Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe to Palapye, Botswana
05/22/10
He tried hard to read his novel many times, but the nearer he came to the conclusion of the story, the less he read. Most often, he had to put his reading aside to make time for other responsibilities that came first. Though he did not read as often as he liked, he managed to grasp the characters, knew them better than he gave himself credit for, yet was confused by the plot. One evening, after a tiring long drive, he found the time to relax, along with the quiet calm of his book, his neck bent forward towards the pages, which overlooked an open window, where dirt walkways marked the pathway through short, thin trees.
With his legs straight forward, he relaxed against a clump of clothing used as a backrest - he was exhausted, over run by his own passions and unaware of where his own plot was headed, not just the one in the story he read - and he allowed his right hand to relax on his small black bag, used as an armrest and seemed ready, finally, to finish reading the book. This was one of the rare events he enjoyed most, and though he seldom had time to read, he could see the characters, even knew the protagonist’s thoughts; the story, the setting, removing him from his surroundings. He turned the pages quickly, continuing to read fast.
He could almost smell it all, the setting of the story he read, the wet and soggy surroundings, which smelt of a mix of old hockey equipment and freshly removed, stinky shoes. Although the characters in the story never entered rain, their possessions were often drenched by morning dew. He had found comfort, his back relaxed against the clump of clothing and his arm rested on top of the small black bag, sensing the footsteps outside along the dirt pathway, but ignored them. With each sentence, he was caught up in the life of the protagonist and his lover, giving himself a pathway away from his own quiet calm. Their faces grew in his imagination; he saw their eyes locking when they encountered each other, alone in the darkness.
The woman arrived first in the story, almost shyly and exhausted; then his friend visited, his eyes surprisingly vibrant this day. Affectionately, she offered him a cold drink and a head on his shoulder to show warmth, but he was tired, having consumed so much of his remaining energy, sheltered by his comfort with not needing to speak or to speak very little. To be in love with someone, after all, is to be comfortable around them in silence. A small piece of metal warmed itself against his throat, hung from his collar, near where his heart pounded, almost hidden. A romantic, almost spiritual discussion was within the story, where little flirtations between the lovers kept them foolishly connected through the challenges they faced together.
Almost without control, he memorized this moment between the two main characters. He forgot nothing: Their perseverance, the struggles they had overcome, how foolish he felt the protagonist was for being so ignorant to the future mistakes he would be making, how unaware he was to his sheer luck, all of this, foreshadowed in the text. The warm cuddles, the lips on her forehead, the arm wrapped around her back, the hand attaching to her hip through her left pocket, pulling her closer, were so real to him, yet incomprehensible. Midnight began to close in and the world around them was silenced.
Not looking at one another, the couple stared loosely at nothing in particular, discussing the day, too exhausted to speak of their future together. They agreed it was best to sleep, then separated and went to different bathrooms. They led their ways down different paths with flashlights, finding a bathroom to cleanse themselves quickly in preparation for sleep. The music from the nearby restaurant was now off. The lampposts were meant to be dimmed for sleeping and they were no longer bright. After brushing his teeth, he walked beside large rocks, seeing her walk near him; her steps visual between the short trees that led up to their tent. He walked up towards the tent, removed his shoes and entered, placing them in the corner. The woman was already in the tent, and he could hear her from the outside, where he was reminded to dust off the dirt from his clothes before entering: First, he opened the door, then unzipped to open the window that blocked bugs from entering with meshing, stepped over her feet, the bedding, searching for his pillow. At the back end, there were no windows. No one else in the tent, just the two of them now. He saw the mesh window, and then, the metal around a collar, a flashlight, the clump of clothing used as a backrest, and the blank face of man using a small black camera bag to rest his right arm, reading a book.
…I felt this way often on the trip, both separated and a part of the story at the same time. I stayed awake at night trying to read but found myself writing, through the sleepy tingling, while the soft vagueness of the the day’s memories began flooding. We had spent 11 hours on thie day driving from Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe to Palapye Botswana, later finding ourselves alone, in the tent, where shadows slowly deepened, and just as I read I also wrote, with Boxie-boo’s head on my shoulder. I could recall her eyes endangered looking down on the pages, slipping away, as if grasping for light at the edge of a waterfall, and I fell into the gaze of her unmoved vision, the welcoming stillness. And in the remnant sound, the dip and drag of my pen, under a star-studded African sky, a twirl of something glowed in this water, the current carrying us to a most comfortable sleep.
Eight hours into another day with an incredibly long drive, I looked at the faces in our van. We resembled stoned zombies more so than human beings. Driving down the same straight highway had only a few exciting sights - Zimbabwean women entering roadside bushes in all-white gowns to pray, a short burst of the rain (the first on our 16-day safari), and also, Bobacondo trying not to puke after inhaling too much body odor at Botswana customs.
My boredom left me in a disoriented and zoned out state of mine to the point where I risked sticking my head in the toilet while wetting my pants. Had my shoelaces come untied, I was liable to turn my belt into a g-string. You can imagine what my notebook looked like, dear reader, resembling caveman drawings more so than sentences. This is why I took a short break to read, yet found myself mentally writing the story, like cobwebs blooming, trying to enter that inaccessible wilderness of memory, where my present, my past and my future, seemed to co-exist, to connect in small, silver strings, the pit and patter of the words chiseled together into the page, in this extreme of adventure with a complete absence of imagination.
Too exhausted to sleep, I read and tried to relax, to take a break from my own story, unaware that the plot was thickening. Looking back, it was clear to me that at this point we were over traveled and in need of finding a way to re-invigorate our spirits. We had toured multiple islands in Fiji, headed up the coast of Australia, through to Japan. Our toughness was challenged through third class Thai trains and the scorching heat of Cambodia. It was not that long ago we were battling our way through China, braving the dangerous roads and jungles of Nepal, before roughing it in one of the most overpopulated and poor countries in the world - India. Having completed a jam-packed tour of Cairo, traveled on long bus rides in Tanzania, we then headed on a 16-day camping trip that included endless hours in a tightly packed van, living in tents without electricity in the darkness of Africa. We had already been through so much, relying on only each other, having spent 24 hours a day together for months on end. Yet more of Africa was to come and we were only a short time away from entering South America.
Maybe this is why I had trouble seeing myself in the story. It is unbelievable, almost inconceivable, to think of where we had been and what we had accomplished: Together.
I closed my eyes to leave the night and I took that image with me, a man in a tent reading a book, the clump of clothing used as a backrest, the small black bag to hold his right arm,a beautiful girl now asleep on his shoulder, as no dream could be more pleasant.
That’s all for now.
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