B. Z. Projan Anima ’94

I heard him before I saw him. Not him, exactly—his acceleration, the particular growl of his engine. In a chorus of scooters, with the occasional Harley and Ducati, his Honda cut through differently—lighter, but still roaring as if it carried his spirit inside it.

The blue handkerchief at his throat clashed beautifully with his black curls and lean frame. His posture was peculiar—familiar, yet not. Most riders had a different build, a different weight to them. His presence came from conviction. A rebel, but one who had decided it.

I was at the Harley bar, drinking beer with contenders and pretenders, when he joined us.

I liked him. What I liked even more was what he represented: a kind of freedom earned through effort—illegal, yet tolerated, appreciated by tourists and, by town hall.

At the time, I was searching for a formula—how to be free with a two-year-old in a country that only seemed to support the rich and already settled.

I was a cog in a pyramid I despised, persuading people to buy properties that would never truly belong to them. The money was good. The work was light. But the feeling—that I was doing something fundamentally wrong— too heavily.

I am lawless by nature, but I abhor exploiting the assumed stupidity of the masses.

I know it’s how the world functions, but I couldn’t live inside that compromise.

I saw him again one morning, after buying shoes for my three-year-old and walking along the boulevard.

He was sculpting a beggar in the sand.

I was impressed, yes—but more than that, I was arrested by a single thought: I want this. I can do this.

Aikira was immediately taken with him, and he with her.

In my typically direct Dutch manner, I asked him to teach me. He scoffed, scowled—but, after some persuasion, agreed.

So began my adventure in the sand, with my two dolphins that looked more like crashed airplanes. Still, I made money.

At first, people reacted with suspicion, even pity. Gradually, that shifted into admiration—for persistence, if nothing else.

There were fights too. Men who thought they could take coins from my blanket—for cigarettes, for whatever reason they deemed more important than feeding my daughter.

The free rebel didn’t take long to move in with us. Nor did it take long for him to leave.

He said his heart loved me. But his mind—his compass—pointed elsewhere.

The formula worked. Just not on us.

I.Ph.

© 2026 I.Ph. de Lange All rights reserved. Published by CYcrds OÜ.