Now that my 5600-kilometre trip is just a memory, reduced to a few pictures that exist only in electronic media, I thought that I ought to share a few thoughts.
Doing a circular route made me think of an old friend who was a member of our congregation in Harmony Hill. I got up early one morning and went for a wonderful 32-kilometre cross-country run, entirely on gravel roads in the forests of Mpumalanga. Essentially, I ran for 16 kilometres to the top of a nearby peak, then I turned round and ran back home by (mostly) the same route. It stands out as one of the best training runs I have ever done—perfect weather, solitude, drinking clear mountain water from beautiful streams, magnificent scenery, me at my running peak. At the end, I felt like going out and doing it again.
Elated, I told my friend about my run. She looked at me as if she thought that I might be possessed by some passing Demon of Dementia and said: “Why?”. Abashed, I realised that I couldn’t answer her. She, who had never owned even a bicycle—who, for the past seventy years, had had to walk wherever she needed to go—could see no pleasure in running, scantily clad, to somewhere you didn’t need to be, only to turn round and run back again. This, to her, seemed like deviant behaviour. Her single word—“Why?”—made me think about the incredibly privileged life I have led; a life that still allows me to get on my motorbike and ride around in circles. It also reminded me of the difficulty of communicating my experiences to others.
During my odyssey, I tried, via various blogs and posts on Facebook, to share with my friends and—perhaps—some strangers the many joys (and occasional woes) of my journey. I probably failed. It’s like the futility of trying to describe the grandeur of the Victoria Falls or the majesty of the Grand Canyon via a couple of photographs and a few superlatives. Unless someone has actually stood there and experienced the atmosphere, the awe, the sense of the presence of God, they cannot really grasp what it is that’s making you so passionate.
When I talk to people about my trip, my tales are generally met by one of two reactions. One—the Polite Listener—shows interest, but one gets the feeling that it is mere politeness and the P.L. actually wishes that you would go away and leave him alone. Comments usually include creative masterpieces like “Oh” or, after some spectacular story, “How interesting”. I deliberately did not put exclamation marks after these quotations.
The other reaction—that of the Dreamer—is far more complex. Often, less is said than by the P.L. Words aren’t needed; the look in the person’s eyes says that they are trying to visualise what you describe; that they wish they had been with you; that they long to try it themselves. They are trying to dream the dream.
Oh, I forgot; there is a third category: Adventurers. My story evokes for them memories of their own experiences. I feel less like I’m giving a lecture, and more like I’m having a conversation. We soon end up exchanging notes and discussing technicalities; very boring for any listener, but great for the participants. These are the people you don’t want to invite to a party, because they don’t mingle. They disappear into some quiet corner—“far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife”—and, in their minds, visit paths hitherto untrod.
See you on the road! Or on the couch! Or in your dreams!