, with a new bitter aftertaste I have not experienced before. We settle into bed, and in meditation I ask for wisdom. Wisdom and insight into life, creation, living, people, love, duality. I ask for compassion and maturity to bear the weight of having such celestial wisdom and insights.

I want to get to the place where sound is generated, somewhere in the unstructured vastness of the inner dimension. Audio is the first sense to heighten and push through the conventional barriers of perception. Pupils dilated, my awareness turns inward, with the pulse of my heart becoming louder with every breath taken deeper into the known.

The message comes: our destinies are broadly defined in terms of happiness, growth, love and have characteristics of broad direction, rather than a micromanaged, detailed itinerary and breakdown of our chronological experiences. The experience is so tailor- made personal, I can only speak for myself.

The time delay between creation and manifestation is instant in the planes of the mind. The shapes and forms complex beyond what I thought my artistic imagination could conceptualise. Space and time expand and melt to boundlessness unity and I realise Space and Time are different aspects of the same thing.

In all the lifetimes experienced, have I not asked for the things I want? I understand the creative process and see it displayed in a visual depiction, realising what major part Art plays in our evolution, our expansion of consciousness and reality.

I could not have asked for this before- I was not mature enough to really see that with great wisdom comes great responsibility to others and the self. Realising that we are alone in the search for enlightenment or full realisation or spiritual maturity is liberating, if we accept that we are not victims of any situation or circumstance. Opportunity is in every moment and the onus is on us in its perfect design of self governance of natural laws on this earth, to find whatever it is we are looking for. The connection is intensified and waves of audio colours crash over my body as the inner path to the answers are illuminated.

Like being taken to the gallery of our lives, I am treated to a more distant view of my own life. Seeing the whole model nexus in all its rich splendor. The parts I created unconsciously before my awakening, my first attempts at happiness, my second attempt at recreating myself. Then the realisation- no trying, no attempting, no dress rehearsals. Why we must make our experiences real and with impact. Imagining a life where everything is granted a rehearsal, where nothing will have the sense of finality and urgency which we crave to make our experiences real.

The afterglow sets in, while the medicine marches through my liver and the rest of my digestive system, having done exactly what it had come to do.

Consistently, energy flows through all the meridians, from all my toes right through to the ends of all my fingers. Contracting muscles filled with the flow of pure, universal fresh energy coerces my biology, the god status finally realised in me, and I see what is meant by creation in the image of the Ultimate creator- that we are all various degrees of the same forces, condensed into human beings.

We as a collective, are the god or God we call upon in our fantasies and prayers, to grant us what we thought couldn't be done by ourselves, or don't deserve in the name of Grace, Love or any of the attributes. But in fact, the barriers we believe exist are what keep us from achieving what we believe can only be done through god or God.

The next morning at breakfast, the owner of the lodge, with a full loving expression, comes to our table for a chat and to get our opinion on the mushrooms of the mountain. He reveals that vast majorities of the villagers take the Hongos (mushrooms) on a regular basis and that children are not excluded from this ancient practice. His own two boys (six and nine) are part of the community of seekers of the beyond.

I don't advocate anything except a journey inwards and outward loving expression.

South Africa, Where I Began.

2010-08-25T01:01:00.001+02:00

The pairs of four hooves gallop, trotting over a mixture of sand and pieces of road in the same rhythm, at different intervals and time. Everyone is doing the same thing, unsynchronised, resembling chaos and inequality of sameness. Market Day's participants are squashed against and around the long walls of the slaughterhouse. More goats than villagers, in rows, on their way to the ocean floor as microbes via Mexican bowls, bowels, assholes and rivers.

As the brown, black and white schematic shapes of the death parade move as one mass, holding traffic at a complete standstill, a small boy holds his grandmother's hand, a soccer ball grasped in the other, witness to a mass orgy of blood, to be spilled shortly. His father and mother are wearing white shirts splashed with the 2010 South African Soccer World Cup logos; the little boy is kitted from head to toe in 2010 Soccer gear. But not all the blood of all sacrificial goats can flow at the width and length of the rivers of human blood, spilled in sixteen years of democracy in South Africa. Today, the world celebrates us for a sports event which will only have one so-called winner out of all the teams and players. More tears flow in dismay for a lost game than for the deaths before this capitalist ideal guaranteed loss for all but one.

A smaller, solid brown goat collapses on the side of the bumper to bumper traffic; in peaceful protest he yelps, as the mother of two children pulls on a noose around his neck, trying to drag him to a bloodbath. But the goat has gall, collapsing again when she puts him down, a couple of carried feet away. The goat's end of days prophecy is fulfilled in our full view, as I wonder how we cannot accept that animals have the same consciousness and awareness as humans. I wonder what my reaction will be if I am lead, in my final moments, into a government camp, leashed and bound like a slave of Eugenics experiments by other space beings. I hope, like the goat, in peaceful protest, I will go.

---------------------------

"Como? Por que Sud Afrika?" ("What? Why South Africa?)

The eldest, shortest and meanest, most disgruntled of the three Oficiar de Estado (State Police) asks me this, standing close to my side of the van. Hanging his head near to mine, he dons a silver pair of reflective teardrop shaped Ray Bans. I see my bearded reflection with my own pair of gold rimmed Ray Bans staring down the barrel of imminent extortion.

With ten words and two phrases of Spanish, I try to explain why I am from South Africa. His two cronies shake my hand excitedly and ask me what I thought of the World Cup (Mundial!), while newly designated Bad Cop grumbles in the background. A couple of misunderstood sentences later, the two cronies and I laugh out loud at my dismal attempts, the situation morphing naturally into a Good Cop/ Bad Cop scenario, without anyone allocating the roles.

Bad Cop tries every trick in the book, complete with English translations of the Hoy No Circula rule for Mexico State and tiny laminated papers of every possible "crime" I can be fined for. I stay totally calm and speak evenly to not ignite his anger, showing him all our legal and in order paperwork.

Q: Where is your front number plate? Give it to me!
A: It is here on our front dashboard (perfectly legal). No, I am not giving it to you.

Q: Look at this paper. Today you cannot drive in Mexico state.
A: Today is Wednesday. My number plate ends in 6. It is after 11am. We can drive at this time.

Q: Where is your smog certificate? You need a smog test to drive in Mexico state because your car is old. Otherwise we keep you here for two days to do the smog test.
A: We don't have a smog test (feign stupidity and lack of Spanish- we know what he says is not true). OK take us to La Comandancia (police station) and we'll do it.

As soon as I turn on the ignition, he points menacingly for me to turn it off.

Q: (Pointing at our large Carlo Rossi ex- wine bottle now filled with water) Is that alcohol? You can't transport alcohol (also a lie).
A: No it's water, please smell it.

Q: Show me your driver's license.
A: (Reluctantly hand over real driver's license) Here. South African. Please give it back. (Thankfully, he does)

Q: Where are your passports?
A: (Hesitate for a second to think of plan as we do not want to give him originals) They are in Morelia, we are getting Cuban visas from the embassy. Here are photocopies of both our passports and Mexican visas.

A light bulb goes off in his head, a gleeful smile across his face. He shuffles through the laminated papers and hands us one. In terrible English, the paper tells us that without our passports, we can be held in jail for two days. So I tell him to take us to jail, we'll call our consulate, let's go.. the ignition goes on, and again, I am angrily ordered to turn it off.

Bad Cop starts threatening us with deportation, a couple of nights in jail and the carnapping of Suzie Wong. This man has obviously never had any encounters with South Africans, especially not the kind from the city of gold, deadly Jozi. But the language barrier is too high for my Jedi mind tricks, and no matter how many police officers I have bribed, Bad Cop needs to think he is in charge.

But as I once again suggest that we take this matter to the police station, his knuckles turn white on the car door, his mouth crunches into a tight circle as he spits and spews in Spanish, his face resembling an asshole and two silver mirrors.

I engage the bribe and he writes neatly on the white page Miin is holding "$1000" and says "US, Dollares". I accidentally laugh in his face at this preposterous proposal and his mouth tightens into a crumpled asshole again. I open my wallet and show him the 100 Pesos and four or five single dollars I have. But he points to a black bag Miin is clutching and I realise this man is moments away from taking the whole bag which holds our passports and a decent sum of US dollars. He snoots at the crisp brown 500 peso note Miin holds out. He raises his hand with four short, stumpy fingers showing his desire for 2000 pesos, his pinky gripped by a big golden nug, as an admission of guilt and testimony of his brand of law enforcement.

His two cronies approach, insisting he let us go, but he is determined. Miin sighs and hands over another 500. He finally lets us go as he whips out his wallet, placing the two brown notes (80USD) in his personal, tax- free bank account.

----------------------

Everyone is South African, if you believe that the origin of humanity is in South Africa and in evolution. My short life has been full of wandering and wondering, taking me to places I could only dream of, but my story begins in South Africa. Not at the end of Africa, but at the beginning. The beginning for our race, says Mr. Darwin.

In all the miles, personalities and characters of the last twenty month marathon of inexplicable growth, very few faces have been from my homeland. I am proud to say I am from South Africa when people ask. Proud to say that I know that place intimately, lovingly, compassionately.

The strange questions come when this white face doesn't speak European or American English. The expressions change from stern to smiling many times, when my Mother Country is mentioned. The reason must be because deep inside, everyone relates to the real Motherland. The unification of the diversity of this world is represented in its origins.

Often we get the question, "What is your favourite country, place, city, food, people etc.", and the reply is always right where we are, in the moment. But many travellers we have met, including Miin, are of the opinion that South Africa really takes your breath away with every one of her natural beauties in mass abundance.

From most of the conversations with non South Africans, I get a sense that we have many fans rooting for us. People like rooting for the underdog and in our true South African manner, we pull through in the end with all the odds stacked against us. Why wouldn't we want dramatic finishes in the dying moment of the eleventh hour? Are thrills and chills not what make us feel alive and vulnerable? As if it's real?

Namaste
Light and Love
Niel

Mexico City in A Nutshell

2010-08-20T01:58:00.008+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

One... New Friends! Stayed with amazing CSer Jan, a Human Rights lawyer with the UN who has lived in Cambodia, Nepal and several other places, and is an all round awesome chap! Colonia Roma Norte. Shared space with the lovely Saartje from Belgium and our musical buddy Ciro of Argentina. Met two CSers randomnly on the street and proceeded to hang out with them- we love you Nima (super light traveller from the US) and Lucia (the sweetest gal you'll ever meet in Latin America, all the way from Bolivia)!

Proof of Reincarnation, No?

Two... Art and Lust! Diego Rivera murals at the Palacio de Bellas Artes and Palacio Nacional, Frida Kahlo's Casa Azul in Coyoacan (totally mind blowing and humbling), Diego's specially designed museum which looks like an Aztec palace and Leon Trotsky's house where he was ice axed by a Russian spy, despite the armoured doors.

Diego's Masterpiece At Palacio Nacional

Rivera and Kahlo had a turbulent relationship but it fascinates us no end, and Trotsky hid out in their home until Frida had an affair with him and he moved out with his wife. Mexican Art is truly astounding and inspiring!

Three... Food! Comida Corrida ft. Chile Rellenos at little Mercados (who doesn't love a deep fried cheese stuffed pepper smothered in sauce?), Quesadillas, huge glasses of fresh fruit and veg juice (Beet juice is aptly named Vampiros), roasted corn (Elotes) topped with cream, cheese, lime and chili, seriously overpriced but totally authentic Korean food (cooked expertly by Mexican chefs) and home cooked pasta with mole sauce, courtesy of Ciro the chef! Mmmm... drooolll....

Two Different Kinds of Food...

Four... Ruins and More Old Stuff! How could we miss the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon at Teotihuacan. Absolutely breathtaking, and mindboggling that they even built these structures and filled them in, with only a fancy temples on top (which of course, did not survive)- did they push people off the sides for sacrifice? Is the whole sacrifice thing made up to make us think they were barbarians? Or were these huge landing pads for visitors from outer space... I vote for that theory. After all, Quezacotl was described as a "feathered serpent" right?

This was further confirmed by a visit to the Museum of Anthropology, which covered everything from the Aztecs, Mayans etc to today- plenty of serpent imagery, plenty of evidence of flight and strange creatures from beyond. It also fascinates me how similar many ancient cultures are!

S-s-s-snakes In A Museum....

Five... Public Transport! A big shout out to the awesomeness of Mexico City's wonderful Metro system, which is really cheap and efficient, gets you places you want to go without having to suffer the traffic and even has a section for women and children (those nasty wandering hands are a problem!). Sure, not as clean or on time as any Asian MRT but still gets the job done! The bus we took to Mexico City from SMA was one of the best, or likely the best, inter city bus we have ever taken on our travels. America, Mexico puts you to shame in the public transport department I'm afraid (and also, in the fresh produce department).

And that, my friends, is Mexico City in a nutshell. More on this from Niel later!

Love!!!

PS We are now in Oaxaca... :)

I Love You The Sun

2010-08-03T16:35:00.001+02:00

Miin always jokes that her persistence is why we are together now, doing what we are doing. A joke, yes, but also an honest truth.

Travelling the world for almost 20 months is as challenging as I hoped it to be. Travelling with a partner for 20 months, constantly sharing the same things, is impossibly hard. No one could be in the same company consistently, for that long.

I believe in having my cake and eating it, and then maybe having another slice. And again, everything I ask for is provided, without fail, and luckily, I never got a girlfriend, wife or partner to travel with. I got Miin. My persistent, consistent love, who in her being radiates light of purity, willingness and consciousness of universal compassion. Which could be the only explanation for our union under earthly skies- universal compassion.

In moments of turmoil and challenge, this life of uncertainty and constant change, a look to my side brings Miin into sight and into focus universal compassion and love, showered upon me every moment spent in the light of Miin- love.

Miin's humane honesty shines bright, welting the traditional cliches of romantic notions. Never have I experienced love grow so thick and true. Love at its purest form, love without judgment; love, unconditionally eternal.

I realise that the times when we do clash, it's because of my own urge to stop and give up on the eternal quest for being more, being deeper, being in my Being at my Ultimate brim of my full potential, and then being fulfilled beyond that. Never letting me give up. Thank you for reflecting so bright, so light, so right. And being my guiding light through the darkest corners of the highest mountains. We are the mountain and we are the light. Expressed in the heavens, I would be Pluto and you would be the life- giving Sun, and our Love, the multitude of multi- verses in the universe between.

I love you, the Sun.

san pedro, mi amigo

2010-07-19T19:24:00.000+02:00

the cactus works its magic

everything melts to nothing

sparks electrify muscles

chakras loudly sing

oneness with the universe

deatch, my love, let go

there is only love

so swim into the flow

darkness creeps in for a moment

takes you to the other side

only for you to realise

no difference between dark and light

san pedro knows his way around

moving toxins from your self

body, mind and soul

until there is nothing else

gratitude to my plant teacher

for bittersweet lessons of truth

transcending time and space

i thank you for the joyous fruit

My Guru

2010-07-15T02:05:00.005+02:00

My life is my guru, constantly teaching and showing the answers to the question I ask

The rays of the sun stand firm as water swims around and through the pure rays of vibration

At their core nature of being a sunbeam, they charge my water

In the confusion of this world, I turn to the simplest forms of energy expressed by the Sun source for the insights I ponder

To our truest essence state of being serves all the inter-connected purposes I return to for inspiration

What more does a Sunbeam do than be its fullest, most natural state?

The projection of light concentrates into the crystals, and bounces back in its brilliant colour

The lessons in being are exampled in my experiments with clean, charged water

Eternal Gratitude and a Total Eclipse of the Heart

2010-07-11T19:41:00.005+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

Today brought the total solar eclipse and new moon, in Cancer, with Mars influence, giving us a unique opportunity to tie up loose ends, let go of all that is not serving us, detaching from past relationships that now are not guiding you to your Highest version of your Self, and forging a new destiny for yourself. Powerful stuff, and this eclipse in particular will have an influence on the individual and collective raising of Consciousness for the next five years.

So here is what I am Thankful for!

* I am Thankful for the Love I receive every moment from the Universe and all beings in it.

* I am Thankful for the ability to give Love to all that exist, basking in the endless flow of energies. I am Thankful that I am LOVE!

* I am Thankful for a life full of discovery, joy, new experiences and positivity, a life where I am my highest Self in thought, word and deed.

* I am Thankful for the people in my life- my family and friends, who constantly enrich my soul and guide me on my path and support my progress, letting me discover freely.

* I am Thankful for the superabundance that surrounds me, in all aspects- Love, Peace, shelter, food, wealth and talent- the ability and freedom to do all I need to do in this life.

* I am Thankful for this astoundingly beautiful and perfect planet that is my home, that nurtures me and provides me with all I need, and allows me to reciprocate and constantly feel connected.

* I am Thankful for Niel, his love, patience, understanding, and for being my soulmate, lover and teacher. I am Thankful for all we share and learn from each other, our safe travels together, full of light and love.

* I am Thankful for a clear mind, a supercharged, ever flowing kundalini that brings awakening, and thus emotional, mental, spiritual and physical well being to me in every way. I am Thankful for a healthy body, mind and soul, all vibrating at the highest level of consciousness.

* I am Thankful for the ability to astral travel, dream lucidly, create and co-create realities, visit other dimensions, manipulate energy for good, heal in many modalities, meditate deeply and know my True Self, and create a sustainable, peaceful, abundant Now and always!

* I am Thankful for the infinite wisdom in my DNA, all of which I re- member

* I am Thankful for a vibrant, successful, joyous, wealthy, abundant and sustainable loving community of highly conscious people, creating Spaces of Love, achieving deep understanding of purpose, bettering the world and being a model of how to work kindly with the Earth and know her intimately! In many places all over the world!

* I am Thankful for my loving family who play their role in my life as they should and disocver new parts of themselves as they do so- with grace, humility and Love!

And I am Thankful for Each and Every One of YOU!

LOVE!

The Portable H2O Bio Dynamic Water Chargers

2010-07-09T18:20:00.008+02:00

It started with wanting clean, pure water.

Throughout Thailand, I saw people 'charging' drinking water by using clear glass containers of different colours filled with water, standing in the sun. I inquired about their methods and reasoning for this practice- it made perfect sense, charging water molecules with the beams of our own personal star, Sun.

Over time, through my experimentation with different tastes of water from different containers, my personal conclusion is: that plastic tastes the worst, and darkened amber glass tastes the best so far. Wanting to enhance the water's purity even further, I started dropping small quartz crystals into larger gallon containers, keeping them in the car in direct sunlight as we travelled, noticing what variations in taste the water had. I was impressed and thought myself quite the innovator.

No point in taking crystals out of my new invention- The Portable H2O Bio Dynamic Water Charger.

The next time, I fill the The Portable H2O Bio Dynamic Water Chargers, leaving one transparent, no colour gallon and the amber brown, darker coloured gallon in the rays of the the life giving Sun.

Not long after, maybe half a day or so, I find a very interesting phenomena in both the devices.

First, the crystals had obviously sunk to the bottom of the sealed containers.

Second, if you think crystals don't work read the next point.

Third, the cleanest cut or crack all along the bottom of the containers, severing top from bottom. Not a single shed of splintered glass.

This is my possible conclusion:

Seeing that the cuts were in line with the crystals on the bottom, touching the glass, combined with the suspiciously clean breaks, the crystal must be responsible.

The containers were sealed just by their lids, and the water tasted great every time.

Maybe water has a saturation level for holding channelled sunlight. Maybe the plain white quartz crystals keep channeling boundless energy. Maybe the quality of the glass was the issue. Maybe the shape of the container buckled under the mass of energy.

But, definitively, the water tasted alive, sweet and friendly. So, with my new found insights into my invention, the inventor will soon return with new, updated versions.

Love and Light

Niel

When I Meditate

2010-07-02T06:25:00.005+02:00

Taking in a deep breath, the focus turns within. The big infinite of the same darkness from which we originate. The point on the i loses its footing and shimmers back into the darkness- there is no I, nor i. But what am i, without the dotted i? Am, the wholeness of the soft, darkened ethers. The echoes of the dream, distinct in character, but no dot or i to pinpoint its location.

Relaxing, settling back the i in mind, deeper, back, far from the harsh tones pouring in through eyes. The stillness in the exhale at the end of each anti- climax, unmoved, the quietness, before the upward expansion of the climax. A new, fresh gush fills up from the bottom, more and more, to the ultimate in limitation. Exhaling, like giving it the outward flow of chi to pass on and hold fast in our godness. Like god gives, we give, freely. Give everything - give your pulse, blood coursing veins, give your most loved one, give the hardest thing to give - the i.

Give in to the upbeat of the heart, in joy and satisfaction, with the push and the pull, the climax and the anticlimax, let go, and before the total of existence dilutes my spirit, remember the dotted i, patiently waiting for the return of infinite to finite. Taking hold of the left limbs, the eyes, the bright, coloured tones welcome you back to the dream we repeat, day after day.

Namaste

Love and Light

Niel

Birds of a Feather

2010-06-29T12:03:00.001+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

There is a nest atop a light, at the entrance to this casita, where two little birds in love have created their new home. A nest of branches and feathers, of their tears and sweat, here they have started a family, tiny, perfect eggs. Mama Bird Paloma, patiently sits on her brood, warmed by the lightbulb that burns at evening time. She watches us so carefully, reading our every move, mostly she seems to listen, as we coo sweet words of love.

The sun is setting lazily, Papa Bird returns, having spent all day preventing attacks from other birds. He's tired and he's worked very hard, so he tucks his little beak into his feathered chest and promptly goes to sleep.

Before too long, I'm sure we'll hear the cheeping of new life, as they emerge from the deep, dark waters into the shining light. Rest well, oh birds, in your new home, and may your family grow, we'll be here to protect you all, until you fly into blue skies, gone.

We must thank our gracious hosts, who spin beautifully in the air, suspended by beams of light we are destined to have met, we send our love to you with joy, Jasmine, Patty and Jonette.

Love!

Ego Village

2010-06-26T17:02:00.005+02:00

This is my bare knuckles opinion:

Let's be honest: there are few drawbacks to travelling. But I love it and enjoy every second of my experience- meeting a very skewed part of the population is a nice problem to have. Yes, we only meet the loveliest people on our adventures. So imagine my disappointment when I encounter fellow Eco- Worriers that turn out to be Ego- Warriors.

It starts with an email stating that there are no exceptions to the No Smoking rule. The force by which this email is sent tingles my spider senses, but I also know that there are connections to be made and experiences to be had.

Mayan wisdom says that the future also impacts on the present. I should know this is part of the unease in my stomach as we turn into a big, heavy gate, after three kilometers and an hour and a half of mountaineering (bless Suzie Wong) a dirt road. Looking forward to working hard, creating a natural future and being part of community are my expectations for 'WWOOFing', at a second growth pine plantation, known as the Bosque Village.

"This is probably the most natural place you will see on all your travels", Brian says, while I laugh into my sleeve, not wanting to boast about all the places I have seen.

An indication that things are 'estrange' is when Marie informs us on arrival that Brian can only be asked questions on Wednesdays, for two hours. Apparently, the Oracle Brain gets tired of answering questions at all hours.

Evidence of their detached, distant management style is quickly vocalised by the fellow paying labourers (aka WWOOFers) and more permanent staff, recruited from Erongaricuaro, the local village. But it's the first day and a volleyball game in the rain broke the tension.

The second day brings dirt shovelling, cob making for a chicken coop fence and moving heavy rocks. We follow the iron clad schedule, along with all the laws of the Republic of the Bosque and Marie's Holy Grail spreadsheet of sleeping arrangements, enforced by biting comments.

By the third day, we are stomping edible plants into pine needle covered, bone dry, compact sand, far, far away from any kitchen, employed in miscellaneous, pointless labour to keep us volunteers busy. I decide I have to choose a job that could have a possible outcome or meaning.

So on day four, I opt for fixing a rainwater catchment system, which has not been attached to any water tank in six years, on the side of the most lopsided and crooked roof I have ever seen in my life. Hammering my time slowly into the realisation of the gap between cheap talk and the well paved road of good intentions, as the makeshift wood structure almost takes out another volunteer handing me nails and advice.

The first indication of the rotten structure of the Bosqe occurred a week earlier, when a fellow paying labourer had to divert a falling building from crushing his skull, while innocently sitting back in a hammock. He escaped with a nicked shoulder and an "Ah. It's an old buidling," from Brian (the building could not have been older than four years).

Only on the fifth day would I admit that the Bosque is laboured on the backs of Mexican workers. The green whip of American dollars, cracking in the hand of Brian the Dick-tator. Not too much has changed in the slave and master relationship America has with Mexico.

Warm 1.5 litre beer in hand at 10 in the morning, constantly clicking camera slung over white computer slouched shoulders, rather than clutching a shovel, it is obvious that the rain catchment on the roof is a reflection of the work ethic of Bosque's Dick-tator...

Comments focused more on money making rather than the cause, plans for parking lots with roads for cars and a community of about 200 to live on the non irrigated Bosque should send us packing, but instead I look inwards for my disapproval of my surroundings and try to raise the subject of Bio Dynamic farming. Brian's response is a haughty: "People believe in all kinds of bullshit. And that is a placebo. Placebos make for weak societies". So Brian, what do you believe? I venture further into the egotistical abyss. "Trees and things I can see. The rest is all bullshit. You know, I am a pretty smart guy", his drunken philosophy slurs back.

This blog post is part of the processing process and realising that there are so many personalities that answer Mother Nature's call. Maybe if egos are set aside, some observation and listening are undertaken, there could be a shift in Consciousness- the Oracle must allow a real sense of brother- and sisterhood, be aware of the effect of his behaviour on the current rotating community.

In the end, it is not worth the time or the 1000 pesos for another week of undignified digging in pine covered dead soil, begging for food rations in the morning and killing unsuspecting plants, all topped off with a healthy lack of appreciation.

Bosque, please prove my pre-dick-tion (there is the dick again) wrong and grow into your fullest potential.

PS. Here is a postcard, and...uh... I smoked!

Wish you were THERE!

PPS We did meet some amazing, cool, conscious people at Bosque, the ultimate upside of such an adventure. They were probably lured there by certain promises and misconceptions perpetuated by several very well kept networking sites (Facebook, WWOOF.org, Couchsurfing.org, Twitter etc etc the list goes on)- it was then obvious that Brian and Marie spend more time on the internet (which, by the way, is otherwise restricted to half an hour a day for volunteers), reading books and doing art than actually building or planting anything. Which is sure to engender feelings of discontent amongst the volunteers who were repeatedly told that in order to be there, they had to WORK HARD.

Namaste
Love and Light
Niel

A Step Away, A World Away

2010-06-13T06:49:00.008+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

Mexico beckoned, and we answered Her seductive call. From across the invisible border, insisted on by fickle men, She sings sweet Spanish lullabies, cooing, gesturing with Her slender hand; what can we do but helplessly magnetise?

Despite some initial nervousness about crossing a border in our own car, and having done a heap of research (what a surprise!), the whole crossing went very smoothly. A lesson for me again- stressing always amplifies the situation, which ends up being a lot less serious when you actually have to deal with it!

We chose Naco, a tiny border town, on the suggestion of the Steens, who regularly travel to Sonora County to take photographs. We were waved through until we reminded them we were foreigners and needed to hand in our 1-94 visa cards- even then, everyone seemed a little confused. When one leaves the US, no one seems to care- but the other way is a different story.

On the Mexican side, we organised our paperwork and were greeted by very friendly smiles, Spanish speaking tongues and lots of enthusiastic banter about "Sud Afrika" and the "World Cup", not a surprise, considering the first game of the Cup was the next day, and featured Mexico vs. South Africa. Vamos Mexico! Vamos South Africa!

We chugged along happily, relieved, on the pretty darned great roads of the North Mexican countryside, not so different from Arizona, but somehow completely different. We drove through gorgeous green river valleys, passing real cowboys in full regalia aboard their mighty steeds. A much more scenic and relaxing drive then trying to enter from larger crossings.

Stopping only at Canalea to get an importation permit for Suzie, we drove onwards to Banamichi, a quiet, quaint little town famous for Bacanora (a kind of mescal/ tequila made from agave unique to this part of Mexico) and ancient buildings, plus one of the only Black Jesus statues in the country. Admittedly not very impressive, but the peace and calm of the town, the bountiful smiles more than made up for it.

Stopping for the night at a homestay recommended by Bill, we settle in for the night after a delicious taco dinner (very different from Mexican food in the US). We were proud that we had survived the heat very well with the windows down and no A/C, the air cooler than our days in Arizona. The next morning we awoke to watch the World Cup match (1-1) and then continued on our merry way towards San Carlos, a town on the beach that Joe had told us about. We were extremely unimpressed with the large condominiums catering to rich tourists and how the entire place was gringo-fied. For two nights, we stayed indoors, cooking our own meals and resting- the travel fatigue had returned.

Onwards down the coast we travelled, to Mazatlan, another seaside town famous for Spring Break but with a lot of colonial charm at its heart. It made for an interesting stay, this town of mixed adventures- strip and sex clubs, Mexican hoons in their fancy cars, dodgy massage parlours, beautiful plazas with gorgeous colourful buildings, delicious food of all kinds (including a magical juice place we found that had beet in their juices), quirky maderos and a hardcore nightclub scene.

Very strange! We admired the multiple sculptures throughout the city, especially along the beach, strolling past runners and rollerbladers.

Passing Tequila was funny, but only that- we didn't even stop to buy any of the famed drink, instead gazing at row upon row of agave ravaging the otherwise very biodiverse countryside. A night in a ridiculous mosquito and cricket filled dump of a town called La Barca, just outside Guadalajara, and we were off to Bosque Village, a small forest "ecovillage" in Michoacan. And that is where I end this post!

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Note: Unfortunately, this is what is happening (and has been happening for a long time) throughout Mexico and indeed Central and South America- Mining aka Raping the Earth.

"Krishna Was A Warmonger" - Bill Steen

2010-06-11T16:30:00.001+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

It is hard to imagine a place so similar to the Highveld of South Africa. What an unexpected surprise it was, when we took the long road from New Mexico to deep Southern Arizona, near the Mexican border. With its scarcely populated plains of arid vegetation designed to thrive in the excess of sun strokes.

"No, this can't be right. You must have the wrong directions," I keep saying to Miin, as we enter the nature reserve, a sign informing us that there is no through road and public access is denied. But Miin was right as usual and we found the life boat at the end of dust and rattled teeth, a hot journey without any air conditioning.

We met sun baked, deep Indian red Benito in northern Thailand on a sustainability tour with a straw hat and long cigar in his mouth, canvas pants and shirtless, casting mud bricks. At the tender of age of 18, he was teaching adobe and strawbale building with open heart and mind. The offspring of a celestial couple granted time on earth to help humanity in its dire times of need - I was instantly curious to meet the combination which gave us Benito.

On arrival, we were shoved into a big Suburban truck and whisked off to the neighbours for some war games, on that fateful Sunday afternoon. A perfect introduction to an unconventional family. Their neighbour, Peter, is the Pan that never grew up. Finding himself a Never Never land with two military tanks, bunkers and automatic rifles galore it, resembled a playground for the Military. The scene was set for an out of comfort zone afternoon of listening to military jargon and outlandish tales, but mostly the ride in the tank with camo gear and fake M-16 rifles did nothing for the confusion of emotions being animated in the army tank, with ten soldiers of peace and natural building. If only our commander and driver, Peter, knew his platoon of privates were on the other side of war.

Later, while chomping on some delicious pasta made by a wonderful Tuscan intern did the answer to "Why all this?", come. Many Arizonians who take up arms and patrol the borders searching for "wetbacks" (a derogatory term for Mexicans how swim the rivers to get into Arizona) coming over in search of jobs and a so- called better life. The member of this Militia known as Minutemen, believe that their country is under threat and needs to be protected from these Mexicans who cross the border every day to take the jobs Americans are too good for. Or maybe it's an excuse to lust and revel in killing and off- setting too much testosterone.

While listening to Peter's propaganda and validation for weapons and military action to take life, I restrain my critical tongue and see Bill Steen quietly sitting in the corner, effortlessly maintaining himself. I wonder what he is thinking. Moments later, Peter enters the house out of earshot and Bill enlightens my wondering with "Doesn't matter if you agree with what Peter is doing here. It's always nice to see what the neighbours are doing. We don't have that anymore. Everyone is isolated in their own world". I am amazed at the simple wisdom, his ability to see the best in every situation.

The next few days are spent tying up the last of our American adventure, drinking knowledge from the three Steen boys- Oso's self taught expertise of automobiles and carpentry, Benito's blacksmith and building skills, Panther's creative flair for intergalactic Lego war machines.

Athena's open soul and hunger for life are reflected in the enthusiasm with which she accepts everyone and thing. Ready to understand and explore the new and unknown, I felt her love in the lifeboat they call home base. If ever I have witnessed unconditional motherly love - Athena embodies it all.

My time with Bill was as precious as clean air and water, serving me just the right amounts to keep my mind from spinning out of control. With godlike nimble hands applying earth brown adobe plaster rhythmically in mindfulness, his "Don't think so much. Just enjoy and relax", silenced me every time the urge came to leap into complex spiritual dualities and paradoxes. Always the exact phrase word and syllable in place for me to understand on every level.

I write this post with humble thanks to the Steens for pioneering the way in so many ways... educating, building, living, laughing... and most importantly LOVING!

Namaste Love and Light

In the Middle of Nowhere- And Loving It!

2010-06-07T13:24:00.001+02:00

Embodiments of Love!!

How the universe puts things into motion is a mystery that I am yet to understand, but I am grateful for the manifestations that we bring to ourselves, grateful in every way.

We first met lovely Nikki when camping at Beaver Creek near Flagstaff, Arizona. Nikki and her friend Melissa appeared, somewhat bewildered at how the campground worked, when I informed them that there were no vacant spaces but they were more than welcome to camp on our spot with us. The next morning, we shared a short breakfast but established that Nikki lives on an organic permaculture farm in rural Southern New Mexico with her partner Brett, and that they produce a line of organic tinctures, balms, herb and gem elixirs. So happily we exchanged details and promised to come have a gander if we ever passed through. In the back of my mind, I thought that it was unlikely because we'd already been through NM and didn't plan to do so again.

During our stay in Yellowstone, we decided to go through Colorado and New Mexico before crossing into Arizona and then Mexico, instead of taking the straighter and shorter route through Utah. This was for several reasons but led to a lot of amazing connectedness.

So after our relaxing sojourn in Denver and Boulder, CO, we jump into Suzie and head off into the sunset (well, more like early morning sun), muscling through the extremely hot trip to Albuquerque, NM. We spend a too short two nights with the lovely Clare and Mikaela, who we had CSed with before, telling stories about our travels and having new experiences together. Clare is an absolute angel who we feel blessed to have in our lives, and know, despite our differences in lifestyle, that there is a place for her in our heart always- she is such a giver, such a kind soul, that to be with her is to feel loved.

Onwards we go to Monticello, New Mexico. Suzie doesn't have airconditioning- more on that later- which means windows down, air in and hair messy. Awesome! We pass through dry, flat lands dotted with scrub, SUVs zooming past us incessantly, often marvelling at our stickers which are somewhat controversial. As we descend into Monticello's valley, we bask in the glory of seclusion, of miniscule communities, of nothing but a growing lush greenness and livestock baking patiently in the sun. The road twists gently, and we savour the clean air, the loveliness of nothingness.

It takes a little while to find Nikki and Brett's piece of paradise- I love it when directions include tiny dirt roads, white signs, green gates and no addresses. So behold, the green gate is before us, no paved road in sight and two houses perched on a little hill, tranquil, peaceful in the desert valley heat.

Nikki cheerfully greets us with her gorgeous smile, and invites us in, where we meet Brett. What a dynamic and inspired couple they are- they emanate absolute peace and love, it's obvious in their thoughts, words and deeds, in their graceful movements, in their great wisdom about the land and how it speaks to us, both on physical and metaphysical levels. They live in a strawbale building, a new greenhouse growing on its side, and they live as part of Mother Earth, no separation from that powerful energy that is Life.

Nikki is Grace. She veritably floats around like a pixie, providing, loving, generous hands offering always. Her sweet, soft voice is always questioning, never demanding, and she remains modest in herself, though she has much experience in nutrition, health, growing food and making elixirs, not to mention a high conscious level that vibrates strongly when she is around. Giving up on the life she had led in conservative Atlanta, she bravely strode forward despite the conventions she was brought up to follow; she moved across the country, WWOOFed, found her beloved and put her feet, hands and heart into the warm New Mexican earth.

Brett has been immersed in the sustainable life since a young age, having studied with Michael Moore, the best herbalist that America has ever seen; raised by Radical Faeries, he has networks all over the world, as well as a beloved quirky uncle who permacultures in Australia. He's met most of the great ecovillage founders of the world, at Crystal Waters in NSW, and has more hands on skills than I can ever imagine having. What an inspiration to meet an enlightened soul such as he, one who is so honest in his life, with who he is, who is open hearted and wanting to share the love he feels so deeply.

Mike has been living with Brett and Nikki for a while, helping with the growing of food, spreading his immense love, learning, growing and sharing his wisdom in return. Having lived in cities for much of life, a chance to live in deep, rural Kenya in a tiny village changed his views on life and living, and ever since then, he has been venturing around the US picking up skills in sustainable life- wood bow and arrow making, permaculture, organics, natural building, appropriate technology; this soft spoken, gentle, lovely man, oh how he brought peace to my soul with his joy for life and his generosity of spirit. Humble, loving, kind- he shows us how to be Zen, how to treat all beings with respect and love.

We only have one evening with them, communing over a meal of quinoa pasta, garlic tops, Swiss chard from the garden and a simple salad. They tell us of their small, aware community, who bring up dreadlocked children whose school is the Earth, the organic farmers who lovingly produce food for the local market at Truth or Consequences. We talk and talk, we tour their property which is bursting with produce and love, we taste their elixirs and marvel at their extensive knowledge. Such comfort we feel in getting to know them, in seeing that there are others who are striving for a different future, who fight against the current way the world is functioning. It inspires us to know that we can do it to, we can create a Space of Love.

With love and promises of a future together, somewhere, somehow, we reluctantly leave this little plot of paradise, trailing blissful positivity in the wind. Arizona, here we come (again)!

Up On Cripple Creek

2010-06-05T17:24:00.000+02:00

Embodiments of Love!

We hug Clayton and Martina with our full hearts and bodies, knowing that our initial meeting was blessed with connectedness, and entranced by the wisdom that once connected in this way, there is no separation. We know we will be seeing them again- from our experiences on this trip, we are certain that once manifested, our desire to be in each others' company will be fulfilled in some way, shape or form. And finally, dear Pan, the one closest to God, who fell asleep on my chest so peacefully the night before, with his baby breath and pure joy emanating from his body, we bid him farewell, knowing he is the one who will teach us as he grows. We leave the little boxes on the hillside with hearts overflowing.

Our next destination is high on a mountain and filled with mystery- Cripple Creek, the home of Linda Goodman, our favourite astrologer and New Age usherette, not to mention the oft visited retreat of Nikola Tesla, underrated father of modern electricity, and many things besides. But truly, it was Linda who called us here, deep from within the pages of "Star Signs", up into the crisp mountain air, up 10,000 feet into a town bursting with spirits, both physical and otherwise.

This little old mining town, once throbbing with miners, the required ladies of the night, gambling dens and bars galore, gradually became a ghost town. In the 70's and 80's it was revived somewhat by hippies and those longing for the simpler life, but again fell into disrepair, the beautiful buildings beginning to crumble. In 1991, the state of Colorado decided to grant casino licenses to Cripple Creek and two other ex- mining posts, with the hope of rescuing the old precious buildings and bringing tourists to another era.

We arrive, anticipating our Goodman adventures. First stop, 137 Hayden Avenue, Linda's second house and the one she lived her last days in. Here, she tinkled with metaphysics, vegetarianism, immortality and reincarnation, passions she shared with her much younger lover. It was here that she wrote many of her famous books that are probably on your bookshelf right now.

The place is utterly abandoned, and seems to have had no attention for years. The magnificent stained glass windows glow softly in the sun- St. Francis with animals, rainbows, reminders to "Expect A Miracle" and ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphics, combine with several white clad angels and various other messages that perhaps we are not equipped to understand yet. The house is on several levels, and there is a huge, empty swimming pool- the wood is decaying, shards of glass scattered; a note from census takers for a John G. We can feel the energy of magick and mystique seeping through the walls, and we say silent prayers for Linda, knowing she can hear us in this silent retreat, no matter which dimension in which she now resides. We leave with slightly heavy hearts, wondering why no one is preserving this important part of astrological history. A young man we pass on the way out tells us the place belongs to an elderly woman who lives in San Francisco and rarely visits, but who also owns many other properties in CC. Intriguing for sure.

We had booked a room at a bed and breakfast, the Last Dollar Inn, Linda's first slipping-off-the-time-track house in CC. The original red brick two storey building looms over us with a friendly glow, and we are shown our room (named after Pearl DeVere, a famous brothel Madame who had ruled the roost two streets over on Myers Ave) by sprightly Kathy Gregg, who provides cookies and stories about the past, present and future of 315 E Carr Avenue. We have the house to ourselves, so we wander around, peering from the corner of our eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of souls from another dimension, who have left their indelible imprints on ours.

Linda's Mother as a child

Linda Goodman

The previous owners had restored the decaying property into its current state- beautiful rooms, lush 1800s style furnishings complete with a deep red carpet and wallpaper. Linda had left much of her belongings in the house, and the Linda Goodman room is furnished just as she left it, with her original furniture- chairs, a dresser, wrought iron bed- surrounded by flowery carpet and wallpaper, crystals embedded on the windows.

At the front door you are greeted by a tiny stained glass picture of Alice from Wonderland contemplating her bottle that reads, "Drink Me". It is PERFECT and very much in the style of Lewis Carroll's original book's illustration. The front lounge is glorious, hosting the centerpiece- Linda's St. Francis of Assisi stained glass window, reading Brother Sun in gorgeously carved wood on top, and featuring St. Francis with birds, rabbits and the countryside lolling behind him. "Expect A Miracle" was again a theme in the personalised window.

For those who are not familiar with Linda, let me explain. Alice is mentioned a lot in her books, as she delves into the mystery and metaphysics of falling down the rabbit hole. St. Francis was her favourite saint, he represented love for all creatures and inspired her greatly, while Brother Sun comes from her most cherished movie, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon". She always expected miracles, and so they came into her life, along with much tragedy and sadness. Being a triple Aries, Linda was very complex and forceful, from what we can gather, but she brought new light to ancient teachings that are still being used today.

There are several books written about CC's ghosties and ghoulies, and the Last Dollar Inn features prominently in many of them. Paranormal activity is considered every day life in this little town, and 315 E Carr Avenue has had its host of beings from other dimensions. Linda described much spirit activity when she lived there, including Nikola Tesla who often appeared in the kitchen for a chat, and others describe a male spirit who has friends over for raucous parties. Considering the history of CC, this is not surprising- brothels, drunken nights, miners dying in accidents, possible bodies buried under old houses. But there was no malevolent feeling in the house, and its current owners had quite politely told spirits they had encountered they weren't welcome anymore, which might explain why we didn't encounter any face to face. There was certainly a pervading feeling of presence there, though we were alone in the empty house.

We venture around town, the main strip filled with small casinos- the place still has the feel of a ghost town. The bordello museum is closed, which is a pity but we do wander around Maggie's, named after the Irish lass who still lingers in the building, helping the waitresses, dancing while playing accordion and speaking to several of the workers, her ghostly but friendly hand having been obvious to us third dimensional beings for a long time (also written about by Linda in "Star Signs"). The weight of history hangs in the air here, and we cherish the experience of exploring this mining town, rich with stories, and to pay homage to our dear Linda. We hope that someone comes along to preserve both her houses (as the Last Dollar Inn is up for sale, and who is to say that the new owners will understand the importance of keeping Linda's history alive?), they should be museums to a unique human being who changed the way we look at astrology, who showed us it is very much a part of our lives and can be used for good and for Love.

Nikola Tesla, in our opinion the greatest electrical engineer and inventor to ever live, too, has been largely forgotten in CC, even though he conducted most of his experiments at nearby Colorado Springs, Pike's Peak and Mt. Pisgah- it was in this area that he famously put lightbulbs in the ground during a lightning storm, and watched them glow. This young Serbian was eventually pushed aside and forcefully forgotten- he is left out of schoolroom history books, instead usurped by the somewhat egotistical Thomas Edison who did not actually invent the type of electricity we use today- AC. Tesla was busy inventing the Tesla Coil and building large towers to provide free wireless electricity to THE WHOLE WORLD, before his backer J.P. Morgan (reptilian if you ask me!) pulled out and Tesla died penniless in New York. His story is both an inspiring and tragic one, worth following up on- some believe he is not really dead, and that he was an enlightened being who came to bring us a greater consciousness, but was perhaps way too ahead of his time. The internet would not be a surprise to him, nor would mobile phones, as he invented and displayed wireless communication to the world, who at the time thought him instead a mad scientist.

We would have loved to speak to Tesla and Linda at Carr Avenue, but perhaps the current owners caused him to choose silence, as they are not too friendly towards spirits at their B&B. Whether he is here or there or everywhere, we thank him for his work and his passion, against all odds.

So, we forge onwards, the last breath of fresh mountain air in our nostrils, onwards to lower altitude pastures.