update # 4 (a short stay in

france)

left this morning on my way to holland but

to my surprise i am heading to ireland. a
trucker picked me up and said that he
was driving to the french port of calais
which is the cheapest way to ferry
across the channel to england and then
he was continuing home to ireland. what
the hell, i said, let’s go. now i sit in an
industrial park while we wait for them to
finish stacking material into his fancy 18-
wheeler. they are loading his truck with
volatile chemical liquids ‘highly
dangerous’. great. it could be worse, i
guess. they could be stuffing swirling
sliding squirming snakes into his truck,
and you know how i feel about snakes!!!
he might not even be able to transport
these toxic materials across the sea
because the ferry is a passenger boat.
great. so, ireland it is. all along, it was
my intention to fly back home from
england’s heathrow airport. and,
anyway, i was running out of money. i
did wish to see holland but perhaps i will
next time. it won’t be too long from now.
earlier today as i hitchhiked a nice and
quiet man offered me a ride. he drove
me a bit outside of paris. we talked very
little. as i was stepping out of his car and
thanking him he flashed me a 100 franc
bill. i was surprised, and smiled as i
heard myself ask him “why?” he replied,
“i used to hitch also and i know how it
is.” it’s funny how a little kindness
affects one’s state of mind. i was
grateful and thanked him again as i
closed the door, instantly signaling my
thumb out to invite the next 100 franc
donation. no such luck!
i took off my backpack and laid it down
next to my guitar on the ground. then i
 stood erect with my arm outstretched
when immediately i was approached by
an officer of the law who had one hand
resting clumsily on his harnessed baton.
he told me to make my way off of the
auto route. hitchhiking was illegal and
dangerous! (this is when i asked him if
he had any grey poupon!). i strolled off
the roadway and onto a gas station. i
purchased a cheese baguette and
coffee, and sat
under the shade of a short but wide tree,
next to 2 young men also traveling with
backpacks. i found out they were from
poland, and going to belgium via
germany. shared some words, then some
cigarettes, and then, realizing that 3
hitchhikers in the same spot is not an
ideal circumstance to get a ride, said my
good-byes and walked farther down,
making sure the policeman was not in
sight. that’s when i was bestowed with
the blundering grace of the irishman
named noll.
enter mr. donie noll mcdermott: a chubby,
ordinary, middle-aged, short and kind
man from cork, ireland, who dislikes and
has no patience for the french who have
been misleading him with incorrect
directions and even dared to stop and
ticket him for speeding. he despises
metropolitan paris, and reiterates
profusely that it is similar every single
time he must travel here. the stinkin’
french! these smelly idiots!! such
audacity!!! what stupid people!!!! christ,
almighty…jesus, mary, and joseph!!!!!!!!
i nod smilingly and offer him a cigarette
which he turns down. you too? all these
people here smoke, he says. every single
one of ‘em… take a right, then a left.
cough. over there, just over the
drawbridge. cough. cough. oh, yes, it’s
(wheeze) half past two (cough. cough!).
for a moment i manage to suppress an
hysterical laughter. he quickly regains
his composure and offers me coffee from
 a sealed container placed under his seat.
i refuse the offer but try to alleviate the
stress of his parisian ordeal by uttering
that it’s just one of those shitty days.
needless to say, it did not help as much
as time and distance always do. the
golden sun of paris poured upon our
faces as we drove toward the
shimmering light that engulfed a
wonderful horizon. the traffic subsided,
the pungent fumes lifted, and the
honking horns were no longer audible,
lost in the confines of a suddenly quite
rural evening.
my visit in paris though rather short was
not a stay which one would call… well,
hmm, shall i how-do-you-say-in-french:
alluring! indeed, it was not a stay at the
local 5-star hotel d’four seasons. ahh,
yes, not sufficiently enjoyable. it’s truly a
gorgeous city and quite diverse with an
extremely international culture, but it
seems corrupt and confused. busy and
buoyant bistros, costly and carpeted
cosmopolitan cafes, open markets,
fountains and sculptures, parks rich with
greenery and wooden benches
surrounded by colorful flower beds, and
hugely lush and lively cemeteries so well
preserved that they look like they should
contain a volleyball court and outdoor
hot springs, a thriving members’ only
club restaurant, a croquet course, a
horseback riding school (and after
schnapps, perhaps tennis, anyone?!!!)
throughout the city there can be located
countless amount of churches, tall and
glassy, decorated and gothic, and
contemporary, wide and with a plain
exterior. and paris is constantly crowded
with people, plenty of refugees, arabs,
immigrants, slavic, northern european,
and german tourists, orientals, west
africans, and many, many homeless.
in paris, one is constantly confronted with
bums, addicts, thieves, and winos. one
finds them asking for cigarettes or eager
to share your drink, pick your pocket,
pick up your bag, pick under your seat,
pick up your woman, pick your nose.
many like myself, either with partners or
with much gear would be forced to
constantly be on guard, keeping a
watchful eye. i was probably fortunate in
that i never ever encountered any
problems whatsoever - except for those
two harmless but anxious incidents. a
not so young, dark arab walked up to me
and began to converse about something
or other while his accomplice had calmly
reached for my bag, put it on his
shoulder, and began leisurely walking
away. i took notice just in time and
snapped, furiously grabbing my bag and
cursing him in arabic. all three of us
looked at one another and after a
moment projected uncomfortable smiles;
they, at the shock of hearing their
language uttered from a white stranger,
and i, for the nervous adrenaline that
pumped through my frightened body.
then they casually walked away from
me. the other occurrence was late last
night. i was sitting on the ‘fountain of
illusioned water’ with other like-minded
travelers i had befriended several days
prior, namely four-limbed tourists from
denmark, holland, and italy, in addition
to two bespectacled native frenchmen.
presently, we were approached by an
arab with a multitude of scars on his
face. he was selling jewelry. when we
showed disinterest in his merchandise it
became clearly evident he was annoyed.
he proceeded to speak loudly and then
shout his disapproval, gesturing with
ever mounting and increasing anger,
imploring us to give him money and
cigarettes, demanding that we hasten to
show him due respect with deserved
love and earned honor, and also tell him
of our family history, culinary
preferences, and astral signs, as he was
an avid believer in the stars. but it was
 then i had had enough! to request
money was one thing, to ask for one’s
astral sign is another!!! i was incensed
and stood up to walk closer to him. i
twirled my index finger at him and
requested he ‘fuck off’. luckily for all of
us, he complied. outside of the bedroom
i am not a particularly physical person,
but i do have a temper that is impatient
and instinctual, and it overtakes me
instantly but just as quickly diminishes. i
often thereafter feel remorse and
therefore later easily forgive. but i will
not fail to add that as a proud person,
once i have forgiven whatever the
wrongful mistake done to me or to
others i care for is repeated i forgive no
more. moments after the respectful arab
had vanished, our communal nostrils
began to painfully melt as we smelled
tear gas in our immediate vicinity. it was
a small dose but it was enough. we
suspect the boisterous jewelry salesman
with this utterly anti-social and cultural
malice. the bastard! bastard!!!!! i forgive
him.
during my stay in paris, i had also met
very nice people who were from all
around the globe. i now have many
addresses written into my diary. granted,
i have never since called or written any
of them, but they were genuinely nice
people. one of them was a strange man
named david who was also, like myself,
from philadelphia, pa. he noticed my t-
shirt as i was walking past him and
stopped me. he said joyfully, “wysp!?
man, you must be from philly.” he let me
stay in his hotel room for one night. he
returned to the u.s. a few days later. but
of all the people i had met, the mos
memorable was moustik, half man/half
percussionist. he was an extraordinary
man from cameroon, a medicine man, a
healer. he was touched by g-d. but he
was also a drunk, an alcoholic living in
the confines of paris, and fela kuti’s
 master drummer. nigeria’s ‘black
president’ multi-instumentalist (and very
heavy smoker!), fela, had toured in west
africa when he met moustik and asked
him to join his gigantic music entourage.
moustik did, and stayed on for more
than 10 years. while touring with fela in
1980, however, moustik stayed in france
in order to remain outside of cameroon
which at the time denied permanent
travel overseas to its citizens. fela
begged him to return to africa but to no
avail. moustik was now living in france.
he was a beautiful man who had been
involved for some time with a white
woman from a parisian suburb.
relationships of mixed race were not
uncommon in the thriving culture of
paris, but were often a predicament.
one afternoon, while sitting on the large
pavement which circled the entrance of
the george pompidou center, i noticed a
tall black man walking about and playing
a guitar. he did not strike actual chords
but had absolutely fantastic rhythm.
after ceaselessly searching and failing to
find african music in paris i was
disenchanted, but with nothing to lose i
approached him. dejectedly, and
hopelessly, i asked if he knew where i
could find the african group i had heard
so often about who supposedly played in
the long dimly lit underground tunnels of
the metro. he stopped strumming and
looked me up and down. after a moment
he told me plainly that he was their
leader. sure, and my biological mother is
head mistress of the pope!!! wait a
minute. actually, she is polish! could it
be? could i have finally found them? was
this skinny man standing opposite me,
hiding behind a pair of sunglasses and
covered in sweat, the leader of this band
and the answer to my endlessly
frustrating search?
this was the beginning of my incredible
and exciting final experience in the city
 of paris. moustik first asked me what i
had in my bag which struck me as a
bizarre question. bongos? money?
liquor? i told him i had not any of those
things, and instantly grew suspicious of
his words. behind his dark sunglasses, i
could vaguely make out two large eyes
darting to and fro. he was constantly
looking around, nervously, anxiously,
and sweating profusely. it made me
uneasy. my doubt of his claim to be their
leader was such that right then i nearly
turned away. it took much idealistic faith
to deny all my instincts to simply thank
him and walk away. goodbye, lad. good
luck, old boy. perhaps another day,
friend, another continent. no! he asked
me to follow him. where to, sir? do you
want to hear the music, he said. well,
yes, of course, was my reply. then follow
me. oh, gee, my! ok.
he began to walk away. i reharnessed the
backpack i had taken off and followed
quickly after him. what the hell, i said to
myself. you’re young, you’re single, you
have no mortgage, no kids, you owe only
six thousand in student loans, and you
have a few lira left over from italy! live it
up, dude, just do it, go for it. besides,
remember that dental appointment you
have to look forward to back in the
states. hmmm, that’s true. oh, ok. i
caught up to him some 20 yards later. he
was handed an open bottle of wine from
a man sitting against a wall and covered
in newspapers. his face was quite dirty,
as all the faces of the lined people sitting
next to him. with amusing energy,
moustik exchanged some words with all
of them. as i approached this colony i
noticed one of them who was very old
slowly fall to the ground, drunk and
tired. no one seemed to notice. it was
just gerard, or henri, or pierre, falling as
he always does, motionless. moustik
walked away and all i could do was try to
keep up with him. we walked a long way,
down this street, then another, up this
alley, through this gate, climbing stairs,
crossing this courtyard, then another,
and all the while seeing less people and
more garbage, strewn papers and
bottles upon bottles in overgrown
gardens, stray cats, chickens, ducks,
colonies of pigeons and little children,
naked and filthy, strolling aimlessly and
playing in piles of mud and dirt and
trash. we entered an aging yellow
building, paint pealing from its lifeless
interior. we passed by three rusted
bicycles in the hallway, and ascended
the stairwell which was not very sturdy
and crowded with broken chairs and
shattered kitchen cabinets, a brass sink
and the remains of what was once a
toilet. there were ants and cockroaches
racing across the naked walls. cigarette
butts and mildewed food containers
covered the disgustingly dirty floor. as
we climbed the stairs thick cobwebs
welcomed us as their owners, fierce
urban spiders, not at all alarmed,
stopped their busy work to let us pass.
finally, we reached the top and walked
through an open doorway which had its
wooden door barely holding on to its
time-tested hinges, loose and hollow.
yellowing mattresses covered the floor,
one of which was occupied in the corner
by a young couple clenched in the claws
of slumber. the woman woke with a start
to the sound of moustik’s deep voice and
shook the man laying next to her by the
shoulder. he leaned up on one of his
elbows and conversed with moustik.
they spoke in rapid street french which i
could not at all understand. i thought i
had heard the man say l’argent, which
means money but i am not certain.
moustik looked at me and smiled
awkwardly. then, he turned and walked
away. i followed as he made his way
down the corridor and exited the
building. we walked into the wet sunlight
 of the streets and i asked him what was
going on but he did not manage to
convey anything clear. he seemed
preoccupied with a particular mission,
and repeatedly told me to trust him and
not to worry. not worry? me?! an only
harmless jew who knows not where the
hell he is or where it is he is being led?!!
oh, ok, my bad, definitely. i’m sorry.
really. i don’t know what the hell came
over me. forgive me.
we entered the metro and, with guitars in
hand and the weight of a bulging
backpack, proceeded to hop over the
turnstiles without paying. what are you
doing, oded. do you want to spend
holiday in jail?! you came here for
adventure, didn’t you? well?! it’s true,
yes, umm, but, well, not that kind! agh,
fuck it! we quickly walked down the
steps and directly into a waiting car.
fortunately, the doors immediately
closed and we were mobile in the
underground. “you’re crazy,” i said to
him, once we were seated. “everyone
is,” was his reply. “in one strange way or
another.” “do you do this sort of thing
often?” “as often as i need,” he said,
wiping the heavy oblong beads of sweat
gliding their way down his forehead and
onto his eyebrows. “but only when i
need.” he forced a smile that seemed
gentle but weary and troubled.
we got off many long stops later. i
suspected that we were not in paris
anymore. (and it certainly wasn’t
kansas!!!) i was right. on both counts.
outside the metro was a small town.
moustik told me that he had to do
something, and that he would be right
back. he strolled into the narrow booth
and reached for the telephone, careful to
close the door behind him. i was
watching him, and he appeared nervous
as he continuously looked all around
him, still sweating profusely, and hiding
behind mirrored spectacles seemingly
 afraid to be seen or perhaps recognized.
i waited. my head was beginning to hurt
with thoughts. in it were conjured many
liquid scenarios, brewed and served ice
cold. if my brain were an underground
transportation system its subway cars
would be filled almost to capacity with
visions and fantasies of anxiety, worry,
and fear. i doubt this mental metro
would lure ridership however proficient,
extensive, and safe its systematic
services, even if admission and transfers
were absolutely free!
what if he is setting me up? what if all this
is to get away from people and traffic in
order to rob me, kill me, cook
me???!!!!!!!! that’s it!!! he’s calling his
accomplice right now to tell him i’m
here, to tell him to start boiling the
water, turn on the oven, chop the
parsley, dice the onions, garnish those
plump figs, grind the cardimon, but best
of all to look forward to a very nutritious
kosher meal. he’s big, bubba, and fat.
he’ll feed the whole village for three
days. i’ll have the white meat, you can
eat the legs: no, there’s not too much
hair on them. no, no tattoos, no nothin’!
hebrew, my good man, hebrew national
from head to toe. yum, yum, yummy!!!
after several moments he hung up the
phone and walked towards me. he
scratched his head. “we have to wait,”
he said. “let’s go in this café. do you
have any money.” “not much but enough
for coffee.” we walked a bit and entered
the dark café in which several locals sat
and stared at the newcomers. there was
a pool table, a pinball machine, a
telephone booth, and several tables.
moustik led us to sit at the table all the
way in the back, next to the pool table.
presently, the waitress approached us
and we ordered 2 cups of coffee. we
ended up staying there for nearly 3/4 of
an hour. every 5-10 minutes, moustik
would get up from the table and clumsily
 walk into the telephone booth and
attempt to make contact with whoever it
was he was trying to call. then, he would
return to our table and sit quietly. we did
not speak much. all i could do was
observe his manner as he stared through
the window, once in a while removing his
foggy sunglasses and squinting in order
to see more clearly down the street. i
attempted to block out my thoughts or
at the least to keep a lid on them. i
struggled with my insistent imagination
in order to hinder its climbing to
unimaginable heights. no, oded, he will
not pounce at your liver and boil your
heart and dance around your diced
jewish flesh and call for the african god,
shango, to send a thunderous blessing to
his people. oh, no, not shango, please,
please, no no not
shanngggggooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!
after one of his anxious trips to the phone
booth moustik walked quickly toward me
and grabbed his guitar. he looked
directly into my eyes and in his thickly
beautiful but very nervous african accent
proclaimed that the time had come for
us to leave. voila!!!! i paid our waitress
on the way out of the dark and gloomy
café. adieu! god help me. oh, miss,
please tell my father i meant toaccept
and forgive tell my mother that i’m sorry
i never bought her that beach house, tell
my brother not to do what i’ve done, tell
my friends i’ll miss them. merci
beaucoup. au revoir!!! the light in the
street fought with my pupils as they
tried to accustom themselves to this
new and bright environment. well, this is
the last time i’ll feel the sun. i’d like to
take a second to thank you, sun, for
being wonderful to me. i followed fast
behind the african’s determined
footsteps, down the street he had long
been watching from the cafe with
squinting eyes and a silent tongue, past
the first telephone booth he had used
 and the metro stop from which we had
exited. shortly thereafter, he stopped
outside the fence of a very beautiful and
extravagant home, and waited for me to
catch up to him. oh, dear me. he rested
for a moment his large hand on the latch
of the gate, and quietly urged me to stay
put and, again, to wait. he entered the
yard, climbing the marble front steps
that led to the entrance, and rang the
doorbell.we waited. well, this is it, folks.
he turned to look at me and motioned
with an opened palm for me to stand still
and remain patient. we waited for what
seemed an exageratedly long time until
the door slightly opened. farewell, my
friends, my lovers. a moment later we
were inside the house.
this is the short end of the long story:
when moustik had met me he
instinctually trusted me. for some reason
(still unknown to me and her) he then
risked much in order to bring me here to
introduce me to his girlfriend. it was her
parents’ house, and they profoundly
disapproved of her engaging in an
intimate relationship with a black man.
he had never before visited or brought
someone else with him to her house.
that was the reason for his nervous
behavior and anxious phone calls, his
sweating and fright. luckily, she had
arrived home to answer the phone, and
find her parents not present. at her front
door, she assured him that she was not
angry with his surprise visit, and that her
parents were not coming home for a few
days, but she did addthat she was not at
all pleased he again smelled of liquor.
some habits are not so easy to give up.
“bear with me,” he said, almost in a
whisper. he turned to me and held my
shoulder. introductions were made and
she invited us to make ourselves
comfortable. shortly, i would learn of a
history certainly having been worth the
risk i had taken faithfully to get there.
moustik, as it turned out, is truly the man
he claimed to be. he is the leader of the
african band and, in fact, is its founder
and composer. he had played with fela
for over ten years, was an incredible
master drummer, and was also
considered a holy medicine man in his
native village in cameroon. and as his
girlfriend was ill at this time, he was
therefore by duty and honor called to
perform a healing ceremony for her. all
of this, i had the fortune to witness and
observe.
firstly, he showered and dressed. he was
now relaxedand joyful. no more need for
dark sunglasses! he then asked me to
follow him upstairs because there was
something he wanted to show me. we
climbed up to the attic. to my utter
disbelief, spread across the large
enclosed and damp space covered with
a low ceiling were countless of authentic
african drums and percussion
instruments. after rummaging through
and touching the treasures laid before
my bewildered eyes we went back
downstairs to join the kind but ill
girlfriend. the task at hand was to cure
her mind and drive the evil spirits out of
her body. it was no more than a flu, or a
head cold, but to moustik it was quite a
bit more serious. the preparations
began. boiling water with a concoction of
raw herbs, and fresh spices, and
matured, sacred leaves, and myrrh.
there were frail fabrics soaked in
ointments which had to be applied to her
body and wrapped gently around her
head. there was also a precise manner
and order to the way she was to be laid
on the floor upon special sheets which
spread beneath her strong dancer’s
body. then, there was a myriad of
prayers; several hummed, some sung,
and others softly recited. and there i
was, the humble curious assistant, in
amazement and awe. wow. absolutely
 sublime. moustik and myself kept
around each other for several days. we
roamed the city, and i explored an
incredible‘privileged’ part of its culture i
would otherwise never had had the
opportunity to see. i never got to play
with the african band because, as had
happened many times before, they had
been kicked off the metro and had to lay
low for a while before resuming their
performances. but i did get to play and
learn much firsthand from him. and on
the final day we returned to his
girlfriend’s house in much the same
fashion we had done the first time a few
days prior.
in the morning, we all had coffee and
eggs. moustik had to leave and go back
downtown. we were to go together but
he had had to leave earlier than
planned.it was then that i said goodbye
to him. she and i walked him to the door.
i waved to him as he ran up the street,
and yelled that i would find him later
where we had rendezvoused the day
before. he then stepped down and
vanished into the gaping mouth of the
metro. alas, it was not to be. that
morning was the last time i would see
him. i remained in the house to wake up
slowly, talking with her but mostly
listening. she was very kind. she had
traveled to senegal, and told me some
interesting stories. then, she spoke to
me about moustik.. his captivating
presence, his charisma, his witty charm,
his immense wisdom and gentility, the
gifts and talents with which he has been
blessed. but also bestowed upon him
were his not so fortunate traits: his
impulsiveness and self-destructive,
disillusioned and confused nature, his
horrid temper, his countless affairs and
irrational rages of jealousy, and his deep
sickness of alcoholism. theirs was a
torrid love affair that has lasted a
decade and survived many breakups.
 before i left she presented me with a
gift. it was a surprisingly generous
gesture, and i stood there amazed and
speechless. it was an ornate brass
bracelet which was one of several given
her by moustik.she said that it was
endowed with magical power. and she
added for me not to mention it to
moustik when i see him because he
would probably get upset. but she gave
it to me because she knew somehow
that moustik would want me to have it. i
trusted her words and thanked her. au
revoir!!!
just when the story seemed to end, it
didn’t. i suppose destiny found it
amusing to propel yet another twist, just
for kicks. .upon my arrival in the states,
later that year, i was afforded an
opportunity to see fela in concert. i wore
my bracelet in proud honor of moustik.
the stage was full of people. an
entourage for the black president: aside
from the many musicians, doubling up
on guitar and horns, of course, there
were many backup singers – like a dozen
of them! and then there were the maids
and helpers, squeezed into the corner of
the already overcrowded stage. they
would supply the charismatic leader with
water or other drinks, and towels, and
many many cigarettes. every time he
would finish one, there was another put
into his mouth and lit. bizarre. i was
dancing ecstatically to the beautiful
music when suddenly the bracelet,
which was very strong, broke in half and
fell to the ground. i stood there in awe,
looking at the two pieces in my palm. i
looked up to a smiling fela, busy
prancing upon the stage. i was
dumbfounded at this occurrence, but the
bracelet obviously communicated
something beyond this world. i put it in
my pocket, and continued enjoying the
amazing show, every so often reaching
for the bracelet, and feeling it in my
 pocket. it was upsetting knowing that i
cannot wear this gift on my arm
anymore, but i was accepting of this
fact. perhaps moustik was angry afterall
about her giving me the bracelet without
his knowledge. perhaps at that very
moment, he found out. maybe he just
wanted to say hello to me, or maybe fela
acknowledged moustik’s presence in the
club. whatever the reason, it was an
extremely symbolic occurrence, and one
i shall never be invited to forget.
[ gennediville, france ]