Démocratie Réelle Maintenant des Indignés de Nîmes

Acampada Preveza

Preveza, March 22

Dear people,

Act one of our march through Greece has been completed. After a week we have arrived in Preveza, the first place that can qualify as a town, for Greek standards.

The geographical position of Preveza is extraordinary. It’s built on the tip of a peninsula at the entrance of a large internal sea. To boost expectations I have been spreading myths about the place in these last few days. By now people believe that this is one of those towns which are known as ‘the Venice of the South’.

You should be warned, I’m notorious for spreading bull shit. I once tried to make people believe with a straight face that Venice was also known as the ‘Dordrecht of the Adriatic’. Unfortunately, the myth didn’t stick.

Looking out over the battlefield of Actium

But seriously, we have experienced our first troubles with police these days.

Police here are like the cossacks during Napoleon’s retreat from Russia. They only attack isolated units. Yesterday, on the road to the modern seaside resort of Kanali, two of our comrades got stopped and had to undergo molesting interrogations and searches. One of them was forced to undress right next to the national road.

Arrival on the square in Kanali

In the evening a group of us gathered in one of the hip pubs of Kanali to discuss the case and form the Strategy working group. It seems that according to European directives we have a list rights in dealing with police, of which we should be well aware. Things like the right to a translator, the right to film the procedure, the right not to be forced to undergo humiliating searches, especially in open space etc.

I tried to find all these things black on white on the internet, but I felt like the character of Kafka who seeks access to the law. In other words, I didn’t find anything.

One of the things we decided was to march as a group today. We chose two reunification points on the route to make sure we would enter Preveza all together.

Before we went I rallied the troops.

“Comrades, the offense suffered by comrade Chino cries for bitter revenge!”

All words, of course. The revenge had already been consumed by Chino’s pet rat who had bitten the officer who had searched him.

Our first reunification stop was planned near the ruins of the ancient Roman town of Nicopolis.

On the road to Preveza

Reunification stop

It was appropriate enough. Nicopolis means ‘town of victory’. It was founded by Octavian to celebrate his victory over Marc Anthony in the sea battle of Actium, where the last remnants of the Roman Republic came to sink.

Octavian was the adopted son of Caesar. When Caesar was  murdered in 44 BC, Octavian allied with Marc Anthony to hunt down the conspirators. They succeeded, but afterwards the two became deadly enemies. Marc Anthony was seduced by Cleopatra, queen of Egypt and former mistress of Caesar, and the senate feared that she would use him to gain power over Rome.

Octavian and Anthony clashed here, right off the coast of modern day Preveza. Anthony’s fleet got defeated. He and Cleopatra finally committed suicide and Octavian would go on to become the first emperor of Rome, under the name of ‘Augustus’.

Ruins of Nicopoli

We march on over the paths of history. We enter Preveza, and we are mentally prepared for a confrontation with police.

It turns out there is nothing to be alarmed about. On the square along the seaside we find the same two cossacks that had molested our comrades the day before. When they see us arrive in group the bastards were most amiable. They don’t ask for ID or anything, they praise our effort with a smile, and they soon drive off.

All the better. We celebrate our arrival in town by a collective plunge into the harbour.

Arrival in the square in Preveza

Plunge into the harbour

In the last few days our march has had to cope with reduced rations, but she keeps going stronger. One of the former marchers has returned, and another one has joined us, both of them are from Spain.

There are still no Greeks coming along with us. Comrade Marianne hasn’t returned, as some of us had hoped. And maybe it’s better this way, because having to depend on her for our communications would likely cause new frictions in the group. Still we’re doing fine, for the moment. We communicate anyway, especially with the youth. And I’m confident that other Greeks will join our march, sooner or later.

On the ruins near the Gate

Mesopotamo, March 18

Dear people,

Today we walked for twenty kilometres under the burning sun, but people were more than happy to do so. This country is amazingly beautiful. The people who wanted to go to Patras are happy we didn’t. Because if all of Greece is going to be like this, than 500 kilometres is not enough.

As a march we are doing great. And it’s the first time I can say that without any reserves. There are no threats of rebellion or civil war, no people plotting, no big questions likely to cause conflict. And what’s more, our numbers keep growing. Since Bari we have been joined by an American and three Frenchmen. If only we also had a couple of Greeks among us, things would be just perfect.

We walk and we enjoy the panorama. This is the Greece of the ancient heroes, the Greece of shepherds and sailors.

As modern people, we have become accustomed to the economic exploitation of beauty. Along the shores of a mountain lake you know that you will find villas, hotels, bars, restaurants, parking lots, billboards, screaming children, etc. You have to use your imagination to get a picture of how this place would have looked like, once upon a time.

Not here. We pass a lake, and this is it. There’s nothing around it. Only a pasture, and a herd of sheep.

Then the road takes us back towards the sea, we see the virgin coasts from above, a lonely beach, a small trail through the thick green forests, and not a single piece of concrete. If you really want to use your imagination here, you can see the wooden triremes of yore, you can see the ancient heroes in their sparkling armours sailing towards mythical lands.

“It’s the Gate of Hell. The place were Ulysses descended into the Underworld to speak with the fortuneteller Teresias, and with the heroes of the Trojan war.”

View of Mesopotamo

Poor Ulysses. He finally managed to get away from the temptation of Circe, he was so close to home, but it wasn’t meant to be. When he went down into the Underworld he encountered his mother, who had died of sadness after her son had left. He met Agamemnon, who told him about the betrayal of his wife and how she slaughtered him in the bath tub of his palace in Mycene. He met Achilles, whose armour he inherited after the great hero was killed by Paris while Troy was already burning. He met Ajax as well, but the big man refused to talk to him, because he had wanted Achilles’ armour for himself.

The March to Athens arrives in Mesapotamo in the late afternoon. I rally people for a little expedition to the Gates of Hell, but not straight away. “We will venture down there at sunset.”

Playing football

In the meantime, we play a little game of football against local children on the square. The sun signs the time. When it begins the set on the plain, the game ends, three to three, and we all march off. We jump the fence, we enter the old ruins, and we descend the stairs into the dark.

In between puddles of water rising up from the Styx we advance gropingly into the bowels of the earth. We touch the Gate, and without any surprise, but with tangible relief, we find that it is closed…

In front of the Gate

 

Igoumenitsa, March 15

Dear people,

We left nothing in the square in Bari but a single piece of cardboard. “Thanks to the Baresi, thanks to the Apulians, thanks to the Italians. From North to South, from East to West, the struggle continues, whatever the cost.”

Then we marched off to the harbour in parade, singing.

It took a while before we could get on board, because all the contents of our shopping carts had to be checked. It was the hour of sunset.

Marching to the port in Bari

“The boat! The boat!” comrade Mary cried, full of joy. And she started running. We climb the ramps in between the trucks, we park the carts on the deck and tie them up with ropes. Then we install ourselves in the lounge room with the drivers. They came from all over Eastern Europe, there was a Dutch trucker as well and three Iranians who drive up and down the Silk Road.

At the hour of steaming off we gather on the windy deck for a last salute to Italy. After that we sleep. Some of us in the lounge room. Others pitched their tents right on the deck.

This morning some of us were up early enough to see the solar wagon of Apollo rise over the hills of Greece. A magic moment. We’re navigating in between the green islands. On the starboard side you can see Corfu.

Occupy the deck

It’s a familiar panorama, I don’t know why, because I’ve never been here before. Maybe it’s the imprint of western culture. Greece is a part of our collective memory. As far as Europe is concerned, this is where the great story began.

We disembark. There is no customs, no police, no nobody. We stand on the tarmac outside the port terminal. So know what do we do? The answer is simple, like always, we take the square.

Igoumenitsa at first sight is a tourist transit town in the low season. From here people take the boat to the western islands, or to various Italian ports. Apart from that it doesn’t look interesting, even though it’s surprisingly clean. Along the streets you see French owned banks, German insurance companies and supermarket chains, Italian brand names and lots of bars. The Chinese have arrived here as well.

Disembarking

Disembarked

On the way to take the square.

Once we take the square we awaken the curiosity of the locals. Unfortunately, we have no-one in our group who speaks Greek, but in this particular place it isn’t so hard to communicate. A bit of Italian, a bit of English, a bit of Spanish, and you understand each other. Some people speak German, because they have lived there for years or because they have family who emigrated there.

Finally, police arrive on motor bikes.

When we got off the boat we had been warned by a local squatter to be careful. “This is not Europe. This is the Balcans. Here police don’t talk, they beat you up.”

Comrade Bobó and the Old Man

The officers on the edge of the square observe us, but they don’t approach. So we put up our tents to see what they will do. One of them walks over. He is a young guy in his early twenties. He doesn’t say we can’t camp, he doesn’t ask for documents. He asks us how long we plan to stay, and once he has understood who we are, he says: “I’m one of you.”

After the police comes the mayor. He is also one of us. He donates us an English-Greek dictionary. After the mayor comes the church, the eastern one. They are with us as well. They bring us lunch. And every once in a while, small groups of locals approach us. They express their admiration. They bring us fruit and juices, and they look forward to tonight’s assembly.

Finally we are visited by the owner of a hotel close by. He has promised to bring us a typical Greek diner tonight, and he has invited everyone to celebrate.

So, the port of arrival in Greece has embraced the March to Athens. We are touching a cord here. St. Nicholas be praised, it really seems like we are the 99%.

Acampada Igoumenitsa

Day 125-LI, from Palo del Colle to Bari.

‘And so it came to pass, on the eleventh day of March in the year of our Lord 2012 that the brave marchers to Athens finally reached the most venerable city of Bari…’

Bari, March 11

Dear people,

The wind comes from sea. It batters the plains and brings along the sweet odour of salt and spices. The first faint hints of the East are in the air.

It’s not just the air, or the odours. Also the colours are changing. Since we descended down the mountains into Apulia everything started to get brighter. The green of the hills, the white marble stones of the old town centres. I’m sure I could say the same about the blue sky, if we had been lucky enough to see it.

Irsina, Gravina, Altamura, Toritto, Palo. Each of them is a maze of bright alleyways and snow white houses with iron balconies. When you arrive there during the hour of the siesta, like we do, you will not find a living soul there, except for an occasional cat.

Acampada Palo del Colle

Thanks to the people of Palo del Colle

Then you come closer to the sea, and the wind gets stronger. You hop from one suburb to the other, and then you finally find yourself in front of Bari, one of the places which bears the name of ‘gateway to the East’.

I’m walking together with comrade Milton from Naples, and just before Bari we get lost. We don’t want to take the national road, but every other road we take seems to lead us away from the metropolis, or ends up being blocked.

We walk for hours and hours through the desert of an industrial park, through olive groves, past abandoned villas and old outskirts in ruins. All the while we can see the city in the distance on all sides, like a fata morgana, but we don’t seem to reach it. It’s as though Bari were protected by some kind of magnetic shield, and only the faithful can enter.

As a last resort I direct a prayer to Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of the city, asking him to let us through. And lo! a small road opens up in front us. Our hearts are beating full of expectation while we start following the path that takes us straight into Bari at sunset.

Comrade Milton and the sunset

"The whole world is our fatherland"

When we reach the old centre we find the others have already been camped for hours in one of the most beautiful squares. It’s close to the boulevard. At night, when all the other sounds die down, we can hear the sound of the waves in the distance.

We have made it. We crossed Italy coast to coast. Some of us have even descended the entire peninsula. Together we sit down around the fire. We toast, and while the luscious odour of hashish rises up from the circle, we reminisce about the various episodes of the march.

Then a police car stops by. The driver addresses us with a smile and with curiosity. He asks where we are from, where we’re going and why. We explain it briefly, we give him a flyer. He reads it, he nods, and he says: “Very well. Keep up the good work.” Then he drives off.

"Only when the power of love will be bigger than the love of power, the world will know peace."

Acampada Bari in the early morning light

 

 

Day 123-XLIX, from Altamura to Toritto, 23 km.

Day 124-L, from Toritto to Palo del Colle, 8 km.

trullo

Palo del Colle, March 10

Dear people,

The walk from Altamura into the plains was the worst. Twenty kilometres straight along a busy national road in the rain. There is nothing we can do but push on at an elevated pace to get it over with.

Finally the last few kilometres we have the road all for ourselves. It’s not yet in use, so we’re able to inaugurate it with our shopping carts. The rain has stopped, and in the olives fields along the road our efforts are rewarded by the view of the trulli.

A trullo is a typical Apulian peasant house. It looks a bit like the homes of the Smurfs. I adore them. When I was only a couple of years old, I wanted to travel to find the village of the Smurfs. Unfortunately, back then I didn’t find it, but I knew that some day I would. And indeed, I did.

At about fifty kilometres further south from here there is a village which is almost exclusively made up of trulli. It’s called Alberobello. You should see it. It’s even better than Disneyland.

It’s already dark when everyone has reached Toritto, the first suburb in the gravity zone of Bari. Tonight we would prefer a place with a roof, but there is none to be found, so we take the square. The sole officer on duty makes a worried phone call and then leaves us in peace.

News from Athens is coming in. Our people on the spot have grudgingly accepted May 5 as the day on which ‘Agora Athens’ will begin. They would have preferred to start a week earlier, but in the absence of convincing reasons there was no way that our assembly would agree to change the date of arrival. With that, the hot issue of the date is finally closed.

Other more interesting news concerns the rumours of a German march which will start in Patras on May 2 and which will arrive in Athens on May 15. Then there is even talk of a bicycle march which will start in Holland to cross all of Europe and arrive in Greece through the Balcans. It sounds great, and I hope it won’t turn out to be just rumours.

Comrade Bobò

Comrade José Miguel cleaning the square

Later on in the evening, people from the association Libera, which manages the real estate confiscated from the mafia, open the entrance of their building on the square, so that we can find shelter in case of rain.

Now, for me electricity is a daily necessity, and I’m lucky enough to find a place in the entrance where I can plug in my laptop. Today I won’t write any updates. From all the various fronts of the revolution, messages are coming in. From Jesus Christ, who is participating in one of the marches going to Paris for the French elections, from Spain, from Greece, from Holland. I want to answer them all.

But every now and then, people notice me and they gather around. They want to know everything about the march. How many people we are, where we are from, when the march has started, when we will arrive, what we hope to accomplish, etc.

I must have answered all these question at least a thousand times, and every time I put away my computer and I answer them again, with the same enthusiasm. Because I’m well aware that if ever I would say ‘Not now, I have other things to do’, I would have ceased to be a revolutionary.

So I talk to people all evening. I see the admiration in their eyes whenever I speak about our march. And when all the others have already gone to sleep, the locals bring their things to me. Late at night, when I finally finish my letters, there’s a pile of pizzas next to me, bags full of pastries for breakfast, softdrinks, cigarettes etc. I get up, and while I carry everything to the camp, a car stops in front of me, a window rolls down. It’s one of the people I met earlier this evening. “Hey Oscar, will you come grab a beer?”

“Thanks man, but not tonight. It’s really time for me to get some sleep.”

Arriving in Palo del Colle

Bringing the vessel safely to port

Spring