Journals

Leaving an African city behind to venture out into the countryside is always a memorable event, particularly when you've been unrelentingly surrounded by concrete for weeks on end.  On your way out, as you pass through the outer ring of industrial areas and transportation depots, part of the rush is due to a feeling of escape, of getting out even as hordes of others rush the other way.  But most of it comes from the vastness of the scene that stretches out before you.  By the time we finally made our getaway, Greg and I were joined by Isabel, a sexy nightclub singer from Murcia, Spain, who now lived in London. She had come to Africa for six weeks and liked the idea of riding with us because it would save her both the money and discomfort of taking buses.  Like Greg, she was carrying only a small backpack, so they and their gear fit easily on his bike.  This was fortunate, since all my camping gear left me with no extra storage space to offer them.    About an hour into our inaugural ride, we pulled over to rest and take a break from the scorching midday sun.  During the interlude, while Greg and Isabel ate a leisurely lunch in the shade, I stood over by the forest, vomiting.  This struck me as odd; I had been feeling fine all morning, and couldn't imagine that a sudden infusion of fresh air and green scenery would make me nauseous.  For the previous few weeks, the time during which I had to face the certainty of this motorcycle trip into the bush, I had been bothered by a nonspecific malaise that sapped my energy and left me feeling both anxious and lethargic--though never nauseous.  Despite having transportation and an almost limitless supply of spare time, I ventured out mostly just to gather supplies, passing the slow-moving hours inside of my hostel alone, waiting.  I felt an almost desperate need to get moving, yet could hardly do more than eat, sleep and shower.   I see now that my listlessness and unease during those days was a consequence of the anxiety and tension that had been building up in me for almost a month.  I was full of doubts; about my papers coming through, about my safety and about whether, even if things went well, I had the grit to undertake this journey.  When I could finally navigate my way back to Greg and Isabel's table, I noticed how those familiar worries and unpleasant sensations were no longer with me, as though becoming violently ill had somehow purged my system of more than just breakfast.  It felt as though, through the simple feat of standing fast against my fears, I had passed an important test.  Even with the lingering sensations of wooziness and a severe case of cottonmouth, I felt like a new man standing there--indeed, for the first time, I felt like an adventurer.