One Year...

01/08/09

Today marks a year since I left Toronto with nothing more than a backpack and an impulse to get out into the great unknown. I had no idea then that I would find myself in Kyrgyzstan at this point, much less that I could have experienced so much in an entire lifetime. I write these words in high spirits, thinking back upon all of the places I have seen, the people I have met, the tastes and the smells and the beauty of this world.

I don’t know if I have changed much, but I probably have. I am certain that I speak differently, partly on account of the different expressions I have picked up along the way, and partly on account of my newfound inclination to say everything in simple, broken, third world English. I miss my family and I miss my friends. I miss a lot of the people that have come and gone in different places. But I am inspired, and I am ready to continue on, over this massive continent, through regions remote and unknown in the west. Though I am thousands of miles from the terminal point, it grows ever closer, looming at the southern tip of Africa. I can feel it calling to me.

I close my eyes and type furiously playing out a whole year in my mind:

In the beginning I had to find my feet. I moved from one island to another, watching them appear before me like sand dollars rising from the sea. I sat on top of the rocks looking at that beautiful archipelago panorama as the thunderstorm rumbled its way across the pacific toward me. I took to the sea and dove with the sharks, before moving on to the Land of the Long White Cloud.

The earth spewed sulphur, at the edge of the sea, on top of snow-capped volcanic peaks. The rain fell and the sky was grey as I moved from city to city, town to town, relishing in quirky differences from home, but really burning to get somewhere that was truly new and different.

I moved to the east coast of that vast terra nullius, and stood on cliffs hundreds of metres above the crashing sea and surf as a frigid Antarctic wind ripped against my cheeks. I moved up the coast to uncover links to the past and wound up surfing and fending off toothless hippies. More underwater exploration on the world’s biggest reef, and it was time to move again.

Another ocean, another archipelago, this one immense and Muslim. But not yet. Those ancient Hindu temples shrouded in jungle clouds appear in my mind, their crumbling stone and thatched roofs and the decay of centuries. From there, more temples, different levels of realization, meticulously carved by skilled hands and lost to the jungle for hundreds of years. Jakarta taught me how to see the beauty in amongst the filth, the squalor, the desperation. Then into the jungle. Dropped off in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, making things happen for myself.

A brief refuge in the modern world and then into the heart of chaos. I think to the trains, snaking their way over a spider web of steel on a continent so vast and diverse it infused itself into every corner of my mind. But not yet. First to the mountains, to the soaring heights, seeing eye to eye with the massive vultures patrolling the peaks as the rivers crash below, before dwindling to streams as the days go by. I move higher and higher and can hardly breathe. I have never seen that many stars before against such a jet black sky, a world close to the heavens. I move throw towns and temples, hilltop monasteries against a bitter wind as the prayer flags crackle with the ancient wisdom of long forgotten sages sending blessing on high out over the world. I really began to feel alive.

Back down below, through the chaos from city to city, even where it was impossible. Travelling like a local. Without tickets. I moved back up north to where the world’s two greatest ranges intersect. That community in exile, vibrant and alive on the plateau. The taste of yak butter tea still fresh on my lips, I climbed he frozen stone steps toward the felt door and the sound of the horns, the cymbals, the drums, the chanting of those Himalayan voices in the freezing cold air.

I didn’t envision this when I stood on the marble of that golden temple, watching the pilgrims bate in their sacred lake, telling tall tales to curious onlookers and taking flight from adoring fans. More trains, compliments on the beard that grew wild, the hair thick and luxurious, I looked different then. From the mountains, I moved south, first to that wild city, only now coming of age and coming into its own at the centre of a country exploding in every direction. Birds in the fields, rock cut temples thousands of years old, sculpted by ancient hands, one stoke at a time with hammer and chisel, unleashing life from the rock. The buffalo plough the fields under the smoke of the kilns cooking earthen brick to fuel the unstoppable currents of modernity that exist in far off corners of the subcontinent.

I pushed on further south to sleepy backwaters, lush jungle. I sat with my legs hanging out the train door watching the egrets spread their snow white wings against the pink sky before the light gave way to bats and brush fires at the side of the track. Thousands more kilometres and back again.

I moved through the jungles in the middle of nowhere, in places I had never heard of to see ferocious tigers sleeping so close and red in tooth and claw. Back down the dirty roads, past dirty villages, through dirty cities to that holy city of souls. Cows on the train platform, bodies close to death, I wandered through the spectral mist of the morning down to the banks of that holy river once again. The smoke still filled the air, the bodies burning to ash, the life at the side of the river, the souls drifting past on the wind, the colour, the noises, the smells, the pulse.

The train rocked along the tracks toward the jewel of the Raj, the black hole, the slums, the shit and the piss, the filth and the poverty, the beggars, the lepers, the elegance of the buildings, the taxicabs, the trams, the parks, and a million other visions that flash through my head like a flip book of days and weeks of my life. I watched the movie that the country was wild for and took to the skies back into a different chaos altogether.

I moved through the streets and met old friends. Life was sweet down on tropical beaches, with thumping music and wild nights before heading to the tribes in the hills, and racing down a rushing river through jungle vines to ancient cities and back to the heart of the chaos. Old friends leave, new ones are made, flights missed, visas overstayed and it was time to go.

Nothing was easy anymore. Nothing was available. There was no power and it was hot, really hot. Nothing cost a dime and I treaded the blood red earth of ancient empires, past thousands of monuments to the Buddha, to the Nat, and I could feel the spirit as it flowed all around me. Brutal repression can’t stifle the mind, the hopes and the dreams of a people who still laugh and live and love. I slept on floors and walked through the hills, down the railroad tracks to the lake at the end of the trail. Silly stunts in the monasteries and mysterious requests from mysterious strangers.

Back in the city of sin, I felt sad, I had to move, I had to get a breath of fresh air, follow my dreams to the north. I wound up in a huge metropolis, under neon signs, finding a place for myself in amongst the people. I drank coffee, saw the Kiss for the Whole World and walked the banks of the river at night under the soft blue lights. Through the markets and through the squares. Live sushi and barbeques and my time was up.

I moved on to the middle kingdom, to the new Rome, from which all things come, and to which all roads lead. I was overwhelmed and I stood beneath the portrait of one of the 20th century’s greatest villains, his corpse lying in a mausoleum fortress behind me, still worshipped by the thousands. More time on the rails and then through the gorges to tourist attractions as inexplicable as they were idiotic. More Chinese group tours where I learned that nature is shit without paved paths, monorails, cable cars, roads and lots of buses so as to avoid sweat and exercise, the twin dragons and ancient enemies of man. Jabbering tour guides in my wake, it was back to the new Rome, ready to head to my favourite Hereditary Stalinist Dictatorship.

Empty streets and rainy mornings in a city of souls that came alive for one precious day where we sang and danced and ate and drank together as if there were really no difference between us. Everybody has a mother. Supervisor guides monitoring every move and sometimes confidence builds to a point where revelations are forthcoming. State planned get rich quick schemes, empty restaurants and the world through a bubble. You can see it but you can’t touch it. Socialist paradise has its fair share of colossal statues, propaganda posters and empty public squares, but surprisingly, no vacuum cleaners. First we get the nukes, because when the American Imperialist Aggressors come back we gotta be ready. It will be the greatest glory of the revolution when we beat those dogs once again and fulfill the dream of |Great leader. Or something like that.

Back in the Middle kingdom I had the rooftop of the world on my mind. The train snaked its way up to the plateau, above 5000 metres, and into that holy city. The troop s in combat boots stamp between the pilgrims with riot shields, grenade launchers and machine guns. I was watched from the rooftops and sought refuge in the temples full of incense smoke, ghee, and the hum of prayers from hundreds of pilgrims. I lost myself in the great paintings, the hanging mandalas, the ancient libraries, the golden tombs, the thrones, the portraits, the butter lamps, and the guardian demons that hold the key to life and death.

We moved up past glacial lakes, eating yak cheese and moving over the passes, breathing the thin air, as we hit the rooftop of the world. I stood below the highest point on earth and it seemed so close that I could touch it. I sat by myself on the stones fingering my prayer beads and feeling the blessed winds blow down from the heavens. I hung a string of prayer flags to rip and tear through the icy mountain wind, crackling the sound of thousands of prayers for me and those I love. I know they are still blowing up there on high. I slept in the thin air and awoke to face the peak one last time.

Down below with fresh resolve, new friends and a desire to go on, I moved through the south at a slow pace, drinking in the ancient cities, and moving back to the fringe of the plateau. This was some real adventure, hitching into the middle of nowhere with everything I would need on my back. Good friends and good memories in a place untouched by time. Mother Mountain granted safe passage and the beauty of it all overwhelmed me. Nobody around but the herders with their yak. Vast amounts of butter tea in my system and it was back out on a motorcycle through muddy tracks with a massive pack slowing my bike.

I rocketed back down to the southern tip of this massive country, the hub of the world where money talks. The brands and consumer culture smacked me in the face. I couldn’t think about it and just got lost in the pace of it all. That island really moves. Time to abandon some of my dreams, and to forge some new ones. Back through the middle kingdom to another mega city and on by rail to the new Rome once again. From there, train after train, across the steppe and finally to that den of thieves in the land of Chinggis.

Hitching out onto the steppe, hiking by that glacial lake, flat tires, breakdowns, more flat tires, more breakdowns, squashed bodies, everything hurts, and it’s time to take in the three manly sports. Huge meat fed wrestlers fought for the glory as kids whipped frenzied horses toward a distant finish line out on the steppe. Vodka with the cops and more hitching into small and forgotten corners of the world. Yak and sheep, cows and horses. So that's what a sheep tastes like: no spices, no sauce, no salt...that’s exactly what a sheep tastes like.

Back for one last push through the Middle Kingdom to the far west. Fresh new people, friendly smiles, more troops brandishing weapons, seventeen years old with a Kalashnikov and boy can they march. Oblivious to intimidation, the beauty of this old crossroads represented something big for me. With the end of a year looming, I was excited, on the cusp of new adventure, new experience, new people and places in and old world.

Checkpoints and searches, military and more checkpoints soon gave way to smiles on the other side of another pass, and here I am in the thick of the action, in the thick of Asia, feeling the pulse of life here in a place that may as well not exist to most people. What an incredible part of the world. It is no longer just arbitrary borders, lines drawn on a map. It is a vision of mountains and smiling faces, mouths full of gold teeth, the call to prayer, and Mercedes overtaking old Soviet cars on rough highways twisting through the hills.

I struggle to come to terms with what I get from this experience. One thing is for certain: the most meaningful line on my well worn map is hand drawn with numerous pens. It plots an inefficient and erratic route backtracking and jumping from place to place, but every stroke of the pen was a train, a bus a boat, or some other means of conveyance. Every line leads to a point in my mind that now exists in an experience so broad and deep that it will always stay with me. I t is more than ink on paper. It is a reality that I can feel, that has shaped me and colours my dreams, both night and day.

Here’s how I did it:

44 Buses
26 Trains
16 Boats
19 Planes
20 Shared Cars and Jeeps
6 Days Hitchiking
2 Rented Cars
1 Royal Enfield Motorcycle
14 Countries

Add to this countless laughs, triumphs, disappointments and 15 000 photographs.

I move on across the world with little more than the cloths on my back, an open heart and an open mind. The figures in accounts far away are merely a means to allow me to live and perpetuate my dreams and have no value to me if they don’t allow me the freedom to live in a way that makes me feel my life with the intensity of all the stars in the dark night sky.

The road ahead is long and unknown, full of joys and perils, and it calls to me night and day. I feel the places and the people with a connection based on the utmost simplicity and openness. I live in the beauty of languages I don’t understand, touch modern cultures with ancient antecedents, put the pieces together as I move through the deserts, the plains, the mountains and the forests, back to the great oceans that separate me from my home.