Journals

It looks like my African adventure will be ending soon, at least if all goes according to plan.   A part of me is still tied to the possibilities that come with keeping my motorbike and staying on the Dark Continent, but I found what I needed to find here, and have already begun the next phase of my journey—selling the bike and then making my way north into Kenya.   Once I get to Nairobi, I will need a little bit of luck: my air tickets say “Sydney,” but the experiences I had in Africa have transformed both my soul and my travel itinerary.   Although I am still quite curious about the land down under, my inaugural visit there will have to wait.   I don’t know exactly why, but I now have an insatiable desire to see China and Tibet   Back in Mozambique, when I was still with Greg, nearly everyone we met would ask him why he was so into motorcycles.   Without exception, he told them that it’s the only place where one can feel totally free.   I’m not sure about it being the only place, but I’d certainly agree with the rest of his assessment.   I’ve never felt more freedom than I did on that bike, plodding along bumpy dirt roads 100 miles from nowhere, crossing the mighty Zambezi River on a narrow pedestrian footbridge or coasting down the winding mountain roads of northern Malawi.   Imagine a place that looks like the rolling fertile hills of Napa Valley on one side, and when you come to the top, you see a lush, terraced rock formation with hundreds of waterfalls stretching into the distance.   Then picture yourself descending, hand off the accelerator, but foot always near the brake, towards the turquoise water of Lake Malawi as the late afternoon sun casts shadows all around you.   Sometimes the rocks are close, and the water splashes down on the road.   Sometimes the entire formation is in view, and you can take it all in.     These are the things I needed to find here in Africa: adventure, discovery and the magnificence of the world.   I needed to see things that I never dreamed I would see.   I needed to slog through the mud and shit for three days and enjoy the feeling of coming into port more than that of actually arriving.   I needed to be hopelessly out of my element and trust completely that everything would be okay.     When I was in Blantyre, Malawi, still trying to fix the bike after its run-in with the drunken Supreme Court judge, I saw something memorable.  It was during a Friday afternoon I spent at two friends' place in the local township, which they succintly described as "the ghetto."  Around 5:00, one friend, whose name is Duncan, took me to look for a w t-shirt at the local market.  We followed a route that was different from the road I had taken in, walking past many rows of small but immaculate front yards along the way.