Reflections
Trip Start
Sep 01, 2005
1
39
72
Trip End
Ongoing
Cape town,
South Africa
Sunday, March 19, 2006
How do these experiences affect a person? What does this do to one's perspective and in that, their perception? Images race through my head; worlds whirling by in their own time: Sheesha in the alley and falafel in the market. The sun setting into a dusty reverberating city. The pious calluses and the perfume in the taxi. 4AM in Addis where the adventure began. The man with no hands pushing coins under his legs. The group of people wrestling for pinches of food in the street. The soccer sponsorship at the sculpture churches and the predawn, wrapped towel scrambles. Bracing for impact on those elongated rides. The rock tumbler, bean truck express that delivered us from nowhere to the end of the road. The feelings of being stranded no matter how much money we had. Shucking and jiving in 'Nirobbery' that "hell of a place.' Then crossing into Erin's back yard where still "it is no picnic." All of the people who broadly smiled when she spoke to them in their language. Jordan the night watchman who sighed and looked at he stars when we told him of our trip. Godfree who on the street sewed leather 'supports' to my worn down sandals where later we ate chicken and chips fried on the corner in large cauldrons. The magic debut on the porcelain beaches of Zanzibar and the distortion of time and space in Ipilimo. Casting our lot on the road. Blinking the days away and learning to sink in Malawi, with burrowing bugs. Stripping away our defenses, mocking the creature comforts and kneading our limits. Reaching the smoke that thunders at the "Adventure capitol of Africa," where people yearned for the "real" Africa, whatever that may be. The lengths of Namibia and the magnificent long lasting sun sets into the downy comforts of Cape Town with its big sunglasses, posh people and enigma of clashing cultures.
Reflecting on our journey so far, I see that it is similar to learning to surf on those tall, thick waves at Punta Achote. I sat on the board neat the beach gaining balance, having fun splashing in the water. Familiar, easy and comfortable like arriving in Europe and traveling through, towards the east. Paddling out and getting accustomed to the stride, a little more awkward like the old Eastern Bloc. Then, trying to duck dive and paddle through the breaks, where the work and the adventure begins.
You become fatigued, your muscles burn, you're not sure if you can make it beyond the break. The relentless waves continue, but eventually you make it and arrive at a point where you can rest easy, watching for the next set to ride. And when it does come, you work again. Paddle with vigor to catch the flow. Try to avoid the rocks and the sharks. Try to get on top of the wave, then stand and try to ride down the face. But, of course, you fall. It is inevitable. And the ocean pummels you, drives you to the floor, forces itself into your stomach and churns you into disorientation.
Remain calm or you may drown. Find bearing and surface. Stabilize, get your board and get back on. Breathe and face the closing breaks. Those second of riding felt great, or at least you imagined that they did. There must be something magical about it, if you can catch the rhythm. So, with that in mind you paddle again and cast your lot against the waves. Growing more tired, pushed further back you must have resolve. It is uphill, but you must pursue it to find the magic. With determination you make it past the breaks, but you are tired. The peace of floating revitalizes you as you wait for another set. Again, you paddle with vigor to stand on the face. Again, after quick moments of exhilaration you are pummeled. Remind yourself to remain calm or you may drown.
Face the breaks and imagine the sensations. Go back to work. Exert yourself with a slightly unclear vision of success.
Now we find ourselves floating in Cape Town, anticipating the next set. The tides are changing. It is a new game with the same core intent. Most rules change, but the fundamentals are the same.
We've tottered at the fulcrum of South Africa and have our sights set east, on Bombay. It will be a new break. Everybody that we talk to seems to say similar things about India. "You'll love it, but you will be very uncomfortable. It is magnificent, but you will hate for a while. The food is delicious, but you will be sick. The climate is excellent, just not in April, May, June or July. The culture is wonderfully exotic, but you'll never want more to punch someone in the face." It is another world, but then again, every two weeks has been another world to us. We are both eager and a little nervous.
Looking in the mirror this morning at the stubble that grows in two week life spans, I notice something. In my calico beard of reds, blacks, blondes and browns I have two, distinctively, white whiskers. I smile. 29 years. Time feels foreign. What does that mean? How does that dimension interact with the other? What does it mean to you, and where does it fall in the subjective/objective spectrum? Perhaps further down the road I'll get some insight.
