my wandering

There are several tables at the cafe filling a wide sidewalk, but most chairs are set in groups of two or three facing the street, without a table. Some people sit and talk in mild voices, despite the noisy street where motorcycles, trailers and cabs create a constant humdrum, where a man by a truck filled with oranges calls for customers. Others, even though they have company, simply sit and look in the distance, a small glass of thé à la menthe in hand, while the cafe attendant busies himself to bring a new glass upon a mere look or small gesture one makes. Conversation here does not need a proper environment, context to occur or carry on. And, one might argue, neither does life.

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For pictures from my trip, click on the link below.

A line of people moves up and down plying the road. Ladies in colourful outfits with their babies wrapped up on their backs while also carrying baskets on their heads. Men pushing bicycles under enormous loads of potatoes, beans or plantains. Children coming from school. People going to field works. All of them walking on and on for miles on end, their skin glittering in the harsh sun or in the pouring rain. A line of beautiful people that has kept on going on for centuries despite - or rather alongside - hardships.

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For pictures from my trip, click on the respective links below, according to the country.

The harsh sun is joined by the strong, cold wind, to create a contrasting hot - cold feeling that makes any smart layering scheme inappropriate. And, as if this is not enough, one needs crawl, knee or scramble according to situation. But when one gets to see it, this little hand transcending millennia, no effort seems wasted or too much.

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For pictures from my journey, click on the link below.

Silence. Tall grass. Bogs. Streams. Lakes. Runaway sheep. Deer. Cheddar. Wind. Fierce wind. Sunshine. Scree. Clouds. More clouds. Blue sky. More intense blue. Trail. No trail. Hills. More hills. 200 inhabitants versus 5,000 wild deer. Ferry. Laughter.
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For pictures from my journey, click on the link below.

There comes a time to follow one's dreams.
There comes a time to value life for what it is.
There comes a time to boldly look in the mirror.
There comes a time to follow the straight path.
There comes a time to say no to detours, right or left turns.
There comes a time to stick to one colour alone.
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For pictures from my journey, click on the link below.

One can go climb them mountains, cross them forests and tea plantations, take train upon train and bus upon bus as well as complete the de rigueur formalities for being allowed in or out of a certain country. And yet, it is the moment that glitters at every other step that is worth all effort underdone, and not necessarily the destination, as notorious or beautiful as it may be. The conversation full of pleasantries one has in a police station while making a theft statement, the hour one waits on Uhuru Peak while freezing night turns into sunny day, the early morning walk one has across Tabora during a technical failure-generated, unscheduled train layover.
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For pictures from my journey, click on the links below.

Man sometimes gets clogged in his own self-assumed perfection, he gets stuck in his own pampering comfort, state-of-the-art technology and life-long guaranteed safety. And instead of stubbornly pursuing these ideals going nowhere but providing a one way road to alienation, he had better go back to his roots and to his being only that: human. And he could then start walking anew. Climbing anew. Dancing anew. With music coming from the outside being unecessary.

Pictures from this trip can be found in the Travel Shot section.

Up there, the snow fallen during the night covered them peaks and glacier in a thick, white layer, concealing crevasses and glittering in the sun. Down here, cattle-dotted grasslands stretch on for as far as the eye can see. In both cases, it is hard to make the horizon line, as the earth and the sky above seem to merge in. And so, it does not feel at all different whether one finds himself on top of the Pisco in Peru, in the middle of pancake flat, grassy fields of Paraguay or on the verge of the picturesque Quebrada de los Cuervos in Uruguay.