Travel and Psychokinesis – Patterns of Synchronicity
18 Jun 2010 2 Comments
in MapMaking Tags: coincidence, global consciousness project, interconnection, observation, pattern, practice, princeton, psychokinesis, psychology, radin, self, synchronicity, travel
Psychokinesis, or remote influence, is psychic influence upon an object, process, or a system. It is the scientific term for practices like prayer, voodoo, chanting mantras, and witchcraft. It may also refer to the power of positive thinking to bring about desired events. Psychokinesis is the ability for conscious intention to act as a force on the external world.
The Global Consciousness Project is a parapsychology experiment begun in 1998, described as “an attempt to detect potential interactions of ‘global consciousness’ with physical systems.” Using geographically distributed random number generators to uncover potential anomalies in their output and its potential correlation with world events that elicit widespread emotional response or focused attention by large numbers of people.
It suggests that focused consciousness among people can have an ordering effect on the universe; a type of psychokinesis. When the observer notices the correlation, it is perceived as a synchronicity.
According to Jung, synchronicity is: “a causal connection of meaning between inner psychological states such as dreams, fantasies, or feelings, and events in the outer or material world.” Synchronicity is like a quick “blip” of the underlying interconnectedness of the universe.
Thus, one can see through synchronicity – an observation of interconnectedness – that our external world is connected to our internal world. Likewise, a person’s individuality is connected to the whole. Through an understanding of psychokinesis we see that something as individual as “thought” and “emotion” subsequently manifests a “reality”.
Synchronicity is an opportunity to return to the whole. By acknowledging these “coincidences” and assigning them meaning – we are training our brains to see pattern. This is a practice. The more open to this reality we become the sooner we begin to uncover how unconscious and subconscious thought effects behavior.
To authentically evolve our individual and collective thinking we must begin to operate with conscious knowledge that what we do DOES affect the whole. We create life by putting off our own unique biological rhythm all of the time. What type of life are you creating? Are you being responsible with it?
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Travel is just one way we experience synchronicity. I also notice the phenomena when I am skiing, walking, conversing with strangers and engaging with the “mundane”. However, certain qualities of travel increase the likelihood that I will experience the phenomena. In addition, these synchronous events also appear to have a greater chance of correlating with an event of perceived importance – like needing to locate lodging for the night, or find a ride to the next town. In this way, synchronicity overlaps with psychokinesis. And the “user experience” is a realization of living in an interconnected universe.
The traveler must adapt at a very fast rate. When traveling, we are thrown into a foreign environment, and navigation of this new environment is key to our survival. More specifically, when we are traveling to experience new cultures – it is the behavior of people that becomes the “environment” we must perceive and navigate. As a result, our limbic systems switch into overdrive – assigning meaning to the objects and people that comprise our new environment.
This is how a new perception is built.
Our temporal lobes attempt to derive meaning from this new input, and the received information is seen as highly symbolic and meaningful to us. We begin to witness the synchronous qualities of life. This is when the nature of our thoughts becomes extremely important. If we are paranoid, these new symbols may come across as threats in the environment – building into a negative experience built off of a fear based perception. However, if we allow our “higher self” to navigate this experience, the symbols can appear mystical – unveiling the interconnected world around us.
Positive thought and perception can increase the likelihood of experiencing a positive reality. By mindfully engaging with the world from the perspective of an interconnected, whole world view, we manifest a more harmonious reality.
Jun 20, 2010 @ 04:59:28
That would be nice… being able to mentally control the universe. I often have a day dream of ridding the world of nuclear weapons through some sort of high-level super thought. But in the end, here is what I have concluded about the universe:
http://daisybrain.wordpress.com/2010/05/03/1724/
Jun 23, 2010 @ 15:39:01
Namaste, my sister Amy. Thank you for visiting my blogsite godlymanifestation.blogspot.com
Your comments about us having much in common is well reflected in the fine work you have created here. I would like however to direct your attention to the real intent of the blogsite. which is to use U-tube videos as a vehicle for people to discover love and the essence of life beyond illusion. When you scroll down you will see many categories of video content. I raise this issue due to our changing times, more people are searching for an easy vehicle to spiritual truth. Please share the site with as many as you can.
Regarding your travel site I was bit by the bug in my early 20′s so I rode my motorcycle to all the mainland U.S. states.
Later I rode my mountain bike on a tour of europe starting late September in Amsterdam, from there to Belgium, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Italy, Spain then France. When I heard the Berlin wall was about to collapse I went back to Germany to visit Berlin. Experiencing the riots in Berlin and tearing chunks out of the wall days later was inspiring. Two days after the collapse I found myself in the eastern city of Leipzig fortunate enough to share the joys of emancipation with massive crowds. Eine Deutchland; Deutchland, Deutchland, uber alles they cried, shouting their freedom til the sun came up.
I made my way back to Northwestern Germany and a port city called Rugen, there I took a ferry to Denmark. By now it was mid February and I never thought to dry my tent which had been soaked the night before. It was so cold I could set up the iced over tent to stand without any poles. Needless to say it proved to be the coldest night of my life. My stupidity was rewarded by a kind soul who invited me to spend a couple weeks with his family in Copenhaven. Well rested I made my way back to Amsterdam to enjoy and welcome the early signs of spring. By the end of it I had cycled about 9,000Km. Being blessed over a 7 month period with the love and interaction of hundreds of wonderful souls.
The next year I vowed to bicycle to a warmer climate so I started in England early September, rode on to France, Spain, Morocco, Algeria, Niger, Nigeria, Ivory Coast back to Nigeria, Cameroon then Central African Republic, Zaire, Uganda, Kenya, and finally north to Ethiopia. The trip took me 8 months to complete and I covered a little over 12,000km. .
There is a small detail you may find interesting Amy. I rode my mountain bike alone on both trips totaling over 20,000Km never owning or using a map. I never found it necessary to have an objective or destination, for me it was all about sharing love with people.
In Europe I never ate in a restaurant or slept in a hotel or hostel. My tent was my home and my food was fruit, bread, cheese, salami, nuts and chocolate. In Africa, it was usually Mommas cookpot for dinner and a village hut for bed.
The stories I could tell you would boggle your mind Amy. Storms in the Alps, monkeys on the rock of Gibraltar, crazy mountain passes in the Pyrenees, loneliness and mirages in the Sahara, the Moroccan carpet hustle, bullets flying over my head in Uganda, a place called Lamu (I call it heaven) off the north coast of Kenya. Strange magic in the Congo, bloated and distended bellies and my broken heart.
I will however amuse you with one story then let you go.
This is going to freak me out Amy, in the 20 or so years since this happened I may have told this story only four or five times and I have never taken pen to record the events. However the events that unfolded forever changed my life.
The location was a small village about 150 north of Kisangani in Zaire. The mud roads ( calling them roads is most generous ) were horrific. Loaded with pot holes and fallen trees most vehicles were lucky to accomplish 30 to 40 KM per day. On my mountain bike I could manage about 75km per day ( Yay, the only time ever I experienced a bike to out travel a truck ). Two days from Kisangani and I was knackered. The sun was just starting to set over the forest canopy as I spied a small village sitting near a river at the bottom of a long ravine. I wish I could recall the name of the village but like the names of the people all is now lost. What remains etched in my mind is the memories of their faces and the lesson they taught me.
I coasted down the road being welcomed by a throng of villagers. In remote regions like Zaire it is unbelievable how loving and giving the people are. I am fluent in french so the children were very excited to learn they could communicate with me. One must understand this village was not unique, everywhere across the continent I was received in much the same manner.
The cities in many African countries are dangerous and you need your wits about you, but the villages are rarely short of wonderous.
The childrens shouts drew the attention of the village elder who quickly made his way to the growing group. We spoke, embraced and I was invited to take a smoke before they prepare the evening meal. The children gathered around as much as allowed while the men sat down for a pipe of ganja and the women prepared a special feast. Great debate soon swelled over the quality of our weed and the elder shouted a few words to a boy who sped off in service. Moments later the boy came running up with a small bongo, a pipe and about three pounds of grass. The elder insisted I take this gift so that I may remember the good people of his village. I refused to accept it as a gift, insisting instead, on trading some money so they could buy sugar and coffee beans. The elder agreed and we bartered on how much I should pay.
It may seem odd to be offered a gift and then find oneself bartering over the cost, but in the world of the elder it was a very natural progression. After a few pipes the elder and I both felt pleased in having established a fair price for trade.
Dinner was served by the fire, the elder sat next to me ensuring I was amply fed and cared for. We enjoyed a wonderful meal with enchanting conversation. The fire was stoked as a warm companion to some coffee and a few pipes. Well into the evening now, the forest ecosystem created a subtle din against the backdrop of stories recalling rich village legend. I can remember the full moon cast a lovely glow on the flora, leaving me feeling very euphoric as I opened the door to the small hut provided me. The huts are round and made of straw and mud. They are about large enough for the wooden bed with about two feet on either side and at the foot. I settled into my sleeping bag drifting off to the orchestra of the jungle fauna I would so love to hear again.
Morning comes early in the jungle. About one hour before sunrise the birds wake, not long after, the monkeys get everyone up. There truly is no better way to greet the day. Lounging in my bed, I hear a steady flow of little feet and giggles. Anxious the children are to take advantage of the early hour, hoping I would show my face before the elders catch up to them.
We take breakfast as a family enjoying coffee and a pipe later while the women chase the children to chores and busy themselves. The men were excited about the prospects for an afternoon hunt. Village scouts had reported much game on the move. I very much wished to participate in the hunt but was not offered and would never presume to ask.
I did however have the opportunity to join in the village prayers and dances. Offerings were made by all, with thanks, for a successful and safe hunt. Looking into their eyes as they offer up prayers you can see the manifestation of intent. Such concentrated focus would be the envy of any, new age, intention group around the globe today.
In lieu of attending the hunt I made arrangements to join the girls on a fishing trip.
This was something to see. We made our way down the river maybe a kilometer or so until the girls found just the bend they wanted. They had no fishing poles or nets, no hooks or line, all they had were five gallon plastic buckets.
I was perplexed, I had my rod and reel and enough tackle to catch most smaller fish. I figured on maybe finding a few worms or bugs and a hook if they didn’t hit the artificial stuff.
I started a pipe and then rigged up my rod. The girls were doing nothing but watching in amazement my every action.
I began to think maybe they expected me to catch the fish and fill those buckets. Well I casted and casted trying all kinds of widgets and gadgets but all to no avail. The girls found the entire scene very amusing, delighting at my expense, we all had fun. After about an hour of this one of the girls brought me some fresh papaya. The fresh papaya is fantastic fruit for reviving the senses. I lit up a pipe relaxing by the shore watching the morning sun dance across the river.
Well don’t you know it, the girls started working, they were here to fish after all. At the apex of the elbow was a small marshy area about 25 feet in diameter, they were using the buckets to dam off a small part of the river and fill the marsh area. Understand this is no small feat, there were nine girls, seven were bringing in the buckets of mud/sand so two girls could construct the small dam. It took about two hours of steady work until they could fill and seal the marshy area. Like all the villagers, the girls refused to let me help. So I sat back reading my favorite book, smoking my pipe and enjoying the jungle fruit brought to me with regularity.
They all took a lunch break with me when the work was done. We sang songs, ate lunch, then splashed around in the river laughing and giggling.
Work recommenced just as the sun was passing its apex. Phase two of the fishing trip involved the girls using the same buckets to empty the gooey swamp. Singing song of praise and thanks, they labored tirelessly for about two hours until all that was left was a quagmire of mud knee deep to all but the eldest girls. One girl was assigned to maintain the integrity of the dam while six others skittered about yelping and screaming with joy and excitement as they seized their prey. The other two girls remained steadfast in bucketing the mud onto the banks looking for anything that might flop. The day ended with the dam being broken up allowing the river to ebb into the quagmire, in time clearing the debris for the next fishing expidetion.
For their rewards they caught about 150 fish, the largest maybe 4 or 5 inches. They had managed to fill about one third of a five gallon pail. Making their way back to the village you would imagine they had caught 200 pounds of fresh salmon. The joy, gratitude and thanks those girls exuded that day brought then, as it does now, tears of love to my eyes.
The men were back from a successful hunt, the girls were bouncing with excitement for the comming festivities. Ladies, who had busied themselves most the day preparing all sorts of breads and side dishes were now setting the evening feast. The entire village was abuzz with excitement.
Undescribable was the meal in it’s vast assortment of tastes and textures. After a hard day watching the girls fish this was just what I needed.
We migrated back to the fire as the evening began to cool. A pipe and a few stories was to segue into the Sunday evening commune. The Chief,
or elder if you like, asked I join him in offering prayers of thanks for the bounty the earth has provided his humble village. We sang and prayed under a canopy of straw, the breeze passing through the unwalled building offered up an aromatic pleasure making everything seem surreal. Looking around I could see the entire village about 60 or so of us on benches before the altar, the 150 or so villagers without a seat crowded around the perimiter of the structure. Sight, sound, smell, sharing, my world became a euphoric paradise of love.
We settled back to the fire for a few stories and pipes. One of the men asked about my fishing trip inquiring of my success. I admitted I had no luck but extolled the success of the girls. Everyone around the fire found it quite amusing ( as if they didn’t already know ). We talked about fishing in the area and they told me of a sacred lake. I mentioned I wish I had the time to go there and try my luck, to this comment was more laughter. Perplexed, I asked what was funny. They said you can’t fish there, it is forbidden and you would not catch fish if you tried. My reply was why? I was told that this is a very special and magical lake, if I were to cast a net or a line the water would run away. Please explain I said. He told me the water would always run away from you. If you try to approach the lake for water or food it will surely run away and you get nothing. To this I replied, I need a few more pipes. The fire almost consumed, wood has become coal leaving now ash the end to what was a perfect day.
I woke early embracing the love of the few who stirred, I felt sorrow in the knowledge I would soon leave this beautiful village family. I say village family because all the elders treat all the children just as their own. As well, all the children respect and love all the elders considering each as a parent. The result of this is confusing at first when you hear one man speaking to twenty or so children calling each one my son or my daughter. Conversely each child would refer to each elder as father or mother making it appear like one child has many fathers. In fact this is the essence of their demeanor, they truly are a family of 200. Imagine if all people around the world treated their neighbor as a sibling or a parent, how easy it would be to find love replacing the corporate fear paradigm.
I digress…, the morning passed in a flash with a meal and, you guessed it, a coffee and a couple of pipes. With my bicycle panniers packed I bade a sorrowful farewell to my new family, or so I thought.
Shall I continue, I hope I am not boring you…
For those who may think this cycling thing sounds like paradise and are considering buying a Trek 900 mountain bike with the intent of crossing Africa let me say. You have no idea how gruelling it is, in Zaire alone I suffered malaria, intestinal infections, bowel infections and dysentery so bad, I would shit myself at least four or five times in a days cycling. When I saw my doctor back in Canada he told me my insides will never be the same, twenty years later he is still right.
For those brave souls who disregard my advice you will find a divine synchronicity between your survival needs and the graceful love with which these villagers are prepared to offer.
Back to the story….
The sun has just passed its apex as I start the climb out of the ravine, looking back I see bright faces and waving arms. The road is in good shape here, so close to the village it gets used alot. I appreciate the relatively smooth surface as it appears to be a good two kilometers to the top. My muscles feel good from the rehydration of my body over the last two days. The recent abundance of good food has helped to curb the dysentery, so all is about as good as it gets for a days ride. Half way up the mountain a couple of young men, in their twenties or so, offered to help push me up the mountain. ( For those who don’t know it is an extra source of income derived by the boys and young men by pushing trucks, landrovers and motorcycles out of mud holes. Cleaning of said vehicles after muddy ordeals is another service often provided. Providing of fruit and food while the pushing and cleaning is done is yet another opportunity to get what I call sugar money )
I was happy for the assistance, especially because my muscles were not yet warmed up. We progressed up the mountain around a couple of bends. It was in the last few hundred yards from the top I heard a metal ping sound. Something metal had dropped from my bike landing precicely on a large rock. I looked behind me to see only one man was standing on the road about twenty or so feet from the bike, where was the other?
I looked closely at him and for some reason he looked scared. As my eyes spied the panniers I noticed they were all open and emptied, in stealing my belongings he had dropped my spoke key. It is a fairly heavy solid steel tool and probably one of the only things in my bag that could have made such a distinct noise. Anything else falling and I probalbly would have never discovered their plot. Or even if it had fallen in the mud or dirt the alarm would have never been set off.
I looked at him, he looked at me, then he bolted running down the road disappearing around the bend. ( reader please note I had been robbed seven other times in Africa, once at knife point in a nasty little cafe in Tetuan Morocco. Three of those times in Lagos, good reason why the consulate warns you about Lagos )
Instinct kicked in and I dropped my bike and ran after the culprit. He had a good head start, I never expected to catch him but I had to try. As misfortune would have it he made a very poor choice. He ran down the hill, around the bend and yet another 100 yards or so to second bend. There, he was standing on the apex of the bend looking to see if I was to come. Why he didn’t just get around the corner and hide in the jungle I will never know. Ten feet in the jungle and he would have been a ghost.
Even at that distance I could see his eyes light up in fear as he saw me barreling at him full speed. He made a second mistake. He stayed on the road running down the mountain, again the jungle would have still kept him free. I crested the corner where he once stood realising that I had made up more than half of the distance. If he buckled down and ran hard he probably would have gotten away, instead he kept looking back and by doing so slowed himself down. I was just about to grab his shirt when he finally just dove into the jungle. I was so close I just followed. The ground fell from beneath my feet and I found myself tumbling down the mountain head over toe. I came to rest about 100 yards down the slope landing firmly on my thief. ( Please understand reader I am not a violent man, to this point in my life I had been involved in only one fight, and that was on the hockey ice. )
I am ashamed to say we fought and I beat him until I could no longer raise my hand. I took off his belt tied his arms behind his back and told him he was going to drag me back up this hill. We made it back to the road and up to the bicylce. I had some rope in my front pannier which I used to retie his hands. We were both fatigued and sweaty, my guard was down and he jumped on my mistake. He slipped his hand free and lunged at me biting my lip. My God, we were attached, no matter what I did I could not get him to release him maniacal grip. I poked and pushed my fingers in his eyes no use. I grabbed him by his pants, literally lifting him up and kneeing him in the balls, three four times no use. I grabbed his forehead and his chin and yanked my lip out of his mouth leaving behind a large chunk of my lip. I fell back and he came at me again, a vicious attack with his teeth. I put my hand out to prevent him from clamping onto my face again but he managed to get my finger. I yanked my hand as hard as I could breaking my finger and leaving a nasty chunk of flesh behind. He got up leaving me on the ground soaked in blood. Again he started to run down the mountain, but now it was more like a stumble. I was defeated, I rolled over watching as he fled. I noticed the rope which I had firmly tied to the one hand was trailing behind him as he ran. I picked myself up and began persuit. I was closing on the rope, my eyes were fixated on that rope bouncing in a weird pattern off the dirt road. Time seemed to slow, I bent down, picked up the rope, and drew in the slack. as soon as the slack was taken up I did with a most malicious intent yank on that rope for all I was worth. His arm made a loud pop as it dislocated pulling him horizontal before collapsing in agony on the ground. I jumped on him looked him straight in the eyes and said ” Tu est mort “. I wrapped the rope around his neck and pulled with all my might. Just at that moment two young boys shouted ” Arretez, Arretez “. I woke, just then, to the dreadful realisation I was killing a man. I let go of the ropes, rolled him over, hog tied him and told the boys to take him to the village. I walked back to my bicycle sat down and wept. Recovering my composure I made my way coasting down the hill. Before I had a chance to reach the village many were running up the hill. My white T-shirt was covered in blood, a good part of my lip was missing and none of us could comprehend what this event would bring to this loving village.
I was led to the same hut I had used the past two days and given two squares of gauze and a mirror. I looked into the mirror and saw a horrible mess. My vanity set in and all I could see is a future with a messed up lip and then I thought. What is all this biting about, my lip and my finger, no punches just teeth. Does he have aids? Zaire is dealing with a national aids crisis right now. Have I been doomed to their fate? My friends, I was loosing my mind.
The elder opened the door to my hut and we talked for a long while. He was grief stricken. He told me of the great shame his sons had brought on his village. He wept as he told me quick interrogation of the captive had disclosed there were three working together. He mentioned that he had dispatched all the men and boys to search the jungle until they find the other two. As well he had sent their quickest boy to a larger village twelve kilometers away to get the Gendarmerie ( police ) to take the thieves away. He had food and drink brought to me and asked that I rest until the police arrive.
The afternoon passed and a poultice was made for my lip. What ever it was, it was excellent in stemming the bleeding and promoted quick mending of tissue. As well it froze the area a bit, like at a dentist, but not quite as much.
I ate what I could for dinner but my mood was very down. It broke my heart to find myself involved in such an affair. But also I was hurt and very angry at what had befallen me as well. I was a bundle of confused feelings, none of them good. Where was the love and euphoria of yesterday?
After dinner I sat with some of the elders over a few pipes, the mood was very somber. The chief elder asked that I pray with him and a few others. We went to the prayer lodge and asked for blessings of grace. The chief later turned to me and said, ” although I have lost three sons, one is of my blood “. ” His position in the village is one of great responsibility, his sin is one I cannot forgive, he is no longer my son “. Tears welled in both our eyes as the gravity of his loss set in. We returned to the fire, smoked in quiet and parted for the night. Making my way back to my hut the moon was still full but the glow on the flora was not to be seen. I was trying to read and was putting out my pipe just as the Police knocked on the door. I scurried like a child hiding my weed as I answered their call. The night was late, they were not happy ( as it turned out the only vehicle in their village is the police chiefs landrover and he was away until the next day, so they had to walk all the way, 12 km to answer this call. )
They asked I join them in the elders hut for a discussion. I was asked what happened and I told them everything, including my attempted murder on the thiefs life. They asked what was missing and I lied. I told them everything that I knew was missing but I also told them two hundred dollars U.S. was missing. There was no $200, and I wish I never said there was. No matter what, I wanted those three to pay for my lip and pay for the aids I might be carrying. I didn’t want the police letting them go because I was just a tourist out of his depth and they were locals, so to speak.
The police informed me the village men had captured the second thief and will surely get the third as he has no where to go. They told me I would have to attend the police chief in their village to file a proper report. As well he suggested I should rest as we will leave mid morning.
I returned to my tent, tried to read or sleep but neither was possible so I laid there victim to my thoughts. In the background echoing throughout the village was the screams of the two men as the police tortured them for information and confession. The night grew on, I drifted off to sleep in a eerie silence, it seemed the entire jungle was holding it’s breath.
I woke about two hours before dawn to stomach cramps, nothing unusual if you make the tiolet in time. My finger throbbed and my lip ached while my stomach was doing the two step. I placed my feet on the hut floor
( which is the ground ) and gathered my composure. I felt a couple of bites on my foot then a few more on my leg. Damn these buggers really bite. I lifted my feet up and reached for my handy zippo. A flick of the zippo illuminated the floor showing a steady flow of army ants, or whatever they are called. At any rate, the only way you can get them off is by picking them off. Trying to sweep them away is useless. In all the commotion I shit my pants, damn not again.
I got myself sorted, took extra underwear and pants and made my way to the toilet. For those who don’t know, it is a concentric circle of thatch with a large hole in the middle and two sturdy logs across. You should have a picture of me standing on the logs with my ass sticking out dropping a load. And that is exactly what happened for the first few minutes until the log broke. Yes my dear readers, I found myself covered from head to toe in shit and piss. And I vomited, like I have never vomited in my life ( even worse than when I pounded back a fifth of tequilla to celebrate my 25th birthday ). When I finished vomiting, I vomited some more. I started climbing out the hole, but the shape I was in and my broken finger I fell back submerging myself no less than three times before finally extracating myself from the excrement. I made my way down to the river stripped off and tossed away my clothes, I guess at least I didn’t have to clean the shit out of my pants, that is never fun friends.
I cleaned up and made my way back to my hut just as the birds were getting up. I smoked a few pipes and before I knew it the police were knocking on my door to go. They were able to recover about 80% of what was taken but the $200 and some odds and ends were still missing, albiet with the promise all would be recovered. The one thief admitted the third guy has my money.
The police led myself, the thieves and the chief to the village ceremonial square. In the light I could see heavy bruising on their legs, torso and arms. Since neither could stand in one place for more than a second I assumed the soles of their feet had also been beaten. Moreover the damages I had inflicted on the thief who I fought had not been tended. To this day I cannot imagine how much emotional and physical pain they were in at that time. Nor could I ever imagine then what was yet in store for us all.
A goat was led into the square and a villager took a large knife and cut it’s throat, I nearly puked. Then and there he gutted the goat and tied it around the neck of the man I fought. Around the neck of the other thief he tied as sack with all the retrieved belongings they stold. To this man’s waist a live goat was tied. All of us stood back in utter silence as the ceremony was performed and accusations were announced. The chief said a few words denouncing from the tribe all three villians. All I could think of was that somehow I was the, real, third villian.
Ceremony complete the police ushered the two thieves away with me following about 50 yards back. As we left the camp the eerie silence was broken with the sounds of great sorrow and loss. Soon it faded away as the jungle engulfed our group. It was a most arduous journey my friends, 12km through a hot jungle. I was spent from the day and night before and I cannot conceive how the thieves could move, let alone walk with a load. We took breaks, but not enough. As the thieves stumbled they were beat until they regained their footing and continued. I let them get a couple hundred yeards ahead so I wouldn’t have to experience the violence up close. How did any of us make it? I don’t know. I passed out in the infirmary as soon as I arrived, the other two didn’t have that luxury. I came to jolted by the screams of the tortured men. I looked at the I.V. in my arm and slowly regained the realisation of the nightmare.
In my brief absence the two men were torured by three different police officers. They were going up the rank and comparing notes as they went. By the time they were done niether thief could speak, as I witnessed when they were dragged to the village square semiconscious. The bright sun made it feel like a cheap spagetti western, I watched them tie the two back to back to a large tree. The tree was so big they couldn’t see each other. The big kahoona, chief of police walked out into the courtyard greeting me with great interest. He went on to rant to a growing crowd about how terrible these men are to the reputation of the government of Zaire and how no mercy shoud or will be spared in retribution.
I could barely stand up, my head was spinning and my stomach was dancing the cha cha. The chief grabbed my arm, made his appologies for keeping me in the sun and ushered me into his air conditioned office. The cool air steadied my senses allowing us to procede with the task at hand, which was the deposition. I dictated to him the events as I knew them, trying in some way to reduce the damage my lie would inflict. He would have nothing of it, he said he would assure me they would find the $200 dollars or he would meet me later with the recompense from the government. About ten or so minutes into the interview the thieves began to scream, the torture had begun anew. We took two hours to compile the whole story, typed in triplicate with the aide of carbon paper. One letter at a time the report was typed as the chief liked to type that way.
When all was done the chief ushered me out of his office to proudly present the defeated thieves. Off and on during the interview this very large man ( one of the biggest men I have ever seen ) used a heavy hemp rope with knots tied in it to flail the two men. They were unable to respond to the chiefs questioning, even after buckets of water were thrown on them. Defeated and dripping unconscious in blood, the crowds were starting to disperse, the show was over.
I was ushered to a room in a small hotel, if you could call it that. I was informed that missionaries who heard of this event were prepared to take me as a passenger to the city of Bunia where I was receive proper medical help, and inform my consulate. The chief said he would meet me in two weeks when he must travel there for business. As well, he had me over for dinner, his property was lavish as was the dinner. However, his pride in brutal justice and the boasting about his new prison was difficult to bear. He insisted on giving me a tour of the prison, the conditions were dreadful and he could not have been prouder because of it.
Back at the ” hotel ” I laid my head down and slept like never before. The next morning arrives with the do good missionaries fulfilling their mandate to rescue my sorry soul. They seemed odd, by example, they had a land rover with some luggage on the seat. Instead of moving the luggage to the back and offering me a seat they asked me to sit in the luggage area. I was not about to complain, riding a land rover bouncing around in the back is far better than walking. We arrived in the village and I collected my gear and bicylce and loaded it into the land rover under great protest. The missionaries thought I would leave my bicycle. It took about 10 minutes to convice them the bike was essential. After all, there was plenty of room for everything. They relented and with a few words to the elders and some pictures I was off. I knew the trip was about 150 km which I suspected would take about two or three days even with a land rover. The cold demeanor of the missionaries was a caution, but what could I do, I was an emotional and physical mess. I couldn’t ride, not with my finger broken, my lip and a litany of other health issues, dehydration alone could do me in.
No matter if I could ride or not it soon became apparent I was not going to be able to maintain the company of my compassionate missionaries.
It went like this, the passenger started berating me about flaunting my rich lifestyle infront of these savages. How are they supposed to refrain from the devils work when evil people like you are acting as temptation. Then the driver chirped in with his barrage. On and on this went for about and hour. I tried to argue my point ( which is something I could do well ) but my brain was just not working. Instead of reason I started yelling and screaming obsenities about their probable propencity for young black boys. The land rover came to a quick stop, soon after I found myself assembling the parts to my bicycle.
The next three days to to Bunia was all a blur. I remember sleeping in a ditch under the stars the first night. After that I can just remember the focus it took to make sure the next peddle is pushed down. Willing my legs to continue turning the crank. I fell of my bike many times, it always felt like a dream. Get up and turn the crank, keep it going. I kept riding until I passed out unconscious in the ditch.
I have no idea how long I was out for, all I knew was that it was now dark and I had passed out. I was very, very scared. I thought I was going to die and began thinking about the love for my family and friends back home. I imagined what it would be like for them to get consular news of my death , never knowing what happened or how much I loved them. I cried and cried and then I prayed like I have never prayed before, or since. I begged God to give me the strength of my brothers and sisters, of my parents and my friends. I begged that their love and energy should come to me so that I may find the strengh I need to survive.
At that very moment a wave of peace and love came to me. I was still a mess but somehow I knew I would make it, I knew God was with me.
( later I came to understand it was my own Godself power which I had accessed )
I righted the bike, fixed my light on the road and recommenced turning the crank. The entire rest of the journey to Bunia was surreal. As if it were a dream, I cannot comprehend how I made it. I arrived in the city around dusk and almost immediately came across a police officer. He had spied me across an open courtyard determining I required aide. I remember looking at him wondering why he looked so concerned. He asked me my nationality and I told him Canadian. At once he said I know where to take you, they will tell me what to do.
He took me to a home not far away where a representative of the Canadian government lived. This gentleman was establishing a new agriculture project for the city. In addition to his job he acts as a vice counsul representative. ( I may have the term wrong, in essence he acts in the capacity of the consulate, fulfilling some duties but without the title. )
Salvation:
We stood on the stoop and rang the bell, I was in a haze but I will never forget the look on my saviours face when he first saw me. He picked me up, took me to the living room and called his wife. He was asking the police officer all sorts of questions, but all the police officer knew was that I was Canadian. They phoned a doctor who lived near to visit, he examined me and suggested they watch me closely but thought I would be okay in time. I was to see him at his office the next day to x-ray the finger, sort out the lip and clean up my dysentery. Stitches could not be used as it had happended too many days past.
The next day the doc fixed me up some more, he said I had to wait three months before I could get an aids test, and then another test after six months should clear me.
I cannot describe to you dear readers how this man, his wife and two children saved me. They own a beautiful home with servants who love their work. Their garden looked over a gorgeous vista of jungle groves. The smell of of their garden was heavenly. They had many books for me to choose from and most importantly they had all the old tunes I love. I had the house to myself. The servants and they were so gracious in putting up with Leonard Cohen over and over and over.
I cried and cried, my heart felt like it was ripped apart. As my health improved I felt guilty for surviving this ordeal when it was likely the other two or three men were doomed. I kept seeing the fight in my mind. I could not shake the image of his face purple with the rope tied around his neck knowing how the anger raged through me unabated. The many images of torture; from the butchered goat to the 12 km march, ending in the final beating tied unconscious to a tree. The screams of those two men rang in my ears almost every moment. I felt like I was loosing my mind, I just wanted to die.
The love of this remarkable family was the only thing which kept me from a psychiatric ward. They cared and loved me like one of their own, they fed me, cried with me, cleaned dirty bedsheets, and comforted screaming nightmares, they led me gently to health. Before leaving I was speaking with the father, he told me how pleased he was to see me recover. He admitted that when he first saw me he thought I was a ghost. In his words, ” there was nothing there, nothing in the eyes he said. ”
I met with the police chief two weeks later as planned. He said he would be able to have some money for me in a couple of days. He winked at me and with a wry smile said, ” one of them is dead, the fighter “. ” He killed himself with a knife in his cell. The other one will suffer the same and the third we will find. ” I got up and without a word left his presence, I never saw him again.
I left the company of my saviours the next day. I had imposed on their hospitality enough and Uganda was calling me. With great sorrow and joy I looked back on the town of Bunia as it faded into the jungle. There was road ahead, people to see and lessons to be learned. Down goes one leg, up goes the other and the crank starts to turn.
The events of that time took many years to resolve. I still have dificulty keeping it all in perspective. A couple years ago my wife bought me Lenard Cohen for my birthday. We were eating dinner as the music began and I realised it was the same album that kept me sane in Bunia. I tried to hold back the emotion but ended up breaking out in sobs. We learn compassion from the strangest of places, our heart breaks for the strangest of reasons. Souls dance with us in loving synchronicity giving up their very existence on this plane so that we may discover our true nature. I cherish the three thieves and pay greatest love and respect to their memories and that of all who danced with me during those days.
Post script. I ended up loosing my diary which had the names of all the party members. As a result of post traumatic stress ( and maybe too much weed ) my memory for recollecting the names was hopelessly lost with the diary. I did not like refering the the elder as the elder, the thieves as the thieves or the family who save me as the family. In this omission I mean no disrespect and have for years felt terrible that I cannot honor them all by name.
Wow Amy, sorry to let all that out on you… but it felt so good… I started at 10:30 and now it is 8:31 in the morning. I bid you a fine day.
In Lak’ ech, my sister Amy, on whose shoulder I rest…