Two Years

20/08/10

As the anniversary of my departure fades into the past, I turn my mind to what has become of me after two years on the road. There is so much out there that I can never hope to assimilate it all.

Out in the lonely desert I celebrated my thirty first birthday atop an ancient rammed earth fortress with wicked taxi drivers waiting like vultures to make their move. Having my indian celphone stolen, I gave up on the my journey out of visa hell and acquiesced to a flight taking me all the way to Moscow, the hub of a decayed empire.

Lavish displays of wealth, chaos on the streets and crooked cops clashed with the statues of Dostoevsky and Pushkin, the bustle of Arbat prospekt, the fantasy vision of St. Basil's, the might of Red Square, and the macabre allure of Lenin's corpse. The trian took me further north to the fringe of Europe where the city of the Czars awaited with incredible culture and beautiful streets. The bridges rival amsterdam and the canals are everywhere in that city of palaces, art and culture. Noble architecture does not guarantee noble behaviour and bouncers made that bloody clear by shit-kicking drunken miscreants on a nightly basis.

Back in Europe proper, I had finally arrived back in a land that I recognized for the first time since India. I blew through Latvia and soaked in Berlin's counter-culture before deciding it was time to move again, back into the unknown.

Istanbul pulled me in with its soaring minarets and calls to prayer form every possible angle. I wandered the streets in a daze, eating mussels and seeing old friends There was something comfortable about the fusion of the eastern exoticism and modern convenience and organization. But that was not the end of the road.

After a marathon bus journey, the mountains of Georgia broke the horizon as I made my way back into the thwarted empire, a land lost to the world where tradition cuts deep. Brutal scenes in the streets and the spectre of bandits in the hills meant real adventure. What else could be expected from the land of Iosef Dzugashvili, the son of a cobbler, and a man of steel who nearly took over the world. The lonely statue representing the last of its kind toppled in his hometown a couple of weks ago and now I realize that I was among the last to see it. War with Russia was on everybody's lips and i'd had enough vodka for breakfast and thugs in the churchyard.

The Machine took us onward, across a corrupt border and into Armenia, mysoginist capital of the world. Hairy brutes in tight costumes disciplined their women on the streets in scenes that counterbalanced the serene grace in the ancient monasteries of this faithful christian country. The failure to redress old wrongs still touches the tips of tongues here and the vodka flows with equal force. A few fights with the landlady were enough and I crossed the tracks in Yerevan to head down to the beauty of the south.

From there it was over one of the most remote fronteirs imaginable. Any tourists that I hadn't left behind in Istanbul, turned back in Yerevan. I was crossing into the belly of the beast, into an unknown and evil country certain to pose peril at every turn. I was left on my own in the night at a dusty frontier, on a highway with no traffic, pack strapped to my back and hopeful on a hitch. An hour later I found myself in Tabriz, a city of kindness, the like of which I had never imagined.

I met the friendliest people I had ever encountered. I could not even believe the things that they did for me, the hospitality that they were willing to extend to a stranger, and I will never forget it. Through the barren mountains of the countryside, the seamless tarmac snaked its way toward Tehran where more friends awaited, but that was yet to come. That crazy city overwhelmed me and I made for the grace and beauty of the mosques to the south, the 'centre of the world' and even further, one of the epicentres of history from which flowed empire, wine and poetry of such lucid beauty that it strikes the soul in foreign tongue.Up north again I made a pilgrimage of sorts and Mashdi John headed back into the thick of things with new vigour and some added gumption to take the adventure to a new level.

The reality of Persia could not have been more different that I had envisioned. The people were full of kindness and the politics full of poison. Fights with police and new friends who exposed me to the reality of the country, prompted a deeper understanding that we are not so different out here in the world.

The road back led through Iraq and more specifically Kurdistan where the militia ruled and kept the anarchy at bay. The threat of grave violence kept me moving and soon I was back in the safety of stable politics, beginning a journey down the rivers that flowed out of Eden and through Mesopotamia. The city of the prophets sung to me and I moved from there across the great rivers and on down to another border that I could not cross.

Wit and charm are second to none and after bouncing back a few hundred kilimoetres, I had made my way into the president's kingdom and the ancient cities that foiled crusaders. The citadel rose over the walls as minarets moaned pouring the majesty of Allah over the bazaars beneath. Through the desert and out in the monastery, I broke bread with men of the robe before moving to Damascus, a true city of souls. More new friends and the delicious aroma of waterpipes had me tranfixed for weeks until I broke the spell and headed up through the highlands into Lebanon.

That was a place of extremes, where Hezbollah meets Holt Renfrew and the pock marked skeletons of buildings are reflected in the machined glass of skyscrapers. I walked by the water and got lost wherever possible, finally deciding to hit another flight, this time to avoid another visa fiasco and the uncertain implications thereof.

I touched down in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan and was soon rocketing through the desert toward the fronteir of the greatest border ordeal of my life. After six hours of detention and interrogation I was finally granted a free pass into Occupied Palestine and headed straight to the holy city of Jerusalem to reorient myself within its spirit, an older man who still remembered the curves of the streets, the steps and the alleys that I had trod in more youthful days.

I could not have been more horrified by what I found in that land as I crossed the apartheid wall that ensures the condemnation and segregation of a noble people based on their race and religion. Favour now falls on the minority population living in complete affluence. I couldn't believe the inhumanity of what I witnessed and felt sick to think about its cause. I spoke to people on both sides of that great fence and was left stricken by the injustice, marvelling at the impossibility of a peaceful resolution and astounded by the polices that seem designed only to provoke greater calamity.

Early mornings in the church of the sepulchre provided refuge from the modern catastrophe unfolding outside the city walls. I sat on rooftops and gazed out at that Haram al-Sharif, the Dome of the Rock, the temple mount, the epicentre of all those faiths that dance around in my head without ever capturing my spirit. I spent the new year up there in solitude, reflecting on all that the city, the country, the world, and what had become of the dream that created that land. Reflecting on what I had become.

It was time to move again and I spent some time under the Red Sea before posting up in Cairo for a week to hang out with criminals and appease the Sudanese consulate with my growing understanding of Arabic greetings and customs, not to mention a growing arsenal of basic vocabulary. From Talat Harb, to lonely pyramids forgotten in the desert, through the winding bazarrs of old Cairo and the city of the dead, I finally hit a train to the south.

Across a great lake, with the border behind me, I had truly entered Africa for the first time. Contrary to the warnings of the Canadian govermnent, I found nothing but friendly people and was amazed at my newfound capability to communicate basics in the vernacular of the land. Four months of die hard phrase book worship were beginning to pay off. I pursued the path of the Nile through the barren desert, stopping at the oases that support life along its banks. Out there I hurtled along Chinese made highways on shabby buses, past herders and nothing else.I found dozens of pyramids, lost to time and non existent in the imagination of the world. Finally I arrived at the hub of repression, a great city at the confluence of the blue and white rivers. I moved for the border and soon found myself out of the friendly and honest Arabic world.

Welcome to Ethiopia, cradle of humankind, where the hotel staff rob you and the kids throuw rocks on mountain trails. I watched raptors soar in highlands, before diving back to earth and clinging to wild crags as the sound of ram's horns echoes through the valley. The ancient churches and Haille Selassie guided me through the countryside from city to city as new friends shared laughs and a couple of beers, relief from the middle eastern drought.

Down four days, with four more to go, I hitched to where the road ends, and then I hitched some more. I spent days atop careening trucks that blasted over the savannah, rattling me to the core. Great flocks of birds began to appear as gazelles bounded through the flat lands in the distance. I hit Nairobi and was in the filth of it before I knew what hit me. Fortunately, I had purpose and my parents were soon there to share some incredible time with me. Through every major park in the country, and across the border in Tanzania, I began to feel as if Noah's ark had emptied its payload here on the endless plains of the Serengetti. We made our way back through that city and my body recoiled at the filth in the air.

Out on the coast the islands held warm comfort and the language of ancient traders. I moved back inland and found my way to the peak of the continent. Above the clouds and halfway down to the tip, I couldn't imagine that it would ever end.

The plains were now somehting that I understood. I wanted to find the unknown, and headed into the jungle. In that crazy city of cities I couldn't get enough of the people, the colours, the tempo. Conversations with wise rastas about misguided kids wiping asses in Africa, and it was time to blow south again through hundreds of kilometres of jungle into the heart of the Virunga volcanoes where Nyabingi has abandoned her people. I encountered impoverished souls that can't help themselves, displaced jungle dwellers, dying on the edge of a dreamscape and no prospect for hope. I moved on the red earth of the road down to the center of Africa.

The scars of brutality, murder and genocide were almost too much to bear. Corpses in the schoolhouse and ethnic divisions that will never go away. Refugees lurked next door, drawn from the ranks of the genocidaires and I felt the urge to explore further. Over the border, chaos reigned supreme. This was the heart of darkness, a country torn by war torn by conflict that in the last decade had killed more than the first world war. I moved through the ash covered streets and avoided the corrupt demands of young soldiers brandishing kalashnikovs, wondering what the hell I was doing in this war ravaged place. The present peace conceals a powder keg with a lit fuse as the factions have gone nowhere. The genocidaires, tribal groups, Lord's Resistance Army, poachers, smugglers, and organized criminals all operate in the region. I wanted to penetrate deeper but the horrible condition of the roads lead me unexpectedly back to the safety of Rwanda where visa complications cut short my Congolese adventure.

I pushed through the middle of nowhere, through sleepy villages and cities, and made some overly complicated arrangements to move south. More villages and every child in Africa suckling on its mother's tit, and I blasted through the countryside in an overloaded Matatu making 30 km/h at the most. Across another border and back in Tanzania, I made my way down to the shores of that great African lake with water clear as crystal. There was no way out and the dream of heading down on a boat, skirting the Congolese coast evapourated into the dusty roads of western Tanzania. I pounded forth, making no more than 300 km per day with no idea of where the road would lead, and how I would find my way. After four days, I was exhausted, covered in dust and hungry. There was nothing but fried dough and breastmilk behind me and I pushed the final distance on tarmac to another great African lake.

Exhausted, I took the time to decompress on the shore of Lake Malawi, spending my days in the sun, my evenings improvising catfish barbeque, and my nights with wild locals. I hitched a ride out of town in a motorcade under armed guard with the president's son and Chris, my new partner in crime.

Thus began the hitch that would take us almost 2000 km to the south. Bounced from borders before finally slipping through, we made our way south on anything that would take us. The next days were by the roadside making connections and picking up hitches with whoever stopped. That took us to the coast of Mozambique and back again to the hub, a crossroads where a big rig hurtled a few hundred k south allowing us to relax at the beach for a couple of days. Further on in an NGO 4wd, another beach, nights under the stars, disaster avoided, we headed out of town to make the final leg down into Maputo's slick nightlife.

The World Cup was in full swing and I watched matches in bars. The more I saw, the more I wanted to stay away so I stopped in the AIDS capital of the world where I sat in a living room bumping hip hop with white Swazi rastas. Finally it was time to head to the end of the road and I soon found myself on a six lane highway with Ladislas, heading to a white part of Johannesburg, that city of dangerous criminals. That had no appeal for me and I hopped a jet to perhaps the most remote nation on the planet.

Abortive hitches left me at the roadside, rejected, dejected and ready to head back to town. Interminable rides on rough roads led me to discover some of the most beautiful people I could imagine in a land too foreign to dream of. Through the cities, to the islands and into the bush on foot, I made what I could of my time and soon found myself back in the capital with Jinja, my friend at the end of the world. After more time in taxi brousses, I felt I got to know every lemur in the jungle. My time was up and I was back in South Africa, amazed at the organization which teeters on the verge of chaos.

Time to complete the trip, so I headed down to the tip of the continent, the Cape of Good Hope and on to Cape Aghulas where the land ends. I dipped my foot in the ocean and that was it. That was the terminal point that I had envisioned when I planned this. But I am not ready to stop yet. It was supposed to be a year, eighteen months at most, and here I am at twenty five and counting. Every day it gets harder to ever think about leaving Africa, let alone going home. I wonder at what it all means, and what I have become. Certainly older, perhaps wiser, with a grey in my beard for every country I've visited. My body is worn and torn, but finally the pieces start to come together into an incomplete lattice that reveals the spirit of this human condition I set out to discover all those months ago.

And I am not finished yet.