Istanbul

Istanbul. The arrival during the night, the station that doesn’t speak English, the transport that takes me to God knows where and leaves me in God knows not, that someone who points the way, the tram that brings me there, the arrival to my new home, the swift departure to the streets.

Istanbul. The first postcard sight under the colorfully lit night, the kebab in that restaurant serving just two dishes, a first baklava with tea, a first glimpse over a dormant Asia before I go to bed.

Istanbul. The morning rising over the Bosphorus, the cobblestone street I walk down running, a first Turkish coffee I drink, the cobblestone street I walk up slowly, the enchantment of Hagia Sofia, the Blue Mosque peaking in front, a first walk through the bazar, the street that leads down to the water, the steaming fish sandwich I eat, the time passing by over the bridge, the getting lost again amongst the multitude.

Istanbul. The infinite bazar where I enter once and again, the streets covered from the sun, the shops selling carpets, the shops selling spices, the streets covered by the sky, the shops selling handbags, ‘the shops selling AK47’s next to the one selling greens?’, the immense infinite shop selling everything possible, day and night, nonstop.

Istanbul. The boat rocking in the Bosphorus, the sight of its margins so near, the people running along them, the bridges passing over my head, the houses hanging from the hills, the blue sky above my head, the return to the dock of departure, the intense orange sun that falls in between the mosques, in the distance.

Istanbul. The imam calling for prayer, the shoes I take off my feet, the stepping on the soft carpet, the people prostrated on it, the place where I sit contemplative, the moment in which time stops while the others pray besides me and I let myself be, by their side, in silence.

Istanbul. The return to the occident, the avenue I walk up slowly, the many that climb it with me, indifferent, the avenue I stroll down without haste, the tower I see in the distance, the city I observe from its top, the occident intertwined with the orient, the streets to which I go back to get lost again, the lit up bazar to where I return one last time, the night spent partying with sounds I never heard before, the week that passed by running, swiftly, unnoticed.

Istanbul. The cobblestone street I climb down with my backpack, the ferry where I finally enter, the foot that leaves Europe, ten minutes over the water, the foot that reaches Asia, the farewell glimpse to the occident I send until my return home.

Istanbul. The orient at last, the stroll I take by the sea, the people who smile past me, the fishermen sitting on the rocks, the children running around them, the moment in which I sit down and behold the other side as if I was part of this one, the moment in which the Turkish bath cleans me and makes me feel part of this side, definitely.

Istanbul. The time to go that arrives, one last coffee on the run, one nostalgic look of farewell, the departure of this city with the immense desire to come back soon.

Istanbul.

Istanbul, Turkey, February 2013

One year later, or, living the metaphor of an ongoing revolution

It has been today 12 months since I left home, tiptoeing my way out in a gentle ‘be right back’ which lasted until today, which will last until I get tired of dreaming with my feet on the road, until my way around brings me back home again, if the gods and luck allow.

One year has gone by, bringing me from Portugal by land and sea until today, when I find myself here, in Thailand, in its capital Bangkok, a city in permanent unrest but which today faces true revolution, with its streets filled with people fighting for a different future, for something better, maybe, for something I cannot fully understand but which brought thousands of people to the streets protesting against corruption, fighting to restart their country.

Step by step I too go out on the streets, carefully, after all I probably should not be here. In any case I decided to stay, ‘how many times in life will I have the privilege of witnessing revolution in the making?’, I questioned as I decided to stick to my plan and stay, even if uncertain if staying would not be the stupidest thing to do. But I did stay, and I did go out on the streets, step by step, cautiously, walking down one which I knew to be a main artery of the protest.

The tension could be felt in the air, or maybe just through the palpitation of my heart, as I walked towards the coffee house which became my usual hang-out for the past few days. Bit by bit, however, the tension started to ease, as I got more comfortable strolling along this peculiar revolution made by smiling revolutionaries, colorfully covered with their country’s flag, in facial paintings or printed in all sorts of paraphernalia they sported. This happy lightness of theirs, making them almost oblivious of the protest, contrasted severely with all I expected, accustomed as I was to the images of revolutions where faces red with anger and furrowed by pulsating veins shout violently their discontent.

Here, however, the revolution is different, being almost like a big party, maybe just because it is not made by the military or politicians but largely by regular people, who got tired of those who mismanage their destinies and just want to be heard. There’s some chicness in this revolution, impression highly influenced by the fact that the first vehicle I saw in protest was a luxury convertible car, or the fact that most people seem more worried about taking pictures of each other and themselves than about shouting as loudly as they can, but it all makes sense, after all this revolution is composed mostly of high income urban classes.

Little by little fear was overcome. Tired of watching the street through the café window I went out, camera in my hand, recording this day for myself, the day in which I for the first time found myself in the middle of a protest, becoming part of it, even if only as a passenger, even if a total stranger to its purposes. I walked around, collecting smiles, enjoying the many improvised music concerts, letting myself embrace by the good vibe and sheer joy felt in the streets. I also felt squeezed, heard cries of anger which I could not understand, felt the tiredness take control of my bones, urging me to go back to my room when the novelty wore out and it didn’t make sense anymore to be in the middle of all this without a higher purpose. Finally I went away. With the whole day spent on the streets taking its toll I slept swiftly.

This is how my 365th day on the road was spent. And, despite not getting involved in the protests, it was in a city enveloped by its vibe that I woke up for the first day of the new year ahead. In a tranquil day, in which I mostly felt homesick, I let time go by until the moment of celebrating amongst friends and unknown flavors this milestone of my trip, of my whole life, inseparable as they are. Still oblivious to the protests I went back home, but with the revolution looking at me from a distance in every corner of the way.

In a real metaphor, the city seems to urge me to remain unsettled, to keep fighting, to keep shouting deep inside for my own ongoing revolution, avoiding to be crushed under the weight of the days that have passed, under the many kilometers I have traveled, above all under the many more that will come my way, lengthy as they will be before I can again reach home. The road is getting heavy, tiredness is taking its toll, after all there are no borders, I belong to nowhere, belonging today to this Bangkok in revolution, tomorrow to the road which will take me away from here, to a new country, to a new destination, to no destination at all but myself.

In the end I’m living a romance written with the sweat from my face, with the dust I wipe off my backpack, with the tears that fill my eyes with nostalgia, with the smiles I see around me and which fill my mouth with certainty, with letters and words I cannot understand, with lines which twist into curves as I write the romance that I am. It’s not always easy, after all I live a romance made with the doubts that invade me, with the uncertainty of being me, with the ground shaking all the time in a constant earthquake which bewilders and questions my way. It’s not always that hard, after all I’m living in a constant love story, for me and for the world, for each person that crosses my way, for each new culture which I slurp greedily, for each kilometer I travel for the simple passion of going, since one year ago, since my whole life.

Twelve months have passed by me today, in an instant I celebrate as my own anniversary, the anniversary of that more authentic and real me, who I revolutionize and build each day and who I will tomorrow throw again at the road, in that instinct of being myself which I follow naturally in the certainty of filling my lungs with new air, each day, breathing in this life that I make more and more my own, each day.

Bangkok, Thailand, 14th January 2014

In a little while...

My trip started, advanced, following its path. I too followed it, body and soul, but my words were left behind, along the road, forgotten, lost in time, for a moment, for only an instant. When I realized my feet had trailed so much road already and my words stood still, hidden inside me, or scattered along so many places, instead of being where they belong, here, their house, the house of those traveled words with which I give a higher meaning to my journey. In a little while which became eternity, my trip continued while my words stood still, and now, when I restart their journey, when I finally bring words to life, their chronology is lost, varies, becoming inconstant, unimportant, or more important than ever, nevertheless impossible to follow. My journey will endure, until the road one day brings me back home. My writings too will continue, until someday I have nothing more to say, but from this point onrwards the words from the past will become one with those of the present, in a bumpy journey which will intertwine the trail followed by my feet with that followed by the memories of the path trailed until now. Constantly jolting along the road, as I also do, the journey of my words will move on, even if in a diffuse and potentially confusing way, along a bumpy path on which, nevertheless, I hope you can follow me.

Hanoi, Vietnam, March 2014

Two weeks on the road: brief chronicle of a fleeting crossing of Europe – part two

Rushing through the Balkans

Train Zagreb-Belgrade

I travel fast, very fast, too fast maybe, crossing Europe in an instant, in a waft of air that brought me here and takes me across the Balkans, this undiscovered frontier now unraveled bit by bit, even if swiftly, even if the soft breeze that takes me rushes my way in these lands. Only three days after leaving home I reached Ljubljana, a city which I encountered frozen, hidden bellow a thick white mantle that envelops the city in a dense winter and transforms it in a fairytale, a Christmas tale which I wander while leaving behind faint footprints, engraved in the snow at the pace I walk up and down these streets, cross the river back and forth through its bridges, climb up to its castle to contemplate the vast whiteness that covers this country, before climbing back down to snuggle the night in a plate of goulash and a glass of wine. Despite all this beauty, I end up departing as fast as I arrived, moving only a bit further to Novo Mesto, still in Slovenia, where I meet an old friend and let myself embrace in the immense hospitality offered by his family. But not even this coziness makes me linger, I’m taken again by the urgency to depart, being driven by the same friend to a new country, Croatia, to its capital Zagreb, also embraced by the cold and which streets I also wander, but not before meeting another old friend who too makes sure to make me rapidly welcome in this strange land. Zagreb is also the place where I start making new friends, amongst travel companions who cross my way. Of the varied chats I engage in, the one that marks me the most is that with a Serbian emigrant, who is desperately trying to go back to Belgium, where he worked, from where he was expelled, and to where he wants to return so he can rejoin his family and continue making his living. He wants me to help him, asking if I have a car and can drive him across the border or near enough so he can jump across. Enveloped in sincere sadness I tell him I don’t have one, being unable to help him despite my willingness. The only thing I can do is watch him grow miserable at the pace hope caves in and he is again taken by suffering. I’m no foreigner to the pains of living away from home, it is after all a very Portuguese feeling, a reality of the past and again one of the present, which I experienced in the flesh, mine and that of both my grandfathers and other family members, but which I never felt this way, in the coldness in which the clandestine nature of your work separates you from your family on a far away land. Despite it all we follow opposite directions, as I also do not linger in Croatia, continuing my way east, to Serbia this time, taking the train to Belgrade. Somewhere along the way I start to unconsciously look around for traces of destruction, sings of that recent war that made so many headlines during my youth and which massacred thousands, maybe along this train line, certainly along this border I’m now crossing. I’m aware it’s been almost 20 years since the war ended, making the visible signs of destruction largely unnoticeable, at least through where I travel, even so the few ones that creep every now and then remind me that what I’m doing right now was impossible not too long ago. While observing the silent passengers of this train I can’t help to think about the pains they must carry inside, silent images of when they saw their house become a bloody battlefield. Despite my curiosity about the how’s and when’s I don’t break the silence, least so to discuss this subject, letting instead my body rock by the gentle bounce of the train along the lines, while letting my mind be taken away by the dark yellow afternoon that slowly downs over the Serbian plains. Despite all the sad memories, I find this country beautiful, joyful, especially its capital Belgrade, a vibrant city, captivating, mysterious, intense, made of new flavors, of pulsating rhythms. Silently the city cries for me to stay longer, but the urgency of my trip presses on, taking me unwillingly away from Belgrade, to where I nevertheless promise to return whenever possible. Continuously heading east, I advance in a fast pace, too fast, arriving to Bulgaria in a cold morning of its capital Sofia, in which I feel like traveling back to communist times when I enter the train station, a place where I cannot understand a word. After struggling to leave this place, I reach the city center, also filled with many reminiscences of the communist eastern bloc, which persist despite the obvious fast pace change brought by democracy. It is here that for the first time in this trip I’m obliged to stop, taken over by fatigue, certain that I moved too fast and that I can no longer travel this way. Even so I take only a short couple of days to rest, in Sofia and further afield in Plovdiv, old Bulgarian relic of the Roman empire where I’m also acquainted with some of the best food made in this country. But soon after I depart, yet again, proceeding further, heading farther away, infinitely towards east, traveling fast once more, maybe too fast, more than I wanted for sure, but taken by the need to reach India by a set date, a need which does not let me enjoy as much as I wanted the wonders of this so far undiscovered land.  Europe silently has been telling me goodbye, languidly, first in the language I ceased to understand, then in the writing that became enigmatic, in the churches that became Orthodox, in the coffee that became Turkish, all in a crescendo of small changes that followed the speed at which I got farther away from home and approached the east of my world. Hallway of what awaits me, the east of Europe slowly unraveled the mysteries of the orient in a slow drawing of veils that aroused my curiosity and stimulated the excitement about the days to come, to start shortly, in Istambul, last port of the old Europe and gateway to Asia, which avidly awaits my arrival. I traveled fast, too fast, so it is no surprise that I feel happy when I reach Turkey, where for the first time in this journey I will linger, willingly, enjoying the moment with no haste to depart, simply savoring the sweet laziness of slowly becoming part of the places that I visit.

Somewhere along the Balkans, January 2013

Ljubljana, Slovenia

Ljubljana, Slovenia

Ljubljana, Slovenia

Novo Mesto, Slovenia

Novo Mesto, Slovenia

Zagreb, Croatia

Zagreb, Croatia

Zagreb, Croatia

Zagreb, Croatia

Belgrade, Serbia

Belgrade, Serbia

Belgrade, Serbia

Belgrade, Serbia

Belgrade, Serbia

Belgrade, Serbia

Belgrade, Serbia

Belgrade, Serbia

Belgrade, Serbia

Belgrade, Serbia

Sofia, Bulgaria

Sofia, Bulgaria

Sofia, Bulgaria

Plovdiv, Bulgaria

Plovdiv, Bulgaria

Plovdiv, Bulgaria