Marije and Dion 2009I’ve always been extremely comfortable in my own skin, my own space. I consider myself very fortunate not to have to always be around others. I can entertain myself just fine, thank you. This is not to say I don’t get lonely or that I wasn’t an awkward self-loathing teenager. A stage that truly began when I was around 13 and revisited in waves and depths of severity at particular moments into my early 20s. This is often a lonely journey that each and every person must travel. Perhaps getting comfortable with one’s one skin is the most important lesson one can learn. Navigating all the pitfalls, insecurities, questions and zits can be harrowing. Within these lessons, I suppose I’ve learned to take life less seriously; making faces in the mirror, dancing naked and often trying to look at the brighter sides of life. When I tell people I’m an Optimist—Realist, they think I’m conflicted. Quite the contrary. I remain optimistic, ideally how the world could be; believing in that overwhelming innate goodness within the larger majority of humankind, yet I am not naïve. I realize the world is not perfect and never will be. A few bad people truly do spoil or have the potential to contaminate the general morale. If I can keep my negative side at bay more of that real me can perhaps influence others toward those simpler pleasures.
For this traveling alone has its perks. I changed my plans, departure dates, arrival times and went with the flow about 18 times in the three weeks in Cuba and Mexico. This would’ve been virtually impossible with others. Then again, this may not have been necessary with a friend to trip through las calles and los barrios with someone else.
Still, I made my ways and found those I was meant to find. With “another” I may never have run into to those rare special people I did because my path would’ve been completely altered. For instance, with cash, and someone who may not have wanted to stay in overheated, muggy, crowded dorm-style hostels such as Poc-na, in Cancún or The Weary Traveler, in Tulum, I may never have met those Ozzie blokes whom I nearly ran from before I got a chance to hang with them. Let’s not forget the UN Rainbow Coalition, in Tulum. If they’d accepted AMEX or I had had the dough, I would’ve ended up in the high-end Home-stay further down Avenida Tulum which was its own all-inclusive little village. I never would’ve ventured out that Tuesday night looking for food because that place had every conceivable need right there. Therefore, I never would’ve met Henrí and Olivier, and by extension Chely, Mayela, Narmin, Rafael, Charles, Pepe, Cynthia, Diego and all the rest. Those conversations with locals and tourists alike may never have happened. So much is by chance, that all fell into place just the way it was supposed to.
I’ve learned I travel best solo, even though I am always trying to include others in my journeys primarily because they express interests in going places, meeting others and generally having great new adventures.
Sadly, with the rare exception of tripping with Michele and Bri in Vietnam, it hasn’t worked out well for others planning trips with me.
And so it goes...
Dion 1, Mountain 0
If I were with another a decade ago, I may never have fell in so well with Marije and Dion, the mother/son team from Holland. Dion had just turned 10 and Marijje, a teacher with plenty of vacation time every summer, had literally given him the globe.
“We travel every summer and I let him pick two places he wants to visit or learn more about,” Marije said, matter-of-factly. “This year he picked Disneyland, California and The Great Barrier Reef, Australia, and here we are.”
We were in Queensland, New Zealand during that initial encounter, and it was because of them; her strength and this young man’s independent upbringing, that I changed my plans to meet up with them.
I had plans to trek a bit in Te Anau and cruise Milford Sound, while they were heading to other parts, perhaps Mount Cook, so the tyke could get in some quality snowboarding. Still, I changed my plans to meet up in Wanaka; one of the best places for catching the highest alpine parrot, the Kea, as well as fitting in some choice snowboarding for Dion. Days later we were to meet up after my heli-climbing on Franz Josef Glacier, taking the train, traversing the island back to Christchurch. Having left my sticks in the South American Explorers’ Club in Lima, Perú, over a year before; deciding to rent rather than lug my skis all this way for a few days of skiing, I tried to help Dion navigate the pulley lift at Wanaka. He was spoiled, having only snowboarded in The Alps and other worldwide peaks with proper ski lifts, and I had done a great job of showing him how to fall more gracefully. With two skis being pulled up the grade is difficult to the inexperienced. However, with snowboarders, one foot is strapped to one’s stick while the other is free and Dion kept putting his foot down in the snow, inadvertently breaking his glide, twisting around and down.
“After this one, I have to take another,” he said incredulously as Marije and I vowed to help and watch safely from our snowy perches a hundred of yards away.
After he gave up falling down, muttering choice words in Dutch, I came up with an idea.
“Here,” I handed him a plastic bag we’d gotten from our food stuffs. “I went to the highest ‘ski resort’ in the world with some PAX (people in my charge on tour packages in South America) and some of the locals taught me this.”
“What are you…? You’re not?” Marije and Dion both echoed.
“Believe it or not, the highest ‘ski resort’ in the world is right outside of La Paz, Bolivia. At 17, 388 feet Chacaltaya dwarfs many of the world’s more famous and far more accessible peaks,” I sputtered off these statistics to my seemingly deaf and nearly mute audience. Though they followed my lead, ripping the edges of the bags, making as large a surface as possible.
“They taught me, when the tough get going and you don’t have skis, improvise.”
“But, it’s just those blasted, friggin’, damned lifts,” Dion spat. [Here you can substitute any Dutch equivalent terms]
They trudged behind me up the steep hill, almost to the three quarters mark of the pulley lift where happy campers twisted and scurried as fast as those pulleys could drag a body up.
“The key is to get as much around your center of gravity as possible and to lean as far back as you can,” I said, barely getting the scrawny white plastic diaper around my Baby-Got-Back, and partly up the lower part of my back. Dion followed suite and Marije encouraged him with nervous mutterings and weary nods.
Laying way back, feet raised high, I demonstrated for him and he quickly caught up, spinning; steering with hands and sliding about 60 yards and stopping—heels dug deeply— with me near the edge of a short drop-off well below the beginning of the pulley lift. Neither one of them could believe how much fun something so simple and cost effective, could be. Trust me, try it some time. Do the Poor-Man’s slide, forget all that lugging of equipment, that time and money of lifts. Grab a huge plastic bag (those 15-gallon black lawn bags work the best), a slick tarp or anything that resists water yet glides smoothly. Find a steep snowy hill, preferably POWDER, and have at it!
Hell, when you finish you can always give the plastic scraps to the Kea, as these intrepid birds are prone to rip the rubber from car tires if left unchecked.
We rode these until the bags were ripped beyond effectiveness and we were drenched. Well, I was drenched, since I hadn’t ever bought ski pants in those days. I also hadn’t actually PLANNED to go “skiing”. True, it wasn’t snowboarding, and we didn’t get much real AIR, but at least he didn’t leave completely disappointed.
http://ezinearticles.com/?id=2339089 —for more on the fearless Kea parrots this site is fairly comprehensive—until I find my photos and notes somewhere in storage.
The Lion and The Boy
New Zealand—2000
as told by Thulani Masemola –South African Storyteller-January 9, 2000
edits Lanier Carson
As we navigated down the winding, icy, wet and rocky switchback roads, I remember telling Dion and Marije a story I’d just learned from this amazing story-teller, musician from South Africa about The Thorn in the Lion’s Paw. I was traveling outside of Byron Bay, Australia with this band, Moses O’Jah, this amazing musician from Ghana and band and dancing troupe.
Kuukua.
I’m sorry, she brings back many sweet memories. Kuukua wore cowrie shell anklets, colorful outfits as one of the group’s barefoot dancers from Ghana.
‘Nuff said.
Somehow I had became attached to this group of traveling artists, serving as a Roady, promoter, concessions vendor and all-around dancing fool. Thulani, their percussionist from South Africa, was one of the best storytellers I've ever heard. While performing sound checks for a gig in Stoker Siding, outside of Byron Bay, he had me riveted to great stories of moral, natural consequence to human abuse or hedonism, and other intensely crafted and animated ditties of daily life. The biggest difference between African animist myths and the talking animals of Aesop’s Fables, or other similar versions are how the tellers’ embodiment of the story through sound effects, songs, eye contact and facial expressions. The person and the audience BECOME the story as the religious, social and even environmental morals are bequeathed from grandmother to their communal progeny and grandfather to future hunters of the clan. Of course I couldn’t get all the hand gestures, the sound effects, nor the facial expressions anywhere near as great as Thulani but I had Dion completely forgetting the non-snowboarding day.
There once was a lion who, like all Kings of the Savanna, ruled over his Pride and the surrounding territories with authority and something akin to distain for all those below him. In his show of hubris chasing some rivals away from his Pride, Lenka the Lion inadvertently stepped on a clump of Umbrella Thorns, some of the thickest, toughest curved thorns in the area. Nursing his wounded paw while resting beneath the shade of a huge boulder, the lion tried to pry these thorns out. Obviously his razor-sharp claws and mammoth paw were too bulky to grasp the tiny cluster of thorns.
Suddenly a few mice came darting from beneath the rock where the exasperated lion was growing fretful.
“I am the king of all the jungle, yet, I am struck helpless with this affliction,” Lenka the lion roared, shaking his mighty mane.
“Yet, with all the fear you’ve instilled in us,” squeaked the little mouse. “If the plight was reversed, what would YOU do?”
“What would you do? What would you do? What would you do?” chanted their three mini-mice running circles around their mother.
“Oh, of course,” reasoned Lenka, the lame lion, “I’d show mercy and help you.”
“What would you do?”
“Help you?”
“Monkey see, monkey do.?
“You do…help you,” the little grey mice chanted running figure eights close, but not too close to the ferocious feline.
“True,” Moswen, the Papa Mouse, said scurrying toward the large padded sole.
“Yet, I have much doubt, Lord Lenka, that you would truly act in our favor, should the tables be turned,” Mandisa, the Mother Mouse, retorted, as her youngest son mimicked removing an imaginary thorn from his sister’s tiny paw with his teeth.
“In addition to this,” she cheeped, “What guarantee to we have that you will not eat us once we have done this difficult and dangerous deed?”
“Why,” the lion whimpered demurely, “my word.”
“Word, turd, herd,” one baby mouse sang.
“Deed, need, danger, seed,” his sister sang.
“Word, need, purred, do, you.”
“How can we be sure?” Moswen Mouse retreated, thinking twice about what he was just about to do, scurried around and out of the reach of the lion’s powerful tail and his more powerful uninjured paws.
“There is no danger for you are immune to the venom within these thorns’ bite,” Lenka the lion purred. “Additionally, you have my word.”
“This has not meant so much in the past, for you have promised us no harm, yet when you are bored prancing over your pride you treat us as playthings, destroying our habitats.”
“I have been remiss,” the King admitted.
“Not only that,” Mandisa added, “you treat us with further disdain just because we are lower than you. We are a highly intelligent society that understands the workings of the brush and the bush better than any of you.”
“True,” countered her husband, Moswen, “we have never been involved in the decisions you pontificate from on high.”
“If I promise to invite some of your delegation to present or comment on....” Lenka began, but the tiniest of the Savanna, realizing the power they suddenly possessed, would not let go.
“Once again, more promises!” Mandisa thundered, whiskers twitching, as she and hubby ran figure eights before the King.
“We have heard promises for generations,” Moswen countered. “Besides, what’s to stop you from crushing us once your free of those thorns?”
“I swear,” Lenka the lion retorted, seeing their reasoning. “I will honor this pact with you. If these are NOT removed, I can no longer pounce let along protect the my Pride or any of you.”
“This is consistent with your namesake, Moswen chirped, “for you know better than others that your name, King Lenka means….”
“Taker,” Lenka replied, “Yes, I’m well aware of that I have lived up to my name.”
“Once again, it all comes down to YOUR pride,” Mandisa called.
“No,” Lenka countered. “Well, yes, YOU and the Pride.”
“Protect US,” Mandisa Mouse murmured. “Such protection could be downright dangerous!”
“Please,” Lenka reasoned, “I need you to remove these for me please.”
“Please, these, need,” the mice called in sing-song fashion.
“NOW, you need us?” Moswen Mouse, laughed; turning his back, hand-in-hand with his wife.
“Pleeeease,” lion roared. “Mister and Misses Mouse, help relieve me of this agony.”
“Still, we can not trust that you will remember this day. So, take this Lenka, and remember all that you have given us.”
The lion limped after them but could not keep up in the least. He set down in dejected silence.
* * * *
“It looks as though you’ve gotten yourself in quite the predicament,” Mamello the Monkey cackled from above.
“Yes,” purred the lion looking up and jumping to attention at another pair of hands the perfect size to yank the thorns out.
“You mean, you are completely helpless,” Mosa Monkey giggled, swinging by her tail from an even lower branch.
“Yes,” hissed the beast. Then more quietly, “please, remove this cursed thorn and I will forever be in your debt.”
“Yet, if we were to do that, you would surely swallow us whole,” Mamello the Monkey said swinging to within paw’s-reach of the mighty lion.
“Please, I promise, should you do this for me, I would never hurt you.”
“More lies,” Miss Mosa screeched jumping down to the ground behind Lion, just out of his reach.
“Truly, Misses and Mister Monkey,” the lion gasped trying to limp closer to the two parading primates.
“It’s MISS Mosa Monkey you big blubbering baboon,” she retorted, tossing dirt his way.
“Why do you treat me this way,” Lenka the Lion spat and pawed his eyes, scratching himself and driving the thorns even deeper.
ROARRRRRRRRRR!
The ground shook, the monkeys leaped back into the tree and swung higher still in seconds.
“You see,” Mosa Monkey called, “so easy to turn on us.”
“This is as it has always been,” Mamello agreed. “With friends like this, one does not need enemies.”
“How false this purring, the needy lion is until a little joke upsets his countenance.”
And they jumped to a neighboring Umbrella Thorn tree.
“Do you realize what my name means,” Mamello called over his shoulder.
“Of course,” the lion replied anxiously, “patience.”
“Yes,” the mocking monkey mimicked the lion’s great timber. “You must be patient now, and perhaps one who you have treated with respect will return the favor.”
And turning their backsides to the great king, they disappeared.
* * * * *
Some hours later, a young boy approached. Fenyang was the Field hand to the dozens of cattle at the ranch seven kilometers further east.
The lion purred most quietly, “Please remove these thorns.”
The distracted Shepard jumped, surprised he had not noticed the lion concealed behind the same tree that injured his giant paw.
“Away,” the boy backed away, holding his staff at the ready, sweat running down his cheeks.
“I mean you no harm,” the Mighty Lion purred as softly as he knew how.
“HELP!” The boy yelped looking for a way to get away, realizing the beast was much faster than he could ever run.
“Be still, boy,” the lion growled more adamantly. “I have a favor to ask you.”
The boy was young, but he knew something was very different here. Never would a lion act this way. He was surely toying with him before the brief chase and the bloody attack.
“I said, I have a favor to ask of you,” Lion rumbled more assertively, shocking the boy more than he wished.
“There is nothing I can do for you,” Fenyang the Field hand replied, backing away even more. ‘Maybe I can make it to that boulder,’ he thought to himself.
“No need to run, I will not chase you,” the lion’s resolve and lack of food seemed to drain from him even more of his bravado.
He turned his paw over and the boy understood the weird behavior immediately. He knew what it was like to step on these thorns, especially painful were the curved ones, like these in Lenka Lion’s massive paw. Not only did they hurt you with their barbed ends, which had some acidic toxin on them, but they hurt even longer once they were removed. Often one was laid up for days with fever and nausea after having had these thorns in their foot or hand. This is why they were taught to weary of these trees, even though shade was not in abundance along these stretches of Savanna.
“My paw is too large and I am unable to remove these thorns,” King Lenka sputtered. “However, you have smaller man-paws, perfect for gripping these small needles and removing them.”
“This would not be wise,” the young boy said in an even smaller voice. “For surely you would eat me once I’ve removed them.”
He was amazed he was even considering this notion!
His mother would rub the hottest peppers on his tongue should she hear this. Or even worse, she might even stab him with one of these very needles as some elders did with the naughtiest of his tribe. Rare though that was, he had never heard of that punishment happening in his lifetime.
“Though it is true, I thirst for meat, I promise you I will not harm you in any way.”
“It is your nature to strike first, your carnal agenda,” Fenyang, proudly repeated terms he’d heard the elders using.
“Yes, but please, have mercy on me, though I know I have not ruled in the best of those around me, I promise, if you remove these thorns, I will become a better leader.”
“That is well said,” the boy approached slightly. “Yet, is it not true that when the rains refuse to come and your antelope are not in abundance you have ransacked our cattle?”
“Yes,” Lenka cried uncharacteristically. “Yes, but is it not true that your cattle rob from those they my lionesses track? Your tribe has stolen grazing lands that disrupt the balance within my kingdom.”
“I will discuss these matters with the elders upon my return, yet, like those you have ruled over, it is not likely they will HEAR me due to my age and presumed inexperience,” admitted Fenyang. “Still, regardless of that outcome, there is no denying that one bad turn does not make a reactionary bad turn any better than the first.”
“Yes, this is all true,” Lenka the lion moaned. “I, too, have not been the most trustworthy, as Mr. and Miss. Monkey have informed me. Nor have I respected those of even lower positions, even though they perhaps have much to offer our larger community.”
Fenyang was astonished, realizing that the King of the Savanna had truly come to see some things, though he still wasn’t sure. He could also see the palpable hunger that lay just below the wounded beast.
“It would seem you have come to some realizations,” the boy began, stepping even closer to the outstretched padded paw.
“Indeed,” the lion replied with heavy eyelids. “I have listened to much derision today and will continue to listen in the future.”
“If I do this, you must abide by your promises and not rescind like others before you.”
“You have my word,” Lenka purred.
Climbing into his massive paw, the boy pulled and the thorns came out surprisingly with little effort.
AGGGH-ROARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!
The boy fell back, running behind the tree before he realized the outburst was actuall oe of relief.
“Oh, thank you,” the not-so-mighty- Master sputtered. “I am weak.”
The boy reached into his pouch and brought out a leather satchel of fresh water.
“Here,” Fenyang said quietly, pouring a little water into the king’s mammoth mouth. One of its teeth seemed nearly the size of his entire head.
“Thank you again,” Lenka purred before passing out.
For days Fenyang returned, nursing the weak lion, giving him water and even cured meat, helping him recuperate to his former greatness.
It was from then on that the powerful leader learned that not only were others needed, but they must always be appreciated, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. Lenka the Lion went on to rule more justly, instructing the female hunters to never harm the boy’s cattle even in the worst climates. He learned by listening to Mosa and Mamello the pride could locate better grazing and hunting grounds as the mice had an amazing intricate communications system and with the help of the moneys, the pride was made stronger through concerted efforts.
Lenka = taker, Mosa = grace or graceful, Mamello = patience, Mandisa = sweet, Moswen = light in color and Fenyang= victor, conqueror,
***Here I have embellished as I’m sure Thulani would had, had his audience been African children. The names were chosen from online sources for their meaning and South African or Botswana origins, though were not included in the original telling of this story. Likewise the overall messages may have been slightly altered since I’m relying upon my memory and brief e-letters sent to friends. Therefore, this is my best effort at sort of a collaboration between ancient South African legends and contemporary story-writing.
____________________________________________________________
This was all 10 years ago. Over the years I’ve lost touch with Kuukua, Thulani and Moses O’Jah, though I’ve never truly forgotten them. I still dance naked to bass-driven beats. And storytelling has become a huge part of my teachings, for more than eight years ago, Anne, my sister-in-law, turned me on to Bill Harley, a multi-Grammy Award winning storyteller, from our Massachusetts. Though I’ve never actually SEEN Harley perform his stories, I have used his CDs, tapes and books to teaching young scholars from 5-16 the elements and art of storytelling.
Marije and Dion write every so often keeping me up to date on Dion’s ideas, those wonderful high school years and his soccer career; and Marije’s teaching and traveling stories. We often threaten to meet up in Brazil, New York or the Alps but, sadly, this still hasn’t occurred. Dion is hanging in Barcelona for about a year, and I’ve always wanted to go there, so one never knows.
The best thing about Europe, everything is so close. For instance, not only is Marije a few hours train ride away but mi ñañito, Mario, who moved to Amsterdam a couple years ago.
And so it goes…
_______________________________________________________________
Actual article published in some local Australian newspapers-Jan. 15, 2000
Afro Moses O'Jah Delivering the Highlife
by
Lanier Carson
Akwesi "Afro Moses" Baido, 42, of Ghana brings traditional African rhythms fused with his own funky touches, Reggae and Caribbean raps to selected kinetic venues of Highlife.
Ghana's Ambassador of Music, Afro Moses O'Jah, first seen by hundreds at 1998's Woodford Folk Festival (northeastern coast of Australia), will be pleased to have the opportunity of reviving old and new fans during their uplifting shows from New South Wales (NSW) to Western Australia from now till the end of March.
"Positive thinking, eating well and dancing have kept me feeling young," the father of seven said during my week-long travels with the band. "If people say bad about you or try to bring you down, I say a prayer for them because they are the ones with the problems."
Like the ornately hand carved staff that he carries onstage, he couldn't be where he is "without God".
"The symbol means--only God," Moses said. "It starts from way down low, within, and rises up to Him."
It is these upward emotions that they all adhere to.
"Only God tells us we can't do something," bassist, Bob Osae explained on our way to one of their three sold out Byron Bay gigs. "But as long as God is on our side we can do anything."
It is along these ideals that Highlife, the music from Africa was founded.
"Ghana was the first independent country, with an elected president." Moses explained. "And when he heard this uplifting music he called it The Highlife."
Forty years later the Highlife is captivating people around the globe.
"It's a challenge learning new styles of music," Jvick Miossec, their newest addition and lead guitarist from France said. "But, I'm a music technician, I listen and then I play."
Exactly what happened as he quickly picked up the tinny, rapid strokes that characterize The Highlife’s upbeat tempo as Moses and Tricky, keyboardist, vocalized the riff.
"They don't really like playing the (old, slow) traditional music as much as their own influences," Miossec, 27, said. "Moses's repertoire of funk, bass, drums along with fusion and Reggae is mixed with their more traditional faster African beats."
For those Traditionalists out there, never fret because Moses will never stray too far from his roots, playing the everescent, "Pata Pata", a rousing classic from the outspoken anti-apartheid South African Miriam Makeba, and utilizing the Seprekora; his native 21-string harp, and the Kalimba, two African instruments that leave the toes and the soul no option but to groove.
The Dancing Machine
Gifty Kuukua, 30, you may well remember as the energized dancer whose colourful outfits are only
surpassed by her outrageous voluptuous gyrations, brilliant smiles, crazy head pops and flowing sensual curves that augment the sounds like fresh garlic and chilies to any Palmnut stew.
"I miss Ghana," Kuukua said, "but I love traveling with Moses and my time off travelling with friends throughout this great big country."
No stranger to the grueling schedules of touring, she has been with Moses for years and without her it is safe to say the group would not be able to produce that desired fever pitch that her dancing brings to anyone with even the poorest sense of rhythm or eyesight.
Abraham "Tricky" Arthur tinkles the keyboards as Paa Brown plays drums along with Thulani Masemola, percussionist of South Africa, plays the Djembe and, on occasion will dance with Kuukua. But get him alone and his true passion shines through and he proves to be the most charismatic storyteller.
"I want to start working on my own music," Masemola said. "I want to start studying the piano, which is very difficult for me, I want to tell the stories of my people to the background of my percussion and other music."
In the captivating African tradition of passing histories down the generations’ family trees, Masemola is trying to produce a CD of stories from his youth, including the enthralling, "Genie and the Drum", how the first drum was made, and "The Boy and the Lion," a story of humans and nature co-existing in a symbiotic complimentary relationship.
Masemola's gifts, like the surprises of Colombian, Jorge Rico, jamming with them will keep things fresh. Rico, a personal friend hanging with me for a few shows, asked to sit in playing the Andean crafted Quena flutes or the Charango, (Andean miniature guitar), and created uniquely World Rhythms never heard before. And like Rico’s visit a Blues guitarist from Trinidad might pop up from the audience to lend a hand harmonizing and adding even more to Afro Moses O'Jah; re-uniting and uplifting people of all ages and keep them hopping.
Did someone say "hopping"?
"Hopping Like A Kangaroo (to the sound of the Didgeridoo)" is planned for their forthcoming CD, a
tribute to the spirit of the Aborigines, who inspired him during 1998's Woodford Folk Festival.
"Can you hear them crying
The spirit of the Aboriginal People?
The spirit of the African People?
The spirit of the Australian People?
(Paa Brown "plays" the Didge)
"Come together, make this world a better place
Come together and let's sing one song,
Come together and let’s play one drum."
ENDIT
Tour DATES
Thr. Jan 27-- Bateman's Bay Bowling Club
Fri. Jan 28-- The Gypsy Bar (Canberra)
Sat. Jan 29-- Cobargo Hall
VICTORIA
Feb. 3-6th
Adelaide
Feb 11-12th
Feb 18th –20th VICTORIA
Feb. 24-27th
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