Story Time!

I’ve been meaning to write down a few things about the tour before they slip my mind, and as the tour gets farther and farther away it gets harder and harder to recall the details and get into the mindset. So, while this won’t be the last time I tell these stories in as much detail as I’d like to (book?), there are two in particular I’d like to share before they disappear into relative obscurity.

It's taken me a long time to process them, so when I wrote the blog post for the few days around their occurences, I wasn’t ready to talk about them, and then… they never really fit anywhere. But they happened. If you read this blog for the smiles, you might want to skip this post.

The first story takes place in France. And it was scary. In retrospect, it wasn’t any scarier than some of the other times I was afraid of “getting caught” stealth camping, except this time it was someone else getting caught somewhere they shouldn’t be. But as with all of the times I was scared shitless on tour, after it was over, I realized it wasn’t that big of a deal… I wasn’t so much scared as startled. I laugh about it now.

You might recall that I was lucky enough to find a host in England who offered to let me stay not only with them in England, but also in their summer home in France – both stays of which I was very grateful for. This story takes place in the cottage in France. I was staying there alone.

I was asleep in the servants’ quarters, a small room in the back of the house next to the kitchen. The room was unfinished, with a cement floor, an old cot for a bed, and no light (not that I wasn’t grateful! It was indoors, warm, and the only payment required was gratitude… just setting the scene). Staying there alone was such a gift! I spent three days getting up on my own schedule, making coffee, biking to the next town for groceries and pizza, watching movies, catching up on my blog, and just generally relaxing and having a good time not having anywhere to be. It was wonderful. Until…

On the second night (of three), after finishing a movie, I shut off all the lights, checked to make sure the door was locked, and used my phone to light my way to the bed (remember, no light in the servants' quarters). I dozed off quickly to the sounds of crickets chirping outside and moonlight coming through the small window in the back door, barely illuminating the fireplace and the old lounge chair occupying the cramped, but charming room.

At 2 AM I woke up for no perceivable reason. I was about to shut my eyes again when I noticed a light coming from underneath the door to the kitchen -- but I could have sworn I had turned that off before I went to bed. “Ah, well,” I said to myself, “must have forgotten.” I was about to get up to turn it off when a shadow passed across the light. I froze, and for what felt like hours, but was, in reality, probably no more than 30 seconds, all I could hear was my heart beating in my ears. “I must have imagined it,” I thought, and tried closing my eyes. But beneath my eyelids, I saw the light dim and brighten again… and then I opened my eyes, and waited, frozen and scared.

Was there someone in the house? My mind was racing with all the possibilities. Was it a thief who would leave soon, of their own accord? Would they burn the house down to hide all the evidence? Come into my room thirsty for blood?

I waited.

What should I do? Confront them? Call the police and risk the intruder hearing me? I couldn’t fathom describing the situation in French, nor did I have the address memorized… come to think of it, I didn’t even know the French emergency number. 111? 112?

I waited.

I mentally reviewed the self defense I knew. I tried to remember where the knives were in the kitchen, if it was likely this so-and-so would be able to reach for them in surprise or shock. Or maybe they’d just hit me in the face with the coffee pot. What was the right thing to do? Be polite? Scream and try and scare them away? Or just play it safe and get out?

I had waited now, so long, I decided it must be my imagination.

I tried to calm my heart, slow the adrenaline, try and sleep again… and then, unmistakably, I saw the shadow again.

I decided to run.

As slowly and carefully as I could, I got up and put on my pants in the relative darkness. I couldn’t find my shoes or my phone or my wallet -- I didn’t care. I crept towards the door and unlocked it -- CLICK!!! it went, and with that I rushed out and closed the door. I snuck alongside the house in my bare feet, peeking in the kitchen window as much as I dared.

Nobody was there. Was I crazy?

I didn’t want to risk it. I walked a quarter mile down the road in my bare feet to the caretaker’s house and, at 3 AM, knocked on their door. Nothing. I threw rocks at all the windows. Nothing. I tried shouting as loud as I dared. Nothing. So I curled up, jacketless, behind a potted plant, and shivered and closed my eyes and passed the time wondering what I was doing. Periodically I tried knocking or throwing rocks again, but for the most part I passed the time trying to stay warm and comfortable in the cool French morning air, behind potted plants, on the porch furniture, wherever I could.

Around 7 AM I saw one of my hosts -- let’s call him Ian -- in the kitchen making coffee. I knocked again, and he came to the door.

“Kyle?” he said. “Are you okay?”

I thought for a minute.

“You don’t look okay.” I was probably pale. And tired.

“I’m not.”

“Come in. Please, come in.”

Ian got me a blanket and coffee and led me to their living room, where wimbledon was on. I explained to him what had happened just as his wife entered, then explained it again to her. Ian left to check out the cottage, and I stared blankly at the TV – tennis was on -- and tried to remember to drink coffee.

Ian returned about 30 minutes later and reported there was nobody there, but the bathroom window was open and the bed in the master bedroom had been slept in. He posited someone had come in the bathroom after dark, taken a nap, got up to find something to eat, then heard me leave and left themselves. We thought about calling the police, but what could they do?

It was easy at the time to freak myself out, but in reality, it was just someone who wanted a place to sleep. It wasn’t my cottage, but what if I had opened the door and offered them coffee, or said it was okay for them to stay one night? I could have startled them, and probably scared them. Even if I made the offer in earnest, would they have believed I wasn’t going to call the police as soon as they were asleep? Could I have had that conversation in French?

The experience was more startling than scary. I’ve no doubt there are people who would have locked themselves in their rooms and called the police, or gone out with a shotgun they kept locked under their bed. I am in no way ashamed of having run -- having played it safe -- but I’m always going to wonder if it would have been a better story if I’d just gone out and said “hi.” Someone who just needed a place to sleep for the night probably needed a friend just as much.


- - -


The second story takes place in Africa, in Kenya, on the second or third day of biking through desert, over sand, wondering if I'd ever have internet or running water again. I'd like to preface it by saying that I regret what I did here, and if I could go back and apologize to the people involved, I would.

Jacob and I were just entering a village when we heard some music. It was clapping and singing. He looked at me and joked that I had to keep good on my ambitions for dancing – which is to say, if there is danceable music playing, I dance. If there is a dance with music I like, I'll generally join. And sometimes even when it's quiet outside, I just like to move my body to the beat of my own drum.

We pedaled slowly past the first few buildings and then caught it out of the corners of our eyes – there, just beside one of the larger buildings, behind a hut of some kind, was a circle of people dancing, chanting, and clapping. Jacob and I stopped and exchanged glances. I was uncertain – this didn't seem entirely like a public event. But isn't dancing about self-expression and sharing? After wavering for a few seconds, I finally dismounted my bike and began walking it between the large building and the hut. Jacob followed close behind.

I leaned my bike against the wall and got closer to the circle, about four feet away. A few people saw me but didn't really acknowledge me. In retrospect it should have been obvious at this point that I was intruding – most social dances aren't done in a circle. But I thought, maybe they are just mid-song, and after this song, I can ask what they're doing and if I can join. The song seemed to go on for a while – in my nervousness, what in actuality was more like 30 seconds seemed to be minutes – but I grew impatient, and started dancing a little. I looked over at Jacob, who sheepishly joined in.

Now we had the attention of a few more people. Still, they didn't acknowledge us beyond looking at us. They didn't smile, or wave. The circle seemed to shift a little to open towards us, but I didn't enter. Then I saw through the opening, on a table in the center of a circle: a book. I leaned in a little and could see it was face-down. On the back, I read the title of the book – "Brown" – and the summary, which was something like:

"Brown is the color of dirt, the earth, the things we are made of. [...] Brown is the color of your skin."

And in that instant I realized how acutely I was intruding. My stomach twisted. I immediately turned and walked for my bike, mumbling to Jacob, "let's go." We left.

I am a very priveleged person. I am white, I am male, I speak fluent English, and I am a US citizen. I have change in my pocket. Last year, I had enough change in my pocket to quit my job and live on my bicycle for nine months through the US, Europe, and Africa. So I can't say that I understand what my presence there must have meant to the people in that circle. I can't say I've ever known what it's like to be celebrating something unique about me, a uniqueness I had been oppressed over, disadvantaged because of, and during that celebration have had one of my oppressors intrude. I don't know what that's like, but there remains an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach whenever I recall this moment. That wasn't my space. I wasn't supposed to be there. Maybe, maybe with an invitation, but least of all as a tourist – a rich white person just in town to see what there is to see. That was the opposite of where I was supposed to be. At least, that remains the thought at the forefront of my conscious.


- - -


My next post will likely draw this phase of Cycle Humanity to a close. I promise the ending will be happier.

Ludwar, Kenya: Tidbits

“Tidbits” is a new series of posts I'll start: things I forgot, or things that didn't fit anywhere else (Africa has seen some very long posts). They can be read out-of-order with the rest of the blog, which is good, because three posts are scheduled over the next few days!

Metric System

As Jacob and I were filtering water, I was trying to figure out how much heavier we'd be. The Camelbak, I knew, holds 3 liters of water.

Me: “How much does a liter of water weigh?”

Jacob: “A kilo.”

Me: “Wait... really?”

Jacob: “Really.”

Me: “That's so simple! And a cubic centimeter weighs a gram, right?”

Jacob: “And it's a milliliter.”

Me: “What!?”

Jacob: “A cubic centimeter of water is a milliliter of water."

Me: “WHAT!?”

Jacob: “The whole system is based on water! It makes so much sense!”

Me: “Okay, seriously. The 2020 election needs to be about the metric system.”

One Thing, Another Thing

When cycle touring, it almost always seems like something is wrong. Jacob likes to say, “If it's not one thing, it's another thing.” In the African bush, I suggested instead: “If it's not these five things, it's those five things.”

Here are some things that went wrong for us, often simultaneously:

- Running out of water

- Running out of food

- Running out of money (either local currency or, in my case, your bank failing a transfer so you can't make any withdrawals)

- Having slow leaks in our tires (where the air leaks out so slowly you can't find the leak, but still have to pump up the tire multiple times a day)

- It being very hot

- It being very sunny, and being out of sunscreen or shade

- Road conditions: sand, dirt, mud, rocks, ass-felt (“my ass felt that the next day”)

- Rain

- Our chains needing lubrication

- Our gears not shifting

- Not speaking the language

- Gear falling apart: water bottle cages falling off, sewing coming undone

- Not having showered in a week

- Not having done laundry in a week

- Needing to replace something that got stolen (like a headlamp)

And let's not forget the one you can never do anything about...

- There's a headwind

We now say, “If it's not these five things, it's those five things.”

Mzungu Prices

(we're in Kenya now, so “white person” is mzungu, not ferringhi)

Jacob and I walked down the street one night, hunting for vegetables. Not so many people tried to get our attention as in Ethiopia, but there were a few hawkers. “Good evening,” said one.

“Good evening,” I said. I asked where we could buy some vegetables. She indicated, then said, “Why not some fish?” gesturing towards her wares.

“How much?” I said, not interested that night, but curious for future reference. 100. “Not tonight,” I said.

Hawker: “Why not tonight?”

Me: “Maybe tomorrow.”

Hawker: “100, it's a good price?”

Me: “Yes, very good,” I said. We'd paid $4 for a whole fish at a restaurant about a week ago in Ethiopia; now, here was a comparable hunks offish for $1.

Jacob: “I'll take some fish.”

Hawker: “Okay, 200.”

And that is why you are always in a qualm about whether to say the price is good or not. Are you honest, or do you save yourself the headache of paying “white people prices?”

An Exposé

Turns out, when you ride with two people, you get twice as many photos! Here are 20 of Jacob's photos that I particularly like. You will find some of them have places in past and future blog posts, forgive me for being too lazy to put them where they belong.

All credit to Jacob. His blog is here.

Two Men

One of us goes in to reception, the other waits outside.

“Hi. Do you have any rooms available?”

“Yes, but two men cannot sleep in the same room.”

“Okay. Do you have any rooms with separate beds?”

“Two men cannot sleep in the same room. Separate rooms.”

“Okay, how much?”

“[price]”

“And does the wifi work?”

“Not right now.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

This has happened more than once. We usually don't stay at these places.

Bratislava, Slovakia: That Time I Was Happy

Sitting on a sequence-of-events post but internet is... less than ideal here and it wouldn't work without photos. Here! Have this instead!

A few posts ago I concluded I might actually be happy more than half the time. “Concluded” might not be the best word, of course, because I also used “might” and ended with a question mark; nonetheless, I think I received more feedback on that sentence than I have on any other motif of the blog. I am grateful, of course, to have followers that want me to be happy, but I also feel it would be remiss not to elaborate a bit more on what I meant and how exactly I'm feeling.

I've linked to this comic like four times in this blog so I apologize for doing it again, but if you haven't read it, go read it and then you can ignore it when I link it a sixth time: engagement is more important than happiness.

What I felt when I wrote I was happy more than half the time was that I was engaged. It's easier to say you're “happy,” of course, but that's not how I was feeling and to me, that's okay. Happiness isn't my goal. I am happy often, but happiness is a byproduct. I am happy; more, though, I am engaged.

When I left for this trip, I had depression and anxiety. I still “have” them; much the way you might have polka-dot socks, they are still there even when they aren't taking over your life. But they are no longer taking over my life. I am no longer anxious all the time; I am anxious, but what I would call a “normal” amount (whatever that means). In the past month I have only had sleep paralysis (where you dream you can't move; more annoyingly for me, I usually “wake up” into another dream, think, “finally, I can move!” only to discover I'm still paralyzed) once. I haven't had any anxiety attacks, and I haven't felt terribly sad, lonely, or listless (again, not any more than a “normal” amount, whatever that means).

I've felt... purposeful.

I've developed a sort of faith that things will work out. Because for four months, they have (there was that shop that sold me the wrong size tire and then wouldn't let me return it, but for the most part...). I haven't gotten arrested, beat up, robbed, or any plethora of other things that could have possibly happened (knock on wood). I continually meet incredible people and experience seemingly endless kindness. My attitude when things don't go quite right is no longer, “Let's dwell on this until it's devoured my soul,” but, “What awesomeness is this precipitating?”

I don't believe (yet?) that every happenstance precipitates another, but that this trip is so continually filled with cool people is hard to ignore. If I have, for now, overcome my anxiety and depression, I've done it by filling my life with positive experiences. The brain is sort of like a river valley: the route most taken is the route most likely to be taken. If you want to have new mental habits they are hard at first, like digging out canals; as the water begins to flow the route becomes self-sufficient and widens itself, then the flow becomes stronger and eventually almost unstoppable. I used to have to try to be positive: I would dwell on small things that didn't matter, the voice in my head played songs about feeling lost and lonely and angry. Now, the songs that pop into my head are goofy and fun and celebratory (“because I knew you, I have been changed for good...;” Avenue Q's If You Were Gay). I'm more outgoing, I smile more.

There's research that says your life circumstances only dictate 10% of your happiness, but I wonder how much your lifestyle dictates. I used to work 40 hours a week at a job I liked that was sometimes engaging. I worked with great people (many of whom I miss... Orders team, comment on my blog again!?), but some of the duties were less than engaging. For a while, I had a friend group that was continually judging me and I invested way too much into unhealthy relationships (a few in particular). I spent more time than I care to admit on “the internet” and playing video games.

I wasn't living what I would call an unhealthy life – it is, perhaps, the average American lifestyle (though I am reminded of that quote, “There is nothing healthy about being well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society...”). There's nothing wrong with any of those things; many have done them. I don't regret having lived that life and it might be waiting for me when this trip is over. But compared to the way I'm living now, it's night and day. My time is evenly split between exercise, sleep, and getting to know people; “chores” are limited to cleaning the bare necessities of living (my clothes) and repairing my bike; I get to know new people every day; I do something every day that scares me, yet given the trend of everything working out, I feel safe. Nothing I do is without purpose, except occasionally after a blog post I find myself scrolling through my News Feed (and then I feel listless and stop). With my previous lifestyle, digging the river away from depression was a chore; now, it seems to have happened on its own.

It can, of course, always go back. Those polka-dot socks are still there, hiding under the pants' legs.

Time and life are the two most valuable things we are given: they are the only things that, once spent, we never get back. You can always make more money or buy a new car. But you will never get younger and you will never meet anyone else like the people you meet. Once they're gone, they're gone. I'm spending my time meeting people – finding out what they are passionate about and sharing stories and ideas with them, exploring what it means to be human, to love, to feel. And that is the most engaging and meaningful thing I can think of doing.

Let's close with some Tim Krieder, shall we?

My own resolute idleness has mostly been a luxury rather than a virtue, but I did make a conscious decision, a long time ago, to choose time over money, since I’ve always understood that the best investment of my limited time on earth was to spend it with people I love. I suppose it’s possible I’ll lie on my deathbed regretting that I didn’t work harder and say everything I had to say, but I think what I’ll really wish is that I could have one more beer with Chris, another long talk with Megan, one last good hard laugh with Boyd. Life is too short to be busy.