Transition: Cabo Verde to Fuerteventura
July 31, 2015
Day of the Full Blue Moon I am completing my time in Cabo Verde. I arrived on the New Moon, so perfect. I love that I am getting to “know” these parts of the world so that the small shapes and dreamy names on the map now have a heart-felt meaning for me. I can see them, hear them, smell them, feel them and share about them with others who have never been and with their locals when I meet them abroad. Now when someone tells me he/she is Cabo Verdian, I will immediately switch to Portuguese and better yet Kriol, throw out a few greetings to surprise them, and then ask them which island they are from. I love knowing the World, not to mention the World’s languages. But right now, my Wolof ain’t holdin’ up too well after being gone for 6 weeks.
Transitioning from Africa to Europe only a few hours’ flight away. I have to thank God for helping me get through all the challenging steps to getting my bike and overweight bag onto the plane, and for free, I hope. When I got to the airport, a full 2.5 hours early, which is a first for me, somehow I still ended up running chaotically to the closing gate, the last one on the plane. I did my duty of packing the bike in one of Reinhard’s long skinny cardboard boxes that I had to cut down the middle in order to get the bike in, and all of the rest of the lightweight checkin stuff into my giant soft black bag and weighed it all (though not in the box) and was exactly at 37 kilos, the llimit with the bike included. I was prepared, but the box was going to tip me over. This is Cabo Verde...will they notice?
Well yes they noticed AND they didn’t know what to do. They had no way of taking my money and told me I had had to pay online for the bike and the overweight bag. How? Just tell them it’s 37 kilos and they will take my word for it or what? Nobody had an answer. They sent me to the supervisor. The whole line of people behind me wondered what was in my awkwardly duct-taped long skinny box. I was still taping it as I stood in line. Only me. My children would be grateful they are not travelling with me. I think it would all make a good movie though. I wonder if I will ever change to being one of those cool, calm, collect, super-oganized traveller with one tidy roller carry- on suitcase with a pull handle and a small handbag. I am always so envious of those effortless professional travellers and happy to not be doing whatever they are doing. The only way to be having my adventures has to include airport hassles.
I am having trouble letting go of the spell of my loving lusty passionate youthful happy week with Zeca. Somehow, like Baye Ass, my Heart was touched by this young simple kind happy Being that loved me hard. He fell in love within seconds, professed passion and desire to have me in his life forever to create eternal bliss together, and so on. For days we would just stare into each others’ eyes and he would have this special Zeca expression I will never forget. His uneven eyebrows would float and move above his eyes, which were soft and poochy, and his mouth would go through all these motions as he would softly shake his head from side to side saying: “Doido... Doido...Que beleza...Voce meu amor...” ... “Crazy...Crazy.... What a Beauty...You are my love...” At 51, it’s quite a high to be so wanted by a 28-year old handsome sexy thing who is more together and intelligent than most of his compatriots on this homey island of São Nicolau. Zeca has a style about him that is irresistibly sexy, not to mention his sexual/sensual arts. He would just flip on a cap backwards, a random sleeveless button down shirt with some surd shorts and flip flops and I felt weak in the knees. Of course I held out diligently the first few days, playing hard to get with just enough give that he knew I was interested. This was my first time doing this with someone I was really into and of course it worked beautifully. Oh the omnipotence of a resisting partially- interested lady. Four days into our magical backcountry escapade the bubble burst with excitement and passion that did not quit until few days before my departure. Our bodies and desires harmonized more than I have with most of my past lovers. What glee! I felt changed from the inside. Loved and desired day in and day out. If only I could have held out longer, perhaps things would have turned out differently, or not. We only had the ten days together, but in the last few days I felt something shift, and to this day, a week later, still have no clue what or why.
Day of the Full Blue Moon I am completing my time in Cabo Verde. I arrived on the New Moon, so perfect. I love that I am getting to “know” these parts of the world so that the small shapes and dreamy names on the map now have a heart-felt meaning for me. I can see them, hear them, smell them, feel them and share about them with others who have never been and with their locals when I meet them abroad. Now when someone tells me he/she is Cabo Verdian, I will immediately switch to Portuguese and better yet Kriol, throw out a few greetings to surprise them, and then ask them which island they are from. I love knowing the World, not to mention the World’s languages. But right now, my Wolof ain’t holdin’ up too well after being gone for 6 weeks.
Transitioning from Africa to Europe only a few hours’ flight away. I have to thank God for helping me get through all the challenging steps to getting my bike and overweight bag onto the plane, and for free, I hope. When I got to the airport, a full 2.5 hours early, which is a first for me, somehow I still ended up running chaotically to the closing gate, the last one on the plane. I did my duty of packing the bike in one of Reinhard’s long skinny cardboard boxes that I had to cut down the middle in order to get the bike in, and all of the rest of the lightweight checkin stuff into my giant soft black bag and weighed it all (though not in the box) and was exactly at 37 kilos, the llimit with the bike included. I was prepared, but the box was going to tip me over. This is Cabo Verde...will they notice?
Well yes they noticed AND they didn’t know what to do. They had no way of taking my money and told me I had had to pay online for the bike and the overweight bag. How? Just tell them it’s 37 kilos and they will take my word for it or what? Nobody had an answer. They sent me to the supervisor. The whole line of people behind me wondered what was in my awkwardly duct-taped long skinny box. I was still taping it as I stood in line. Only me. My children would be grateful they are not travelling with me. I think it would all make a good movie though. I wonder if I will ever change to being one of those cool, calm, collect, super-oganized traveller with one tidy roller carry- on suitcase with a pull handle and a small handbag. I am always so envious of those effortless professional travellers and happy to not be doing whatever they are doing. The only way to be having my adventures has to include airport hassles.
I am having trouble letting go of the spell of my loving lusty passionate youthful happy week with Zeca. Somehow, like Baye Ass, my Heart was touched by this young simple kind happy Being that loved me hard. He fell in love within seconds, professed passion and desire to have me in his life forever to create eternal bliss together, and so on. For days we would just stare into each others’ eyes and he would have this special Zeca expression I will never forget. His uneven eyebrows would float and move above his eyes, which were soft and poochy, and his mouth would go through all these motions as he would softly shake his head from side to side saying: “Doido... Doido...Que beleza...Voce meu amor...” ... “Crazy...Crazy.... What a Beauty...You are my love...” At 51, it’s quite a high to be so wanted by a 28-year old handsome sexy thing who is more together and intelligent than most of his compatriots on this homey island of São Nicolau. Zeca has a style about him that is irresistibly sexy, not to mention his sexual/sensual arts. He would just flip on a cap backwards, a random sleeveless button down shirt with some surd shorts and flip flops and I felt weak in the knees. Of course I held out diligently the first few days, playing hard to get with just enough give that he knew I was interested. This was my first time doing this with someone I was really into and of course it worked beautifully. Oh the omnipotence of a resisting partially- interested lady. Four days into our magical backcountry escapade the bubble burst with excitement and passion that did not quit until few days before my departure. Our bodies and desires harmonized more than I have with most of my past lovers. What glee! I felt changed from the inside. Loved and desired day in and day out. If only I could have held out longer, perhaps things would have turned out differently, or not. We only had the ten days together, but in the last few days I felt something shift, and to this day, a week later, still have no clue what or why.
My experience with Zeca was beautiful food for my Soul, my Heart and my Body. I went with his
flow and let go as much as I could into moment-to-moment existence. It was alot of fun. I felt 28
again, or rather 23, the age I was when I met and fell in love with Jan. But the fact that the last kiss
and hug would be the last time he would communicate with me of his own accord has wreaked
havoc with my little Claudine. In our last conversation when I called him from the plane as it was
about to take off from Praia, a final effort to hear his voice and see what’s up...I heard him
emotionless, distant, almost uninterested. I had just texted him to call me and he had not. I led the
way one more time. I was incredulous that this BIG LOVE that turned me upside down and inside
out for ten days....was just done. Since my departure he has made zero effort to contact me. He
said the smartphone made him tired, he did not understand it, he did not like it and wanted to
return it. I told him how sad I was, to which he responded “Don’t be sad.” I wanted to know the
Truth, and either he was telling me the Truth or could not, for cultural or personal reasons. This
man is a Giver and Caretaker of others, in priority his whole family, and lastly him. Now someone
else was there to equal him and so the dance had to change. But I was leaving and we did not
have time to figure it out. Had something of this sort happened to him before? HIs mother had
spoken about an Italian woman who loved him but came back with her husband. Was he just sad
to be left behind and so was lessening the pain by distancing himself? Or did he feel hopeless that
I would really come back? Or was he just not interested anymore? Or was it a question of
money? Seeing I was not going to buy him out? It sure didn’t seem like he was much of a
materialistic guy according to what I experienced. It has been REALLY hard to just not know and
not be able to communicate with him. To just let it go. But that is all I can do, what I must do, an
old pattern returned. It hurts. I am needing to rise up in my Power and not take it personally. And
cherish the moments of JOY we had. Besides the photos say it all, as all the Facebook comments
revealed. Two happy people. I will be back Zeca, but for now it’s back to “Europe”.
Fuerteventura....again!
The Canary Islands are politically part of Spain, yes, and most people speak Spanish perfectly, and you can camp and sleep anywhere safely and you can be naked on the beach with noone looking at you hungrily. That part is very cool. More relaxing. It’s nice to just relax into fearlessness. It’s also nice to see my old “new” friends again, the community I built here in March around the cob workshops. And of course to see the cob building and oven again, still standing strong. They are all happy to see me.
I pledged to take a technology fast during the two weeks of the Cob Workshop & Build, copying Zoe, a Facebook “friend” who I barely remember, after seeing her post. She was taking all of August off of the internet, a yearly ritual, and I know that’s what I need badly. It didn’t last more than a few days for me, mostly because of organizational issues with the El Molino crew who were MIA. The monthlong cob workshop in Tarifa is still at a small 4 participants with only a month to go, and El Molino de Guadalmesi is in the midst of a hectic 28-day Community Living Training, the last week of which is in silence. Three weeks have gone by with no response to my emails. Help!
Ahhhhh, Fuerteventura (“strong winds”), I have begun to feel at home here despite the lack of black skin and good music. A good place to chill, have an easy life, do your work, and play alot. There’s alot of brown desert-like flat open space that allows an ocean view from my friend Sylvain’s house a km inland and up only 15 feet above sea level. He can see the whole northwest to north coastline and what the wind and waves are doing from morning to evening, which is his full-time hobby. While he owns the small 1-acre plot of land, the two adorable rock houses he has built on the non-buildable land are illegal and at risk of destruction on any day the Building Department chooses to implement the law. He is in a wilderness area of hard clay and rock with very few wild creatures, mostly rabbits and birds. Luckily the two houses blend in with the land and take a hard squinty look to detect them. Sylvain is a rock expert and thus builds walls and houses freelance and teaches kitesurfing for a living. He lives day to day and loves his mellow stressless existence. He is the one who spent 6 weeks hoisting mega volcanic and other heavy beautiful rock
Fuerteventura....again!
The Canary Islands are politically part of Spain, yes, and most people speak Spanish perfectly, and you can camp and sleep anywhere safely and you can be naked on the beach with noone looking at you hungrily. That part is very cool. More relaxing. It’s nice to just relax into fearlessness. It’s also nice to see my old “new” friends again, the community I built here in March around the cob workshops. And of course to see the cob building and oven again, still standing strong. They are all happy to see me.
I pledged to take a technology fast during the two weeks of the Cob Workshop & Build, copying Zoe, a Facebook “friend” who I barely remember, after seeing her post. She was taking all of August off of the internet, a yearly ritual, and I know that’s what I need badly. It didn’t last more than a few days for me, mostly because of organizational issues with the El Molino crew who were MIA. The monthlong cob workshop in Tarifa is still at a small 4 participants with only a month to go, and El Molino de Guadalmesi is in the midst of a hectic 28-day Community Living Training, the last week of which is in silence. Three weeks have gone by with no response to my emails. Help!
Ahhhhh, Fuerteventura (“strong winds”), I have begun to feel at home here despite the lack of black skin and good music. A good place to chill, have an easy life, do your work, and play alot. There’s alot of brown desert-like flat open space that allows an ocean view from my friend Sylvain’s house a km inland and up only 15 feet above sea level. He can see the whole northwest to north coastline and what the wind and waves are doing from morning to evening, which is his full-time hobby. While he owns the small 1-acre plot of land, the two adorable rock houses he has built on the non-buildable land are illegal and at risk of destruction on any day the Building Department chooses to implement the law. He is in a wilderness area of hard clay and rock with very few wild creatures, mostly rabbits and birds. Luckily the two houses blend in with the land and take a hard squinty look to detect them. Sylvain is a rock expert and thus builds walls and houses freelance and teaches kitesurfing for a living. He lives day to day and loves his mellow stressless existence. He is the one who spent 6 weeks hoisting mega volcanic and other heavy beautiful rock
brethren into a gorgeous organic random framework to hold the cob walls I came to build. He likes
to work alone and is quick and precise in his moves.
After a few days recuperating at Valeria’s from my São Nicolau love affair with Zeca, who, I would have to clearly accept, I would not be in contact with anymore...I put good old Bike Friday together again, loaded her up, and was on my way up and down the rolling roads of Fuerteventura’s wild open space to Miltiades’ organic farm where the week-long workshop was going to be held. A lovely bike ride...it felt so refreshing and exciting to be back in the saddle again and pumping my legs which had done way too much walking on cobblestones in Cabo Verde. The soles of my feet had started to ache severely in the middle of the night and upon waking, feeling all hard and stiff until I started to stretch them out. This was a new sensation and, I think, due to all the walking on hard rock with poor shoes. I am definitely meant to be a bike traveller and not a backpacker.
I arrived at sunset to a very pleasing rock outline for the cob work to come over the next two weeks. I have to say I have not often seen such aesthetically-pleasing rock work with unique and varied personally harvested rocks. They were collected over the last fifteen years from different parts of the island by Miltiade: green ones, black lava pock-marked ones, white limestone with striped, layered, smooth and textured surfaces. Sylvain deftly placed them with intention and aesthetics showing his many years in this trade. Any mortar was hidden with small chinkers tucked in between the large ones. To my surprise, however, the walls were 50 cm wide!!!! Normal cob walls have a 35 cm foundation and this was going to cost us “mucho trabajo”! Miltiade blamed it on Sylvain’s stubborness and non-familiarity with earthen building and Sylvain blamed it on Miltiades’ wishy-washy indecision. They had been best friends, a Pisces and a Virgo, over the last 20 years of their presence in this corner of the island. The two Frenchmen, goin’ it solo, both intense kite and windsurfers and peers. Each of them super into their own “new” mid-life career. Miltiade supplied Sylvain with basil for his pesto and other yummy produce while Sylvain gave him good deals on his hard labor. Now, the rocks that had lain in waiting around the conventional cement block half house for 15 years, waiting for this moment to become part of its 50m2 completion that had been started years ago...had come to life as a structure thanks to the collaboration between the two Gallic brethren.
Miltiade’s preferred style, as I learned in the short time we have had contact, is to run around taking care of urgencies. This, as he has come to realize, is how he likes to live, without time to reflect and ponder too much. He loves his “Finca Bomilt”, which is big enough to make a living from, selling his crunchy giant arugula and salty spinach to the finest restaurants on the island at $5 a pound. His purple and yellow figs were all coming into their peak time, plump and sweet. I set my tent up in the midst of the fig field and went at it a bit much the first days, with my bowel movements sending me clear messages of overdose. Beets, chard, lettuce, kale, onions, basil, squash and melons were his produce of choice. In addition to figs, there were a half a dozen small pomegranate trees bending under the weight of a few bursting fruit. And in the next field over were his prize aloe vera plants, sitting sprightly and proudly like soldiers in perfect rows. Their beefy sword-like leaves withstood the searing sun and relentless winds from the northeast.
Biomilt’s farm was set up to protect his vegetable babies from the crazy wind the island is known for and which is also the source of most of his energy, along with a 2KW solar array. He has rigged everything so as to live productively and self-sufficiently....by himself. Born and raised in Morocco with Greek and French heritage, he has chosen little quaint El Roque, only a kilometer from the Atlantic waves, to spend the rest of his days being one of the few organic farmers here. And now his two children Loïc, 23, and Anaïs, 27, have re-taken residence in their rooms after living away from the island for years, in support of the unknown about to take place on the land on which they grew up. Irene, Miltiades’ “best friend”, has also slowly woven her way into his life, his room, his bed....for the duration of the workshop. Unfortunately because his room is the only way to get to the kitchen, they will have minimal privacy for the next two weeks.
Miltiade is excited. He has been wanting to finish his half house since he started building it a decade ago, but not with the same nasty cement blocks he used to get it up quickly. He has been
After a few days recuperating at Valeria’s from my São Nicolau love affair with Zeca, who, I would have to clearly accept, I would not be in contact with anymore...I put good old Bike Friday together again, loaded her up, and was on my way up and down the rolling roads of Fuerteventura’s wild open space to Miltiades’ organic farm where the week-long workshop was going to be held. A lovely bike ride...it felt so refreshing and exciting to be back in the saddle again and pumping my legs which had done way too much walking on cobblestones in Cabo Verde. The soles of my feet had started to ache severely in the middle of the night and upon waking, feeling all hard and stiff until I started to stretch them out. This was a new sensation and, I think, due to all the walking on hard rock with poor shoes. I am definitely meant to be a bike traveller and not a backpacker.
I arrived at sunset to a very pleasing rock outline for the cob work to come over the next two weeks. I have to say I have not often seen such aesthetically-pleasing rock work with unique and varied personally harvested rocks. They were collected over the last fifteen years from different parts of the island by Miltiade: green ones, black lava pock-marked ones, white limestone with striped, layered, smooth and textured surfaces. Sylvain deftly placed them with intention and aesthetics showing his many years in this trade. Any mortar was hidden with small chinkers tucked in between the large ones. To my surprise, however, the walls were 50 cm wide!!!! Normal cob walls have a 35 cm foundation and this was going to cost us “mucho trabajo”! Miltiade blamed it on Sylvain’s stubborness and non-familiarity with earthen building and Sylvain blamed it on Miltiades’ wishy-washy indecision. They had been best friends, a Pisces and a Virgo, over the last 20 years of their presence in this corner of the island. The two Frenchmen, goin’ it solo, both intense kite and windsurfers and peers. Each of them super into their own “new” mid-life career. Miltiade supplied Sylvain with basil for his pesto and other yummy produce while Sylvain gave him good deals on his hard labor. Now, the rocks that had lain in waiting around the conventional cement block half house for 15 years, waiting for this moment to become part of its 50m2 completion that had been started years ago...had come to life as a structure thanks to the collaboration between the two Gallic brethren.
Miltiade’s preferred style, as I learned in the short time we have had contact, is to run around taking care of urgencies. This, as he has come to realize, is how he likes to live, without time to reflect and ponder too much. He loves his “Finca Bomilt”, which is big enough to make a living from, selling his crunchy giant arugula and salty spinach to the finest restaurants on the island at $5 a pound. His purple and yellow figs were all coming into their peak time, plump and sweet. I set my tent up in the midst of the fig field and went at it a bit much the first days, with my bowel movements sending me clear messages of overdose. Beets, chard, lettuce, kale, onions, basil, squash and melons were his produce of choice. In addition to figs, there were a half a dozen small pomegranate trees bending under the weight of a few bursting fruit. And in the next field over were his prize aloe vera plants, sitting sprightly and proudly like soldiers in perfect rows. Their beefy sword-like leaves withstood the searing sun and relentless winds from the northeast.
Biomilt’s farm was set up to protect his vegetable babies from the crazy wind the island is known for and which is also the source of most of his energy, along with a 2KW solar array. He has rigged everything so as to live productively and self-sufficiently....by himself. Born and raised in Morocco with Greek and French heritage, he has chosen little quaint El Roque, only a kilometer from the Atlantic waves, to spend the rest of his days being one of the few organic farmers here. And now his two children Loïc, 23, and Anaïs, 27, have re-taken residence in their rooms after living away from the island for years, in support of the unknown about to take place on the land on which they grew up. Irene, Miltiades’ “best friend”, has also slowly woven her way into his life, his room, his bed....for the duration of the workshop. Unfortunately because his room is the only way to get to the kitchen, they will have minimal privacy for the next two weeks.
Miltiade is excited. He has been wanting to finish his half house since he started building it a decade ago, but not with the same nasty cement blocks he used to get it up quickly. He has been
waiting for the right moment and the right person to lead the way. Our meeting at Valeria’s place in
March, as I was teaching and building, was the catalyst for organizing the one-week workshop
which would bring in the labor free of charge and the second week of building with volunteer/
students who wanted more experience and knowledge. Knowing he is a Virgo gives me peace of
mind. While he appears to be an Air sign with a hint of Fire as he runs around putting out one fire
after another, the fact that he does it promptly and efficiently in a good-natured and calm way
reveals his Earth energy side. He is clearly organized with his piles of materials, test bricks done
and clean work space. He is ready and willing to buy the remaining tools needed and has a very
open mind to possibilities. I like working with him and feel relief at his rare-to-find-in-a-cob-
homeowner steady state free of moodiness and unpredictability.
However, what I really really appreciate and missed about this place is the freedom to be naked anywhere. In fact it is a Spanish law that allows nudity on all beaches. How friggin’ cool is that. The one long swimmable beach is only a 10 minute bike ride away and hosts kitesurfers, windsurfers, surfers and beachgoers, naked and clothed. I like to set up camp in the round black lava rock “bunkers”, baring my coconut oil-slathered ass to the sun peacefully. No worries about peeping Tomás’ or Mohammeds. Wherever I end up living needs to have acceptable nudity, which means European or northern Californian influence or indigenous communities.
In my few prep days the goal is to figure out the final mix we will use to build his addition. While some tests have been made by my former student and work partner Fabrizio, I am not satisfied. After stomping and rolling many a cob mix I let the hands do the guiding. So far the tests have consisted of different proportions of the fine red clay with the rough large “picón” granules which come from lava rock. While it has some powdery component in it, it just does not cut it as sand and there is clearly a need for something in between these extremes. This is what I love about my nascent traveling cobber profession, I get to experience all different kinds of clay soils, sands and fiber and have to figure out mixes which sometimes can take some trial and error. The consequence of not taking time to do the testing, including for the plaster mixes, is not good for my reputation, as in Senegal when the quickly-made intuitive earthen paint mixes with local clays all peeled off a week later.
The workshop has grown to 12 folks for the weekend and about half of that for the remaining weekdays. Once again I have a great mixed crew of surfers, builders, bodyworkers, artists, office workers, artisans, etc. Day 1 is always a thrill as people get to roll up their pants and jump in the mud breaking out into large grins of glee. A 50 m2 space needs to be filled in to 2 meters high, in 2 weeks. Yeehah! My crew are hard-working and as usual there are the naturals and the slow ones. My personal work is patience with the slower learners to equalize the excitement I feel with the naturals. The Aries teacher must work on her compassion, and there is always one in the crowd that needs more of my energy and she worked me hard. Day after day I would show Ellen the way and mix after mix there was never enough straw no matter how she put it in. She tried all different techniques but the bottom line was that she did not like the palm trunk coarse straw and nor did she like like breaking it or stepping on it. I understand because this was not regular straw like the kind you find on the mainland. This was the real deal local palm tree husk. The very tough coarse crossed-fiber mesh encased in a hard-as-tough-leather outer woody husk. It was first broken up by a shredder and then had to be further ripped up by hand. Her hands were so delicate, only ever used for Reiki healing. What could be done?
This workshop was unique in that Meltiade, the farmer, was intent on using his machinery to quicken the process. The question was what and how. Every day Meltiade would awaken before sunrise and ready to start checking off his never-ending to-do list wavering between farming and cob tasks. The mechanical cob mix was always last on the list and. Ultimately there were two options: using the tractor to mix the dry materials by scooping them up and dropping them repeatedly and then running over the wet mix to compress it OR using the cement mixer to make the wet mix without straw and finishing up on the tarp. Method 2 was the final choice in terms of time, energy and quality, and when we finally got into the groove by the second week....it was impossible to imagine making a mix from scratch on the tarp anymore. By the end of the
However, what I really really appreciate and missed about this place is the freedom to be naked anywhere. In fact it is a Spanish law that allows nudity on all beaches. How friggin’ cool is that. The one long swimmable beach is only a 10 minute bike ride away and hosts kitesurfers, windsurfers, surfers and beachgoers, naked and clothed. I like to set up camp in the round black lava rock “bunkers”, baring my coconut oil-slathered ass to the sun peacefully. No worries about peeping Tomás’ or Mohammeds. Wherever I end up living needs to have acceptable nudity, which means European or northern Californian influence or indigenous communities.
In my few prep days the goal is to figure out the final mix we will use to build his addition. While some tests have been made by my former student and work partner Fabrizio, I am not satisfied. After stomping and rolling many a cob mix I let the hands do the guiding. So far the tests have consisted of different proportions of the fine red clay with the rough large “picón” granules which come from lava rock. While it has some powdery component in it, it just does not cut it as sand and there is clearly a need for something in between these extremes. This is what I love about my nascent traveling cobber profession, I get to experience all different kinds of clay soils, sands and fiber and have to figure out mixes which sometimes can take some trial and error. The consequence of not taking time to do the testing, including for the plaster mixes, is not good for my reputation, as in Senegal when the quickly-made intuitive earthen paint mixes with local clays all peeled off a week later.
The workshop has grown to 12 folks for the weekend and about half of that for the remaining weekdays. Once again I have a great mixed crew of surfers, builders, bodyworkers, artists, office workers, artisans, etc. Day 1 is always a thrill as people get to roll up their pants and jump in the mud breaking out into large grins of glee. A 50 m2 space needs to be filled in to 2 meters high, in 2 weeks. Yeehah! My crew are hard-working and as usual there are the naturals and the slow ones. My personal work is patience with the slower learners to equalize the excitement I feel with the naturals. The Aries teacher must work on her compassion, and there is always one in the crowd that needs more of my energy and she worked me hard. Day after day I would show Ellen the way and mix after mix there was never enough straw no matter how she put it in. She tried all different techniques but the bottom line was that she did not like the palm trunk coarse straw and nor did she like like breaking it or stepping on it. I understand because this was not regular straw like the kind you find on the mainland. This was the real deal local palm tree husk. The very tough coarse crossed-fiber mesh encased in a hard-as-tough-leather outer woody husk. It was first broken up by a shredder and then had to be further ripped up by hand. Her hands were so delicate, only ever used for Reiki healing. What could be done?
This workshop was unique in that Meltiade, the farmer, was intent on using his machinery to quicken the process. The question was what and how. Every day Meltiade would awaken before sunrise and ready to start checking off his never-ending to-do list wavering between farming and cob tasks. The mechanical cob mix was always last on the list and. Ultimately there were two options: using the tractor to mix the dry materials by scooping them up and dropping them repeatedly and then running over the wet mix to compress it OR using the cement mixer to make the wet mix without straw and finishing up on the tarp. Method 2 was the final choice in terms of time, energy and quality, and when we finally got into the groove by the second week....it was impossible to imagine making a mix from scratch on the tarp anymore. By the end of the
workweek, the walls were 3/4 up and small areas of test plaster and test floor had been made to
excite Meltiade for what lay ahead. I hoped I had given him and his volunteer workers including his
son Loïc and daughter Anaïs enough momentum to wrap it up in another week of hard work for
great food. The food is always of great importance in a cob workshop. As the owner is receiving
free heavy labor in addition to payment for food, his main obligation, aside from having the
materials and tools ready every day, is to make GOOD food and ENOUGH food. So far this has
been the case at each of my workshops except one, when single momma of two small children
Ana could not get it together to do more than sandwiches for the weekend. At least it was only for
the weekend and only an oven’s worth of work.
I left Fuerteventura feeling I had accomplished my mission. Even though my workshops do not always finish walls or put on roofs, we work our asses off to get all aspects of cob and cob walls on, which is the bulk of the laborious effort. I hope the owners realize the incredible deal they are getting in such a short time. It is probably not until after we are gone and they try to finish it on their own that they do. It is important for me that they have a hand in it as well, literally, to own the building. Thus I maintain the owner-builder tradition of cob.
And now back to Tangier...again!
Pooped and ready to chill. With Yvonne. Somehow a contradiction. I was looking for one of those poetry terms for putting two things side by side that are in opposition. Juxtaposition? I lost three items during my 2 plane rides and one bus ride to get from Fuerteventura to Yvonne’s doorstep today: my beloved quart-size Kleen Kanteen metal water bottle, my beloved and long-labored over Spanish cob workshop posters (shit!) and a small bungee cord for holding my ukelele inside its case. I hate losing things and realize I need to PAY ATTENTION more and harder. I’m actually quite surprised at my inattentiveness to my few personal belongings I need to be responsible for. I used to be responsible for three travellin’ chitlins and ALL of our stuff including bicycles, a Burley, backpacks, and the boys! I must be tired and in need of meditation, food for the brain!
Back in Morocco if the cab drivers are trying to charge me double the regular price. And back in Morocco if when I tell them my Mom is Moroccan and sputter a few well-pronounced Arab words... they bow in respect, call me one of theirs, and imediately drop the price from 350DH ($35) to 200DH ($20). Ideally I would have a Mother in each country and speak just the necessary vocabulary to pull this off everywhere I go. And though Yvonne was born and raised in Morocco, she is not Moroccan or Arab or Muslim. And so when they tell me I LOOK Moroccan and Arab...I politely say “Shoukran” and smile, lest I lose my discount.
Once again my beloved bicicleta is safe and sound in a hefty bike box in the back seat of a taxi flying from the Casablanca airport to the CMT bus station in record time to catch my 2:30 bus to Tangier. I am in the front seat as a result and being conversed with in Arab and crappy incomprehensible French by Mohammed. I smile and say “Na’am, na’am” incessantly, confirming everything he says to his delight. I relax into chaotic Moroccan driver mode and am grateful it is Sunday lunchtime, probably the best time to pick to be in a hurry to get somewhere through the maze of Casablanca. I’ve actually never been here though Yvonne was born here. Five years ago during my Moroccan bike tour, I specifically avoided it as I had had come down with nasty food poisoning from eating street-cooked sausages (baaaad move) and decided to hop on the bus for the El Jadida to Rabat stretch, thankfully ignoring Casablanca, the densest city in Morocco.
Mohammed got me there in the nick of time. My stuff was swept up by the luggage guys who passed it onto the baggage counter where I was made to pay another $22. I was stoked with my $15 bus ticket and of course did not take into account the $20 cab ride and the extra luggage charge. Still it came to a third of the plane ticket plus taxi I would have needed to get to Yvonne’s place, not to mention potential bike fees.
I left Fuerteventura feeling I had accomplished my mission. Even though my workshops do not always finish walls or put on roofs, we work our asses off to get all aspects of cob and cob walls on, which is the bulk of the laborious effort. I hope the owners realize the incredible deal they are getting in such a short time. It is probably not until after we are gone and they try to finish it on their own that they do. It is important for me that they have a hand in it as well, literally, to own the building. Thus I maintain the owner-builder tradition of cob.
And now back to Tangier...again!
Pooped and ready to chill. With Yvonne. Somehow a contradiction. I was looking for one of those poetry terms for putting two things side by side that are in opposition. Juxtaposition? I lost three items during my 2 plane rides and one bus ride to get from Fuerteventura to Yvonne’s doorstep today: my beloved quart-size Kleen Kanteen metal water bottle, my beloved and long-labored over Spanish cob workshop posters (shit!) and a small bungee cord for holding my ukelele inside its case. I hate losing things and realize I need to PAY ATTENTION more and harder. I’m actually quite surprised at my inattentiveness to my few personal belongings I need to be responsible for. I used to be responsible for three travellin’ chitlins and ALL of our stuff including bicycles, a Burley, backpacks, and the boys! I must be tired and in need of meditation, food for the brain!
Back in Morocco if the cab drivers are trying to charge me double the regular price. And back in Morocco if when I tell them my Mom is Moroccan and sputter a few well-pronounced Arab words... they bow in respect, call me one of theirs, and imediately drop the price from 350DH ($35) to 200DH ($20). Ideally I would have a Mother in each country and speak just the necessary vocabulary to pull this off everywhere I go. And though Yvonne was born and raised in Morocco, she is not Moroccan or Arab or Muslim. And so when they tell me I LOOK Moroccan and Arab...I politely say “Shoukran” and smile, lest I lose my discount.
Once again my beloved bicicleta is safe and sound in a hefty bike box in the back seat of a taxi flying from the Casablanca airport to the CMT bus station in record time to catch my 2:30 bus to Tangier. I am in the front seat as a result and being conversed with in Arab and crappy incomprehensible French by Mohammed. I smile and say “Na’am, na’am” incessantly, confirming everything he says to his delight. I relax into chaotic Moroccan driver mode and am grateful it is Sunday lunchtime, probably the best time to pick to be in a hurry to get somewhere through the maze of Casablanca. I’ve actually never been here though Yvonne was born here. Five years ago during my Moroccan bike tour, I specifically avoided it as I had had come down with nasty food poisoning from eating street-cooked sausages (baaaad move) and decided to hop on the bus for the El Jadida to Rabat stretch, thankfully ignoring Casablanca, the densest city in Morocco.
Mohammed got me there in the nick of time. My stuff was swept up by the luggage guys who passed it onto the baggage counter where I was made to pay another $22. I was stoked with my $15 bus ticket and of course did not take into account the $20 cab ride and the extra luggage charge. Still it came to a third of the plane ticket plus taxi I would have needed to get to Yvonne’s place, not to mention potential bike fees.
I love long bus and boat and train rides. Time to be in between places, nowhere land, to transition
from there to there and just rest. I definitely need rest, in particular sleep. Now I am back in
Muslim land and just seeing the women all covered up in their scarves and long heavy dresses
makes me sweat. I am even sweating in my long shorts and tank top. I hunkered down in my two
seats as best I could and closed my eyes, praying for sleep. I was really hungry. For the first time
ever perhaps (my boys would be proud of me), I had no snacks, no healthy bites and had bought a
plastic water bottle. No choice. I lost my best friend, the Kleen Kanteen that had kept me hydrated
through all the kilometers, nights and days and workshops. I pretended I was fasting, which I’ve
done regularly throughout my life, and switched my mindset.
I had to pee really badly. The schedule had said that the bus had a food stop halfway. I decided to approach the bus driver, Mom-style, and ask when he would be stopping ‘cause I had to pee really badly. He said another 40 minutes. It seemed I was bothering him but truth be told we had been going more than half the distance for a while. One hour later I was back in the front, pushing him to fess up that he had not stopped in fourty minutes and now complaining of hunger along with the need to pee. “Fifteen minutes,” he replied. Was he playing with me? I mean this guy should know his distances and times. The Moroccan veiled woman behind me offered up a banana. I took it. Could have been worse.
When the bus finally pulled off the exclusive fancy highway with toll stops every 15 minutes, I thought we were in the US mid-West for a second. Everything was written in English. It was a big giant reststop fast food place, toilets, and snacks, all in bright neon colors with a staff of ready-to- help-you Moroccans in matching uniforms. Time to adjust to Morocco again. New language. New food. New money. New appearances. New male behavior. I decided on a safe bet: a panini with pesto and tomato and lettuce, fresh-squeezed orange juice and a dessert. I was quite hungry. I sat on the curb and ate, oblivious to all, until I could not be anymore because I was being stared at and approached. I surely did not miss the staring that these Third World countries tend to bring us poor White Westerners that just want space and to be left alone.
When the bus finally arrived in Tangier, I had no idea where I was with regards to Yvonne’s place. Well at least I had been here before and was somewhat orientated. I quickly reconstructed my baby in the bus station ignoring the Arab eyes staring again, and with some vague directions rode off into the night. Slowly but surely I would arrive, even with my headlight out of juice. Prayer alone works, along with staying aware. Three hundred and sixty degrees’ worth. The stares are tiring but I also enjoy waking the men up to new possibilities of womanhood in their narrow mindsets.
I have to say the whole veil thing really pisses me off. It is so unattractive in my eyes and why are the women all hidden while the men roam exposed, well most of them. Why is their hair not covered? It looks so hot and stuffy. I had a long talk with a new friend Karima, a well-educated energy-filled open-minded Moroccan woman who has lived in England and speaks several languages well. She is a teacher of religions by training and we hit it off immediately and non-stop. She is the wife of Fouad, the acupuncturist who patiently administered needles to my ADD-affected mother in January, when her hip hurt. Karima and I have the Earth in common, or rather love of the Earth. She is immediately taken in by my Cob Mission and has rallied her husband to buy land in the countryside so she can build her own oven. She wants to come to my cob workshop, as long as she can wear her long dress and scarf. I love these types of women who have so much life energy and are fearless, disproving what their appearances may convey. Karima speaks to her scarf and how it protects her from sexual thoughts. At least that is what she thinks.
Her husband Fouad is the only acupuncturist in Tangier. Trained in England, and a fully-licensed Western medical doctor as well, he has decided to spend the remainder of his retirement days treating locals with needles, his passion of choice. Charging a mere $10-$20 for an appointment, his mission is to make it accessible to all, even the country folk. Fouad treated my impetuous 76- year old mother for her imaginary hip syndrome. He was the most compassionate healer, man and
I had to pee really badly. The schedule had said that the bus had a food stop halfway. I decided to approach the bus driver, Mom-style, and ask when he would be stopping ‘cause I had to pee really badly. He said another 40 minutes. It seemed I was bothering him but truth be told we had been going more than half the distance for a while. One hour later I was back in the front, pushing him to fess up that he had not stopped in fourty minutes and now complaining of hunger along with the need to pee. “Fifteen minutes,” he replied. Was he playing with me? I mean this guy should know his distances and times. The Moroccan veiled woman behind me offered up a banana. I took it. Could have been worse.
When the bus finally pulled off the exclusive fancy highway with toll stops every 15 minutes, I thought we were in the US mid-West for a second. Everything was written in English. It was a big giant reststop fast food place, toilets, and snacks, all in bright neon colors with a staff of ready-to- help-you Moroccans in matching uniforms. Time to adjust to Morocco again. New language. New food. New money. New appearances. New male behavior. I decided on a safe bet: a panini with pesto and tomato and lettuce, fresh-squeezed orange juice and a dessert. I was quite hungry. I sat on the curb and ate, oblivious to all, until I could not be anymore because I was being stared at and approached. I surely did not miss the staring that these Third World countries tend to bring us poor White Westerners that just want space and to be left alone.
When the bus finally arrived in Tangier, I had no idea where I was with regards to Yvonne’s place. Well at least I had been here before and was somewhat orientated. I quickly reconstructed my baby in the bus station ignoring the Arab eyes staring again, and with some vague directions rode off into the night. Slowly but surely I would arrive, even with my headlight out of juice. Prayer alone works, along with staying aware. Three hundred and sixty degrees’ worth. The stares are tiring but I also enjoy waking the men up to new possibilities of womanhood in their narrow mindsets.
I have to say the whole veil thing really pisses me off. It is so unattractive in my eyes and why are the women all hidden while the men roam exposed, well most of them. Why is their hair not covered? It looks so hot and stuffy. I had a long talk with a new friend Karima, a well-educated energy-filled open-minded Moroccan woman who has lived in England and speaks several languages well. She is a teacher of religions by training and we hit it off immediately and non-stop. She is the wife of Fouad, the acupuncturist who patiently administered needles to my ADD-affected mother in January, when her hip hurt. Karima and I have the Earth in common, or rather love of the Earth. She is immediately taken in by my Cob Mission and has rallied her husband to buy land in the countryside so she can build her own oven. She wants to come to my cob workshop, as long as she can wear her long dress and scarf. I love these types of women who have so much life energy and are fearless, disproving what their appearances may convey. Karima speaks to her scarf and how it protects her from sexual thoughts. At least that is what she thinks.
Her husband Fouad is the only acupuncturist in Tangier. Trained in England, and a fully-licensed Western medical doctor as well, he has decided to spend the remainder of his retirement days treating locals with needles, his passion of choice. Charging a mere $10-$20 for an appointment, his mission is to make it accessible to all, even the country folk. Fouad treated my impetuous 76- year old mother for her imaginary hip syndrome. He was the most compassionate healer, man and
individual I have yet seen deal with Yvonne. Her first appointment in the shared treatment room
would have scared anyone away. Not so with Fouad. Each poke was followed by a scream and
anxiety-filled comments. Fouad stayed calm. Each time he left her to “rest” triggered her into a
panic attack after a minute. I felt sorry for the woman on the other side of the wall. I later saw that
she was not bothered at all as the Moroccans, like the Africans, enjoy socializing and drama. As a
matter of fact, they ended up chatting away through the wall which helped Yvonne to distract from
her needle-filled body. For the next several months Fouad treated Yvonne despite her missed
appointments, request for home visits, lack of payments and endless complaints during treatments.
He took care of her as his own Mother, who had passed. I was thankful for this kind Man who
impressed me beyond measure with his patience and sweetness. Sadly Yvonne’s eternal self-
absorption blinded her to her good fortune. The end result was that something worked in effect to
free her of the pain she had carried for months, though it was not clear whether it was the needles
or the unconditional compassion exuded by Fouad.
As has been the case since time immemorial, the quality of my time with my Mother degraded day by day. I start out with loads of patience, love, flexibilty and peace. Within days her feisty negative sourpuss face in the morning extends till noon and her need to sleep late can go on till any time. One starts to feel invasive with even the lightest of footsteps and minimum presence. It becomes impossible to communicate naturally anymore as you have to constantly be on the lookout for attack. Obviously 51 years of historical baggage still lies in waiting for both of us. Years of the same exact situation replayed now, and only I have the potential to make a difference. I have already succeeded, when I focus my thoughts on her death, and wanting to have no regrets on what I could have done. I have pushed myself to my limits by professing my love to this woman who only knows how to push love away and reinforce her unloveableness. It runs so deep. I of course carry traces of this which my sons let me know when necessary. Thankfully I can hear it, handle it and hopefully modify it, but to do it sustainably is the key. Right? Durability, which is the word for sustainable in French. For now I need to use her as a mirror of gratitude for my progress. But also just plain old “Be Nice”. For the only reason being that she is my Mother. Mother Respect is Universal except in the Western countries, and especially lacking in the US. Yelling and cursing at your Mom is blasphemous in the rest of the world. It is a custom I must work hard on lest karma blesses me with the same destiny.
I tried my very best and was met with a disturbing outcome. My slowly diminishing DIrhams were not due to my forgetfulness. Beyond belief, I firmly accused her of stealing from my wallet. She had never done that to me. To my Brother yes. To my Father yes. But to her hard-woking eldest daughter and single mother of three boys who she admired and supported, never. Her initial reaction was offense. Once I had left her house, I knew it could only be her and insisted firmly again, but this time acting as if it was a done deal and offering up her option for making amends. Her following email was a slough of confused back-and-forth words wavering between offense, admission of guilt, promise of reimbursal, justification and anger at the accusation once again. She had gone Full Circle. But my tactic worked as she had revealed her sly little Self. Replaying the previous days in her house, I could not fathom when and how she could have pulled off her theft without me seeing anything. My things were not easy to access and I was usually close by and her 75-year old fingers coul not be nimble....or could they? The upside? I was reimbursed within a week. She knew what she had done was blasphemous and to keep her financial karma clean, she had best do the right thing. It was good to see that she had some morals left in that Gypsy Jewish Soul.
Viva Arrives!
A month ago my eldest son sent me a non-descript unexpected text: “I think I wanna come”. After months of refuting my invitations in the name of different interests, different directions and letting things flow as they flow...I was surprised at his sudden swing. I also knew that it was not a sudden swing but a well-thought out, meditated-on decision, carefully weighing out the pros and cons. Even after the text and my suppressed excitement, he still took time to be fully clear. I am glad he did because it feels so much better for me that the decision was self-generated. Almost a year
As has been the case since time immemorial, the quality of my time with my Mother degraded day by day. I start out with loads of patience, love, flexibilty and peace. Within days her feisty negative sourpuss face in the morning extends till noon and her need to sleep late can go on till any time. One starts to feel invasive with even the lightest of footsteps and minimum presence. It becomes impossible to communicate naturally anymore as you have to constantly be on the lookout for attack. Obviously 51 years of historical baggage still lies in waiting for both of us. Years of the same exact situation replayed now, and only I have the potential to make a difference. I have already succeeded, when I focus my thoughts on her death, and wanting to have no regrets on what I could have done. I have pushed myself to my limits by professing my love to this woman who only knows how to push love away and reinforce her unloveableness. It runs so deep. I of course carry traces of this which my sons let me know when necessary. Thankfully I can hear it, handle it and hopefully modify it, but to do it sustainably is the key. Right? Durability, which is the word for sustainable in French. For now I need to use her as a mirror of gratitude for my progress. But also just plain old “Be Nice”. For the only reason being that she is my Mother. Mother Respect is Universal except in the Western countries, and especially lacking in the US. Yelling and cursing at your Mom is blasphemous in the rest of the world. It is a custom I must work hard on lest karma blesses me with the same destiny.
I tried my very best and was met with a disturbing outcome. My slowly diminishing DIrhams were not due to my forgetfulness. Beyond belief, I firmly accused her of stealing from my wallet. She had never done that to me. To my Brother yes. To my Father yes. But to her hard-woking eldest daughter and single mother of three boys who she admired and supported, never. Her initial reaction was offense. Once I had left her house, I knew it could only be her and insisted firmly again, but this time acting as if it was a done deal and offering up her option for making amends. Her following email was a slough of confused back-and-forth words wavering between offense, admission of guilt, promise of reimbursal, justification and anger at the accusation once again. She had gone Full Circle. But my tactic worked as she had revealed her sly little Self. Replaying the previous days in her house, I could not fathom when and how she could have pulled off her theft without me seeing anything. My things were not easy to access and I was usually close by and her 75-year old fingers coul not be nimble....or could they? The upside? I was reimbursed within a week. She knew what she had done was blasphemous and to keep her financial karma clean, she had best do the right thing. It was good to see that she had some morals left in that Gypsy Jewish Soul.
Viva Arrives!
A month ago my eldest son sent me a non-descript unexpected text: “I think I wanna come”. After months of refuting my invitations in the name of different interests, different directions and letting things flow as they flow...I was surprised at his sudden swing. I also knew that it was not a sudden swing but a well-thought out, meditated-on decision, carefully weighing out the pros and cons. Even after the text and my suppressed excitement, he still took time to be fully clear. I am glad he did because it feels so much better for me that the decision was self-generated. Almost a year
after my leaving Santa Cruz, Viva and I were reunited, walking the streets of feisty fiery Málaga,
with all its boisterous bistros and eateries open late with bustling Malagueños who never sleep.
Padrón peppers, cured goat and sheep cheese, olive oils, olives, all kinds of tapas, cañas,
delicious helados and sorbetes lined the streets. Such a sensual city, so much happiness and joy,
families strolling together every day, and everyone can afford a tapa and caña for $2. It’s a good
place to heal and feel the potential of being a socialized Human.
Molino Madness
Our next stop took us down to Tarifa and El Molino de Guadalmesí. This cob workshop was destined to be mad from the beginning of its existence in the mouths of Claudine and Elena. All seemed flowing on the right path, well-organized and potentially a winner back in February and March when we got our first 4 signups, with 6 months to go. Then, the first downer hit. Roby, her partner’s, sister was dying of cancer. Young and health-conscious, her fate was very unexpected, leaving a young son and husband behind. They were no longer motivated to hold the month-long cob workshop on their land and would help me find another location. Very dissappointed I was, as their site was amazingly beautiful with good energy. But what could I do? I had to let go and open up to the unknown next steps and hope to find another comparable place.
WIthin a short time, Elena told me that her good friends Johnny and Alicia would take us in. They ran Molino de Guadalmesí, another ecovillage with progressive workshops, about 6 miles from the quaint old Moor-influenced city of Tarifa and right on the Mediterranean with a river running through. Within a few days we were on Skype together discussing things happily, as they agreed on all the agreements that were in place already with Elena, with a few extra more detailed questions about the foundation and their responsibility. Things were glossed over quickly (mistake #1) but most importantly they agreed to build the foundation before the workshop started, and help with the roof at the end. Johnny made some cool new flyers (his profession) and within a week we were on our way to a great workshop situation with already 4 students signed up and paid.
This would be our last communication for a while. Little did I know but these people would be entering a month-long Community Living training including vows of silence and other rituals that would keep them oblivious to the outside world, including me. Emails went out to them with no response for 2-3 weeks. What the heck was going on? Were these people for real? How would we have a workshop if they were not even reachable? How could students reach them if they were not answering my emails? I felt alone and angry at this non-collaborative behavior. Worried too for my students who were coming from the US, Australia and Canada!!!!
Three weeks from my last email I finally get a response from Alicia, the alpha female of the community. She apologizes for being out of touch, but they are super busy with their 28-Day Training and their system was hacked and so on and so on. She will make the changes on the website so that the workshop page is actually legible ( and not 8 or 9 font), she will actually list the workshop on the Events page and she will make important corrections to the content. Days later it still is not done. Weeks go by before my next email is answered. Again, they are now in a vow of silence and won’t be able to talk. Great! I am so angry at all of this and am beginning to feel a strong negative rage at this woman I do not even know, save for her Whatsapp messages laced with antipathy. Seems she is taking it upon herself to do all of the communication despite this being an intentional community of individuals.
By the time they are out of their 28-Day Course, we are still at 4 students. Nothing has changed because nothing has changed. These folks are not into it, not available, not doin’ a thing. She lets me know, 3 weeks before the workshop start date, that they will need ten paying students because they need their materials cost covered or they can’t do the workshop. Impossible. And they want to set up a cutoff date 2 weeks before the workshop which means we have one week to find 6 more people. I am both angry and scared, for my students are coming from afar and I need to hold this workshop no matter what! They, or rather she, has put me in a bad situation. It is unfair,
Molino Madness
Our next stop took us down to Tarifa and El Molino de Guadalmesí. This cob workshop was destined to be mad from the beginning of its existence in the mouths of Claudine and Elena. All seemed flowing on the right path, well-organized and potentially a winner back in February and March when we got our first 4 signups, with 6 months to go. Then, the first downer hit. Roby, her partner’s, sister was dying of cancer. Young and health-conscious, her fate was very unexpected, leaving a young son and husband behind. They were no longer motivated to hold the month-long cob workshop on their land and would help me find another location. Very dissappointed I was, as their site was amazingly beautiful with good energy. But what could I do? I had to let go and open up to the unknown next steps and hope to find another comparable place.
WIthin a short time, Elena told me that her good friends Johnny and Alicia would take us in. They ran Molino de Guadalmesí, another ecovillage with progressive workshops, about 6 miles from the quaint old Moor-influenced city of Tarifa and right on the Mediterranean with a river running through. Within a few days we were on Skype together discussing things happily, as they agreed on all the agreements that were in place already with Elena, with a few extra more detailed questions about the foundation and their responsibility. Things were glossed over quickly (mistake #1) but most importantly they agreed to build the foundation before the workshop started, and help with the roof at the end. Johnny made some cool new flyers (his profession) and within a week we were on our way to a great workshop situation with already 4 students signed up and paid.
This would be our last communication for a while. Little did I know but these people would be entering a month-long Community Living training including vows of silence and other rituals that would keep them oblivious to the outside world, including me. Emails went out to them with no response for 2-3 weeks. What the heck was going on? Were these people for real? How would we have a workshop if they were not even reachable? How could students reach them if they were not answering my emails? I felt alone and angry at this non-collaborative behavior. Worried too for my students who were coming from the US, Australia and Canada!!!!
Three weeks from my last email I finally get a response from Alicia, the alpha female of the community. She apologizes for being out of touch, but they are super busy with their 28-Day Training and their system was hacked and so on and so on. She will make the changes on the website so that the workshop page is actually legible ( and not 8 or 9 font), she will actually list the workshop on the Events page and she will make important corrections to the content. Days later it still is not done. Weeks go by before my next email is answered. Again, they are now in a vow of silence and won’t be able to talk. Great! I am so angry at all of this and am beginning to feel a strong negative rage at this woman I do not even know, save for her Whatsapp messages laced with antipathy. Seems she is taking it upon herself to do all of the communication despite this being an intentional community of individuals.
By the time they are out of their 28-Day Course, we are still at 4 students. Nothing has changed because nothing has changed. These folks are not into it, not available, not doin’ a thing. She lets me know, 3 weeks before the workshop start date, that they will need ten paying students because they need their materials cost covered or they can’t do the workshop. Impossible. And they want to set up a cutoff date 2 weeks before the workshop which means we have one week to find 6 more people. I am both angry and scared, for my students are coming from afar and I need to hold this workshop no matter what! They, or rather she, has put me in a bad situation. It is unfair,
unprofessional and shitty. I do not like this and I do not like her. I state my intention to hold this
workshop no matter what, to which her husband Johnny Azpilicueta agrees, as a way of moving
the stuck energy forward to bring the students to us. She then proceeds to write a 3-option
proposal which all sounds bad because the whole foundation of this situation is faulty. How can
you change conditions of an agreement one-sidedly, at the last minute, because you feel like it?
Bad karma.
And there, was the beginning of her karmic payback, unbeknownst to my consciousness. Johnny and I kissed on the mouth the first day we met. From there it was a love story unlike any other I have had. A gray-bearded, long-haired, strong and lean, Renaissance man of all talents I adore, acutely intelligent, and with big brown Basque eyes that looked at me with delight, every moment of every day of the whole month I was there. He joined the Course and abandoned his wife for the whole month. While it was not my plan, we ended up co-teaching the Course and dancing together for all to see, uninhibited, free, happy, blissful, playful and so excited. Passion is irrepressible. Love is helpless. We did not care....in the same way. Surrendered to LOVE every day. Our first daily glimpse was luscious. Our last daily glimpse was met with yearning. We learned and grew together in front of the class every day. His utter gentleness and compassion left me willing to grow, learn, change, accept everything he had to offer. We spent every moment together that he could, it seemed. She, the wife, was the ONLY person on the property completely oblivious to our passionate love.
One day her naïveté was over when I boldly shared my love for her husband with her. With the additional support of her sisters, she woke up to the fact that he was moving his sexual energy elsewhere, namely with late-night hair-playing and hand cuddling sessions accompanying heartful conversation. Those moments were the Infinite for me. I felt in love, high, complete...my partner playmate and workmate was here. The one who I can grow with. The one who SEES me and LOVES me no matter what. Unconditionally. Every day I wondered if this day would be different. And every day it got better.
His LOVE was always there for me. We only had to glance at each other to know how deep our feelings went for each other. Yet I had to hold my professional stance, being in the spotlight. Johnny and I had a myriad occasions and excuses to be together discussing the project, working together, and knowing each other. He has an irresistible combination of qualities: intellectual, musician, craftsman, builder, poet, teacher, leader, lover.
Needless to say Alicia began her downhill descent as she awoke to her husband’s extra-marital interest. While this payback was not intentional, I surely did nothing to stop it. It was so delicious and I believe in freedom to love, to express your feelings, to connect. Like Johnny. And thus I went with the flow and tried to keep my side clean of any overt actions that I could be blamed for and noone can control your feelings. Needless to say things ended unpleasantly and falsely with Alicia, who tried hard to clear the air on our last day, manipulating things so that Johnny would not be taking us to town and spenidng my last moments of delight with me. Unfortunately just the sight of her tight and anxious face combined with the history behind us made any bit of compassion impossible. I delighted in the jealous pain she was feeling for it required no effort on my part. It just was. And she could do nothing about it.
A Portuguese Surfin’ Road Trip
Once Xica, my youngest Lion arrives with his giant 3-board bag on wheels through the doors of the Lisbon airport, I am relieved, exhausted, anxious and so happy to see my 19-year old California surfer/DJ who has lived on hs own for the last 10 months. At least two inches taller and 10 pounds heftier, the boy is a man now. With his scruffy blond pubic beard (as he calls it), his backwards Santa Cruz cap and sporting the standard surfer baggy khaki DIckies on his buff German frame... the little boy smile remains the same one since he was 2. I have to admit that deep down I know he missed me, though my offer was hard to refuse: plane ticket, room and board, The World Surf League Pro Tour Event, a rental car and an oceanfront bungalow for 2 weeks followed by drifting
And there, was the beginning of her karmic payback, unbeknownst to my consciousness. Johnny and I kissed on the mouth the first day we met. From there it was a love story unlike any other I have had. A gray-bearded, long-haired, strong and lean, Renaissance man of all talents I adore, acutely intelligent, and with big brown Basque eyes that looked at me with delight, every moment of every day of the whole month I was there. He joined the Course and abandoned his wife for the whole month. While it was not my plan, we ended up co-teaching the Course and dancing together for all to see, uninhibited, free, happy, blissful, playful and so excited. Passion is irrepressible. Love is helpless. We did not care....in the same way. Surrendered to LOVE every day. Our first daily glimpse was luscious. Our last daily glimpse was met with yearning. We learned and grew together in front of the class every day. His utter gentleness and compassion left me willing to grow, learn, change, accept everything he had to offer. We spent every moment together that he could, it seemed. She, the wife, was the ONLY person on the property completely oblivious to our passionate love.
One day her naïveté was over when I boldly shared my love for her husband with her. With the additional support of her sisters, she woke up to the fact that he was moving his sexual energy elsewhere, namely with late-night hair-playing and hand cuddling sessions accompanying heartful conversation. Those moments were the Infinite for me. I felt in love, high, complete...my partner playmate and workmate was here. The one who I can grow with. The one who SEES me and LOVES me no matter what. Unconditionally. Every day I wondered if this day would be different. And every day it got better.
His LOVE was always there for me. We only had to glance at each other to know how deep our feelings went for each other. Yet I had to hold my professional stance, being in the spotlight. Johnny and I had a myriad occasions and excuses to be together discussing the project, working together, and knowing each other. He has an irresistible combination of qualities: intellectual, musician, craftsman, builder, poet, teacher, leader, lover.
Needless to say Alicia began her downhill descent as she awoke to her husband’s extra-marital interest. While this payback was not intentional, I surely did nothing to stop it. It was so delicious and I believe in freedom to love, to express your feelings, to connect. Like Johnny. And thus I went with the flow and tried to keep my side clean of any overt actions that I could be blamed for and noone can control your feelings. Needless to say things ended unpleasantly and falsely with Alicia, who tried hard to clear the air on our last day, manipulating things so that Johnny would not be taking us to town and spenidng my last moments of delight with me. Unfortunately just the sight of her tight and anxious face combined with the history behind us made any bit of compassion impossible. I delighted in the jealous pain she was feeling for it required no effort on my part. It just was. And she could do nothing about it.
A Portuguese Surfin’ Road Trip
Once Xica, my youngest Lion arrives with his giant 3-board bag on wheels through the doors of the Lisbon airport, I am relieved, exhausted, anxious and so happy to see my 19-year old California surfer/DJ who has lived on hs own for the last 10 months. At least two inches taller and 10 pounds heftier, the boy is a man now. With his scruffy blond pubic beard (as he calls it), his backwards Santa Cruz cap and sporting the standard surfer baggy khaki DIckies on his buff German frame... the little boy smile remains the same one since he was 2. I have to admit that deep down I know he missed me, though my offer was hard to refuse: plane ticket, room and board, The World Surf League Pro Tour Event, a rental car and an oceanfront bungalow for 2 weeks followed by drifting
up and down the coast for 2 more weeks in search of good waves. My Leo loves to run the show
and my plan clearly suits his desire to be the center of the plan. Thankfully his older brother Viva is
a humble, quiet, surrendering Capricorn who is OK with not being the center of attention but rather
giving it freely. He enjoys lavishing Xica with the respect and love that feed him and that he did not
get enough of as a young boy.
This morning I got up at 6am, we started biking at 8am and stopped at 6pm. It was the last and longest day of our cross-Spain and Portugal bike race, 55 miles! It pushed me harder than my body really wanted, and beyond. By 4pm, I was in doing-an-Ironman mode, where you’re just going, running on empty, disconnected from yourself and all feeling. Numb. Way beyond any comfort zone or inkling of any pleasure anymore. Just mental power. Gotta get to your destination and it will all be over. Please help me God to not stop or die on the way and to just keep moving my legs and breathing. It was good to know that I was not the only one and that Viva felt the same way.
The flow was with us...or better yet....we were in the flow. As we rolled up to the ferry ticket window to purchase our 2€ biker fares, the dark-haired nervous ticket seller hurried us on to catch the boat that was about to pull out of the docks. We passed the line of automobiles to the front, smiling as we waited next to the familiar sound of an old Volkswagen Vanagon bungalow on wheels, packed with moped, surfboards, and all the goods. A German “D” license plate of course...owned by a young and experienced-looking nomad couple. We smile at each other, the knowing smile of “family”.
We proudly roll past all the impatient sputtering vehicles and onto the slime green ferry boat awaiting us...with utmost relief to get to sit for the next 15 minutes as we continue covering the kilometers that will get us closer to the fabled Lisboa that has been our big destination for the last 12 days. Numb from the hips down, overexhausted to the max, all food and any food and as much food as we want is fair game. These are the rewards and pleasures of the bike traveller at the end of the day: no limits on nourishing and non-nourishing food substances. A fully-relaxed body, elated with its accomplishment and power is also our joy, as is the pending approach to our goal, even if now it’s with ferry, train and metro. Noone believed we would do it, loaded as we were, even the experienced bike travellers. We even wavered in the last week on whether we would make it by our own means. Lisboa stood so close yet just one or two days more would have been perfect in terms of more pleasurable riding days and without the massive marathon on Day 12.
Xica was scheduled to arrive at 11pm and clearly we had plenty of hours for transition, downtime and time to get to the airport, rent my car and ease him into his first time in Europe with smoothness. Never would I have thought I would be rushing into the metro in the center of Lisbon at 11pm heading anxiously to the last stop on the red line, running the Metro stairs and escalator into a foreign airport and sprinting to the passenger exit doors in time to catch my bewildered son. At least I had showered, washed my locks and was wearing a nice new colorful sleeveless dress I had bought in March in Fuerteventura with new lime green sandals from Cabo Verde. The outfit was cute and made up for what I felt was my ghostly ghastly freaked out and exhausted countenance. Freaked out? When I asked them where the “Drive 4 Less” rental car counter was in the airport they looked at me with pleasurable and cold confirmation and told me that it did not exist. Excuse me? Was my whole reservation and payment a scam??? I beseeched them over and over. They wanted my voucher that I did not have, and not my confirmation number which was all I did have and of no use or interest to them. Despondent and desperate at this point, I sat on the railing with the other 100 people at the baggage claim exit doors scanning each passenger as they rounded the corner out of the restricted area. Great! Xica, my most demanding son, who will hopefully come out soon (it had been 45 minutes since he landed!), will be thoroughly exhausted from his 24-hour 4-stop frequent flyer economy plane routing and the rental car company does not exist. As I waited nervously my brain worked on the dilemma for a solution. There was none. I did not have a Portuguese sim card yet, the free airport wifi was non-existent, I had no phone number anyway and the metro would not be fun with his giant board bags. HELP ME GODDESS!!!!
This morning I got up at 6am, we started biking at 8am and stopped at 6pm. It was the last and longest day of our cross-Spain and Portugal bike race, 55 miles! It pushed me harder than my body really wanted, and beyond. By 4pm, I was in doing-an-Ironman mode, where you’re just going, running on empty, disconnected from yourself and all feeling. Numb. Way beyond any comfort zone or inkling of any pleasure anymore. Just mental power. Gotta get to your destination and it will all be over. Please help me God to not stop or die on the way and to just keep moving my legs and breathing. It was good to know that I was not the only one and that Viva felt the same way.
The flow was with us...or better yet....we were in the flow. As we rolled up to the ferry ticket window to purchase our 2€ biker fares, the dark-haired nervous ticket seller hurried us on to catch the boat that was about to pull out of the docks. We passed the line of automobiles to the front, smiling as we waited next to the familiar sound of an old Volkswagen Vanagon bungalow on wheels, packed with moped, surfboards, and all the goods. A German “D” license plate of course...owned by a young and experienced-looking nomad couple. We smile at each other, the knowing smile of “family”.
We proudly roll past all the impatient sputtering vehicles and onto the slime green ferry boat awaiting us...with utmost relief to get to sit for the next 15 minutes as we continue covering the kilometers that will get us closer to the fabled Lisboa that has been our big destination for the last 12 days. Numb from the hips down, overexhausted to the max, all food and any food and as much food as we want is fair game. These are the rewards and pleasures of the bike traveller at the end of the day: no limits on nourishing and non-nourishing food substances. A fully-relaxed body, elated with its accomplishment and power is also our joy, as is the pending approach to our goal, even if now it’s with ferry, train and metro. Noone believed we would do it, loaded as we were, even the experienced bike travellers. We even wavered in the last week on whether we would make it by our own means. Lisboa stood so close yet just one or two days more would have been perfect in terms of more pleasurable riding days and without the massive marathon on Day 12.
Xica was scheduled to arrive at 11pm and clearly we had plenty of hours for transition, downtime and time to get to the airport, rent my car and ease him into his first time in Europe with smoothness. Never would I have thought I would be rushing into the metro in the center of Lisbon at 11pm heading anxiously to the last stop on the red line, running the Metro stairs and escalator into a foreign airport and sprinting to the passenger exit doors in time to catch my bewildered son. At least I had showered, washed my locks and was wearing a nice new colorful sleeveless dress I had bought in March in Fuerteventura with new lime green sandals from Cabo Verde. The outfit was cute and made up for what I felt was my ghostly ghastly freaked out and exhausted countenance. Freaked out? When I asked them where the “Drive 4 Less” rental car counter was in the airport they looked at me with pleasurable and cold confirmation and told me that it did not exist. Excuse me? Was my whole reservation and payment a scam??? I beseeched them over and over. They wanted my voucher that I did not have, and not my confirmation number which was all I did have and of no use or interest to them. Despondent and desperate at this point, I sat on the railing with the other 100 people at the baggage claim exit doors scanning each passenger as they rounded the corner out of the restricted area. Great! Xica, my most demanding son, who will hopefully come out soon (it had been 45 minutes since he landed!), will be thoroughly exhausted from his 24-hour 4-stop frequent flyer economy plane routing and the rental car company does not exist. As I waited nervously my brain worked on the dilemma for a solution. There was none. I did not have a Portuguese sim card yet, the free airport wifi was non-existent, I had no phone number anyway and the metro would not be fun with his giant board bags. HELP ME GODDESS!!!!
Portugal is Old California
This country is peaceful, relaxed and healthy. They eat mostly their own food, unlike Spain, and
small-scale agriculture is the norm. In between houses, buildings, villages, on the sides of the
highways, along the ocean, small plots of leeks, cabbage, greens, onions, and garlic cover the
landscape and the “mercado municipal” is run by all the colorful elder rural couples still workin’ the
land. I wonder who will take care of the land next when this generation goes. Most of the young
folk have fled to Lisbon and Porto where the “action” is. The villages are still inhabited, unlike
Spain, but very few are folks under 40 or 50.
The coastline is chockful of never-ending rolls of beach breaks and Xica is ecstatic. “Oh-my-God... Oh-my-God, what is that LEEEEFT?” and “This place is SIIIIIICK!” Viva and I escort him from wave to wave, sitting on the beach and, like a meditation, keep our focus on his blond mane so we don’t miss a barrel, an air, or a reverse. Usually I always miss the best one of the day, or so he says. Hard as I have tried, I can’t get myself to really be into this sport. Honestly it seems a bit boring for the spectator, unless it’s Kelly Slater or Felipe Toledo or Mick Fanning, right? Even then it’s just the same old thing over and over. It advances slowly. I just don’t get it. It’s almost like a drug cause you just keep going back for the perfect wave, a better one, the best one.
Portugal is chill. So chill. Xica loves that he can buy liquor, drink in the car, smoke and grow weed and always find a wave spot. Oh and go 100 mph on the highways. Welcome to travellin’ with my youngest surfer dude electronic/rap music DJ son Xica, pronounced Jeeka. His name was inspired by Xica da Silva, the revolutionary prostitute and heroine of the Brazilian movie by the same name. It’s short for Francesca and his name should be Xico if we were gender conscious, but we weren’t. We just wanted a cool name for our third child who we hoped would finally be a daughter and when he wasn’t, kept it anyway. We got three boys with “girl’s” names (Viva, Joia and Xica) and the girl never made it.
My son and I have been butting heads ever since I put an end to his socializing with his 11-year old weed-smoking peers and best buds. I was the same age when I first tried it with my best friend Barrie Feld, whose millionaire mom had a closet dedicated to global weed strains. It was not my thing and just made me tired. Ever since, it still has never become my thing. Years of living with Jan, my boys’ Dad, inevitably led to more attempts at enjoying the herb just to share something he loved. From passing out to freaking out to being stoned for 3 days, and even to a recent hospital visit due to unknowingly eating 4 times more hash cookies than a normal person would thanks to the female renters I had cleared out who, when they moved out, forgot to take their frozen hash goods with them. Unbeknownst to myself, this Momma was stoked to find some good tastin’ “cookies”, and totally innocent to the nature of the elements I was ingesting. No no no! Sorry Xica, I don’t like it. Period. He is the spitting image of his Dad in every way, except that he is the youngest not the oldest of his siblings and is free of a heavy Schwarzenegger accent. He looks like his Dad and has the Leo party boy artist all-out energy, initiating all the newcomers into the drug world, which they both love so much. Only now, after a hellish 25-year struggle, Jan is done. He is now initiating AA newcomers into the world of Spirit and humble awakening and, to my recent surprise, yoga. I love Xica’s wild fire as he keeps everyone awake and entertained, and has a HUGE Heart of compassion for pain and suffering. However he also dominates energy wherever he is, almost sucking it up so that everyone focuses on him, and it can be really tiring. Memories of my marriage. And I know this is Leo.
We have been in a surf town in Portugal for three weeks. He is absolutely uninterested in seeing anything else, unless there are waves. Even going north to Nazaré can only be a round-trip day affair, enough for a good surf in the spot known for its GIANT 100-foot monsters that barrel in towards the Lighthouse..and then back to home base for the sunset. HIs brother Viva and he watch the sunset with a 40 oz. beer every day, on the 500-year old stone walls surrounding the fortress of Consolação, where the incessant series of pretty waves keep rolling in, painting a new masterpiece every day. They call it the Shlev. Sounds like their Yiddish strains are poppin’ out. An
The coastline is chockful of never-ending rolls of beach breaks and Xica is ecstatic. “Oh-my-God... Oh-my-God, what is that LEEEEFT?” and “This place is SIIIIIICK!” Viva and I escort him from wave to wave, sitting on the beach and, like a meditation, keep our focus on his blond mane so we don’t miss a barrel, an air, or a reverse. Usually I always miss the best one of the day, or so he says. Hard as I have tried, I can’t get myself to really be into this sport. Honestly it seems a bit boring for the spectator, unless it’s Kelly Slater or Felipe Toledo or Mick Fanning, right? Even then it’s just the same old thing over and over. It advances slowly. I just don’t get it. It’s almost like a drug cause you just keep going back for the perfect wave, a better one, the best one.
Portugal is chill. So chill. Xica loves that he can buy liquor, drink in the car, smoke and grow weed and always find a wave spot. Oh and go 100 mph on the highways. Welcome to travellin’ with my youngest surfer dude electronic/rap music DJ son Xica, pronounced Jeeka. His name was inspired by Xica da Silva, the revolutionary prostitute and heroine of the Brazilian movie by the same name. It’s short for Francesca and his name should be Xico if we were gender conscious, but we weren’t. We just wanted a cool name for our third child who we hoped would finally be a daughter and when he wasn’t, kept it anyway. We got three boys with “girl’s” names (Viva, Joia and Xica) and the girl never made it.
My son and I have been butting heads ever since I put an end to his socializing with his 11-year old weed-smoking peers and best buds. I was the same age when I first tried it with my best friend Barrie Feld, whose millionaire mom had a closet dedicated to global weed strains. It was not my thing and just made me tired. Ever since, it still has never become my thing. Years of living with Jan, my boys’ Dad, inevitably led to more attempts at enjoying the herb just to share something he loved. From passing out to freaking out to being stoned for 3 days, and even to a recent hospital visit due to unknowingly eating 4 times more hash cookies than a normal person would thanks to the female renters I had cleared out who, when they moved out, forgot to take their frozen hash goods with them. Unbeknownst to myself, this Momma was stoked to find some good tastin’ “cookies”, and totally innocent to the nature of the elements I was ingesting. No no no! Sorry Xica, I don’t like it. Period. He is the spitting image of his Dad in every way, except that he is the youngest not the oldest of his siblings and is free of a heavy Schwarzenegger accent. He looks like his Dad and has the Leo party boy artist all-out energy, initiating all the newcomers into the drug world, which they both love so much. Only now, after a hellish 25-year struggle, Jan is done. He is now initiating AA newcomers into the world of Spirit and humble awakening and, to my recent surprise, yoga. I love Xica’s wild fire as he keeps everyone awake and entertained, and has a HUGE Heart of compassion for pain and suffering. However he also dominates energy wherever he is, almost sucking it up so that everyone focuses on him, and it can be really tiring. Memories of my marriage. And I know this is Leo.
We have been in a surf town in Portugal for three weeks. He is absolutely uninterested in seeing anything else, unless there are waves. Even going north to Nazaré can only be a round-trip day affair, enough for a good surf in the spot known for its GIANT 100-foot monsters that barrel in towards the Lighthouse..and then back to home base for the sunset. HIs brother Viva and he watch the sunset with a 40 oz. beer every day, on the 500-year old stone walls surrounding the fortress of Consolação, where the incessant series of pretty waves keep rolling in, painting a new masterpiece every day. They call it the Shlev. Sounds like their Yiddish strains are poppin’ out. An
opportunity for letting go of the day and moving forward into the evening with companionship and
sharing. Many of my sons’ habits source themselves in rituals their Dad and I birthed when they
were young. We instilled a strong connection to Nature and Natural Living, which includes nudity,
especially on beaches, and sunset drumming.
While it is very special to see two of my three sons again and to get to relax with them in a cozy apartment on the Portuguese coast during the off-season, I have to readjust to not travelling solo. Like it or not I am back in Mom role, though their last few years of independent living show through. in particular in the kitchen and with shopping, cooking and cleaning. Bravo Claudine! I am super relieved that my kitchen duties are no longer. We are all on equal footing here, taking turns with everything. Only the money has yet to become equal and the work ethic improved. Growing up in Santa Cruz, the home of the chill life, has taken its toll on my boys’ willingness to sweat and put in grinding hours to make more money and grow a profession the long and hard way. Their motto is: work the minimum of hours needed to live and have as much fun as possible with LOTS of free time. Period. They don’t realize that while I wasn’t imprisoned in a 9-5 job, I worked my ass off on my own schedule with four different occupations. Of course they couldn’t tell because I was doing things I enjoyed, in my regular clothes and often at home. Somehow it all worked out and it continues to. One thing I notice about my boys, all three, is that there is a common theme running through them...they love the subject of human nature and personal development. They love health and well-being (Xica reveals this from time to time), food preparation, clothing and music, especially rap. With their very different styles, energies and elemental signs they come together and learn from each other well. I have Viva the earthy Capricorn, Joia the watery Pisces and Xica the fiery Leo. Et voila. They love each other deeply and enjoy co-creating and reviving childhood experiences around a campfire with alcohol and weed, as their Dad did. They are an interesting combo of a Jewish global puritan and a German model Aryan. Haha. Tough integration. My Dad couldn’t digest it and kept my family and I at bay....while he ran off with a Peruvian Catholic mamacita 20 years his junior. The irony and hypocrisy of family. What’s mine? My own addictions to moving, seeing, doing new stuff, keepin’ it fresh, keepin’ it forward-movin’, keepin’ it alive. New countries, new faces, new friends, new men, new projects, new vistas, new languages. The key word is....NEW! Ha, classic Aries I am. Give me the unknown, surprise me, open my eyes, wake up my senses...just once, not too many times, lest it becomes routine. Ahhhhh, but yes, how to maintain that momentum...without being on the road and travelling through space. Even this journey is about circling back again to where I have been to now teach the workshops I have organized and build the projects planned when the journey was fresh. Takes away some of the excitement for sure, but now the income is coming in, and that’s exciting too, watching my bank account go up as I travel. Most people’s bank accounts go down while they are travelling. Not mine, if I can keep these month-long family reunions to once a year, that is.
I am sitting at a beautiful sunny outdoor restaurant cafe on the Ribeira d’Ilhas Beach, the mecca for starter surfers, here in Ericeira. The music is really enjoyable right now, a mix of I have no idea what, but I could dance to it. We just ate yet another shitty meal that we have to pay $30 for. I am so tired of shelling out my hard-earned cash for crappy restaurant food. Over and over again I fuck up with the choice. My stomach is growling with indigestion from an odd-looking tuna guacamole burger that was so attractive on paper and in sound. A spot of green colored the bun on which sat a pinkish burger that looked like raw meat with 3 barely present arugula leaves, 2 slices of anemic tomatoes and....grease-glossed fries that could have been good. The ketchup came 10 minutes later. Viva’s soup had absolutely no taste whatsoever, save for a very faint idea of green something. His veggie meatballs were cold and his noodles burnt. My biggest eater passed. Only the one who actually burned a bunch of calories today devoured his and our food. Mostly the energy was regret. We are so spoiled coming from Santa Cruz organic land. Nothing ever quite produces a raving approval, except our own food. Plus Big Momma goes for the Daily Special deals, which are supposed to be fresh, right? Not. Well at least in Africa I won’t regret the 1$ or 2$ shelled out on meals.
Where are the men???? Travellin’ with my sons is not conducive to meeting men, sadly. I feel older, they mock me and men don’t come to me as easily. I have two maybe three men awaiting
While it is very special to see two of my three sons again and to get to relax with them in a cozy apartment on the Portuguese coast during the off-season, I have to readjust to not travelling solo. Like it or not I am back in Mom role, though their last few years of independent living show through. in particular in the kitchen and with shopping, cooking and cleaning. Bravo Claudine! I am super relieved that my kitchen duties are no longer. We are all on equal footing here, taking turns with everything. Only the money has yet to become equal and the work ethic improved. Growing up in Santa Cruz, the home of the chill life, has taken its toll on my boys’ willingness to sweat and put in grinding hours to make more money and grow a profession the long and hard way. Their motto is: work the minimum of hours needed to live and have as much fun as possible with LOTS of free time. Period. They don’t realize that while I wasn’t imprisoned in a 9-5 job, I worked my ass off on my own schedule with four different occupations. Of course they couldn’t tell because I was doing things I enjoyed, in my regular clothes and often at home. Somehow it all worked out and it continues to. One thing I notice about my boys, all three, is that there is a common theme running through them...they love the subject of human nature and personal development. They love health and well-being (Xica reveals this from time to time), food preparation, clothing and music, especially rap. With their very different styles, energies and elemental signs they come together and learn from each other well. I have Viva the earthy Capricorn, Joia the watery Pisces and Xica the fiery Leo. Et voila. They love each other deeply and enjoy co-creating and reviving childhood experiences around a campfire with alcohol and weed, as their Dad did. They are an interesting combo of a Jewish global puritan and a German model Aryan. Haha. Tough integration. My Dad couldn’t digest it and kept my family and I at bay....while he ran off with a Peruvian Catholic mamacita 20 years his junior. The irony and hypocrisy of family. What’s mine? My own addictions to moving, seeing, doing new stuff, keepin’ it fresh, keepin’ it forward-movin’, keepin’ it alive. New countries, new faces, new friends, new men, new projects, new vistas, new languages. The key word is....NEW! Ha, classic Aries I am. Give me the unknown, surprise me, open my eyes, wake up my senses...just once, not too many times, lest it becomes routine. Ahhhhh, but yes, how to maintain that momentum...without being on the road and travelling through space. Even this journey is about circling back again to where I have been to now teach the workshops I have organized and build the projects planned when the journey was fresh. Takes away some of the excitement for sure, but now the income is coming in, and that’s exciting too, watching my bank account go up as I travel. Most people’s bank accounts go down while they are travelling. Not mine, if I can keep these month-long family reunions to once a year, that is.
I am sitting at a beautiful sunny outdoor restaurant cafe on the Ribeira d’Ilhas Beach, the mecca for starter surfers, here in Ericeira. The music is really enjoyable right now, a mix of I have no idea what, but I could dance to it. We just ate yet another shitty meal that we have to pay $30 for. I am so tired of shelling out my hard-earned cash for crappy restaurant food. Over and over again I fuck up with the choice. My stomach is growling with indigestion from an odd-looking tuna guacamole burger that was so attractive on paper and in sound. A spot of green colored the bun on which sat a pinkish burger that looked like raw meat with 3 barely present arugula leaves, 2 slices of anemic tomatoes and....grease-glossed fries that could have been good. The ketchup came 10 minutes later. Viva’s soup had absolutely no taste whatsoever, save for a very faint idea of green something. His veggie meatballs were cold and his noodles burnt. My biggest eater passed. Only the one who actually burned a bunch of calories today devoured his and our food. Mostly the energy was regret. We are so spoiled coming from Santa Cruz organic land. Nothing ever quite produces a raving approval, except our own food. Plus Big Momma goes for the Daily Special deals, which are supposed to be fresh, right? Not. Well at least in Africa I won’t regret the 1$ or 2$ shelled out on meals.
Where are the men???? Travellin’ with my sons is not conducive to meeting men, sadly. I feel older, they mock me and men don’t come to me as easily. I have two maybe three men awaiting
me in Senegal. All want me for themselves. Noooooo. Sorry. Not now, not ever. I am a multi-man
Frau, the more Diversity and Newness the happier I am. Baye Ass and Gallé in Senegal, Jean and
Lamine and Zeca in Cabo Verde and quién sabe...await me...yonder....
My month-long vacation with Viva and Xica was a true Bliss of togetherness with some cathartic healing moments. What came out of it physically was a great rap video which I got to film for them and even feature in for 10 seconds. Seeing them bond over thier common interest was great. Working together on the writing and editing, I could see the Hansen music team in action. My Xica would depart the day before we did, lugging his giant board bag once again, a month later, to the check-in counter. Gratefully our rental car was impeccable. Shipping him off to Madrid for the night, in a room of his own with wifi, a sim card, TV and 50 Euros to spend made the end to his Euro adventure peaceful. I was sad to see him go because I know not when I will see him live again. But I have every intention to in the next year, and the miles to pull it off again. In the meantime, I have pledged a $6000 investment in his education at Indigital Institute in Santa Cruz for a Beats Production Course he has been pondering for a year. He is finally ready. When Xica says he is ready, he is. I trust his life decisions for himself. And look forward to the big one which will afford him a renewed life with grounded feet and mind. I pray it happens sooner than later.
My month-long vacation with Viva and Xica was a true Bliss of togetherness with some cathartic healing moments. What came out of it physically was a great rap video which I got to film for them and even feature in for 10 seconds. Seeing them bond over thier common interest was great. Working together on the writing and editing, I could see the Hansen music team in action. My Xica would depart the day before we did, lugging his giant board bag once again, a month later, to the check-in counter. Gratefully our rental car was impeccable. Shipping him off to Madrid for the night, in a room of his own with wifi, a sim card, TV and 50 Euros to spend made the end to his Euro adventure peaceful. I was sad to see him go because I know not when I will see him live again. But I have every intention to in the next year, and the miles to pull it off again. In the meantime, I have pledged a $6000 investment in his education at Indigital Institute in Santa Cruz for a Beats Production Course he has been pondering for a year. He is finally ready. When Xica says he is ready, he is. I trust his life decisions for himself. And look forward to the big one which will afford him a renewed life with grounded feet and mind. I pray it happens sooner than later.
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