The dream has come true!

Diana has arrived in Maglie, and was warmly and joyfully welcomed by both citizens and officials of the town. The local newspaper report is in Italian, of course, but with a translation program you'll be able to get a decent translation. :-)
Diana delivered a moving speech on the village square:


And she received an official certificate, too!

May I kindly remind you of the donation button for Diana's and Gamin's journey back to France? Thank you so much for your help! The Translatress :-)

There and back again - Hin und wieder zurück

This is the translatress speaking. ;-) Diana will reach Maglie, Aldo Moro's birthplace in a few days, but before we celebrate this, there is an urgent matter I want to share with you all.

As you know from following Diana's and Gamin's adventures on their long journey here or on Facebook, there have been a few accidents and mishaps on the way. Some of them turned out to be rather expensive and have depleted Diana's last funds. Thank goodness the lovely people of Italy have been ever so amazingly generous with their support on the way. But Diana still needs to get herself and Gamin back to France somehow, and this will cost money.

Please donate, even if you can only spare a few Euro! Every little bit helps the intrepid travellers to get home safe and sound!

***





Hier spricht die Übersetzerin. ;-) Diana wird in ein paar Tagen an Aldo Moros Geburtsort in Maglie ankommen, aber bevor wir dies feiern, möchte ich Euch gerne etwas mitteilen.

Ihr folgt ja Dianas und Gamins Abenteuern auf ihrer langen Reise hier oder auf Facebook und habt daher bestimmt mitbekommen, dass es auf dem Weg ein paar Unfälle und Pannen gegeben hat. Einige davon haben sich als ziemlich kostspielig erwiesen und Dianas letzte Reserven aufgezehrt. Zum Glück sind die lieben Italienerinnen und Italiener sehr großzügig mit ihrer Unterstützung auf dem Weg. Aber Diana und Gamin müssen ja irgendwie wieder zurück nach Frankreich kommen, und das kostet Geld.

Bitte spendet, auch wenn Ihr nur ein paar Euro geben könnt! Jeder Cent hilft, damit die beiden furchtlosen Reisenden wieder gesund und glücklich nach Hause kommen!

Remembering the forgotten dead

Aldo Moro is very much forgotten, but the five members of his escort, who died on March 16^th, 1978, on Via Fani, are remembered even less.

Who knows their names? Who knows where they are buried?

The whole attack on Via Fani only lasted a few minutes. The five men never stood a chance. They died in a hailstorm of bullets.

Today we know that almost all of the deadly shots were fired from one single weapon. While the other attackers fired wild fusillades as a distraction, one single man seems to have been the precision killer.
Was it really one single member of the Red Brigades? Or a member of the CIA, who verifiably had been present?
He says that he had been in the area privately and merely by chance, having been invited to have lunch with friends.
Until today, the statements of the members of the Red Brigades are full of contradictions and do not fit together.

Oreste Leonardis, Raffaele Iozzino, Giulio Rivera and Domenico Ricci died on location. Raffaele Iozzino had managed to fight his way out of the car and tried to stop the killers with his pistol. He was shot on the street.

Franco Zizzi was still alive when everything was over and the rescue team arrived. He died soon afterwards in the hospital.

“The armed guard was eliminated”, it was stated later in a communiqué of the Red Brigades. These words sealed once and forever what had happened during these cruel minutes on Via Fani: the shift of public perception. Living human beings with hopes and dreams became an anonymous entity, the “armed guard”.

The relatives and friends of the five men mourned in loneliness, overshadowed by the drama of Aldo Moro, who was still imprisoned and wrote letters, fighting for his life.

I had always believed myself to be empathic, to have grasped and shared the suffering in nights full of tears. But only now, on this journey, I begin to truly understand the full dimension of this tragedy.

A great day with a great man

Yesterday was a very special, highly emotional day. I was scheduled to meet Simeone Maggilioni – the meeting had been arranged by the mayor of Torrita Tiberina. Simeone Magglioni was a lifelong close companion of Aldo Moro, as well as the founder and director of the “Centro di Studio Aldo Moro” in Turi.

However, Maggilioni, who is 84 years old, had to go to hospital for surgery. This is where he received me. His son-in-law picked me up with his car and brought me there.

We were not alone, though: there also were press representatives and a city councillor from Turi. They all said that they were interested to hear what one of the last living witnesses of the Moro era had to say, and that they wanted to see me as well; two aspects that made the meeting attractive for them.

At the beginning it bothered me that Simeones tales continued to be interrupted by photographs being taken. Then everything calmed down and finally everybody was listening.

Simeone talked about how he grew up as a dirt-poor boy in the slums of Turi, stealing what he needed in order to survive. Aldo Moro got him off the street and made sure he got a proper education. Simeone became his closest confidante, assistant and friend.

He explained that Moro's “Way of the Cross”, as he called it, had begun when he was threatened by Kissinger during his trip to the USA. He immediately flew home and then struggled with the decision whether to give in to the threat or to resist. Simeone gave a detailed description of Aldo's fight with his own fear. Finally, he came to the decision to carry on.

Simeone shared with us the heart-breaking tale of how Francesco Zizzi had come to see him. “Can you help me to become a member of Moro's escort? I would love to work for Aldo Moro.” Simeone helped Francesco – and then saw him lie in his blood in Via Fani, on March 16^th, 1978. He was the one who had to notify his brother.

Everybody in the room fought to hold back their tears. Then I gave Simeone the drawing I had made for him. I could feel almost physically how much it meant to him. We said our farewells; he said: “May God grant that we can meet once again on this earth.” His eyes, as well as my own, reflected our awareness that this will not happen. His son-in-law drove me back to the hotel. And payed my bill there – a gift from the Maggilioni family. A great day with a great man. Soon I am going to be in Fasano where I will visit Fancesco Zizzi's grave.

Aldo Moro and his friends

The day before yesterday I stayed overnight on a large farm that belongs to Urbano De Leonardis.

By "chance" it turned out that Urbano is the son of Donato De Leonardis, a close and lifelong friend of Aldo Moro.

He also was with him during the war, when they were drafted for military service.

Donato De Leonardis wrote the book "L'umanitá di Aldo Moro" (The humaneness of Aldo Moro). Unfortunately he died a couple of years ago, but his son gave me the book.

Its 190 pages are a love letter to Aldo. All kinds of small stories and anecdotes from the time they spent together, all describing Aldo's character and demeanour. A unique work.

When I read it I found it almost totally consistent with what I learned from the reports of others who had known Aldo.

Nevertheless, I continued to ask myself: Was he really *such* an angel? Didn't he at least say "shit" sometimes?

Of course, here he is seen through the loving - and mourning - eyes of a close friend. Still, it is wonderful to get this confirmation that Aldo has truly deserved a pilgrimage.

Aldo was not a good soldier. He had already been a professor at the university when he was drafted.

An intellectual, only barely able to endure physical hardship. But his comrades, instead of mocking or bullying him, protected and supported him.

This book has not only increased my appreciation of Aldo (even more), but that of his friends as well.

Aldo did not want to receive any special treatment, which is why he kept his social status a secret. Therefore, due to his deficits as his soldier, he was treated especially badly by his superiors.

His comrades helped him as much as possible. When his puttees kept falling down because he was simply unable to put them on correctly, the others quickly wrapped them for him and prevented him from getting in trouble. They took some of his burdens when they saw that his strength failed on a march.

Aldo's sensitivity and vulnerability were experienced as enriching. Not as inferior, but as something that had to be protected.

And this is what I find truly remarkable. A tiny island of advanced humaneness - right in the middle of Mussolini's fascist Army.

The last part of the book contains letters from Aldo Moro to De Leonardis. This is an especially valuable part, since the texts are very private, even intimate, allowing a deep insight into Aldo Moro's inner life.

They are emotionally stunning and simply breathtaking.

I am astonished - and shocked - how much pain and inner desires still dwelt within him. How empty he often felt, and how overstrained by his surroundings, his social rank and his responsibility as a statesman and head of the family:

"It seems to me as if I am asleep, as if it is not me who lives my life."

He clearly mourned and missed his time with Donato for the rest of his life, something he expressed in melancholic, deeply emotional letters.

"Do you remember that Sunday afternoon when I was freezing, body and soul ... This unforgettable life we shared?

Sometimes it seems to me that time stopped than. When the pain was shared by two hearts beating in unison, melting into pure joy in this union. This is something that can not be experienced in lonely pain, something others are unable to understand. Not as you did understand it."

"I know that you are lonely. I am lonely, too. Lonely amongst many people (...) I miss our songs under the gentle light of the stars."

These words, these paragraphs full of pain make me sad. I knew that he was a melancholiac, full of deep inner conflict, but I had thought he was happier, all in all.

At the very end there is a letter by De Leonardi to Aldo in the afterlife: he apologises for publishing his private letters and some intimate details. He explains to him that it was his concern to let the reader discover the human being behind the politician.

I am sure Aldo has agreed.

And again, after this tsunami of emotions, I remember that terrible photo of the dead body in the car boot.

Ant I still can not understand how it was possible that such a wonderful person had to suffer such a deeply miserable fate.

Sometimes I wish I could indeed meet Mario Moretti as well. Theoretically, it would be possible. I would ask that arsehole whether he has even the slightest idea of the actual consequences of his crime.

The suffering he caused goes far beyond Aldo Moro's personal suffering.

Donato De Leonardis

"L'umanitá di Aldo Moro"

Capetta Editori

Aldo Moro's Grave

It was only a short way to the cemetery, on a little sandy path. Everything here is much greener, more natural and romantic than it looks like on Google Maps.

On the cemetery itself there are the alcove graves that are so typical for southern countries, but also one or two earth graves as we know them in central Europe. I walk around, do not search, allow myself to be guided, and then - a line of mausoleums, individual catacombs.

Very polished "mini villas", well taken care of ...

... no, it's not them, but there, at the very end of the line ... a building in a totally different style. Simple, no splendour ... my heart beats faster ... that's not it, is it?

 Yes, it is.

Inside is the white sarcophagus. The name: Aldo Moro.

1800 kilometres on foot, across mountains, ravines and rivers - and now I am here. Ivy grows into the mausoleum from the outside. Everywhere lies dust. A picture has fallen down next to the sarcophagus. There also is an A4-sized photograph of Eleonora Moro, who is buried here as well.

Yes, I already knew the grave from a photograph, and yes, last night over dinner I was prepared that it is "very quaint". And yet - this shatters me.
All these pretty chapels with brightly polished gates, crucifixes and gilded engravings - and next to them, shrouded in dust and ivy, lies a former statesman, a part of world history. Not even the dates of his birth and death have been engraved. And there is no cross either.

He, the practicing Catholic ... but his last remaining written statement was a criticism of the pope.

I search for "peace" at the grave. But there is none.
The sarcophagus is a scream turned into stone.
The simplicity is an accusation. No statesman rests here, no "historical figure", and definitely no "political symbol". Here lies a human being who wanted to live and to go home.

I sit down while my thoughts race like cars on a motorway. The first tears come. I visualise the many letters he wrote during his imprisonment, I physically feel the fear, the hope, the anxiety, the despair ...
And the answer to all of it is this sarcophagus.
I break down and cry bitterly. Without even realising, I say "humans are shit".

I am desperate because there is absolutely nothing I can do. I can make a pilgrimage to this place, I can cry, I can draw, but I can not travel back in time in order to help him. However, there is nothing I would love to do more in this moment.

And while I cry, it comes: the vision, the waking dream. The encounter.

A long silence. Then Aldo says to me: "Come on, let's go."

I walk back, return soon afterwards to take photographs and walk back again.

Later, I meet the father of the owner of the hotel where I am staying. Yesterday, I had eaten dinner with the family. They were CLOSE friends of Aldo Moro. He goes with me to the cemetery once again. More tears. Then he shows me the burial vault where Aldo was buried for the first year - as you can read on the internet, he was first buried "in the grave of a friend."

This friend was the father of my hotel owner. He guides me into the vault, shows me the alcove where "Aldo Moro" is written by hand, hardly legible still. Now it is empty.

"Will someone be buried there again?", I ask. "I don't hope so - at least not too soon", the friend responds, and we both start to laugh. For the first time. A little bashfully, but aware that Aldo is laughing with us.

Then he drives me to Aldo's little house here in Torrita. No luxurious villa, rather a witch's cottage. It is emtpy and overgrown.
He tells me about Aldo, who was his professor at the university. "He was able to listen for hours. During the students' revolt in 1968, many feared for his safety, but he was not afraid of the revolutionaries. He listened to them, only sighing sometimes "I find it a little difficult to understand these kids." No, he did not understand everything, but he listened.
He went shopping, alone or with his kids, even when he was a famous politician.

I meet elderly people in Torrita ... they all knew Aldo. They talk about him with deep love but also deep grief. The image I had gets confirmed. On the one hand this is very beautiful, but on the other hand my pain is increased: I see Aldo with my inner eyes, dead in the car boot, haggard, deeply exhausted, absolutely lonely. This merges with what the people here tell me. It becomes unbearably cruel.

He listened to others, but nobody listened to him. He opposed the death penalty, but he "had to die" - strangely, political faction of both the left and the right agreed on this. He was denied the kindness he had given to others.

He was plainly left do die in misery.

In a world where something like this is possible, it is no wonder that refugees' shelters burn and people are murdered or left to starve.

We go to the town hall. Aldo's friend introduces me and asked when the mayor was going to be back, because he wanted me to meet him. I am given the gift of a book about Torrita. It also contains a chapter about Aldo.
It is to some extent comforting that there are so many kind people in Torrita, who protect and shelter him. I am sure that the coming days will be very intense.

Piazza Aldo Moro

Today, for the first time, I was afraid of not finding a place to stay. We had followed the coast for 30 kilometres, from Pietra Ligurie to Noli.
My legs were hurting and, frankly, I should have turned to the mountains much earlier in order to find accommodation there.
In Noli, I asked around in the shops and was told that I would have to go quite far into the mountains in order to find places that might be appropriate.

So I got going. After crossing a couple of streets, a man came running behind us, he was totally out of breath. He talked to me and said that he had a piece of land at the edge of town, with donkeys, and I could stay there. Yes, he had heard from the people in the shopping arcade that I was looking around. And the place was not far away at all.

All at once, the worries were gone. Relieved, I looked around, with a clear head and an open mind now.
Then I saw where I was:

Pure chance? I don't think so. Aren't we a good team, Aldo and I?

By the way, this is the first Aldo signpost I have seen since arriving in Italy.

It's interesting that the bodyguards who were murdered during the attack are mentioned as well:

“E Martiri della Via Fani”

Most often they have been even more forgotten than Aldo himself.

The little paradise with the donkeys Gamin was allowed to join is ideal. I am even allowed to spend our day of rest there. Which means that tomorrow I will do important chores, but also relax on the beach.

Those who sleep

Sleeping Beauty, Rip Van Winkle ... my two favourite fairy tales. In both stories, a person falls asleep for a long time and awakes only when the environment and the situation have totally changed.

Here in the south, many things are deeply asleep, just like Sleeping Beauty: old stone huts, forgotten recesses, gnarled olive trees with faces ... they doze in the scorching sun, unnoticed at the wayside.

If you listen closely, you can almost hear a whisper: "My story is not yet finished. It was just put on a hold, a long time ago. Perhaps it will still take a hundred years, but I will wake up again. Awakened by whatever or whoever will come along."

Those who want to awaken such a sleeping being must initially understand why it has fallen asleep in the first place.

For Rip Van Winkle it was a gift of grace he received from the ghost Hendrick Hudson: "Drink your beer, sleep a while, and when you wake up, 25 years will have passed. Your wife, who tortures you now, will be dead by then." This is probably what Hendrick had in mind. During a time when divorce was imposible, it was the only way to run from domestic violence.

More than that: Rip Van Winkle also sleeps through the bloodshed of the war of independence. 

But there was a heavy price: Young Rip woke up as an old man. He slept through almost his whole life. Only his children, who were adults by then, recognised him and at least enabled him to have a good, peaceful old age.

The initial situation was rather different for Sleeping Beauty. Her family loved her, her surroundings were good - apart from one issue: The thirteenth fairy godmother and her deadly curse.

No precautionary measure was helpful, not eving burning all spinning wheels within the kingdom. Inevitabely, her fate approached this tragic day, without mercy and even the slightest chance of preventing the disaster after all.

Sleeping for a hundred years becomes the only hope in this fatal hopelessness. What did the good fairy godmother say: "I can only soften the curse, not lift it."

Sleeping Beauty's parents will not live to see their daughter wake up. The only remaining comfort is the fact that her cry after the sting of the spindle was not the end, not the final word.

That all which was was stopped now will one day continue.

In the complex simultaneity of experiencing everything on this pilgrimage, Aldo and I are sleepers, wakers and the awakened at the same time.

Aldo Moro is Sleeping Beauty, and I am Rip Van Winkle. 

Just as the the literary model I did prefer to sleep for many years rather then face the frontline and really tackle the problems. Now I wake up, but I am old already.

I face the thorns in the forest of forgetting that guards Aldo's sleep. The thicket rips my hands, legs and heart bloody. And I call to him. "It's me, old Rip! I have woken up and now I come to get your clockwork going again somehow!"

And in return he gives me all the roses of the thorny forest.

Pass of Horror

Readers of my old weblog know that I have massive problems with my back. The full program: a birth defect of the pelvis that got worse over the course of the decades, plus damaged spinal discs. There were times where I could hardly walk, especially because the inflammation - and therefore the pain - radiates down into my left leg. 

With medication and thermal treatments I was able to get to grips with the whole issue quite well.
During the year of training in 2014, both the back and the leg hardly ever made themselves known. Somehow I thought that the whole thing was over.

Although, of course I know that it won't "heal".

Days ago, my left hip started to hurt again. It was still manageable.

The Col de Brause between Contes and Sospel is not very big, really. Ca. 9 km of ascent, and a descent of 12 km. A 20 km pass, just like the ones I am already used to. The ascent went without a problem.

But during the first steps of the descent, a stinging pain fired from my hip bone into the pelvis. 

I immediately limped to the roadside, sat down on a rock and rested for a while. It'll be better soon.
And indeed. A brief respite, the pain becomes bearable. The next steps are okay. But not even ten metres further on ... new stings. Firy, painful. 

I almost lose my footing. Another rest, before continuing. The pain increases. Now I must drag myself from resting place to resting place. Every twenty metres. The scorching heat makes everything even worse. As well as the cars and motorbikes that rush by.

12 kilometres! How on earth shall I manage this?

A couple of villas appear; I ask whether I could pitch my tent there. The people refuse, but tell me that they feel sorry for Gamin because he is so heavily laden.

I drag myself on, down the winding road. I close my eyes. Somehow, this makes it less painful. I open my eyes to check whether the next ten metres ahead are clear, then I reward myself with closing them again. And every 20 metres comes the big reward of being allowed to sit down.

It takes hours. It is only a damn 20km pass! Normally I would have handled it long ago. Gamin does not understand why we stop so often. But he accepts it, nibbling gras on the wayside.

Sospel is my destination. I had asked my mother to sent me Artotec und Baclofène to Sospel, as poste restante. The medicine should have arrived by now.

Finally we reach Sospel. The Camping Municipal. Officially, it isn't even opened yet, but it doesn't matter, since the tent lawn is freely accessible and many camping cars have already arrived.

With my last strength I pitch my tent.

On the next day, I immediately go to the post office. Yes, the medicine is there! I take the first pills straight away.

Then I call the local vet. Gamin needs his second basic immunisation and, of course, the customs certificate. It is only valid for eight days. Which means that I have to cross the border during this period!

Fortunately, the medication works. The pain is not totally gone, but it is manageable.

And yet I feel uneasy when we start early in the morning. Another pass - this time, to Italy!

Countdown towards the border

We are slowly approaching the Italian border. In a couple of days, we will have reached Sospel, and then it's not far any more. The harbingers appear. Many signposts are in two languages, the names sound more Italian, and people now know where Apulia is but have hardly an idea about the location of the Ardèche.

JFK: "We come closer to the border. The prohibition signs are in two languages."

Sign: "It is strictly forbidden to pluck flowers, to eat them, to have a poo, and to breathe."

The crossing of the border is one of the very big milestones of this journey. I have almost gotten used to walking through France. Where I am always and everywhere able to speak the language. Where I can chime in. Where I share the culture. The thought that I am totally covered by my health insurance in case of emergency was also comforting. Of course I am also insured in Italy, thanks to the European insurance card. But still ... everything will be getting more complicated.

Yes, it could have continued for a long time. And yet, the French leg of the journey was merely a taster, a warm-up.

The action is on the other side! Inevitably, the day comes closer when everything will be different. A different culture, a different language. Will my knowledge of Italian really be sufficient? I have studied for a year, but was it enough? Of course I will learn a lot on the road. Soon I will have to dive head over heels into this new world. I will be in such a situation for the first time since my childhood, when I threw myself head first into the francophone culture. 

I can feel almost physically how much Aldo looks forward to this day. This is what he wants, what he is after.

I see him smile behind the fig tree that grows here, between palm trees and cacti.

Dreams

Almost one and a half months have passed since I set out from Roiffieux.

 

No, it doesn't feel "as if it was yesterday". One phenomenon of this journey is that time seems to have slowed down.

The rush of the days has been stopped. It feels as if I began to walk a long time ago, as if I needed many weeks to cross the Vercors, and the same amount of time for walking through the valley of the Drôme.

Time is infinite, and the distances are huge.

I am not able any more to grasp what still lies before me. It is as it used to be in my childhood, when "in two months' time" was synonymous with "never".

This is certainly the case because, as in childhood, there is no daily routine. Every day is new, brings new experiences, and demands total openness towards the unknown.

This gift of slowed-down time, of a new eternity, is one of the most impressive aspects of this pilgrimage.

We have crossed the barren mountains between St Pierre, Majastres and Palude sur Verdon, the Vedon ravine, and finally the “Village perchés”. 

Bargemon, Seillans, Tanneron - these villages that have been built into the dizzyingly high slopes where every step leads either upwards, downwards - or straight into the abyss.

Every square metre of flat surface that has been wrestled from the steep slope by building terraces and using even the smallest protrusion is used, cared for and guarded. Olive trees and mimosas grow between small wooden stairs, rocks and walls.

A unique world between the mighty nature and the nearby posh Côte d’Azur.

I remember many things I see from very old dreams. Now they make sense. For example looking for a place to stay in these villages between heaven and earth, before the path continues into the mountains. I dreamt of it, more than 25 years ago. Later, I even wrote a comic about it, "North East Pass", which was published in an American anthology. It was so long ago! And now the dream has come true.

 

Anyway, dreams. I dream a lot, and very intensely, but I also forget more than usual. Which is due to the fact that waking up in a tent is not as cosy as waking up at home.

 

Gamin and I attract plenty of attention. This is not always pleasant. When cars slow down so that people can take photographs - without making any comment - and then speed up again, I feel as if I am an exhibit in the zoo.

 

I also find it tiring that so many people comment "oh, he carries a heavy burden". 

In Bargemon, a woman recoiled when I told her that I am on a pilgrimage. Before, she had pestered me with questions, now she disgustedly refused the flyer I tried to give her as a reply. 

But when I told her that I followed the footsteps of Aldo Moro, she was relieved and laughed again. "Oh well, a politician, that's ok then. I just don't want to hear about Marian apparitions and such things."

This is the first time that someone was glad to hear that I am on a pilgrimage for a politician ...

Soon afterwards I experienced the total opposite. A woman approached me. She seemed to lived in transcendent spheres. She asked me whether she was allowed to caress Gamin, because someone had prophesied that she would become lucky if she caressed a donkey on its way to Seillans. When I told her that we were indeed on the road to Seillans, she was touched and happy.

Nobody can be sure of the background to her experience. It was one of these mysteries of the south, with its alcoves in the stone, with its statues of saints and of the madonna, dreaming in the mid-day heat.

Which leads us back to dreams. Of course I dream a lot of Aldo, and also of John F.

I increasingly understand how much Aldo appreciates commitment, faithfulness and dedication. He detested - and still detests - superficiality, opportunism and arbitrariness. These vices explain how he was betrayed. If he was able at all to find an explanation for this betrayal, this is what it must have been.

But once he has realised that the dedication to him is honest, sincere, and, most of all, committed, he is also ready to commit himself strongly and permanently.

Sunny Paths

There is a deep melancholy within me, as always during the days around the anniversary of Aldo Moro's death. The enchanting landscape around the ”Sentiers du soleil”, as the network of hiking trails in the Haute Provence is called, enhances the gloom. Here, the loneliness of the heart echoes back in the songs of the cicada.

If I had sprained my ankle or sat on a cactus, I'd probably experience encouragement and comfort. But this pain is surrounded by nothing but silence.

 

Aldo, the anniversary of his death, my sadness - it simply doesn't matter. I might just as well be on a pilgrimage for a pharmaceutical company, for Mickey Mouse or Silvio Berlusconi. It would make no difference at all to the perception of my pilgrimage in the outside world.

 

The physical achievement is acknowledged.
The love behind it is not.

May 9th

Yeah? Not yet, after all?

Well, I have tried: to draw Aldo with outstretched arms. But he didn't want to.
He struggled against my pencils, until the picture below emerged. He still isn't over it. How could he?

 

It happened on this very day, 37 years ago. Two days earlier, Mario Moretti, leading member of the Brigate Rosse, had telephoned Mrs. Moro, beseeching her to influence the government so that Aldo wouldn't have to die. He executed the death sentence in the early morning hours.

It was not without controversy. Some members of the BR were very much in favour of letting Aldo go away alive. Moretti, however, who had "asked Mrs. Moro for help" and claimed to have felt "deep sympathy" for Aldo, not only insisted on the assassination, but also on performing the act himself.

The reports about the actual event of the murder vary. More or less all Brigadisti insisted that they had been concerned about Aldo not having to suffer. Therefore they told him all sorts of things before leading him to his death: he would now be able to go home, he would just be brought to a different hiding place, and whatever.

I am certain that he was very aware that the end had come.

Later, some members of the BR cried at Aldo's grave, and Cossiga, the Minister of the Interior, who had dropped him, cried as well. Many tears, and all of them received much more public attention than those of Aldo Moro himself.

All of this still doesn't make any sense. It will never be transfigured into anything good.

The case of Aldo Moro severely contradicts all those cute encouraging proverbs about gentleness being stronger than hardness, about patience paying off in the end, and so on. There is no comfort, no edifying lesson in this story.

 

The blurb of the French publication of some of Moro's letters says:

"Aldo Moro was one of the most beautiful and amiable figures of the 20th century. His message was that the protection of life always takes priority, and that diplomacy takes precedence over violence. It still holds true."

 

Looking at the world of today I can only recognise that this message is valid less than ever. For the Brigate Rosse, it was at least a really tough decision to kill Aldo. Today's terrorists are not squeamish about slaughtering several hundreds of people per day.

Why am I writing this today? I am on a pilgrimage for Aldo, searching for the hidden tears.

And today is the anniversary of his death.

 

Pilgrim Art 03 - Trail of Horror

The third finished drawing.

The Drawings

Of course I am drawing. But it is a slow process. Pitching the tent, unloading the luggage, getting set up, etc. - everything requires strength and time. And therefore I only have a little time each day for drawing, if any at all. Thus, every finished picture shows a scene from at least a couple of days earlier.
Like this one: 19th century pilgrims, surrounded by 21th century monsters.

The Rocky Path

"Behind the Col de Rousset begins the Midi", I had been told. This is the climatic border. Thus, this pass is something like the Gotthard pass in Switzerland. After the Gotthard, you reach the Ticino, Switzerland's sub-mediterranian sun chamber. And after the Col de Rousset begins the deep south of France. With the lavender fields and the pine trees.

This expectation was indeed alluring. After a day and a night with endless rain, there was not a dry stitch on me or a dry hair on Gamin. We had stayed overnight in a ghostly abandoned ski resort on the top of the pass. And now we had to find a footpath across. The tunnel for cars was almost two kilometres long and out of the question for us.

 

Farewell from the ski resort, the mists are lifting.

The rain had stopped, the sun came through and gave Gamin an extremely good temper. He swiftly followed me through the enchanted forest and on the mountain trail. When the forest got thinner, a breathtaking view became visible on the mountaintop:

But immediately afterwards followed the horror: The trail now led steeply down, along the bottomless depth. It was narrow, sloping, full of rocks, as difficult as the horrible GR near Bouvante, only much higher, more risky and even more dangerous.

My stomach lurched. Vertigo again.

But now I had to take a decision. Shall we take this path, or shall we turn around? Which would mean: to Vassieux. There is no way through the road tunnel. Turn back to Vassieux? SUCH a long way back, everything in vain. And then? Which direction to take?

No, it had to be done.

Slowly, step by step. I felt for each of them, used a stick to hold on to, ordered myself to only look down on the ground, and never - NEVER - around me.

Soon there came a rock ledge that was so steep that Gamin did not want to continue. I therefore unloaded him, carefully placing the luggage on the tiny space on the ground, and lead the almost totally unburdened donkey down. I left him 100 metres below, climbed up again and brough the luggage down. This is how we fought our way ahead, 100 metres, and again 100 metres.

But then  - we were already far down - the damned trail degenerated into a sea of gravel, like a petrified avalanche. A hardly discernible "path" meandered through it. The stability of each rock was highly questionable; as soon as a stone was stepped on, the whole slope was set into motion. I doubted that Gamin would follow me, but he did. Millimetre by millimetre we advanced. Again and again, stones slipped and crashed down into the chasm.

How have I ended up here? In a situation I never wanted to experience. The image of all my fears had materialised, so real that it was unreal.

Finally we had managed the gravel path. But now I needed to go back once more to get the luggage. Up again, slipping, trying to find stability.

I now moved the four heavy duffel bags, also millimetre after millimetre. At first I found a foothold, then I pulled the bags after me. The stones slipped and fell. Suddenly the whole slope seemed to become unstable, everything under my hands and feet was set in motion. A quick prayer to Aldo. The slope stabilised again.

Below me, I heard shouts. Against my intent I dared to look down.

A couple of people stood on a viewing platform that could be reached by car. They pointed up towards me and were highly amused about the spectacle high above them in the rocks.

I became angry - old-school gentlemen would now have climbed up to HELP.

But then I suddenly realised: They don't come up because they *can not*.

They have dragged their lazy arses onto the platform by car, and now, from a secure vantage point, they take photographs of the magnificent mountain scenery. I was simply an additional attraction.

It is said that pilgrimages lead to self-awareness. This was such a moment.

I realised that it is a perfect reflection of my life: to climb a path that nobody else walks. At best I am greeted with amused smiles by others. But not because I am inferior - as I always thought - but because I am different.

Now I was not afraid any more, because this was my path. I had not just "ended up" there. I was there because I was able to walk this path, unlike the onlookers below.

Finally I arrived there. I loaded Gamin again. The onlookers from the platform came closer, eyeing me. I was just able to hear one of them saying to another: "I don't like donkeys, they look daft."

 

Now I had to walk down the mountain road, which was 15 staggering, meandering kilometres long.  Down from the Vercor. After every hairpin bend, the trees became greener, the first pine trees appeared, a promising hint of the Mediterranean was in the air. Yes, it was true, we were now approaching the Midi.

The village of Chamaloc is typical for the south of France. With cypress trees and cicadas and a large lavender field.

I asked around and finally found a family who let me camp in their garden.

Gamin in the garden

I look back onto the Vercor that is now behind me. After all, I had my "Gotthard", the mystical transition from the north to the south.

 

I look back with gratitude. Vercor, you wild, dangerous fortress of stone and rock. The days with you were hard, very hard, but you opened my inner boundaries wide and exposed a potential I would never have believed to be there. You have given me strength and self-confidence. Never allow yourself to be tamed by humankind!

I was unable to take photos on the steep trail, but later, further down, I  could document the place. The upper arrow points to the gravel path, the lower one to the viewing platform.

Pass Road

On April 29th, the wonderful sunshine defied all meteorolgists who had predicted rain and dreary weather.

An easy route via pass roads led us out of Bouvante, to Lente.

At the Col du Chaud Clapier

When you are able to walk without being scared of falling into an abyss after every step, your thoughts are free to roam as well.

Of course I think a lot about Aldo Moro. Most people I meet are astonished that this pilgrimage is dedicated to him. More astonished than about the fact that I walk with a pack donkey, or that the destination is so far away, or that it will take such a long time to get there.

In Léoncel it was especially nice: I had slept behind the village church. In the morning, a church employee turned up. She apologised for not having noticed me the evening before.

The church offers free rooms to pilgrims. But now, at least, I was to come and have breakfast.

I was happy to accept, but I explained to her that I was neither a Catholic nor on an "official" pilgrimage, but that it was for Aldo Moro.

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “Going on a pilgrimage is a very personal thing; each pilgrim has his or her own way. And it will do Aldo good, it will give him joy."

She said this very much as a matter of fact, which moved me a lot.

A living example of openness and interreligious tolerance.

This is certainly also due to the influence of the Vercor, which has many unknown, sleepy places of pilgrimage, far away from the popular Way of St. James. They open their very intimate ways of salvation to quiet pilgrims.

Most people are not spontaneously able to know who Aldo was. I briefly explain it to them, and each time I feel the strength that comes from pulling him out of oblivion.

Yes, it does him good. And me, too. The cold, cynical evil that became manifest in the merciless stubbornness of all protagonists whose actions finally led to Aldo's death, will not have the last word.

Almost fourty years later, the outcry of the heart is still there, still awake, and it will not fall silent.

The night in the tent near Lente was brutally cold: sub-zero temperatures! As you can see, Gamin had a frozen bum in the morning.

Stairway to Hell

So, today was the first really shitty day.

The ascent to the path that was to bring me from Bouvante to Lente and thus in the correct direction, soon led onto a murderous trail. Terribly steep, full of rocks and gravel, and slippery. And with trees laying across the path.

At the beginning it still looked nice.

But soon it was like this. And even worse. (Why do photos never show how steep such a trail really is?)

Of course, Gamin refused to walk on when he saw the tree trunks. I tried to motivate him and finally unloaded the luggage until he jumped or climbed across. When one tree was behind us, lo and behold, there came the next. A torture. Of course I aske myself whether it would be wiser to turn around, but we had already managed a couple of trees and I still hoped that the next one would be the last.

Was this the last one?

No, really ...

Finally, we *almost* reached the top. But then ... the whole hillside was covered in tree trunks and rocks. And on the ground there was a broken wooden signpost, stating: "We are currently renewing the GR; sorry for the troubles"

Yes, thank you very much, arsehole! A GR in such a state simply has to be closed!

Final destination: tree hell

After all, we had to turn back.

The rain got stronger and stronger, transforming the steep slope into a slippery hell. When I had to unload the luggage again, the roll with the sleeping bag and the insulation mattress fell out of my and, on the ground - and rolled into the bottomless abyss of the ravine.

Gone was the wonderful sleeping bag! The rain increased, I was totally drenched, it got windy and even more slippery. 

I can't remember how often I slipped and fell into the dirt. Gamin also fell a couple of times and for a while I thought, ok, this is the end. This will become our grave.

At some stage, Gamin refused to move in front of a tree trunk I would also have refused to tackle, because on the other end there was nothing but a steep, wet, slippery wall of rock. I have no idea how we managed it, but we fought our way back to Bouvante, and now I am back in the hotel.

The owner is willing to drive me to an outdoor shop tomorrow so that I can buy a new sleeping bag and an insulation mattress.

The laptop also got wet, it has a bad stain on the display, but it still works. Everything is wet and covered in scratches.

A day in hell, indeed.

Vertigo

"Do you want to go up there with the donkey?" asked a man who had come running out of his house.
Oh yes! I had just left Peyrus and headed towards the beginning of the GR 95. The path that leads up to the Vercor.

The man explained to me that there is a three metre high rock in the upper third of the climb. He said that it was hard to climb for human beings, because there were only very few notches to tread on. He claimed that a donkey would not be able to manage it.

I thanked him for the warning but walked on. When it came to the worst I thought I could always unload the luggage, carry it up myself and let Gamin find his own way up.

The ascent became more and more narrow and steep. Roots and rocks offer some sort of step for human feet, but for the hooves of a donkey they are a torture.

Difficult ascent

 When the path became too steep, Gamin stopped walking. After half an hour I was able to coax him into climbing on. Then he stopped again. And I had to pull and sweet-talk again.

I secretly hoped that we had already left the aforementioned rock behind, because we had already tackled a couple of rocks. No chance! Here it was, the rock wall.

It was immediately clear that no donkey could ever manage it, with our without luggage.
I left the GR and tried to find a way right through the thicket in order to circumvent the obstacle, go up along a different route, and find the GR again later. We were successful after all. The reward was the wonderful plateau of the  Pas du Touet, which we reached soon afterwards.

Then the path was level for a while. Finally, we reached  Léoncel.

On the door of the town hall was a piece of paper with a telephone number to call when in need of a place to camp or a place to stay. We were pointed to a meadow behind the cemetery.

After a very windy night we continued, on a steep path again. After a short while, Gamin stopped walking again. Oh well. Once more a breakneck situation up in the rocks. This time I decided to listen to the donkey and we turned around. We circumvented the place by simply following the Départementale (express road).

After a while we returned to the GR, where the Vercour plateau unfolded in all its glory.

We reached the Col de la Bataille, with its view in all directions, far across the valley and the mountains.

Without doubt it is an impressive sight.
But my knees started to shake and I got dizzy.
Vertigo!
Now it really got me. The Col is 1313 metres high, not very high really, but the pictures show you how it looks. I have always suffered from vertigo, but never before in the mountains.
But here - I could not continue.

I took photos without looking at the landscape. My only desire was to get down again, as quickly as I could, and on the main road, if possible crawling flat on the ground.

Somehow we managed to reach the Gradiol bothy (Gradiol ... sounds like Gradoli), a spartan, unmanned hut without water, telephone connectivity or electricity, but with a wood stove and a wooden bench to sleep on.

I decided to spend the night there. There was wood in the hut, but no paper. A battered guest book laid on the table. The entries soon explained the bad shape of the tome: “Sorry, we had to rip out pages in order to make a fire, it somehow was a matter of life and death" ... and so on ...

I imitated the actions of the people before me and hoped to use as few pages as possible. After ten pages, the stove blazed pleasantly.

Apart from this, the night in the scary building was everything but comfortable. I would have felt better in my tent. In such a bothy, people can come in at any time and lay down beside you. (!)

It is permitted to pitch a tent next to a bothy. But I was far too tired. And this is why I spent the night sleeping on the floor next to the stove. I found the dormitory too spooky.

The GR would now continue across the Plateau d'Ambel, along the ridge of a bottomless, high rock wall, in height up to 2100 metres.
Too high for me.
And the weather: rain, strong gusts of wind.

I had to face some pressing thoughts. This Vercors Grat is only the beginning. In the alps there will be GR paths leading up to 2900 metres high. It will be autumn until I will have managed to get the donkey up there.

The only solution is to change to a more southern route and to make sure not having to cross any mountains higher than 1000 - 1200 metres.

There is no other way. This is why today we followed the boring Départementale again. For 38 kilometres! Gamin was totally shattered when we finally reached the little village of Bouvante. There is a restaurant with a hotel, where I checked in without furthher ado. Gamin came on a meadow with apple trees, and I looked forward to having a shower. Alas, the massive shower head crashed down on my head, but no bliss is ever perfect.

However, I was allowed to use the local WiFi, which is why I can now work out the new route.