David Johnson

There’s a quote from the book Danziger’s Travel that has sat with me since I returned from my travels in the early 1990s. Danziger’s words spoke to how I felt on returning to my home country, Britain. I was feeling lost and his words told me that I was not alone.

Nick Danziger had returned from an extraordinary journey, traveling through Afghanistan during the war with Russia, crossing the Kunjerab Pass between Pakistan and China before it was open to foreigners, making his way into Tibet when that country as well was closed to foreigners, and after finally arriving in Beijing he found a boat to take him back to the UK.

Back in his parent’s house in rural southern England, Nick is reflecting on his trip. He writes in his book (I paraphrase here as I no longer have a copy of the book),

I feel a stranger to the worlds that I have traveled through, and yet a stranger to the world to which I have returned.

I read the book before I set off on my travels. Danziger’s journey had a huge influence on my travels and the route that I chose. I picked it up again when I returned and this quote stood out to me. Something had shifted in me. I felt a connection with the places that I traveled through and peoples who lived there and who I met along the way…but I was not one of them. And at the same time I felt a stranger to the country that I called home, where I was born and had grown up. To put it another way, I felt more culture shock in returning to England than traveling to Central Asia.

Time has allowed me to integrate these feelings, and yet sometimes I can still find myself caught with the feelings that I am in the wrong place or don’t belong.

The Book

At some point I gave the book away, or sold it to a second hand bookshop…I did something with it such that it is no longer in my life. But with my 60th birthday around the corner, I find myself reflecting on it, on the journey that Nick took, how his travels influenced me and that quote remains omnipresent in my life.

A couple of days ago I went looking online for a copy of Danziger’s Travels. It is out of print, but second hand copies are available. I purchased one from a bookshop in southern England and had it delivered to my mother’s home. It has now arrived there. I will be visiting her soon and look forward to holding a copy in my hands again. I always have some trepidation when revisiting the old. Will it have the same impact on me? Maybe yes, maybe no. Either way, that cannot take away the effect that the book had on the direction that I took in my life, and the affirmation that Danziger left with me on my return.

And there is an added bonus. The book is a signed copy.

Yesterday a conversation on Micro.blog brought back memories of an episode early in my travels in 1987. In the Micro.blog conversation I wrote,

I remember hitchhiking out of Estes Park many moons ago when I was just starting my travels. From my memory the breaks weren’t working properly on the vehicle that picked me. The driver managed to slow down, but I had to run, throw my pack in and then jump in after it.

You might ask why I chose to take the ride? Looking back over the years, a similar question goes through my mind - adventure and youth?

Estes Park had come up in the conversation and memories of my brief visit there came back from nowhere. Sharing the story, I was struck by how I had this vivid and visceral recollection of the open road, freedom, possibilities and adventure. The memories excited me.

Today I went back to my journals to see how I had recorded the story, and how accurately I had portrayed it. The day was April 29th, 1987, Day 6 of a trip of then unknown length. Here is the relevant section from my journal (I am trying to get back to Denver from Estes Park),

I stood there (I-36) for a while, thumbing and eventually a very beat up car pulled over. A guy jumped out of the car, as it rolled backwards(!), and I chucked my camera bag in, onto a pile of rubbish, then I climbed onto a collapsed back seat and my rucksack was chucked on top of me. The car rolled backwards and then slowly pulled off. The window next to me was broken. Almost non-existent in fact. The car kept on cutting out on the hills, and at one point we had to stop and work on the engine for half an hour. They were going to Denver, but had to make do with limping to Boulder. Cyclists kept on passing us, and then we’d pass them. From there I caught a bus to Denver.

Summer has arrived here in Maui, at least a preview of what summer is to bring. The last few days have been devoid of wind, hot and muggy - and has included a well timed air conditioning breakdown (hopefully that is not a preview of summer as well!). By late afternoon the air is still and feels as though it is sitting waiting for something to happen.

Thankfully mornings are still cool. That will change as we go into summer, but for now I will take the fresh air.

While sitting doing my meditation practice this morning and then later out watering plants I was transported back to memories of time spent on the road in the way that sounds, senses and smells can do. One’s senses pick something up in the air and in an instant one is transported to a time and place of memory.

Today those memories took me back to India, traveling there by myself in the late ’80s and subsequent visits through the ’90s. I saw myself midway through a long train journey, the passengers now very much moved in and settled for the long haul. The heat of the day rendering the overhead fans almost useless unless you were sitting directly underneath them.

Sitting by the open door of the train, my feet resting on the footplate as the train clickerty clacks through the dry country side, a red sun hanging low in the sky.

Sitting in a small hotel room, the noise, dust and confusion of the town outside making its way into the background hum of my rest from the days travels. Smells of life in a foreign land touching me, making me feel at home.

Memories of the road. Fond memories. Happy memories. At ease with myself and the world, and bringing peace to my heart in this moment as well.

Sitting on the beach this afternoon an incident popped into my mind from over three decades ago. Why I thought of this I don’t know, but here is what happened.

I was in Australia. I spent a year traveling around the country, mainly hitchhiking. I was somewhere south of Sidney, heading south. It was a baking hot day and I had just had my hair cut. Why is that relevant you might ask? Well, my hair had been long and covering my neck. Now there was no cover over my neck and I was not clever enough to realize that standing in the sun for hours, it took a long time to get a ride from wherever I was (the middle of nowhere it appeared), with skin exposed to the sun that had been protected for months was asking for trouble. Sure enough a few days later a scab formed over the back of my neck and I feel that I can be thankful that nothing else has developed from that over exposure.

Anyway, so I was standing by the road somewhere south of Sidney. There was just the main road, a turn off (down which my last ride had turned), and a lot of Australian bush. It was hot and no one was stopping to pick me up. After a very long wait a car pulled over and I thought that I had my ride. A man gets out, walks round to the back of his car, opens up the rear hatch, fumbles around and pulls something out. He walks over to me with a cold can of something. I can’t remember what it was, apart from it being very welcome!

He told me to put a hat on and watch the sun and then went on his way.

I have no idea who he was or where he was going, but I appreciated his kindness in just being willing to stop to give me a drink…and a bit of common sense!

Between the ages of 8 and 10, so from about 1971 to 1973, my family lived in Jamaica. My father was a radiologist and worked for two years at the University Hospital in Kingston, Jamaica. As a child, I remember the time fondly. My sister and I went to a wonderful school there and made good friends both at our school and with kids who lived in our neighbourhood. I remember being allowed to stay up late when my parents had parties, standing at the gate of our house (for some reason), listening to music watching everyone chatting inside.

A few years after returning to the UK, I was given a homework assignment which made me think back to our time in Jamaica. My mother liked it so much that she kept a copy of the essay. While I was back in Bristol last year when my father passed away, my mother gave me a copy of the piece that I wrote.

I share it below. I have not corrected spelling or grammar, just left it 'as is'. It was written remembering times spent on the north coast while we lived on the island.

Jamaica Morning, June 1977

Yesterday's hot ninety degree sun has gone; I find, as I open the window, and a cool moist feeling envelops me. The grass and earth look wet, and a shade darker, as though a paint brush has been over them and they are still wet. It is so quiet that you can almost hear the silence. Then, you suddenly become conscious of a distant waterfall, making a noise like the wind rushing through trees; never stopping. Something else catches your eye, and the noise of the waterfall vanishes from your mind. It's a fishing boat; bobbing up and down on the almost calm water; so calm that from the house it looks like a window. Another boat rows past the house; its oars lapping the water. A fisherman says something; another one answers, then there's quiet. Small waves break on the beach below. Their noise is barely a splash, but like a small breeze, slowly fading into the distance, and then starting up again.

All of a sudden the silence is broken by the white egrits, as they leave the trees where they have been resting for the night, and go flying off; probably never returning until the evening. Some of the birds, though, seem reluctant to go. They fly off their part of the tree and land somewhere else. However, within half an hour they have gone, the only evidence that they have been, is a white patch on the trees.

The sun is now beginning to appear over the trees. Its body guards of yellows and oranges rise up with it, slowly leaving as it gets to its throne in the sky. A fountain, that has just been dripping like a tap for the night, is now switched on, its noise, like the wind rushing through the trees; you soon become conscious of it.

Downstairs, there is the noise of people moving around. Doors creaking; people's feet patting backwards and forwards as they prepare the breakfast. A gardener walks across the lawn, looks up, smiles, waves and walks on. He's got everything worked out for the day; nothing must hold him up.

I look across to the beach across the bay. Two people are cleaning it up. They look rather vague as they work. I sit and stare; wondering. I hear something in the back of my head: but I couldn't care. Someone touches me on the shoulder. I jump out of my trance.

"Breakfast is ready."

"Coming," I replied.