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.