Chaotic Good: The First 150

The first 150km have been chaotic, beautiful and good. A linear recounting would not do this story justice – it is circular, repetitive, singular, chaotic, beautiful and a complete fucking mess.

You will cycle across every type of thing before the sun rises – in an attempt to beat the heat, Andalusian style – down hard packed dirt and soft gravel; across cobblestones, asphalt and river rocks; down steps of stone and earth; up through treed mountains and down hills of grass; alongside rivers, vineyards, olive groves, downtrodden sunflowers and tall springy dill plants; and once, accidentally, through a patch of wet concrete. There will be parts that look like hikes in Banff; others like the rough stoney trails of the trek to Macchu Pichu and yet others that look like the country lanes that kiss Alberta’s blunted wheat fields. At one point, you will spend no less than 4 hours pulling your bike up and then guiding it down, what looks like a dry river bed, with large round unpedalable rocks – you will curse those rocks. The air will smell like sweet red cedar and soft damp moss; of dust and dirt; of gasoline and the crush of 70 sweat laden bodies, bunked one on top on top of the other. The sun will be omnipresent – biting at your hands and face. Cycle from shade to shade, praying for wind and clouds, in an attempt to keep your wits. It is 40°C. You will consider if sunscreen futures are a thing to invest in, because your own personal consumption has become borderline obscene. Were this my first tour, I would have quit. In the evenings fellow peregrinos assume incorrectly you are cycling the road not the paths – but even by Ronces? Even and most definitely by Ronces.

The road from Roncesvalles begins at the tail end of the Pyrenees, but on the road it doesn’t feel like the end or the middle, rather, it is the charming and terrible beginning, as penned by Lemony Snicket. It is sometimes shady, and impossibly steep. Question how this constitues a vacation. But the evening will bring new friends, and warm bowls of Carbonara, prepared by one of the pasta of Italians you’ll have the pleasure of meeting.

Day 1.

Now they say that which goes up,must come down; but do we really have to come down quite like this? Downhills on pavement are wonderful and speedy, but through rocks and down gravel a concentration so intense is required that it will feel as though you’ve spent the last 2 hours reading Oxford’s Organic Chemistry. Going slowly and carefully to avoid falling, you are bested at kilometer 95 just before Los Arcos, in the middle of a treeless wheat field, when the road diverges and you try to go right – instead sliding hands first in slow-motion across the rocks. It hurts. Slowly a crew gathers to first-aid you – a kind 20 something American and organised white-haired Pole come first. As not to scare them, let them know in a very business-like tone that you Just need to cry for 2 minutes real quick, because I am experiencing some shock, but it doesn’t hurt more than it did 30s ago. Cycle the last 7km to town, pounding out the adrenaline. The pharmacies with extra bandages are closed, because Saturday. Your knee sticks to the flimsy paper bed covers.

BB at Alto del Perdón

The evening brings new friends, from all corners – gathered around with cervezas and tintos de verano, chatting about life and love, eating potatoes with hot sauce and mayo, under the shade of a large red umberella; periodically interrupted by the clang of dissonant bells. Meeting not an hour ago, but this conversation has become a full on heart to heart.

Sunrise over Navarra

Small towns dot the countryside, and announce themselves with the spires of their 1000 year old churches. The camino will guarantee you’ll visit them, and they’ll inevitably be on the top most part of the hill. Inside, alters are plain and concrete; ostentatious and gilded – but all stand with purpose, pomp and circumstance. We have stood for 1000 years, and we will stand for 100 more. Just once, it would be nice for a church to be named Jesus Christ the shining star of the valley – at least then you’d get to cycle down.

The church in Villatuerte celebrated its 1000th birthday in 2020.

Cinderella and the Stairway to Heaven

A while ago now, I listened to a podcast where the narrators spoke about the conversations they had with their kids at the dinner table. At the end of the week, one made a point to ask them the questions who did you help this week, and who helped you.

Traveling with a bike is both beautiful and cumbersome, which means – almost inevitably – you are required to both quitely and overtly ask for help. This trip has been no exception.

One, two, three, four. My mom, who so kindly lets my touring bike live in her garage, and who dropped it at the shop for it’s repairs. The friend who drove me to the airport and the other took the keys to watch my house. The aunt and uncle who will pick up me and my bike, when I arrive home.Without question or hesitation, they help – I am grateful.

Five. At Schipol I have an uncomfortably medium-length layover – too short to go out, too long for comfort – and so I wandered around the airport bleary-eyed. A kid with zoomies had run roughshod around the plane and had decided waking me up from a dead sleep by tugging on my arm to give me a dead man’s stare was a fun game – which I mention only to say I wasn’t at my most perceptive. Upon arrival at my gate where boarding is about to begin, I notice to my sincere dismay that clipped to my purple carabiner on the outside of my backpack is one, lone, blue and orange trekking shoe. And so with 10 minutes to spare, my choice is either to make a sacrifice to the airport gods or, do that sexy run-walk back through the airport to try and find my missing shoe. I choose 2 and looking at the clock, give myself 5 minutes to run as far as I can before needing to turn back. Near some the benches, some beautiful soul has seen fit to perch my shoe on the back of the seat rest. Cheers to you fellow traveller. I am Cinderella.

Six. Arriving in Madrid, I haul BB off the conveyor belt and start reassembling. Exhausted, hungry and out of practice, it takes longer than it should. Without a thought other than an hour long bike ride in 39°c after a full sleepless day sounds dangerous, I decide we’ll take the Metro to the hostel – 3 lines, 2 changes, no problem. I had of course, neglected to think about the stairs. There were no fewer than 20 flights, and the pentultimate is a staircase to heaven – a long, can’t-quite-see-the-top type, complete with a broken escalator. I gaze up hoping some diety will portal me to the surface. Where you at when I need you, Hemsworth? I get instead a literal angel, Maria – a nurse who grabs my side bags and walks the way up with me. I thank her profusely.

Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Trying to move a bicycle 4h east in Spain by public transport is the definition of insanity – it would be easier it seems, to transport a live horse or molten lava. 5 hours, 5 ticket agents, and 3 help tickets produce absolutely nothing. In a fit of insanity, I inform the ticket agent that I will no longer be taking tickets, as you and your colleagues have been sending me aca y allá between the same two offices, all day. He tells me finally, that the first train of my two part journey doesn’t accept bikes, and that for the second requires it be in a box. I decide to try the bus instead. The evening is spent wandering from bike shop to bike shop, as you must dissassmble your bike to get on the bus. Okay Spain, game on. Shop 1 is closed – it’s August – fine, no problem. Shop 2 is open in theory, but also closed in practice. Bike shop 3 does only maintenance, no boxes. At bike shop 4, the guy must see I look like hell, offers to check with the other store. He calls down – he says there is a bike box waiting there, if I can make it to #212. It is 38°C. A casual 45 minute walk later, I hold my me-sized box like a prized pig, and trundle it back to the hostel on the metro. The staff at the hostel are kind – watch my things, lend me their phone so I can call + rearrange with my hostel in Pamplona and help me book in for another night.

2 Taxi No-shows, 10 minutes haggling with an uber, 10 euros for the bike supplement and 700 meters of dragging a bike box through the bus terminal later, we’re on the bus to Pamplona. Cake.

BB at the Pamplona Citadel – an old military renaissance fort, constructed between the 16th and 17th centuries.

We* make it to Pamplona, and are let off at the bus station, which looks out onto the citadel. Not a bad reward. Now let’s see about Roncesvalles.

*The Royal We, is of course me and my bicycle, BB.

Debriding the Wound

I woke up this morning and found the wound
Was larger than I thought
The bruise had bloomed and ballooned,
Burbled and burst, oozing white hot – live action Montserrat.

A primal scream then lodged itself deep inside my throat,
With parted lips aching to shout – only a gurgle and sputter eked out,
I pointed to him frantically – the wolf attired in scapegoat skins,
But I was just a downed spitfire, launched into a tailspin.

With one eye open, I stopped to examine the tear,
Shaking – afraid of what I might find there,
It was work so painstaking – pulling back the many layers,
But then I was surprised to find only whispers of soft and fearful prayers.

See somewhere along the way we left them behind,
Forgot to listen, forgot to bring them on our ride,
Forgot their families, attacked them handily,
For backwoods faith and ideals of community,
For blue collar jobs in a land of opportunity,

Forgot their education and then treated them stupidly,
This, this is how we killed unity,
Acting like cancer patients without immunity,
Treating them like filoviridae – no impunity.

So if, if we want to make repairs,
See past the hate, stare down the crosshairs,
We have to begin here at the bottom of the laceration,
Begin where the discourse first lapsed into stagnation,
Begin at the base of alienation,
Begin with love as our declaration.

Election Night

Election Night

Each bipartisan manifestation
Seems worse than the previous generation’s
Always speaking in generalizations,
Spewing reams of hate with elation.

Wag your finger at me, talkin’ ‘bout sovereignty
Saying it doesn’t concern you – well Pardon me,
See what you might not realize is that your policies
Create polarities – with potential for collective insolvency.

In a world increasingly permeated by globalization,
One run by all these multinational corporations,
Governed by intangible treaties and international arbitration,
The impact of your vote ripples far beyond your nation,
And I would be foolish to say leave us out of your equation.

So hear our plea – from neighbors and friends overseas,
You are better than this Dump Trumpkin sleaze,
You are a forest of diversity and he is Dutch elm disease,
You are healthy and he is a plasmodium-riddled anopheles,
You are stronger together – not divided on your knees.

Never without

Never without
Thoughts for bus rides, from bike rides. 

I found solace in the law of conservation of energy –
In decomposing and dissecting, the stagnant ideology
that in death there is only lifelessness and cremation,
Or salvation, for those among us who can fathom that incarnation.

No, I found solace in the law of conservation of energy –
In knowing this sack of marrow and heme,
Will one day teem with critters feasting my slow extirpation,
Who too will end as glitter – subsumed into this cosmic creation.

But I, through the belly of the worm, and the mouth of the sparrow,
I, the antihero, will be returned to the light, on the wings
Of a hawkling, Or on a head of wheat – a field pharaoh,
Or, cutting the heat in my own valley of kings, a cooling effervescent spring.

No, I found solace in the law of conservation of energy,
In knowing I could find you all around me, riding the waves of serendipity,
You – your electrons, your ups and downs, joined this planetary reverie,
Yet you are still here, still beside me – vibrating in the air I breathe.

With love from a conspirator – BLM

With love from a conspirator – BLM

How many black bodies must bleed,
Before we lead, before their blood stains our skin,
With a future so grim. Before our collective conscience
Collects a conscience, and acts on this criminal indifference,
And calls the plays out – scene one racism,
the schism, scene two another murder by the blue,
Scene three the scream – did you hear her? Watching the life
Empty out of her lover; watching silently as they killed
Just another brother. Except that Sterling was a father, and
So many more things – not just his color. Except his name was Castile,
His death, our chance to storm Bastille. Take your lips
To his service – scream with purpose, cry injustice, be a comrade,
Let them know we can’t be had. Deafen them with the fire that burns
On your lips and turns, in your stomach and let them see the tears
Dammed by the damned. Use whiteness in solidarity,
A shield of humanity. Because how many black bodies must bleed,
Before we rally in this time of need, before homicide becomes
Genocide – and they cart away more friends of color; more teachers and
Doctors. How many lights must be smothered, before we thunder:

Black and brown lives matter.

—

Follow me down the rabbit hole:

What can white people do:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/posteverything/wp/2015/08/06/this-is-what-white-people-can-do-to-support-blacklivesmatter/

Guardian’s Feature on Police Killings:
http://www.theguardian.com/us-news/ng-interactive/2015/jun/01/the-counted-police-killings-us-database

Doctor Shot on way to mosque:
http://www.aljazeera.com/news/2016/07/texas-mosque-attack-160703143400200.html

Amazing spoken word:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/06/22/when-a-black-man-and-a-white-woman-speak-for-each-other_n_7638530.html?ir=Good+News&

 

 

Imagination

Poetry Month Day 3. For Erin, A Poem about lost socks and unicorns.

Imagination

Dust it off and climb inside, we’re going on a fantasy ride,
Through the drum, hear the thrum,
Past the lint screen, there standing on the green,
Can you see it? The bee in mannschaft football kit,
Or just near, in the clear, a purple zebra wearing headgear,
Soft step dance, listening to eurotrance,
Chilling with Lance the unicorn, sporting Mohawks freshly shorn,
And he with a single scarlet sock rolled over his horn,
Snuggled in tight, keeping him warm.

Few know about unicorn vulnerabilities and ungulate sensitivities,
From Dr.Ewe we can learn a thing or two, about their penchant
for David Tennant, and their aptitude as Superintendents,
And their love of cupcakes, and well-planned jailbreaks,
And their fear of the dark parks and Eurasian skylarks,
And their need to occasionally borrow, a sock you would
Inevitably forego, to protect their magical marrow,
And give life to tales told over marshmallows.

Data Collector

Data Collector

I am a catalogue of souls, your souls,
Of snapshots and moments, the millisecond when
Divine comedy tugged at your lips,
And ripped back my eyelids,
when we found common ground
Simply sitting on the same staff,
Admiring Ja Rule, ya Discovery,
Of trenches dug under irises and your dreams –
Spoken by a tongue tap dancing on oaks,

I read the songs of lives lived and lies lived,
I enter your stories into a catalogue of sorrows,
You drowned, you deported, you detained,
Down the margins, I flea with you frantic,
Though bullet riddled buildings and bombed out squares,
Past that house, once yours, now his and –
I carry with me your heavy hearts,
And your hopes and dreams for tomorrow.

So long, Jack

Skin does not make a citizen,
You say you want out, but they’ll remain in,
They are not other, these mothers, fathers,
Sisters, brothers, reflected in the mirror,
Your fear – budding, infecting, ineffectual,
This antintellectual counter-science counterfactual,
Alliance of defiance trumping logic,
Attending to words demagogic, seeking freedom,
From the union, that has held you strong, forged by
My oma’s swan song, made to correct a generation’s wrongs,
Been too long, and grown too faint,
War paint faded, generations jaded, listen close –
Can’t you hear? United we stand. Divided life is less clear.

Calais: A Weekend in the Jungle

The phrase “it’s like a town, like a little city” is often used to describe the Calais Jungle. Located across an expanse of black dirt, littered with debris from homes levelled in the eviction, Jungle town is not just like a town, it is a town. With a school/ library, church, mosque, shops, restaurants and pickup soccer games, Calais’ Jungle is a community within a city, teaming with life, purpose, positivity and above all, hope- even in the face of constant, daily challenges.

To see only the tarps of Calais, is to only understand half of the story. As with people, in the Jungle, it’s not what’s on the outside that counts.  The jungle’s main street comes alive at night with markets and small neon opens signs, and it is on this street that we eat dinner the first night. From the outside, the café is fairly non-descript affair- blue tarps expertly graffitied with the business’ name. Inside however, crowded with residents and volunteers, decorated with stuffed animals, colourful balloons and ropes dangling from the ceiling, the atmosphere is borderline festive. A television blasts Bollywood movies and one of the owners seats us, with a flourish of practiced showmanship, on a raised carpeted platform. We are told with pride that it took several months to get the carpet in, with the help of friends in a neighbouring country, but it finally came. Dinner is a delicious mix of samosa, rice, spiced chicken, cooked spinach and some of the most delicious beans I’ve ever been treated to.

Our days are spent in the warehouse- a hive of neon clad volunteers passionately and purposefully sorting, packing and shipping the mountain of donations that comes in. The warehouse is also the home to the industrial and industrious Calais kitchen, which feeds residents and volunteers alike, producing tons of amazing vegetarian food, for thousands of hungry mouths. None of these jobs are glamorous, but all volunteers approach them with zest and positivity that is infectious.

Sorting the endless mountain of donations is a monstrous task for everyone, that can often be incredibly frustrating. Across volunteer operations, people with the best of intentions, donate everything. However everything, is not always what’s needed. The rule of thumb is always throw away the dirty, the used. If you are about to throw it out, or wouldn’t stand having it against your own body, then why should someone else? Donation bins are not equivalent to rubbish bins. Like us, the people living in camp are often of relatively middle class backgrounds, and take pride in their appearance. Indeed, strolling down the main road, a guy coiffing his hair in the side mirror of a delivery van catches my eye and I can’t help but chuckle to myself- we are the same.

The second night, we are invited for dinner to a friend’s home in camp. He, a resident of the camp, asks us only to bring flour. The generosity and kindness is nothing short of remarkable and its weight is felt by all at the table. Before dinner we play cheat- a universal favourite. Then, we are treated to chicken, fried sausage and more delicious beans to eat with chapatti and asida, a glutinous boiled flour dish. This wonderful meal is followed by music and chatting with our friend and his found family. Their stories, which are not mine to share, are both heartbreaking and incredibly inspiring, stories of great perseverance. The men we spoke with had often tried multiple times to leave their respective war-torn countries, only to be imprisoned, or returned by governments and impassable borders.  Tired eyes, tell us the story of the previous’ night’s attempts to get to the UK- no success yet, but hopefully, soon.

Jungle town from the road.

Police guard Calais from the camp’s volunteers and residents.

 

A water point in Jungle Town.

A view from cellphone reception hill. The containers (right) stand largely vacant. To live in container homes, one must register- a process which leaves residents vulnerable and at risk of getting sent back.

—

Looking to help? Get in touch with the L’Auberge des Migrants: http://www.laubergedesmigrants.fr/

More donations, specifically donations of  men’s underwear, long-sleeved t-shirts and gloves, are needed.