It’s exciting, you know, crossing over from one country to another via land. I thought about that as I cycled over the Thai-Lao Friendship Bridge—how much I enjoyed entering a country like this. In his book, A Fortune Teller Told Me, author Tiziano Terzani says it best:
Reached by plane, all places become alike-destinations separated from one another by nothing more than a few hours' flight. Frontiers, created by nature and history and rooted in the consciousness of the people who live within them, lose their meaning and cease to exist for those who travel to and from the air-conditioned bubbles of airports where the border is a policeman in front of a computer screen, where the first encounter with the new place is the baggage carousel, where the emotion of leave-taking is dissipated in the rush to get to the duty-free shop-now the same everywhere.And it’d been forever since I’d done that, right? Crossed via land? I forced myself to think. When was it?
Oh right. It was last year, driving around Southern Africa. I had forgotten about it because I made a point to forget about it, but I suppose we should go ahead and get into it:
It came out of nowhere. This massive, suffocating black cloud. Right on top of me while I was driving through South Africa. I’d never dealt with anything like that, I mean… not really. I’d been dangerously sad before—back in New Orleans after I left the girl I was engaged to, and then spent the better part of the month face down in cocaine and boxed wine, but that’s heartbreak. We’ve all had that. This though, this was different.
But even though I’d never gone through something like it, I knew exactly what it was.
Before I sat down to write this, I went back into my notes and searched for “depression” and quite a few diary entries turned up. I was all alone in that old Defender, making my way through Namibia, Botswana and South Africa and I wanted to document it as much as possible, so started recording audio notes while driving and having them transcribed in real time. But as I clicked on each one, I found words I never wanted to revisit. A feeling I never wanted to re-feel. This might be a better read if I brought them in to help explain, but I’d rather not. Much like still not being able to look at old photos of New Orleans, I don’t want to open up those wounds taking their sweet time time heal.
So what happened in Africa? Well... here’s what I remember:
That 1992 Defender was my dream car. I think I first saw it in a National Geographic and then on Top Gear and probably in all sorts of articles. And I’m not even a car guy. But this one was perfect. Perfect color. Make. Tent on top. Shovel on the side. Not to mention it was owned by a friend who didn’t want to sell it to anyone who’d just leave it in the garage. He had taken this Defender around Southern Africa and wanted it to continue to be used as such. And he only wanted $12,000! And he’d be willing to take monthly payments! If you’ve known me for a while, you’ll know I’ve forever been on a quest to find a moving home. It started way back on my first bicycle adventure—living out of a tent for year—and then onto the disastrous-yet-hilarious few years on the sailboat. Then my short-lived idea to teach English for a year in Vietnam to save up money to buy an old farmhouse in Bulgaria. The list goes on. I think a common misconception of this lifestyle is that I don’t want a place of my own. Are you kidding? That’s all I want. But I’d be a recluse, wino, misanthrope, 300 pounds with 300 stray dogs. But it’s not what I was put here to do. Still though, I’d love a home base. I always show my pizza + movie in a hotel while I travel because that’s my favorite thing. Just being home, if even for a night. Being normal. Feeling normal. So when this Defender came along, that was it. I don’t mind living in a tent—especially if I can pop it down and continue along my safari. I now had a home and it was perfect and it fit me and I fit it. A very age appropriate adventure. “He’s late-40s and lives in his old Defender” sounds a lot better than “He’s on a bike in SE Asia”, trust me.
Anyway. The safari around South Africa and up to Namibia was bliss. Some of the happiest moments I’d had in my life, out there under African Skies, bbq’ing, chasing zebras, exploring ghost towns… all of it. But for whatever reason, once I crossed over into Botswana, it all began to fall apart. It didn’t help that Botswana was the world’s most expensive animal park—three times the cost of Namibia and South Africa, not to mention the worst roads I'd ever driven—but it was around that time that the Defender (famous for breaking down) began to break down. A strange noise here. A leak there. These kind of things. Worrying, but nothing major. But this was coupled with the fact that, in my budgeting, I’d neglected to factor in the cost of diesel. Stupid, I know, but look, I haven’t owned a car since 1999, so it just didn’t occur. Add to that, this was early 2022; Russia had just invaded Ukraine and the price of fuel had skyrocketed. And Defenders are big ole diesel-sucking machines. And I was driving huge distances. Meaning every 4-5 days, I was putting in $110 worth of fuel. At that time, with my part-time jobs, I was making about 2k a month, meaning my entire income was being spent on fuel. Did I come up with a fundraiser for this? I must have. Fortunately, I wasn’t eating out or drinking much, so it stayed more-or-less even for the first two months.
But Botswana… yeah. I just remember one night looking at my bank account and then doing the math and having this horrible moment where, not only did I have to deal with a new form of heartbreak in admitting to myself I wasn’t going to be able to afford to buy the Defender, I wasn’t even going to be able to afford to drive it back to South Africa.
And that’s when it hit me. Right in the chest. I remember it being hard to breathe and I remember exactly where I was—this national park in Botswana. I realized I would, at the age of 45, have to ask Mum and Dad for a loan and it landed on me. I was a child. I was spoiled. I didn’t want to work like everyone else and I just wanted to travel. And then I realized I had been taking adventures while still owing friends money. And that’s when this big fucking dark cloud made its way from my shoulders to my chest. I realized I had created a lifestyle where I traveled using money from my friends and I could barely move anymore. I felt greasy. I do remember that—just pure grease. I was a greasy person doing greasy things and was a burden on everyone who knew me. Everything weighed more than it usually did. The chair I had to unfold to sit on. The water bottle. The hundred cigarettes I smoked that night. Everything was heavy.
Perhaps you wonder how I pulled myself out? I don’t remember. I remember forcing myself to take this photo, knowing someday I'd appreciate having it.
... even though the thought of getting out of the truck and snapping a few pictures made me sick. Who goes through this and wants to document it?
That’s the only thing I actually remember doing; physically speaking, that is. I know I went to hell and back mentally, but, again, I hopefully left all of that on Route 61, heading west back to Cape Town. My notes are still open on the sidebar as I write. I can see the first time I mentioned depression was April 10th and the last was May 01st. So maybe it lasted longer than I thought. I’ve understandably blocked out a lot of that period for a reason.
So this story is understandably void of some important bits. And I'm sorry about that. I don't know if I pulled myself together or if I just let the voices in my head go hoarse or if I pushed it down somewhere where I hoped to not find it or what... even as I write this, I wish I knew. But the price of opening that diary back up is not the price worth knowing. I'll stay ignorant and unhelpful, but safe.
But I do remember this, after somehow I had clawed my way out of that thick, black, suffocating pool, I remember thinking back on friends, family members and ex-girlfriends who told me they suffered from depression. And, predictably, when I was told, I immediately pointed out all the great things they were and the life they had and how talented they were, etc. I think we all do that. Or maybe we all know now not to do that.
But I remember suddenly realizing wishing I could go back to those conversations, saying nothing and just holding them.
Although if anyone would have touched me during those few weeks, I'd have shattered like glass.
