Swaziland Morning

Heard: “It’s a choice.”

He struggled a bit to load his bags onto the bus, four small black ones and one large, square, maroon pack, piling them high onto the seats. He then balanced his bicycle, with its handlebars folded over and peddles tucked in, into a free corner of space in the passenger van, and, finally, sat down next to the window. He spoke with a lisp and an accent, and when the driver asked him in his own soft South African twang to write down the place he was going, he looked at him curiously, the corner of his mouth slightly upturned.

Daniel, a Frenchman from close to Poitiers, was biking his way around the world. By the time he had reached Swaziland, he’d been on the road for nine months and had spent time in Spain, Portugal, Morocco, and Senegal, among other places. While we sat talking that night, not far from the canopy of trees and bonfire that served as the backpack’s dining room, he explained his plan to visit every continent by the time he ended his trip; when the end would come exactly, he had no idea. He had no plans. Every morning he woke without knowing where he would sleep that night. Sometimes he pitched his tent on the side of the road he’d been biking and cooked a small dinner over his stove before going to sleep. He told me he stays as long as he likes in each place he visits, and moves on when he stops enjoying himself there.

His face was tanned and creased, his eyes small, and his smile full of small white teeth, spaced apart and crooked, with one or two jutting over his bottom lip, adding to his lisp. His forearms were also browned, and he spoke of the joy of bicycling. He liked that it brought him close to nature in the countryside and close to people in the cities. It functioned as a conversation piece, the quickest mode of transportation from point A to B, or access to all those places a car just can’t go. But, he grinned, he “never practiced bicycling in France.” He had never done a bike trip like this one before, had certainly never trained for the Tour de France; he just packed his bags one day and started peddling.

We spoke in English, though we stumbled. He said he never minded the challenges he encountered because of language; yes, if his English was better he could “get his way” more easily, but, he said, that would also mean that he would get his way and then, be on his way. Struggling through the conversation also meant spending more time interacting with people. He grinned again and said it usually meant more time laughing with people. I told him I thought what he was doing was amazing. “Amazing?” “Amazing, like, so wonderful.” “Amazing…” he turned the new vocabulary over in his mind.

“I wish I could do what you’re doing,” I said. “It’s a choice,” he countered. “Anyone can. You can. It’s a choice.”

Check out Daniel’s blog; if you need help understanding French, try using a website translator.