Journals

The essays that will appear in this space make up only a small part of my story, even though the events which inspired them rank among the most significant of my life.  The early installments detail a six-month overland journey I made between Cape Town, South Africa and Nairobi, Kenya during the winter of 2003-04.  I covered about 4,000 kilometers of this distance on a small motorbike purchased in the Mozambiquan capital of Maputo, and the experiences I had while riding it did much to set the tone of my continuing travels through Africa, the Middle East, China and Tibet.  And so, at the risk of sounding pretentious, I will say that what follows should not be read simply as a 'travel journal,' since I rarely write things down for my own posterity.  Instead, those who care to read my words will do well to approach them as chapters in a tale whose conclusion remains hidden, and whose central message articulates many aspects of the same truth.   Prior to buying the motorbike, I had spent two months touring South Africa, and after a close examination of my options, it seemed like the only rational decision to make.  I relied on public transportation for the most part, and thought it gave me a better understanding of the locals' daily lives, this method proved to be less than ideal.  Like many cash-generating entrepreneurs in the developing world, the combination of fierce competition and a low-budget clientele dictates that African transport providers walk a fine line between profit and loss.  This means that most routes are served by minibus taxis that leave only when packed to capacity; and many take to the road despite being patently unsafe.  I rode in dozens of these vehicles prior to purchasing my own wheels, and driving on bald tires, warped alignments, poor brakes and corroded floors was standard operating procedure.  One taxi even had a pair of vise grips wedged into the steering column to take the place of a wheel.   There were many other factors that led me to seek out my own means of transportation, but in the end, safety concerns played a less immediate role than a sack of potatoes packed beneath my seat.  It was shortly before Christmas, and the temperature was close to 100 degrees.  I sat wedged inside a minibus that was lumbering north out of South Africa, trying not to count the minutes as they crawled by.  About halfway into the journey, I felt an unpleasant itching sensation on my left calf.  After scratching the area a few times, I looked down to see what was going on.  To my utter dismay, I discovered that the bag was infested with cockroaches, and they were now using my legs as a means of escaping their stifling burlap confines.  Because we were riding in such tight quarters, with a schedule to keep, I knew there was no point in making a scene, or demanding that the driver pull over.  Yet at that precise instant, as we drew near to the border and I prepared to defend against a rising six-legged assault, I decided that there just had to be a better way.