Gliding

Ferenc and István leave Europe tomorrow at noon. What better way to say “See ya!” than to quote their poetic confession about Seville?

There’s some stories left in the bag, but hopefully we’ll soon have more fresh testimonies about their walk in the U.S.A.

by FERENC IVANICS
Small light spots on the skin of the tent. It’s time to wake up, sun rays are breaking through the bushes. We’re hiding, surrounded and shaded by budding oleander shrubs, decorated in smashing purples and pinks. These are the best-known adornments of the Mediterranean. They’re pretty, but surprisingly they contain numerous deadly toxins.


To our surprise the morning is dry, there’s no dew; we’re just 50 yards from the river, usually morning dew is a common spectacle here. We can pack our tents quickly, there’s no need to wait for them to dry his time. I’m—smiling—peering at the mosquito that is about to fly away from my tent, wobbling, ruby red, stuffed full of my blood. It does not carry malaria. “Back in Africa we used to get scared of your infected relatives” I tell her. My brother is complaining about a tick slumbering on the mosquito screen of his tent. He never had been bitten by a tick. Even if you wouldn’t harm a fly, killing a tick is a different matter. One flick of the lighter and the insect won’t concern us anymore.


It’s early May in Andalusia. The rays of the sun, passing through the dry air, caress our freshly shaved heads. At about 10AM we have to put our caps on. More about the summer later. Walking along the river toward the city. Spring’s flower-parade is close to its finish, yet the drought tolerant weeds are still blooming. At the riverbank delicate yellow irises try to join sun and water. I step close to the bushes for a moment. I lose some liquid weight and gain a few dozens of spiky seed pods on my stockings. I sweep them off, in a much easier fashion than the infernally insistent seeds of a grass on the African Savannah.


The ocean is not far from here. The river dances its tidal dance, with a small delay, as if it could imitate the tide of the sea. Right now it’s low-tide. You can see the slob at the banks, full of semicircular holes, as if some wild mustang colts were playing in the mud. Just before we arrive to the bridge that takes us to the city we pass the bio-gas station. Some of the buses of the community transport in Seville are fueled by bio-gas. People are carried by their own crap from point A to point B in Seville. There’s a stretch by the factory where it’s better not to inhale. This is the very same methane gas that springs up in swamps. We used to hear stories back home about unsuspecting anglers, who—during a calm night in a reed-belt of the lake—wanted to light a cigarette. Apart from the instant depilatory effect they weren’t seriously injured.


Under the bridge there are people collecting hay. Their car is oxen-drawn. Huge potatoes with bulky muscles. It’s not entirely clear if they (the people) are entertaining themselves, or it is just a habit, or it’s because oxen have limited brain functions, but the men are constantly talking to the animals. In an oxen language, things like: AaaaHooaa! Neerrrhhhooo!, and similar words. Even if they walk on a straight road.


To see the river we have to stop on the bridge. It has a yellowish-green color with a texture similar to military camouflage. We have seen cleaner rivers before. But at least there’s fish, plenty of them. Crossing the first bridge takes us to a second river, a backwater, I should say. Its water is cleaner than the river’s, it’s quite pleasing to the eye. We take our spot on a small metallic pier, just above the water. Right beside our well-known oleander shrubs there are two stretching fig trees nearby as well. They root in the impossible: one of them grew out from a concrete wall, the other one from the concrete walkway at the riverbank. But we’ve seen better things: like a huge fig tree growing out from a stone bridge, it had nice healthy fruits on it.


Small fish gather around to glut the breadcrumbs we throw into the water. Suddenly a fast dark shadow shoots through the cluster of smaller fish. The potential prey disperse in a heartbeat. Some of them even jumps up from to water to escape the attack of the predator.


When we cross the second bridge we enter the city. The Feria is over, it’s a week-long vibrant fair celebrated in Seville. Now the city is unusually calm. On the last day of the Feria people stay up really late drinking beer, wine, and anything alike, and an impressive fireworks display seals the celebration. The city is unusually calm. We’re passing by a construction site, its fence is a placeholder for posters of gigs and parties. One of them calls my attention, it displays a skinned Angel. It’s grotesque, almost horrifying. I’ve heard about the German anatomist, Günther von Hagens before, I’ve even seen some of his work. He’s considered a scandalous artist, many claim he’s a sicko for using real corpses to create his art. I watch that creation made of veins, muscles, nerves and bones on the poster. How repulsive and disgusting the human body is... And yet, it is a beautiful facility.


Summer’s not at full power yet, the heat-waves above a hundred degrees are still to come. But it’s almost like summer, and the date-palms amplify this effect with their visuals. Yet, there’s nothing more exotic than the hundreds of years old huge fig trees (not the common fig, mentioned before, but another species, with thick, dark green leaves and air-roots), they diffuse a serious equatorial feeling. A piece of rain forest in the Mediterranean Spain. But we don’t have time to look around; we’ve arrived to the corner of the Plaza Nueva and Calle Tetuán, our working spot. Without precipitation we arrange our begging and collecting equipment and squat against the wall. We have long hours ahead of us.