Saturday, March 3, 2007

A Visit with Paul Bowles

Moroccan Sojourn

Reverting to the subject of "Beginnings" and linear
thinking mentioned earlier on this blog, an event that
can be called a "defining moment" springs to mind. It
is my visit with Paul Bowles, back in October 1995, in
Tangier/Morocco. This visit has had reverberations
since then and has been most influential, leading to
connections, events and friendships never envisioned
nor expected. Without any hesitation I can say the
event continues to influence my life. At a later time
I may dwell further on the subject but for now, I will
simply share the story as it happened and exactly as
it was posted on my VOYAGES website in the year 2000:

Moroccan Sojourn
A VISIT WITH PAUL BOWLES

If someone is really, seriously interested in Morocco,
they will sooner or later find out about Paul Bowles.
For the ones who have never heard of Paul Bowles, here
is a little summary: Born in NYC in 1910, he starts
writing poetry and stories as a young boy. He runs off
to Paris in his first year of college. / Returns to
Paris a short while later and meets Gertrude Stein/
Studies music under Aaron Copland/The two visit
Morocco together, on the recommendation of Gertrude
Stein./Adventures and misadventures in Tangier and
Fez./ He starts composing music, in particular he
composes scores for plays like Tennessee Williams'
"Glass Menagerie"/ Marries Jane Auer/ Continues to
compose music/ Travels a lot and likes it/ Feels too
tied to NYC due to the music and changes genres/
Writes " The Sheltering Sky" which is published in
1949 to some acclaim/ Moves to Tangier/ Tangier
becomes his home, and to my knowledge he is still
there.

At least, on the 9th of October 1995, he certainly was
there. This is one of those stories I like to hear,
and in this case tell, because it so makes the point
that if you really want something, if it is important
to you, it is bound to happen.
This is my story, then. I had planned a trip to
Morocco (my sixth). It had been a few years since my
last visit, and I longed to see Tangier again (which,
by the way, actually has a certain amount of charm,
even if it is debauched charm, and never struck me as
the "Armpit of Africa" some people claim it is). Then
it occurred to me that Paul Bowles lives there. I had
admired his books for years, and was as enchanted with
his style, and in effect with the author behind the
words, as ever.
So in a wishful kind of way, I went in search of a
little present and found a book I've always enjoyed to
give away (Alastair Reid's "Whereabouts - Notes on
Being a Foreigner") and a CD by Brian Keane that uses
Paul Bowles' "Sheltering Sky" as a theme. I carefully
wrapped these two little offerings intended for Paul
Bowles, all the while wondering how I could get up the
nerve to visit him - or even find him in the city.
Having arrived, I wandered the medina, the souks, sat
in outdoor cafes, hoping, wishing that somebody would
reveal to me how I could find Mr. Bowles. It is a
strange thing - most travelers to Morocco tell a tale
of woe about being approached by would-be guides and
toutes. Not this girl! I was hoping to be bothered by
somebody, but maybe I fit into the place like a true
local (at least that's what I flattered myself with) -
at any rate, help was not forthcoming.. At the Hotel
Rif where I was staying, the concierge looked me up
and down and told me in no uncertain terms that "Paul
Bowles is old and ill. And he only receives special
visitors…." Obviously, I didn't match his idea of
special, so I certainly couldn't depend on him for
help, either.
But what could be more fun than a good challenge? I
had explored my options, and the final approach -
though far-fetched - was based on a compilation of
interviews with Bowles I had read some time ago. In
several of those, his apartment of twenty-odd years
was described as being near the American Consulate in
Tangier. So, on an impulse, I got into a taxi and
asked to be taken to the American Consulate. The
driver stared at me uncomprehendingly and assured me
there was no American Consulate in Tangier. We went
back and forth a bit, and I finally was able to
convince him that indeed, some 12 years earlier, I had
personally been to that Consulate. At that remark,
something dawned on my driver, and with exclamations
of "Oh yes, I do remember!" he drove me through the
maze of Tangier. We came to a stop in front of a wall
with a boarded up gate, behind which I recognized the
former consulate. So, to my great disappointment, the
driver was right: there was nobody there I could ask
about Paul Bowles. That's when I told the driver that
in fact I was looking for the "American writer", whom
I believed to be living somewhere nearby. He had never
heard of this writer, but he could see the
disappointment in my face.
He told me to stay put while he got out of the taxi
and approached a gardener in front of an adjacent
building. They talked for a minute, when both of them
turned toward a Moroccan woman walking toward them at
this moment. The gardener must have known her; they
exchanged greetings and talked. Then, my driver and
the woman came back to the taxi. -. Something good was
up, that much I was certain. But to what degree good
fortune was smiling on me really struck me when I
heard this:.The woman was the maid of Paul Bowles'
next door neighbors. Moreover, she was just on her way
to the building, and would be glad to deposit me in
front of his apartment.
As you can imagine, I could hardly contain myself! We
arrived at the apartment building , she indeed took me
up a very rickety elevator that had no lights, and
left me at his front door. A tall, dark wooden door,
scratched, with a peephole and small name plate with
the inscription "Bowles" . The name plate was in an
odd place, high up near the left top corner of the
door. Sensing a bit of nervous hesitation on my part,
the woman smiled and knocked energetically for me.
Then she left. A young Moroccan woman - obviously a
housekeeper- opened the door. She asked me what I
wanted and I told her of my desire to visit Mr.
Bowles. "Write down your name", she asked of me.
Goodness, this was almost as bad as the concierge of
the Rif looking me up and down. I certainly had no
important name to present - I simply had been a reader
of Mr. Bowles' books for years, and in-between the
lines had gotten a glimpse of an author, a man, who
struck me as not only interesting but inspiring and
highly individualistic in his approach to life.
So here I was, trying to gain entry for a short visit
- but what could I really offer that might open the
door for me? In a flash, I recalled Mr. Bowles' own
irresistible desire to visit Gertrude Stein while he
was in Paris as a young man. On a piece of notepaper I
carried in my bag, I scribbled something incoherent
about his visit to Ms. Stein, and that because of his
own experience, he would understand how much I would
appreciate a few minutes of his time to pay my
respects to him.
The maid took my note, and a few minutes later came
back saying that Mr. Bowles would see me shortly. So I
sat on the stairs by his front door, patiently waiting
for the moment I would actually see this man whose
books I so enjoyed, and who had chosen to live in a
country that had held such an exotic fascination for
me. Barely ten minutes passed, when the maid returned
to ask me into the apartment. The foyer was small,
cramped; a shipping trunk by the wall with stacks of
newspapers. Several rooms opened up in front of me. I
could see round leather hassocks on floors covered
thickly with Berber style rugs and kelims. Paul Bowles
was in a small room in the back of the apartment,
obviously a combination of bedroom and work room. Then
I saw him: this elderly, almost frail looking man,
reclining on a narrow bed, covered by a blanket. He
was wearing a brown housecoat and I could see pajamas
underneath it. I saw heavily veined hands with two
gold bands on his right pinky finger. For some strange
reason, he looked exactly as I had imagined he would -
the white hair; there were the bright blue eyes, the
penetrating, observant gaze from a face that reminded
me of a classical Roman statue. As a matter of fact, I
could easily picture him strolling down the Via Apia,
wearing a white toga. During our conversation, his
facial features would change in a manner most
difficult to explain. Change not due to different
emotions running over it, but actually taking on
completely different aspects: what appeared to be a
dominant Roman look to his features changed
momentarily into something Japanese, then Indian, then
old woman -without being in the least effeminate-, all
the while retaining a patrician, completely
gentlemanly demeanor. Interesting, I thought to
myself, how he is so charming to a complete stranger
imposing upon him - I had read of him being described
as "prickly".
He greeted me, and I sat on the floor in front of the
bed, while he explained to me that he had not been too
well - a sweeping gesture pointed to an adjacent round
brass table that was covered with medicine bottles. He
told me that he often has visitors in summer, but
rarely does anyone visit Tangier in the fall or
winter. Besides, I was lucky to find him home at all:
he had just returned from New York City, where in late
September (1995) music he had composed decades earlier
was performed at Lincoln Center. He was the guest of
honor. It was his first visit to New York City in many
years, and he used it also to see a doctor. He already
had two bypass surgeries in his right leg, and things
were not getting much better. His health got more
precarious after the filming of "The Sheltering Sky".
We talked about the movie, about Bertolucci, about the
way his book was interpreted in the movie. A German
movie maker (Frieder Schleich) made a movie of three
of his short stories. We talked about a shooting that
had just happened at the Hotel Tafik, in which several
tourists were killed and I had encountered eye
witnesses that were moved to my hotel afterwards. He
had his own views of the event -certainly not the
conventional interpretation-, and he shared much about
the 'old' Morocco he knew, and the many changes that
he has seen over the decades. "But", he said, the Café
Hafa is as it always has been". I, too, had been to
this café, overlooking the cliffs, sitting on straw
floor mats outside, or by tables in the shade inside,
watching the dozens of cats the owner feeds every day.
He certainly was right about the beautiful setting
high above the Atlantic and the feeling of calm, and I
took his word that it has been the same for forty
years.
When I handed him my little presents, he seemed to
find a small delight in unwrapping the gift wrap.
"Oh", he said" Alastair Reid! I used to hear him on
special Voice of America broadcasts on the radio". He
had never heard of Brian Keane, or that a quote from
one of his books was used on the CD cover. "Nobody
sends me anything", he mumbled. At times , he seemed
fatigued, for which he apologized. "Normally, I take
my siesta after dinner. I am sorry I am not all
there." To me, however, he seemed like a keen observer
and careful listener. He described how he was living
off his memories, that at his age, he didn't have that
much to look forward to anymore. But his memories of
his entire life meant much to him. He made it so easy
for me - there was a smooth flow to our conversation,
and any slight awkwardness on my part was bridged by
his engaging manner. He appeared content with the
full, rich life he has lived, always on his own terms.

"There are people who break out of the routines of
life", he told me, " and who knows, they may be
admired for it."

http://soly.st/Morocco/Bowles.html

Addendum:
An excellent and comprehensive resource on the
subject of Paul Bowles (as well as his wife Jane
Bowles), including many photographs, please look here:

www.paulbowles.org



____________________________________________________________________________________
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Everyone is raving about the all-new Yahoo! Mail beta.
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On using a "guide"

The March "Ethical Traveler" newsletter, which I
believe is edited by Jeff Greenwald (more on him
below), arrived in my mailbox today. Among subjects
discussed is the "problem" with touts in Egypt.

It brings to mind the inevitable encounters every
traveler has. Is there a surefire way around touts?
I doubt it. Maybe all that's required is a rethink, a
change in attitude. After all, especially in the
countries where jobs are few and far between, it is
simply a means of making a living. Is that such a
wrong thing?
Maybe they should be called "guides" or "scouts"
rather than "touts", which truly reeks of nefarious
connections to the netherworld of dubious activities.

A long time ago, A New Zealander with a fair amount of
travel experience gave me two invaluable tips:
One, always take a smile on your trips - it is light
lugagge and will always come in handy.
Two, if you are being pestered you need a good
response for the usual first question: "Where are you
from?" He suggested "Zanzibar" as an answer
sufficiently unique to provide the split-second
advantage of escape.

In truth, I have claimed to be from Zanzibar a few
times years ago and can attest to it working.....But
I won't and in fact can't do it anymore. By now I am
reasonably comfortable in most surroundings and this
assurance seems to be enough "protection".

Here is the link to the Ethical Traveler website:

http://www.ethicaltraveler.org/index.php


Jeff Greenwald's "The Size of the World" is among my
favorite travel books.
Ever attempting to use modes of transport other than
airplanes, Jeff refuses to turn his passion to explore
the globe into something akin to a "long commute".
I like his style; he strikes me as authentic (which to
me means he calls it as he sees it...). Wonderfully
entertaining page-turner.


____________________________________________________________________________________
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Go to the Yahoo! Mail Q&A for great tips from Yahoo! Answers users.
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Thoughts for the Day

If you've got somebody's aspects in your experience that you don't like, there's only one reason they're there. You keep evoking them with your attention to them. Without knowing about Law of Attraction, you have -- through your old habit of observation -- achieved vibrational harmony with the parts of them that you do not like, and you keep summoning those parts from them by your constant vibrational offering of them.


Use whatever excuse you can to vibrate in harmony with those things you've been saying you want. And when you do, those things that are a vibrational equivalent flow into your experience in abundance. Not because you deserve it, not because you've earned it, but because it's the natural consequence of the Law of Attraction. That which is like unto itself is drawn.

Above quotes are from the teachings of Abraham.
For more information, copy and paste this link:


http://www.abraham-hicks.com/journal.php/index.php/weblog/categories/

Friday, March 2, 2007

Book Corner

With baited breath, so to speak, I am awaiting the release of William Dalrymple's latest labor of love, titled "The Last Mughal: The Eclipse of a Dynasty, Delhi 1857 ". In their infinite wisdom, the publishers decided to wait until March 2007 to market the book in the U.S., while U.K. readers were able to get it well before year end 2006. Personally, I fail to see the logic and strictly from a commercial standpoint, the missed Christmas marketing opportunity.
However, if the "Last Mughal" is even remotely as excellent as Dalrymple's "White Mughals", it will have been well worth the wait.

"White Mughals" is the last of his books on my shelves. His other India-centered books are neatly arranged near it. "The Age of Kali" is as delightful as it is a somber collection of short essays about modern India. Dalrymple has a special affection for the country that seeps through his observations, even when he touches upon subjects difficult to deal with from a human standpoint.

While staying in Delhi for several months, I bought his "City of Djinns" from a pavement bookseller. What propitious timing this purchase proved to be! I felt a bit like Heinrich Schliemann, when he used Homer's Odyssey to find the treasures of Troy. City of Djinns helped me peel away the layers that have accumulated over Delhi over the centuries. Exploring neighborhoods like Chandni Chowk over and over again, I used his description and my imagination to see the splendor that used to be - surely not an easy feat, as anyone would attest who is familiar with Chandni Chowk. It happens to be one of my favorite quarters in Delhi (something my husband usually finds difficult to fathom), in spite of the terrific congestion. It is home to various trades and wholesale businesses. There, I found shops filled with the most marvellous hand made paper, printers of greeting cards; a shop filled with the most amazing array of art supply hidden inside its dark and inaccessible belly (the customers stay on the street, shielded from the wares by a counter behind which half a dozen helpers find anything one needs to paint, in any shade). Not to forget the silk merchants and one little hole in the wall juice shop with arguably the best fresh fruit juice this side of Marrakech (I know another good one there!)

Enough musings - Dalrymple's books have that effect. Here is his website:

http://www.williamdalrymple.uk.com/Pages/Books.html

Thought for the Day, not only for Travelers....

A "thought for the day", as expressed many a year ago by Goethe. It is as true for travelers embarking on a voyage as it is well to consider in any of life's situations where dedication to a certain course or goal is required:

Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: That the moment one definitely commits oneself,
then providence moves too.

All sorts of things occur to help one that would otherwise never have occurred . A whole stream of events issues from their decision, raising in one's favour all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way

A trip to Pune

“HUBBLE BUBBLES and PEACOCK SITARS”

Treasure Hunting In Pune

Not all India-bound travelers want to chance the delights of sitting ensconced in one of India’s Bees of the Road – the three-wheeled, black and yellow auto rickshaw. They might want to give it at least a try, as it is still a much-used means of daily travel around cities big and small. Here in Pune (some 2 hours southeast of Mumbai), one of them whisks me from new Pune to “Old Town”. Nearly close enough to touch, we pass a heavy cement mixer pulled by two white bullocks, their long horns nodding up and down under the strain of their labor. Motor scooters, cars, bicycles weave in and out of each other’s path. Trucks and buses spew clouds of exhaust right about my nose level. Outside a school, a veritable beehive of rickshaws is queued to pick up their young customers. The Indian solution to the school bus, perhaps? One vehicle after the other fills with children wearing blue school uniform. Would you believe a bare minimum of eight first-graders can fit into the back of a rickshaw? Not only will they fit packed tight as sardines, they have smiles on their faces. Hard to tell if these smiles are due to school being over or cheery disposition. Let’s believe it is a combination of both.

The density of humanity in Pune’s Old Town with all its colors, scents and activities is a welcome contrast to the part of modern Pune in which the late Osho’s Ashram is located. I’ve been reminding myself to be “tolerant, tolerant!!” since arriving in town. Not necessarily easy to do. Westerners exploring this side of town are generally lumped together as Ashram-visitors and considered easy prey for dubious propositions. I don't know why the followers of the late Osho have attracted this image, but it cannot be denied. Billowing maroon cloaks, Birkenstock-clad feet and blissfully hugging followers of the late Sri Rajneesh are the hallmarks of spiritual treasure hunters who have been descending on Pune for years. They remind me all too much of a short story written by Hermann Hesse as long ago as 1910, a tongue-in-cheek description of the world of eccentric plant eaters and members of alternative life styles. It is easy to pinpoint where these foreign born Ashram-visitors hail from: the cozy, middle-class environment of Alpine regions and a reasonably large contingent from Israel. Local Indians number few and far between the disciples of the late guru. To their credit, volunteers tend gardens and parks of great beauty around the Ashram. These are accessible even to people who go to great lengths wearing blue, green, yellow, black — ANY color other than the typical and ever-present red of the Osho people, - in other words, travelers of the non-Guru-following variety like myself. Generous contributions and, by Indian standard, steep fees help maintain a modern and well-kept campus. Rumor has it that the cost to run an Ashram is high and since the Master’s death, the flock has has supposedly dwindled somewhat. Their desire for fine dining might also be the reason for a number of cozy as well as unique Western-style restaurants the likes of which one might find in hip sections of London or New York City.

Leaving behind the quarters of spiritual treasure hunters, I go in search of more worldly treasure. To be more precise, the treasure trove of the Kelkar Museum, India’s most elaborate private folk art collection. Dr. Dinkar Kelkar had the passion (and, fortunate for him, the funds) to assemble some 20 000 unique pieces of Indian handicrafts and artifacts, over a period of 60 years. These have been made available to the public in a 5-story museum, part of which used to be his home during his lifetime. What a mansion it is, too! Cool, cavernous rooms with high ceilings, rambling on and on; winding upstairs and overlooking a large inner courtyard from balconies off each floor. Counting only one other visitor, numerous guards and other museum help tend to each floor. All are too happy to hover around the rare visitor. A notebook comes in handy, as photography is not permitted.

If anyone shares my penchant and appreciation of folk art, they can well imagine the delight of roaming among these treasures. Consider me a distant cousin of the good Dr. Kelkar, who must hold a record in the art of assembling objects of beauty. Here, we have entire ceilings, carved in gordic knots and studded with mythical beasts; intricate wooden gates measuring 10 feet wide and at least 15 high (I measured and guesstimated the width with my own bare feet!). Table lamps? Imagine this instead: a ten foot brass lamp, with seven tiers and each tier with 30 individual small lamps. A bare minimum of two white bullocks must have been required to transport it from its original 17th century home in Gujarat to Pune. Near the entrance, two carved and painted “Evil Crushers” (Yali), fierce monsters with outstretched claws and sharp teeth looking at evil with bulging eyes...(I could think of a few places the world over where their talents are immensely required!!). A fat Ganesha in red lead coating overlooks an assembly of house shrines – all ornately carved former family treasures.What about body care? There’s an entire collection of body and foot scrubbers, from terra cotta to brass with handles the shape of elephants. Ladies’ ornaments for hair, nose, feet, waist (oh what tiny waists!), kumkum and spice boxes. Dr. Kelkar appreciated the smallest rose water bottle as much as larger pieces: he even brought an entire wood and rattan bullock cart from Ahmedabad, to place it strategically in front of a perfect facade of a 19th century Gujrati house, complete with wrought-iron pillars, roof, carvings and “lawn chairs” on the porch-like structure. Palanquins straight out of fairy tales (good to be King, or should I say Maharaja); clothing; kitchen utensils from lime containers to coconut scrapers, brass perforators much like a modern pizza slicer but of course not just useful, but also a pleasure to the eye.Then there is a musical instrument collection. Its extent is ample proof of the good Dr. Kelkar’s love of music. Instruments I have never seen before or heard of, and for which I must consult the note book, are listed as follows: double, conical and tribal tamburas; bulbul, gotuvadhyam, rabab, surbahara, sitar (including one shaped and painted like an elaborate peacock, saaz, israj, veenas of various kinds, santoor, sarangi and more varieties of drums than anyone will care to read about.

And the Hubble Bubbles! Yes, these Turkish style smoking devices are actually labeled as such. Elsewhere, they may be known as hookas, shishas or water pipes, but here at the museum, they are hubble bubbles. Not far from the display is a carved and painted elephant, with a door to gain entry into its belly; much like a Trojan Horse except this one more in keeping with the locality. Obviously, someone in 18th century Rajastan must have been inspired by the history of ancient Greece.

To my personal delight, I surmise Dr. Kelkar was a man of peace: The museum contains a few odd 17th century swords, a half a dozen muskets, and some protective gear from the warfare of centuries gone by - but the weapons assembly is small and delegated to a back corner on the top floor. Where, in closing, I sincerely wish all such instruments to be found the world over could be left to mold away in glass cases, in obscurity and most of all, unused......

Raja Kelkar Museum at 1377-78, Natu Baug, Off. Bajirao Road, Shukawar Peth, Pune - 411 002, India

Thursday, March 1, 2007

The Beginning

Is there ever a point in time that definitely, without any doubt, is The Beginning of something? Or is any beginning simply an arbitrary notion, based on the idea that on our little blue planet, there must be a starting point as well as an end?

Mind you, these musings have a purpose. After all, I would like to relay as well as remind myself how this idea of a home in Goa developed. Let me go back to the most logical starting point. It is early 2003. February, Bombay/India, Marine Drive, Jazz by the Bay, Cricket Matches and new friends. Specifically, two very gentlemanly Mumbaikars, both successful businessmen in the spice trade, who suggest that I simply MUST visit Goa and relax for a while. Before it gets too hot there, they repeat. Not only should I explore Goa, I should visit the SOUTH of Goa specifically, for its beautiful beaches and unspoilt ambiance. A village is named ("Benaulim"), accommodations are suggested ("L'Amour - it is as close to the beach as you can get") and a place to hang out during the day ("Cecilia's shack - just walk North along the water for ten minutes, toward Colva").

To be perfectly honest, I had my reservations. Goa for an old India hand like myself seemed a little too India Light, if you know what I mean. I had heard that it was too packaged maybe, too overrun by hippies that seem to exist in every generation (not only the '60ies), and a place of heavy partying for travelers who call the Subcontinent their home. Long story short, it took a little persuasion before I actually went to Goa, and I only went after several pit stops elsewhere, once I had left Bombay. But one fine day, some time late March 2003, I took an overnight bus from Pune to Panjim/Goa.

So, there I was in Panjim and shortly thereafter in a minivan to Benaulim. Oh, the countryside! It was a marvel of lush greenery, narrow country roads with little traffic, and houses that were the most curious, colorful gingerbread dollhouses against a backdrop of palm and cashew trees. A few mild looking dogs snoozing here and there, elderly women dressed like my grandmother in Germany, a very fierce sun and air humid enough to promptly cure my ever-dry skin. I can honestly say that instantly, the setting appealed to my artistic senses. This area had the feel of being playful, original and relaxed.

As I was to find out over the coming days, calling it relaxed is only partially accurate. There is another quality that gets into one's system. Maybe it's the water, or the air, or the midday heat that calls for siesta.....I soon heard tales of people who had come to Goa for just a quick visit but ended up staying for weeks, then months...in some cases they just stayed on. A little bashfully I will admit to you that the same magnetic force overcame me as well. My intention of staying for a week or two was swept into the Arabian Sea by gently lapping waves as I walked miles and miles of beach, often so pristine that I could count the number of people crossing my path. The fishermen sorting out their nets by the time I'd come along during the morning hours got used to seeing me. The handful of itinerant merchants trying to sell me a piece of clothing or a bauble just chatted and sometimes tried to keep up with my pace. The crows and sandpipers hardly fluttered a wing when I stepped near them at the edge of the water, all of us playfully avoiding the shallow waves as they lapped toward us.

Sitting in the sand, watching a handful of boats on the horizon, a strange thing happens. The waves roll in, splashing against the sand, making that particular noise familiar to anyone who knows the ocean. The gushing is steady, persistent. After a while, it fills my head, my being, and removes any internal dialogue. A deep peacefulness overcomes me, a state of rest that I sink into more deeply the longer I sit. This is the magic, the magnetic force that might be what keeps visitors in place, stuck so to speak. Others might find the same peace in the mountains of the world, or under the apple tree in their own garden. For me, the combination of space, that particular nature scene and the mesmerising effects of the ocean are a gift. Something presented that instills a particularly positive and happy contentment within me, just by being there.

You've read the beginning now. Over the coming months, I will post photos and more stories of how things are shaping up.

Thanks for looking in.

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Trafficjam ...

Trafficjam ...
The ideal "trafficjam"

Lookout point

Lookout point

kids playing cricket and soccer

kids playing cricket and soccer

Boat

Boat
Fishing boats at Benaulim beach