Pansaers is cold.
Our journey through the jungle has settled into the closest you can find to a routine in Nadada. We gig every few days, setting ourself up wherever seems like a good location on board.I’m not sure any of the other crew members know or care by this point. I found our copy our contract the other day, and every line was the word custard again and again. It turns out there isn't the dead buried in the Earth. Only nonsense.
We continue to creep through the jungle. The Butter Mouse and I have spent the last few days locked in our cabin. She’s moving all the time, and, like everything else in Nadada, this once strange acts blends in my daily routine. We have even added something to our routine where she runs across my shoulders.
We surfaced in Baargeld Cave.
For those reading who are already in Nadada, check out Baargeld Cave. Although we have travelled to more spectacular places, this is the most beautiful. Carved into the side of a huge cliff, the jungle clambering down on either side, the diamond-like blue rock inside provides more than enough illumination. Water washes around the inside, a mini lagoon no bigger than a scout hut.
We are still chilling here. The Kandinsky is apparently gearing up to leave, though we are not sure when. In what time we have left I am going to do another gig, try and get some new material down, and put the memory of getting lost in Duchamp to bed. I am in a deckchair covered in inspirational quotes, and stroking one of the cats. This one had the taste of peppermint.
Crotti is what I needed after Duchamp.
Alongside the staff, about a hundred people remain on the Kandinsky. At the moment we spread across the island, and are almost enjoying a normal holiday. Time runs at a level that makes sense, and you can walk from street to the next without them hopping around. Don’t get me wrong, there is plenty of weird stuff here. I will discuss the cats next week. But for now here’s a rundown of I spend my time in this section of Nadada.
Nearly there. Nearly up to date.
With the grinding of brick walls, the Freytag House shuffled off. A tacky fire door swung shut behind us. The ceiling is so low we have to stoop. Two woman at the bar drink pina coladas, and a man plays darts on a melted board with upside down numbers. His glass contained cocktail umbrellas, and lots of ice. Something with a lot of crooning plays from a cracked glass jukebox.
The desert is ready to explore!
Maybe deep under the sand is our cottages are buried under sand. Perhaps the monkeys carried Picabia brick by brick to fresh new lands. Whatever happened, sand and goats are all there is for 360 degrees around The Kandinsky. The sand underneath my shoes is soft, and reveals nothing of a hidden world. Even the hills have gone.