Tag Archives: travel

Reckless


Travelling is reckless. It’s like drugs. It alters your senses, gives you crazy withdrawal symptoms, makes you think you are something you are not, makes you imagine things. It makes the bizarre normal, and the normal bizarre. They don’t call it a high for nothing.

When I got home-after 2 years (I know it’s a short time) – my friend asked me what I would blog about. I gave her an answer I no longer remember. I knew inside that she was right, there would no longer be anything to blog about. No sources of inspiration, like when you see someone has a pet flamingo, and another a mistreated hamster named ‘Hamlet’. I didn’t want to admit that I felt that I had nothing to blog about anymore.

Either way, I settled into the status-quo. I opened my wardrobe, took out a suit last worn in 2011, and looked at how badly it fit. It used to be so fashionable. Now the legs were too loose, and the blazer too long. It was like a borrowed suit.

Even my camera protested. No inspiration was found. There were no new mountains to see, no perfect moments, only the boring familiar. There was no eagerness about life, there was no eagerness to shamelessly capture every moment because I was no longer travelling.

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bouncer/ticket seller

 

It didn’t help that the status quo wasn’t working either. I wasn’t (still not) getting any jobs. When travelling, you get knocked around but there’s always something to look forward to. You miss your bus and try sleep on the street corner, because tomorrow will be a good morning. Your stuff gets stolen, but you laugh because they didn’t take the undies. You save money, waste it on visa rejections, then end up talking to a prostitute that reminds you of a friend of yours. (I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but it wasn’t in a bad way). When you’re travelling, you roll with the punches and punch harder. Travelling makes you feel invincible.

So, without my drugs, I could not write and I could not take pictures- I was made mellow like a castrated dog. I think it’s very cruel to castrate dogs. I think it takes something away from their personality. Is that true? Can any vet confirm effect of scrotum/ovary removal on personality? I assume it’s true, because we once had a VERY boring bitch from KSPCA that had had its ovaries removed. That was the most miserable looking, zero personality dog I ever met. To make it worse she was a boring all-white colour. She walked with her neck drooping, and she never even growled, she never barked. She just was, she let life dictate the terms. I will never castrate a dog if that’s what happens.

Like that poor bitch, I walked with my eyes on the ground. I began to trudge through. I refused to be excited, I decided to be practical, to be realistic, to be ‘mature’. I didn’t pay attention to myself, what I felt, what I wanted, I decided to be well-behaved…I decided to survive…to abandon my drugs…

My head was down, but my thoughts never left me. I saw that the suit didn’t fit. I saw in the mirror something that I didn’t remember from 2 years ago. Something new, yet familiar. This thing haunted my sleep- it showed up in memories of the past 2 years. I remembered the exhilaration of setting goals, climbing mountains, learning new things, fighting new battles- even if was only the battling of finding long strands of hair (not mine) in the toilet. I remembered experiences and people endured, situations bested, situations learnt from.

I woke up..I discovered, that I didn’t travel to get reckless, I travelled because I am reckless. I take chances, I do stupid things, I think I am invincible, sometimes I think it’s God telling me I am invincible with Him, other times I just think it’s the universe, or Him making the universe do it.

I’m high all the time, and therefore I can take pictures and write all the time, because when you jump off the cliff, in that rush before you crash into the water, you always notice something new – the sound of the wind, the sight of your feet in the air under you, the sensation as your arms are lifted to your sides, the seconds that pass, the water rushing up to meet you, the rumble of the water as you go under, the first breath you take, the rush.

I’ve been here, but I feel like I am truly back. Here’s to the next year of adventure!

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Random Access Memories


This post has nothing to do with Daft Punk. It’s just because I suddenly remembered Paul…a guy I met while travelling.

Paul’s a superfit dude. He has a white crew cut, and that old muscle, old stretched muscle, like those weather-beaten boats or like a guy of mjengo. The muscle that sits on the fence between lean and intimidating, it shouts power and discipline more than aesthetics, you know that kind of muscle?

His a smoker. He is a drifter which means he has no permanent home. He just came from volunteering at some youth hostel, in return they gave him food and shelter.  He lights up a cigarette and tells me he quit smoking years ago, we share a laugh, because I’ve had a couple of beers (a Guinness and a lager) so everything is grrrrreat. I wish I could have beers with Paul, I want to hear more about his ex-girlfriend. He’s going to live with her, and he says she will give him hell if he doesn’t get his shape back – what shape I wonder, cause the only thing that is loose about Paul is his wrinkled face, and that’s only ’cause he’s over 40. It’s like Collins Injera saying he’s out of shape…Paul used to climb mountains in Nepal every year, and they are not the size of Longonot. His ex-girlfriend (the one he’s moving back in with) is a gym instructor he explains. We laugh a little more, because Paul is always laughing and I head out into the rain.

I walk into a bar (no that’s not a joke). And the first person I meet is Chung.  I call him Chung because I don’t remember his name, plus he’s Korean, so I can’t be far off. Chung is here with Ali, the Saudi with the beer…don’t judge, who said he’s muslim? ( He is). Chung seems majorly impressed to meet a black guy, he acts it out in a way I’d describe as ‘G’. Either he really is a ‘G’ or he thinks he should act ‘G’ cause I’m black, both possibilities are hilarious. I like Chung and his spiky hair.

Chung or something close

Chung or something close

Him, the Saudi and the french dude are in english class together, that’s what they are doing here. Then there’s a guy from Colombia. All of us have have met someone that is really good with girls, effortless even, Colombia is one of those…except he doesn’t do it for fun, it’s not about the thrill of conquest, he does it because he needs to. He tells me how long he saved for the flight here (don’t know why he felt the need to share), he also tells me that he’s here to make a life for himself, not holiday. He’s in this bar primarily to meet people, not have a good time. A girl walks up to us and I watch him do his groundwork. The girl is visibly excited to be in his presence, I can see it through her glasses which she keeps adjusting.  She says ‘Yeah, so I just need to confirm it with my housemates, but you can come stay with us from Wednesday,’ and just like that, Colombia has a free place to stay as he looks for a job (one day after jetting into the country). As he leaves the bar later on, the girl I’m talking to nods enthusiastically to my story, but after he hugs her goodbye her eyes follow him out of the room. She is looking at him ki-unyama like manyake. Guinness is my distraction.

Later, I walk into another bar- I feel the need to let you know that I was on holiday. I ask what’s on tap, and they give me a beer with a green logo, I forget its name. It’s amazing this beer. I chat up some lone travellers, but they’re only here for a beer before they have to catch their bus. We have  a short conversation, and they have to leave. I sit next to the table that’s obviously celebrating a birthday. The birthday boy is a dreadlocked black guy, he’s flabby, and he is wearing bell-bottoms. He would fail alco-blow in an instant, one of those guys that would claim he’s Engineer Maina (2.10) (so what?) or worse, try to escape from the police in reverse. Soon, one of the party-goers asks me if I’m with them, I say no, she says join us, I feel awkward so I don’t. She doesn’t give up, she starts sending people my way to say hello to the lonely guy at the bar. There’s a girl with a tattoo of a tree across her whole back. Later on she invites me to a concert with white people playing African drums that I have never played….it was actually great. In that dark sweaty room, packed with jumping bodies and cheap beer, I find her by looking for that tattoo.

It’s my birthday, and I am hanging out outside, yes, another bar. I am feeling a little sorry for myself, because I am alone, and because I don’t actually know anybody in this city. There’s a girl outside the bar as well, and she starts a conversation after some drunk guy staggers into us. We sit and listen to the music together in the dim red-lit bar. AMAZING music. This girl has a really soft voice, freakily soft, a little psycho even. She tells me some stuff about her sister, I tell her it’s my birthday, she gives me a muffin from her bag. It’s quite good, it has pieces of orange peel in it. She baked it.  Come to think of it, I guess ideally you shouldn’t eat queencakes from strangers, but it’s allowed on your birthday.

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