Death & the Walkabouts

Το ήξερα αρκετό καιρό τώρα. Και δεν τους είχα δει, ποτέ. Και θα έπαιζαν στο Κύτταρο, 28 Ιανουαρίου. Και θα ήταν ωραία, ήμουν σίγουρος.

Και όταν έφτασα στο ταμείο, άνετος, φυσικά δεν υπήρχαν άλλα εισιτήρια…

Ο τύπος με συμβούλεψε να μείνω εκεί. «Έρχονται αρκετοί με περισσευούμενα εισιτήρια», μου είπε.

Για κάποιο λόγο, δεν μου άρεσε η ιδέα…

. . .

Έφυγα και περπάτησα προς την Αχαρνών. Σταμάτησα. Άναψα τσιγάρο.

Ωραία τα κατάφερες, γελοίε…

Μ’ αρέσει που ήσουν και άνετος… Μ’ αρέσει που είχες βγάλει και ανακοίνωση – το Σάββατο παίζουν οι Walkabouts στο Κύτταρο, και εγώ θα είμαι εκεί, και όποιος θέλει έρχεται… Μ’ αρέσει που έστειλες και ειδική πρόσκληση στη Λ. – ευτυχώς ρε καραγκιόζη που δεν μπορούσε. Θα γινόσουν τελείως ρεζίλι, όπως και σου αξίζει, άλλωστε…

Θέλω να δω και τα μούτρα σου τη Δευτέρα, στο γραφείο, όταν θα σε ρωτάνε όλοι πώς πέρασες στη συναυλία, εξαιτίας της οποίας δεν πήγες στο ρεμπετάδικο με όλη την υπόλοιπη διεύθυνση… Μ’ αρέσει που, την Πέμπτη, σκοτώθηκαν όλοι να αλλάξουν την ημέρα, επειδή δεν μπορούσες σήμερα… Αισθάνθηκες μαλάκας, ε; Κυρίως επειδή δεν ήθελες να πας… Αλλά δεν είχες τα κότσια να τους το πεις κατάμουτρα. Και δημιούργησες ολόκληρη αναστάτωση, μόλις μια μέρα πριν, και τηλέφωνα και μίνι συσκέψεις και τσεκ με συζύγους και παιδιά και πεθερικά και συναδέλφους που έλειπαν – “να το κάνουμε Παρασκευή, γιατί κάποιος δεν μπορεί το Σάββατο;”… Και ευτυχώς, καθάρισε η Ιωάννα – “κοιτάξτε παιδιά, είμαι σίγουρη ότι, και Παρασκευή να το κάνουμε, ο Τσατσούλης θα πάρει τηλέφωνο, τελευταία στιγμή, και θα πει συγγνώμη, κάτι έτυχε και δεν θα μπορέσω τελικά, οπότε ας το αφήσουμε Σάββατο να τελειώνουμε”…

Έτσι τη γλιτώνεις πάντα – κάποιος καθαρίζει για πάρτη σου… Αλλά ξέρεις, φίλε… μια απ’ αυτές τις μέρες θα την πατήσεις… θα την πατήσεις πολύ άσχημα, θυμήσου με… Και για αρχή, κάτσε τώρα έξω από τη συναυλία για να μαθαίνεις…

. . .

Τέλειωσα το τσιγάρο. Προσπάθησα να σκεφτώ, αλλά, όπως είχε γράψει ο Chandler, οι λέξεις χοροπηδούσαν ακατάστατα στο μυαλό μου, λες και κάποιο σαδιστικό βλέμμα παρενέβαινε για να τις αποδιοργανώσει. Άρχισα να περπατάω πίσω, προς το Κύτταρο. Μηχανικά, σαν ζόμπι, με το μυαλό μου άδειο… Έφτασα στην είσοδο και στάθηκα μπροστά στο ταμείο. Δίπλα μου κι άλλοι, στην ίδια μοίρα. Ωραία επιλογή, φίλε. Κάτσε εδώ, και περίμενε ένα θαύμα, μαζί με τους άλλους losers. Δημόσια ταπείνωση, αυτό ακριβώς που σου χρειάζεται…

Δεν πέρασε ούτε ένα λεπτό. Δυο παιδιά στέκονται μπροστά μου, κοιτώντας πίσω μου. «Κάτσε να δώσουμε το εισιτήριο», λέει ο ένας.

Ήμουν μες στη θολούρα, παραδομένος, σαν σε slow motion, στο θάνατο από ασφυξία, καθισμένος στον πυθμένα της αυτοεκτίμησής μου, έχοντας παραιτηθεί από οποιαδήποτε προσπάθεια ανάδυσης…

Αλλά αποδείχτηκα ενάμισι κρίσιμο δευτερόλεπτο γρηγορότερος από τον διπλανό μου.

«Έχεις εισιτήριο φίλε;»

«Ναι.»

«Φέρτο. Όπως είσαι…»

Βγάζει το εισιτήριο. Βγάζω τα λεφτά…

* * *

Οι Walkabouts πήραν το όνομά τους από το Walkabout, του Nicolas Roeg, μια εκθαμβωτική, εκπληκτική ταινία του 1971 – δυο παιδιά πάνε για πικνικ με τον πατέρα τους, έξω από την Αδελαΐδα, ο πατέρας φλιπάρει, τρελαίνεται και αρχίζει να τα πυροβολεί, πριν τελικά φυτέψει μια σφαίρα στο κεφάλι του. Δεν μαθαίνουμε ποτέ τίποτα παραπάνω για το επεισόδιο, ή για το ποιο background μπορεί να οδήγησε τον πατέρα σε κάτι τόσο ακραίο. Απολύτως τίποτα. Το συμβάν χρησιμεύει απλώς ως αφορμή, ως αφετηρία, για την εικονογράφηση της περιπλάνησης των δύο παιδιών μέσα σε εκείνη την ανείπωτη, αβάσταχτη ομορφιά της Αυστραλιανής ερήμου, που σου φέρνει δάκρυα στα μάτια…

Η πρώτη συνάντηση των παιδιών με ένα νεαρό ιθαγενή, που έχει βγει για walkabout, αλλά και εκείνη η σκηνή αργότερα, όπου το κορίτσι αδυνατεί να καταλάβει το ερωτικό κάλεσμα του μαύρου αγοριού, είναι πραγματικά μνημεία για τη δυσκολία της επικοινωνίας:

. . .

Υπάρχει μια σκηνή στο Walkabout που με έχει στοιχειώσει, χρόνια τώρα, από τότε που είδα την ταινία για πρώτη φορά. Δεν έχει να κάνει με το τοπίο – καλώς ή κακώς, κουβαλάω στο μυαλό μου τις δικές μου εικόνες από την κεντρική Αυστραλία… δεν έχει να κάνει με την ανεπιτήδευτη, εφηβική ομορφιά τής Jenny Agutter, ούτε καν στις γυμνές της σκηνές…

Στο φινάλε της ταινίας, κάποια χρόνια μετά την περιπλάνηση των δύο παιδιών στην έρημο, βλέπουμε το κορίτσι, γυναίκα πια, να υποδέχεται στο διαμέρισμά της έναν άντρα – τον άντρα της. Ο τύπος έχει μόλις γυρίσει από τη δουλειά, μπαίνει στην κουζίνα και αρχίζει να της λέει διάφορα, για το γραφείο και τα λοιπά… Η γυναίκα τον κοιτάζει – είναι η σκηνή στην παραπάνω φωτογραφία…

… και μετά το βλέμμα της φεύγει, χάνεται…

… και μεταφερόμαστε πίσω, στο outback – τα δυο παιδιά και ο νεαρός ιθαγενής κάνουν μπάνιο σε μια λιμνούλα, γυμνά, αμέριμνα…

Η μεγαλοφυία του Roeg αναδεικνύεται εδώ πλήρως, ανάγλυφα, με έναν τρόπο που λίγοι ίσως θα ονόμαζαν μεγαλόπρεπο – κι όμως είναι, αλλά είναι περισσότερο μια αθόρυβη, σιωπηλή μεγαλοπρέπεια, σαν κάποιος περαστικός να ήρθε και να σου ψιθύρισε μόλις στο αυτί κάτι, και να φωτίστηκε ξαφνικά όλος ο κόσμος: παρόλο που η εικόνα μας προσκαλεί να τη δούμε ως ανάμνηση, δεν είναι καθόλου βέβαιο ότι είναι έτσι – στην πραγματικότητα, ενθυμούμενοι τις σθεναρές αντιστάσεις του κοριτσιού στο βαθμιαίο ερωτικό σκίρτημα του μαύρου αγοριού κατά τη διάρκεια της ταινίας, είναι μάλλον απίθανο να πρόκειται για ανάμνηση… είναι κι εκείνη η αίσθηση που αναδίδει το μπάνιο στη λιμνούλα, ότι, στην πραγματικότητα, βλέπουμε όχι τρία παιδιά, αλλά ένα ανδρόγυνο, με το μικρό τους γιο…

Όχι… η μεγαλοφυία του Nicolas Roeg είναι τέτοια που μου δίνει την ευκαιρία για μια άλλη ανάγνωση… Αυτό που ανακαλεί το κορίτσι-που-έγινε-γυναίκα στο μυαλό του, όπως στέκεται εκεί, στην κουζίνα του διαμερίσματός της, με τον άντρα της, δεν είναι ανάμνηση, αλλά η επίκληση ενός εναλλακτικού παρόντος… το κορίτσι-που-έγινε-γυναίκα ανακαλεί, όχι μόνο με νοσταλγία, αλλά και με κάποια λαχτάρα, όχι το πώς ήταν κάποτε τα πράγματα, αλλά το πώς θα μπορούσαν να είναι σήμερα…

. . .

Μπορείτε να δείτε τη σκηνή στο παρακάτω απόσπασμα από την ταινία – αρχίζει στο 08:00…

. . .

Σε όλες τις γνήσια ρομαντικές αφηγήσεις (μιλάμε για ρομαντισμό, όχι για – “μου έφερε λουλούδια! Τι ρομαντικό!”…), πάντα κάποιος πεθαίνει. Μερικές φορές ο θάνατος είναι τοποθετημένος σε κεντρικό σημείο της αφήγησης, π.χ. στο φινάλε, όπως στον Κρητικό του Σολωμού:

και  τέλος φθάνω στο γιαλό την αρραβωνιασμένη,

την απιθώνω με χαρά, κι ήτανε πεθαμένη.

 

Άλλες φορές θέλει λίγο περισσότερη προσπάθεια – ή λίγο μεγαλύτερη εξυπνάδα – για να τον εντοπίσεις. Χρειάστηκε ολόκληρος Στέφανος Ροζάνης για να μου υποδείξει τον θάνατο στο παπαδιαμαντικό Όνειρο στο κύμα:

Ήτον απόλαυσις, όνειρον, θαύμα. … Ήτον πνοή, ίνδαλμα αφάνταστον, όνειρον επιπλέον εις το κύμα ׂήτον νηρηίς, νύμφη, σειρήν, πλέουσα, ως πλέει ναυς μαγική, η ναυς των ονείρων…

   Είχα μείνει χάσκων, εν εκστάσει, και δεν εσκεπτόμην πλέον τα επίγεια.

 

(Περιέργως, όποτε επιχειρώ να φέρω στο νου μου αυτή την εικόνα, καταλήγω πάντα με την Jenny Agutter στο Walkabout, να κολυμπάει στη λίμνη, κι ας μην είχε κύμα…)

«Και ποιος πεθαίνει εδώ ρε Στέφανε; Αφού τελικά τη σώζει την κοπέλα.»

«Χα! Σκέψου! Πάντα κάποιος πεθαίνει…»

Ποιος πεθαίνει ρε γαμώτο…

«Πεθαίνει η κατσίκα του…!»

«Η κατσίκα του; Ναι, πεθαίνει… αλλά-»

«Η οποία, καθόλου τυχαία, έχει το όνομα της ηρωίδας: Μοσχούλα…»

Να με πάρει ο διάολος…

. . .

Μια άγρια ρομαντική (όχι άγρια και ρομαντική: άγρια ρομαντική) ταινία σαν το Walkabout δεν θα μπορούσε, φυσικά, να αποτελεί εξαίρεση: και εδώ, κάποιος πεθαίνει. Και δεν εννοώ το θάνατο του πατέρα στην αρχή, ο οποίος δεν παίζει απολύτως κανέναν ρόλο στην υπόλοιπη ταινία… Όχι, κάποιος πεθαίνει, και πεθαίνει ρομαντικά…

Αυτά, φυσικά, γίνονται στις ταινίες και στα βιβλία. Η ζωή αποδεικνύεται διαφορετική.

Μερικές φορές, τουλάχιστον…

* * *

Πίσω, στο Κύτταρο. Ηπείρου και Αχαρνών. Σάββατο, 28 Ιανουαρίου 2012.

Ο άνθρωπος απέναντί μου έχει βγάλει ένα ωραίο, ατσαλάκωτο εισιτήριο, για τη συναυλία των Walkabouts που αρχίζει σε λίγο. Κι εγώ έχω βγάλει τα χρήματά μου.

«Αλλά δεν θέλω λεφτά», λέει.

«Ε…;»

Μου προσφέρει το εισιτήριο. Το παίρνω, αμήχανος.

Δεν θυμάμαι αν ψέλισα κάτι…

Ο τύπος ακουμπάει το χέρι του στον ώμο μου.

«Κοίτα φίλε», λέει, «το εισιτήριο αυτό το πήραμε για ένα παιδί, που, δυστυχώς, δεν είναι πια μαζί μας.»

Κρατάω το εισιτήριο. Το κοιτάω. Μετά κοιτάω αυτόν.

Με το άλλο χέρι κρατάω ακόμα τα λεφτά, σχεδόν προτεταμένα.

«Τι ‘πες τώρα ρε φίλε…»

Κουνάει το κεφάλι. «Ναι», λέει.

Έχουν αρχίσει ήδη να απομακρύνονται, προς την είσοδο.

Κρατάω το εισιτήριο. Προσπαθώ να πω κάτι.

Δεν μου ‘ρχεται τίποτα…

«Να… να πιω, τουλάχιστον…» κάνω μια κίνηση με το χέρι μου – όχι, όχι στην υγειά του, στη μνήμη του – είμαι ακόμα αμήχανος…

«Χρήστο τον έλεγαν», μου φωνάζει, ήδη μακριά…

«… και… και εμένα… Χρήστο με λένε κι εμένα…»

… και Χρήστο, τουλάχιστον…

Γυρίζει στο παιδί με το μούσι, που είναι μαζί του. «Έι, άκουσες; Χρήστο τον λένε κι αυτόν…»

«Δε γίνονται αυτά…», λέει το παιδί με το μούσι.

Σηκώνω το χέρι, σε αποχαιρετισμό. «Θα σας βρω μέσα.»

Με χαιρέτησαν και αυτοί.

Δεν τους ξαναείδα.

. . .

Μπήκα στη συναυλία. Είχα στην τσέπη μου το εισιτήριο ενός νεκρού. Ήπια στη μνήμη του. Πέρασα υπέροχα.-

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Όταν γραφόταν η Ιστορία…

… ήμουν εκεί. Δεν μαζεύτηκαν πλήθη, δεν εκφωνήθηκαν ομιλίες. Ήμασταν όλοι κι όλοι καμιά τριανταριά άτομα. Θέατρο Φούρνος. Μαυρομιχάλη.

Ήταν και μικρά παιδιά…

6 Οκτωβρίου 2011.

Θέατρο Φούρνος. Μαυρομιχάλη.

(το ξαναείπα αυτό…)

…

Όταν γραφόταν η ιστορία, ήμουν εκεί. Την είχα κοπανήσει από μια διάλεξη, με ένα φίλο, και σκάσαμε μύτη μαζί, με τη μηχανή του και το σακίδιό μου από την έρημο.

Πριν μπούμε, ήπιαμε τα τελευταία Jameson του μπαρ…

Για κάποιο απροσδιόριστο λόγο, τώρα που ξανασκέφτομαι αυτές τις λεπτομέρειες, μου φαίνονται σχετικές.

Ήπιαμε τα τελευταία Jameson του μπαρ…

(το ξαναείπα αυτό…)

…

Όταν γραφόταν η ιστορία, ήμουν εκεί. Ήμουν θεατής. Πρώτη σειρά. Και γραφόταν μπροστά στα μάτια μου.

Δεν συμμετείχα. Ήμουν απλώς θεατής. Απλός.

Πρώτη σειρά.

(το ξαναείπα αυτό…)

…

Όταν γραφόταν η ιστορία, ήμουν εκεί. Ήμουν μάρτυρας. Την έγραφαν οι Mason & Dixon. Ναι, αυτοί. Ο Charlie Mason και ο Jeremiah Dixon. Μπροστά στα μάτια μου.

Ήμουν εκεί. Ήμουν μάρτυρας.

(το ξαναείπα αυτό…)

Charlie Mason, writing the story...

Jeremiah Dixon, co-writing the story and bringing constant trouble to Mason, causing future strangers to remember them as Dixon & Mason…

…

Όταν γραφόταν η ιστορία, ήμουν εκεί. Πρώτη σειρά. Και την έγραφαν οι φίλοι μου. Μπροστά μου. Πάνω στη σκηνή.

Στη σκηνή, πάνω στην οποία έπαιζε ένας άλλος. Φίλος. Έπαιζε την ιστορία. Την ιστορία που έγραφαν εκείνη τη στιγμή.

Την έγραφαν οι φίλοι μου.

(το ξαναείπα αυτό…)

. . .

Την ιστορία την έγραφαν οι φίλοι μου. Και γι’ αυτό άργησα. Άργησα να πάρω χαμπάρι τι στην ευχή πραγματικά συνέβαινε μπροστά στα μάτια μου. Είχα συντονίσει στους φίλους μου. Και στο θέμα της ιστορίας, στον τίτλο της αν θέλετε:

Μήπως είστε ο Thomas Pynchon;

. . .

Στις 6 Οκτωβρίου 2011, ο Βασίλης Δρόλιας και ο Ίκαρος Μπαμπασάκης ανέβηκαν στη σκηνή του θεάτρου Φούρνος, στη Μαυρομιχάλη, για να γράψουν live το “θεατρικό αρρωστούργημα” Μήπως είστε ο Thomas Pynchon; Ο τίτλος είναι από την ερώτηση που έκανε κάποτε ο Κωνσταντίνος Τζούμας στον Θάνο Ανεστόπουλο, όταν διασταυρώθηκαν στους διαδρόμους του ραδιοφωνικού σταθμού Εν Λευκώ. Ο Μπαμπασάκης ήταν ο μάρτυρας.

(“Α, δεν είστε… Γιατί ξέρετε, δεν εμφανίζεται ποτέ, και κανείς δεν ξέρει ποιος είναι… Είπα να σας ρωτήσω, μήπως είστε εσείς…”)

Και ενώ το έγραφαν – μέσω ενός προγράμματος chat, ως Mason & Dixon – αυτό προβαλλόταν στον τοίχο, πίσω από τους θεατές…

… από όπου το διάβαζε ο Γιώργος Κυριαζής, και το έπαιζε, υποδυόμενος τον Thomas Pynchon…

… εκείνη τη στιγμή, μπροστά στα μάτια μας…

(το ξαναείπα αυτό…)

. . .

Εκείνη τη στιγμή, μπροστά στα μάτια μας, οι φίλοι μου.

Είναι δύσκολο να απεμπλακείς, όταν πρόκειται για τους φίλους σου. Έτσι την πατήσαμε κι εμείς. Η παράσταση είχε αρχίσει, αλλά εμείς βλέπαμε ακόμα τους φίλους μας, πάνω στη σκηνή. Ρε συ, πώς την πάτησε έτσι ο Δρόλιας; Ο Μπαμπασάκης μια χαρά, καλυμμένος πίσω από μια οθονάρα ΝΑ, και ο Βασίλης φουλ εκτεθειμένος – Ναι, χα χα – Ο παλιός είν’ αλλιώς. Γελάκια. Αστειάκια – ωχ ωχ, κοίτα, ο Ίκαρος του τη φτιάχνει μου φαίνεται, κοίτα χαμόγελο…

Η παράσταση είχε αρχίσει τουλάχιστον δέκα λεπτά, όταν καταλάβαμε τι παιζόταν.

… όταν καταφέραμε, επιτέλους,  να καταλάβουμε τι παιζόταν.

Δέκα λεπτά.

Δέ-κα ο-λό-κλη-ρα λε-πτά.

(το ξαναείπα αυτό…)

. . .

… και κοπήκαν τα γελάκια, κοπήκαν και τα αστειάκια, όταν μπορέσαμε επιτέλους να δούμε, όχι τους φίλους μας, αλλά το τι έκαναν αυτοί οι άνθρωποι πάνω στη σκηνή…

. . .

Εκείνοι οι τρεις τύποι, πάνω στη σκηνή, έγραφαν Ιστορία… Κι εγώ κάθομαι εδώ, και λέω και ξαναλέω τα ίδια και τα ίδια – ήμουν εκεί και πρώτη σειρά και θέατρο Φούρνος Μαυρομιχάλη και οι φίλοι μου μπροστά στα μάτια μας και ήπιαμε τα Jameson και τ’ αρχίδια μου κουνιούνται – γιατί τι σκατά να πεις, όταν η Ιστορία γράφεται μπροστά στα μάτια σου; Τι να πεις, χωρίς να ακουστείς πομπώδης, υπερβολικός και μελοδραματικός; Και έχω και σύγκρουση συμφερόντων – ο Pynchon-Κυριαζής, μπρος στην πύλη του παραδείσου, αφού αναρωτιέται επί ώρα τι θα πει στον Πέτρο αν τον ρωτήσει Μήπως είστε ο Thomas Pynchon; και αφού μπλέκεται με τον Borges, τον Joyce, τον Dylan, το Θανάση Μήνα και τον Hemingway, αναφέρεται και σε εκείνον τον ανεκδιήγητο Επισμηναγό Όλεθρο, που έφτασε να υποστηρίξει ότι εγώ, ο Thomas Pynchon, είμαι λέει, στην πραγματικότητα, ο Ευγένιος Αρανίτσης!

(εάν είναι ποτέ δυνατόν…)

Τι σκατά να πεις σε τέτοιες περιπτώσεις…;

Οπότε κάθομαι εδώ, και επαναλαμβάνω τα ίδια και τα ίδια…

Σας είπα ότι, μπαίνοντας, ήπιαμε τα τελευταία Jameson του μπαρ;

(ουπς!)

. . .

I am perfectly aware that the whole story could be easily dismissed as an insider joke (συγγνώμη, δεν μου βγαίνει στα ελληνικά…): ο (βραβευμένος!) μεταφραστής του Pynchon στα ελληνικά, ο πλέον συστηματικός αναγνώστης του Pynchon στην Ελλάδα (τουλάχιστον), και ο πανταχού-παρών-ευρυμαθής-και-εμβριθής-βιβλιοφάγος-σόουμαν-ζογκλέρ Μπαμπασάκης, έστησαν ένα ωραίο αστείο για μας, για την οικογένεια, για φίλους και γνωστούς και οπαδούς του Commander. Και θα μπορούσε να είναι έτσι. Πράγματι.

Μόνο που δεν ήταν.

Φυσικά, θα σας πουν ότι ήταν. Ένα ωραίο αστείο. Μια πλάκα. Θα σας το πουν πολλοί. Όλοι. Αν εξαιρέσεις τον Sparky δίπλα μου – και μακάρι να κάνω λάθος – ανάθεμά με αν κατάλαβε κανείς άλλος εκεί μέσα τι έγινε.

Όταν γύρισα σπίτι εκείνο το βράδυ, έστειλα sms στο Βασίλη. … τι κάνατε ρε φίλε…

Ο Βασίλης απάντησε: Πλάκα δεν είχε;

Όχι…

Sorry, comrade…

. . .

Όσο περνάνε τα χρόνια, μερικά πράγματα κατασταλάζουν μέσα μου, σαν αναγνωρίσιμα patterns μέσα στη στροβιλώδη αβεβαιότητα και μεταβλητότητα του περιβάλλοντος κόσμου. Δεν είναι πολλά. Και υπόκεινται σε συνεχή διαδικασία επαλήθευσης. Μερικά δεν επιζούν – όπως είπε και ο Taleb, αν είναι να παντρευτείς κάτι, προς θεού, μην παντρευτείς τις απόψεις σου! Μείνε ευέλικτος, μείνε Bayesian…

Ένα από αυτά τα patterns που έχουν επιζήσει, μέχρι σήμερα τουλάχιστον, είναι και το εξής. Δεν είναι κανόνας. Είναι απλώς μια αρχή, μια στατιστική κανονικότητα, όπως έχει προκύψει από τις εμπειρίες (και τις προκαταλήψεις!) μου:

Αν ψάχνεις για ενδιαφέροντα, φρέσκα και πραγματικά πρωτοποριακά πράγματα, ψάξε στους outsiders. Σε αυτούς που είναι εκτός χώρου, που δεν ξέρουν αρκετά και, συνεπώς, δεν πρόλαβαν να μάθουν ότι αυτό που πάνε να κάνουν είναι αδύνατο, ή δεν προβλέπεται, ή δεν είναι θέατρο/μουσική/λογοτεχνία/φυσική/ζωγραφική/ποίηση [...] [ΔΙΑΓΡΑΨΤΕ ΑΝΑΛΟΓΩΣ].

… και μείνε μακριά από τους δηλωμένους  πρωτοπόρους/πειραματιστές/αυτοσχεδιαστές/ανιχνευτές κλπ (μιλάω για σήμερα, δεν ξέρω τι γινόταν πριν πενήντα χρόνια)…

… κοίτα τι έκαναν οι Sex Pistols, επειδή δεν ήξεραν ότι, για να φτιάξεις συγκρότημα, πρέπει να ξέρεις να παίζεις…

… κοίτα τι έκανε ο Einstein, πριν προλάβουν να τον πείσουν ότι η έμμονη ιδέα που τον βασάνιζε από παιδί – πώς θα μου φαινόταν ο κόσμος, αν ταξίδευα πάνω σε μια ακτίνα φωτός; – δεν αποτελεί έγκυρο, επιστημονικό ερώτημα…

… κοίτα τι έκανε ο Borges, επειδή δεν τον είχαν ενημερώσει ότι δεν είναι σωστό και πρέπον να γράφεις κριτικές για βιβλία που δεν υπάρχουν…(έλεος ρε Χόρχε!!)

… και κοίτα τι έκαναν ένα βράδυ στην Αθήνα τρεις τύποι – ένας πρώην αστροφυσικός και νυν eMarketing specialist, ένας τενόρος στη χορωδία της ΕΡΤ, και ένας οτιδήποτε-άλλο-εκτός-από-θεατρικός συγγραφέας, επειδή –

ΜΑΣ ΔΟΥΛΕΥΕΙΣ ΡΕ ΦΙΛΕ;;; Αυτοί οι τρεις ΔΕΝ ΞΕΡΟΥΝ ΚΑΝ τι πα να πει ΘΕΑΤΡΟ!!!

Ναι. Σωστά.

Ευτυχώς.

Πυροβολήστε τους ορισμούς και πάμε παρακάτω…

Mason & Pynchon & Dixon - κατά κόσμον Βασίλης Δρόλιας, Γιώργος Κυριαζής και Ίκαρος Μπαμπασάκης

. . .

Παρακάτω, λοιπόν, δηλαδή βγαίνοντας από το έργο, είχα ένα πρόβλημα. Ήθελα απεγνωσμένα (επαν. απεγνωσμένα) ένα Jameson. Αλλά δεν είχε. Βλέπετε, είχαμε πιει τα τελευταία πριν μπούμε, και…

(άντε πάλι…)

. . .

Όταν άρχισα να γράφω το κείμενο, ρώτησα το Βασίλη αν έσωσε κανείς σε αρχείο το chat.

Ο Βασίλης απάντησε όχι, αλλά έχουμε το βίντεο, και αυτό αρκεί…

… και τι το θέλεις ρε συ το chat;;;

* * *

«Οι επισκέψεις των Μέισον και Ντίξον», έγραψε ο αιδεσιμότατος, χωρίς να κατονομάζει τις πηγές του, «ήταν γεμάτες σιωπή, όταν ψάρευαν, και πυρετώδεις συζητήσεις τις νύχτες, όταν δεν ψάρευαν.»

Τους παίρνει ο ύπνος δίπλα στο τζάκι του Ντίξον. Οι πίπες τους έχουν σβήσει.

Ο κόσμος έχει συγκεντρωθεί σε μέρη έρημα στην άκρη της πόλης.

Ο καθένας τους βλέπει τον άλλον στον ύπνο του.

Thomas Pynchon, Mason & Dixon, μετάφραση Γιώργου Κυριαζή

Down in the desert

[28 Φεβρουαρίου 2011, Δευτέρα]

… όλοι στο κόλπο, φως πουθενά, όλοι οι καριόληδες μια εταιρεία, ερμηνείες διατυπώσεις γνωματεύσεις, σύσκεψη για τα ερευνητικά, γκρίνιες πικρίες αυτοπροβολή χαμένες ευκαιρίες, κουβέντα με τον πτέραρχο, «σας τσάντισε, το ξέρω, και είναι ο άνθρωπός μας», κι άλλες γνωματεύσεις διατυπώσεις πληρωμένες ερμηνείες εκμυστηρεύσεις παλινδρομήσεις επισκέψεις ανατροπές, φεύγω και περπατάω στην πόλη μου, στην πόλη που μεγάλωσα, στην πόλη που αγάπησα και πια μου είναι ξένη, ένα κοστούμι άδειο γραβάτα και παλτό, και στέκομαι στο Σύνταγμα, και ανεβαίνω Low, οι φίλοι μου φαντάσματα, οι άνθρωποί μου κάποτε πάει καιρός που χώρισαν οι δρόμοι τους, και πίνω μόνος, θα πάω σπίτι και όλο το βράδυ θα διαβάζω Raymond Chandler, όλο το βράδυ, εγώ κι ο Philip Marlowe, μέσα στον παγερό, μισοσκότεινο ετούτο κόσμο, όπου συμβαίνει πάντα το λάθος πράγμα και ποτέ το σωστό, κι ενώ ετοιμάζομαι να φύγω ακούω κάποιον να παραγγέλνω άλλο ένα, με βλέπω στον καθρέφτη να το πίνει, ωραία η γραβάτα σου κι ο Bridges δεν πήρε Όσκαρ…

… και φτάνω σπίτι, και είναι ένα ζευγάρι στο διάδρομο, φιλιούνται, και καθαρίζω το λαιμό μου, και βέβαια δεν μ’ ακούνε, είμαι ακόμα έξω, και βάζω το κλειδί και ανοίγω την εξώπορτα, τους έπιασα στα πράσα, είστε ο κύριος Πέτρος; όχι, είμαι ο Χρήστος Ηρακλής του δεύτερου, ο Πέτρος είναι στον πρώτο, κι εσείς είστε οι νέοι νοικάρηδες του τρίτου καλωσήλθατε, Στέλιος Γκαλιάνα χειραψίες χαμόγελα, η κοπέλα κοκκινίζει, μου το’χε πει ο Πέτρος, ένα νέο ανδρόγυνο οι νέοι γείτονές μου πρόσφατα παντρεμένοι φιλιούνται σαν δεκαεξάχρονα…

Μπαίνω στο ασανσέρ και μέχρι ν’ ανέβω πάνω είχαν χαθεί οι κάγκουρες και όλα τους τα κόλπα.

Μέσα από το διαμέρισμα κοιτάω τον ορίζοντα.

Thin White Rope στο διαπασόν, να τρίζουνε τα τζάμια.

Something affected him down in the desert…

Δυο άνθρωποι φιλιούνται στο ισόγειο.

Κοιτάω τον ορίζοντα.

Υπάρχει ελπίδα…

Into the Valley of Death: I – In the companionship of greatness

“… overlooking the deep depression now called Death Valley” – Dante’s View, elev. 1669 m

“There, without any warning of its nearness, like an unexpected crash of orchestral music, lay the terrible valley, the beautiful, the overwhelming valley.

 We all stood silent then. We were about three thousand feet above the bottom of the valley looking down from the north over its whole length, an immense oblong, glistering with white, alkali deposits, deep between high mountain walls. We knew that men had died down there in the shimmering heat of that white floor, we knew that the valley was sterile and dead, and yet we saw it covered with a mantle of such strange beauty that we felt it was the noblest thing we had ever imagined. Only a poet could hope to express the emotion of beauty stronger than fear and death which held us silent moment after moment by the point of rock. Perhaps some day a supreme singer will come around that point and adequately interpret that thrilling repose, that patience, that terror and beauty as part of the impassive, splendid life that always compasses our turbulent littleness around. Before terror and beauty like that, something inside you, your own very self, stands still; for a while you rest in the companionship of greatness.”

(All excerpts from Edna Brush Perkins – The white heart of Mojave; an adventure with the outdoors of the desert, except if mentioned otherwise)

. . .

Lovely place-names: Funeral Mountains, Furnace Creek, Devils Golf Course, Coffin Peak, Last Chance Range…

Last Chance Range…???

What the hell…

. . .

“Death Valley: the name itself evokes all that is harsh, hot and hellish in the deserts of the imagination, a punishing, barren and lifeless place of Old Testament severity. But Death Valley is full of life.”

Lonely Planet, California

. . .

Badwater Basin, Death Valley - Lowest elevation in the US, 282 ft (86m) below sea level

“A Government bench-mark by the roadside indicated 258 feet below sea level. The heat was oppressive, and the white ground reflected a blinding light. No living green thing appeared. The white expanse was unbroken by a bush or even by an outjutting rock. The desolation was complete. An intense silence lay over it. If we dropped far enough behind the wagon not to hear the creaking of its wheels, we felt utterly alone, the only survivors in a dead universe. That day the sky was a hot purplish-blue; no cloud shadows drifting over the valley relieved its blinding monotony. The rose and silver which we had seen from above were gone, not even the illusion of water far off remained. The sun stared steadily down. It was the far-spread, motionless silence of the last days when the whole earth will be dying.”

. . .

“Every day that we stayed in Death Valley seemed more awful than the last. From ten o’clock in the morning until four in the afternoon we existed in a blind torpor. Eyes and brain and pumping heart could not bear it. At noon we always planned to leave immediately, we panted to escape; then the enchantment would begin and we would forget all the plans.

We had come for the purpose of knowing the feel of the valley and we must travel over the burning sands.”

Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes, Death Valley CA

. . .

“The point of view is born of the desert herself. When you are there, face to face with the earth and the stars and time day after day, you cannot help feeling that your role, however gallant and precious, is a very small one. This conviction, instead of driving you to despair as it usually does when you have it inside the walls of houses, releases you very unexpectedly from all manner of anxieties. You are frightfully glad to have a role at all in so vast and splendid a drama and want to defend it as well as you can, but you do not trouble much over the outcome because the desert mixes up your ideas about what you call living and dying. You see the dreadful, dead country living in beauty, and feel that the silence pressing around it is alive.”

[…]

“While we sat and waited the enchantment of sunset began. The sky became orange and green, the terrible valley that we loved and hated began to put on its sapphire robe, the sulphurous walls that prisoned the snake turned pink, the poisonous blue eye, too blue, too bright, softened – the enchanter almost had us by the throats again, ready to choke us until tears came in our eyes.

[…]

Death Valley is always different. That afternoon there was no play of color, no magical mirage. From there, looking straight down seven thousand feet, it was ghastly, utterly unlike of anything on the earth as most of us know her. It was like the valleys on the dead, bright moon when you look at them through a powerful telescope.

 

[…]

Just as night was closing in a shadow rose like a curtain beyond the mountain-tops that shut Death Valley from us. It was a blue shadow and a rose-colored shadow. It was both these colors and yet they were not merged to a purple. It seemed to rise straight up, a live thing, as though the spirit of the valley were greeting the stars. The beautiful apparition remained less than a minute; always after that we looked toward deep valleys at evening hoping to see it again, but we never saw it, though night made wonderful shadows and blue pools of darkness in them. Death Valley is a thing apart. It is a white terror whose soul is a miracle of rose and blue.”

Death Valley speaks:

“Behold me! You think that I am an arid valley with a white alkali streak down the middle of my level-seeming floor. You think I am surrounded by red mountains, or perhaps you think they are blue, or purple –well, not exactly- more rose.

Come down to me! I am very deep between the mountains. I am very white. But if you do not like me so I can be a wide, level plain covered with velvet for you to lie on.

Come down to me! Rest beside this lake. See how it shines, how blue it is! I am all in white like a young girl with a turquoise breastpin. You don’t believe that? I am a witch, I can be anything. My wardrobe is full of bright dresses. I will put them on for you one by one.

See, I know more colors of blue than you ever dreamed of. When you tire of blue I change to ripe plums. Now I throw gray gauze over my purple. I look like a nun, but I am not. Here is my yellow gown. You do not like it? See, I have all degrees of red, fire red and crimson and pink, the color of bride roses. Here is my finest. It is made of every color, but the tone of it is the gray breast of a dove. You did not know that the breast of a dove could be made of all colors, but now I show you.

Do you not love me? You remember too well that I am hot as a bake-oven. You think that if any one were fool enough to come down to me I would steal behind and grip him by the throat.

What of it? Why do you question me so much? You see how old I am, how many storms have left their scars on me, and you think I am wise. But I am only fair. Is it not enough to be old and yet fair?

Beauty is sitting on my topmost peak making the enchantments that confirm your dreams. She experiments with many materials; she makes new combinations forever.

Behold all the desolate places how they are hers – the lonely hills, the lonely plains, the lonely green sea, the lonely sands – she clothes us in gorgeous raiment, she makes us content with death. Where she is your heart can pasture even to the emptiness between the stars.

Come down to me…”

And down I came…

Driving towards Artists Palette (see videos below)

@ Artists Palette, Death Valley

(Next: Into the Valley of Death: II – “The boys have come!”

Crossing to California

Μετά την απαραίτητη Αυστραλιανή παρένθεση, την οποία επέβαλαν τα από καιρό χρωστούμενα κείμενα για τον Ben Nicker και τον Nicolas Rothwell, επιστρέφω στην αφήγηση του οδοιπορικού μου στις ερήμους των νοτιοδυτικών ΗΠΑ (Νοέμβριος 2010), την οποία είχα αφήσει εδώ, φεύγοντας από το Las Vegas.

 Με τη σειρά της, η αφήγηση αυτή είναι και η ίδια μια παρένθεση: ο πρωταρχικός σκοπός του blog ήταν –και παραμένει– η εξιστόρηση των εμπειριών μου ως κυανόκρανου στη Δυτική Σαχάρα. Σταδιακά, θα (καταφέρω να) επιστρέψω και να κλείσω –επιτέλους!- εκείνη την αφήγηση, και μαζί να κλείσω και το παρόν blog, του οποίου ο καιρός έχει ίσως περάσει προ πολλού…

 Μέχρι τότε…

. . .

Ανατολικά της Ασίας, πολύ κοντά στον Επί της Γης Παράδεισο, είναι ένα νησί που κατοικείται από όμορφες, δυνατές γυναίκες, όπως ήταν οι Αμαζόνες. Τα πάντα εκεί είναι φτιαγμένα από χρυσό. Οι γυναίκες είναι τρομερές πολεμίστριες, και ιππεύουν γρύπες, τους οποίους ταΐζουν με τα σώματα των νεογένννητων αρσενικών παιδιών τους. Βασίλισσά τους είναι η Calafia, από την οποία  το νησί πήρε το όνομά του: California.

Αυτά έγραφε ο Ισπανός Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo, στο μυθιστόρημά του Las Sergas de Esplandián (παλαιότερη σωζόμενη έκδοση 1510, Σεβίλλη). Μερικοί τον πίστεψαν. Ανάμεσά τους ο Hernán Cortés, ο οποίος, αφού είχε καταλύσει την αυτοκρατορία των Αζτέκων και είχε οριστεί κυβερνήτης τού Μεξικού για λογαριασμό τού ισπανικού στέμματος, υπολόγισε ότι μπορούσε να φτάσει στο νησί πλέοντας για καναδυό μέρες βορειοδυτικά, ξεκινώντας από την ακτή του Ειρηνικού.

Και το βρήκε.

Island of California (map circa 1650, from Wikipedia)

* * *

Δεν είναι περίεργο που η εικονοποιία της Καλιφόρνια συνδέθηκε από νωρίς με τη Γη της Επαγγελίας των Ισραηλιτών, ειδικά για ανθρώπους που ξεκινούσαν από την ανατολική ακτή των ΗΠΑ. Δεν είναι η απόσταση – η πρόσβαση στην Καλιφόρνια από τα ανατολικά, δηλαδή από την ξηρά, είναι φραγμένη: στο βορρά από την οροσειρά της Σιέρρα Νεβάδα, αδιαπέραστη το χειμώνα (οι άποικοι του Donner Party θα έτρωγαν τους νεκρούς τους, εκεί, όταν παγιδεύτηκαν το χειμώνα του 1846-47)˙ και στο νότο από την φοβερή, ανελέητη απελπισία τής ερήμου Mojave.

Απόσπασμα από το ημερολόγιο του Patrick Breen, μέλους του Donner Party, 25-26 Φεβρουαρίου 1847: "Mrs Murphy said here yesterday that thought she would Commence on Milt. & eat him. I dont that she has done so yet, it is distressing. The Donnos told the California folks that they commence to eat the dead people 4 days ago, if they did not succeed that day or next in finding their cattle then under ten or twelve feet of snow"

Ινδιάνοι Απάτσι και Κομάντσι φύλαγαν τα περάσματα. Πρωτόγνωρα δέντρα στοίχειωναν το τοπίο, θυμίζοντας πετρωμένες ψυχές στην κόλαση, να εκλιπαρούν για οίκτο…

Joshua Trees @ Mojave Desert, Nov 2010

* * *

Και τις δύο φορές που πήγα στην Καλιφόρνια, πήγα δια ξηράς. Η πρώτη φορά ήταν τον Ιανουάριο του 2000: πήρα το λεωφορείο από την Tucson της Arizona, και αποβιβάστηκα 1200 χιλιόμετρα αργότερα, στο San Francisco (όπου, όπως έχω εξηγήσει αλλού, δεν είδα την Chinatown)…

Η δεύτερη φορά είναι τώρα. 12 Νοεμβρίου 2010. Από τη Nevada, στον επαρχιακό αυτοκινητόδρομο 373.

Crossing to California from Nevada Hwy 373

Λίγο πριν τα όρια της πολιτείας, έχω δει πινακίδα:

CORRECTIONAL FACILITIES AHEAD – HITCH-ΗIKING IS PROHIBITED

Yeah…

Τρελάρες…

I just love you…

. . .

(Στο επόμενο: Into the Valley of Death)

Homer in the Outback

Nicolas Rothwell, Wings of the Kite-Hawk – A journey into the heart of Australia

 

The William Creek Hotel, in South Australia, was founded in 1880. “In Greece”, the owner had told me, back in 2007, “1880 might feel like yesterday. But in the Australian context, it’s ancient.”

William Creek SA, December 2007

Ancient trails, half-forgotten, half-buried in the red dust, guide the steps of Nicolas Rothwell, as he travels up and down in the Australian heartland, documenting his journeys in this wonderful, highly enjoyable book. Here we will meet 19^th century explorers and hotel caretakers; scholars of Aboriginal art and Hell’s Angels (or, to be more precise, their local version, the Coffin Cheaters!); truck drivers reading behind the wheel and fans of Radio Birdman; Eastern European expats and former doctors on Antarctic expeditions. And, of course, lots, lots of stories, amusing, sad, bittersweet: about how there was an unknown darkness in the world, and its center was the Hotel Tully Falls; about the magnificent, astonishing legs of Pauline Hanson; about the legendary jukebox in the William Creek Hotel; about Leichhardt’s Camp 119, the loneliest place in the world; and Geoff Bardon’s first public appearance for years – “as if Thomas Pynchon were to turn up suddenly at some meeting of the Modern Language Association”!!!

And high above, patrolling the desert skies, always present –either directly or hovering just off the edge of the printed page–, the kite-hawk, “stooping down to within a few feet of us, and then turning away, after having eyed us steadily.” I think it is exactly this steady stare, not of the kite-hawk, but of Nicolas Rothwell himself, his unifying tonal mood, that manages to keep this book remarkably coherent at the end, despite its anecdotal material.

All but one, each book chapter is named after an explorer of the Australian inland. In the first chapter (“Leichhardt”), we follow the author as he traces the path of Ludwig Leichhardt, the German explorer that disappeared during his final inland expedition in 1848, never to be found. Outside Australia, Leichhardt is perhaps better known as the inspiration for Patrick White’s novel Voss (1957), considered a masterpiece in literary circles and securing White’s reputation up to the Nobel prize (not surprisingly, neither White nor his novel are ever mentioned in Rothwell’s book).

Rothwell travels with Leichhardt’s Journal of an Overland Expedition in Australia at hand – Cairns, Normanton, Mount Isa, and then again, a year later, from Cairns to Chillagoe, where he meets biologist Roly Mackay, “with his six thousand books and his van-load of samples”, who has been naming wolf-spiders after explorers of Australia:

“He knows the country like the back of his hand. You should go and talk to him before you head out: but be careful you control the conversation, otherwise you’ll never get away: they’ll drag out your skeleton in years to come.”

And everyone is there, echoing Leichhardt: the Mayor of Burke Shire and famous Akubra hat-maker, “Honest John” Molony, reading the Journal in his truck; Darcy Redman, “the dynamo of North-Central Queensland, the Voltaire of the Selwyn Ranges” (“Leichhardt. As a man, I find him totally underexposed. If you go out there you will find him. I have gone out there – and I have.”); Tommy Prior, assuring the author that, no doubt, Leichhardt “was a Ford man”. And just before the end of the chapter, Rothwell will realize “the game that the explorer played, a game with the kite-hawk, of life and death. Three calls from the fatal bird meant No to one’s desire; and four, Yes. Three calls, and he would throw himself down; four, and he would live. He had made his pledge, then listened for the kite-hawk: and the bird…”

. . .

The second chapter (“Promised Land”), is the only one not named after an explorer. Here, the –not less exciting– topic is the Aboriginal rock art.

With an initial surprise that goes away gradually as the narrative proceeds, the chapter starts with the author wandering through Central Europe, “shortly after the revolutions that dethroned communism”:

“I drove on for several days tracing a zig-zag route through provincial Moravia and Slovakia, glimpsing everywhere the signs of empire in disintegration, whole worlds of custom, order and privilege collapsing, falling into oblivion. At times during that journey I felt almost like some colonial explorer who carries in his bloodstream a fatal bacillus, an infection so virulent it will destroy all that he sees, and all he yearns to see – and it is slowly destroying his own life as well, for who will heed the explorer in a settled land when the joy of discovery is gone, and nothing beyond the frontier remains?”

What has an extended excerpt about Central Europe to do in a book about the Australian Outback? As it turns out, this introduction is not at all unjustified, for the chapter is a parade of Central European expats:

“the bearded, deep-accented George Chaloupka, a Czech émigré who headed the rock art project at the Museum of the Northern Territory, and who was chiefly responsible for revealing to western eyes the painting tradition of Arnhem Land.” The Czech President, Vaclav Havel, who “was paying a State visit to Australia, and had expressed a wish to stop in Darwin, so as to visit the rock art sites of Kakadu, which he had learned of from Journey in Time”, i.e. Chaloupka’s book on the subject. Karoly Pulszky, a nineteenth-century scholar of the renaissance and a prominent political figure in Hungary, who fell from grace and “went into exile, in Australia, a country where he believed he could escape from rumours. But he was a knight of the renaissance, unable to live among sheep-shearers. He […] fell prey to depression, and loneliness – and, on the sixth of July, 1899, in a place called Myrtletown, in the state of Queensland, I believe, he took his own life.” Robert Bednarik, “monarch of the rupestrian world, convener of the International Federation of Rock Art Organizations, author of some four hundred scientific papers, a man who, contrary to life’s usual pattern, became more, rather than less, a figure of the imagination, the longer one knew him.”

The subject of the European look on the Australian landscape permeates the chapter. But the opposite, the influence of the Outback in the eyes and minds of those driven too close to it, is also here:

“It took all day, and as we went through the Gorge seemed to me like Camelot: all mist-shrouded hills and far-off thunders. It was the kind of weather when the Aborigines thought spirits were walking, and the black trees came alive. And then I saw the rock art.”

“‘It speaks to you?’

‘It tells me the values that are dominant elsewhere really don’t apply here. This is a very different kind of place. For me, coming here wasn’t a culture shock alone, it was an environmental shock. I looked up, and I saw. Each mountain you come upon seems perfect, as if they had been designed by an architect. Most of them look like castles, like German or Spanish or Indian fortifications: don’t you see?’

He gestured high above us, and for a moment I could almost see the flags and crenellations, and tiny silhouettes of guards and sentries standing their watch against the bleached-out sky.”

“suddenly, the Outback seemed a place of echoes and repetitions, where one lives over things experienced before; where time is not at all the smooth, unbroken, forward flow we sense around us, but something yawning, full of rifts and voids, amidst which we navigate, almost unknowing, so that our advance from second to second is little short of miraculous.”

George Chaloupka speaks:

“’Once, you know, I even dreamed that I might buy a little apartment in Prague, in the Mala Strana perhaps, and I would go back every summer and spend time there, but now!’ – he shook his head – ‘When we were in Kakadu the other day I looked out across the grass plains, those wide plains, burned, or dry and yellowing, the way they are all round old Mudginberri station: dusty grass, smoky grass. You can see such colours nowhere else. And I realised that in my mind now I have come to find European forests dark, and monotonous, and threatening. Here you can lie safely under the casuarina trees, you can walk through the stringybark forests and find them filled with sunshine.’ “

And on and on we drove, through the Pilbara landscape that so resembles false-colour film; and ranges on the horizon dancing red and mauve inside the heat-haze; and the painful poetry of the Outback ruins…

Outback ruins...

. . .

Chapter three is named after Captain Charles Sturt, Lord Byron’s schoolmate in Harrow school. Here, the author’s guide is Sturt’s two-volume Narrative of an expedition into Central Australia, with “its wooden, perfunctory quality”:

“It became evident to me, that we were locked up in the desolate and heated region, into which we had penetrated, as effectually as if we had wintered at the Pole.”

“Sturt’s temperament, despite his military background and his Olympian manner, was reflective, self-questioning, melancholic. A wall of glass hung between him and society; he was a man born for loneliness, for absence from the things he loved; he had the horizon always in his eyes.”

“What was he seeking at the continent’s veiled heart? A space as abstract as the grief that lurked inside him. What was he fleeing, and leaving behind? Not only all he cared for, and held dear, but need, and pain, and love itself. Where was he bound? Like every noble or beautiful thing, to the kingdom of death – that kingdom he longed to see with his own eyes, to endure, and to return from, with golden words upon his lips.”

Sturt’s relationship with his men; his “almost Iliadic” relationship with the horses, “who have characters, and figure by name in his narrative”; his feeling that “his departure on the expedition […] was somehow a betrayal, an act of transgression for which he would have to pay a price”; his insistence that the kite-hawks, “patrolling their lonely deserts, had held power of life and death over him and his party”; and “the dream-like quality of Sturt’s descriptions” make the author to resolve, “almost as soon as I began reading the expedition Journal, to make the voyage of my own into his landscape, and through the desert that still bears his name.”

And so he does, together with the photographer Johnson Venn, beginning with Broken Hill, and an unexpected –and rather awkward– encounter with

“the object of collective attention, tall, flame-haired, square-faced, with green eyes set close together: the independent member for Oxley, Pauline Hanson, who was at that time close to the peak of her short-lived celebrity, and by far the most recognizable human being on the Australian continent.”

“’Thank God that’s over,’ said Johnson.

‘Just tell yourself that was the aperitif,’ I tried, feeling he was on the verge of mutiny.’ And now the open road. No politicians. Only emptiness, and silence, and the spirit of the inland, for weeks ahead. White Cliffs – Wanaaring – Innamincka – Birdsville – what could be a greater privilege?’

‘The frightening thing,’ he replied, slowly, ‘is that you’re inviting me into a nightmare, and you sound as if you’re looking forward to it.”

Apart from Sturt, three more precursors (should I say ancestors?) accompany the author as, in parallel with his journey, he reads his way into the desert: John Walter Gregory, a Scots geology professor whose Dead Heart of Australia “seemed to me then like some magic adventure-book”; Francis Ratcliffe, “a young British ecologist, who had been dispatched in the mid thirties to the arid, dust-blown terrain round Birdsville, a town he both loved and loathed”; and Cecil Madigan, one of the last explorers.

“Ratcliffe formed a dark impression of the Centre. […] For all his joy in recording nature, [he] never seeks to catch the desert landscape. Instead he gives that landscape’s effect on him, which was unsettling to the extreme. At his first encounter with the desert, he felt he was looking ‘round the bend of the earth’, into shimmering emptiness: ‘It was hard to grasp that the distance we could see, which looked so very distant, was but a mere step along the way we had to travel.’

He tried to imagine the scene without its coat of grassy spinifex, when the film of green had given way to blinding, uninterrupted glare: ‘Even with this green I thought it was just about the cruelest and most inhuman world that it was possible to conceive. Little did I guess that within the next day or two I was to be introduced to worlds still more desolate and terrifying. I was uncomfortable and nervous now: later I was to be really scared – scared that something in my mind would crack, that the last shreds of my self-control would snap and leave me raving mad.’ […]

For Ratcliffe, much like Sturt, had read himself into the landscape, and saw his own fears and longings reflected back to him. […] Ratcliffe saw, in the iron-shod plains, something darker still, which Sturt also glimpsed and shied away from, and which has left its ghost in the opening to the second section of [Ratcliffe's book] Flying Fox and Drifting Sand.

Here Ratcliffe recounts the words of advice he was given when he headed for the inland, for that tortured landscape of broken hills, red and brown and yellow: ‘It is a terrible country you are going into. You will be glad to escape from it; but it will get you, and even after you will find yourself longing to go back.’

Longing to go back, because he was receptive to nature, and because the land had its grievous splendour, and he could trace the chains of biological cause and effect all through its constantly repeated terrain? Or for quite another kind of reason: because he had looked into that empire of formlessness, and death, and found it beautiful, and fallen half in love with it? Because oblivion, and stillness, and silence were calling out to him?”

The reflection to the author comes just after a few pages, when he finds himself “possessed by a desire to return, as soon as possible, and live there, amidst that emptiness, in a place I scarcely knew at all”…

. . .

“Everyone stared at me.

‘Is this the new resort hotel?’ I asked uneasily.

‘No resort here, son. This is a homestead. Glen Helen homestead: capital of the blues.’

‘And can I stay the night here?’

‘If you’re sad enough, if you’ve got the blues bad enough, and if you cross my palm with folding money we might let you roll out your swag on the verandah. I’ll show you.’ “

Glen Helen Resort, December 2007

@ Glen Helen gorge, just behind the resort, December 2007

Although Theodor Strehlow, after whom the fourth chapter is named, was not an explorer, he and his father, Carl, “haunt the intellectual climate of the Centre in much a way a pair of soaring eagles, by their mere presence, redefine the sky.”

“ ‘Dripping with tragedy,’ he said. ‘Just dripping with it. You want to be careful you don’t get too caught up with it yourself. Everyone who sets off on the Strehlow trail goes slightly mad.’

‘That’s right,’ murmured JC. ‘Central Australia cut deep into him. A heavy dude. Fallen metaphysics.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Many devils in his universe.’

[...]

“Theodor Strehlow was born at Hermannsburg in 1908, the year his father’s ethnographic researches first entered into print. The legend of the son’s life has by now eclipsed the father’s patient ethnographic work. As a child growing up among Aboriginal children Theodor was as fluent in Aranda as in his native tongues. His linguistic gifts became clearer still during his time at the University of Adelaide, where he excelled as a classicist. Almost immediately after graduation, he found employment as a researcher into the indigenous cultures of Central Australia: he set out to study what he once had lived. With a dream of ‘salvage linguistics’ in mind, he embarked on a series of field expeditions, travelling by camel, together with an Aboriginal guide. He looks back upon this period in his last book, the unwieldy Songs of Central Australia, which, by virtue of its rarity, has become a kind of sacred object of the modern literary domain.”

“ ‘By the way, I’ve put aside a few things for you. […] Songs of Central Australia,’ he announced, in triumph. ‘An association copy.’

‘Going cheap at three and a half thousand, I suppose?’

‘How did you know?’

‘All I have to do is double the price you gave in last month’s catalogue.’

‘Well, maybe  there’s hope for you yet in the book trade.”

“Yet for all its encyclopaedic scope, its romantic tone, its elaborate, theory-laden structure, there is something in this work of retrospect that is inert and dead. Strehlow conceived his Songs of Central Australia as the last record of a dying world, and that mood stains all within its pages. The sacred songs become chants of mourning and loss; the civilisation he describes seems no more than an afterglow; even the landscape breeds in him feelings of isolation and of loneliness.

[…]

In 1933, writes Strehlow, he was taken, with two old men of the southern Aranda, to this site, and shown a large cluster of stones lying in the midst of a bleak desert of table mountains. Out of the huge total of ceremonies, whose performance at this spot, according to tradition, once lasted for more than six months, only a few scattered dramatic pieces were still remembered: ‘Everything else had been swallowed up, by time and oblivion and death.’

The author continues to wander, happening upon Wighard Strehlow, Theoror’s nephew from Germany, who was paying a visit to Glen Helen, and who was currently writing himself a book on Strehlow.

“Wüstenanz, announced the cover of the book before me. Australien spirituell erleben. […]

After some while in town I paid a visit to a consulting anthropologist I knew, a man of the grimmest post-marxist opinions. Had he ever heard of Wighard, or come across the book?

‘Christ,’ he said, sitting up in his chair. ‘It’s not in that silver briefcase, is it? You didn’t bring it here?’

‘No – no, of course not,’ I answered, uneasily.

‘Thank God for that! I wouldn’t want to be within a hundred miles of that thing. What’s it called again – Dances in the Desert?’

‘Something like that – and why not?’

‘Don’t you know? It’s got the same kind of photographs Strehlow sold to Stern magazine – the ones that caused him so much grief and unhappiness.’

‘And they show secret material, and shouldn’t be viewed by outsiders?’

‘They’re just bad luck, like everything to do with the Strehlows. If I were you I’d get rid of that book at once, or at any rate, be careful where you read it – and in what frame of mind.’ “

[...]

“After much calling out beside the hotel’s front gate, and sounding of the horn, I tracked down Arltunga’a solitary owner Christine Knox: she was in the far corner of the red-soil paddock, consulting her weather instruments. […]

I gave her a quick version of the Strehlow story: Hermannsburg and Horseshoe Bend; Wighard at Glen Helen.

‘Perhaps you’ve seen his book?’

I reached for my briefcase and began to pull it out.

‘No – and you better leave it there. I’ve never seen anyone with it, although we do get a lot of Germans up this way, when the hotel’s open. I remember all the story very well, about the photographs – that was big news in the Territory, years ago.’

[…]

At some point while I was sleeping, the weather broke. I opened my eyes. The rain was drumming down on the tin roof. The sky was still half-dark. I went outside: rust-coloured water filled the ruts along the road. I struggled up to the hotel building. Christine turned around: ‘What have you brought with you?’ she said, accusingly.”

The other prominent figure of the fourth chapter is Geoff Bardon, “the schoolteacher round whom, in the early 1970s, the painting movement at Papunya settlement first crystallised”, appearing here along with JC, one of the infamous Glen Helen scholars…

“He swivelled round. On the back of his jacket was an intricately inlaid death’s head emblem, and around it, picked out in worn, frayed letters, the legend: Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club, Kalgoorlie WA.

‘Is that a current affiliation?’

‘Some things never entirely leave you – but I’m on a different vector now.’

‘And what are you doing here?’

‘I’m here to see the man, of course.’

‘The man?’

‘Geoff Bardon. I’m a collector. Early Papunya boards – I’ve got ten of them, all early consignment, all documented.’

‘And you keep them at Glen Helen?’

‘Are you joking? Have you seen the security at that place? No, they come with me on the road.’

‘You take ten priceless, fragile paintings with you on a Harley-Davidson across Australia?’

‘Sure. I love them. They sustain me. I’m their custodian. I’ve been looking after them for years. They don’t mind traveling – they’re depictions of dreamtime travels, not out this way, it’s true, but their dream-lines reach back where I’m going.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘I’m on a run to the Pituri country: Mernie sandhill, out beyond Cacoory ruins, off the Eyre Developmental Road. Maybe it might interest you, sometime, to come along. It’s a very historic part of the world; there are even people who say that’s where Leichhardt and his party finished up. It’s beautiful: red sand, blue-gray mulga; the five most poisonous snakes on earth. It’s the only place where you can find them together.’

‘That must come in handy, but what’s Geoff Bardon to you, that you drove all this way to hear him?’

‘Don’t you know that passage towards the end of his book, the Shelleyan echo: “I believe it is in the furthest reaches of the human imagination that our country lies, and there we must seek it out, like poets of a coming age.”

In the lecture hall:

“There were introductions; they seemed endless. Anthropologists and curators jumped up and made their way to the stage, and spoke, bathed by spotlights, as though they had stumbled into the beam of some intrusive deep-sea exploration probe.

‘Witch-doctoring?’ I whispered in JC’s ear.

‘Haven’t you ever had any strange times in the desert?’ he replied, in a stage whisper, and a couple of faces in front of us glanced around.

‘No.’

‘Then you haven’t been out there long enough. Don’t you ever ask around about that kind of thing? Don’t you ever talk to Aboriginal people? They’d set you straight right away.’

‘And have you ever seen anything, yourself: anything unusual?’

‘Are you joking? Every day out there’s a day close to the edge. What do you think Bardon was into? What do you think the painting of the desert’s all about?’

‘Well,’ I whispered back, ‘form, and ceremony, maybe, and pattern – their place in human life.’

‘It’s about fear – fear, and danger. The abyss. I’ve been out near Mount Conner, when the ice-spirits are floating in the air. I’ve driven out from Balgo towards Lake Gregory, and felt the coming of the dog-men. Once, when I was working on a geo-survey from Alice Springs, at Taka, down near Maryvale, I went out from camp alone one night, into the western Simpson – deep into the devil-devil country.’

‘And what happened?’

‘I went a long way through the desert. I found an isolated peak among the sand-dunes. I began to climb it, and the devil-forms came rushing, screaming past me. They wanted to uproot my mind: it was the universe’s challenge.’

‘Shh!’ scolded a woman just beneath us, turning round. ‘Quiet!’

‘Quiet yourself,’ said JC. Can’t you see Geoff Bardon is about to give his talk?’

[…]

‘Sand and dust’, came [Bardon’s] voice. ‘Sand and dust. I ask you to consider these words as markers and limits of our knowledge of what we are’ – and his thoughts, like the scurries of some desert wind, flowed on, faltering, breaking. […]

Briefly, sighing with each pause for breath, he painted pictures of the artists he had known, and been closest to: their smiles, their looks, their movements, Mick Namerari; Charlie Tarawa; Uta Uta; Tim Leura; Kaapa. Tears were standing in his eyes; he spoke their names like those of saints. […]

What were the early paintings, he asked, and at once he gave his answer: they were mind-maps, of course, a system of mind-maps across the whole continent. The artists at Papunya had made the invisible visible. […]

‘It was a great honour to work with these men,’ he said, and his hands gripped the lectern. ‘It was a great honour to speak here today. My time up there, in Papunya, was one of rejoicing and joy. The painting movement is now a vast unstoppable force of conscience which has emerged so as to forever change the history of the world.’

Before the chapter ends, we return to Strehlow, and his

“… account of an expedition he made to Ayer’s Rock, a four-day haul across a hundred miles of waterless country. The camels strayed; the Aboriginal guides went off to fetch them back; the white members of the party themselves became restless, and full of fear.

@ Ayer's Rock (Uluru), December 2007

Strehlow recounts an experience he attributes to his fellow-anthropologist, C.P. Mountford, though he was not in the habit of describing other’s feelings, and it may well be it was his own. The party had made their way successfully to Uluru, which was at that time a very different place from the jamboree one finds today: ‘We were at the base of the vast silent rock, and not a beast or bird had been sighted by us for over two days. The only sound that night was the moaning of the wind around the titanic monolith. One member of the party ventured out into the caves at the base of the rock in order to copy some of the native drawings in them. Several hours later he returned to our lonely camp fire. He had done little work. Draughts had kept on extinguishing the flame of his carbide lamp, and he admitted that it had been an eerie experience sitting there on his own in these ancient caves, where the wind was producing weird sounds, sighs, moans, and hissing noises. He did not go out again during the next two nights.’ “

Cave @ Uluru

. . .

Ernest Giles, “the poet of the Outback”, lends his name to the fifth and final chapter of the book:

“He only emerges into Australian history in 1872, at the head of a small private expedition – but these shadows that surround him seem entirely right. Unlike his precursors and his contemporaries, Giles was not a man of science, he was not a soldier, nor a survey official, nor the emissary of a colonial government. His story has no hidden contours. There was no romance to be exorcised, no psychic tension casting its symptoms onto every range and creek-bed. He had no circumstances; no flaws of character. He was the freest, the most literal, the most disturbing of all the explorers. ‘An explorer,’ he wrote, ‘is an explorer from love – and it is nature, not art, that makes him so.’ “

“At that moment, from behind him, Giles companion, Alf Gibson, called out. Unwelcome news: his horse had knocked up and was on the verge of collapse. The two men, in truth, were not poised on the brink of breakthrough, though they had pushed far into the wilderness of spinifex that bears Gibson’s name today. They were a hundred miles beyond their waiting colleagues at the support depot, in burning, blood-red sand-dunes, without shade, or sufficient water, or supplies; and now, with only one good horse between them, they could not risk the high ground beckoning; they could barely hope to fall back on their steps.

‘Look here, Gibson,’ Giles said. ‘You know we are in a most terrible fix, and only one horse; therefore only one person can ride, and one must remain behind. I shall remain, and now you listen to me…’

It was a simple enough plan. Gibson would go on to the water-kegs which they had left along their outward route, water the mare, rest an hour or two, then head on by dark. At dawn, the ranges he was bound for should be in view. He would be safe. ‘Stick to the tracks’ – they were clear in the red sand; they would lead him home. At camp, he should send out a rescue party, with water, to come for Giles. Gibson asked for the compass so he could steer by night. Giles gave it to him; and off he went. Through some instinct, as Gibson receded, Giles called out once more: stick to the tracks! And watched, staring through the sunshine, while his companion was borne slowly out of human sight.

The plan was not designed to claim Gibson. It was more like an act of sacrifice, a death sentence passed by Giles upon himself, as though in requital for his failure. Extinction in the desert was always in his mind; at times, the desert served him as a realm of after-life, a zone where he might encounter forlorn souls, like Leichhardt, that ‘lost Pleiad’ for whose traces he was ever on alert.

Giles began his solitary trek. No rescue party came for him. In his narration of his journey, the days and nights pass like a dream. His head spins; he faints; he trudges through stands of spinifex as tall as himself. He makes the water-kegs; he finds and pounces on and eats a baby wallaby, ‘raw, dying as it was, fur, skin and all – the delicious taste of that creature I shall never forget.’

On the sixth day he reaches the ranges and the waterhole; after two more days, at dawn, he walks into his camp, and wakes his men, who stare at him as though ‘he was one newly risen from the dead’. But Gibson? The returning horse’s tracks, as Giles to his horror and alarm had already seen, diverged at mid-point from the outward route. What of him? No sign. Next morning, Giles set off anew at the head of a search team, quartering the desert, looking for the man lost instead of him – but in vain. […]

Failure. Disappearance. Death. This ordeal forms the heart of Giles’s expedition narratives. His fame as a bushman rests on that delirium-tormented return, which is described in Australia Twice Traversed, in the most racing, tumbling, impressionistic prose.

[…]

‘Ernest Giles,’ repeated Grahame, frowning, and shaking his head. ‘A wild individual. He’s a bit flowery and romantic for my tastes, but I suppose he is a fully paid-up dweller in the realms of the unreal.’

‘He was a scientific explorer,’ I protested.

‘You think so? Show me.’

Grahame leaned over and took my copy of Australia Twice Traversed.

‘Don’t be led astray by all those Latin name-lists of plants and trees at the back. How about this: “I trust it will be believed that an explorer may be an imaginative as well as a practical creature.” See: he believed he was writing the landscape, singing it into being as he went. Exploration was his fiction. He was the hero of his own story. He was in hyper-space! Although I must confess, there are times, out in the King Leopolds, with the thermometer over forty, when I almost think he was on to something. Listen: “Strange as it may appear, it seems because the tales of Australian travel and self-devotion are true, that they attract but little notice, for were the narratives of the explorers not true we might become the most renowed novelists the world has ever known”.’ Grahame laughed. He snapped the book shut: ‘Clear enough for you? He was a frustrated author, just like everybody in the desert. To be at the top of the best-seller lists: that’s what he really wanted.’

. . .

As a character of the book points out somewhere, “All the explorers were mad, but some of them were more successfully mad than others”…

(The book is re-issued with a new introduction by renowned travel writer Pico Iyer and a new foreword by the author)

Σήμερα,…

‘Out west in a place which we found and named ‘Hidden Basin’, in 1933, on the border of Western Australia, we named a creek Nicker Creek after Ben. That name is cut into the trunk of a large gum tree. Ben Nicker devoted his life to the bush beyond fences. He has given his life to keep the bush free for you and me. I grieve for his wife, and with the bushmen of Central Australia I mourn the passing of a very fine fellow.’

Michael Terry, 1941

‘Of all the interesting characters occasionally met with by far the most interesting and unusual was Ben Nicker. I have never met anyone quite like Ben before or since. He had a better education than was usual to find in those days… Ben always wanted to be a soldier which is unusual for a man of his type, they can’t take military discipline as a rule. When war broke out in 1939 Ben was one of the first to enlist in the second A.I.F. He was killed in the evacuation of Greece in 1941. He was a marvelous rifle shot and I was told by someone who was with him in Greece that he shot down a German plane with the ordinary .303 rifle by shooting the pilot in the cockpit as he flew over.’

Bryan Bowman, History of Central Australia 1930 – 1980

When Mags received the Order of Australia Medal in 1986 for her services to Central Australia, she said ‘ I accept this for my family and their contribution to the outback.’

Ο Σπύρος ήταν στιβαρός, ο Γιώργος αργοπορημένος, ο Βασίλης αναλυτικός και ο Χρήστος σκεφτικός. Εγώ έφερα το χώμα. Η Χριστίνα έφερε ένα λουλούδι και τράβηξε τη φωτογραφία. Θανάσης, Άγγελος, Ελένη και Λεωνίδας ακύρωσαν τελευταία στιγμή λόγω ανωτέρας βίας. Ηλίας, Δημήτρης, Ξένια και Ιωάννα έστειλαν μηνύματα ότι, δυστυχώς, δεν θα μπορέσουν να παρευρεθούν...

Out in the deserts the name ‘Benninik’ comes up conversationally in Aboriginal dialects more than fifty years after his death. Travelling in four-wheel drives equipped with two-way radios, modern adventurers frequently come across his carved initials.

When next the question is asked, ‘Who was Ben Nicker?’ I hope some of the answers will be found in these pages…

Plot 3. Row B. Number 5 (19 Απριλίου 2011)

Τώρα πια δεν θυμάμαι τις λεπτομέρειες. Θυμάμαι μόνο ότι μπήκα να πληρώσω τη βενζίνη που μόλις είχα βάλει. Και θυμάμαι ότι τα βενζινάδικα εκεί, στη μέση του πουθενά, έχουν τα πάντα. Αναψυκτικά. Τσιγάρα. Τρόφιμα. Είδη δώρων και σουβενίρ. Και βιβλία.

Βιβλία…

KING’S CANYON, ΚΕΝΤΡΙΚΗ ΑΥΣΤΡΑΛΙΑ – ΔΕΚΕΜΒΡΙΟΣ 2007

Έτσι έγινε. Τόσο απλά. Συμπτωματικά. Αν και, όποιος με ξέρει, ξέρει ότι για να παρεκκλίνω, για να χασομερήσω, να χρονοτριβήσω ή να καθυστερήσω, το μόνο που χρειάζεται να κάνει είναι να κανονίσει να διασταυρωθώ με ένα ράφι βιβλία.

Όπως παντού, έτσι και εδώ…

King`s Canyon, Northern Territory, Australia - December 2007

(ibid.)

Όπως είπα, δεν θυμάμαι τις λεπτομέρειες. Υποθέτω όμως ότι πρέπει να ήταν η χρονολογία θανάτου στο εξώφυλλο που, ανάμεσα σε τόσα άλλα, με έσπρωξε να πάρω εκείνο το βιβλίο στα χέρια μου.

Bushman of the Red Heart – Ben Nicker, 1908-1941

Ποιος διάολο ήταν αυτός ο τύπος, και γιατί τον έκαναν βιβλίο;

Άρχισα να διαβάζω. Εκεί. ‘Ορθιος…

. . .

His father, Sam Nicker, was vital, optimistic and adventurous. Buried in his family past was a colourful story of castles and counts, princes and bankers, generals and politicians, all woven into the fabric of the history of Germany and France. The name derived from a mythical river beast, half-horse and half-man, who was said to drag maidens down into the depths at night. Perhaps it was a story to warn unsuspecting young ladies that river banks were dangerous places to be after dark. Sam sang a Scottish air, though the words were sometimes lost in the medley of grumbling iron wheels, slap of leather harness, an intermittent stumbling of horses hooves and an interjection now and then from the groaning timber parts of their overloaded wagon.

His mother, Liz, was never a good shot with the rifle but she was confident that all she should ever need to do was aim it in the general direction of any human threat. Because there were few white women in the Australian inland at that time, Liz’s good common sense and self-taught nursing skills were frequently called upon. She was often away from home delivering babies or tending the sick. Sometimes the message would arrive by ‘yabber stick’, a letter carried in a cleft stick by Aboriginal courier. She would pack her bags and go alone by buggy sometimes distances of a hundred miles or so. Sometimes her absences were brief but there were occasions when she was required for weeks at a time.

She never lost a patient but was once called too late to save a prematurely presented infant and could only concentrate all her efforts on the mother. A message had been sent by an unreliable source and should it have arrived even twelve hours earlier she had no doubt that she would have also saved the baby’s life. When the message did reach her, just on sundown, she recognised the urgency and harnessing two horses, travelled the sixty miles without pause.

Today, a stone carved by renowned sculptor, William Ricketts, commemorates Liz’s nursing skills. Titled ‘The Helping Hands’, it can be seen at Pitchi Ritchi just south of Heavitree Gap in Alice Springs.

In his book, The Man from Oodnadatta, R. B. Plowman writes,

In the annals of our race there have been recorded from time to time the names and noble doings of great women. In the lonely places of the vast Australian continent there are women whose names and deeds are worthy of record in these annals. One is Mrs Sam Nicker.

Οι Nickers ήρθαν από το Queensland στη Νότια Αυστραλία, – but this wasn’t their destination. The Centre was. Στράφηκαν βόρεια, προς την περιοχή που σήμερα είναι γνωστή ως Northern Territory. Ανακαλύπτω ότι ένα μεγάλο μέρος της διαδρομής τους συμπίπτει με τη δική μου, καθώς ταξιδεύω τη μισή ήπειρο, από την Αδελαΐδα στο Alice Springs.

Πέρασαν από το Quorn, στα Flinders Ranges. Πέρασαν από το Marree.

Quorn railway station

Entering Marree, South Australia - Dec 07

Εγκαταστάθηκαν σε ένα μέρος 130 χιλιόμετρα βόρεια του Alice Springs, που αργότερα θα το αγόραζαν και θα το ονόμαζαν Glen Maggie.

Ben put in his appearance at dawn one grey, stormy morning and was as welcome as the rain in this semi-desert country. It was 1908.

Συγκρατήστε το “stormy”. Θα μας χρειαστεί αργότερα…

. . .

Σχολεία, φυσικά, δεν υπήρχαν στη μέση του πουθενά. Αλλά

With every infrequent mail, arriving by camel team and now and again by travellers thoughtful enough to deliver mail from the Alice Springs Telegraph Station, came books and children’s magazines. Determined that living as and where they did should be no deterrent to their education, Sam monitored the quality of their learning, always insisting that time was too precious to waste. Because the older boys were also his major work force, it was Mags and Ben who ‘learned to learn’. They did their sums and studied history, English and geography. They recited lengthy stanzas of poetry, were taught Greek mythology and very basic astronomy. When a passer-by could be prevailed upon to stay awhile and teach, it was a welcome bonus adding a different flavour to their studies. The men who wandered the outback were well-read. The books they carried in their saddle-bags were the classics. There wasn’t any room for anything which couldn’t be read and re-read a dozen times and then swapped. Dog-eared, margins often scribbled on with the acid comments of previous owners, they were kept like icons, carefully wrapped in a square of saddle cloth or calico and sometimes smelling of the smoke of the many campfires which had lit their reading.

When they met, these travellers would sit hunched for many hours, arguing and discussing a passage or a book, while tit-bits of national and local news barely registered. Able to recite whole chapters of classical literature, they were in some instances unable to name Australia’s current Prime Minister. In this distant outback they were too far removed to keep up with current affairs.

Billy and Clara, an Arunda Aboriginal couple who for cultural reasons were irrevocably severed from their country and their tribe, shared their Arunda language and the dialects of surrounding tribal areas with the young Nickers. They gathered bush tucker, told their Dreamtime stories and passed on their tracking skills. In exchange they found a permanent home in the affections of the family and the children grew up balanced between two cultures.

To understand the bush, one had to have first absorbed the basic knowledge of all its creatures. To track an animal was more simply done if one knew its habits, its habitat, its appetites and generally the blueprint of its everyday living. This was an area which had been taken care of by Billy and Clara while the Nicker children were too young to realise they were being taught. It was also an absorbing method of whiling away child-minding hours in the only way they knew. Together they gathered everything edible, bush fruits, nuts and berries, yams and yulkas, avoiding those things which were poisonous. They learned ‘finger talk’ and to watch the behaviour of wildlife and to know when rain was coming or dry times threatened.

At the same time Sam explained cloud formations and scientific reasons for the subtle variations in the colour of the sky. Perhaps their earliest lessons taught them that there were two answers to everything and when they thought about it, each solution in its way helped explain the other. Growing up, both backgrounds made perfect sense to them and they were able to switch effortlessly from one to the other. When they spoke in any Aboriginal dialect, they thought Aboriginal. When they spoke their mother-tongue their thinking became automatically European.

As his reading extended, Ben developed an abiding interest in warfare and battles fought down through the ages. In his spare time he would fashion armies of clay warriors and position them. As steeped as he had become in Aboriginal mythology, equally the ancient histories of distant places glued him to his reading.

Γεννημένος στην καταιγίδα. Μορφωμένος από τυχοδιώκτες περιπλανώμενους στο αφιλόξενο outback. Δίγλωσσος, εκπαιδευμένος από ιθαγενείς και από Αφγανούς καμηλιέρηδες…

Ανέφερα ότι το μέρος ήταν κάπως αφιλόξενο;

Moon Plain, South Australia...

... και, αν εξαιρέσουμε το χρώμα του ουρανού, η φωτογραφία θα μπορούσε κάλλιστα να είναι από τον Άρη...

Meanwhile Ben prowled the perimeters of Glen Maggie with his camel and came to know everything there was to know about that part of the world…

Ο πρώτος άθλος

Όταν ο Joe Brown, εξερευνητής και χρυσοθήρας, πέρασε από το Glen Maggie στην πορεία του να διασχίσει την έρημο Tanami, o Ben πήγε μαζί του.  Αλλά ο Brown, σημαδεμένος προφανώς από χρόνια μοναχικής δουλειάς, αποδείχτηκε εξαιρετικά δύσκολη παρέα. Στο Hall’s Creek, οι δυο τους χώρισαν, και ο Ben ξεκίνησε με τα δυο του άλογα να γυρίσει πίσω στο Glen Maggie.

Moving across a spinifex desert can be difficult. It isn’t possible to walk or even ride in a clear-cut direction because one must weave a path between needle-point clumps which can spread to almost twenty meters across. When they pierce the skin, blood poisoning can set in quickly.

Leather leggings are a help but there are ringed spinifex hummocks sometimes hip-high and hostile. Unless one fixes the eye on a definite point ahead, and that’s not a simple matter in the sameness of a desert, the constant weaving can easily disorientate a man.

Anne-Jane, arguably the first woman driver in the Centre, arrived at Glen Maggie by car looking for Ben. She had dreamed of him coming out of the scrub from west of the well. Worried that something serious might have happened to him she drove north from Undoolya Station to share her anxiety. While she spoke with her mother and step-father, Ben did indeed ride in.

Ήταν 1923. Ο Ben Nicker ήταν δεκαπέντε χρονών…

At fifteen and without a compass, he had crossed the desert alone. Where many men had perished he had triumphed. He had covered perhaps a zig-zagging distance of seven hundred miles from Hall’s Creek to Glen Maggie. All Billy and Clara had taught him had been well ingrained.

Michael Terry, in his book The Last Explorer, wrote of Ben’s remarkable trek:

‘At fifteen, he had come back alive and well. He had safely completed the finest, riskiest solo venture in Inland history, so I claim. I found Ben to be the steadiest chap, deeply knowledgeable in bush lore of every sort. To him, to be a bushman was not just a question of instinct so much as observation and remembering. No two trees, no two ant-beds, no two hills were to him exactly the same; all was recorded in a mental picture.’

‘Little Bit Long Way Benninick’

When time permitted, Ben’s curiosity led him along the paths of earlier explorers, like Wharburton and Ernest Giles. He prowled the Simpson Desert and poked about by camel examining the unmarked areas on his maps. For Ben, the possibilities were an endlessly absorbing provocation. He went further and further, widening his inland horizons and filling his notebooks. He carried a sketch-pad and drew wildflowers or shrubs and trees he had never seen before, birds, insects, strange rock formations and extraordinary carvings. The more he found the more he needed to know.

He was so often away somewhere, that when questioned about his whereabouts, almost any Aboriginal informant would thrust out his lips to their furthest extent. Lifting his chin and pointing with it, he would explain, ‘Benninick, him bin go little bit long that way’. Consequently his brothers began to refer to him as ‘Little-Bit-Long-Way-Ben’.

Born and brought up in the bush, there were an openness in Ben and his contemporaries. A man was a mate and a man could be himself. Ben was probably more than most, his own man. The seeking, thoughtful, studious Ben of the bush was another man entirely when he got to town. The customary couple of beers would loosen him up and turn his visit into a celebration. And when sacramental wine was replaced with whisky in the newly erected church, every finger pointed to Ben. Bushfolk knew one aspect of him; the township, another.

Γιατρός και ακοντιστής, ιχνηλάτης και αναγνώστης

The pioneers, the adults of this outback world, were all remarkable men and women. Wider skies attracted them. Isolation wasn’t any barrier to their aspirations.

Ben, however, heeded to extend his own boundaries where no real boundaries existed. It was said that he could out-track the Aborigines and Billy would agree: ‘Well, didden I bin learn im?’

At Bob Buck’s property, Titra Well Station, Ben was preparing for the Foy expedition into the western desert, led by Kurt Johannsen. Bob had, like most settlers, free-range fowls including a large number of chickens and was currently doing battle with marauding hawks. Some of the party had been indulging in farewelling themselves when a hawk injudiciously appeared, hovering above them. Bob ran for his rifle while Ben grabbed a spear which happened to be handy. Apparently defying gravity, the spearman poised and flung his weapon with deadly aim. Onlookers were afterwards to report it as one of the most impressive pieces of spearmanship they had ever witnessed.

On that same trip, a skilled Aboriginal tracker was travelling with Ben when they crossed the tracks of an Afghan camel team. Having studied the footprints, Ben remarked, ‘The third camel from the rear has a sore left hind foot.’ The Aboriginal begged to differ. ‘No. It’s the second camel from the lead.’ Another traveller with them noted the exchange and was surprised to discover when they caught up with the team that it was Ben who was correct.

Prepared for every emergency, Ben carried with him a medicine box made up of a collection of those bits and pieces he found most useful, and he was frequently called upon to succour either an animal or a person. He was naturally aware of many bush remedies and was convinced of the healing power of, among other treatments, witchetty grubs.

There was an Aborigine called Stumpy who came off second best in a fight at Mt Doreen Station near the Western Australian border. His belly had been ripped open with a knife and a large proportion of his intestines dislodged. When Ben was called, he cleaned it and pushed everything back inside arranged as he thought it should be before stitching up the external wound. Nobody expected the patient to live but he survived to a ripe old age.

Mythology and ancient history continued to intrigue him and he carried books in his saddle-bags to study whenever and wherever the opportunity arose. If he had any regrets it was that he had been a child and had missed the chance of serving in the Great War. So many of the men he met had been a part of it. In fact the Northern Territory had seen 40% of its male population off to fight overseas. It hadn’t been easy for any of them to even reach a recruitment centre. They had travelled by foot overland to Brisbane, or by camel and horseback, even bicycle to Adelaide.

Everybody has an Achilles heel,…

…although not all of us will admit it. In Ben’s case, it was thunderstorms which could bring him undone. Only those close to him knew about it, and wondered how he coped when out in the bush alone. It was the noise; the crash and grumble and explosion of violent night storms roaring above and around him he found difficult to handle. Inspired by some incident in his forgotten past, perhaps the storm on the morning he was born, or an unknowing premonition. Who could know.

Michael Terry, the Last Explorer

Το 1928, ο δρόμος του Ben Nicker διασταυρώθηκε στο Glen Maggie με αυτόν του Michael Terry, του επονομαζόμενου και τελευταίου εξερευνητή της Αυστραλίας, έναν άνθρωπο με το δικό του, ιδιότυπο βιογραφικό:

Michael, an Englishman, had served with the Royal Naval Air Service Armoured Car Unit in the First World War. Taken prisoner in Russia he had been involved in a successful mass escape from Bolshevik forces and struggled across Russia by subterfuge and cattle-train. Eventually arriving in far northern Murmansk, the escapees managed to make contact with a British naval ship and were returned to England and medical facilities. Many of the men were suffering from gas inhalation in addition to general debilitation and as a result, were invalidated out of the army. On medical recommendation, a dryer climate seemed a good idea and Australia attracted Michael’s adventurous inclinations.

With his military-trained mechanical background, he found work in outback garages but it was Australian distances which attracted him and he set about fund-raising through British contacts. With fellow countryman Richard Yockney, he crossed from Winton in Queensland to Broome by car. No one had previously attempted such a trip. They had nearly perished in the attempt but undaunted had then taken on a second venture against good advice, from Darwin to Broome. With British acclaim still ringing in his ears, Michael was delighted to accept the loan of two worthy vehicles from Sir William Morris himself for his third crossing of the Australian inland. It was this trip which brought them to Glen Maggie.

The party had not long arrived when Ben rode in with camels and the stage was set for a mutual admiration which was set to last a lifetime.

Thirty seven years later Michael Terry wrote:

‘Self-educated Ben was yet the best educated man I ever met. He was a voracious reader and always an interesting talker… when I first met him I knew at a glance here was a man who would quietly tell you to go to hell if you tried to order him about… His deep-set eyes looked straight into you, not aggressively but with keen perception. Actually he was a fun-loving man with an easy-going temperament, calm in danger, anything but calm at play.’

Michael Terry, Sept. 8^th 1965, People Magazine, ‘Portrait of a real bushman’

O Ben Nicker θα συνόδευε αρκετούς γεωγράφους και εξερευνητές, ανάμεσά τους και τον Michael Terry σε δύο εξερευνήσεις της κεντρικής Αυστραλίας, το 1932 και 1933. Θα τα κατάφερναν, μέσα από κακουχίες και εξαιρετικά αντίξοες συνθήκες, μέσα από ζέστη και πλημμύρες, δαγκώματα φιδιών και επιδρομές μαύρων μυρμηγκιών, στα μέρη όπου είχαν χαθεί ο Lasseter και ο Gibson, και περνώντας από σημεία όπου οι ιθαγενείς δεν είχαν έρθει ακόμα σε επαφή με λευκούς…

‘Ben was tough. He was a top-notch bushman. He was young but he had more bushcraft than most old timers. He was Centralian born and bred. Resourceful, work-hardened, weather-beaten, astute and careful when need be, boisterous and downright reckless on a spree, he was the epitome of the pioneering Australian Inlander.’

Michael Terry, ibid.

Ben Nicker, σκληρός και αδίστακτος:

Visiting Kalgoorlie, strolling one morning along Hannon Street, Ben came upon a small lad crying his heart out. Ben hunched down and sat in the gutter with the boy. ‘What’s up, mate?’ he queried. It seemed that the boy’s unregistered puppy had been arrested by the town dog-catcher. Seeing a man he knew riding a motor-bike towards them, and having filled him in on the sad story, the two located the van and hauled out the catcher. While Ben kept him in a neck-hold, his friend opened the back door and released the day’s dog-haul.

Later in court, the magistrate, laughing, dismissed the charges.

. . .

Ήταν ήδη θρύλος. Ήταν βασιλιάς, ιχνηλάτης και θεραπευτής. Είχε καρδιά μικρού παιδιού, δε γούσταρε διαταγές και φοβόταν τις βροντές.

Τότε, τι διάολο… τι…

Εθελοντής και σύζυγος

Όταν ξέσπασε ο Β’ Παγκόσμιος Πόλεμος, ο Ben Nicker τσακίστηκε να διανύσει 800 μίλια για να κατέβει στην Αδελαΐδα και να καταταγεί. Τοποθετήθηκε στο 2^ο/3^ο Σύνταγμα του Βασιλικού Αυστραλιανού Πυροβολικού, το οποίο, μετά από σύντομη εκπαίδευση, ξεκίνησε με το Queen Mary για την Αγγλία. Λίγο πριν φτάσουν, η Γαλλία έπεσε.

In October Ben’s division was moved into the comparative luxury of Colchester Barracks accompanied by rumour of impending departure to the Middle East. Their equipment was shipped out but the troops were kept engaged in the defence of Colchester and the defence of their own attitude to authority. Their British compatriots found them impossibly lacking in respect for military tradition and that was unforgivable.

But Ben had no problems with the place or the people. He had met a lovely local army girl and quickly fallen in love. They courted for a month against a background of rubble and burning cities. A special licence, an expensive manoeuvre, enabled them to marry in ten days instead of waiting for the ususl three weeks, but time for them was short. They were deeply in love and hanging over them was the knowledge that the regiment would be posted overseas at a moment’s notice.

He and Jane had enjoyed six weeks together before she saw him off on the troop train on a cold, wet, wretched morning. Jane wrote about their farewell:

‘… our parting was almost unbearable. Early morning, cold wet and thoroughly Hell Let Loose. Everyone crying seeing them off… he did not want to leave me. It broke my heart, I felt the bottom had dropped out of my world…’

Στις 18 Δεκεμβρίου 1940, η μονάδα του επιβιβάστηκε σε ένα πλοίο για τη Μέση Ανατολή. Έπιασαν Αλεξάνδρεια. Από κει…

… από κει…

The Campaign in Greece

Re-united by the end of March, the entire unit embarked for Greece, where German invasion was imminent. The Greeks had repulsed Mussolini’s troops in the previous year but now Hitler’s forces had ploughed the Balkans, to Yugoslavia and were hovering over Greece.

Landed at the Port of Piraeus on April 2^nd 1941, the division enjoyed a brief respite until Hitler made his move. They were immediately ordered to Servia through extraordinary mountains by way of Athens, Atalanti, Thermopylae, Lamia, Volos, Larissa and Elassona. For these Australians the route was staggering. They had never seen, let alone driven through such heights. Their goal was Servia Pass and it was here that the 2^nd/3^rd fired the first shots of the Allied Forces in Greece. Conditions were fierce. They were 3,000 feet above sea level and it was snowing. Ben wrote more letters, daily, if possible:

‘… you know, things are never so bad that they couldn’t be worse…’

The meagre, snow-thralled road they followed through Greece, he knew to be the battle-path of history. The same route had been well-worn and blood-soaked by many nations’ warriors, an ongoing four thousand-year saga of which he was himself now part. They had reached the slopes of Mount Olympus, the highest point in Greece.

It was once believed the earth was round and flat and that Mount Olympus was the central point, the home of the gods, hidden from mortal view by a permanent wreath of cloud. Goddesses known as the Seasons governed the gateway to the heights from where Jupiter ruled the earth and his dynasty of gods with that devilish weapon, thunder. Jupiter with his thunder bolts had never been a favourite character of Ben’s.

The German attack came on April 11^th.

Τα υπόλοιπα λόγια, ανήκουν σε δύο συμπολεμιστές του, τους Alan Low και L.W. Sunman:

‘Ben often told us stories of his youth; days spent wandering around the Dead Heart of Australia, and crossing the notorious Simpson Desert. He knew a lot.

It was always ‘Ask Ben’. He could pull any gun to pieces and put it back again. I can hear him now, ‘Wish I could get a few letters from my wife… they take so damned long to come from England’. We all had a great time the night he married a pretty girl from Colchester. It must have been a hard break to leave England. Later the guns opened up in the Battle of the Bog. All night they spat flame and death at the Hun. We wondered about their Air Force. So did Ben, for he was our ack-ack machine gunner and was ready for action. When our Major told us the rain and snow were keeping his planes grounded, Ben cursed. But they came, squadrons of them through Servia Pass. You could not buy a pick or shovel for love nor money.

Ben had his pit between the command post and the ack-ack troop out in the open on a slight rise. Whiskey, his offsider, had his ammo stacked everywhere. First came a Henschel spotting for German artillery and Stukas. The big guns held their fire; so did Ben. Yet the spotter must have seen the guns for a score of Stukas circled their positions and peeled off one by one.

We watched Ben from our slit trenches, he gave them all he had. It gave us strength to see Whiskey dash across open ground for more ammo. All that afternoon they attacked and Ben kept at it, blazing away, he was black with dirt and smoke, his hands were scorched through changing the red-hot barrel, but he didn’t leave his guns. Not far from him a water-cart received a direct hit with a 100 pounder and half filled his pit, only dusk brought peace and a spell for Ben. Dawn came and with it Goering’s famous yellow-nosed fighters. Bullets spattered like raindrops around Ben for what seemed like hours. He helped to drive the fighters off… then came the Hun through the pass… we were the rear guards so the guns had to go out fast. Long range guns were shelling our positions and the road was out. Ben was in the truck ahead of me when shrapnel struck him.

Con Dolan and ‘Lubra’ Murray who were particular friends of Ben were with me. Ben was trying to make light of his wound and said that when they got the shrapnel out and stitched him up he would get back to the Regiment as quickly as possible. I left Ben with two bottles of Cognac as we had to leave, for the tail of our regiment’s convoy was passing on the road.

Nine days later we learned that he had lain for seven days in the same field dressing in the military hospital in Daphne and died from gangrene’

‘A fragmented country lay behind them’

The unit were forced to again withdraw this time to Elassona where their guns ran so hot that paint peeled from their barrels. Under heavy shelling the regiment were pushed back to Port Raffina and there shipped out under cover of night, by barge and warship to Crete. In Crete they were re-armed and positioned to defend the island’s aerodromes and deployed to the defence of Souda Bay. The 2^nd/3^rd lost two-thirds of its men and twelve of its fifteen officers. The survivors who managed to escape over the mountains were taken off by the navy or managed to struggle through somehow to Alexandria.

A fragmented country lay behind them. 300,000 people died in Greece in that winter’s cold and famine. 60,000 Jews were rounded up by the Germans and dispatched to extermination in Poland from which horror a mere 6,000 escaped.

Australian troops in Crete before the German attack were estimated to number 6,486. A large number were made prisoners of war. Commenting in June 1941 on Australian losses in Crete and Greece, Dr C.E.W. Bean, Australian Official War Historian, said that the battles of Greece and Crete together might have cost Australia almost 2,000 human casualties.

Few of Jane’s letters ever reached Ben and for months after his death his letters to her kept arriving, despite heavy censoring, full of love and promises he was unable to keep.

Recorded at Phaleron War Cemetery, Athens:

Nicker, Bdr., Benjamin Esmond, S.X. 403, AIF 2^nd/3^rd Field Regt., Royal Australian Artillery. 19 April, 1941. Aged 33. Son of Samuel Foreman Nicker and Elizabeth Nicker of Alice Springs, Northern Territory, Australia. Plot 3. Row B. Number 5.

. . .

Έκλεισα το βιβλίο. Στάθηκα εκεί.

Δεν θυμάμαι τι ακριβώς ένιωσα. Αλλά δεν χρειάζεται…

Γιατί κάθε φορά που διαβάζω τις παραπάνω γραμμές, αισθάνομαι ακριβώς το ίδιο…

. . .

Συνέχισα το δρόμο μου για το Alice Springs.

Ακόμα και σήμερα είναι δύσκολος…

Πριν φύγω, πήρα μαζί μου λίγο κόκκινο χώμα από τα περίχωρα της πόλης, για να περάσω να το αφήσω στον τάφο του Ben Nicker, στο Φάληρο…

Προσγειώθηκα στην Αθήνα 31 Δεκεμβρίου 2007.

Και μετά το ξέχασα…

Ευτυχώς, μου το θύμισε ο basileios…

. . .

Στις 19 Απριλίου 2011, 70 χρόνια από την ημέρα του θανάτου του Ben Nicker, θα μαζευτούμε στον τάφο του για ένα σύντομο, ιδιωτικό μνημόσυνο, στις 19:00. Είστε όλοι καλοδεχούμενοι.

Μετά θα σερβιριστεί καφές απέναντι, στο Kitchen Bar, από τους οικείους του.

Δηλαδή εμάς…

Ben E. Nicker, "Loved By All", at Phaleron War Cemetery

(Info: Phaleron War Cemetery, Παραλιακή Λεωφόρος, στάση τραμ ‘Πικροδάφνη’)

No Sin City & The End Rehearsals (feat. Annie & The Doom Girls)

(Συνέχεια από εδώ)

 

Ήξερα ότι το Vegas έχει πύργο του Άιφελ. Το είχα διαβάσει – είμαι βιβλιοφάγος, εντάξει; Ήρθα προετοιμασμένος. Αλλά όχι για κάτι σε κλίμακα 1:2, με 55 ορόφους, φάτσα κάρτα από το παράθυρο του ξενοδοχείου μου, νύχτα…

Fuckin’ savages…

Ο μικρός είχε καθαρίσει από το Λουτράκι. Τον είχα πάρει από την Παρασκευή. «Άστο πάνω μου», είπε.

Όταν τον ξαναπήρα Κυριακή για επιβεβαίωση, πηγαίνοντας στο Ronald Reagan της Washington για να πετάξω, άρχισε τα καντήλια. «Πω ρε φίλε… το ξέχασα τελείως… τι ώρα είναι εκεί;… και στο Vegas;… κλείσε, κλείσε…»

Δέκα λεπτά μετά, είχα με SMS τον κωδικό κράτησης της σουίτας μου στο Caesars Palace. Complimentary.

Good job, kid…

. . .

Στο check in του αεροδρομίου. «Πρώτη φορά πας στο Vegas;»

«Ναι.»

«ΟΚ. Θα σε βάλω παράθυρο, από την πλευρά που θα το δεις όταν φτάνετε.»

Είπε ότι είναι εντυπωσιακό νύχτα, από ψηλά.

Είχε δίκιο.

. . .

Στη σουίτα παίζεις ποδόσφαιρο. Και ένα μονό μπασκετάκι στο μπάνιο, άνετα… Κατεβάζω δυο μπύρες – έχω τον ενθουσιασμό τής αρχής του ταξιδιού: είμαι πάλι στην έρημο, έχω τρεις βδομάδες μπροστά μου και τον πύργο του Άιφελ έξω από το παράθυρό μου…

Δεν είναι υπέροχο;

. . .

Μόλις έχω φτάσει, και ο διεστραμμένος μου εγκέφαλος θέλει να πάει να δει το Venetian. Τώρα. Το σκέφτεται και το σχεδιάζει ήδη από το αεροπλάνο.

Ανοίγω το χάρτη. Λίγο παραπάνω. Με τα πόδια. Όλα τα μεγάλα καζίνο-ξενοδοχεία είναι μαζεμένα εδώ.

They call it The Strip…

Βγαίνοντας από το Caesars, περνάω μπροστά από το Ρωμαϊκό Forum…

… ναι…

. . .

Το πρώτο πράγμα που βλέπεις, από μακριά, είναι το Campanile…

Να με πάρει ο διάολος…

Είμαι ακόμα έξω, μπροστά στην είσοδο. Έχει νερό. Έχει και γόνδολες. Εντάξει, να το φάω…

Μπαίνω μέσα. Ανεβαίνω στον πρώτο όροφο. Προχωράω. Και στο βάθος βλέπω…

… βλέπω…

… no SHIT…

 

… now you got to be kidding me…

 

Εσωτερικός χώρος στον πρώτο όροφο, The Venetian Hotel & Casino, Las Vegas NV

 

Δεν ξέρω πώς φαίνεται στη φωτογραφία. Εκεί πέρα πάντως ήταν ρεαλιστικό. Τελείως. Αν ξεχνιόσουν λίγο, την πάταγες. Νόμιζες ότι ήσουν έξω. Απογευματάκι. Κανονικά.

Ήταν έρημα.

Ξαφνικά, νιώθω ό,τι πρέπει να ένιωσε και ο τύπος στο Truman Show, όταν κατάλαβε ότι ζούσε μέσα σε προσομοίωση.

Με κυριεύει ένας τρόμος, ένας πανικός…

Δίνε του, ΤΩΡΑ…

Φεύγοντας, δεν μπόρεσα να μη ρίξω μια τελευταία ματιά στον “ουρανό” πίσω μου…

* * *

Waiting for Annie

Μου άρεσε αυτή η φωτογραφία. Ένα αμάξι στη μέση του πουθενά, στην έρημο της Nevada. Όλη η αμερικάνικη μυθολογία συμπυκνωμένη – ανοιχτές εκτάσεις, ελευθερία, άγνωστο, αυτοκίνητο… Περιμένουμε το κορίτσι και φύγαμε – ο κόσμος είναι δικός μας (κι ας μην το ξέρει ακόμα)…

Μου θύμισε αμέσως τη φωτογραφία τού Eric Meola, στο εξώφυλλο του τελευταίου δίσκου τού Springsteen The Promise. Αυτό το τοπίο δεν μπορεί να είναι από αλλού…

Μια αναζήτηση στο Google έδειξε ότι είχα δίκιο, και μου έδωσε τη λεζάντα:

"Rattlesnake Speedway”, off Route 80 in Nevada, 1977, a few days after Elvis Presley died.

Το αυτοκίνητο Νο 44 περιμένει την Annie, στην ασπρόμαυρη έρημο της Nevada. 17 Μαρτίου 1953.

Αλλά η Annie ήρθε πετώντας. Ήταν θυμωμένη. Και έκανε φασαρία.

Πολύ φασαρία…

Μετά ήρθαν κι άλλα κορίτσια – η Nancy, η Dixie, η Priscilla. Ήρθαν και αγόρια – ο Ray, o Simon, o Harry…

Όλοι τους έκαναν φασαρία…

Annie – 17 Mar 1953

Nancy – 24 Mar 1953

Dixie – 6 Apr 1953

Priscilla – 24 Jun 1957

. . .

Πάνω από 900 δοκιμές πυρηνικών όπλων έλαβαν χώρα στο Nevada Test Site, από το ’51 ως το ’92. Μόλις 65 μίλια βορειοδυτικά του Vegas. Οι επισκέπτες των casino ένιωθαν τις δονήσεις πίνοντας margaritas, ενώ η πόλη οργάνωνε πάρτυ και καλλιστεία για την Miss Atomic Bomb, και την επόμενη φορά που κάποιος θα επιχειρήσει να σας πει για “την Αμερική”, έτσι γενικά και αόριστα, σαν να ήταν μία ενιαία και συμπαγής οντότητα, απλά προσπεράστε τον…

Miss Atomic Bomb 1957

Dancing with Dixie (διακρίνεται στο βάθος - το όνομα της κοπέλας στο πρώτο πλάνο δεν σώζεται)

“By the end of the ten-day [antinuclear] event in 1988, 2,000 people had been arrested from among the 5,000 participants – and no charges were pressed in the vast majority of the cases. It was one of the biggest civil disobedience arrests in the U.S. history, and it barely made the local news.

In 1988, the nuclear bombs exploded at the Test Site were named Kernville, Abeline, Schellbourne, Laredo, Comstock, Rhyolite, Nightingale, Alamo, Kearsage, Bullfrog, Dahlhart, and Misty Echo. Most of them ranged from 20 to 150 kilotons (Hiroshima was laid waste with 15 kilotons, Nagasaki with 21), as did 1989’s bombs: Texarkana, Kawich, Ingot, Palisade, Tulia, Contact, Amarillo, Disko Elm, Hornitos, Muleshoe, Barnwell, and Whiteface. They didn’t make the news either.”

Rebecca Solnit, Savage Dreams – A journey into the landscape wars of the American West

Operation Desert Rock I, Nevada Test Site, 1 Nov 1951 – Soldiers at 6 miles from ground zero

Οι πεζοναύτες Poth και Wilson, χαριεντιζόμενοι με το μανιτάρι

“Test is something of a misnomer when it comes to nuclear bombs. A test is controlled and contained, a preliminary to the thing itself, and though these nuclear bombs weren’t being dropped on cities or strategic centers, they were full-scale explosions in the real world, with all the attendant effects. I think that rather than tests, the explosions at the Nevada Test Site were rehearsals, for a rehearsal may lack an audience but contains all the actions and actors. The physicists and bureaucrats managing the U.S. side of the Arms Race had been rehearsing the end of the world out here, over and over again.”

Rebecca Solnit, ibid.

Shooting the Death himself – Nevada Test Site, 29 Mar 1955

* * *

Έφαγα σε ένα μεξικάνικο, στο New York, γωνία Broadway και Greenwich.

Είχαν ακόμα και τα παρκόμετρα.

Broadway & Greenwich

Το βράδυ έχω κανονίσει να δω τους Blue Man Group, στο Venetian. Τους θαυμάζω από το 2000, και όταν είδα την αφίσα-νέον θεώρησα τον εαυτό μου πολύ τυχερό που τους πετυχαίνω εδώ.

Αργότερα, θα μάθω ότι παίζουν στο Vegas συνεχώς από το 2000, 7 μέρες τη βδομάδα, δύο show την ημέρα…

Ήταν απολαυστικοί.

Μετά το show προσπαθώ να βγω έξω. Αλλά δεν είναι απλό. Δυο μέρες εδώ, και μπορώ πλέον να καταθέσω ότι τα casino είναι ειδικά σχεδιασμένα έτσι ώστε να δυσκολεύεσαι να βρεις την έξοδο.

Στρίβω, περιπλανιέμαι, κατεβαίνω, ανεβαίνω και….

… ώ όχι, όχι…

… ήταν ανάγκη…;

… ήταν ανάγκη να βγω εδώ;

Piazza San Marco @ The Venetian, Las Vegas NV

* * *

Περπατάω νύχτα, στην παιχνιδούπολη, με τα συντριβάνια να χορεύουν στη λίμνη Como και τους Κινέζους γύρω μου να φωτογραφίζονται με σωσίες του Elvis.

Lake Como @ Belaggio, Las Vegas NV

Γιατί, όσο κι αν θέλει να πλασάρεται ως Sin City, το Las Vegas είναι ακριβώς αυτό: μια τεράστια παιχνιδούπολη, μια Disneyland για ενήλικες, με 500.000 κατοίκους και 40 εκατομμύρια επισκέπτες το χρόνο, περισσότερους και από την ίδια τη Μέκκα…

… και γύρω η έρημος και οι πρόβες για το τέλος του κόσμου και η Περιοχή 51 και οι θρύλοι για εξωγήινα αστρόπλοια…

… και περπάτησα κι άλλο και περιπλανήθηκα και γύρω μου ήταν όλες οι φυλές του Ισραήλ…

Και με περιμάζεψαν οι Ιρλανδοί και ήπια μαύρη μπύρα στου O’Hara και άκουσα όμορφη μουσική.

Και περιπλανήθηκα κι άλλο και συνάντησα λατίνους που πούλαγαν γυναίκες και πεζοναύτες με τις μεγάλες τους στολές και τα παράσημα να αστράφτουν κάτω από τα νέον.

Και μετά κοιμήθηκα.

Και όταν βγήκε ο ήλιος το πρωί ξεκίνησα για την Κοιλάδα τού Θανάτου.

(Στο επόμενο: California crossing)