Galiza

Two years and a half in the Asturian mountains. Not bad, just that the plan was for a year or so, then the pandemic stroke.Honestly I don't really complain about the "extra" year and half, I know for sure it would have been way more difficult anywhere else. In those remote village we were already socialy distanced from the rest of the world and when 16 persons "own" a village that used to be inhabited by more than 300... you can imagine the freedom we had. But still, tghe moment the restriction were lifted we just had to move. Ramon flew to Estonia to meet his mum and believe me, Bill Gates didn't ask him to show a vaccination passport. The negative test was enough. Me, I moved closer since I don't have money to fly anywhere. Galicia, or, as they call it here, Galiza.
And I ended in O Picouto, concello de Ramiras, provincia de Ourense...
I was a bit concered about the communication, zero English, mostly Gallego, and to my delight I found out that the galician language is leaning to the Portuguese but is also way more similar to Italian than the proper Castillan is. Another delight is that I live 30 meters from the only bar in the 15 or so neighboring villages. On the bad side is the fact is that I'm far from my host's house and every morning I have a nice warm-up just to reach him.
Last week I was a bit sick of it so I took a few days off and decided to try if I'm still at the age of trekking. Packed jus a small backpack, tied the sleeping bag on it and hit the road. Destinatin: the ocean. Roughly 100 km or so, following the river Miño that shares the border with Portugal. The weather forecast said it won't be too hot and not a drop of rain for more than a week. It didn't help me to get dripping wet on the first day.
Galicians are proud of their stone cutting traditions. Not only the houses are made of stone blocks, I was a bit surprised to see that even the vineyard post or fenceposts are made of stone. And not only in some old, abandoned vineyards, even the new ones are. And it's not like they lack proper strong wood, forests of oak, chestnut or acacia are covering most of the area.

After a good half day of walk I finally reached the Rio Miño in Cortegada. With enough food on my back I bought me just a few liters of wine, crossed the river on a fancy highway bridge - I wanted to stay on the right side of the river, the Galician, at the time Portugal was on a complete lockdown - and started to look for a nice spot for the night. And at one point I had to pee. No problem, what can go wrong with that? It's not like I'm pissing in front of a police station, right? Well, it can be worse if you're affected by OCD (obssesive compulsive disorder). For example, when I take my backpack off of my shoulders I simply can't let it lie on the ground. Heck no, it must be standing properly, that's the reason why I pack it so properly every time. And it stood properly for a few seconds, long enough for me to take my willy out and start pissing, then it decided to roll down the slope, in the river. Willy still in hand, willy still releasing some liquids, I just followed the backpack into the water. Good job. In the end it was a fu**ing miracle: the camera in my breastpocket was dry. In the backpack the toilet paper was dry. And the loaf of bread was dry, too. Everything else looked like some idiot threw it in a river. My boots were fool of the river. So was my underwear. Fuck rivers, they are wet! Sleeping near an old roman bridge didn't dry anything.

My shoes made funny noises all the nect day and in the evening started to fall apart. Yup, cheapfuckingamazonmadeinchina, the only I could afford. Buying locktite or superatak for the next days preserved them fairly well (money spent on glue was more than the price of boots). The aunt of my hosts told me that if I'm discovering the Rio Miño I have to stop somewhere and try the local delicacy, the lamprea. And WTF is that? Oh, it's a fish, a very special galician fish.

A fish my foot! It's a fucking overgrown leech 500 milions or so of years old. I don't give a shit if it's considered a jawless fish with no scales, for is a leech. A bloodsucker is not a delicacy for me. But I started liking it for some weird reason after seeing the picture of its mouth on the web. Have no clue why the image made me think of vast areas of sand, of dry and hot winds, fat flying pigs... ah, well, this pic is from wiki.

In the end it took me three days to reach the Atlantic ocean. Nothing basically interesting happened in that time. Nobody chased me with pitchforks and hoes... This one needs an explanation. While in Asturias we had a very unpleasant meeting with a certain person (read "a piece of shit") from a Balkan country, codenamed "Experiment V". Well, the piece of shit kept explaining how Galicians are primitive tribal mentally underdeveloped persons because had had troubles everywhere in Galicia. He actually told us that once when he was trekking people from a village nearby came to chase him away with forks and other farming tools. I believed him. Completely and totally. Because that's what happened to him in Asturias also.  He was chased away, not with forks, but with scorn. Shit persons are not welcome anywhere. 

The only mentionable feeling is that when I finally reached A Guarda and had a good look on the open ocean I felt elated like I didn't in a long time. I can't explain why but I felt exactly the same like I did twelve or thirteen years ago (fuck this time that flies by) on the island of Tokunoshima, on my first trip to the Mushiroze beach. The wind, the waves, the rocks. I felt like I belong there. And nowhere. Because nothing really matters.

Viruses, Heisenberg and Zen. Being a Sheep.

Writing, even knowing that those concerned give jack shit about what I think. That's probably because they simply don't want to think, or maybe they can't think at all. I'm talking about believers in conspiracies, ignorers of science and destroyers of common sense.
Statement: I'm a sheep. I'm proud of being a sheep. Why? Because the modern definition of a human sheep is as follows: A human sheep doesn't believe in fake news. A human sheep believes only in verified facts. A human sheep will question claims without source. A human sheep will measure not how possible but how probable is some claim without source. A human sheep will rather trust a scientist than a John Doe who can't spell "science". Last but not least, a human sheep will never follow any shitty populist politician.
So please, feel fre to call me a sheep. I'm proud of it.
Why now?
Becuse the time is ripe, the morons are having a race to show who is dumber than dumb. Take an example, from one of my Facebook friends, no names here... He is 100% sure the Covid 19 pandemic is a hoax, he did his research on the web. He knows it so he keeps posting it. But guess what? Every third or fourth post is about who made the Covid 19 virus and who is spreading it across the world to kill (or reduce the number) humanity. OK, which one? Both, of course, everything becomes reality if you believe in it, it's just me, the sheep, who can't understand it. (Guess who, it's Bill Gates that made the virus that doesn't exist, that was 2 weeks ago. Last week was Trump...)
Another person is cursing daily the government for the enforced quarantine since there is absolutely no viruses, it's all a "social experiment". Sure, I can agree on the "experiment", I'm dead sure that analysts of all possible government services are studying the effects to see how far could they go... but that's all. So, no virus, the guy starts making fun of Americans who are protesting confinement measures, saying how stupid can they be, do they all want to die etc..
Yes, I know, what else can I expect from people who think that the North Korean dinasty of dictators is better than the US presidents (sure, many of them deserve to burn in hell, but the Kim dinasty belongs a few circles lower).
And why do I think that I'm right and they are wrong?
First of all, I'm very rarely absolutely sure of something - I mean it IS possible that tomorrow the sun will NOT rise. But how probable or plausible is that? Not enough to influence my life in any way. So yes, it's possible that we are living a moment in the wettest dreams of a conspiracist, but how probable is that?
Let's try what we need to make it real:
1. Most of the leaders and majorities of parliaments are part of the conspiracy (they always were).
2. The scientific world is part of the conspiracy (it always was).
3. The media are part of the conspiracy (they always were).
4. The police and military are part of the conspiracy (they always were).
5. All medical staff is part of the conspiracy (they always were)
6. I will not mention alien reptilians, illuminatis, zion communists etc... They belong to fairy tales, but you can probably add someone more plausible...
Now, let's put aside the coordination needed to keep this up, with so many people actively involved in a conspiracy, let's simply think about the number of people involved in it. It's not milions but bilions. What a shitty conspiracy can this be? Against who? Coming from personal experience with psychotic belivers in conspiracy - they were always the target, they still are. Self important beings, keepers of the only truth.. Hey, which one? This pandemic is real because THEY want to kill us? Or this pandemic is made up to confine us? Both, of course, it's me, the sheep, that can't understand something simple as this (someone starting to feel a bit of pride in being called a sheep?).
The conclusion: Schrödinger was an asshole. Because of his stupid box with a cat in it. He choose a box and a cat as symbols for quantum level and quanta, as symbols for quantic superpositioning of possibilities. Now every moron able to copy-paste "Schrödinger" keeps shouting in my ears how we are living simultaneously on different planes of reality; it's me, the sheep, that can't see it.
Ever heard of Heisenberg's car? No, of course not, I just made it up. Can you imagine Heisenberg saying that when you drive a car, you check the speed and you don't know where you are or where you're going... Then you look out the side window and you know where you are but not how fast you're going nor where you're going... and when you finally look at the road in front you finally know where you're going but not how fast nor you know where you are. (It could probably happen if you drive high on some illegal stuff - don't try it.)
Schrödinger is OK for quantum scientists. Also good for fiction or jokes. Until someone makes properly the rumored "quantum supercomputer", the quanta will not affect my life. Not yours.
Seung Sahn, the great zen master from Korea, once said: "We can argue about the color of that rock as long as we wish since to me it looks whiteish and to you blackish. To the rock it doesn't matter, it will stay gray."

Ten Years On The Road

A rough and very conservative estimate is 120 000 km by air, sea and land. After 10 years I have the 4th backpack, 5th  laptop and 3rd camera. Uncountable shoes and clothes came and went; from the start only three items survived to this day: the sleeping bag, a belt from my late father and the hair trimmer/shaver.

I was bitten by a Korean and two Californian dogs; by a bullet ant and dozens of green tree ants; by gazillions of mosquitos and bedbugs. In return I tried to eat silkworms and dogs, I found both disgusting. But the kangaroo was good.
I drunk soju, makkoli, shochu, umeshu, Ozzie moonshine and lots lots of beer everywhere. I drank Italian wine, French wine, Spanish wine, Californian wine, Australian wine and, unfortunately, also Korean wine. That was a bad idea. But the persimmon wine was good.
I saw pythons, fugu blowfish, crocodiles (from far far away), cassowaries, redback spiders, bullet ants, red-bellied black snakes, roadrunners, coyotes, wallabies and kangaroos, habu snakes, iguanas, ryukyu wild boars.
I harvested sugarcane, rice and marijuana; picked Korean radish, cabbage, onions, persimmon, strawberries, lemons, olives, potatoes and sweet potatoes.
I built houses of brick, stone, wood or cob; built gudeuls (floor heating), ovens and stoves; dry walls, roads and riverbanks.
I've been with buddhists, catholics, protestants, muslims and all kinds of newagers. I turned from radical atheist to radical anti-theist.
I've been with anarchists, communists, populists and right wingers. Occasionally I had better time with rightists than with leftists, but my political view went further in the unexplored realms of the extreme left.
I met people of all possible skin colorations and found out that stupidity is extremely politically correct, equally distributed regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation or age.
I saw deserts and oceans, mountains and coral reefs, volcanos and jungles, rice fields and vineyards, crazy skylines and soothing sunsets.
There are days I feel tired and sick of it all; but the day ends, a new one starts and I feel ready to go, to a new place, see a new face, make a new friend, drink another beer.

En Provance

Rooting for the brewer to spoil beer... sounds improbable if not impossible, but it's true.
The past year I spent in Italy, mostly on Sicily with a summer trip to Tuscany. Some bad experiences, lots of good ones, but overall nothing really worth posting. And I felt pretty lazy, too. In winter ramon joined me in Italy and in early June we left for France. A three day train travel with the slowest (and cheapest) regional trains and we finally arrived to our destination, Miramas, close to Marseille.Domain de Sulauze, a winery and brewery owned by Karina (Brazilian) and Guillame (French), an amazingly friendly couple. The property is more like a small settlement with a bunch of families living here, most of them working for the Domain, and a completely separated house for the woofers, at times there's even 10 of us. There's Costarican and French beauties, an American student that doesn't seem to know where his head and ass are attached and there's German "Gestapo" - she wants to indoctrinate "ordnung und disziplin" to everyone, deciding when, who and what music can be played, when to go to sleep, what to eat... I already sent her to hell twice but she's totally oblivious to it. Anyway, in a week she'll be gone.
The brewers... Looks like they love to experiment (or they just don't know their trade, who cares) and a lot of kegs ends being filled with spoiled beer. Sometimes the beer tastes awful, sometimes it has just a slightly more soury taste but in any case it can't be sold. And so all the kegs like that end on the terrace of the wwoofer's house to be consumed. With great pleasure.