The Camel Man

When I was a child I would day-dream about being an astronaut, climbing trees with monkeys, and finding a princess on a cloud. As these dreams fade and my waking life starts to seem like a fantasy, I see that our juvenile wishes are not the only things that can bring us joy in adult life.  Being an easily distracted youth my restless thoughts were constantly wondering. Now as a young man my restless travels take me wondering into experiences that even the creative mind of a child would not draw up. I never will walk on the moon, but I did spend a hand-full of days living the gypsy life.

You need two things to be a proper gypsy, one is a head wrap and the other is animal companions. During my time learning this life-style I put much effort into befriending a camel. Over five days I grasped tightly to the opportunity to help my gypsy friend take care of his animals and learn his way of life. The whole experience is an outstanding chapter in my book, but with the camel especially I have developed a story. Here is the flip-book version...

She is not so willing to let a new guy get too close 

You will learn to keep your distance; her size is quite intimidating

With time she will let you share an intimate moment with her 

Although this does not mean she won't quickly change her mind and try to take a bit

If you are lucky her Dad will let you ride her

But there is still a risk she will try to throw you

After a few dangerous conflicts with the camel I grew to fear her, so when she invited herself into the human living space I could do nothing but offer her some bread

The only one she will be obedient for is, Gorhan. Gorhan, The Camel Man has been traveling his life along The Silk Road, the gypsy way. He goes about in a fashion that some can not imagine. He travels with a donkey, a cat, a hawk, goats, dogs, chickens, and a quail. Of course the camel too, who pulls his "camel-car" in which he sleeps and carries all of his possesions. He lives off the resources of the land as much as he can, all organically. He is a living inspiration for anyone interested in traveling or living with sustainability.  
Fresh goat's milk and honey soak his mouth each morning, but even out-side of society a man does not find complete bliss. I spent many hours listening to parts of his tale and I see that as he becomes more of an aged man the struggles of his life on the road come out through his physical health and attitude. Although he has faced many difficulties and finds his situation less hopful it is clear that his journey has lead him to be more spirit than man. 

"to live is to travel, to travel is to dream, to dream is to live"

The Sea by Day, Castle by Night, A day in the life...

"The sun's warm glow mingles with the salty breeze that carries the smell of the sea, and the life it fosters, to my nose. Boisterous voices exchange passionate conversations in the street and a familiar voice sings, "Nicky" off the sea-foam-green balcony. It is Dani, my sister. I must be in Sicily!"   

It has been six weeks since my arrival in Sicily, and yes I have been indulging. "Real" pizza has been a meal many times. Bathing in the Mediterranean happens in intervals of 24-hours or less. Oh, and creamy gelato has melted on my tongue and slide down my throat regularly. I have taken it from a cone, from a spoon, through a straw and smeared in the middle of sweet bread, a brioche. Although I can taste the roast in the hazelnut gelato and the pistachio flavor is sweet and salty, the dive season is coming to a close and I feel as though this island and I have shared enough, for now.    


It is rare that travel is routine, but at the dive shop I have had a daily schedule. A day in the life.... 

Each morning begins inside the "Dive Flag Tower." It is 3 levels. Stefania sleeps on the top floor and acts as my alarm as she passes the second floor to start the day.

Task 1 of the day: Prepare Tanks

When all is ready we leave land behind...

We do the work, our guests enjoy the ride

Whenever this life seems like I dream all I need to do is look to Antonio's (the Diveleader in training) arm to remind me where I am

Giovanni, my host and Divemaster, briefs the group on the dive site

"me"

After the dive and after a pasta lunch, it is time to find some shade around the shop

  

The sun falls from its peak and late afternoon arrives.  A soft sensation wakes me from a nap. I give my attention to hear the call of the plants on the hillside garden. They are asking for water.  This place is not an official WWOOF, but it surely is a Barnstorming. 

This terrace style garden is home to a grove of young trees

The fruit love the view

Maybe it's the environment, but some of the plants look like they could be found swimming in the Sea

Night creeps over the tower as blue skies fade to purple. A typical night out is a walk for gelato... 

On the way we see...

Fishing boats eager for morning's catch

Stefania as a shadow model in front of the Castle

The Castle that gives the town its name, Castellammare

On this night a music festival! 

 A lone guitarist wails overhead, in an archway 

 He belongs with this five piece group (if you include the pooch) playing, a funk like trance set, on the steps

 A fire show too...

His name is Bunda and he is from The Czech Republic

Almost forgot the point of the walk...At last

Moon light illuminates the old port town, but when the sun fills the streets I will start it all again

That is until Wednesday when I say goodbye to Sicily...

Azzurro

Update: I have been volunteering at the SCUBA-dive shop Centro Sub Atlantis in Castellamare, Sicily. Position: tank caddy. Duties: moving equipment, filling tanks, overseeing dives, and maintaining up-keep around the shop. Pay: boat-rides, lunch, diving, and starting tomorrow a place to sleep. Please come with me into this journey...


I never remember my last breath of natural air once I am submerge under a body of water. My focus is always on the current breath, which comes from a cast-iron tank attached to my back. As long as my lungs are not deprived, my sight stays heavily absorbed with shades of blue. 


I enter the shimmering sea knowing a WWII shipwreck is soon to be explored, but now in the shallows there is only empty blue underneath. However, distance begins to separate me from the surface. With each meter that adds to the gap I discover light at a depth undetectable from above, but the bottoms is still not visible. Cautious of the possibility that I will drop endlessly into nothing like an anxious dream, I look up to gain comfort from the boat floating overhead. Now a shady figure creates a disturbance in the endless spectrum of blue. Getting closer reveals a body with tremendous size. It is not until I hover over her bow that the ship's whole form is unveiled. 


Viewing the ship from this position I only sense the death of the 1943 sailors, the feeling is morbid, yet calm. She lies to rest 115ft below the waves she used to sit atop of. Death always feels silent, but there is no silence equivelent to the one within the mass of the sea. 


Although it is quiet, the world I am intruding into does not stay hidden for long. Fish swarm and circle with no fear, sea plants and sea fans wave gracefully as I glide by. An Amore Eel snakes out from under a piece of shipwreck. From above I can observe this creature without being detected and without being intimidated. Its dark purple skin ripples gently and the yellow specks along its sides flutter like dandy-lions in the breeze. I feel drawn to this eel, but under water I cannot spend all day. Moving on, in and out of cabins of the ship, through the engine room to the top deck, I stop and look down into a portal showing only blackness. Captured by the mystery of what may be below I stare, and as if it could feel my attention something stirrers. Moment by moment a long thin fish slowly creeps its way out of the hole. The fish is grey, absent of color, like a gost. Its head flat, its eyes white like something without a soul, but I know it sees me. We are looking at each other straight in the eyes. The fish's stair overpowers me. I lose my calm. Slowly, I back away, watching the fish do the same. Respect for the fish also feels like fear. I am an intruder. 

Carlos, a Brazilian man, took these photos on our latest dive (no ship, sorry)

Back on land having been inspired, I write this poem... 


Blue means more than just the sea. Rich and empty, calm and cruel, if you look you can see worlds within worlds. Which do you resist, to which do you flee? 


Enter this blue its layers, its currents. Free yourself of the mystery and drought of the surface, the waves torment all but those who enter. So, enter and sink to where the light from the sun reaches you barely, but its warmth is lost in the molecules above. 
View yourself as the ocean, having a bottom to be discovered. Spend life straining to reach your own deepest parts, and all you will find is blue. This blue, the blues. 


Under the sea I see life. Life among life among death among life. Above I see blue too, with no point of completion far to wide to ponder an end. Whispering possibility with silence, never pulling you apart. View yourself as you view this blue, view yourself as the sky. 

Me (left) going to help another diver who is having trouble near the rocks 

Follow the fish into the abyss

Rosanero

Deep into summer, the Sicilian city, Palermo, is almost vacant during a holiday weekend. The scene takes place in a parking lot filled with street vendors selling hot food and "Barbi-Pink" sports paraphernalia. I am at the tailgate festivities for a friendly match at the Palermo futbol stadium. The environment is  casual as people refresh themselves with cold beer. The largest bits of commotion rise from voices selling jerseys and a band of teens excited for the pre-season event.  

These guys thought I was some kind of promoter 

When I gave them my blog address they went to it immediately from their mobile device 

I guess salmon-pink was close enough; I was accepted. 
 My Brazilian friend Edu (on the left) was too.


The dedicated boys wearing bright pink make it obvious that their passion for the team is stronger than their identity with gender norms. Young masculinity melts away with the Mediterranean heat to reveal a love for the Palermo Rosaneros and fellow supporters. 

A large couch bus drove by carrying the challengers. Hissing and hollering signified the end of the pre-game festivities. The pink crowd followed the bus, filled with the Turkish team, into the stadium. 

The Stadium, although mostly empty, held something inexplicable. Perhaps it was the glow coming from the reflection of sinking sun off the surrounding cliffs. Possibly it was the magnificent green grass grown with a little something special. Maybe, my perception was altered by the Sicilian street food and the stadium was mediocre. In the end, it was probably the fact that soccer in Italy is more than just a sport. The feeling I felt, most likely, came from the lingering presence of generations past. 

The Castle overlooking the stadium, where the Pope recently stayed

The first sight of a glorified grass field ignites vibrations that are familiar 

Edu fell quickly for the Rosaneros

Yankee Stadium does not give you this kind of view

Not a ballpark frank, It is fired potatoes and chick-peas in a bun- soaked with lemon juice. 

Although entertained by the game, the 3-2 loss left me concerned for Palermo. Before the game I learned that Palermo was close to entering into the champions play last season. After the team learned they would not receive financial rewards for advancing closer to glory, they lost five consecutive games. Personally, I was confused. I wondered, how could a European futbol player be so consumed with money when this sport is supposed to be about passion. I felt like it showed poor competitive character. The Palermo fan who told this to me understood the teams lack of motivation.  He said this is their job...What about the job of bringing honor to the city. I am sure during Rome's rule this apathy would have not been tolerated. 

After the loss, the fans booed their players in disgust and in fear for a poor season ahead. As we walked home the vendors announced all products were on sale because the team was now worthless. I wondered about the future for the Rosaneros. In a nontraditional love-triangle, neither players, managers, nor fans were satisfied.  When did fanaticism become conditional, and when did athletes stop performing for pride? 

*Coming Soon*...While volunteering at an Italian SCUBA shop I am thankful language is universal under the sea... 

The Nest

by Jennifer

While weeding the potager and preparing it for new seeds, Nick and I came across 3 baby cherry trees. Beautiful and strong in their adolescents, we wanted them to flourish, to grow, to one day produce fruit and shade for wwoofers to come. With permission from Hermine, Nick began the process of transplanting them near the field with a couple apple and quince trees. When planting a baby tree, you must put a gate or barrier up to protect if from outside sources and keep it safe from harm. After transplanting the first cherry tree, Nick and Hermine wrapped around a thin green wire fence three times. I felt bad for the tree, looking imprisoned inside the metal gate. But it did need protection.

The next morning Hermine showed me a page from a French gardening magazine with a picture and the caption "Des bordures en lianes de clematite". Hermine to me, "You see those sticks there (pointing outside the window to a big pile)? Can you do this here, make this like this in this magazine? Do you think?" and her words hung there, waiting for me. My French is pretty cursory, at best, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to read the article. I tried to translate at least the caption on the internet, but it was no good. I put the computer away and went outside to stare at the pile. How was I going to make a fence out of this? I took a crafts class in college where I learned how to basket weave, but that was using a large needle and also some raffia to wrap the cord. Here I just had branches. 

I found six sturdy and straight sticks and hammered them into the ground in the shape of a circle. I picked up the clematite branches and started weaving. I figured I'd make it up as I went along, like everything else I do. And it worked. I kept going. I wove pieces into each other and slowly, I was erecting the nest. Over three days and tens of splinters, it was created. From nothing, something came. 

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

the boys made me get inside the nest, like a little egg

Me and the nest, Nick and his cherry tree

While making the nest I listened to music. Lady Gaga made me miss my friends, dancing, and wearing heels. Bruce Springsteen asked me if I was ready to prove it all night while I pulled clematite through itself, layer by layer. Sam Cook sang sad love songs into my ear while I wrapped the wood around sticks, as tightly and securely as I could, to maximize structural integtiry. I thought about home, my family, about saying goodbye, and about what might lay ahead of me. 

The irony was not lost on me. I was making a nest, lovingly, for the tree. A home, a safe haven, protection from the elements. I was making a nest for the tree, painstakingly, and then I would leave. Protecting everything and everyone around me, I had no home myself. 

When the nest was complete we picked it up and moved it over top of the tree Nick had planted so delicately. We hammered the six sticks into the ground and the nest was secure. We took some photographs and walked away from the tree and the nest. It's been raining since then, watering the tree and weathering the nest.