BOLEIAS ( Unalaska Seattle)

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Por algum motivo obtuso, vim eu parar dentro de um cargueiro russo ao largo
do mar Bering. No entanto, dizem eles, o inferno está a mudar de quadrantes,
por mais estranho que pareça, nenhum avistamento de gelo encubado até esta hora.
Portanto, tenho a impressão que a noite não cai há, digamos, algumas semanas, apenas
neblina episcopal, convenha-mos. Mas avancemos desde já para as temáticas das conversações
compartilhadas entre os marujos abordo, temáticas essas gravitado em torno do
futuro desenvolvimento do colossal projecto-gasoduto Yamal-Europa; a natureza
do dinheiro envolvido nesse megalómano empreendimento e, algumas estórias conspurcas
dos seus amigos e camaradas trabalhando em ambos os lados da linha de avanço,
ou seja, a península de Yamal no estreito oeste da Sibéria, e do outro lado, as
circunvizinhanças da zona fronteiriça da Alemanha com a Polónia.

E aquela
amante de Frankfurt aparecendo já na conversa, e ainda outra ainda de Cracóvia
mais rechonchuda e jovial. No entanto, a de Frankfurt denotando um feitio mais
reclamante. Ou seja, temos os electricistas e mecânicos de pesados a bordo zombando
do carácter dessas duas mulheres, debatendo a diferença de carisma entre elas como
a diferença de personalidade entre o povo chinês e japonês, mas nem todos
concordariam, haveria algumas indagações em relação a esta associação e os
ânimos exaltar-se-iam instantaneamente\u2026 e assim, seguiam eles, assentando a
coisa em voz alta, como que discutindo ou mesmo brigando, por meio de muito
café com Rum, e mais todo esse jazz consequente... E eu, como já não consigo
entender metade do que está sendo mencionado, uma vez que eles estão agora misturando
dialectos russos e siberianos com algum tipo de slang chinês, abstraio-me\u2026. Agora,
botas pesadas desabando sobre dunas e girassóis estampados nos tapetes e
carpetes da sala de oficiais. Os girassóis sendo regados por algum tipo de
gasolina refinada brotando do tecto. E é mesmo pror d\u2019trás dessa cachoeira pertinaz
que fica o escritório do capitão, rodeado dos seus informantes, especialistas
em navegação etc. Mas para além desse capitão, havia ainda o um segundo capitão
e o terceiro, este um personagem reservado, agora aqui sentado na sala de lazeres,
tomando notas no seu caderno enquanto fala com a única mulher a bordo, uma perita
em todas as línguas chinesas; ou seja, aquela que vai lidar com as autoridades
assim que a embarcação chegar a Xangai. Entretanto, ao longe, um navio quebra-gelo
emite um sinal, mas como já havíamos constatado, de momento não há gelo nas
redondezas, logo não pode haver qualquer sinal para alarmes, então, devem ser
apenas mensagens para entreter, quer dizer, esse navio quebra-gelo deve estar é
mesmo deriva... Imaginemos portanto, se conseguirem, o capitão a bordo desse
navio quebra-gelo, um qualquer barbudo bonacheirão, tocando violino para seu
cachorro, um caniche connoisseur de sonatas de romantismo exacerbado\u2026 e
enquanto nos distraio com este tipo de pensamentos saía já eu por uma grande
janela redonda nas laterais deste navio. Portanto, o mar, estranhamente calmo e
escuro, ainda assim brilhante, e o céu de chumbo, caindo sobre essas águas
gordurosas e produzindo reflexos como que de escadas enviesadas, ondulando, encolhendo
e esticando, escadas sinuosas se transformando em qualquer coisa que queiram
imaginar. Ou se quisermos ser mais realistas, não escadas mas reflexos de
contentores empilhados uns nos outros, desempilhando-se, quais peças Lego
encavalitadas nas ondas, algumas derretendo, outras\u2026 encaracolando. Entretanto,
alguém diz que é possível colocar qualquer coisa como 36.000 mini televisores e
800 milhões de latas de feijão cozido dentro de cada um desses contentores,
algo assim, dizem eles\u2026

Mas
afinal, que o que estamos realmente transportando hoje para a China, seria maioritariamente
aves congeladas, quase podres - mas os chineses as comeriam na mesma - e dentro
dessas aves poderia haver algum tipo de muniçõe, relíquias da terceira guerra
mundial, digamos, para não ir mais longe. Mas deixemo-nos desses apartes,
agora, aí vou eu já aos tombos pelo convés, tropeçando aqui e ali em grossas cordas
pendentes, pensando na vida, e s tantas... Ouço vozes lá em cima, naquele
pequeno varandim circular a que chamam \u201cgnezdo aista\u201d. E lá estão eles, me
fazendo sinais, o \u201cplita\u201d (cozinheiro) e o \u201cnazochik\u201d (zelador). E aí vou eu de
imediato, subindo por uma série de escadas metal em espiral, quer dizer, a meio
do percurso duas enormes gaivotas com cara de pinguim cruzariam mesmo perto da
minha cabeça, mas logo desapareceriam. E uma vez alcançado o varandim, os
bacanos passam-me logo o grande charuto. E enquanto inspiro e expiro a praga, o
zelador vai falando sobre Nuliajuk, uma espécie de deusa dos Netsilik Inuit. De
acordo com seus ancestrais, Nuliajuk vive no fundo do mar e serve como que de íman
para certos e determinados mamíferos marinhos... Ou seja, sempre que os humanos
negligenciam as proibições que têm a ver com os rituais, ela aprisiona esses mamíferos
dentro da sua lâmpada, e os xamãs terão de conjurá-la para que esses mamíferos
possam ser liberados...

Nuliajuk é
co-esposa de Isarraitaitsoq, e seu marido é o deus peixe-escorpião Kanajuk.
Eles têm um bebé adoptado, que roubaram de uma mãe adormecida quando seu marido
estava caçando nos orifícios de gelo. Nuliajuk vive no fundo do oceano há já
muito tempo, lá no fundo ela se senta, seus longos cabelos esvoaçando,
movendo-se de cá pra lá com as marés e as correntes. Ou seja, no verão, aqueles
que passam de barco podem por vezes vislumbrar o cabelo dela esvoaçando lá no
fundo. E s vezes, conforme seu cabelo se move com a água, fica todo desgrenhado
e emaranhado e as criaturas do mar são apanhadas nesse emaranhado e por mais
que tentem, não se conseguem libertar. Acontece que quando Nuliajuk era apenas
uma menina, se recusou a casar, não aceitaria nenhum homem como marido, e por
conseguinte, seria um mundo cruel aquele em que ela viveria. Sem animais para
caçar, nem caribus, nem focas, nem baleias, nem morsas, nem peixes, nada... Sua
família estava morrendo de fome e não podia mais alimentá-la. Se ela ao menos se
tivesse casado, teria um marido para a apoiar, mas assim não. Até que um dia,
seus pais, encheram o barco com as poucas coisas que fruíam e partiram para
outro local de caça, esperando alcançar melhor sorte, e, deixariam Nuliajuk
para trás. Pois, eles não podiam mais sustentar uma mulher que se recusava a casar.
Porém, Nuliajuk não queria ficar para trás, e tentaria ainda nadar até ao
barco, mas quando se agarrou borda do casco, seu pai pegou o machado, e zás, cortou-lhe
imediatamente os dedos impedindo-a assim de subir abordo. Logo caiu ela nas
profundezas do mar e é aí que Nuliajuk vive até hoje. Seus dedos se soltaram nessa
grande mar, e um a um, eles se tornariam os animais marinhos. Eles se tornariam
baleias, morsas, peixes de vários tipos e todas as outras criaturas do mar.
Assim pois então, Nuliajuk ficou sem dedos para se poder pentear, e agora acontece
que, quando seu cabelo está todo emaranhado, esses pobres animais ficam presos nessa
armadilha e dai não conseguem sair, ou seja, eles seguem fazendo cócegas em sua
cabeça e isso a deixa com raiva. Por isso ela balança a cabeça e grita e grita e
agita os braços. Ela faz a água ferver até formar ondas gigantes, e se o cabelo
ficar emaranhado, não haverá animais para caçar, nem carne para comer, nem pele
de foca para os barcos, nem carne de baleia para alimentar os cães, e mesmo que
houvesse animais por perto, ninguém poderia sair ao mar para caçá-los enquanto
Nuliajuk está com um desses ataque de raiva...

Entretanto, ao ponto que
chegamos, aí está o cozinheiro rindo ao desbarato desta história. Um tipo de
risada um pouco estranha. E o zelador afirmando que esta é uma história do seu
povo, os Inuit, uma estória verdadeira, embora sua mãe seja americana e seu pai
um homem russo, ao que parece. E vai daí, as sobrancelhas gordas do cozinheiro
esticando mais e mais quando eu lhe passo o charuto, e seus dedos muito
delicados, segurando a entente. O gajo, olhando directamente para mim, respira
fundo, e diz que vai agora contar a sua história, e depois será a minha vez. E
eu faço por concordar. Então, começa logo ele a confidenciar como foi preso na
China... \u201cNos meus primeiros tempos de cadeia, consumi mais de cem livros,
incluindo clássicos como \u201cCrime e Castigo\u201d do Dostoievsky; \u201cO Homem da Máscara
de Ferro\u201d de Dumas; \u201cUm dia na vida de Ivan Denisovich\u201d de Solzhenitsyn, e outros
equivalentes mais modernos, como \u201co prisioneiro de Teerão\u201d, de Marina Nemat
etc. Depois de tanto ler, minha cabeça estava explodindo de calor. Atordoado e
exausto, chorei. Ao redor da cela, outras tantas cabeças raspadas surgiam como
filhotes vindos de um ninho para ver a comoção, depois voltariam a dormir com
indiferença. Imaginem, uma dúzia ou mais de corpos deitados em fileiras sobre
tábuas ásperas, como sardinhas dentro de latas com tampas rosa. Uma luz no tecto
brilhando intensamente - na verdade, nunca estava apagada. E eu me sentindo sem
fôlego. Como poderia dormir? Então, de repente, estava dia lá fora. O sol devia
ter subido lentamente, o novo dia veio como um choque. Meu filme de terror
passou para a próxima cena. Uma buzina estridente quebrou o silêncio. Eu ainda a
ouço todos os dias. Corpos que deixavam de estar estendidos e se sentariam.
Guardas no corredor com camisas azul-claro batiam nas barras. "Qilai,
qilai." "Levante-se!" Ao pequeno-almoço, o arroz áspero e o cheiro
salgado dos picles me fazia vomitar... Alguns homens tinham sachês de \u201ccereal\u201d
em pó que misturavam com água fervida tirada de um pote colocada fora das
grades. \u201cComa um dos meus cereais\u201d, disse um camarada recluso. Dois homens
limpavam os pratos e os levariam para a pia. Suas acções eram tarefas atribuídas
pelo carcereiro a cada detido: Limpar o chão; lavar a louça; esfregar a pia do banheiro;
empilhar caixas e colchas; esvaziar o pote da água choca duas vezes ao dia para
reabastecimento; lavar e dobrar os panos... etc. Esses trabalhos eram
alternados a cada semana.

Os homens se exercitavam circulando pela cela
durante uns 10 minutos como peregrinos tibetanos em um templo, sem os cantos
budistas., porque isto não era um templo... Isto era sim um minúsculo cubículo
de cinco por três metros, e a bem dizer a entrada e o banheiro adicionaria mais
dois metros quadrados. O banheiro era apenas um buraco no chão com uma alavanca
enferrujada na parede atrás. A pia era pesada, de cerâmica rachada, com uma torneira
fria. Acima estava um pedaço de plástico brilhante, supostamente um espelho,
deformado para que você não pudesse ver uma imagem nítida de si próprio.
Durante 14 meses, não vi o meu próprio rosto... E depois do \u201cpasseio\u201d viria o
ritual dejectório. Vestes laranja ficavam em locais designados ao lado da
parede, e coletes vermelhos (os novos) teriam de estar voltados para a grade
estudando o livro marrom de regras... Assim, iriamos ao banheiro em turnos,
coletes vermelhos por último. Eu agachado sobre o buraco, quase caí quando estiquei
a mão para chegar ao autoclismo atrás de mim. \u201cPra fazer, olhe pra frente; para
pingar, olhe em redor \u201d, vociferou Li, o chefe da célula. \u201cDesse modo cairá certo
lá dentro\u2026 mas você fez da maneira errada\u201d Portanto nos dez dias seguintes, Li ordenraria que eu fizesse isso e aquilo... como
um cachorro rugindo aos meus tornozelos. Mas alguns dos homens eram gentis, não
todos.

E chegou o
dia que o carcereiro ordenou que eu recolhesse minhas coisas, \u201cvocê vai para casa\u201d disse. Os outros homens
ecoaram sua declaração e me disseram para colocar roupas adequadas e me livrar
desse traje vermelho. Meu coração disparou. Então, quando o carcereiro me veio
buscar, houve alguma confusão... Acontece que eles me mudariam para outra cela
e me deram um trajo laranja. Meu novo chefe era Chen, e ele tinha covas no
rosto... condenado a 13 anos por possuir ilegalmente armas para caçar coelhos.
\u201cA maioria das pessoas aqui cometeu crimes por dinheiro\u201d, dizia ele, \u201cmas eu só
estou aqui por causa do meu hobby\u201d. Havia outros três chineses com quase 50
anos como eu, com coletes verdes, que eram usados \u200b\u200bpor presidiários com
doenças crónicas. Todos os três eram empresários ricos, hostis ao sistema
político. Todos aguardavam julgamento, acusados \u200b\u200bde fraude, todos alegavam ter
sido encaixilhados. A cela foi cognominada de \u201ca cela dos homens doentes\u201d pelos
outros, mas eu a apelidava "célula dos bilionários". O objectivo
deste aprisionamento era martirizar o espírito, fraccionar a vontade. Muitos
prisioneiros viriam a desmoronar rapidamente. Qualquer que fosse a célula, os
rituais eram os mesmos.

Durante os
exercícios, que seriam transmitidos em um circuito fechado, pela TV suspensa,
imitaríamos saltos e alongamentos realizados por três treinadores de educação
física, um homem e duas mulheres - o mais próximo que eu e meus companheiros de
cela chegaram a estar de uma varoa. Então, um patrulheiro de jaleco branco
passou por nossa grade. Os presos queixavam-se, mas teriam sorte se
conseguissem um bocado de pomada para um pé ferido ou uma aspirina. Em seguida,
veio o \u201ctempo de estudo\u201d. Sentar-nos-íamos de pernas cruzadas em marcas vermelhas
assinaladas no chão enquanto a TV transmitia \u201clições\u201d do departamento de
propaganda. As vezes era o \u201cdirector de propaganda\u201d aparecia pregando sobre o
bom comportamento e analisando estatísticas recentes: quantos detidos altercaram
ou brigaram; quantos reclusos discutiram com os guardas, ou quantos infringiram
outras regras e foram punidos com isolamento ou ocupação prolongada. Os presos
ficariam sentados em silêncio. Alguns tentariam ler um livro furtivamente.
Outros planejavam como lidar com o seu caso ou sonhavam. Ninguém levava o
\u201cestudo\u201d a sério, embora s vezes tivéssemos que escrever comentários sobre a
sessão. E pronto, era esta a nossa vida. Um jogo de espera. Sem visitas de familiares.
Nenhuma carta para casa. Apenas mensagens curtas para advogados. Sem qualquer chance
de orquestrar uma defesa real. Mas os prisioneiros estrangeiros podiam receber
visitas consulares, para inveja dos colegas de cela chineses. Usha, a
vice-cônsul que me visitava regularmente, e sua assistente Susie, transmitiam
mensagens de e para minha família, traziam livros e revistas e faziam pressão
sobre minha saúde. Eles eram meus anjos... Ainda que, no centro de detenção
tenha desenvolvido sintomas de câncer da próstata, uma longa hérnia, erupções
cutâneas, infecções anais, diarreia constante, e sofri um ferimento na coluna
causado durante uma ofensiva. Nada foi tratado. Havia interrogatórios
frequentes. Por isso fiquei trancado em uma cadeira de ferro dentro de uma
gaiola de aço em frente a um pódio onde me interrogaram três homens do PSB e,
uma ou duas vezes, homens de \u201cum departamento diferente\u201d. A maior parte daquilo
era zorreira\u2026

Tive que assinar
declarações com tinta de selo vermelha (impressões digitais), e mais documentos
de espécime do meu arquivo. Os homens do PSB não queriam ouvir quaisquer explicações
atenuantes. Eles tentariam ainda fazer parecer que Ying e eu tínhamos ganho
milhões negociando dados ilícitos, o que nunca fizemos, claro. Por duas vezes,
os homens do \u201coutro departamento\u201d me tentaram acusar de espiagem, ou espionagem,
na atribula região muçulmana de Xinjiang. Eles me tentariam associar ainda a uma
entidade de inteligência dos EUA espionando a Coreia do Norte, etc. E só depois
de sete meses, Ying e eu poderíamos finalmente trocar cartas de amor dentro do
presídio. Elas levariam um mês para percorrer 30 metros através do concreto e umas
três camadas de censura policial. Não tínhamos permissão para discutir nosso
caso. Algumas de nossas cartas foram bloqueadas sem aviso. Mas ainda assim,
lembremo-nos que os chineses não tinham esse privilégio. Após 13 meses sem
julgamento, finalmente fui ao tribunal a 8 de agosto, Ying e eu fomos acusados
\u200b\u200bde "obter ilegalmente informações de cidadãos" (o que negamos).
Naquele dia também foi um dos momentos mais profundamente angustiantes de todo
o processo. A polícia me disse, pouco antes de nosso julgamento, que Ying fora
informada da morte recente de seu irmão, Bernard. Assim, na manhã do nosso
julgamento, quando a vi nas escadas do tribunal, expressei minhas condolências.
A maneira como ela desabou me disse imediatamente que eles estavam mentindo.
Ela não sabia, mas eu acredito que eles fizeram isso de propósito para nos
desestabilizar para o julgamento. Fomos remetidos, previsivelmente, eu por 30
meses e Ying por 24\u2026. Vista da lua, a prisão de Qingpu pareceria,
possivelmente, um pacífico campus universitário murado, com dormitórios,
jardins, cânforas, um campo de futebol e um átrio enorme. Na minha corte, havia
uma dúzia de blocos de celas de concreto com janelas gradeadas, havia um departamento
de teatro, um bloco de escritórios, uma cozinha comunal, uma casa de caldeira e
uma fábrica. A parede do perímetro estava eriçada com arame farpado e era
patrulhada por guardas PAP armados. As células poderiam conter de 5.000 a 6.000
prisioneiros. Também \u201ctreinavam\u201d prisioneiros que seriam redistribuídos a
outras prisões. O bloco oito era para estrangeiros e o bloco adjacente para
chineses. Uma alta cerca de ferro isolava um jardim entre as asas do bloco. Um
careca malaio de meia-idade veio até ao portão e ajudou-me a carregar minhas
malas da prisão, seu apelido era MC, e seria ele o "rato rei" do
bloco oito. Era ele que comandava um certo tipo de máfia malaica que por sua
vez controlava toda a comida e atribuições de trabalho em Qingpu. "E quais
são seus pensamentos?" um oficial sénior de óculos me perguntou quando eu
cheguei. "Não sei o que quer dizer!" respondi. "O que você vem aqui
fazer?" perguntou ele de novo. E eu ainda sem entender que suas perguntas
eram eufemismos para "quando vai escrever o reconhecimento de culpa e o relatório
de arrependimento?" o que era exigido a todos os prisioneiros. \u201cPosso
ensinar um pouco de inglês sua equipe,\u201d disse eu inocentemente. Mas, fui
conduzido \u201ccela de treinamento\u201d para novos prisioneiros e recebi um short
listrado azul e uma camisa branca de mangas curtas com abas também azuis, o
uniforme de verão da prisão. Tornei-me o prisioneiro número 42816. Nunca me
esquecerei desse número. Havia interrogatórios frequentes. Poder-se-ia dizer
que, eu estava mais ou menos preso numa cadeira de ferro dentro de uma gaiola
de aço.

Minha cela
continha 12 prisioneiros. Dormíamos em beliches de ferro com pranchas de
madeira e um \u201ccolchão\u201d de algodão de apenas alguns centímetros de espessura,
coberto com um áspero lençol listrado. As janelas gradeadas nunca eram fechadas,
apesar do inverno gelado. \u201cEu sou o líder da célula\u201d, disse um jovem africano
magro, um dos muitos nigerianos presentes, a maioria condenados por contrabando
de drogas e cumprindo prisão perpétua. Havia também dois prisioneiros chineses
que possuíam cidadania estrangeira: Zhang, um com cidadania austríaca que
cumpria uma longa pena por tráfico de pessoas; e Chen, que tinha cidadania
tailandesa que estava preso por peculato. Seriam eles os que denunciavam todo
mundo e que haviam sido transferidos aqui para me monitorar, com certeza. Como
os dois falavam um pouco de inglês, eles me seguiriam por toda parte, ouviriam
qualquer conversa que eu tivesse e relatariam com certeza aos oficiais. Zhang
gerenciava a produção da fábrica do bloco; e Chen trabalhava como \u201csecretário
social\u201d entre prisioneiros e oficiais. \u201cComo funcionam as reduções de
sentenças? Como funciona o sistema de pontos?\u201d perguntava eu. \u201cNão sabemos,
você deve perguntar aos oficiais\u201d, mentiam. \u201cMas, se você se quiser qualificar
para redução, você deve confessar.\u201d Então, fui falar com um tal de capitão Liu.
"Quais são seus pareceres?" perguntou ele num inglês pobre em uma
pequena sala de entrevistas que tinha grades nos separando. Meu primeiro
pensamento foi: \u201cCá estamos nós de novo\u201d, mas \u201ceu sou inocente e não vou admitir
nenhum crime\u201d, acabei dizendo. \u201cPosso ajudar a ensinar inglês s pessoas, se
você quiser. E quero saber sobre o sistema de redução de penas.\u201d Quem me
escutava era Liu, então, estava ele lidando com um inglês de cabelos grisalhos
mais ou menos da sua idade, uma visão um pouco estranha para quem nos visse
juntos. \u201cEstudar é um privilégio, não um direito, e você deveria escrever o
relatório de confissão e arrependimento\u201d, disse. Mas ele era mais civilizado do
que a maioria dos guardas e penso que, realmente, ele queria ter um bom
relacionamento comigo, mas eu o desapontei. \u201cNão vou escrever nada disso\u201d,
disse. \u201cE exijo tratamento médico para minhas doenças, incluindo para a minha
próstata.\u201d Zhang me levou de volta para a cela. Nos corredores e escadas outros
prisioneiros apareceram, sorrindo e acenando para mim. Já na nossa ala, um
interno africano tentou conversar. \u201cDisseram-nos a todos para não falarmos com
você\u2026 Disseram-nos que você é um espião do MI6, mas nenhum de nós acredita
nisso, aliás vimos seu julgamento na TV e te estávamos esperando. Você é um
herói. Se precisar de alguma coisa, diga, nós o tentaremos ajudar dentro do possível\u201d,
dizia ele, ignorando Zhang e Chen, que voejavam e cacarejavam como galinhas ansiosas.
Acontece que eu não tinha trazido artigos de toalete, pois me tinham dito que
teria direito a novos. Depois vim a perceber, que afinal teria que comprar esse
material, embora não tivesse conta na prisão, e meus carcereiros tivessem entregado
o dinheiro da conta do meu centro de detenção na secretaria.

Inicialmente, os
policiais também me proibiram de enviar cartas família, fazer chamadas
telefónicas, ou usar o sistema de compras da prisão. Mas logo encontrei uma pilha
de coisas no meu beliche, como como, lenços de papel, sabão em pó, biscoitos,
sachês de café, uma pequena toalha, duas tigelas plásticas, canetas e papel
timbrado, etc. Ou seja, tinham sido os outros presos, que ali tinham deixado
essas coisas como doações anónimas de caridade. Zhang e Chen me conduziram
minha primeira ceia na \u201csala de trabalho\u201d, onde cerca de 120 prisioneiros
ocupavam fileiras de mesas com assentos imóveis e sem encosto. Quando entrei,
todos os olhos estavam em mim, junto com os de seis oficiais. A comida era requentada,
s vezes quente... O jantar padrão seria uma tigela de arroz cozido a vapor,
quase desfeito, um pouco de carne, um vegetal, e uma sopa rala. O Ritz portanto!
Então, o gangue de MC servia uma cela de cada vez, passando a comido numas
bandejas velhas. Depois da chamada final s 21h, a porta barrada da cela era trancada
e prisioneiros de confiança ficariam de guarda no corredor para relatar
quaisquer atividades perniciosas ou possíveis tentativas de suicídio. A luz do tecto
era mantida acesa a noite toda. Acordávamos s 6 da manhã e um de nós limpava a
área do banheiro antes que os outros se levantassem, e um guarda destrancaria a
cela e os homens desceriam para o pátio com garrafas térmicas para colectar
água fervida para bebidas quentes ou para lavagens. Dois frascos por homem. Era
o permitido.

No pequeno-almoço
comíamos mingau de arroz simples ou um pãozinho cozido no vapor com picles
salgados e, todos os domingos, um ovo cozido. Meia hora de exercícios ao ar
livre em um quintal do tamanho de um campo de basquete. Depois de alguns dias,
o simpático capitão Liu desapareceu e correu a notícia de que o jovem capitão
Wei administraria nossa cela. Wei era conhecido por perseguir presos e incitar
incidentes que levaram os presos a ser espancados e arrastados aos gritos para
a solitária, o que testemunhei repetidas vezes. \u201cEles o estão enviando aqui por
sua causa\u201d, me disseram. Na verdade, Wei me convocou várias vezes por semana
para uma \u201cconversa\u201d. Tentava provocar minha raiva, insultando-me, ordenva que
escrevesse confissões e ameaçou-me com uma sentença prolongada ou solitária se
eu recusasse. Mas eu nunca cedi\u2026 Todas as semanas eu citava meus problemas
médicos e exigia exames e tratamento adequados para minha próstata. \u201cMas você
não confessou ainda\u201d, dizia ele. Encenaria ainda buscas para inspeccionar todos
os meus pertences, frequentemente, e roubava meu diário uma vez por outra, portanto,
foi assim que passamos a brincar de gato e rato, ao esconde-esconde. Para me
proteger, eu mantinha agora o meu bloco de anotações comigo o tempo todo, e concordei
escrever um \u201cregistro mensal do meu progresso\u201d separado para ele, mas apenas
listei seus abusos. Ele escreveria \u201cok\u201d em cada página como um bom professorzinho.
Quer dizer, obviamente ele não entendia meu inglês escrito mão. Posto isto, a
prisão era um negócio, fazíamos trabalhos de manufactura para empresas. De
manhã, tarde e muitas vezes durante a sesta depois do almoço, os prisioneiros
\u201ctrabalhavam\u201d numa sala comum, fabricando peças de embalagem. Reconheci marcas
conhecidas como 3M, C&A, H&M, etc.

Though, those companies could not be aware that prison labor was
part of their supply chain. Prisoners from Chinese cell blocks worked in our
factory making textiles and components. They marched there like soldiers before
our breakfast and returned late in the evening. The foreigners who labored in
my cell block were Africans and Asians with no money from family, and no other
way to buy toiletries and snacks. It was piece work; a hundred of this, a
thousand of that. Full-time, they earned about 120 yen, about fifteen dollars a
month. But it was also about points. There was a sentence-reduction system
based on points earned through labor \u2014 work such as floor cleaning, food
serving, teaching and approved study. Snitching also earned favorable
treatment. Our life was a waiting game. No family visits. No letters home. Just
brief messages to lawyers. Once or twice a year a list of prisoners went up
showing who had earned reductions. Those on long terms crowded around, praying
their name was on the board. Many were disappointed. Reductions had become
rarer since President Xi Jinping had taken power in early 2013. Before that, a
10-year term might be cut to seven. Under Xi you would be lucky to get one year
taken off. I never qualified because I boycotted the thought reports. The
officers refused to explain the system to me anyway. Between bouts of persecution
by Wei, I read books and newspapers sent by my Rotary Club community, and books
from the prison \u201clibrary\u201d shelves managed by Stern Hu, a China-born Australian.
Stern had led the China office of mining giant Rio Tinto before his arrest in
2009 on murky allegations of espionage and bribery, as China fought Australia
over the price of iron ore. Ironically, I had commentated on his case on CNN at
the time. Now I was his jail-mate. Tall and aristocratic-looking, hair whitened
by captivity, he was highly educated and very kind. He provided me with some of
his warm clothing in winter and helped me with Chinese letter writing and
reading. He was struggling with heart disease, and I worry about his health to
this day. Every encounter was an education. I had spent 15 years helping to
prosecute fraudsters. Now, in prison, I met many people who might easily have
been my investigation targets, but who I came to believe did not deserve such
harsh sentences. I came away from my captivity with sympathy for both the innocent
and the guilty. I continued to refuse to \u201cconfess\u201d, and the captains continued
to block my access to prostate treatment and warm clothing. Everybody was
supposed to shave once or twice a week. Prisoners had their own razors, which
were stored under lock and key. On certain days of the week the razors were
handed out to their owners to shave and then handed back in immediately. I
applied to have my family buy me a razor, but Wei kept blocking approval. They
tried to make me use a shared razor. I refused on hygiene grounds. I grew a
long straggly grey beard. Hair was cut every Saturday morning by prisoners. I
let mine grow. Before long, I looked like a cross between Santa Claus and the
Count of Monte Cristo. This drove Wei nuts. He tried to force me to shave, and
I filed complaints to the prison and my consulate. Other prisoners started
winking at me as I walked along the corridor and I noticed they had started to
grow beards too. My consular saviors \u2014 Roslyn, who took over from Usha, and
Susie \u2014 brought letters and books from relatives and friends each month, and
relayed my complaints to the prison and the authorities. One day, they brought
me a copy of the United Nations treaties on imprisonment and torture that I had
requested. These confirmed to me that China failed to comply with most of the
standards of treatment on nutrition, sleep, labor, health, and contact with
family, etc., required by international laws that China had signed, and I urged
my consul to complain. I shared the treaties among the inmates. Handwritten
copies proliferated. Some of the men started citing the treaties in complaints
to the governor. The officers began to grow uneasy and I could sense that some
wanted to get shot of me.

Wei continued to threaten me with solitary and
made efforts to ban me from sitting down anywhere. In the meanwhile, something
shifted. Consular lobbying and my relentless complaints forced the prison to
send me for a PSA blood test and an MRI at a local hospital. Wei used the moment
to parade me in front of the public at hospital in handcuffs and prison
uniform. But the MRI result was a milestone. Within weeks, they had to admit
that I had a tumor in my prostate, although they concealed the result of the
blood test. The next step should have been a biopsy. Instead, they began to
fake the paperwork for a sentence reduction for good behavior. It emerged from
this that the real commander of cell block eight was one Captain Shang. He, and
eventually the prison governor, spent long sessions pleading with me to sign an
admission of guilt so that I could leave prison with Ying, whose sentence would
expire on July that year. \u201cEven your
wife could get a small reduction too,\u201d said Shang. He and I argued over the
wording of a compromise statement that I would sign to satisfy the paperwork.
He went back and forth to his superiors with my position. I finally signed a
statement expressing qualified, conditional remorse if I had done anything
wrong but not admitting that I had done anything wrong at all. Somehow they
fudged it. I came away from my captivity with sympathy for both the innocent
and the guilty. On June that year, the prison smuggled me to the Shanghai
Prison Hospital where I never saw a doctor but where they pretended I was
getting medical attention for five days. The vice-governor came to me with a
Gillette Turbo razor and begged me to use it. In my final act before leaving
Qingpu, I shaved. Some days after, they released Ying and me into house arrest
in the Magnotel, a small hotel that sources said belonged to the security
apparatus, pending our deportation. In the end of that month of June, the PSB
men who had originally arrested and interrogated us before, conveyed us to
Pudong Airport for deportation on a Virgin flight to London. Just before we
climbed aboard, the PSB handed us a bill for our nine-day stay in the
Magnotel\u2026\u201d

At some point, different kind of seagulls
came to us, not totally white these ones. Their chirping was queer too. Even
the water began to look brighter. Something new was imminent. And there it was,
still far away, surrounded by very low dark clouds, what looked like an Island.
Attu inland, someone said. American land. Actually this is the island that has
been invaded by the Japanese on the aftermath of the Second World War. After
one year of confronts or so, the last Japanese on the inland, it is said, dug a
tunnel in the bigger mountain to hide from the American offensive. Myth or
reality I don\u2019t know. History. But, maybe they are still there, maybe is them coming
now\u2026 on speed boats\u2026 yes\u2026 a couple of speed boats surround our ship suddenly,
but, there is no alarm\u2026 The speed boats turn off and pull over the ship's hull.
Straight away, a couple of ropes descend from our deck and some big packets are
moved into those hovercrafts. Yet, some loud words are exchanged between the
men operating the ropes and the drivers of those small boats, not much
conversation, after all. Although, I understand they are talking in some Inuit
or Yupik dialect. And without previous warning; two men come to me, hold my
body as if I\u2019m luggage too and make my body descend through the rope into one
of that small vessels. And there I go. I mean, there we go, at full power. Just
me and the driver. And I accept it. I don't object to anything. The driver even
smiles to me. That\u2019s the kind of communication we can do, because these boats
are really noisy; even if we try to exchange some words we can\u2019t really hear
each other. So, here we go towards this island, but quite far from it at the
same time. And when passing off it, other hovercraft approach us, and other,
and other, they collect our merchandise and disappear in between the islets.
The hour that follows is a bit confuse, but at some point we reach what my
driver calls: Dutch Harbor. Some hippies are waiting for us; they welcome us
with big smiles and everything, while making themselves busy taking care of our
vessel. So, finally, we are in land, and on foot. But I feel dizzy, and the
first thing I do on this land, is to vomit. Well, at least I taste the water.

And after I wash my face I envisage my driver again, but he is looking
different. To say, he has removed his bonnie and disclosed his semi-blond hair
ties, now falling over the shoulders. More, he says, we are going home. His
name is Liam, he unveils, the more popular name in Alaska, and because is the
more popular name I can call him Noah, James, or Oliver, or as I want, he
suggests. So, I go for the second option and take the forth as my name. And, we
great each other, properly. Like brand new brand connoisseurs. I look around.
It looks peaceful here. Very green the mountains around. On the harbor, some
boats even have Wind Chimes, or vint tshimes, or Ulu chimes. We can see them
dangling from the boat masts. Not the usual ones made of metal tubes, these
ones are made of clay, like big earrings, and the sound is hollower. Also, we
pass several groups of fisherman in this harbor. They have a lot of gear to
organize, and they seem to do it patiently, quietly, but I see no fish. What I
see is a thermometer inside the window of one of these boats. It says 55
degrees Fahrenheit, what is about 13 degrees Celsius, I got to know. Its summer
now; and it wouldn\u2019t get much higher than this. It\u2019s fresh, but not really
cold. Even though, on our front is chain of greyish clouds hovering over the
hills. So green, these hills. But I can spot some purple flowers up there, on
the slopes. We leave the harbor, and as we do it, a couple of yellow school
buses are waiting for tourists here, French speaking ones. We pass them. And I
understand what they are talking about. Not talking about cheese, this time,
actually it\u2019s all about Cordova and the head of Orca Inlet on the east side of
the Prince William Sound. A middle age man with slanted eyes tells them that
there are no roads connecting Cordova to other Alaskan communities, and I get
to know there was some accident there, years ago, the Exxon Valdez oil spill,
my colleague says. They want to go there because of that. That\u2019s what I
understand. People have strange English accents here. Well, we pass a couple of
souvenir shops, but there is almost no one inside, after, and we pass some
provincial cafés with a wooden fence on the front. My mate, James, even greets
the lady at the door of that café, her name is Monica, he says, and she is his
auntie, he confides. We follow on the road side, by the water. There are no
buildings here, just a couple of warehouses with their greyish containers on
the lot and some broken peers, made of wood and moss. And some of this
warehouses look semi abandoned, with their passages covered by weeds or piles
of shellfish hulls. After a while, a muddy area and some abandoned one floor
houses, also in ruin. No doors. No windows. We are actually walking towards the
town; my mate says; it isn\u2019t far, just about one mile from here. And coming
back to the road, under the prickly pines, there is a sign pointing some kind
of evacuation area. Tsunami evacuation area, it says. And another one pointing
the Unangan, the first inhabitants of Unalaska, or Ounalaska, to transcribe
what is written. We cross a wooden bridge over the mud and the see the town,
down there, Unalaska. But no buildings yet, just some one store houses with metal
roof. And after a van stops other side of the road, some kibitzer get out and
start taking photos on our direction. \u201cGod\u2019s away on business\u201d, my mate says,
pointing to the bigger white building on our back. Like a small arabesque
palace, with that kind of roofs, like a bonnet. We approach it, the tourists
are leaving now. These ones are Japanese. I try to ask them what\u2019s their
religion, but they just smile and point something on the sky. \u201cI love Japanese
noise music!\u201d I say. They agree. On the back of the church I can see more of
those strange crosses with three bars, the lowest one kinda slanted. I don\u2019t
want to ask what this means, I wonder. But my comrade tells me about a movie
that was shot here, a movie with vampires and a post-office man that was a cannibal.
Actually the post-office man ate the orthodox priest. And the Alaskan natives,
the ones with slanted eyes, became vampires\u2026 they would come during the night;
looking for people with no slanted eyes, etc.

My colleague also have slanted
eyes, not me. His grand-grandfather was Russian "Eskimo"; a term
people don\u2019t like over here, he says, coz it refers to several sorts of people,
of Siberia, of North Pole\u2019s, of Alaska. For him, it\u2019s to put all in same bag,
the Yupik, the Iñupiat, the Chukchi etc. And finally, to justify his darkish
skin color, he explains that his mother is actually Caribbean; which
archipelago he doesn\u2019t say; \u201cbut she lives in Europe\u201d, he wound up. And here we
go, through this quiet, semi-abandoned city, well not really a city, because
there is no buildings, just some fenced houses, one floor wooden houses with
corrugated steel panel roofs and not much people outside\u2026 So, no funny looks,
just quiet people that mind their own business. And we approach another lake.
So, I get confuse from where we came now, because, water surrounds us from
several sides. \u201cThis is East Broadway Avenue\u201d he says, \u201cand there is West
Broadway Avenue, from where we came, where is the Iliuliuk Harbor and the fish
factories, down there is the Beaver Inlet, or Bobrovoy Guba, in Russian
language, it\u2019s uninhabited, but good for fishing.\u201d So, we cross the main road,
and there is no traffic at all, but, we can hear some noise: someone is revving
the engine of a stopped pickup, down there, and that produces a lot of black
smoke, we can see. The smoke mixes with the fog and gets heavy, more like a
black cloud, hovering in the middle of the road. We go inside a fenced yard,
the gate is open. \u201cI live here\u201d, he says. The house is similar to the other
ones around: a small one floor wooden house with a small front porch and a
shack on the side. We go inside, \u201cI live here with a couple of mates\u201d, he says
\u201cbut they are all out now\u2026 they work for the fishing ships and factories,
sometimes they are working on the ships\u2026 other times on the factories\u2026 I never
know exactly\u2026\u201d Already inside, there are huge pictures of palm trees on the
walls and people on the beach, the landscapes looking very realistic, but the
bodies somehow glazed, dull. Many kind
of fishing lures hanging from the ceiling, some of them mixed with colorful
feathers, the lures looking more like native hand-painted earrings. And the
main thing in the living-room is a huge cast iron stove, still seaming a bit.
We approach it, to warm us up. And a lot
of stuff hanging on the sides of it, on the racks, kitchen and bedroom stuff,
all mixed up. Clothes covering all the seats; so he tells me to throw them on
the floor, if I want to seat. But I don\u2019t want to seat. Then, for some reason
he starts talking about his mother, which kinda abandoned him when he was only
five. He grew up with his father, which used to work on the fishing ships as
well. No fishing, but cargo. I ask him if his father still lives in town, he
tells me that no, he is now in Los Angeles, living with some Spanish speaking
fat woman. He also asks me where about my family, my parents, my wife, my
travels, and I tell him a bunch of lies. After the conversation goes into
Switzerland. We watching now a doc about the reggae/dub guru: Lee
"Scratch" Perry. He lived in Switzerland during sometime, and this
interview is made there, in his lonely shelter, somewhere close to the snowy
mountains. What we see now is an old man with red beard, dressed in shabby
colorful clothes, his jacket full of badges, a cap with some mirrors; and even
his boots are painted with some kind of inscriptions. He is outside on his
garden, on the top of some mountain; there is a lot of colorful rubbish around
him, and he is organizing all this rubbish, making a kind of sculpture with it.
He is now painting the tip of some metal tubes and chains and at some point he
spits over it, then he says some silly words and drops some golden coins over
the chains\u2026

A dog approaches; he begins to speak with the
dog, saying things like \u201cMy wife needs money, and she has a lot of bills to get
paid, and I will have to help her pay the bills\u2026 Lot of people believes in God
but they are not aware of God. God is alive and God is coming like a thief in
the night [chuckles]... You know God don't tell no one when he is coming. It
could be a couple years, it could be three years, five, it could be ten. That's
the idea\u2026. My wife love luxury, she loves money and phoney. She loves good
food, she always wants to eat in good restaurants, and the shoes, the best
clothes, the best everything. See, I believe in this mess, but my wife believes
in her ass\u2026 she wants to become a king, should we exchange sex? Would you marry
with me?\u201d After this we see Lee Perry and a happy business man eating together
in some posh restaurant. There are fauvist paintings on the wall. The business
man is eating, but there is nothing in Perry\u2019s plate, and the smiles to the
camera. At some point the waiter brings the bill, and Lee Perry protests, that
they haven\u2019t finished the diner, the waiter leaves the bill on the table
anyway, and Perry passes it to his friend, saying he will have to pay. The
business man passes it to Lee Perry; and Perry eats it, after he turns over the
plate and starts to read the inscriptions about where that plate was made. My comrade intervenes \u201cThis man is Mikhail
Khodorkovsky, an exiled Russian businessman, and former oligarch, believed to
be, or have been, the wealthiest man in Russia... After the dissolution of the
Soviet Union, in the mid-1990s, he accumulated a gross wealth by obtaining
control of a number of Siberian oil fields unified under the name Yukos, one of
the major companies to emerge from the privatization of state assets during the
1990s\u2026 in two thousand something he was arrested and charged with fraud\u2026 The
government under Russian president Vladimir Putin then froze shares of Yukos
shortly thereafter on tax charges. Putin's government took further actions
against Yukos, leading to a collapse of the company's share price and the
evaporation of much of Khodorkovsky's wealth... Around two thousand something
he was found guilty and sentenced to nine years in prison or so, but later, the
then President Vladimir Putin pardoned Khodorkovsky, and he was releasing from
jail circa two thousand thirteen\u2026 in the meanwhile there was an widespread
concern internationally that the trials and sentencing were politically
motivated\u2026 The trial was criticized abroad for the lack of due process\u2026 Khodorkovsky lodged several applications with
the European Court of Human Rights, seeking redress for alleged violations by
Russia of his human rights\u2026 In response to his first application, the court
found that several violations were committed by the Russian authorities in
their treatment of Khodorkovsky. And, despite these findings, the court
ultimately ruled that the trial was not politically motivated, but rather
"that the charges against him were grounded in 'reasonable
suspicion'". Ergo, he was pardoned by Putin and released from prison and
immediately left Russia and was granted residency in Switzerland\u2026 later
Khodorkovsky re-launched Open Russia to promote several reforms to Russian
civil society, including free and fair elections, political education,
protection of journalists and activists, and ensuring media independence\u2026 stuff
like that\u2026 you see\u2026"

So, next day I learned how to take a ferry to Anchorage. The bigger city
in Alaska. It went first to Ukutan island, after Unimak and King Cove, Chignik,
Unga island, Kodiak island, and finally Achorage, that is a kind of Meca for
the American travelers, especially the freakish ones. Also some professional
run-aways. Despite the low temperatures (the temperatures vary on average
between minus ten in winter and plus ten in summer), the surrounding green
areas of this city have many people wild camping around, the authorities of the
city have been trying to clean this camps, but people always come back, and do
new ones. And obviously I ended up staying with this people, like, if the winds
lead me here. Many kinds of travelers in this camps, around. Off greed freaks,
punks, escapees, people with problems with law, alcoholics, drug addicts,
perverts, alchemy stalkers, psychedelic verbiage etc. And cyclists. Actually
most of these camps are full of bicycles, full or disassembled, and many kind
of junk related with bicycles. Wheels hanging in the trees, is something common
to see around here. People use bicycles to move around between the camps, and
to go in the city and come back. Half of them use trailers for their bicycles.
And they are always changing their trailers: for a bigger one, for a shorter
one, for one with two wheels, for one with antennas and batteries, etc. I end
up in a camp not far from the city. Just about a mile from the industrial area.
People come and go. But there are about ten fellows that have been staying here
for long. And we can describe the camp as follows: a bigger communal tent in
the middle, where we can stand and move a little, fire always burning in the
middle, a stove that is like a piece of art, half under the earth, with a metal
tube in the middle, for the smokes. And some other shorter tents around, where
there are people that maybe you will never see. Though, some of these tents are
just abandonments, full of junk. I can tell you the name of the ten main
settlers here. Jim, the older, with white beard. Liam, a middle age man with
strange glasses, an expert in recycled electronics. Olivia and Emma, both
latinas, Spanish speakers, but with slanted eyes, yes. Amelia, is an old woman
that doesn\u2019t like to speak at all, people say she is a witch. Dee Dee, a story
teller. Duman, the very one interested in constructions, the one that made a
cabin up on a tree. Ron and Beavis, the lumberjacks. And Mila, she got a
male-female identity. Actually it was she the one that brought me here. We met
inside a supermarket. She was not buying anything, just hanging around speaking
with people. So, she came to me and asked me something about Africa, I found it
funny, and tried to answer, but soon she explained, actually she was not
talking about Africa the continent, she was talking about an specific area, in
Anchorage. An area she would show me later. This Mila could/can be very funny,
and very angry, minutes after. She has got blue/white hair and reddish nails.
Ron and Beavis are the dealers here, in matter of fact. They just interested in
drugs, wood and fire. They take drugs to make fire and make fires to take
drugs, something like that, they like to say. Actually they are always going
and coming back to the city, but never with their bikes, they always looking
for rides, sometimes riding each other. Normally they use clothes with slogans
referring Punk rock ideology, etc. Duman, the one that sleeps in a cabin up on
a tree, is from Turkish pedigree, his mother lives in Canada, he says, and his
father is in Cyprus, a Turkish/Greek inland on the Mediterranean Sea. The word
\u201cduman\u201d actually means smoke in Turkish language, I got to know, and is also
the name of a rock band. He is the one helping Ron and Beavis in the
constructions, usually. About Amelia, there is not much to say, coz she doesn\u2019t
speak yeah. But people say she speaks only in private, only when you get the
opportunity of being alone with she, inside her tent. She dresses
sophisticated, garments over garments, strings around the waist, braids falling
over her shoulders. Huge earrings on the ears. Mirrors on her palms. Dee Dee is
from California, he says, but he have been everywhere not only in this country
but also in Europe and Asia, Africa and more. Olivia and Emma have both Mexican
and Alaskan roots, to say, they have both roots in the ancient people from
Mexico, and Mayas, and the Haida from the coastline of Canada/Alaska. Some
famous anthropologist has compared the Haida to the Vikings, they say, while
Haida have replied saying that Vikings are like the Haida. After there is Liam,
the middle age man with strange glasses. He is the one always solving the
problems with the solar panels, although not much sun arriving here, he have
been experimenting a new technology, making electricity from the fire,
connecting gadgets under the fireplace, and more, he have even tried to produce
electricity based on the pressure of the smoke, passing through the metal
chimney in the middle of this tent. Jim, the captain, the one with white beard,
have always a smile for any kind of ridiculous attempts from others. He has
been living here for more than twenty years now. Long ago he was a seaman that
became a drug addicted that became a jailer. His family scattered between two
continents. But, essentially, he has no family, he confesses. He is the one
always telling stories about jail. Just now he is telling to me a story about a
guy, one of his old his jail mates, which has killed his wife and escaped to
Mexico. But he couldn\u2019t learn to speak Spanish, so he could not understand that
people. He just liked the women there. So, he ended up working around the Mexico-American
border, selling fake American identity papers to the illegals.

The
ones without money, he would rape them, as a bargaining chip, but after, he
would fulfil the agreement, he wound convey them to the American side. One time
someone tried to kill him, and he responded in the same currency, but got hurt
and caught up by the police. He explained me in detail all the Mexicans he had
violated. How he liked to hear them scream like pigs. He just could speak a
couple of words like \u201cdinero\u201d; \u201cfrontera\u201d; and \u201csombrero\u201d. He used to make
songs with these words. One was something like: \u201cGive me gime your dinero, mr
Mexicali, Ali-Ali, you should be some punctilious man with no sombrero\u2026. Gime
gime you dinero, señorita bonita, if you don\u2019t give me it I will tell your
mamacita\u2026oi oi oi\u201d, and at this point the Spanish speaking girls, Olivia and
Emma, came by and started shouting with the old man, saying that he was being
racist and homophobic and the old man Jim started to laugh loud and more loud,
and the girls keep began throwing stuff is his direction, people got of the
tent, and me too, I was pushed out, and wandered through the forest and came to
a road and was caught by a lorry driver that took me to a small town named Tok.
It was a nice man with long beard and bleared eyes, he even took me into a
Motel there, and I ended up sleeping in the same room as he. Next day we had
breakfast together and he left me on the entrance of a caravan park, somewhere
close to Tok. Here on the entrance of this caravan park I took another ride to
the border with Canada. I kept hitchhiking south. A French speaking lady on a
rented car gave me a ride to another town; she tried to impress me with her
knowledge of the French language, which was actually weak. We spoke about the
differences between the French Guiana and the Guyana, two small countries in
South America, on the top of Brazil, being French Guiana part of European
community, we spoke about their cousin: blaff of fish. Awara broth. Lawyer
Fierce. Kalawang of pig. She understood about that, but when I said I was not
interested in pigs she came to a stop. The next ride was with a group of men
working in road constructions, all using their yellow helmets and gloves inside
the van, they wanted to know from where I was coming, and when I said Aleutian
Islands they contacted another friends that also were working on road
improvements, we got to a cross and I
just had to jump from one van to the next one. Canadians were being good with me,
and didn\u2019t even make much questions. Following like this, somehow I managed to
arrive in the city of Vancouver. And on
my arrival, I got to know that David Townsend, from the band Strapping Young
Lad was (or is) based on this city.
Years ago I used to listen a lot the album their \u201cInfinity\u201d, which we
can describe as a mix of progressive metal and ambient music, with some sort of
operatic (no theatre) vocals. I heard that after the completion of Strapping
Young Lad's, Townsend began to approach a mental breakdown. He was diagnosed
with bipolar disorder. It is said that the diagnosis helped him understand
where the two sides of his music were coming from. The heaviness and the
sweetness. \u201cInfinity\u201d, the album I used to listen, was in fact wrote after he had
been discharged from that hospital, which he described as "the parent
project" of City and Biomech. I remembered a song from that \u201cInfinity\u201d
album named \u201cChristine\u201d, I went to listen it again, the lyrics go like this:
Running, beyond the speed of sound / Calling, beyond the speed of sound / Say
you love me, say you love yourself / Say you need me, say you care / Say you
want me, say you want yourself / Say you
want to be with me well / Christeen, that's all I ask of you / Falling, into
the open doorway / Loving, what anyone else would loathe here... / Say you're
with me, say you're with yourself / Say you're lonely, say you care / Say you
warned me, say you warned yourself / Say you want to be with me well /
Christeen, that's all I ask of you / Are you\u2026 I go through the city. Looking
for that Christeen he\u2019s talking about. The city, all so clean. Residential
areas well interspaced with green areas. People not looking sad not looking
happy. But well behaved. Not fat. Whitish. Pale, sometimes. But walking fast,
even if they are not heading to their jobs now, as I got to understand.
Greenpeace was founded here, someone say, pointing to the entrance of, what
looks to be, a closed-down hairdresser. Many Asians around. Chinese bakeries and butchers and gifts shops.

What kind
of Christeen is that? Say you are with me. Say you are with yourself. Say you
are lonely. Say you care. Yes, we know, this is one of the loneliest cities in
the North American continent. At least it\u2019s what the statistics say. But fuck
that. I go towards the coast. I want to see a beach. They tell me the best
beaches are in the Vancouver inland, other side of the bay, or the Strait of
Georgia. About fifty crossed by ferry.
And on its southern tip of it is Victoria, British Columbia\u2019s capital,
with neo-baroque Parliament Buildings and English-style gardens. The harbor
city is Nanaimo, home of chocolate-and-custard Nanaimo bars. I laugh to this.
English-style gardens, no way. I just want to get close to the water, a small
dirty beach, family. They tell me there are many beaches. The city is
surrounded by water. They tell me the closest one is English Bay beach. Oh
English again. Also close by, just need cross the bridge to the west side, yes
Westside sounds better. \u201cOn the other side you have Hadden Park beach,
Kitsilano and Jericho beach and\u2026\u201d well this name, Jericho suits me; I have read
a book with this name, something Frenchie as I remember. I pass the \u201c666
Burrard Street\u201d or Park Place, a sort of futuristic huge building with pink
granite facade adorned with flush-mounted copper-glazed windows that match the
granite's appearance. And someone informs: This building is rare in its use of
the address 666, because of the negative connotations of this number, as you
may understand, however, in \u201cChinese culture 666 is considered one of the
luckiest numbers. The decision was likely motivated by the city's large
population of Chinese Canadians and strong ties to China, especially Hong
Kong.\u201d So, I leave that fucking financial district, with huge glass facades,
and arrive at Burrard Street Bridge, over \u201cfalse creek\u201d, that we can cross
walking, going through some arcades with sculpted carvels up our head. Other
side is Vanier Park, already on my right side, the marina, the small yachts,
and giant Indian man made of wood, with open arms and a funny red hat. I arrive
at Hadden Beach, more weeds than sand, but clean. A couple of guys seated on
the fallen pieces and a sign saying \u201cDOG OFF-LEASH LOCATION\u201d. I ignore it, and
try to go closer to the water, but soon get the confirmations, a lot of small
dogs touring around, some of them coming to me. I run away. I even have to jump
some barriers. Then I pass some weeping tress and arrive at Kitsilano Beach, a
proper beach this one, many people in bikini, many stretched on the sand, but
not so much on the water, actually. It\u2019s hot, but over some big mountains,
other side of the bay, we still can notice the whitish summits. I pass the
outdoors swimming pool, the traditional \u201cscreaming and yelling\u201d related with
this kind of places. I listen conversations from kids, conversations about a
beautiful animal that will lick your ass in the middle of the night, something
like that. I pass a series of gardens where the grass mixes with the sand. Nice
feeling. And by the entrance of a restaurant, or maybe the tennis court, or
maybe public toilets, I see a short plump guy playing the saxophone. I know
what he is playing; it sounds like arabesque music. And there\u2019s kind of a huge
diabolo on his back, actually a conifuner drum thing with blue skin, and it looks
like a darbuka waiting for any monkey to come by and show his luck on the
aparatum. And I know, he can\u2019t smile us back coz he\u2019s using his mouth, on the
saxophone, smallest one of the rank, a sopranissimo, that looks more like a
clarinet, but no, it\u2019s a saxophone. Some kind of camel breathing, on the going\u2026
but he looks amenable, so\u2026

I throw my small rucksack to the urticas and grab that fucking blue
projectile on his side. Fingers rolling, drivel\u2026 And actually, what he is
playing / interpreting a cross between Ennio Morricone and Rabih Abou Khalil.
But he is playing too much in the air. I need to give him some earth. I need to
give him mud also; give him glance, course and portment. I need to flourish,
equally, independently. Somehow, technically speaking, arap music is kinda
triangular, not circular, I mean, hexagonal rhythms, and not symmetric, with a
lot of skidding. Some notes are extremely squeezed, like if squeezed in slow
motion, with a lot of gosh notes, like minced oaths. Rolling and rolling,
turning the mountains upside down. I would go for an ice cream now. Applauses
and whistles. We go off together, instruments under the axilla, and arrive to
Jericho beach. We exercise the Malfuf, the Mukhliss Jazaeri , the Al jird. The
rhythms of the last one are a 5/8. And crazier than this just the Fajir, that
is an 11/8. Well, I hate mathematics. I assure you, this has nothing to do with
accounting. Or maybe it has. People are actually dancing and throwing coins
over each other\u2019s arses. Apteral, we are just improvising. Everybody is just
improvising. Even you are just improvising. And where should we go more? If we
keep going west we will reach Wreck Beach. But that would be like leaving this
place, and I just arrived. In the meanwhile I get to know that my colleague
actually speaks fluent Italian, or better, Sicilian. \u201cChi apparisci a nui vantaggiu,
tanti voti è molestia o disaggiu.\u201d What
appears to us to be an advantage, is often a nuisance or a pain\u2019. We come back
to the city. This small guy with big nose tells me he has been all around,
since California beach to Miami. Passing through Havana, Chicago and Ottawa. I
ask him if he have been to Quebec City. He doesn\u2019t answer. Then he tells me he
would like to go to India, Saudi Arabia, maybe Trinidad and Tobago. We make
plans for a trip through the Caribbean Sea but we end up sauntering around the
airport. We go for a free diner at some Indian temple and come back downtown.
Night comes, and he invites me to his apartment in Mount Pleasant. He is
dividing it with some mates, half Chinese, half Arabs, half whatever. Some
queer people, without a day job, without a night job, living parallel lives
with an aquarium, throwing salt in the water, speaking with the fish, reading
their mind, and writing about it. I\u2019m hitchhiking again. Already passed the
border. Got caught by a Scottish / Italian/ Irish plumber man and a couple of
ambiguous truck drivers. An evangelist saying that Jesus was a hippie bastard.
And his mother\u2019s propaganda. Got caught by a hospital security man. Got caught
by two sisters coming from visiting their mother on the Canadian side. Her
father lives this side, but they prefer the other side. They have here and
there two step-sisters, also hitchhikers. They very interested in hitchhikers.
Their two step-sister have hitchhiked in Europe, France, German, Greece, etc.
And are now somewhere close to Panama channel. Where they are going, I ask.
Brazil, it\u2019s the answer. Why Brazil, I request. They want to go into the
jungle, she says, into Amazonia forest. OK. I want to go to Seattle are you
going there. Yes. Why Seattle? She demands. Because I\u2019m going south, and that
it\u2019s on the way. Just that? Yes, only that. After I will see. So, where have
you been. All around. All around in the states? No, all other places, less the
states. And they ask me what I know about this city. I say Alice in Chains,
Mudhoney, Melvins and Sunn O))). They begin talk about Laurelhurst, residential
neighborhood bounded on the northeast by Ivanhoe Place N.E., beyond which is
Windermere; on the northwest by Sand Point Way N.E. and N.E. 45th Street,
beyond which are Hawthorne Hills, Ravenna, and University Village; on the west
by Mary Gates Memorial Drive N.E., beyond which is the East Campus of the
University of Washington; on the southwest by Union Bay; and on the east by
Lake Washington. Seattle Children's Hospital is located in its northwest
corner.

Once a seasonal campground of the Duwamish people, the neighborhood has
been a part of Seattle since its annexation in 1910. I ask about this Duwamish
people, what that means. The other not driving says Duwamish is a
Lushootseed-speaking Native American tribe in western Washington, and Seattle,
where they have been living since the end of the last glacial period. Today,
Duwamish people are enrolled in the federally recognized Tulalip Tribes.
Although not recognized by the U.S. federal government, the Duwamish remain an
organized tribe, mostly set in West Seattle, near the mouth of the Duwamish
River. The Laurelhurst Beach Club, the Laurelhurst Park, and its Laurelhurst
Community Center serve as gathering places. Until 1906, the White and Green
Rivers combined at Auburn, and joined the Black River at Tukwila to form the
Duwamish. In 1906, however, the White River changed course following a major
flood and emptied into the Puyallup River as it does today. The lower portion
of the historic White River\u2014from the historic confluence of the White and Green
Rivers to the conjunction with the Black River\u2014is now considered part of the
Green River. Later, in 1911 the Cedar River was diverted to empty into Lake
Washington instead of into the Black River; at that time, the lake itself still
emptied into the Black River. Then, with the opening of the Lake Washington
Ship Canal in 1916, the lake's level dropped nearly nine feet and the Black
River dried up. From that time forward, the point of the name change from Green
to Duwamish is no longer the confluence of the Green and Black Rivers, though
it has not changed location. After all, the Duwamish Waterway empties into
Elliott Bay. Laurelhurst has had several famous residents, including Melanie
Griffith and Antonio Banderas, who rented a house on the waterfront one summer
while filming a movie; musician Duff McKagan, bassist for Guns N' Roses and
Gates, Bill Gates lived as a young child in Wallingford before moving to this
neighborhood, where his father William Henry Gates II also lives. There are two
bill gates? I ask. There are actually four or five, they say. His grandfather
Gates I, a furniture store owner, is from another century. Born in Bremerton,
Kitsap County, son of William Henry Gates and Rebecca Eppinhauser. He married
Lillian Elizabeth Rice circa 1913 in Washington and Condoleezza
"Condi" Rice is a black woman, an American diplomat, political
scientist, civil servant, professor, and the current director of the Hoover
Institution at Stanford University. As a member of the Republican Party, Rice
was the first female African-American secretary of state and the first woman to
serve as National Security Advisor. Rice was born in Birmingham, Alabama, and
grew up while the South was racially segregated, they say. She obtained her
bachelor's degree from the University of Denver and her master's degree in
political science from the University of Notre Dame, Indiana. There is some
silence; then one of the sisters asks me if I know Notre Dame in Paris. Yes I
say, remembering that afternoon me and Carmen getting drunk in from of Notre
Dame more the devils of the arcades, making silly faces\u2026 and with the scorched
ass, we went sleeping in the garden of some posh residential in
Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where Henry Miller used to come by in the morning for
begging. There are a lot of neighborhoods in Seattle, they say. And\u2026depending
on who you talk to, there are even more. Some people are really uptight about
the nuances of each neighborhood. They might argue that they live in Phinney
Ridge \u2013 not Greenlake. Well, they\u2019re pretty damn close together. As the name
implies, Phinney Ridge sits along a long ridge whose slopes provide its
residents with great views of Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains on the west
and Lake Washington and the Cascade Mountains on the east. Located in northwest
Seattle, this neighborhood is primarily residential. Homes tend to be on the
larger side and sit on larger properties. Phinney Ridge is bordered on the
north by Greenwood, on the east by Northgate and Green Lake, on the south by
Fremont, and on the west by Ballard and Whittier Heights. Columbia City is that
part of the city where artists have employed themselves by other means until
their dreams can take shape. Beacon Hill is middle class families and
polyamorous8i7 group homes. Seward Park \u2013 older Jewish couples. Rainier Beach \u2013
The \u2018cultural\u2019 part of Seattle, and barred windows. Some people just call this
Renton. Mercer Island \u2013 The rich and the richer. Microsoft millionaires.
Georgetown \u2013 Beards and the girls who love guys with beards. Tattoos and
bicycle gangs. Capitol Hill \u2013 Hipsters and the LGBT capital. First Hill/Central
District \u2013 A bleed of people between Capitol Hill and Beacon Hill.
International District \u2013 Fresh off the boat Asians. Downtown \u2013 People don\u2019t
live here. If someone lives here, they\u2019re probably corporately sponsored and
travel a lot for work, so they don\u2019t really live here. Pioneer Square \u2013 Junkies
and the few random people and Madison Park \u2013 We don\u2019t see these people. Their
money has built them an invisible wall of solitude. Queen Anne \u2013 Wealthy
families and single white girls. South Lake Union \u2013 Brogrammers from Amazon.
Ballard \u2013 Aging hipsters who now have real jobs and are considering a family.
Fremont \u2013 Just graduated college and still trying to balance partying every
night with working 9-5. Wallingford \u2013 Hippies. University District \u2013 College
kids, street kids, etc. Sandpoint \u2013 Slightly less rich people hide here.
Ravenna \u2013 Where the recently graduated with jobs go who don\u2019t feel the need to
keep the party alive. Greenlake \u2013 Young families and empty nesters. Greenwood \u2013
Perpetually single, and increasingly more socially awkward individuals.
Northgate \u2013 Too poor to afford anything closer. Puyi was the name of the dog,
named after the last Emperor of China, and also the name of that grimy
restaurant, in Seattle downtown. I ended up sleeping there.

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