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
Instagram Feed
Fiji: half world across, or the inevitable start of my return home
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.
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.
Beyond that thin line – a first step in the Pacific
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.
Istanbul
Istanbul. The first postcard sight under the colorfully lit night, the kebab in that restaurant serving just two dishes, a first baklava with tea, a first glimpse over a dormant Asia before I go to bed.
Istanbul. The morning rising over the Bosphorus, the cobblestone street I walk down running, a first Turkish coffee I drink, the cobblestone street I walk up slowly, the enchantment of Hagia Sofia, the Blue Mosque peaking in front, a first walk through the bazar, the street that leads down to the water, the steaming fish sandwich I eat, the time passing by over the bridge, the getting lost again amongst the multitude.
Istanbul. The infinite bazar where I enter once and again, the streets covered from the sun, the shops selling carpets, the shops selling spices, the streets covered by the sky, the shops selling handbags, ‘the shops selling AK47’s next to the one selling greens?’, the immense infinite shop selling everything possible, day and night, nonstop.
Istanbul. The boat rocking in the Bosphorus, the sight of its margins so near, the people running along them, the bridges passing over my head, the houses hanging from the hills, the blue sky above my head, the return to the dock of departure, the intense orange sun that falls in between the mosques, in the distance.
Istanbul. The imam calling for prayer, the shoes I take off my feet, the stepping on the soft carpet, the people prostrated on it, the place where I sit contemplative, the moment in which time stops while the others pray besides me and I let myself be, by their side, in silence.
Istanbul. The return to the occident, the avenue I walk up slowly, the many that climb it with me, indifferent, the avenue I stroll down without haste, the tower I see in the distance, the city I observe from its top, the occident intertwined with the orient, the streets to which I go back to get lost again, the lit up bazar to where I return one last time, the night spent partying with sounds I never heard before, the week that passed by running, swiftly, unnoticed.
Istanbul. The cobblestone street I climb down with my backpack, the ferry where I finally enter, the foot that leaves Europe, ten minutes over the water, the foot that reaches Asia, the farewell glimpse to the occident I send until my return home.
Istanbul. The orient at last, the stroll I take by the sea, the people who smile past me, the fishermen sitting on the rocks, the children running around them, the moment in which I sit down and behold the other side as if I was part of this one, the moment in which the Turkish bath cleans me and makes me feel part of this side, definitely.
Istanbul. The time to go that arrives, one last coffee on the run, one nostalgic look of farewell, the departure of this city with the immense desire to come back soon.
Istanbul.
Istanbul, Turkey, February 2013
.jpg)
.jpg)
One year later, or, living the metaphor of an ongoing revolution
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
In a little while...
My trip started, advanced, following its path. I too followed it, body and soul, but my words were left behind, along the road, forgotten, lost in time, for a moment, for only an instant. When I realized my feet had trailed so much road already and my words stood still, hidden inside me, or scattered along so many places, instead of being where they belong, here, their house, the house of those traveled words with which I give a higher meaning to my journey. In a little while which became eternity, my trip continued while my words stood still, and now, when I restart their journey, when I finally bring words to life, their chronology is lost, varies, becoming inconstant, unimportant, or more important than ever, nevertheless impossible to follow. My journey will endure, until the road one day brings me back home. My writings too will continue, until someday I have nothing more to say, but from this point onrwards the words from the past will become one with those of the present, in a bumpy journey which will intertwine the trail followed by my feet with that followed by the memories of the path trailed until now. Constantly jolting along the road, as I also do, the journey of my words will move on, even if in a diffuse and potentially confusing way, along a bumpy path on which, nevertheless, I hope you can follow me.
Hanoi, Vietnam, March 2014
Subscrever:
Mensagens (Atom)