tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65606090647218510782024-03-12T18:32:38.741-07:00Teo BabaMarcel Baaijenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704504101304182269noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6560609064721851078.post-64024181019686595472008-09-01T08:38:00.000-07:002008-09-22T00:26:50.947-07:00Excerpt of Teo's Autobiography (English)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLwT8rQ572I/AAAAAAAACOQ/SJr8aOpQeHE/s1600-h/photoTeo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLwT8rQ572I/AAAAAAAACOQ/SJr8aOpQeHE/s400/photoTeo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241085999479123810" border="0" /></a> Teo Baba 1928-2000<br /><br />This is an excerpt of Teo Baba's autobiography. It has been edited, reformatted and translated by Marcel Baaijens. The selection of text was based on relevance for use in a documentary about Teo by Marcel Baaijens. The original scanned text as printed by Teo is available on request, should someone be interested. Images by Marcel Baaijens<br /><br />PEOPLE LIKE YOU SHOULD BE KILLED (title)<br />AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY ACCORDING TO NOTHING (subtitle)<br /><br />A young 19-year-old girl<br />A pretty girl<br />With melancholy eyes<br />Wanting to be a singer<br />Adored<br />A girl's dream<br /><br />Who spotted whom?<br />She him, he her, is irrelevant<br />He almost 30<br />Black hair combed back<br />With traveling dog circus<br /><br />A Boden Lake engagement<br />With photo as memento<br />Short lived<br />She returned to Switzerland<br />He and his dogs to Czechoslovakia<br /><br />Barely 20<br />This girl Lore<br />Eyes like Lorelei<br />Melancholy and blue<br />Became mother<br />My mother<br /><br />At 14:21 in Zurich<br />The 6th of February 1928<br />Teo came into this world<br />Without sun<br />Without love<br />With a place at his mother's side<br />Pushed around by strangers<br />A childhood long<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0s9T5x3eI/AAAAAAAACQo/nZImV2_v3QU/s1600-h/baby.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0s9T5x3eI/AAAAAAAACQo/nZImV2_v3QU/s400/baby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241394973155384802" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Into a kind of home<br />With kids who perhaps like me,<br />Had no parents<br />Put up for adoption for childless families<br />Just like me<br />First they come to look<br />Then they come to collect<br />On trial of coarse, never forever<br /><br />Had to call him “Daddy”, her “Mummy”<br />Went to school, also Sunday school<br />Weed the garden path<br />One winter Mummy bombarded me with snow<br />I ran to the nearby lake<br />To surrender to its thin ice, its cold water,<br />Forever<br />But 'Daddy' was quicker<br />Back to the house<br /><br />They gave me up after two years<br />why I don’t know<br />maybe there was truth to a rumor<br />I once heard<br />That I was not raised as a catholic<br />Anyway<br />In 1936, at the age of eight,<br />A guardian from Zurich came<br />To take me by car<br />From Neideruster to Rathausen<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0uaNkXZoI/AAAAAAAACRo/r7q4VBcw7fc/s1600-h/nun.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0uaNkXZoI/AAAAAAAACRo/r7q4VBcw7fc/s400/nun.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241396569182791298" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Rathausen once a nunnery<br />Older than Switzerland<br />A reformatory<br />With about 100 boys<br />80 girls<br />20 nuns<br />1 priest, the director<br />Also a teacher and an employee<br />Enclosed by a huge wall<br />Outside farmland it owned<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0wOJVWemI/AAAAAAAACSI/KRG-ddpNlG0/s1600-h/stonewall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0wOJVWemI/AAAAAAAACSI/KRG-ddpNlG0/s400/stonewall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241398560910899810" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The guardian left<br />Had to wait for the servant<br />With such an angry face<br />So ugly<br />I was terrified<br /><br />I had to sit on a chair<br />With a knife<br />Hair cut off my head<br />Clothes upstairs<br />Patched clothes for weekdays<br />Green clothes for Sundays<br />Gray clothes for holy days<br /><br />All boys with shaved heads<br />All boys in green clothes<br />All boys and girls, behind 4 walls<br />A childhood long<br />Shaved heads, green clothes, behind 4 walls<br />Like a penitentiary<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0wN68l87I/AAAAAAAACR4/ic8Xf0gRwak/s1600-h/shavedHeads.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0wN68l87I/AAAAAAAACR4/ic8Xf0gRwak/s400/shavedHeads.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241398557048959922" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Here I was<br />In a penitentiary for kids<br />For 12 years<br /><br />Daily routine:<br />Get up at 6<br />Do chores<br />Breakfast: two cups of coffee, one piece of bread<br />From eight to twelve: school<br />Lunch: soup, potatoes, vegetables<br />Break till one<br />Tea: 2 cups of coffee, a piece of bread<br />Free till eight<br />Then inspection and punishments by the director<br />After that bedtime<br /><br />Wednesday and Saturday afternoons<br />Also during holidays<br />Work in the garden<br />Cut and split wood<br />Work on the land<br />Make hay and more<br /><br />Such as<br />In springtime<br />Walking in rank and file<br />Through the fields<br />To pick up sticks and stones<br />Followed by the angry servant<br />Zigzagging<br />Until he would find a stick or stone<br />Beaming with joy<br />Looking for the sinner<br />Who overlooked this stick or stone?<br />Ordered him over<br />Giving him a kick<br />As he bends over<br />To pick up<br />The overlooked stick or stone<br /><br />Talking while getting up<br />At the table or in the kitchen<br />Disobeying the nuns<br />Not cleaning properly<br />And other similar acts<br />Would be punished in your spare time<br />For every crime<br />Kneeling a quarter of an hour<br />Arms stretched out in front<br />Get tired or lower your arms<br />And they will be beaten<br />By the angry-faced servant<br />With a stick<br /><br />In about 1939 they system changed<br />From then on<br />The director checked every night<br />Us sitting at the table<br />The nuns verkliken<br />This one here, he talked at the table<br />That one there, did not listen<br />Those 'guilty' stayed<br />Others off to bed<br /><br />Those who stayed<br />Had to lie on the table<br />One after the other<br />Enduring beatings<br />Followed by a handshake<br />Wishing 'goodnight'<br />A 'thank you' for the beatings<br />If not he would continue beating<br />Till you would say “ thank you Sir”<br /><br />One night<br />I would never forget<br />One night<br />One of the boys felt the urge<br />To spend a lover's hour with a girl<br />But unfortunately one girl wakes up<br />Sees and hears the pair<br />Begins to scream<br />Maybe out of jealousy<br />All girls wake up<br />The nuns too<br />Even the night<br />In the morning light<br />They spot the boy with the girl<br />Recognise them before he escaped<br /><br />The following night<br />I had to wait for beatings<br />With three, four others<br />But not without reason<br />The director, who was also a priest<br />Waited with beating and constantly watched the door<br />Till it opened<br /><br />Two nuns came in<br />In between them the girl<br />Whose lovers-hour was interrupted?<br />A girl so tender and beautiful<br />So terribly vulnerable<br />This poor soul stands there<br />Terrified<br />The director, who was also a priest<br />Grabbed the reed, this flexible stick<br />Walked over to the girl<br />This tender, vulnerable girl<br />And began to beat her<br /><br />And beat her<br />And beat her<br />On her head, arms, legs, tummy, back<br />Wherever he could and<br />This tender beautiful girl<br />Could no longer stand<br />Was carried out<br />The nuns mumbled<br />Holy wrath it was<br /><br />The girl was barely gone<br />When the doors opened again<br />The angry servant and teacher entered<br />In between them the boy<br />His lovers-hour unfinished<br /><br />A boy not tender and vulnerable<br />But strong and proud<br />Stood there, without fear<br />Close to the door<br /><br />The director, who was also a priest<br />Grabbed the stick to beat the boy<br />Then the boy says<br />“You lousy dickhead”<br />And ran away<br />Followed by all<br />We stood there<br />No one said a word<br />Waiting for the beatings<br />I am terrified<br />Would he beat us half dead too<br />With his holy wrath<br /><br />Finally he returns<br />The director, who was also a priest<br />We lie on the table<br />One after the other<br />Receive the beatings<br />Shake hands<br />Say our line<br />“Good night Sir”<br />And go to sleep<br />This boy was never seen again<br /><br />There were claws in the school<br />A slap with a ruler on your hand<br />Or slap in the face<br />Which I hated<br />Without control<br />Like a reflex<br />My hand would make a fist<br />Punched with full force<br />Right on the chest of the nun<br />She started to cry<br />Since then I enjoyed peace<br /><br />Sundays walks were punishment to me too<br />In rows of four<br />In green clothes<br />With shaved heads<br />Walking through the villages<br />Everyone knew where we came from<br /><br />As soon as I arrived at this penitentiary for kids<br />I had learn all about sins<br />A book full with all possible sins<br />I had to learn, but did not understand<br />So I asked around what are this and that<br />What are mortal sins?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0wN7TzniI/AAAAAAAACSA/Z2e_hRNVmko/s1600-h/sins.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0wN7TzniI/AAAAAAAACSA/Z2e_hRNVmko/s400/sins.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241398557146324514" border="0" /></a><br /><br />They explained all<br />Including what one can do<br />Alone or with others<br />With the hanging limb<br />That often rises<br />That put me right among sins<br />Quite liked them too<br />Then confessing all my sins<br />Especially mortal sins<br /><br />The old priest from the neighbouring village<br />Was not too happy with me<br />I did the mortal sin too often<br />Without any signs of improvement<br />He already threatened me a few times:<br />“Not sure if I can give you absolution for your numerous sins”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0s9YCNqTI/AAAAAAAACQ4/mhD6itUPCXI/s1600-h/confession.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0s9YCNqTI/AAAAAAAACQ4/mhD6itUPCXI/s400/confession.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241394974264502578" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I tell another boy<br />“Leave this confession box, go to the next”<br />Was his advice, so?<br />Next time I went to the old priest<br />Who said?<br />“Not sure if I can give you absolution...”<br />So off I went to the next<br />Which was the vicar who I liked<br />Next evening I had to come to the vicarage<br />Obediently I showed up<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0uaJuuIhI/AAAAAAAACRg/yXkzplf6OUM/s1600-h/jesusCross.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0uaJuuIhI/AAAAAAAACRg/yXkzplf6OUM/s400/jesusCross.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241396568152482322" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Had to undress straight away<br />Kneel for the Lord on the cross<br />And received on my thighs<br />Front and back<br />Soft slaps with a ruler<br />He stared at me forever<br />Specially down there<br />With a calendar as gift<br />I could go back to the penitentiary for kids<br /><br />Three, four times per year<br />For a few days only<br />A brother came,<br />Like sunshine in our joyless existence<br />From where he came, which country<br />We did not know<br />Did not matter really<br />We loved him<br />With his love and cheerfulness<br />He had us boys, without any trouble<br />In the palm of his hand<br /><br />Once<br />He came at teatime<br />To hand out bread<br />One piece for each boy, as usually<br />There were two, three pieces to many<br />When he raised one in the air<br />We all screamed with one voice “me, me, me!”<br />He handed out the last pieces<br />Left with an empty basket<br />Returned with a full one<br />We all got another piece<br />A whole piece<br />A saint<br />All because of a piece of bread<br /><br />I was always hungry<br />Lunch and three pieces of bread daily<br />Were not enough?<br />No surprise then<br />That my mind cried<br />From where more bread<br /><br />When it was my turn<br />One night till twelve<br />To be on night duty<br />For bed wetters<br />Who were hooked up to electric wires?<br />Fitted in between two sheets of tin<br />Which, as soon as you piss, make contact<br />Ring a bell<br />Drop a number<br />So one knows who is pissing<br />Is woken up<br />Properly documented<br />At what time it happened<br /><br />There I was in the hallway<br />Waiting and hungry<br />And my mind cried<br />From where more bread<br />Or something better<br />The answer came before midnight<br />Go to the kitchen<br />Although behind double oak doors<br />Well locked<br />There was a weak spot<br />The little door in a wing<br />Only closed with a latch<br />I was determined<br />To go to the kitchen one day<br />Not alone but with two<br /><br /><br />One night, everyone in bed<br />I went to the kitchen<br />Was lucky<br />Door still open<br />Quickly turned the latch<br />Hid in a corner<br />The nun comes out<br />Closes the latch<br />But goes away to fetch the keys<br />I run back, open the latch<br />Then sitting at the table upstairs<br />Like a good boy<br />Waiting for those who piss<br />Till midnight<br /><br />I fetch the other boy<br />Together we go in the kitchen<br />The latch still unlocked<br />The door however, squeaked and groaned so loudly<br />In this old nunnery, at this ghostly hour<br />That we expected the whole house to wake up<br />Finally the door was open<br />We crawled through and stood<br />In the spic n' span kitchen<br />No leftovers to be found<br />Not even bread<br />We continue to look<br />Find a pantry<br />Door locked<br />Then two windows<br />Which opened, not far<br />Just enough for us though<br /><br />Behind the window a table<br />With low dishes full of milk<br />No space for our feet<br />To get to inside<br />So we waded from dish to dish<br />And stood in fool's paradise<br />Then a cupboard with jam<br />Which we saw only on special occasions<br />Then lots of sugar cakes<br />Like the ones for Christmas<br /><br />We ate and ate<br />From jam and sugar cakes<br />Till I went down the stairs<br />I could not believe my eyes<br />There were three big cakes<br />Real pretty decorated with icing<br />Never did I see the likes of that in my life<br />Not even those tasted<br /><br />We ate from the first cake<br />It melted in our mouths<br />We ate from the second one<br />With chocolate filling<br />So yummy, a kids dream<br />We ate from the third cake<br />Also very good, but<br />We were full<br /><br />So, back through the milk<br />The window<br />The loud squeaky door<br />The sleep of the satisfied ones<br />The sleep of a happy child<br />Till the next morning<br />Barely up gossip spread<br />Not sure who done it<br /><br />Then breakfast<br />The eternally starving me, was full<br />Gave my bread to others<br />The other boy too, but<br />Unfortunately the nun noticed<br />“Got ya!” and was pissed off<br />Said the other boy after breakfast<br />“Something is brewing, the nun's pissed off,<br />And when the director finds out we will be beaten,<br />Like the tender girl<br /><br />The storm blew over<br />But when some days later<br />The Fritschivater came<br />For whom the cakes were<br />We were locked in darkness<br /><br />Every year St. Nicholas comes<br />Also to the penitentiary for kids<br />Dressed like a bishop<br />Carrying the book of sinners<br />Then his helper Rupert<br />With bag and rod<br />And lots of soot<br />To blacken the kids<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyxMIXvNXI/AAAAAAAACQI/5wexWFD1TCo/s1600-h/rupknecht.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyxMIXvNXI/AAAAAAAACQI/5wexWFD1TCo/s400/rupknecht.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241258888316007794" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We sit at the table<br />Waiting for things to come<br />The big book open<br />Nicholas begins to read<br />Named of sinners, the offence<br />Often funny, often not<br />Often having to come up front<br />Or the least rise<br /><br />Names being called<br />One after the other, then<br />“Teo come forward”<br />Stood in front of St. Nick who says:<br />“‘Coz you're always hungry<br />Rupert will give you a bowl of milk rice”<br />Rupert brings this rice<br />With his black hands<br />But the fun didn't last long<br />Barely did I have the bowl in my hand<br />One spoon in my mouth<br />When Rupert smears this precious rice<br />In my face and on my head<br />The whole hall laughs<br />I have to go and wash<br /><br />Every year the fairytale in the city theater of Luzerne<br />I look forward to it every year<br />Such a different world<br />Where the fairytale becomes reality<br />And the impossible possible is<br />Where angels protect children<br />Where children turn into princesses and princes<br />Were adults who do not love children?<br />Are punished or even killed<br />I sit there spellbound<br />Sympathise with Cinderella<br />Side with Hans and Gretel<br />And really enjoy the moment<br />When the belly of the bad wolf is cut open<br /><br />After the fairytale home again<br />To the penitentiary for children<br />Where reality bitter is<br />The impossible not possible<br />Children unprotected by angels<br />Where children are beaten<br />Where people who do not love children<br />Go unpunished<br /><br /><br />Drognes, reformatory for big kids<br />Without a surrounding wall<br />However it was forbidden to go into the villages<br />So still a penitentiary<br />A penitentiary for big kids<br />Run by brothers an sisters<br />The guardian took me here<br />At age 17, to learn a trade<br />Working from morning till evening<br />Were you industrious and well behaved?<br />Six franks per month<br />If not, less or nothing,<br />Only on paper of course<br /><br />I always wanted to get sick<br />So I cold sleep for days and nights<br />But I was always healthy<br />I tried allsorts, nothing worked<br />Lie in the snow in pajamas<br />Swim with clothes on<br />When water was frozen<br />Sit in draughts and more<br />But I never got sick<br /><br />Asked other boys for advise, till one said<br />“Real simple, drink horse piss, that will surely help”<br />I begged him help me out<br />Bring a full bottle<br />After a few days<br />He delivered<br />It wasn’t horse piss<br />But would help too<br />A liquid filthy and yellowish<br />With a stench to make you vomit<br />I held my nose<br />Took two sips<br />More was impossible<br />Would have thrown up<br />And would not get sick<br />Which started some hours later<br /><br />I went to the nurse<br />Called sick<br />He took my temperature and put me in bed<br />In the sick room with some others<br />Finally I could sleep and sleep<br />In between chat and listen to the radio<br />The doctor gave me medicine<br /><br />The next day we had to make room for other sick boys<br />Had to leave the sick room<br />The dream was over<br />Back to the dormitory<br />With 30 beds on one<br />As equally many on the other side<br /><br />There I sat with my medicine and a bad mood<br />Take all my medicine at once<br />After half an hour back again<br />With the nurse in the sick room<br />Sicker than before<br />Wanted to give me more medicine<br />“ Oh no, ate it all”<br />Then back upstairs,<br />It was Wednesday evening<br />Back in bed I slept, and slept<br />Till Sunday morning<br />Felt better than ever before<br />Back into the daily grind<br />Soon after I left with certificate<br />The penitentiary for big kids<br /><br /><br />I entered the big world<br />With a trade and little money<br />Worked here, there and everywhere<br />Never for long<br /><br />One director said to me<br />You should become self-employed<br />You will never get used to routines<br />You will have 100 jobs<br />And loose 100 jobs<br />So I tried to become self-employed<br />Began to paint without any income<br />An artist's fate<br /><br />This night, as always in the restaurant<br />But with a bad mood<br />Drank some wine to forget about the daily grind<br />On the table a box with saridons<br />Drinking glass after glass<br />A friend arrives,<br />We drink together<br /><br />During the conversation<br />He takes the box in his hand<br />Plays it from one hand to the other<br />Opens it, closes it, then<br />From one hand to the other again<br />While we are drinking my bad mood worsens<br />To the size of an elephant<br />Grabbed the box of saridons<br />Ate all ten, did not care about what would happen<br />The other again<br />Plays with the box<br />From one hand to the other<br />Opens it, closes it and.<br />“Before the box was full,<br />Now it's empty, where are they?”<br />“In my stomach”, “are you crazy?”<br />Two of them drag me outside<br />Put fingers down my throat<br />Till there was nothing left to vomit<br />Took me home, put me in bed<br />I body was paralised<br />Could not move nor speak<br />Only see and hear<br />When I woke up the next day<br />I was reborn<br /><br />Once I traveled to Ticino<br />Rented a house<br />In Maggia valley up a hill<br />For little money<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyz97pQ1CI/AAAAAAAACQg/SFlF3jTPdQY/s1600-h/teosHouse.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyz97pQ1CI/AAAAAAAACQg/SFlF3jTPdQY/s400/teosHouse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241261942916568098" border="0" /></a>Teo's house, now a holiday house.<br /><br />For days I read a book: 'three pillars of Zen'<br />Barely closed a girl came in<br />“Just mediate what 'Mu' is?” I said<br />“I don't want to know” and off she went<br />Next time she came I said<br />“Just mediate on 'who am I'” I said<br />“I don't want to know” and she as off again<br />I did not know what else to say<br />The book did not help either<br />When the girl came again I said:<br />Meditate on what love is”<br />She found that interesting and left<br />I was alone at home,<br />Perhaps she would do it<br />If so, questions would come<br />To which I would not have an answer<br />So I began to meditate on what love is<br />First about things I like<br />Evenings reviewing the day<br />What I loved about it, for months<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyzV7C8UiI/AAAAAAAACQQ/LMVooGA-piE/s1600-h/TeoRonchini.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyzV7C8UiI/AAAAAAAACQQ/LMVooGA-piE/s400/TeoRonchini.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241261255561073186" border="0" /></a>Teo in front of his house in Ticino.<br /><br />Someone came by<br />With the holy Hindu script<br />Gita, the divine chant<br />I was not interested<br />But it lay on the table, open<br />I mixed my tobacco in it<br />Till it stained the page<br />Unintended, while mixing<br />I read some sentences<br />Which slowly began to have effect<br /><br />Words from God I thought<br />Should be read seriously<br />Without religion I was neutral<br />So I read this book seriously<br />Much I did not understand<br />Much was familiar<br />One day a visitor said<br />“Don’t just meditate what love is,<br />Meditate on what love thy neighbour is”<br />I took his advice and the Gita<br />Discovered that every holy script<br />Is only useful; when you live it<br />Whoever embodies it can talk about it<br />Others should remain silent<br /><br />First I only painted portraits, then<br />Without trying to follow any fashion<br />Shapes began to develop<br />Intertwined, ornamental, surrounded with lines<br />That would melt into one line<br />With these paintings to the Zurich Christmas Exhibition<br />Stood, because they were mine, a bit back<br />To see if anyone would look<br />Not many did, and<br />“Are you painting carpets now?” and more<br />I had to listen to<br />I was totally disillusioned<br /><br />Shortly after<br />With watercolours on the table<br />Which I bought each year<br />But never mastered<br />I sat in the room, was in a bad mood<br />Painting many years without any success<br />Only few people like my paintings<br />One painter among thousands<br />With that mindset I walked to the table<br />Began to fill the page randomly<br />Who cares, they don't sell anyway<br />I could not belief my eyes<br />An image appeared<br />So beautiful, like seldom before<br />Painted a second, a third<br />For days on end, so beautiful<br /><br />One day, as I sat on my bed<br />Suddenly...<br />My room filled with a thick liquid<br />Higher and higher<br />A voice said<br />“This is the amount of work you've done”<br />The liquid disappeared,<br />a new one came<br />“this is the amount of sleep”<br />the liquid dissapeared, a new one came<br />“This is the amount of money you have”<br />the liquid disappeared, a new one came<br />filling the room till mylegs<br />“so much fun you had”<br />after some time the voice asks:<br />“for whom was all this”<br />You can't lie to yourself<br />“All for myself” I thought<br />The same voice asks<br />“What did you do for others?”<br />Then it was gone<br />I was left behind in deep thought<br /><br />What can I do, I own nothing<br />Sell all paintings, should such be possible<br />It may raise one million<br />A good school with houses I could build<br />Then all money gone<br />Barely a drop in the ocean<br />For weeks I wondered what else I could do<br />Till the insight came<br />I can ask God to help me<br /><br />I began to test the insight<br />Real or not, till I found an example<br />Franciscus and others, full of deeds,<br />As individual blessed by God<br />So I began to believe in God again<br />With that in place, I tried to love God, but<br />What does it mean to love God?<br />Till I knew, love mankind<br />That’s how you love God<br /><br />Bought a book once<br />“Buddha's words”, read it<br />One sentence somewhere read<br />Let go of desires<br />I thought long<br />Wanted to know, which desires I had<br />Found about ten<br />But found it hard to let go<br />Till the insight came<br />Making it real easy<br />Nine were left<br />Letting go of the smallest<br />Eight left, seven, six, down to two<br />Then time to let go of the hardest of all: sex<br />Thought, impossible, but I was surprised<br />Managed for years<br />Saved a lot of money, had more time to meditate<br />Understood why Jesus took his disciples away from their families<br />Learned that not so pretty people often<br />Wonderful people are and lots more,<br />Thanks Buddha<br /><br />My hometown, on the lake<br />With its churches and squares, many pretty spots,<br />A nice city<br />If only the people were as nice<br />My hair an inch longer than others and sideburns<br />Twenty years in Zurich, not a day without<br />One or more people telling me:<br />“Scum, get a haircut”<br />Sometimes they even gave me the money<br />With which I bought drinks<br />I also had to put up with:<br />“People like you should be killed”<br />I was often in other countries<br />But nowhere did I meet such angry people as in Switzerland<br />Like police, constantly watching what others are does<br />And when they find a fault<br />They become the judge<br />Speak ill behind your back<br />Often right in your face too, angry<br />These people<br /><br />Despite all the good times<br />I did not want to live any longer<br />In a country where I am never loved<br />Always made a scapegoat, for 24 years<br />Absolutely everything was dark<br />No ties left<br />Sold my house and car had some money<br />And was determined<br />To commit suicide<br />With the money a last trip<br />The rest I would leave at home to<br />Do the deed somewhere on my return<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyzV0UnMLI/AAAAAAAACQY/lSPQQaknbF0/s1600-h/travel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyzV0UnMLI/AAAAAAAACQY/lSPQQaknbF0/s400/travel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241261253756137650" border="0" /></a> Teo and Jonas, from Teo's scrapbook.<br /><br />I took Jonas along, because of his independence, intelligence<br />Lack of fear and English spoke<br />On 28th December 1972 we boarded a train<br />Traveled through Switzerland, Austria, Yugoslavia and Bulgaria to Istanbul<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLytwv0UZ7I/AAAAAAAACPQ/B-hk6kv5eEo/s1600-h/IstDomes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLytwv0UZ7I/AAAAAAAACPQ/B-hk6kv5eEo/s400/IstDomes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241255119333648306" border="0" /></a>Istanbul<br /><br />The next day I saw the blue mosque for the first time<br />Such power such radiance<br />Such a contrast to its<br />Calm and peaceful interior<br />Muslims praying up front<br />Leaving the mosque when done<br />An old white-haired Muslim comes to Jonas<br />Hugs and kisses him<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLytwmoW7PI/AAAAAAAACPI/-5APxlvuVpM/s1600-h/IstBlueMosk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLytwmoW7PI/AAAAAAAACPI/-5APxlvuVpM/s400/IstBlueMosk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241255116867562738" border="0" /></a>Interior Blue Mosque<br /><br />After many years<br />I wanted to pray again<br />The many tourists obstructed me<br />So I hid behind the room sized pillars<br />Out of sight<br />Kneeled and worshipped God<br />I heard singing<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0uZ-PZpKI/AAAAAAAACRQ/xcwAn8azSOo/s1600-h/imam.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0uZ-PZpKI/AAAAAAAACRQ/xcwAn8azSOo/s400/imam.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241396565068326050" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A Muslim with a green turban came to me<br />Kneeled in front of me, took my hands with his<br />Looked me in the eyes<br />His eyes began to glow light, so bright<br />I can only explain it with these words:<br />I aw God in his eyes<br />Then he searched all his pockets for money<br />Found some, his last 5 liras<br />And gave it to me<br />Me with lots of money in my pocket<br />Didn’t want it, but he insisted<br />Raised his finger to heaven and said “Allah”<br />I cried, I was so moved by this experience<br />Outside a man passed<br />With his head and back at right angles<br />I went over to him<br />Gave him the gifted money and said “Allah”<br />He was happy, me too<br />From that moment I intended<br />To gift, just like the Moslems in the mosque<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0uaX_JLWI/AAAAAAAACRw/zt2Ud9hRoyk/s1600-h/receipt.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0uaX_JLWI/AAAAAAAACRw/zt2Ud9hRoyk/s400/receipt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241396571979459938" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We sailed by boat to the other side, where Asia begins<br />By train again to Teheran<br />From Teheran by plane to Bombay<br /><br />The sun rose while flying, just before India<br />Wherever I looked; gold, gold, gold<br />Then we landed<br /><br />Customs were all very friendly<br />Something new for me<br />Outside a policeman saluted us<br /><br />After two days I wanted to visit an Indian temple<br />I was told to visit Mahalaxmi<br />In a big park with wonderful trees<br />Along the road were statues of deities,<br />Whose name I didn't know<br />On getting closer<br />Every single one smiled at me<br />Inside the temple a Hindu gave me flowers<br />Some water and a sweet<br />From Goddess Mahalaxmi, Goddess of luck<br />Three golden heads on the altar, all three smiled at me<br /><br />Back outside a Sadhu gave us a ticka<br />Three kids came running towards us<br />Begging for money<br />I had three rupees in my hand<br />Then my mind does the thinking instead of my heart<br />Only give one rupee and throw it in the air<br />I walk on with one child following me<br />It begs and begs for some money<br />But like a Swiss law I stuck to my 'no'<br />A 'no' is a 'no' and will stay a 'no'<br />The child began to curse me<br />I gave it a half rupee<br />Was half satisfied and blessed me<br />For weeks I thought about how hard I was<br />I began to hand out rupees thinking<br />If I had no food<br />I would be pleased to receive some<br />One rupee is enough to buy rice and lentils<br /><br />Vijayavada, a lovely town<br />Situated on a hill, next to the Krishna River<br />Dammed upstream like a lake, flowing in three arms below<br />At night we stroll the streets<br />Across a bridge onto a square<br />To a small bamboo temple<br />With a friendly priest inside<br />He gave blessings after prayers<br />And asked for some money to build a temple<br />I gave him a large sum<br />He asked us to return tomorrow<br />We could stay in the temple<br />As long as we wanted<br />I liked the exchange<br />As I had only enough rupees to pay for a hotel<br />A strike had closed all banks<br />I owned plenty of money but had none<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0uZ3fCCsI/AAAAAAAACRY/DJmE21tSfos/s1600-h/indiantemple.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0uZ3fCCsI/AAAAAAAACRY/DJmE21tSfos/s400/indiantemple.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241396563254840002" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A boy fetched us in the morning<br />Took us to the temple<br />Baba, as the priest was called, welcomed us<br />We sat near his unknown Deity<br />Two women came<br />Bowed right down to the floor for us<br />Gave each of us an apple<br />We were given a room in a Krishna monastery<br />Had a room with balcony<br />We sat there and smoked<br />I felt very happy<br />Later Jonas went inside<br />What a pity I thought<br />It’s so nice outside<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyrktLr0vI/AAAAAAAACOY/Hs0hd2Lr-38/s1600-h/Baba.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyrktLr0vI/AAAAAAAACOY/Hs0hd2Lr-38/s400/Baba.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241252713444659954" border="0" /></a> Baba, image from Teo's scrapbook.<br /><br />Next day at the temple Baba said to me:<br />“Yesterday Jonas went inside to pray”<br />I was totally flabbergasted, how did he know?<br />I had this thought in Swiss German<br />Then I thought by myself how nice it would be<br />If I never had to go back to Switzerland<br />The next day Baba said<br />“I you don't want to, you shouldn't”<br /><br />One night with many Indians in the temple<br />Baba pointed at me and told the crowd<br />“One day he will bring many million dollars”<br />And started to dance in front of his deity<br /><br />One day he stood in front of me in the temple<br />Prophesised the future and told his followers<br />“One day he will be a big Baba”<br /><br />Another time I asked Baba if he could ask God<br />If I was allowed to smoke dope<br />He immediately went in front of his deity<br />Eye half closed, in trance<br />After about 10 minutes turned to me and said<br />'God says you can smoke dope and cigarettes too”<br /><br />Another thought popped in my head<br />To let go of all the money<br />As before, just a thought in Swiss-German<br />That night in the temple filled with Hindus<br />Baba says to me in front of everyone<br />“If you ant you can give all your money”<br />So I take the money and give it to Baba and said<br />“In the box” that no one could have heard<br />But all went 'oh' and 'ah'<br />I let it all go, had no money left<br />Not one cent<br /><br />It was a wonderful time at Baba's<br />I was floating<br />One day a poor man came to me and said:<br />“We love people like you”<br />Never before had I heard those words<br />They were ointments on my wounded soul<br />Deep down I thought<br />When there are people who love me<br />Then I should not commit suicide<br /><br />On Shivaratri, Shiva's night I fell ill<br />Became apathic and weak<br />By bus we went to Venkatrao<br />Baba wanted to put me in this monastery<br />For ever<br />So I never had to go back to Switzerland<br />But I did not want to burden the people in my condition<br /><br />I got worse, suffered from really bad stomach cramps and diarrhea<br />Lost weight, lots of kilos, only 64 left<br />Next day Baba gave us a ticket<br />“Change at the next station, there a reserved seat will be waiting for you<br />He gave us an envelope with money<br />“From an unknown God” he said<br />Helped us find a seat<br />Slowly he disappeared out of sight<br />We changed at the next station<br />Jonas ran from one carriage to the next<br />To find the reserved seats<br />I was weak and waited<br />“We will never get in, we have a third class ticket, all full,<br />Not even space for our feet”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0wOKOv1rI/AAAAAAAACSY/KqLj7iFldbo/s1600-h/train.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0wOKOv1rI/AAAAAAAACSY/KqLj7iFldbo/s400/train.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241398561151637170" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I was too weak to stand, sat down and began to pray<br />Three policemen came,<br />Kindly helped me getting up<br />Took me to the train, ordered the door to be opened<br />The train began to move<br />The policemen moving alongside<br />Gently shoved me inside<br />I was in, all seats taken<br />Sat in a corner on the floor<br />Was happy to sit down<br /><br />A priestess and priest were sharing one bench<br />While praying constantly<br />He looked at me, away, at me<br />For some time<br />He gestures me to come over<br />The priestess vacates her seat<br />Goes on the upper bunk<br />The priest follows<br />Giving us two seats, the reserved seats<br /><br />I was thinking, a Hindu priest helped me<br />Did what Jesus preached<br />His action touched me deeply<br />I realised a mistake a made back then<br />To throw out Jesus with the church<br />I now saw that Jesus was not guilty<br />His words still pure, felt love for him again<br /><br />When the priestess and priest left the train<br />I saw them out<br />A crowd was waiting for them<br />They invited us, but the priest declined<br />He is very ill,<br />Better he travels to doctor in Delhi<br /><br />I thanked them for all their love<br />And all they had done for us<br />The priestess came over<br />Kneeled in front of me<br />Right to the ground<br />Kissed my feet and with a big gesture<br />Blessed me all over<br />Then they left<br /><br />In Delhi I went to the Swiss embassy for help<br />“We could lock you up and cut your hair”<br />Was what the Swiss had to say<br />After three days I said goodbye to Jonas<br />And flew back to Zurich<br /><br />All went dark<br />Was called scum so often<br />By people I 'd never seen before<br />That I thought by myself<br />“If no-one loves me, why should I carry-on living?”<br />I still had the money to go somewhere,<br />To commit suicide<br /><br />Then I remembered the poor man who told me<br />“We love people like you”<br />Thoughts came and went<br />It became darker and darker<br /><br />But a new thought entered my mind<br />“What would happen if I give everything away like Buddha?”<br />Don’t know anyone who has done that<br />Priests and monks are giving robes<br />A room, food and some even money<br />Well then, to find out I had no other choice<br />But do it myself<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyrkq8Ha-I/AAAAAAAACOg/9EANYeaE534/s1600-h/buddha.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyrkq8Ha-I/AAAAAAAACOg/9EANYeaE534/s400/buddha.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241252712842488802" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I gave an artist the content of my house<br />Took a bag with the last of my money<br />Bought a one-way ticket<br />Non-stop to Nepal, to follow Buddha's path<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0s9qpJVvI/AAAAAAAACRI/w52KIOrawY8/s1600-h/garuda2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0s9qpJVvI/AAAAAAAACRI/w52KIOrawY8/s400/garuda2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241394979259635442" border="0" /></a>Garuda<br /><br />I sat around the wonderful city of Kathmandu<br />For two three weeks, often near the Narein pagoda<br />Where angel Garuda kneels with praying hands<br />I thought by myself, if I stay here to long<br />I will have no money left<br />I saw the angels praying hands when an insight came<br />All I needed to do was pray<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLytw5DF4vI/AAAAAAAACPg/Tx0UKfYRYOQ/s1600-h/Lumbini.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLytw5DF4vI/AAAAAAAACPg/Tx0UKfYRYOQ/s400/Lumbini.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241255121811530482" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I went to Lumbini, the birthplace of Buddha<br />To Kushinagath, where he died<br />On to Sarnath, where he first preached<br />I visited the temples and prayed<br />Ended up in Varanasi<br />Where I love sitting on the steps<br />Watch the holy Ganges<br />All the human activities<br />And the vast plains in the background<br /><br />I asked a Hindu to take an envelop with money<br />To the golden temple for the poor<br />We went together<br />He went in, I stayed outside<br />He returned with a string of flowers<br />Put it round my neck, took me to a small window<br />To peek inside the temple<br />I saw a never-ending shower of flowers<br />My companion said:<br />“God often stands outside”<br /><br />He took me to a holy man<br />What makes one holy, how do they look?<br />In his room stood a bed<br />On which he was seated<br />Many people sitting left and right<br />A fan providing some cooling<br />Saints don't need that<br />Next to his bed stood some boys<br />Who started to laugh when they saw me, and then left<br />This holy man on his bed, just like others<br />But with light in his eyes, which he raised at me<br />With love and said<br />“Excuse me, they don't know who you are”<br />I bowed and left the room<br />A holy mans says that to me?<br /><br />Then continued by bus to the Dalai Lama<br />Sat with the lovely, peace loving Tibetans<br />After ten days it was time to do<br />What I came to for, to know:<br />“What happens when you give everything away”?<br /><br />I went with the last of my money in an envelope to the temple<br />Wrote on it that its content is destined for the Dalai Lama<br />For his people in need<br />I laid the envelope in front of the White Tara<br />Prayed for a while and left<br />Now I had only a few rupees left, enough to last two, three days<br />When a voice said: “you did not give everything”<br />I bought a Kati<br />Wrapped the money in it<br />An went that night to a small temple<br /><br />Left in front was wooded Green Tara<br />I went up to her, out the last bit of money in her lap<br />Stayed a while and looked the Green Tara in her eyes<br />And said to God:<br />“I have given everything away,<br />Now its up to you, I am done”<br />The Green Tara lit up<br />The last gift radiated brightly in her lap<br />I went back to my hotel<br />A small girl stood in front, as if waiting for me<br />Shook my hand and disappeared in the night<br /><br />There I stood, with nothing, in a strange land<br />Without a house, food and it's language<br />Perhaps I fall ill, starve to death<br />Get bitten by snakes, eaten by predators<br />Whatever would be?<br />There I stood, at 45, with nothing<br />A suicide, yet alive<br /><br />I got up, room gone, money for tea or food gone<br />So I began, as Buddha said, to beg for alms<br />But only from tourists<br />Some gave, others didn't<br />Some changes sidewalks when they saw me<br />An Italian couple allowed me to stay a few nights<br />Gave me some food now and then as well<br />Then I met seven, eight Spaniards who said<br />You can have our room<br />Has been paid for for 2 weeks<br /><br />I came across this bench and thought<br />This one was made for me, I will stay right here<br />It got dark, and started to rain<br />I said to God<br />“If it is your will to get sick, so be it”<br />The rain intensified and again I said:<br />“If it is your will to get sick, so be it”<br />It rained even harder<br />I was soaked<br />And just as I was about to say again<br />“If it is Your will...”<br />I remembered I had been offered a free room<br />And a voice said:<br />“God gave you this room, it is not his will that you lie in the rain and get sick”<br /><br />Some days later an Italian came by and said<br />“I heard you are a painter”<br />I explained: “if you have seen the beauty of people, flowers and nature<br />So you will know that no hand, no colour can ever express such beauty”<br />But he did not buy into that<br />Took me to a shop, bought paint, brushes and paper<br />Gave it to me and said: “ get on with it”<br />This was my cue to start painting again<br />Every day I painted<br />Always the Green Tara first<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLytwnESjLI/AAAAAAAACPA/GoezWEYyYL0/s1600-h/GreenTara.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLytwnESjLI/AAAAAAAACPA/GoezWEYyYL0/s400/GreenTara.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241255116984716466" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Whenever I was in town<br />People invited me for food, a cuppa tea<br />I never asked, tourists came to me<br />Some gave me money<br />Others brought me food<br /><br />Once I walked to the next village<br />Suddenly everything turned white<br />I watched for clouds, but there were none<br />Then the face of the Dalai Lama appeared<br />Whiter than white<br />I stopped and looked<br />Thought it precious that he wore his glasses too<br />I rememberd a book that said<br />“When you meet Buddha, so what, nothing special<br />Just carry on”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0s9XCvv6I/AAAAAAAACQw/_nJC_xKtQ8M/s1600-h/busstation.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0s9XCvv6I/AAAAAAAACQw/_nJC_xKtQ8M/s400/busstation.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241394973998301090" border="0" /></a><br /><br />My visa as finished, my room too<br />When a German came and gave me 200 rupees<br />Sufficient to go to Delhi<br />To see if there is a ticket for me<br />If so then back to Switzerland, if no<br />It will be enough to get back here<br />In Delhi I went to Swiss Air<br />“Just wondering if you might have a ticket for me”<br />To which a woman replied<br />“Yes we do” she is kind and friendly<br />And shows me a telex, I received help from Bombay<br />With one bag but no shoes<br />I returned to Switzerland, with nothing<br />I was back in my mountain house, alone<br /><br />Not far in the forest is a chapel<br />Two meters high, one meter deep, no roof<br />Some frescoes fragments left and right<br />The remnants of an angel in the back, which<br />At the slightest touch would crumble<br />One, two months and the chapel would collapse<br />My painting also<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLytw98xtdI/AAAAAAAACPY/zi21wtyx9Bo/s1600-h/kapelle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLytw98xtdI/AAAAAAAACPY/zi21wtyx9Bo/s400/kapelle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241255123127219666" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I started painting at noon<br />Stood at the wall, brush in my hand<br />I spoke to Christ and said:<br />“I have never seen you, please show you face<br />So I can portray you<br />My hand is painting<br />I pray while I observe how Jesus' face manifests<br />So sweet, so sad at the same time<br />The hand continues with His body<br />By accident I step on a tube of ochre<br />The paint on the floor<br />Determined I take it unmixed<br />And it shapes the cross<br />It’s ready, so beautiful<br />The farmers were pleased too<br />One fixed the roof wit stone slabs<br />The chapel was saved<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyrk6i_92I/AAAAAAAACO4/JQ8Io__Grbo/s1600-h/gesightJesus.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyrk6i_92I/AAAAAAAACO4/JQ8Io__Grbo/s400/gesightJesus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241252717032109922" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I sold 10,000 franks worth of paintings<br />Someone bought me a ticket<br />To give the money away<br />On arrival in Delhi I changed all the money<br />Bought a first class 14-day rail pass<br />Just to be safe<br />Could hop on and off without any problems<br />At seven I arrived in Calcutta<br />Went to the house of Mother Theresa<br />To give her a quarter of the sum<br />As a gift for her people in need<br /><br />In Varanasi I went to the Golden Temple<br />Where it rained flowers<br />Gave the second quarter to Krishna<br />For his people in need<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0s9iythkI/AAAAAAAACRA/QPeODHZf0LQ/s1600-h/DalaiLama.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SL0s9iythkI/AAAAAAAACRA/QPeODHZf0LQ/s400/DalaiLama.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241394977152271938" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Back to the Tibatans in Daramsalah<br />Such kind and friendly folk<br />Went to say hello to the Green Tara<br />But she was no longer there, I was sad<br />Went to the secretary of His Holiness The Dalai Lama<br />Gave him the third quarter for Buddha<br />For his people in need<br /><br />Then with my rail pass<br />On its last day of validity, back to Varanasi<br />I still had the last quarter of the money<br />Destined for the Muslims in Istanbul<br />But my ticket did not allow me to stop there<br />So I decided to go to Nepal<br />Met two sadhus there<br />Who advised me to donate food?<br />With two other sadhus we cooked all day<br />And served the poor that night<br />It was a great success<br />That I continued to cook<br />For the next five days<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyrkhPsosI/AAAAAAAACOo/qDzG8S1ewD0/s1600-h/feedingPoor.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyrkhPsosI/AAAAAAAACOo/qDzG8S1ewD0/s400/feedingPoor.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241252710240264898" border="0" /></a>Feeding the poor, image from Teo's scrapbook.<br /><br />The last quarter for the poor I distributed that way<br />I gave the Muslims a symbolic gift<br />To bring them the money later<br />Then back to my little house<br />In the mountains<br />With nothing<br /><br />A passerby bought two more paintings<br />Now I had the money for the last quarter<br />For the blue mosque<br />Boarded a bus for heading for Istanbul<br />Explained the imam that the gifting started here<br />That I have come to honour Allah and<br />The gesture of the five liras<br />Gave him the money<br />In the honour of Allah for his people in need<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyxLr1UyzI/AAAAAAAACPw/dzZFqAEhvIM/s1600-h/maggiaTal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyxLr1UyzI/AAAAAAAACPw/dzZFqAEhvIM/s400/maggiaTal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241258880655477554" border="0" /></a> Maggia Valley, North of Locarno, Ticino (Tessin), Switzerland<br /><br /><br />Then back to Tessin, with nothing<br />Where it all turned dark again<br />Many did not love me<br />One day a pamphlet was posted<br />Which said: it would be best for everybody<br />To rid ourselves of such parasites and pseudo artists<br /><br />Thus I flew to Nepal<br />At age 55<br />Out of Switzerland, which had never been home<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyxL_i49QI/AAAAAAAACP4/8Br--jAV_7g/s1600-h/meggie.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyxL_i49QI/AAAAAAAACP4/8Br--jAV_7g/s400/meggie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241258885946864898" border="0" /></a> Meggie Restaurant, "Freak Street", Kathmandu, where Teo lived.<br /><br />Back in Nepal, in Kathmandu<br />Among people who loved me<br />Warts and all<br />Greeted me, whenever they saw me<br />Smiled at me with their wonderful eyes<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyxL_nsOnI/AAAAAAAACQA/_DiI3-qO-x4/s1600-h/nepali.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyxL_nsOnI/AAAAAAAACQA/_DiI3-qO-x4/s400/nepali.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241258885967002226" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Reflecting the light of Soul<br />Such wonderful people<br />A new experience for me<br />My wounded soul<br />Began to heal<br />Gain strength<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyxLS9kseI/AAAAAAAACPo/zEgwzmr5nsE/s1600-h/ehx3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SLyxLS9kseI/AAAAAAAACPo/zEgwzmr5nsE/s400/ehx3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241258873979187682" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Been here for 5 years now,<br />Painted about five hunderd paintings<br />All eyes, eyes of Nepal<br />Eyes of Goddesses, Gods and people.<br /><br />Epilogue:<br /><br />Teo was 60 when he completed his autobiography. By then he had donated over 135,000 Swiss Francs.He continued living in Kathmandu a supporting orphans and the poor till his death at age 72 of cancer.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SNdH1MzpyBI/AAAAAAAACXM/Z9YyPe53Dgk/s1600-h/TulsiTree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DYUOB8fTiu0/SNdH1MzpyBI/AAAAAAAACXM/Z9YyPe53Dgk/s400/TulsiTree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248742870020114450" border="0" /></a><br />A Tulsi Tree planted by Teo Baba on Basanthipur square in Kathmandu still stands today.Marcel Baaijenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05704504101304182269noreply@blogger.com1