# 026
Monday, March 12, 2018
Saint-Laurent-du-Maconi, Guyana, La France.
52º18´401´´, North, 005º57´117´´ West


High tide averted the danger of being stuck in the mud forever. The biggest danger of seduction maybe has been the august largeness of the river, far beyond the majesty that presented us already rivers like the Neva or the mouth of the Rhône or even the Amsterdam IJ riversides. The ship now faces down town Saint-Laurent. The other horizon is a green line called Suriname. Our closest neighbor, the steam ship Edith Cavell, wasn’t that lucky. Or was she? She run aground almost a century ago and has been grown since into a most fascinating jungle island. She’s competing to be my favorite ship wreck but she still loses to the Papillon that lays upside down on the squatted Amsterdam ADM ship yard and that, at party times, becomes a hauntingly beautiful night scene. Maybe I’m sentimental because this very ship Papillon saved us back in 1994 by bringing crew & show to Germany when a pathetic lawyer had our ship impounded. Scandalously, the whole crew, used to ten private cabins, had to sleep in Papillon’s communal hull.

Here, Papillon is Saint-Laurent’s only celebrity. He wrote a novel about his escape from the forced labour camps when the jungle already blossomed in the world’s second most beautiful ship wreck. The city owns it’s origin and existence to these camps with which France got rid of its criminals and tramps. The camp’s guillotine, now hidden in a secret place, still was in function. The disgrace of grandeur. At present, French Guyana seems to be the best organised and most prosperous, decent and boring country of the whole South-American continent. Except, it’s not South-America. It’s Europe, being a department of France. It smells a colony. Child benefits is a way of living. But the Fools face the other side of the river. Suriname beckons us to come. A beautiful, albeit somewhat decrepit quay in the historic heart of the capital is waiting for us. We’re preparing a new chaotic chapter with a warm-hearten public that curiously enough speak the language the locals use in my own country.


# 025
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Saint-Laurent-du-Maconi, Guyana, La France.
54º01´685´´, North, 005º30´618´´ West


The Fools are up the river Maroni. The world change from blue to green. After a fortnight of an undisturbed horizon abounds the jungle around. Still at sea a fucking couple of turtles prepared them a jolly welcome. In the river they got stuck in the mud, catched by the low tide. The Dutch have an evocative expression for this: “With the balls in the mast” (met de kloten in de mast). A nautical imprudence. At hardly a mile the city is visible. The biggest danger now is the ship sinking more and more in the mud. Already the city shows a beautiful wreck that has stranded in 1925 and that is covered by palms and jungle.

Nautically speaking, crossing the ocean in this periode and at these latitudes requires a seacraftmanhip worthy of a Sunday sailor. You know in advance that the currents and the winds are steadily pushing you forwards and that in the worst of cases the gentle breeze turns into a fresh breeze. Even if the motor explodes and all the sails torn apart, you´ll still be at the other side in a few weeks. How much mdutch hsre treacherous is the Mediterranean where from the imperial sky suddenly a severe gale could descent. The only condition obviously is that the capacity of your pumps is bigger then the holes but here the fools dispose of an ample margin. The reputation of the transatlantic trail must be based on a kind of initiation rite: “Go West, Young Man!” It´s charm must be its stilness when time shifts tones. It´s challenge must be the vastness of the ocean¨- and your loneliness, where nobody will come to your rescue. Most exiting are the flying fishes that desperately keep on offering themselves for dinner. The small ones fly for one or two meters and keep rebounding in the waves. The biggest ones go sturdy like a cruise missile and, taking the ship for a wave, take to the air. One made it straight to the steerhut, probably in a desperate bid for personal revenge. The ship cat Moretti prefers them served fried.

Things change drastically once speaking about sails and sailing. The powers of even a pleasant breeze again bended the main gaff and two booms. They´re supposed to pull hundred and sixty thousand kilo of iron. Upon departure, we proudly hoist seven sails to make a nice picture. But after two days only the smallest one still is in function. Simon and Miguel emerge as master sailors and got mending and welding four sails up again. Simon is our dudeplayer who grew up in the Galician Ria of Pontavedra, notorious for its mists and tides. La Costa del Muerte. Miguel comes from an Andalusian village right from the mouth of the Guadalquiver from where Columbus set sail. His village owns it´s name to measuring the depth to the mud. In vain. The sailing is the beginning of an endless proces of experimentating, improvising and improving. We discover with wonder that the ship is eager to return to her original vocation of a sailing vessel. In 1928 she got a one cylinder motor and said goodbye to sailing. Nothing is definitive. With sunrise we stop the engine and make 3-5 miles. Exercises in Eternity. This is pretty sensational news. In it´s lowest gear you cut the ocean like a good old cheese and bring down the diesel consumption to a fraction. This is an open invitation to cross the pacific following the trade winds to Australia. The cheese is rationed. The last packet of wine, never rationed, we threw to a passing fishermen canoe. That was just before gettting stuck in the mud. They made the international sign of booze.

As dramatic are the improvements the mechanic Frédéric gradually introduces in the motor room. For decades the motor is miraculously run by a linguist without much passion nor talent for mechanics. He undertakes action only when things turn wrong. His chief engineer master Niels hates sailing and usually is only to be consulted at distant control, with some luck within telephone reach from the sea. Sometimes he comes over to exotic destinations, just to make sur that everything is OK or else to save the ship from disasters like sinking. Now glimmers a new dawn. Stiffened tubes and petrified bolts are being replaced, peevish taps greased and spanners and wrenches positioned in order, ready for battle.

The best compliment in Africa we got the last days on the island of São Antão when we offered the schoolteacher to bring all the local kids on board for a theatrical visit. He didn´t say “How nice!”, he just said “That´s important!”.


Logbook # 024
Monday, January 22, 2018
Tarrafal, São Antão, Cabo Verde.
25º18´401´´, North, 016º57´117´´ West

The sea keeps on calling. Strong winds keep pushing westward. The sailors long for new horizons. Partir, c’est mourir un peu. Scandalously, we leave this generous folk who’s now massively preparing their most frenetic annual ceremony, the carnival. Already they celebrate, as a foretast, their lusciously dancing parades. One of the carnival companies is based in the Quintal das Artes, the former prison next to fish market. While welding they protect themselves by sunglasses. They weld the bracelets, wings, headgear, costums and instalations whose exhuberant designs are being kept secret. This free art space serves as our land base where the artist Hermes dos Reis created a new iron tree. Only with that particular mix of intrepidity, danger, chance and luck that ‘s hidden in the word azart, the crew manage to fix this tree on top of the mast, braving the swinging of the winds and waves. For this operation, the harbor is happy to give the quay for free, just in the same way as the ship stayed one week more after the festival. The company that constructed the complicated flanges that connect the mast with the tree refuses payment. The price of fame, albeit fugacious. The bounty of three free minutes on the national news. And the sound of “Capitáloco” that rebounds in the small streets..

There’s a new bizarre tree showing in top of the mast to dazzle the inhabitants of the jungle. Four disproportionate kitchen utensils are hanging in the rear mast, a giga corkscrew, a mega cooking pot, a giant funnel and a super soup spoon, each measuring a metre. Iron crows circulate around the crow’s nests. The Fools depicted by Hieronymus Bosch finally set sail on their eternal pilgrimage.

The first destination is some hours westwards, a little village on the island São Antão. We drop the anchor just opposite the local bar on the beach. The island is famous for it’s fruit, vegetables and grogue, the local brandy made of sugar cane. Here, we take these provisions, we shave the vegetation around the ship and prepare the five sails to cross the ocean. We sail to the carnival of Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni, on the border river with Surinam, that promises to be quite furious as well.


The Fools sail through paradise while you defy storms and gales. We’v become Africans: as long as there’s something we do not need anything. But on arrival in America the tank will be quite empty and you’ll enjoy spring. Support Now


# 023
Sunday, December 31, 2017
Porto Grande, Mindelo, São Vincente, Cabo Verde.
24º59´366´´, North, 016º53´258´´ West



The Cabo Verde Festival of Fools is fun. At eight in the evening the World Premiere is about to begin. “Captain Fool” awaits his public at the main gate of the Grand Port. From far is visible that three persons are approaching. It’s pretty clear the whole concept of Azart is out of tune. Time to look for another job. Wrong! It’s nothing more then a Cabo Verde no-stress test. Half of the tribune fills up and laughs for two. The comedy works! That’s due to the wholeheartedness of the local public and especially their children who innately spend their days smiling. Part of the fun is the reality character of the show. As entrance ticket the public brings the food that first turns into the subject of the comedy and then into the evening dinner of the hungry crew. It’s mostly rice, pasta and oil. With daily about eighteen table companions it’s jolly high tide again at the fool’s table. Half of them are the local fellows that collaborate with the festival and the new sculpture in the mast. Two actors use ship and stage for a theater play located in a madhouse and turn it into pure beauty. At night time a new ship orchestra is being born: clarinet, German flute, guitar.

And the French pirate plays his innate dedication to Bacchus. One high point of the show is the hole in the ship produced by a water spray under the stage. Panicu! Panicu! With his starboard clock the captain bravely manages to close the gap, at distance control. After the premiere an authentic hole under the waterline materializes, enough to fill a bathtub in an hour. The brave crew close it with teflon and a screw. There exists no captain without a crew. They are the real fools. It took ten years of sailing before they addressed me as “Captain” and some other years to get used to it. Now the people here start using a “Commandante” that gets Che Guevarian dimensions. Il Capitano Loco is the nickname befitting best.

Wind, chance and caprice determine the Fool’s course. Shall we take part in the Mindelo Carnival that is the island’s party high time? Or maybe we find a quay on some other Cabo Verde island to present the comedy? Do we sail the thousand kilometer upstream of the Rio Grande de la Magdalena? Do we change course and set sail straight to the Pacific instead of South-Africa? Next year tells it all.



Sunday, December 17, 2017
Mindelo Harbour, São Vincente, Cabo Verde.
24º59´333´´ North, 016º53´026´´ West


The small town of Mindelo is a country in itself, far away from anywhere. Abundant smiles accompany us everywhere. Pedestrians, women and street dogs are treated with full respect. Our land base is the “Backyard of the Artists”, the former police station where we found a co-director, five actors, a violinist, a lot of friends and the rehearsal room where before the jailbirds used to sing. In this backyard the sculptor Hermes dos Reis is constructing a new absurd tree to be put in top of the main mast. Our land based vehicle is parked there, the “Blue Carriage”, painted in the ship colors with which we’re gonna make a festive parade in town to announce another Festival of Fools. The Fools encounter a new country, the Capital of No Stress. You’re lost, if stressed.

Rehearsing is quite a challenge. The actors are working in day time, so rehearsing starts with sunset. Since there’s no electricity in the room, we work with pale lamps. An actor won’t show up because a rare rain forces him to help his mom to fix the roof or put the buckets. Another actress won’t show up because her whole neighborhood went out of electricity. Or sometimes, despite their laudable motivation, they don’t show up at all. Concentration only strikes by divine inspiration. One of the actresses is a seven year old girl who’s very talented at distracting. She and her mom will be seated on honorary chairs aloof from the stage. Most encouraging already are the abundant smiles of the friends of the friends who just walk into the rehearsal room.

And where the Fools present their festival? Will it be the “Cabotage Quay” or the “Ship Cemetery of the English”? The first place is very official, the first quay from down town, with guards and dependent of the permission of the harbor director in person himself. That meeting is scheduled two days before we’re supposed to use his port’s facilities. The second place is more of a dark place where decent families won’t venture at night time. With two imposing wrecks it is still in use as a cemetery of ships that are double in size but half of Azart’s age. We would squat this decrepit and messy quay side that has the attraction of carnival in hell and would be a paradise for our documentary filmmaker. It’s a stress reliever not to have to choose our-self between these exiting locations.

Over the years we’ve seen theater directors that came from Holland, Russia, South-Africa, Australia, France and Spain. For the first time, by default, the captain himself has to play the playwright and director. He’s quickly losing his embarrassment because in this outlandish place nobody is checking him out. It reminds of the first time he dared to speak in public. In outlandish Russian he distributed Brezhnev-masks to the rock stars in the Moscow Olympic Theater without anybody checking out. Now, fortunately, the director of the local theater group likes the play and helps out with ideas and with disciplining his actors.


Monday, November 27, 2017
Mindelo Harbour, São Vincente, Cabo Verde.
24º59´333´´ North, 016º53´026´´ West


It feels like the ship sails a century backwards into history, chucking modernity rapidly overboard. Daylight lasts from seven to seven and telebanking, electricity, clockworks, news, agendas and garb quickly become a sideshow. Staple food on this island are potatoes, onions and fish. Tomatoes keep a pre-war taste but are at 3 € a kilo barely affordable. That reminds us of those dozen fishermen who slept a hundred years ago in the net room that now is our theater costume room. The fishing nets served as their mattress and in the middle a huge cooking pot served them potatoes, onions and fish. Like many of the locals, they were often kids working for a grab penny. But the cheerfulness of the Cape Verdian poor is without doubt inversely proportional with the protestant rigidity that characterized the old-time crew who dreamed about the eternal Jerusalem without having a clue about what really matters.

Besides sailing backwards, the ship sails southwards, towards other time zones in which the notion of the hours and dates fade away. It lures, to dismiss time. It’s quite a surprising novelty to find yourself waking up with the sun. As big a novelty as when you find yourself cleaning the guts of fish when you for thirty years persistently pretend NOT to fish dead fish but living souls instead. But what you do if poor fishermen throw fish flying on deck as a present? Anyhow, the strongest urge not to forsake modernity and electricity completely is the necessity to communicate with the world. Last millennium, a mere twenty years ago, I used to take a bar stool and a handful of coins to the nearest pay booth. It was the seasonal autumn work to try to reach a three dozen Italian, Spanish or French aldermen of culture about a summer show. You organised a tour by consequently phoning them with a wacky accent until getting to know their secretaries. Then you send them an old-fashioned letter deliberately with orthographic errors. The Fools Are Boarding Town. Now the situation is reversed. Now we rely on improvisation once arrived. But more then ever we need the connectivity to tell the story and share them with our fellow travelers all over the globe.

We anchor the ship in front of the fish market. With the dinghy we first land on the crowded mole where the fishermen bring their night catch. That mole now is our navel cord with the town. Straight behind the fish market is a former police prison transformed into an artist area. We speak there with a local theater group about sharing a theater festival around New Year and with a sculptor about restyling the Hieronymus Bosch tree in the foremast. Within a day we have the key of the prison and a rehearsal room. A story worth a documentary. Despite a luring Southern pace we cannot resist improvising a whole range of lofty assignments. The last one in this island will be to optimize the rigging and sails of the ship so as to ease the crossing of the ocean.



Thursday, November 16, 2017
Mindelo Harbour, S
ão Vincente, Cabo Verde.
24º59´333´ North, 016º53´026´´ West


Since leaving Amsterdam more than three months ago, the Fools seem condemned to continuously waggling the waves. The fate of a flying Dutchman. Only the harbour master of Illa de Arousa stealthly conceded a mooring of four days on a panoramic mole to bring espectáculo to the inhabitants. And the harbour master of Valle Gran Rey gave us three hours to top the 14-ton watertank. That water is more precious than diesel or even wine because it accompies us to America. We doubt Cabo Verde can deliver such. Besides, in case the bunker gets sour, we filled an enormous amount of plastic bottles with mountain water from the beach fountain facing the ship. Rowing, rowing, rowing. These bottles are the usual, sad garbage of a town that became a tanatorium of old German hippies. It’s the wrong place run by the wrong politicians giving ludicrious arguments to decline permission for the spectacle. They pretend our collegue sailor/actors “Festina Lente” made too big a mess while presenting in spring their show on the quay…

Again, the five days of sailing look more like a Sunday afternoon cruise than a heroical braving of the Atlantic. Still, some nights, some sailors bind themselves with blankets to their matrasses not to be swept away. Many a glass doesn’t survive the moment of inadvertence of a novice steersmen. The garderobe, rapidly becoming redundant, swings with every wave as a mob of forgotten marionettes. A sea duck and even a bat land as stowaway. One morning we find a whole pan of flying fish scattered over the decks, even as high as the garden. Some made a direct hit to the kitchen already. They’re beautifully blue and delicately delicious and make the perfect Fish&Chip breakfast. A unique feature are the three sails hoisted permanently that gives a good mile an hour extra. After an interval of nearly ninety year, the ship sails again. With the archiviste Marja we select the best hundred-eleven pictures of the three decades of the itinerant theatre Azart. In memoriam of those hundreds of photo’s that never returned or never ever were made. Some art work sneaks in, some historical photo’s of the centenary ship and some pictures from the millenary imaginery of the Ship of Fools. Now, the reportage starts for real. Arrived at the Green Cape, we find an anchor place in between four shipwrecks and feel instantly at home. Without doubt, our ship is the oldest. Here we hunt for foolish actors. Music, or the voice, would be an excellent medium too, as they speak directly to the heart.


The Captain’s Black Log Book

Monday, October 30, 2017
Valle Gran Rey, Gomera, Canary Islands, Spain.
28º24´30´´ North, 0016º57´52´´ West


The Fools finally arrive at their eternal summer. The pilot boat of San Sebastián harbour, on the Canarian island Gomera, gracefully escorts the ship to a deserted beach with pristine waters. Playa de la Guancha. The Guanche are the original aboriginals of the island. A perfect spot to start rehearsals that rock against a stunning scenery. The daily experiences are the subject of the new comedy. A foolish captain engaging a foolish crew for a foolish world trip. The show is
a choreographed waiting for the food that the public brings in as entrance tickets but that never comes. A drunken sailor, haphazardly, chucks the pan into the water. Central stage is the long blue table on deck on which we rehearse daily our sunset evening meal.

Slowly, rumours run around the island that the Fools have arrived. The first inhabitants approach ship with their pumpkins and bananas. A passing fisherman throws seven fat fish flying to deck. Some Yersey yachtsmen empty their fridges stuffed with calfsmeat, shrimps and merluza. Some of the crew sail the dinky daily into town for food and wine. When an occasional cruise monster moores, musicians from all over the island go busking. In those days, food abounds. The captain has only twice left ship for negocations with High Authories. That’s no easy bussiness. First, there’s hardly any place in these tiny harbours for a solid vessel like Azart. Then, they’re rather expensive. Then, local chiefs have no say over them. These ports are run by far-away organisations based in Madrid or Tenerife. But, most alarmingly, they require a burocracy that requires a lot of fantasy. Nothing is taken for granted: the arrival of fresh comedians, the permission for the shows, the reactions of the public, the moment to set sail six days southwards, nor tomorrow’s winds and waves.


Nor tomorrow’s waves and winds. One night, we find ourselves drifting towards Mauritania, the anchor swinging a jolly thirty meters down into the depths. That invites us to let loose triple chain. After twelve days, our paradisical Guancha beach suddenly and collectively starts boring us, so we swop places to some bays ahead. A tiny village called Playa Santiago. Next day already we swop places again, this time to protect the ship from the hot south-eastern, Saharian winds. We actually could make eternal magical tours around this island. On the western site of the island we find impressive cliffs and a meditation centre facing the anchor place. This town is called Valle Gran Rey, the Valley of the Big King, after the last of the Guanche kings. Here, the Fools have a – suspended – permission to present their new play. The Show Must Go On!  


Tuesday, October 10, 2017
At 3 hours from San Sebastián, Canary Islands, Spain.
28º24´30´´ North, 0016º57´52´´ West


The world trip finally gets going. Departure again was postponed for about a week, for many a last minute ajustment, for meteorological reasons and for the petrol station running out of diesel, scandalously presuming Fools never would need or meet up for big quantities of diesel. For a whole weekend, while waiting at their station, the ship attracted large crowds of curious of all ages that familiarly and shamelessly settled themselves in front of the ship. And that cheerfully waved us good-bye when we escaped to a paradisiacal anchorage away in the bay. There, our ship writer and doodle-player joinly accomplished the miracle of an unexpected and delicate repair job by repatching the exploted cast iron exhaust manifold that alarmously went leaking again. The patch work of our dear master engineer lasted nine sailing days. The anchorage was in front of a ship yard of traditional wooden craft that invited us for an excursion to their wharf covered by journalists.

And now six days sailing to the Canaries. Never ever been so well prepared. A unicum to give sailing instructions before sailing. Without cups or plates lingering in the steer hut nor any unwanted object occupying illegal places, without the content of so many drawers spread out over the floors, the travel looks more like a sunday afternoon trip then a dramatic good-bye to Europe. No leaking holes, no broken gaffs, gibs nor jibs nor torn sails – only to find in all the cabins, huts, saloons and rooms a very unfoolish neat and trim. Even an unprecedentent tidyness behind the cupboard’s shutters. The motor produces a stupyfing mantra and would be most delighted to run for another eleven thousend seamiles straight to Australia, or, for that matter, aonther seven years non stop – gazoil provided. The sails are put up for action, for mere exercise, arching for winds. Lake Atlantic. They new main sail, a present freshly given, exposes a huge blue Polish pharmaceutical publicity. “Lek Dla Serca”. A Medicine For Your Heart. South of Lisbon the sun starts hitting and the fruits and veggies running out. The DJ set including a host of classic CD’s moved to occupy the steer hut but badly misses our Amsterdam crew member and star DJ who played there some unruly nights crossing the Gulf of Biskaya.

For the next steps the crew has the key. Already, it’s a great team providing fabulous facilities for guest artists. In the afternoon she meets on deck to devise a new show, promted by the spoon and fork of the ship’s figure head: “Here We Come – We’re Hungry”. It’s about a foolish captain stirring up a crew to great and good deeds. A comedy of slips and flops and fiasco’s around a desperate, central staged banquet. The food and drinks are provided by the public as a way of entrance ticket. All elements are on board, provided by a well stocked dressing room, a wide experience and age old fool’s traditions.

An tremendous Atlantic full moon accompagnies us when crossing from Europe to Africa. On the port side the moon rises at dusk while the sun sets at starboard. At dawn the main actors swap roles. As time is precious, we concentrate on beauty and things that matter. We give a wide berth to tourist traps as Tenerife or Las Palmas and head straight to the tiny island Gomera where goat herds communicate in an age old whistling language. The island is in sight. We leave a confused continent behind. We’re your circumnavigating embassador, praising the carnivalesque traditions that put your perspectives upside down and that saved you from fundimentalism. Fellini told so: E La Nave Va !



Wednesday, September 27, 2017
Illa de Arousa, Galicia, Spain.
42º34´54´´ North, 008º52´58´´ West

About a month ago the Fools arrived, exhausted, to this island and the locals required a relaunch of the fool’s spectacle as they remembered nineteen years earlier. Right they proved to be. A whole range of elements conspired to realize their claim in a superb way. First, a local clown called ‘Peter Punk’ saw the ship arriving and decided to mobilize his clown friends to collaborate with a festival. In the same way, a local gaita player, an old friend we met in the Basque country, decided to mobilize his crazy folk band to take part. Moreover, he and his Italian clarinista embarked for the next destination. A local fisherman borrowed his buoy to let the ship moor in the bay. The harbourmaster thought it wiser not to bother his superiors and magically gave his permission. Ramón the fisherman piloted the ship across the hidden and treacherous rocks. Ship and tribune were supremely located on the end of a jetty on the beach. The newspapers persistently published the proceedings, three days in row. They really did their best to invent incentive headlines. The Galician TV-News came along, eager to satisfy the curiousity of their audience. So last weekend, the first international Fool’s Festival took place. The programation was overwhelming, starting with a ‘Theatrical Visit that brought kids and adults alike aboard – along six exciting cabins. Never before we’ve seen such a grateful public almost entirely connected with the fishing and the sea. First awaited them the ‘Pirate’s Cabin’ where the bandy-legged French sailor wisely stayed in bed receiving the public. The tour continued with a terrorific nymph in the ‘Princess Cabin’, followed by a foolish captain issuing foolish sailing licences in the ‘Steering Room’. Next a terrific granma scared the kids in our well stocked ‘Dresssing Room’. In the ‘Stowaway’s Cabin’ some pillows and the snorking from a mobil phone represented a sleeping, illegal refugee. The final stage was the ‘Artist Saloon’ with the ship orchestra playing local folk music while the cook prepared pinchos while explaining the ship’s history. All along the Amsterdam star singer Merante entertained the public from a fishing net hung up high in between the mast while holding a dutch clock from a ankling rod. ‘Pinchos’ is a favorite Spanish pastime that provides white wine with anchovies and other delicacies. So ‘Pinchos With The Fools‘ was the Festival’s Late Afternoon event that again seduced the locals, not so much with the poor quality pinchos but so much the more with the monologues, jokes and exhilarating melodies of the band. The highlight of the festival was “The Fool’s Gala”, the show itself, boldly reviewed in the newspaper as “A Risky Artistic Proposition That Mixes Comic Theatre and Circus”. Well, the local clowns Peter Punk, Coo and Pajarito performed first, perfectly knowing how to handle with their quirks their audiences. We Fools boldly restaged in three days our Amsterdam performance that surely dazzled our dear public by its unexpected windings. On Saturday a sensual Cape Verde woman percussion and singer band completed the festival, anticipating the Fool’s next destination. The last event was called, for not being published, “La Nada” (The Nothing), an illegal night club for the crew, the participating artists and their friends. Here, we introduced the most spectacular attraction to our night life that already in Amsterdam was famous for the ship wobbling and the floor wiggling. Here, with low tide, there’s only one meter of draft, so we put some more weigth to port side to have the ship leaning against the quay. But then, the merry-makers are dancing on starboard and one little dancing movement proved to be enough to topple the ship twenty degrees to starboard in one dramatic blow that tumbled a lot of glassware and nerves. The crew continues to be exhausted. In a few days she sets sail to the Canarian island Gomorrah, pretty confident to finally live up to our motto of ‘slowly hastening’. While writing this log book some nocturnal delphins encircle the ship.


The “Ship of Fools” Offers in La Illa a Delirious International Show with Local Artists
The Public Pays 13 ct A Kilo * The Artists Sail Since 28 Years From Harbor to Harbor *
Collaborating is the Islander Peter Punk

Faro de Vigo, Sept 21, 2017, frontpage.

The Folly of Art Takes Possession of the Cabodeira Quay
The “Ship of Fools” Returns to A Illa After 19 Years, On Her Way To Australia
Faro de Vigo, Sept 21, 2017

The Most “Foolish” Company of the Planet Moors in Arousa For Three Days of Spectacle
Diario de Arousa, Sept 21, 2017, frontpage

The Most “Foolish” Company of the Planet Moors in Arousa For Three Days of Spectacle
The Ship of Fools returns to Cabodeiro with invited artists like Peter Punk or “Coo”
Diario de Arousa, Sept 21, 2017

The Ship of Fools Opens Herself to the Arousians
Moored in A Illa, the ship offers during the weekend a most various program together with local artists.
La Voz de Galicia, 21 Sept 2017

Folly Settles in A Illa (The Island)
The Ship of Fools Surprises With Her Risky Artistic Proposition That Mixes Comic Theatre and Circus
Faro de Vigo, Sept 23, 2017

The Gaita-Player Who Says Yes to any Adventure
Simon Premieres in the Ship of Fools, a Kind of Floating United Nations, to Perform in A Illa and to Set Sail to Cape Verde
La Voz de Arousa, 23 Sept 2017

A Paradise of Artistic Folly
“Azart” Continues her Activities on the Cabodeiro Quay
Faro de Vigo, Sept 24, 2017