To resist, or, because a trip is also made of moments in which you have to turn back to the start

It has been more than a month since I came back. I arrived tired, frustrated, not wanting to be here, after all Fiji was the point to depart, not the port to arrive, after all we left here enveloped in the illusion of crossing the Pacific, first sailing to Hawaii, then all the way to the other end, to the American continent, which in the end was our final destination.

But it wasn’t. Neptune didn’t want, Aeolus didn’t allow, the wind disappeared along the lost paradise of Tokelau, green oasis in a desert of water that became warmer each day, devoid of wind, as a true desert that filled our eyes with lost mirages while it deflated our sails, one day, two days, endless days after which a ruthless storm came to definitely push us away from our course, forcing us to finally turn back to the start.

Endless were the days, lost between the relentless storm that battered us outside, and the infinite thunder that echoed inside my head during the long lost hours at sea. Endless were the days, even when serenity took the tempest’s place, doing little to calm the agitated seas of desperation, the frustration of having to turn back and give up. Long were the hours, gazing at the horizon above the sea’s surface, thinking about the what ifs of fate, as in a last breath of a dying affection that one tries vainly to save from its end, spending hours of though and illusion that can do little to avoid the inevitable.

Long were the hours, with my gaze lost in the horizon, eventually finding again in the beauty of the ocean the spark to defeat uncertainty, enveloped in the certainty of this endless unbreakable love, that did not quiver even at the sight of its ugliest face, because a true love, because not even the worst of storms and the most frustrating of trips will be capable of breaking my immense infinite love for the ocean.

I arrived tired, frustrated, not wanting to be here, it was hard to return. The days went by, increasing the probability of being unable to continue my journey, bringing the dreaded certainty of having to take a flight sooner or later. The hours and days in endless work towards the impossible, the growing frustration of not knowing what or how, all compounded in an infinite tiredness.

The temptation to give up was never so strong, so concrete, so real, and the end of a dream with almost three years, in which I invested so much, risked so much, even at moments my own life, the possibility of an end which I never wanted to think possible became concrete, glooming my days and nights as the rain did outside. The end was very near, but fortunately did not arrive.

Instead I resisted, sorely, one day after the next, pushed by a smile, a priceless unselfish help, a possibility that opened up, a strength that came from where there was none, the certainty of wanting to make worth all the hours passed away from my family and friends, from that niece I never met, from all those I love and miss, the certainty of wanting to make worth all those moments lost in the name of a dream which end I could not imagine. Instead I resisted, with difficulty, but thinking of all I have risked, of the whole path I have traveled, of the dream that moves me inside, of what one day awaits for me when I arrive, one with myself, with my bag full of stories and certainties.

Instead I resisted, I fought, and stopped fighting, eventually leaving it all to luck, to God and to all the Gods I have met on the way, resisting till the end, or in the end not resisting at all, letting simply life flow through me and around me, reminding me of the true essence of what is to travel, of this life that is mine, flowing endlessly through me as I do through the roads and seas of the world.

Instead I resisted, despite fatigue and frustration, the dream is still alive, tomorrow is again the time to depart, by sea, again and as always with no haste to arrive.

Suva, Fiji, 20th October 2015

Fiji: half world across, or the inevitable start of my return home

Two months have passed since I arrived to Fiji, the fourth destination of my trip across Oceania, the fourth stop on my Pacific crossing, which started in January this year to become endless, lazy, done at the local pace, “Pacific time”, without any sort of haste, conditioned by the unlikely ship that sooner or later arrived to bring me across to the next destination, one step at a time.

Two months have passed since I left Vanuatu, taken by the wind and by the luck of having met captain Jacob, who opened the door to his ship Mewa so I could continue dreaming my trip around the world without haste or planes, trip which persisted during that week of crossing at the whim of the waves, flying just above the surface, touching the waves with my fingers while we advanced against the wind the distance of another stage of the trip, mile by mile.

I arrived here tired, with my body aching after six restless days beaten by the continuous bouncing of relentless waves. I arrived here tired, exhausted, victimized by the tropics, which inflamed my finger and made my journey more difficult and my arrival bitter. I arrived tired, with the same happiness felt ever when crossing a new border, but which I fetl less welcoming due to the tiredness of an illness which became infinite, in a nearly there that never came, which made me tired of being here despite having just arrived.

But the days passed, my body reacted, rest did its part and life recovered its flavor little by little, owning me, again being mine each day. Time has passed in the ugly Lautoka, sweet land of sugar which was made bitter by my days of waiting, but where the door was once more opened to allow my path to follow. Time has passed, and again at sea I surrounded half island, discovering by accident the little island of Qoma, embraced by the welcoming warmth of the Pacific and of Fijian traditions. Time has passed, bringing me to the constantly rainy Suva, capital city where days passed slowly waiting for the time to depart. Time has passed, and tired of waiting I went to visit the lush green island of Taveuni, where in the same day I touched yesterday and tomorrow, enchanted by the silly magic travelers feel when crossing lines, having passed the meridian which left me 180 degrees from home, reassuring I was really in the back half of our round planet.

Tomorrow is again the day to depart. It is time again to embrace my destiny, of living the inevitability of being Portuguese and go to sea, once more taken by the wind as those ancient Portuguese who spread our name across the seven seas. Tomorrow is again the day to depart, starting a new stage of the great crossing which separates me from the other side of the Pacific, which little by little will bring me closer to the American continent, Neptune willing. Slowly the world becomes round, and even without noticing, and even without haste, the time has come to start returning home.

On board the S.V. Mewa, Lami Town-Suva, Fiji, 31 of August 2015

Two years on the road - on the other side of the world

14th January 2013: in the peaceful Portuguese town of Loulé it is time for a farewell, for saying see you soon, for one more departure, for the start of a new journey, a small step for both man and mankind, an insignificant start of a personal odyssey which will bring nothing new to the world, the restart of the pursuit of a dream, that of leaving home to return to it from the other direction, testing without doubt or reason that the world is truly round, trying to understand if it still is possible to make such a journey without planes and without being called a lunatic or being a millionaire, trailing ahead with the sole purpose of knowing each kilometer of the way, each culture, each moment, each difference, each doubt, each certainty that will arise from the inner journey running in parallel, making the way without haste to arrive home again, someday, doing it all for no reason, simply impelled by life itself.

14th January 2015: in the peaceful Papuan town of Aitape a new day begins, two years past, nearly 40,000 kilometers and 22 countries later, after traveling many roads, after walking many streets, after sailing many waves of the many yet to come, in the Pacific in front of me and in the Atlantic that awaits me patiently. But it’s just the wake of one more day, welcomed with sleepy eyes as so many before, woken up by a cold shower, brought back to life by a hot cup of coffee, which I drink before peaking at the world outside my window to find it so different, so new, so strange, yet mine.

Out the window I see the Papua New Guinea to where I just arrived, this near geographic antipode of home, this antipode-and-a-half of my world, in all so different, so rough, so difficult, even violent sometimes, but in a way more human than my own in the sincere smiles that are shared, in the simple habit that was lost in the west of saying hello to passerby’s, of welcoming you to strange lands, of holding your hand for a moment to know who you are even if your name is soon to be forgotten.

Wandering around, as those I see, I take a stroll along a beach of violent waves, as abyssal as those that brought me here two days ago, taking after a walk in the market to buy something to eat while curious eyes carefully analyze each step I take, in a mix of awe and indifference, in a village-like curiosity which suites well this town, this country perhaps, and which also suites me well in its gentle, welcoming and affable manner, especially in a day like today, that follows two years of wander, away from home, accompanied by myself, with so many roads overcome, with so much overwhelming nostalgia to bare, and which I celebrate in a feverish aimless wander through the antithesis of my world, finding comfort in my old friend the sea, but also in the giant trees that give shade to the square, under where a countless number of people rests and chats, and where I sit myself while stopping for a bit to find me faced with the question ‘What am I doing here?’, only to answer to myself swiftly ‘Where else would I be?’.

Two years of travel, 24 months on the way home, 730 days around the world and only half way gone, and despite the obvious tiredness I look myself in the mirror just to confirm the certainty shun by the glare of my child-like eyes, which today as always only know how to contemplate what still is left to wander.

Aitape, Papua New Guinea, 14th January 2015

Beyond that thin line – a first step in the Pacific

It was in the company of friends that I approached her. The line, indifferent, waited for me with the same aloofness as it would anyone else, accustomed, ignoring or not even wanting to know about how much it meant to me crossing it, conquering it, getting to its other side, that of the new country which marks also the start of a new stage in my trip, in my life, in my world. Unaware, the line separated me from much more than Papua New Guinea, separating me also, even if only symbolically, from the start of my crossing of the Pacific Ocean, the new great challenging leg of my trip.

Before I approached the line, however, two years had passed, those which brought me over land and sea from the south of Portugal, from my hometown of Loulé to this border. It was long the path traveled, in which I crossed Europe swiftly, embraced the orient in Turkey, conquered the frontiers of suspicion in Iran, risked the crossing of misunderstood Pakistan in an intense and welcoming surprise, rediscovered the way to India, land of an old passion of mine which grew even bigger, finding further ahead in Nepal my house in the mountains, where I lingered over five months with eyes and feet laid on the top of the world.

This is how I lived my first year on the road, which ended epically with a brief return to India on the way to the first maritime crossing of my journey, done initially by ferry from Kolkata to the Andaman Islands, then from these islands to Thailand on board a small catamaran rocked by the wind and the waves.

It was in a Thailand in political turmoil that my second year of travels began, starting also in this country a brief tour around the Southeast Asian carrousel, which continued across Cambodia, lost in between the immense beauty of its cultural heritage and the extreme horror of the memory of Pol Pot’s regime, carried on in exotic and astounding Vietnam, which left me with an immense desire to return soon, endured in lazy Laos, where I spent weeks loosing track of time, before being finally completed in a return to Thailand, which this time I found filled with smiles and water flying in the skies as the Thai commemorated their new year, or Songkran.

Finalized the carousel ride I headed south, crossing briefly Malaysia and Singapore in a sort of return to the west made with oriental eyes. Over the course of a few weeks I let myself involve by these countries’ intense mix of modernism, ancestral cultures and extreme flavors, to which Portugal is no stranger, especially in Malacca, former center of the Portuguese oriental empire of the 1500s, and where still today language and culture are kept alive by the pride of the few descendants of old Portuguese sailors.

From Singapore the sea was crossed once more, to spend the rest of my year hoping from one island to the next as I traveled Indonesia from end to end. In the middle, however, I spent two months meeting the courageous people of the former Portuguese colony of East Timor, these days not saddened but busy building its young growing nation. In East Timor I could ease my homesickness, by finding the so Portuguese ‘bacalhau’ (salt cod) and ‘pastel de nata’ (custard pie), or by speaking my own language, gaining at the same time new inner strength to carry on my endeavor by witnessing in the flesh the courage of this incredible people, which struggle for independence I followed as I grew up, and which live testimony reassured me that to resist is indeed to win. But if in East Timor in a way I found my old home, in Indonesia I found a new one, spending there six months in total, before and after East Timor, dedicated to knowing its immense natural and cultural diversity.

Towards the end of the second year of my journey I arrived to a new continent, Oceania, which I first touched in the western half of the island of Papua, a region incorporated in Indonesia in the 1960s, and where until today many fight and dream about the promised independence, postponed by an Indonesian invasion which until today perpetuates the colonial era in this half of the island. Overlooking all this, in a recognition of how much I was powerless, tired and nostalgic of home, I immersed myself during Christmas in the magical waters of the Raja Ampat archipelago. Later on, in the first days of the new year, I moved on with my trip, entering the waters of the Pacific Ocean while sailing along Papua’s north coast on my way to Papua New Guinea’s border.

It was in the company of friends that I approached her. The line, indifferent, allowed me to walk past her, while I waved a last goodbye to my second year of traveling, personified in Jose, Queensa and their family, friends from West Papua who I met exactly as I entered the Pacific Ocean, and who insisted on bringing me to this line, place of a new farewell, beginning of a new stage of my journey.

After conquering the line I looked forward, letting myself embrace little by little in the reality of Papua New Guinea, in its intense live dark green, in its small villages, in the gentle winding of its roads, in the contour of its nearly virgin coastline, in its untouched tranquility which contrasts sharply with the overpopulated and hiper-constructed Indonesian half of the island. I liked this place immediately, for no reason, or maybe just because I felt I was entering a new world, in all so different from my own.

About an hour after crossing the border I arrived to the first town, Vanimo, which despite being the capital of the Sandaun province felt more like a village, scattered in between two beaches and around an airfield, populated by small wooden tin-roofed houses dispersed among the inevitable green of this country. Despite arriving to Vanimo to spend a couple of days, I ended up not spending more than a couple of hours, those necessary to by chance finding eastbound transportation, getting also on the way a first taste of this country’s gastronomy in a traditional ‘agir’, simple dish of chicken, plantain, yam and greens steamed inside banana leafs.

That’s how within a few hours of arriving to the country I found myself in the middle of the ocean, sailing eastwards along the coast amidst erratic waves and on board a small fishing boat of about 4 meters, in a sort of aquatic roller-coaster in which the experienced captain skillfully eluded the gigantic waves that dwarfed our passage.

I confess I felt afraid, after all this was the first time I was at the mercy of such a big sea in such a small boat, risking the next few hours in the hands of the unknown, sailing my life along the fine line separating the sea from its waves.

I confess I felt brave, feeling oddly at ease in this infuriated ocean, feeling at home, happy, surrounded by people who day after day prove so much braver than I’ll ever be, who nonetheless welcomed me as one of their own, first in a comforting smile of who was seeing the fear in my eyes, then in an intoxicating chat about the country, their life, my own, sharing hours of disquiet which in the company of their words passed by swiftly.

I confess I felt happy, when after four hours we finally arrived, when the waves gave way to calm waters, when the sea became firm land in the town of Aitape, when the unknown became home, when the intense day of traveling gave way to a bed and all the emotions rested in the well-deserved sleep of an exhausted traveler.

It was in the company of friends that I approached her, and once the border was conquered that’s how I lived my first day in Papua New Guinea. Intense, exciting, scary, intoxicating, dangerous, pleasantly uncomfortable, surrounded by immense beauty, my day was above all spent in the company of delightful strangers who became friends, even if only for an instant, giving me a warm welcome to the lands of the Pacific, in that which was the first day of many more I hope to live while crossing this immense ocean, following uncertain route and destinations, following but the whim of chance, but following also this immense desire to fulfill my journey, through land a sea until I reach home again, always with no haste to arrive.

Aitape, Papua New Guinea, January 2015