A Walk in the Faroe Islands

The last time I saw Torshavn, I was on a ferry headed to Hirtshals Denmark, and I was not allowed to get off the boat, this was just a docking stop, it was a cold 5 am, and the rains were falling over the village, I would have to wait another year before I had the opportunity to step off the gangway, and claim the Faroe Islands to my travel itinerary. This time I was traveling with a friend from Australia, whom I met in Canada. She was also touring Scandinavia, a Europe virgin, so it was rewarding to both be experiencing this country for the first time.

Our first night was dreary and grim, after having spent one day and one night at sea, I couldn’t sleep, so I was looking forward to some decent rest in the tent when we went ashore. This didn’t happen. The cheap material of the tent leaked water like broken skin does blood. We chose to set the tent up near the lighthouse right at Thor’s harbour, which was idyllic enough, privacy and seclusion, close to the sea, darkness, but alas, I woke up in a literal lake of water that had flooded the tent and my sleeping bag, not a good start, so completely soaked to the bone, I waded out of the shelter, and roamed the streets of Torshavn looking for an awning or early morning cafe where I could take refuge…

The rest of the trip was not so miserly as this, in fact it was rather comfortable, so what follows are the stories of two walks in the Faroe Islands. I had decided to take a hostel at a highpoint of the village for the next two nights, though surrounded in fog, you would never know you were about the center of Torshavn. The Summartonar festival was underway downtown, and after getting my bearings in the cobbled pathways, and winding roads, I leisurely paced through Tinganes. Every house with low lying roofs, grown a foot thick with turf grass and wildflowers, one would expect goats to graze on such rich earth. The traditional matte black walls, red door, and white window panes, and the stone walkways between the hof, this was like a picture of my future home, and I had waited years to be here. I continued my walk through the town, and was able to catch a concert from Yggdrasill and Kristian Blak, the night coming to a close, I climbed the misty path back to hostel past old wooden houses, and sheep fields. The next day was Torsfest, and to my delight, the two names I have wanted to see for years, namely Tyr and Eivor were performing on the same day, though tickets were sold out, I was able to sneak in from one of the side gates before any of the bigger bands came to stage, so I was able to witness Eivor sing a full set. The rain came down in torrents, and it would still be 6 hours until Tye would come on, so I opted for not standing at the festival freezing without any cold weather gear. I knew they were touring Europe as well, and I would be attending Midgardsblot with Enslaved, Skuggsja and Wardruna in a month. In the morning, I stepped into the Domkirkja to see Gudrid Hansdottir, and spent the evening by the port, and walking in the sculpture park.

After a restful slumber, I packed my gear and talked to a biker from Denmark over coffee, then head out on the road and started hitchhiking. This was really very simple in the Faroe Islands, and I never waited longer than 3 minutes for a ride, in this case it was the second car. By this time I was alone, and my friend had continue her travels. On the ride, I met another girl from Australia, and two guys from England and Holland, they had all met in the hostel the day before, and now we were four from different countries. They told me they were headed to Gásadalur, a small cliffside village with a waterfall that tumbles off the edge straight into the ocean. The foss poured from the lush greenery, as I quaffed dark ale in the same fashion. We then headed to the port, the Australian girl and the Englishman were to catch a boat out to Mykines (proncounced mitch-en-es) by the locals. This was a famous island known for its bird life, guillemots and puffins and several rare nesting species exclusive to this island. Unfortunately the boat was cancelled due to storm. People have been known to get stuck on the island because of the weather, so instead we made way for Bosdalafossur, another waterfall that plummeted into the sea, on the edge of a high plateau, emptying from a river that was right beside a cliff, making for an extremely interesting panoramic vision. This spot where it fell was called Trælanípan, a place where the Vikings threw their worn out slaves. It it reached from the Midvagur village, along a hike through a feral sheep field. The bird cliffs are comparable with those in Vestmanna in my opinion, and for those with vertigo, here is a chance to overcome it. We walked for a few hours here, taking in the sites of stones polished by running water, and the many intriguing sheep varieties, some appearing to have black mask markings. I ended up staying in a different hostel on the island of Vagar this night with my new friend from Holland, and we traded sagas from our travels.

The second of my walks was in Vestmanna, after walking nearly the full way to a small bay Viking village with the remains of an old settlement. I met a local who picked me up and we talked about landholding, farming and life in the Faroe Islands. Before leaving Sandavagur I tried to gain access to the church to view the runestone, but alas the priest was not in. I asked a woman walking in the cemetary where he lived and we walked to his house, still no answer, so I didn’t get to see it, but instead made my way to the Iceland wax Viking museum in Vestmanna. I was really impressed by the displays and stories learned of the heritage from Faroe Islands, I continued through the town, and walked in between the lonely roads, viewing the bay from the high points, and observing the life of this out of the way place, humbling myself to my placemark on the map. Again, the sky brooded with the dark egg of rain, and I headed back to the refuge of the hostel. In a few hours I was off again, to the solitary airport of Vagar, a one track runway, on my way to Kobenhavn, It was a fast four days here in the Faroe Islands but I only scratched the surface of the rune stone so to speak, the rest is yet to be carved into place.

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Organic Camping Tents for an Organic Lifestyle

So, I am on the hunt for an organic camping tent, because like most travelers who are used to sleeping out in the woods, I am stuck with the in-organic, brightly colored, chemically laden, plastic tents that easily break down, rip, and cause all sorts of problems to the environment, both to produce and to use. I detest this method of living, not the camping itself, but spending my nights inside this claustrophobic structure, while the morning suns rays emit harmful air into the tent for those who dare sleep in, while the polyester walls leak with rain, and cause a tumult of wind flapping in the slightest breeze. There must be alternatives beyond the MEC and Fjallraven higher end brands, who are also using the same materials, are there any fellow nomads or travelers out there who know?

I know there have been limited tents made by Vaude a German company that produced a high quality cotton tent, then a Middle Eastern company that used bamboo poles and organic canvas, I have also seen festival tent designs with a front entering design and canvas roll, and an Irish tent made from sustainable cork, but both of these were only designs, not actual tents on the market. If anyone knows of some non fire-retardant, non-chemical, natural color, organic material and lightweight tents for single or couple camping, please write to me. Until then I will keep dreaming of a beeswaxed natural hemp fiber tent with bamboo poles and sky windows that I can fit in my backpack.

Happy travels!

Bonavista to Tofino, and The Canada in Between

If I told myself 3 years ago that I would travel end to end of Canada, I wouldn’t believe myself, but now I can say I have stood, and swam on both coasts, from Bonavista and Wolf Cove in the East of Newfoundland, to Tofino and Meares Island in the west coast. This was not one single journey but different legs of a Canadian experience taken in time throughout my travels over my nomadic existence. While goat farming, and gardening in Newfie, and living in a small Irish cottage next the waves, and touring the Western archipelago beyond Vancouver island with the Native Ahousaht band, and staying in a small rustic hostel.

The country in between has been many days on the road, both on my leather soles, and stuck in a greyhound with 80 other people. I feel that traveling end to end in Canada is something all people from this country should do, for the mere sake of exploring their habitat. These trips and excursions have taken me into the South Shores of Nova Scotia, the Northern Wilderness of Ontario, the trending city of Montreal, the flatlands of Manitoba, the Rockies of British Columbia, and the forests of Cape Breton. Every places carries its own memories, over 7000km of land. I’ve yet to be in the Yukon, Northwest Territories or Nunavut, but these will have their time after some years away from Canada, while I now travel in Scandinavia, my second home.

These Giants Live: Cathedral Grove at the Heart of the Rainforest

Somewhere along a stand of douglar firs, balsam pines, and sitka spruce along the Alberni highway, the trees seem to rise a little taller, breath heavier, and completely dwarf everything in it’s vicinity. A literal sylvan cathedral of ancient cedars, tried and toughened by forest fire, the oldest survivors grew their first buds two and a half decades before Columbus even sailed here, eschewing age of 900 years+, the canopy overhead can not even be seen. Deep in the soggy rainforests of Vancouver Island, I found myself sitting with these elders, and feeling their tremendous humble power in my soul. In my own country, i’ve never been in true rainforest before, though I could not even relate these for brevity to the rainforests in Mexico, or Scotland, Cathedral Grove has it’s own persona.

Slow steps through the forest, with a heavy rucksack on my back, over root and stone, fern, and bone. Old men lie dead with hard tempered skin, and the hollows of fauna homes rest dankly on the black earth. Beard mosses drip with moisture from trees, and the branches of stickly evergreens build runestaves to the sky. The jungle of this place seems impenetrable, one can hide in the shade of jurassic flora, and crawl with the microlife beneath the shallow sight. An incense of purified mist, herbal infused air, and pungent but sweet soils fills the nostrils in quick drafts of euphoric awe. Each raw face of the millenial cedars gnarls its branches away into all directionals of the space around it. This is my rock of protection, these are my roots of exploration, to follow them, leads into the all of the forest. Back up into the hallways of allways, and the forest is forever in the vastness of the sky, and the deeps of the ground.

Wild waters tumbled over small smooth turned pebbles, and I drank deep draughts of the forest mead, and ate the squirrels forage on an old stump. As twilight cloaked the air with a familiar smell of petrychor, the last humans left their echoes of footfalls, and I went further down the rabbit hole into the dark shelters of the trail, seeking a bed. I found a hollow giant, blackened on the inside from the thunder bolt hallowing, with a partition of curved trunk missing from the side. Here it was finally submitted to gravity, and filled with detritus from the layers of the woods above. Brushing out the leaves and sticks, a perfect shallow was left for me to lay down my bones, sleeping bag and all, with cover from the rain, and privacy in the night. I spent the nocturnal hours in a deep slumber, inside the hollow trunk, in a feral healing session. With the Mjolnir hammer hanging above me, and heathen prayers spoken for protection from any jotun forces, and falling widowmakers. The sunwheel of morning aroused me out of rest, into a light gloom, and with my traveling scandinavian partner, we hobbled out of the forest the way we came, myself in revered silence, and her in frithful folk song. Colors of the wind. I thought about it all, and remembered, that Giants do live on earth.

Viking Route

Alas, soon these Canadian lands will evade me again, and I till take my third trip into the world, if this were the Rune row, it would be the third aett. Getting what you deserve after hard fair work, meeting the heroine, mutual travel on land and sea, making new allies, coastal/fjord/lake experiences, recognizing ancestry, reflection on the miles and wyrd, landfinding.

I no longer feel the need to work my salt in this country, after coming off 6 hard months in Nova Scotia and British Columbia, I have put aside enough to go A’Viking once more. I will not reveal too intimately the heart of my travels, but I can speak of a certain pilgrimage through Scandinavia, while visiting and experiencing more deeply the Nordic Culture.

From Iceland I will sail to Faroe Islands, and stay for 5 days, then fly to Copenhagen. In Roskilde, I am taking a Viking ship out into the fjord for a sunset sailing, then traveling by land to Sweden, trelleborg, Gotland, Uppsala, and the Runestone region on the outskirts of Stockholm, then continuing to sail to Aland, and Finland, and whether by air or ground, make it to Norway and come back down to Germany, via Denmark. I have 3 months in Europe, so I may finish off my tour with the Sami, and their annual winter pasture migration, this is not yet carved in Runes, but something is in the works.

I feel more at home in the Scandinavian countries, where the culture speaks my language, and the humor raises a laugh from deep within, I can hardly wait the 7 days until I once again touch down on black volcanic soil of the land of Fire and Ice!

Godspeed!

Gone a’Viking: Three Years, and Searching for Home

…the goathair blanket on the bottom, the work clothes folded neatly, a calfskin mat, icelandic sweaters, then the buckskin boots, animal curio collection and precious gifts wrapped in a bandana, some wool socks from the army,the denim vest, then whatever is left that enters and leaves my scarred, tired hands; a bush knife, some artwork, candles, some organic hygiene products, a bottle of whiskey, journals, and books…

There is a ritual in every packing, every move, and every mile across the land, air, or sea. Like the nomads of the last frontiers of life, drifting like pollen blown by the wind, or setting coordinates on the horizons of good prospects. I am but a man seeking his Scandinavian soul, filtered through a Germanic expression of truth and honor for life. Partaking in an age old comunion of being with tradition, a rite of passage for the journey of the hero through the wars and winnings of a life lived on the road. Everytime my bag is packed, I set my sails on a new waymarker on the map of my existence, and let the wyrd reap a new furrow into my life’s work.

After thrice years and a day, I find myself reflecting on the heros I have kept and used as anchor points to instill my own myths into my journey. In the words of Jack London;
“He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars.”

To be athrive with the heat of life’s fervent love, and wander afar into fields unknown, confronting both the nadir and the zenith of ultimate human experience. I remember meeting a young man very early in my travels somewhere in rural England, so new to the world. He spoke with story, and spoke of two years of continual travel from his home. I still remember it, where we would walk to after a day on the farm to drink strong sprits and make bonfyres from rubbish heaps. I think the poem “IF” by Rudyard Kipling and the Havamal, have been like anchor points in my personal reality, and tools along the way to understand the experiences of a man gone on his own.

Keeping close companions has been hard, keeping a mate, near impossible. Having lovers and my deepening romance with women usually depended on what next country either of us would be in. We would meet in a Scandinavian flatland, and she would be going back to the sea, I would be deep in the Mayan jungle. Our lives separated by thousands of miles with barely a technological tether to keep the flame alive, this is usually how my relations would unfurl with the close feminine, hungering for more, living on rationed love. I’ve kept a few close and thought they would be there ‘in the end’, and others whom I shared the idle hours of night, never to be seen again. Tramp love I used to call it, nothing really substantial or of spiritual depth, and  those allies that have stayed to prove their honor are few. I’ve been wrecked and ruined, tied to the tracks of a broken heart more than once, seen good women turn cold, and well, haven’t always been adequate myself. I’ve seen that love is so new to our kind, and we are not actually fully able to handle it, so the easiest thing to do is manipulate it in a way where there is less harm. It can not be given, or taken, it is like a cool breeze midday in the desert, or a baltic gust on a winter plain. Sometimes pleasant, sometimes a vice.

If the road is the inspiration, then the community service is the fuel. Being able to offer ones skills for comfortable lodgings and three square hearkens an older time period founded on trade and ability over the dollar. It is realistically possible to travel cheaply from country to country, and volunteer with hosts far different than yourself, and form a symbiotic relationship that works, while making production on a sustainable way of life, and expounding your own self reliance from skill forging, and integration in other cultures. If one wants to meet people from other parts of the planet, they can not simply rely on multi-cultural mega cities, he or she should be comfortable in spending time at the source, being culturally sensitive to other persons will always offer new angled perspectives on who you are.

The lynchpin of nomadism is sacrifice, but it does not entail struggle, not necessarily. I have been able to thrive in harsh conditions, without money, without food, using primitive technology to make shelter, or modern luxuries such as the internet to find free lodging, and dynamic living situations in dream locations. Eventually the body does tire, and needs the primal rest stop in its evolution, it feels the need to settle, and redevelop the indigenous home where one is king is his own habitat. This is why I like to think these 1000+ plus days around the sun have actually been forming a kind of sacred pilgrimage back to my ur-home. It is if I need to visit and integrate in foreign cultures to discover, and strengthen the fibrous roots with my own. I am north conscious, I know my dwelling will be in Scandinavian lands, where I will not only survive, but thrive, and those that share the mutual experience of life with my weave will as well. There is a gift in comaraderie that is priceless, that is timeless, that is simply transcendent. I can relate to anyone in the world, I am sure, but these people will more often than not be only vaguely integral to my own personal bond forming. There are those I can consume with, take a night in the city to indulge, spend something, receive something, but at the end of the day, these are insubstantial to forming lasting relationships, because they are built on sand. There is no firm substance to the making of the friendship. Think of a pine forest that topples because the dirt erodes beneath it. The tree, or the relationship is not built on strength and honor, it was built out of money spending. I know a home base, and a lifetime woman is out there for me, and every breath of air I take brings me closer to that ultimate. Like the primal masculine dream, he seeks for land, a wife, sustainable power, and legacy. Each instance in my event horizon of the now, is another sentence in my personal mythology, cultivated through struggle, triumph, adventure, embrace, virtue, ability, and will.

These are dark and humbles journeys into the mine of the self. John Trudell said “Protect your spirit, because you are in the place where spirits get eaten”. Such sentiments passed along from this grandfather are taken to heart every day. So few can walk the talk, charlatanism may get you an article in the newspaper and you will never be heard from again. The slower and methodical method cultures the spirit with strong instinct. One is confronted with the immediate reality of the experience, when each horizon of the day is as new as the last. To be a nomad is to become the wilderness, the weather chills the body like it freezes the sap in the trees, the sun burns the skins as it scorches the open plains, and the water comes as a treasure for parched tongues, and wilted plants. One becomes the forest, when he has spent the luna’s cycle sleeping on the ground. His blood becomes salinated, bathed in irish fog from a coastal fen, the promise of water in the mirage of the desert tunes the sun baked soul away from all mundane distractions.
“We are a spirit, we are a natural part of the earth, and all of our ancestors, all of our relations who have gone to the spirit world, they are here with us. That’s power. They will help us. They will help us to see if we are willing to look. We are not separated from them because there’s no place to go — we stay here.

 

Ridgelining in the Kootenays: Red Streak

Sometimes all one needs as a home is a mesh lined tent to keep the mosquitoes out, and a down filled sleeping bag to ward of the chill. The rest follows, as the high sunn arches eastways over the rocky mountain trench in Golden county BC. A robin’s eye view of the Columbia river affords the eyes a lofty perch, and the unfinished earthship marks the terraced slope from the borealis the vast mountain ridge. A winding switchback takes two globetrotters back on the interconnecting superways of the world, concrete ribbons to adventure, and the gain of miles on the age. The Pacific railway runs parallel, hauling grain that will soon spill off and leave fodder for black bears out of hibernation to forage. We stand in the valley, and stick out our thumb, hoping for a lapse in the quick passing traffic. A small black car, painted with floral patterns pulls over immediately, and an attractive sun toned woman steps out to rearrange the back seat and introduces herself with a fleeting smile, she says shes heading to Radium for a tree planting gig, and agrees to take us. A story passes in the 80+ kilometers of open highway, elk on one side, marmots on the other, mountain sheep blocking the road, and a destination.

Just nigh the Radium hot springs of the Kootenay National Park, the Red Streak trail will lead you out along a blazed path, with panoramic views of the ochre burnt colors of the surrounding bluffs, and the Marble canyon, spired in balsam poplars and douglas firs. The odd ungulate may be seen or even share the pedestrian forest trail.

A spicy incense lingers in from the dry mulching earth, yet snow can still be scoped on the Purcell mountain caps beyond. I had accompaniment on this trail, which allowed some pleasant conversation to pass whilst we hoofed the dirt underway. The trail is some 2.2 km long with a 2km extension back to civilization. A camping lot on higher ground resembles a nordic savannah, and offers some towering views of a boulderous river in the gorge. The route undulates and then peters down back towards Radium, a natural amphitheatre of a logging town, where the mountain sheep own the lot, and serves as a junction to at least two other intriguing trails; the Painted Pots, and the Lake of the Hanging Glacier.

Adios Mexico: Walking in the Fifth Dimension

I’ve returned to my old gypsy grounds where I put in my roots in Canada. Mexico was good to me at times, and at others I would rather not talk about it. There is a reason I did not keep a steady journal here about my wanderings in Mexico as I have with other countries, and that is because I chose this time to experience travel in an entirely different way. From the moment I landed to the time I was in the air over Mexico City, I had expected nothing, wanted nothing and sought nothing. My camera broke several months before and I decided not to get a new one so as to relieve the filter of experience in such a magical place. This worked in some abstract and unfamiliar ways in what I call instant manifestation of mind and material. During my entire trip, anything that I needed came to me, but that’s not to say I didn’t struggle. Anything I became conscious of, actualized in the material world through thought and power of suggestion; food, shelter, company, medicine, money, ideas, exploration. I did not have a camera to separate me from my experiences at the infamous Mayan cities of Palenque, Tepoztlan, and Chichen Itza, and I feel I was privy to the real Mexican culture while roaming through Oaxaca, Morelos, and Chiapas.

This man found himself in the jungles of Yucatan, I spent almost a month living primitively; no electricity, no lights, no running water, no signal for phone or internet, no power, no mod cons, we had to hitchhike 30km for our food to a nearby town called Piste. All my photographs were taken by others, and sent to me later. I tuned into the Lemurian consciousness of the Mayan spiritually, spending my off days climbing pyramids, swimming in cenotes, and learning spanish on the road. A day away in Playa del Carmen set me back when the cops robbed me on the beach. I bought a one way ticket to Palenque following divine calling, and met a beautiful Iranian goddess and her Swedish friend. We took mushrooms in the rainforest and watched howler monkeys in the canopies. I spent four days here before going to San Cristobal de las Casas. A couple days lazing around in the hostel, before going to Chamula and Oventik, an EZLN caracol, where a beautiful young Zapatista girl showed me her village. I left here and went to live and work on a coffee farm in the Oaxaca mountains, picking and planting coffee with the donkeys in tow. Reading Don Juan on the bus, I made my way then to Oaxaca juarez to tramp around the city on the Day of the Dead. Soon after I lived in Zipolite, an old hippie community, until I once again went inland, and worked as a beekeeper from a culture house, while practicing my calisthenics with some of the local mexican guys. This wore out, and I traipsed up to Morelos to stay in Tepoztlan county, lived in a tent and explored the Tepozteco trails and pyramid with a few walks in Amatlan and Ocotitlan. I met a beautiful Mexican maiden who was fond of the road, and psychedelics. I soon grey homesick, and left with a friend through Mexico City, one of the strangest plane rides of my life. Less than 25 people on board, everyone with a row to themselves, I tuned into Timothy Leary’s Flashbacks on the headphones, and slept awhile before landing back in the cold North.

Those who know me will hear the real stories of what happened there, because Mexico changed me in very real ways. The slow and gradual evolution of any storyteller is to know his story by memory without writing it down, and I think I am moving towards this traditional method more. That is the way of our ancestors, and the myths of our folk are kept in the heart. I am reconnecting now with the Northern tradition, and readying my soul for the Oskorei when they ride in winternights.

500 Pesos

I don’t believe in chance, and if we are sensitive enough to the energy of destiny, and the subtle relationship of karma with power, it allows for life to be ruled by a movement natural order, one that exists outside of the I and I ego mind that seeks to control every situation. Instead, letting one be in total surrender to each presence of the now, and always, the illusions to all confusions work around in the forever of the heart beating in one truth, and one reality. For reasons foreknown, eye could see this Mexican wayfaring on the road ahead, before getting here. It was in the Osoyoos badlands that I heard the name Zapatista, and the vibrations sent forth from this word sent me on a quest to find the indigenous resistors of rural Mexico so I may call them as Brother, Sister, Family. Three months down the line, attempting to cross by land first through the states of America, eye was sent back on the boat. The time had not come, no, still there would be testing.

Then, this man went off to finish a deed for ATWA, and voyage through Scandinavia, cracking open this consciousness of the way. For love, to know the others. Mexico called once more from Christiania. On a blood moon eye traveled and reaped what was left behind. Eye knew the time would come before it would happen, that broken down cowboy has a mere 500 pesos to his name. But all the same, this is only the reality of NOW as it always was before. A new prospect comes up, as the nexus of the energetic signals attracts me like a magnet, tramping across the southlands, to find and enter into this play of event and circumstance. Thee very same that called me here, and brought me alas to the Zapatistas EZLN, and the Lacandon Indians. Through the spiritual pueblo of Palenque and the Curanderos of Chiapas, journeying with mushroom into dream pyramids outside of our first attention. Out of jungles deep and the malt of the three waters. Now, the scorpion, the coyote, the humming bird and the black widow have spoken what they needed to say. I am sitting with what I got awaiting the full moon, and the coffee harvest in the cloud forest. Looking at 500 pesos, and wondering where it will take me until I hold none, wondering how long it will last, and after that.

The lurking of a return to Canada hangs over my soul like a night without warmth. For I do not want to face another winter alone. Again, returning to the power of manifestation, contra doubt and dis-ease. Allowing for the 6 of Swords to deal out new cards. The feminine body of the divine offers in an abstraction of art, speech, community and altered state. Don Juan speaks to me from beyond the grave. The Day of the Ancestors (los muertes) soon congregates their mass, and the song of mi corazon will hum through the distractions of lack, and on to light and Love of where I find my home.

Tramping Christiania and Flydende By

At the navel of Copenhagen, set aside the canals that divide up the city like agua roads, is a small hippie commune, or at least it used to be simply this. In ’71 when the peace and love generation was growing it’s hair longer, a small group of anarchist type free loving naturalists started to squat this little place amidst the urban jungle. Christiania turned from an army base to a rather organized commune, and the folks imagination started to show in the land. Creative buildings were going up, people were holding events, saunas, and love ins, and generally sending forth new shoots from the planted seeds of a real collective. This Christiania incarnate today
I was fortunate enough to find out about, from actually knowing nothing about it days prior to entering Denmark. It was by word of mouth from some anarchist squaters at the old Copenhagen harbor that spoke the words of this magical place, it’s rather intriguing history and it’s current life pulse.

I found myself living with these anarchist hippie types, and sleeping on one of their floats, a completely recycled boat made from tin, pallets, plastic, metal drums and others objects found in the trainyard or liberated from the dumpster and welded together. Actually these were quite sophisticated and could keep 8-10 people, depending how cozy you wanted it, and served as a floating meeting place for gatherings. The Floating City, or Flydende By in the swallowed Danish accent entered my consciousness just before leaving Norway, and I decided to join their fleet. Although there was no building underway, instead we were demolishing a brick wall, piece by piece, as part of an angreement with the boss. In the old warehouse we ate like kings, dumpster dived our food from local bins, and brought back thousands of kroners worth of decent food. Stragglers came from abroad, England, Wales, Germany, Bolivia, and together we had something that resembled a fleet of dreadlocked, muscled, free spirited guys and girls to get a lot of things acomplished. Taking hammers and chisels, bringing down large pieces of wall, then spliting up the mortar from the bricks and cleaning them off so they can be used again, the ritual continued for a slotted few hours a day, which usually preluded a picnic somewhere around Copenhagen, while some of the women cooked impeccable spicy food with the limited ingredients we could salvage. Even on a diet of what was coming from the dumpsters, we managed to store over a hundred loaves of bread, several pounds of cheese, milk, tea, milk chocolate, produce, fruits of which some were foraged from the nearby forests, flour, fish and meat, nothing was lacking.

A brother from Holland made his way over from Amsterdam, and we started to reflect ideas off each other. Before long, I had set up for two stick and poke tattoos on the boat, runes and wiccan symbols appropriately. Said Dutch friend occupied with me a ramble in Christiania on a particular slow afternoon. We hefted a bottle of Viking mead, and carolled Pusher St. for fine hashish, unfortunately the strains sought out of Afghan charas were non-existent and we settled for Moroccan. Other days spent in Christiania were during the 44th anniversary of it’s creation, where Flydende By had given some talks about the project, and other Danish/Scandinavian and global communes presented their spiel about their own cultural free spaces. On the last night, a sacred ritual was performed at the canal of Christiania, led by an Ecuadorian artist, wherein almost fifty people made talismans to offer to the fire, and were led in procession to a planting space. Then purveying the soils and waters of their own native country to the hole, an apple tree planted thereon, packed into the earth Pacha Mama with the vibrations of the drum. After dusk, the Christiania bathhouse held a special sauna ceremony, of which I partook in three rounds of the unisex sweat lodge. During the third round, a towel infused with lemongrass oils was wafted and the steam intensified. This raw, and humble experience of meeting other souls in their own skins was truly authentic, and memorable for me. A particular Swedish girl aroused some interesting convsersation as we stood in the neutral room eating sweet fruits between sessions. There was no timidity about this ritual, and in fact felt more real than what was going on outside the bathhouse. Perhaps I am only feral and primal, but I would do it again anyday.

Back at the Floating City, we had crumbled down and cleaned over one thousand bricks in one day, and held a gathering of almost 50 people inside the ruins of the industrial scrape. Two vaagbonds who called themselves Pilgrim, played a gig on the boat and a few were also line dancing. A certain goddess came into my awareness the night following who had traveled from the Redwood Coasts of California, bringing her matronly wisdom and young spirit to this project.

Our collaborations grew for there, and it was before long I had her learning tribal poke tattoos while we moongazed at the waning blood moon. Many an interesting persona was introduced to me in this commune, and my honor is given to Ask, the one who spawned the imagination for such a thing to manifest, Lily from Germany, & Victor from Spain in their affection, medicine, and company. My train of belonging had set a track in Copenhagen, Christiania, and the Floating City, and my eager mind intrigues into the future of this ever evolving panorama.