Calais

On Tuesday 23rd April I set off with some friends in a minibus filled with cooking equipment to the No Borders Activist Camp in Calais. Held in a field bordered by a motorway on one side and a residential area on the other, it was a less than idyllic setting for a few hundred activists from France, Belgium, England, Germany, Spain, Austria and Slovakia - possibly more, but these were the places I heard mentioned - to gather together for a week of workshops and meetings, planning towards a big demo on the Saturday.

I had decided to just come to the camp and cook, stay out of trouble and maybe go to the odd workshop. On coming to Calais I had little idea about the situation there. I knew there were migrants living in slums known as 'The Jungle', that their situation was not good and that most of them were trying desperately to reach England. What I did not know was the scale of the problem. There are actually more than two thousand people living in Jungles. There are different jungles for different nationalities, some of which have better facilities than others. I have heard of one jungle that has shops and a mosque, while the ones we visited had shack-type dwellings made mostly out of wooden pallets and bits of tarp. They did not look unlike many of the protest sites I have visited - minus the tree-houses, the brew crew, and of course the fact that these people are not really living this way out of choice. There was no water supply in the Jungles we visited and we heard that somebody had recently died trying to wash in the canal.

Helping 'sans papiers' migrants in any way is a criminal offence in France. Despite this, there are two humanitarian organisations that have been feeding people in Calais for free for several years. The food distribution points are fixed and it seems there is a begrudging acceptance of it from the police. The local authorities are supportive inasmuch as they allow the food to be distributed and they allowed the camp to happen. I was initially surprised that we had the support of the local government (although not the mayor apparently), but then realised the council probably don't want thousands of starving people on their doorstep either and would be more than happy for Britain to open it's border - the only closed internal E.U. border, making it in theory legal to apply for asylum here, but giving no legal means to actually get here.

La Belle Etoile have been feeding migrants in Calais for free at 2pm every weekday for the past fifteen years. They said a few of us could come with them on the Friday and help to see how they do things. On hearing that there was no lunchtime food distro at the weekends, a few of us had decided to see if we could take some food down there ourselves, given that there were three kitchens onsite and we had more than enough food for the people there. So we went to help. As well as the food, they give out these little plastic bags filled with a few slices of bread, a bit of patisserie, an apple, a plastic spoon and a toiletry item. We set up an assembly line. I put a toiletry item into each of the bags handed to me. There were mini and full-sized tubes of toothpaste, toothbrushes, sample sachets of face cream, body lotion, small bars of soap, plastic razors... I had images of people getting their daily plastic bag and peering inside with dismay to find the 5th tube of toothpaste that week, when all they needed was a bar of soap. I wondered if people swapped with each other, or if most of it ended up in the bin.

When all of the 500 bags were full we walked down to the food distribution point as there was not enough room in the van. We could easily see why it was in the best interest of the police for them to let it happen there: a large open car park right next door to the Gendarmerie. A few almost-undercover cops stood around the edge or sat in cars staring at us. The food given out was not the most appetising I have ever seen: basically stock-based soup with butter and rice in. Not very filling, and some people travel miles by foot to get there from the furthest Jungles. La Belle Etoile get a bit of funding from local government and some donations, but it hardly seems enough for them to feed so many people. The whole thing felt a bit like a soup-kitchen. I have been on both sides of a soup kitchen so this was something I could relate to. The whole thing is a bit demeaning, with people being basically herded into lines.

Of the migrants I spoke to on site, most were Afghan, Kurdish, Iraqi or Iranian. We also met some Eritrean guys living in a large squatted house near the food distribution point and also about six women, who came along late and went straight to the front of the queue along with any injured men. These are the only migrant women I saw for the entire duration of the camp.

There were lots of meetings. I went to one. Usually I would go to lots, but it just didn't feel appropriate for me. It was heartening to see migrants going to meetings as well as the usual activist types, and that there were an increasing number of languages being translated. It seemed more worthwhile for me to just hang out with people. I made friends with a small group from Iran and we had a lot of conversations. Listening to people's stories taught me more about the situation than any meeting I've ever been to. Dancing and hanging out taught me more about their cultures. Visiting the Jungle and sharing food felt more to me like solidarity than going on a demo. So I didn't go on the demo. Instead we cooked up more food than the camp could possibly eat and took the excess to the Jungle. We went first to the food distro point and fed the people who live nearby. We bought a bit of fruit and chocolate and tried to make sure there was a good amount of protein in the food we cooked. Then we went to the Jungle. The first day we went to one near to the ferry port, relatively small and hidden away in the sand dunes. After serving the food it felt odd to just stand there watching, so I crammed in my second portion of food that hour. Sharing food felt more natural than just serving it.

The second day we took food to a different Jungle - a massive one. I asked how many people and was told 700. Some others from camp had been trying to build a tree-house with the idea that it would be harder for the police to evict it. It took a while for them to get across the language barrier, but it eventually seemed like a welcome idea. Every day the police come and take people - 10, 20, or 30, sometimes 100. Migrants in Calais are used to constant arrest. Sometimes they are put in detention centres, sometimes beaten or tear-gassed. The police often trash jungles and the people we spoke to had been told that this would happen there soon.

It seems the great cultural levellers are food, football, dancing and American pop stars. The day after Michael Jackson died, everyone was talking about it. We went to a Jungle where only one person spoke English, but all of the others told us 'Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson!' eyes wide, hands making slitting motions across throats. One of the Iranians I made friends with was into Britney Spears. He asked what 'gimme gimme gimme' means. I tried to explain 'give me'. But he refused to believe. No 'gimmmmmeeee gimmmmmeeeee...'

My two favourite moments: the Iranian disco on the second night and the traditional Pashtun dance - there must have been over one hundred people dancing: a rare glimpse of a threatened culture.

Now that I have used the word 'migrants' a lot, as well as referencing several nationalities, I should point out that there was a bit of controversy over wording. I'm using the words 'migrants' and 'activists' to relate to people who were at the camp for very different reasons, with different degrees of privilege, etc. I'm mentioning different nationalities as I believe it gives a more thorough picture of where people are coming from, and also because that's the way those people labelled themselves and I think that imposing our Western anarchist ideas against nationality onto people is a bit arrogant. At one point I was basically told that it's racist to say that there are cultural differences between different countries. From what I saw the cultural differences were very obvious to everyone.

Gender was a particularly overt issue. About halfway through the camp a feminist security team formed to respond to some of the problems that were emerging as a result of very young males getting very drunk (often for the first time) and dancing with women (often for the first time!) There were a couple of reports of men trying to get into women's tents, although it is unclear whether these people were actually just looking for a space to sleep in. More cultural misunderstandings? It's easy to speculate. The vast majority of people I spoke to were very respectful.

The other kind of misunderstandings were also awkward. Having to explain to people that we were only there for a week. That we would be going home to England. That we could not open the border for them. We were there to protest, but ultimately have no more power than they do - just a little square document that allows us freedom of movement and restricts theirs. I have never felt my privilege so strongly as walking to the ferry with a cardboard sign saying 'England' and bumping into some of the people we had shared food with. 'Yes, we are going home now. No, you can't come with us. Sorry. See you in England. Good luck!'

Something I keep being asked by people when I talk about this is why all these people are so desperate to reach England. I'm not completely certain I know the answer. Some have family and friends here. Some were in the Uk for years and have since been deported and made it all of the way back to Calais. Most of the people I spoke to have a very high regard for England. 'You are from England? Very good country, yes?' 'Hmm... sort of' was the only reply I could muster. It's difficult telling people that even if they do make it across the water, their lives may not be much better. Only 30% of asylum claims are actually granted. Many people will be deported or locked up in detention centres. Many will be killed trying to cross the channel. A lot of people we spoke to had their fingerprints taken crossing the border into Greece - often the first EU country if you come by land from the Middle-East. I had to break the news to one man that as his fingerprints were now on record in Greece, he can only legally claim asylum there. He was devastated. He said he had paid 4,000euros. Undeniably there are many people traffickers around making a lot of money by misleading people.

The camp ended on a sad note. All of the activists were packing up to go home and people with the wrong coloured skin and wrong coloured bits of paper in their pockets were becoming less and less. Some stayed to help prepare food and to tat anything not needed from the structures being dismantled. Unfortunately a lot of other stuff went missing too, including several mobile phones, mp3 players and a couple of wallets. Also the donations tin from one of the kitchens. A boy of about twelve years old was seen coming out of my tent. A friend and I made a vague attempt at confronting him about it with the aid of two translators. What followed was bizarre and I can't say I understood it completely, but we were made to wait while the men went off and spoke together with the boy, one or other coming back every now and then to ask a question. There was much apologising and this seemed to put even more of a downer on the mood as word spread around the camp. We saw the thefts as the actions two or three people, but the men seemed to feel shame on behalf of their whole community. More cultural differences!

The camp at Calais deeply affected me. I felt a strong emotional connection to the people I was there with - some of the activists who I am now closer to, and some of the migrants I made friends with. That we had to just leave them there seemed ridiculous and selfish. I am still processing my emotions about all of this but I am committed to going back there soon to do something else. What can I do? I don't know.


There is another personal account from the camp -->here<--

Further reading: http://london.noborders.org.uk/node/177

Captain Scarlet's Journal

Day 1,

We arrived at Port Solent last night. We have a female skipper, which pleases me. This makes a majority female crew with only two out of six males. I'm not surprised to hear that this is unusual. The males on board are my vegan buddy Jamie and Dave, here learning to sail with his girlfriend Sarah. They are a very Dave and Sarah kind of a couple, clearly a little alarmed at the prospect of sharing a small boat for five days with three freaks from Brighton with peculiar dietary habits. For once mine is not the weirdest or most awkward, having been outdone on this occasion by '100 Mile Beth' and her local food experiment. She is frying pancakes behind me as I write in my journal. Jamie, Beth and I have brought all of the food we need with us for our five days of sailing. Beth has a whole bag with just salad in it as well as a trolley-bag full of other stuff after panicking that she wouldn't have enough to eat.

The weather is bad and currently looks to be bad all day. When we start moving in about 45 minutes I shall find out whether I get seasick or not. I have lots of ginger with me just in case – apparently ginger is good for seasickness.


Day 2,

I am pleased to report no seasickness from any of our crew. The sea got a bit rough yesterday too, so I'm sure we would know about it. Today the weather is clear and hot, yet still with a fierce wind once you get out to sea.

My mind is awash with seafaring jargon. It's all reefs and bowlines, fenders and cleats, jib, boom and halyard. I am reminded of my first ever school French class by the way we are thrown right in at the deep end, left to decipher the commands we are given by deduction... “Jo, could you put the main halyard on the winch please? We're going to put a tack on.” Umm...

Gybing sounds to me like some kind of strange dance. In a way it sort of is. The way we wiggle the boat slowly along our course while sailing with the wind. It can be a dangerous dance though. A sign on the deck clearly states:

WARNING
GYBING can cause injury
Be Briefed
Be Prepared
Be Safe

Blimey!


Day 3,

This morning I managed a spot of yoga on the pontoon at Hamble where we moored up last night. Hamble is the most expensive marina on the Solent, but according to our skipper Karen, they also have the best showers.

Last night we did some night sailing. I loved it. All of the big ugly depressing industrial buildings and oil liners and container ships vanished under a velvety black cloak. Only a man-made constellation of lights could be seen on a sea of inky ripples. We learned how to navigate by the lights: occulting, slow and quick flashing red and green buoys; north, south, east and west cardinals; how to tell which was a vessel is traveling: green light for starboard, red for port.

Today the sea is a shimmering aquamarine dress with glittering sequins. The sun is out but the wind still bites through my five layers of clothing, woolly hat and scarf. I am getting nicely tanned through my factor thirty sun cream nonetheless.


Day 4,

Last night was spent at Lymington, definitely my favourite marina so far and the only one not to have been privatized. Portsmouth seems an exact clone of Brighton Marina and Cowes and Hamble aren't much better – hardly worth going anywhere if that's all you're going to see! Lymington is just a small pontoon out the front of the village. A bloke comes chugging along on his little boat to collect the mooring fee with a bus ticket machine.

I had a little walk up to the local graveyard in the morning and was surprised to discover how much I had missed trees and grass and the colour green. Not sure how I would do seeing only blue and black for days and days on end. I did have one exciting encounter with nature though; yesterday while getting laughed at rowing the dinghy around I came across a fascinating creature that I have been assured must have been a cuttlefish. He swam under my dingy while keeping his big old beady eye on me. I felt we bonded.


Day 5,

I have been having some potent dreams sleeping on the water. Perhaps something lurking deep below is whispering secrets to me while I sleep. During a dream one night I had a clear realisation of how polluted humans have made the sea. It was saddening, sickening and made me think again that we have already pushed things too far. Is there any way out of this? Increasingly it seems not. I mentioned to our skipper that it may not be such a great thing to be flushing toilet cleaner and non-eco (well, any really) washing-up liquid and other cleaners out to sea. Apparently there is an organisation called The Green Blue working with the sailing industry to help it green up it's activities. They have persuaded TUI Travel, the mega-company that owns Sunsail our sailing school that they need to switch to Ecover. However, it's going to take a whole year before the change is actually implemented due to the massive beaurocratic feedback loops in a company this size. Sigh.

On arriving back at Portsmouth it took me a while to get my land-legs back, despite having been off the boat for at least an hour or two most evenings. We were presented with our Competent Crew certificates and got a ride to the station from our skipper. My main reason for taking this course was to learn enough to be useful on a boat and increase my chances of hitching one for part of the world travel escapade I'm hoping to embark on later this year. Also, to check I won't get too seasick and that I actually enjoy sailing. I can definitely tick all of those boxes now, apart from missing the trees.

Boiling Point

"How are you?" a passing friend asks as I stand on the corner of Threadneedle Street on Thursday afternoon.
"Angry!" I reply.

Actually, anger was one of several thousand emotions battling for attention in my body at that moment. I had just been moved on by the police for the second time that day in a manner both aggressive and patronizing ('cycle carefully now' as we were released from an arbitrary cordon). We, the couple of hundred bystanders on the pavement near the demo at Bank, in solidarity with the man who died the previous day while stuck inside a police kettle, had been surrounded by police and given a choice: leave the area completely or join the protest inside the police cordon by the statues outside the Bank of England. After the previous day, people were unsurprisingly wary of going inside a police kettle and so were declining that offer and moving around to the next bit of pavement where the exercise was repeated. Today's demo had started off with a memorial, flowers and messages of well-wishing, but the police had quickly stopped that and were treating it as though it were "Just more of the same as yesterday", as a cop was overheard saying to a man in a suit who had inquired as to what was going on. No mention of the death, or of the memorial.

Beside me an American man in a tweed suit telling lies to a camera crew is heckled by a protester and ends up revising his story. We laugh for what feels like the first time in years. Tweed Suit turns on us, blaming us for the death of the man. "What were you doing at 7pm last night? You should have been looking after him!"

Rewind to Wednesday. Unless you have been shut off from the world completely, you will no doubt have heard all about the police predictions of the 'Summer of Rage' and it's opening events for the G20 summit. You have probably also heard lots of reports from the day itself. For once, a lot of the media has actually shown some of what really happened. This, this, this and this article from George Monbiot seemed to me particularly accurate.

However, none of the mainstream media that I have seen have mentioned the really shocking violence at the two London squats on Thursday. I spoke to a girl who was there and had been eating breakfast when riot police with tazer guns broke down the door, threatened and beat people (one guy had his face bashed repeatably into the floor), then arrested them, left them all sitting on the pavement in handcuffs for an hour before de-arresting and releasing them due to a lack of evidence against anyone there. They then said that they hadn't come to evict the building, but since everyone had left they might as well board it up. My friend had one cop snarl into her face that this was what she got 'for smashing up our city'. What a charmer.

I'm still finding it hard to process the emotions that have come up both during and after the G20 protests. I had already had an emotionally turbulent couple of weeks before I got to London and found myself completely unprepared for what was going on. There was so much I could see that needed to be done - emotional support, legal support, making food and drinks, keeping people calm and helping make decisions - but I found myself paralyzed with a mixture of adrenaline, fear, exhaustion and frustration that I'm still trying to process now.

I managed to escape the kettle (police cordon) at the bank (amazing what you can do when you need a pee that badly!) and decided that if I was going to be in a kettle, I would much rather it was a Climate Camp kettle. I had an inkling they would be a spot more organised than the Bank protest, and how right I was - a colourful array of around 30 tents, a toilet tent with compost loos and private wee areas, a farmers market and a people's kitchen, three workshop spaces and a meditation area greeted me in an area of Bishopsgate that had been decorated with bunting, banners and had chalk messages swirling over the pavements. Ah, how I love these fluffy campers! Here there was a golden dancing block, a samba band, poetry, vegan cake and uh... riot police in balaclavas. Well, who can blame them - hippy students with glitter and bits of chalk can be very threatening after all. That's why they needed to use such force to evict the camp with batons and shields just after midnight. I had already left but heard all the gory details from friends who were there, plus this footage on youtube shows the eviction.

Obviously I don't think that legality and morality are particularly synonymous, but if the police tactics used on Wednesday and Thursday were legal, then things are already a lot worse than I thought.

The Guardian report that there will be an inquiry by the IPCC (Independent Police Complaints Commission) after witnesses have come forward saying they saw Ian Tomlinson assaulted by the police. But who are the IPCC anyway? And how independent exactly are they? Isn't this a little bit like the police investigating themselves?

If you want to hear what happened to Ian Tomlinson, the man who died in the kettle at Bank, I suggest listening to the two eye-witnesses on this video link.

Can Masdeu

Can Masdeu is a squatted community and social centre on the outskirts of Barcelona. It's home to around 25 people, including some children. I visited it on my way back from Ecodharma - a while ago now but I have been meaning to write about it.

A friend lives at Can Masdeu and it was he who said I could come. Unfortunately he neglected to tell anyone else I was coming. I arrived late one night and shouted both mine and his names up at the person in the window above to discover I had missed him by an hour. He was out for the night and nobody had heard of me. I felt a little... well, not unwelcome because people were very nice about it, but it was explained to me that there are alternative on and off months for visitors and I had inadvertantly picked an off month to appear on. Oops.

Places like Can Masdeu inspire me with hope. The building was once a lepper colony. It's a listed building but had been left to fall down by the council. Since the squatters moved in they have been working hard to repair it. There is one workday a week on the house and one on the garden when everyone pitches in. I was there for the garden day. They have a huge community garden and people from all around Barcelona come to help out. The gardens provide most of the vegetables for the community. They buy organic grains and pulses from co-operatives and also get some 'recycled food' from skips and from donations from shops. It's not just food that gets donated. A local bike shop regularly donates bike parts that people don't want after they have upgraded. Apparently it's quite a top quality bike shop so the donations are often really good stuff. The bike workshop space is huge and includes the old confessional booths in the lower part of the building. There is also a 'quiet space' for yoga and meditation, a social centre open to the public on Sundays, a free shop and internet room. The shower block is outside and uses spring water heated with solar panels and there's a bike-powered washing machine. The toilets are composting ones outside and the classiest women's pisser I have ever seen - a sort of bidet contraption that flushes with spring water!

Can Masdeu obviously has a lot of strong links with the local community and shops, the bike shop being one example. They also do environmental stuff with local kids and while I was there they got a van load of unsold televisions delivered from Ikea! Seven years ago, a few months after it was first squatted, the police came to evict them - but the community resisted. During the eviction attempt there was a huge amount of local support and hundreds of people came to show solidarity and to try to get food to the people resisting inside. The police were stopping supplies from going in and food and morale was low. Eventually the police left. They still haven't been back, but the community is aware that there could still be an eviction attempt at any time.

Can Masdeu is not as vegan as most of the communities and social centres I have visited. The communal meals while I was there were all vegan but the community keeps chickens and bees and my friend hunts the local wild boar. Fortunately he managed not to kill anything while I was there - just. We found a sick blind rabbit with myxomatosis sitting on the road. It let us pick it up, which turned out not to be a good idea given that it was crawling with fleas. Fortunately the fleas much preferred soft rabbit fur to my hands. Martin suggested we kill it but I was sure there must be another way. I later found out the disease is treatable and the rabbit should have been taken to a vet. Now we'll know for next time. We didn't kill it but it was probably in a lot of pain. Maybe we should have?

I made oat milk with one of the guys who lives there. He has inspired me to refine my recipe: it now includes tahini, vanilla and a little sugar or honey. I have been debating about honey a lot lately. I had a few sips of mead one night which was made from the honey they collect at Can Masdeu. I asked a few questions and ascertained that they do not kill any of the bees on purpose, they do not feed them any substitutes and only take (what they consider to be) excess honey. I am starting to think that super local honey collected under these conditions is possibly slightly more ethical than sugar. The long-term aim is of course to un-develop my sweet tooth.

On the garden day I was delightfully surprised to bump into somebody familiar - a girl who knows me from Brighton and shares some of my friends. We got on really well, digging through the rotting compost, almost slicing a rat in half with my spade and discussing vegan dilemmas, Buddhism, paganism and the strange and wonderful places we have come across. It turns out she lives at Escanda, another radical community in Spain I have been meaning to visit - so now I have a contact there and renewed excitement about visiting.
Unfortunately I didn't stay long enough to see the social centre while it was open, but I did have a look at it and donated one of my jumpers to the free shop. Can Masdeu is definitely on the itinerary for my next adventure: "The Big Trip". I am starting to plan the trip now. It's all very exciting. I am inviting suggestions of places for me to visit and I'm also looking for travel companions for parts of the trip. Where would you like to go? I basically want to go everywhere: the world by thumb!

Winter at Ecodharma

The snow on the mountain ranged from ankle to knee-deep, and even the landrover got stuck in places. We parked near Cal Victor, the house/ruin we stayed by on the working retreat and where Guhyapati ('G') has his yurt. The snow and ice got even worse further along the track and access by any vehicle would be too dangerous to attempt. This time we would be in Cal Monsor on the other side of the valley. This house was rebuilt from ruins by hand with the help of friends and the local community and is a bit warmer than the little yurt I shared with Lucy in September.

By the time the retreat started a few days later the sun was blazing hot. I was walking around in a vest and people were talking about sun hats and lotion. Snow was still on the ground almost ten days since it last snowed. I had no idea snow could last so long in such heat!

The retreat stretched over three weeks from December 20th to Jan 10th. I have been looking for a way to escape xmas for years and finally found it. For those who wanted to celebrate we compromised with a puja.

I tried my first ever persimmon (and second, third and tenth!) - a strange tomato-looking fruit. I know a tomato is a fruit, but a persimmon is, well, fruitier. They arrived in our fruit and veg boxes each week and it was a race to eat them before they went rotten and fell apart, although stewing with porridge seems to work well and they are also nice with chocolate. The boxes included a range of local organic fruit and veg from a co-op. Tragically the squat we were getting bread from on the last retreat got evicted two weeks prior.

Communication, community and group dynamics made up a large part of the retreat structure. We had consensus-based meetings after dinner each day where we each shared in decision making about the retreat. We experimented with bringing mindfulness into this practice as well, sounding a bell after each agenda item. It had a very positive effect, bringing us back to awareness before moving on.

A contentious issue was the vegan question. Three of us were vegan and most others felt we should all eat a vegan diet (plus honey) during the retreat. There was only a small amount of resistance to this, but being an emotive issue it seemed to come up again and again. I learned a lot about communication, patience and compassion during this retreat and this issue and the way we dealt with it had a very large part to play in that. Several others mentioned they were thinking about going vegan by the end of the retreat and I think talking about the issues involved rather than shying away from them was one of the main factors.

G has an interesting method of teaching. He explains complex carbon cycles with a whiteboard and markers and the next day marches us up the mountain to see what he was talking about for ourselves. Yes, here are the lines in the landscape where the ocean floor split and ruptured - and here are the mountains that erupted when the continental plates collided. Here are the layers within the rock right at the top of the highest peak, which were once layers of sediment at the bottom of a primordial ocean. We spent seven hours climbing, sliding and occasionally walking up and down the individual precipices that make up the north ridge. We stopped occasionally - a sandwich here, a look at the view there - but not for long. I felt I had been hurrying the whole way. G said it would take five hours. Apparently he can do it in two - bouncing along from one rock to the next in trainers. I wasn't sure how to look at him - in awe or with a scowl. I opted for sarcasm, with one eyebrow raised.

Each week we had a Solo Day: a chance to go out into the wildness alone and just be. I spent my first under the overhang of a rock in thick snow. On the second I went to hunt out the ruined houses up on the ledge near the coll. Lito was with me and was very exciteable. He continuously bounded off and then lolloped back again to check I was still coming. After we reached the far end of the ledge I sat down and he got bored and ran off. He came back looking for me after a while and when he eventually spotted me lying on my back on the grass he went
crazy with excitement and bounded over in his lovely clumsy doggy way. It was all I could do not to scream as he lunged towards my face, tongue flapping sideways in the wind. We both collapsed in a fit of giggles. Then he started chasing his tail round in manic cicles and I had to sit very still until he realised I wasn't playing and bounced off again, pressumably to jump on one of the others who said they might
go up to the coll. I spent hours up there: lying, sitting, meditating or just gazing. The view was magnificent. I feel like I need almost unlimited amounts of space right now. I
almost feel like I could not possibly get enough of it. There was a moment up there on that ledge, having not spoken for a few days as we were in silence and with nothing to do for the day other than explore the wildness and just be. I could see only mountains, forests and fields for miles and miles. I thought: this is what space feels like.

Some people wanted a lot more silence. It was brought to the meeting and after some discussion it was agreed by everyone to have five days of silence in week two. I was initially hesitant, but after hearing from the others I began to see that it could add something to the experience. I have done a ten day silent retreat in the past, but had felt that for this retreat the communication was integral to what we were doing. I was reminded that speaking is only one form of communication. In the end I could happily have had another few days of silence, although it was a joy to speak with the others again and there followed a whole load of some of the most profound and interesting conversations I have ever had.

I am fascinated by the valley's history. Some of the land Ecodharma is on used to belong to Tom, a local man. Tom's father was shot by Franko's men after hiding out in the valley. G has found obscure caves with tins of food in that date back to the civil war. There is also a giant cross on a distant hill that I would love to see sometime. I am told the Catholic Church erected it in support of fascism after the war, but there were loads of anarchists and communists hiding out in the area and they went and smashed it down. It's still lying smashed on the ground somewhere.

On a long walk alone one day I came across two houses I hadn't known existed - very exciting as I *love* ruins. The first was last lived in something like eighty years ago. It has plaster on the walls, a bed (complete with human-corpse-sized rolled up hay mattress), worn out straw hat on the back of an ancient kitchen chair and a cupboard with an assortment of old bottles and jars. A few small rooms are still intact and most door and window shutters are still in place, but the floor-boards are caving in and some of the furniture is dissappearing down the hole. I didn't manage to get down to the bottom floor as I couldn't see a safe way to do it and it seems as though the top floor may crash down into it at
any given moment.

I was surprised and delighted to see the furthest house as I came over the top of a mountain and saw it in the valley below me. This is the one Tom's dad was killed in and it is still owned by him. It doesn't have much in it but is mostly intact with a front and back doorway, ladder going up to small attic space and steps leading downstairs. I found a big dead tree near it and took some of the peeling bark for the altar in the shrine yurt. Later I lit a candle for Tom's dad and all of the others who lost their lives in this valley.

After the retreat those of us who were left went to Tremp, the capital of the area. It was strange going back to the place G collected me from one month before. I felt different in some indefinable way. Tremp was like a huge city after the valley. We did some shopping and went to Carol's house in Eroles for lunch and hot showers. It is SO BEAUTIFUL. Really vibrant, artistic, eccentric, creative, rustic, quirky, circusy and delightful. I desperately want to live there and start a community and put a trapeze up in the attic space. It was here we had a meeting one week later, with me talking and G translating into Catalan for a small group of people who want to start a Transition Initiative in their area. I am inspired to hear about how much is going on already in Catalunya.

There is so much more I could write about: contact dance with Ben and Alex, making marmelade with Yashobodhi, wood chopping lessons and discussions about gender with Rob, Jeanette's yoga classes, Maitrisara's rising song that woke us more gently than any alarm clock, Penny's book, singing and poetry round the fire and so many more unique moments that made this my most beautiful winter ever. Thank you to all who took part in it.

La Sorga

My female driver - the first of my etire journey - takes me out of her way, up the mountain and into the driveway marked `La Sorga'. It is gone 8pm, cold and dark. She wouldn't hear of me walking the rest of the way. I walk towards the faint voices and even fainter light behind some tree-shaped silhouettes. The light and voices are coming from what appears to be a wooden cabin, but turns out to be part caravan, part wooden construction. I knock lightly on the glass door, thoroughly surprising the inhabitants whom I discover have never heard of me and were not expecting anyone at all. The `owner' of the place is away. It must have been him I was emailing and he hadn't mentioned I was coming to the others. But it's ok - the more the merrier!

I am introduced to everyone: Caroline is French and has been here only two weeks herself. Antoine and Laura are a couple who met here for the first time two months ago. Antoine is a sunny-faced guy from Belgium and Laura is German and almost always laughing. Then there is Ash, a New Zealander who has been here the longest. He is currently on crutches having slipped in the woods about a week ago and badly twisted his ankle. Ash is freegan. He spent a bit of time squatting in London and also used to work at Pogo Cafe. We probably know some of the same people - small world! Christoph is the only one who doesn't speak a great deal of English. He is a bit of a clown and always up for some fun and games. I think I will definitely get on with everyone here. We are all around the same age and I cannot help but think that La Sorga feels more like a youth hostel than a community. There are no permanent residents here at present and it all feels rather transitory. This is great for me as a passer-through but I'm not sure how I would feel about it if I wanted to stay for longer.

I arrived in time for a dinner of spaghetti bolognese. Laura is vegan too, so all evening meals will be fine for me to eat. It is decided that I will share a cabin with Christoph. This turns out to be my own double mattress on a mezzanine above where he is sleeping, with my own lamp, a window and bookshelves. Hurrah!

Day 1 - Friday
Porridge for breakfast. Already I can tell this is my kind of place! The morning is spent moving an enormous pile of wood from the front entrance. It has been given to us by a neighbour apparently. It is the last thing I feel like doing after a full day of hitchhiking, but I dutifully take wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow full of wood behind the caravan for stacking.

I am expecting more work after lunch, but find that everyone goes off to do their own thing. I end up `sunbathing' in my polo-neck jumper and two pairs of trousers on my rollmat near to the front drive. A peculiar place to lie but with a lovely big patch of sun. A big white tom cat - clearly the bravest of the five feline residents and one of only two who are not blind - comes to sit beside me - then on my book - then on my back, where he gives me a lovely massage. We remain firm friends after this.

I have discovered that La sorga has some strange contrasts: a compost toilet, wood burners and permacutlure principles - but also running water, a boiler, internet and - bizzarely - a washing-machine!

Day 2 - Saturday
There is a market in Le Bugue, the nearest town, on Saturdays and Tuesdays. The market shuts at midday, so that is when we need to get there - to ask the market people for any unsold food they are throwing away - kind of a cross between skipping and begging. Four of us walk down to the main road with the intention of hitching in pairs. Two cars pull over at once - success!

I'm told there is usually a lot more and people seem dissapointed, but we manage to fill a few carrier bags. Antoine has a tip-off about a field where a lot of corn has bee cut and is being left to rot. He and Laura head off to pick some while Caroline and I return home. They arrive hours later with sacks of the stuff. In the field was enough sweetcorn to feed the chickens for a year. We will go again another day and get more.

Since I arrived people have been talking about the party we will go to on Saturday night. The time has arrived and I am almost reluctant to go. I have not enjoyed the last few parties I have been to and not drinking means always being on a different wavelength to people at parties. I have not drunk alcohol for six weeks and have been attempting to abstain for three months. I even spent my birthday sober. Something about the surroundings and the people weakens my resolve and the minute I get in the door and see tables covered in bottles of free booze I pour myself a large glass of champagne and have done with it.

The party is wonderful. It is in a shop which has just opened. It is not-for-profit and runs solely on donations - everything from clothes to toys to computers to furniture - which they fix up and sell on at an affordable price. It is huge and bright and clean and beautifully decorated with a large Mongolian yurt frame (no canvas) at one end, filled with cushions, paintings and information about various projets, of which La sorga is one. A stage has been set up and the bands play some excellent folky stuff that we can't help but dance to. I am properly warm for the first time in a week and go right down to one layer of clothing. Antoine takes to the stage at regular intervals - a bit of drumming here, a little singing there. He adopts strange squeaky voices and somehow manages to fit in with the rest of the band - at least mostly! We can't help but dance - all except poor Ash who spends the eveing on one of the sofas with his twisted ankle. There are plenty of children and people of all ages. I am very glad to have come and also very glad for my champagne. Bad girl.

Day 3 - Sunday
I am informed early on that this is our day of rest. Suits me fine. My first hangover in six weeks and I am feeling guilty about drinking last night. I console myself by reasoning that it is still the longest I have ever gone without drinking (since age 15 anyway). I turn down a glass of walnut wine in the evening, to the shock and dismay of Christoph, who claims it is a traditional French drink and I must at least try it. I feel a little better with myself for refusing and feel certain that I can now go on to abstain for another six weeks.

Day 4 - Monday
I was originally planning on leaving today, but I was going to Barcelona and heard by email that the squatted community I wanted to visit there is at capacity until February. I will stay here for two days extra and try to visit Barcelona on the way back.

Christoph left this morning, so now there are only five of us. It seems there are even fewer as Antoine and Laura spend most of the day in their little house and Ash is ill in bed. The skipped paella is suspected but unconfirmed as the culprit and is consequently fed to the cats, much to their delight.

Another lazy day. I spend most of it reading `Frech Phrases For Dummies'. I must sound very odd to the others, sitting in the corner muttering phrases like `What a lovely dress!' and `peaches are my favouite fruit'.

By evening I am feeling a bit rested out. I have done little but sit for two days. I go for a stroll and nose around some of the other structures for the first time. I also finally make frinds with one of the blind cats and end up with a trail of cats following me around the grounds pied-piper style.

Day 5 - Tuesday
I woke up late - almost 10am. Last night we had a projet meeting and chastised ourselves for doing so little work this week. We resolved to go into town early for the market. On entering the caravan I discover that I am first up. Hmm, strange. I entertain myself while waiting by washing-up and watching the chickens outside.

The cockrel and one of the chickens have escaped again. They are strutting and waddling around on the wooden platform outside the caravan. I witness my first ever chicken-rape scenario when the cock forces himself on top of the squarking, flapping hen and holds the wobbly red bit on her head in his beak to keep her down. I am shocked. After he's finished she shuffles her feathers violently and he struts about crowing loudly. What a cock. He struts over to a nearby plastic bucket and stretches his head to peer over the brim. On finding it is filled with pieces of sweetcorn he pecks one out onto the deck and gobbles it aggressvely.

Eventually the others emerge. Caroline and I hitch into Le Bugue while Laura and Antoine finish breakfast. There is something good in the air today. The first car we see pulls over before we have even made it to the main road. A man at the market breaks open an orange and gives me half as I pass his stall and another sticks his tongue out. Perhaps it is my pigtails. Caroline says I look like a little girl.

We fill all three backpacks and three large shopper-bags with food. Lots of it skipped from the supermarchè and market and some more we actually paid for, like the indispensible yeast extract and some apples and broccoli. Some of us have been feeling a little lacking in vitamins. I buy almost €5 worth of olives as a treat for us all to go on the pizzas we are making tonight. Today is also Bread Day, and that means pizza also. Yum.

Tomorrow I will leave here early in the morning and hitch down to Ecodharma. It's strange leaving here - in a way it was just one stop on my way to Spain, but I have stayed longer and settled in more than I expected. I wonder if I will return?

Links:
La Sorga's page on Intentional Communities Website (how I first found them)
La Sorga Blog
La Sorga Wiki

Rennes

There were three clues that told me I would be staying in a squat in Rennes. The first was my couchsurfing hosts profile saying 'squat the world!' The second was being warned I would need to say my name when I got to the door and the third was seeing the door itself.

On entering I have my suspicions confirmed by Manuel, my friendly Europunk host. The main reason I am in Rennes is after searching CS for the keywords 'anarchist', 'vegan', and 'squat' in France, his was the one that kept popping up. This is great - squats were on my list of things to find in France along with permaculture communities, social centres and protest sites.

I have arrived just in time for what Manuel nicknames 'The Green Meal' - green beans with pea soup and some other green vegetable broth that nobody can remember the English name for. There is also some nice French bread and some sweet stewed fruit for dessert. I break out my jar of vegan chocolate spread as well. It is everything I dreamed it would be.

Manuel explains that they go skipping at the markets a couple of times a week for vegetables. He has an old friend who runs a bakery and gives him whatever bread is left over at the end of the day. They also steal some food from supermarkets.

After dinner I get a tour of the building. It used to be several appartments and I get lost through room after room after room. Some parts of the building are in better nick than others. They have also been busy repairing, cleaning and decorating some of it. The nicest bit is the attic, particularly Manuel's room which has wooden panels on the walls and a slanted ceiling. The worst is covered in damp patches and peeling plaster - a wall Manuel says they wanted to knock through but then discovered it was keeping the building stable. There is only one toilet in the whole building. A peak out of the back door reveals why - a row of toilets, each with it's own door. One for each of the old apartments. How bizarre! There is also another apartment which is only accessible from out the back door. This one is very large and I'm told they will be having a gig in there on Saturday. It is also sometimes used for large group meals.

I choose 'The Tea Room' to sleep in. It's in the attic next to Manuel's room and has a heater, fairy lights, two sofas, bookshelves, a couple of coffee tables and a good supply of redbush and honeybush tea. The attic is where they all slept for the first few nights. This is confirmed by a row of hardy locks running down the inside of the main door up here. The tea room is now a chill-out space as well as a venue for small feminist gatherings. It also has a nice clean looking mattress. I get some allergic reactions anyway - probably from the damp and the dust (I am allergic to everything!), but sleep about ten hours in spite of it.

In the morning I do yoga in the other attic room - a large one with nothing but a sink, bare floorboards and a table made out of a large wooden pallet with bricks supported by two computer towers for legs. Yoga helps with my aching, but not much and I'm really feeling it as I walk around town on my unsuccessful mission to hire a bike (why is it so hard to hire bloody bikes in France?!?)

Before leaving the house I found Manuel dragging a shower cubicle out of the downstairs outside apartment. He says he is cleaning it up to use as a changing cubicle for their free shop. The shop is currently lots of boxes and shelves of clothes and books in the room by the one functioning downstairs toilet. I think I can successfully tick squats and social centres off my list of things to discover here. Mission successful! Tomorrow I am moving on to La Sorga, a permaculture community East of Bordeaux.