I remember coasting. The peaceful rings of the Seto Inland sea, lapping softly on the shores on my right. Sweat and darkening skin, fast pedal strokes but not too fast, hungry eyes and feasting spirit. Palms planted in a very organized fashion tell me of the tropics in Japanese. Still they are immensely appreciated as totems to the thick humidity of the islands. I imagine myself stopping to smell the ocean. I imagine ramen of a humble variety on the beach. I imagine walking into the sea with all my clothes, head sunken enough to only see the islands and kids heads bobbling up and down. I imagine myself and the universe at the same moment, nodding in agreement. I imagine, and it is so. 

The wind is refreshing on my drying clothes so my skin says. I forget my timing, for when I’m to arrive to my next bed. I want to keep riding. I want to keep feeding on the unfolding world before me. 

Riding on Shimanami Kaido on the Seto Inland sea - Japan

We had French fries on the roof of a sheep’s shelter near the top of the Atlas Mountains. The clouds moved as mist, in a rush to make the sunset and expose the giants lurking behind. I shared one of my last Nat Sherman’s with the driver and we both smiled and smoked in silence, acknowledging how special it was to be there. 

There had been a darkness pulling at my edges for a long time now and followed me to the mountains. At night it would come in dreams and in weaker states of my being. I had acquired a small rug that reminded me of Hieronymus Bosch's apocalyptic paintings but the complete opposite. It this was my first piece of protection and I felt the darkness weaken. At night in the sheep’s shelter roughly converted for us, I finally closed my eyes to see symbols being written, pulsing and fading as if my eyes were open. I remember the symbols for the Berber and how it meant free men. These symbols were not familiar to my lifetime but were to the others. At the end, in no specific language, I was told “ You’re safe”.

Mountain biking in the Atlas Mountains - Morocco.

The first time I landed in the Philippines I distinctly remember feeling my blood in this land. This is where I am from.

I remember taking the night ferry to Mindanao. Our cabin rooms were cramped and airless. So we slept on small bunks on the deck with our passports under our pillows. I remember waking to the sound of the ocean being divided, the smell of salt, diesel and a language I understood.

Cebu to Mindanao - Philippines

It starts with feeling disjointed, but travelling alone has that way about it. The routines that make movement automatic, are disrupted as much as your automatic way of thinking. I live with a sense of urgency. Maybe it’s my hectic curiousity to experience everything and pull imaginations into something tangible. I fill my days and without knowing it, fall into regimes that would considered militant if I were to see myself from the outside. 

It’s deceiving because I can convince myself it’s necessary to keep a momentum going or a structure dynamic and exciting. There’s a point where mind and body can’t push any harder. Parts of you just start failing to the pace. 

This return to solo means convincing your organized mind and spirit that there’s richness and meaning in the random and the irrational.

It’s been a while. I forget about the dread of not knowing what to do and how to get there. Relying on trust and a beginner's spirit, I take a step forward into unknowing.

Puerto Escondido - Mexico