One year has gone by, bringing me from Portugal by land and sea until today, when I find myself here, in Thailand, in its capital Bangkok, a city in permanent unrest but which today faces true revolution, with its streets filled with people fighting for a different future, for something better, maybe, for something I cannot fully understand but which brought thousands of people to the streets protesting against corruption, fighting to restart their country.
Step by step I too go out on the streets, carefully, after all I probably should not be here. In any case I decided to stay, ‘how many times in life will I have the privilege of witnessing revolution in the making?’, I questioned as I decided to stick to my plan and stay, even if uncertain if staying would not be the stupidest thing to do. But I did stay, and I did go out on the streets, step by step, cautiously, walking down one which I knew to be a main artery of the protest.
The tension could be felt in the air, or maybe just through the palpitation of my heart, as I walked towards the coffee house which became my usual hang-out for the past few days. Bit by bit, however, the tension started to ease, as I got more comfortable strolling along this peculiar revolution made by smiling revolutionaries, colorfully covered with their country’s flag, in facial paintings or printed in all sorts of paraphernalia they sported. This happy lightness of theirs, making them almost oblivious of the protest, contrasted severely with all I expected, accustomed as I was to the images of revolutions where faces red with anger and furrowed by pulsating veins shout violently their discontent.
Here, however, the revolution is different, being almost like a big party, maybe just because it is not made by the military or politicians but largely by regular people, who got tired of those who mismanage their destinies and just want to be heard. There’s some chicness in this revolution, impression highly influenced by the fact that the first vehicle I saw in protest was a luxury convertible car, or the fact that most people seem more worried about taking pictures of each other and themselves than about shouting as loudly as they can, but it all makes sense, after all this revolution is composed mostly of high income urban classes.
Little by little fear was overcome. Tired of watching the street through the café window I went out, camera in my hand, recording this day for myself, the day in which I for the first time found myself in the middle of a protest, becoming part of it, even if only as a passenger, even if a total stranger to its purposes. I walked around, collecting smiles, enjoying the many improvised music concerts, letting myself embrace by the good vibe and sheer joy felt in the streets. I also felt squeezed, heard cries of anger which I could not understand, felt the tiredness take control of my bones, urging me to go back to my room when the novelty wore out and it didn’t make sense anymore to be in the middle of all this without a higher purpose. Finally I went away. With the whole day spent on the streets taking its toll I slept swiftly.
This is how my 365th day on the road was spent. And, despite not getting involved in the protests, it was in a city enveloped by its vibe that I woke up for the first day of the new year ahead. In a tranquil day, in which I mostly felt homesick, I let time go by until the moment of celebrating amongst friends and unknown flavors this milestone of my trip, of my whole life, inseparable as they are. Still oblivious to the protests I went back home, but with the revolution looking at me from a distance in every corner of the way.
In a real metaphor, the city seems to urge me to remain unsettled, to keep fighting, to keep shouting deep inside for my own ongoing revolution, avoiding to be crushed under the weight of the days that have passed, under the many kilometers I have traveled, above all under the many more that will come my way, lengthy as they will be before I can again reach home. The road is getting heavy, tiredness is taking its toll, after all there are no borders, I belong to nowhere, belonging today to this Bangkok in revolution, tomorrow to the road which will take me away from here, to a new country, to a new destination, to no destination at all but myself.
In the end I’m living a romance written with the sweat from my face, with the dust I wipe off my backpack, with the tears that fill my eyes with nostalgia, with the smiles I see around me and which fill my mouth with certainty, with letters and words I cannot understand, with lines which twist into curves as I write the romance that I am. It’s not always easy, after all I live a romance made with the doubts that invade me, with the uncertainty of being me, with the ground shaking all the time in a constant earthquake which bewilders and questions my way. It’s not always that hard, after all I’m living in a constant love story, for me and for the world, for each person that crosses my way, for each new culture which I slurp greedily, for each kilometer I travel for the simple passion of going, since one year ago, since my whole life.
Twelve months have passed by me today, in an instant I celebrate as my own anniversary, the anniversary of that more authentic and real me, who I revolutionize and build each day and who I will tomorrow throw again at the road, in that instinct of being myself which I follow naturally in the certainty of filling my lungs with new air, each day, breathing in this life that I make more and more my own, each day.
Bangkok, Thailand, 14th January 2014
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