People I've Met On The Road – Cristobal

Where To Look For Life
I think it was in 1982 that I met Cristobal. I was working as a night bedroom steward on a cruise ship – The magnificent QE2. One morning we docked in Quebec, not far into the mouth of the gigantic St Lawrence river in Canada. It was a sunny autumn day and the light really intensified the colours of the painted wooden buildings, the maple trees with their leaves turned gold and the verdant green pine forests stretching into the distance against an azure blue sky. Strings of logging barges were stretched out along the St Lawrance heading inland towards the great lakes and there was already snow on the caps of the distant mountains.

QE2 in Quebec Harbour

On days in port like this I tended to avoid hanging out with other crew-members. Their idea of a special day out ashore was to visit six waterfront bars rather than the customary two. In most ports we visited, I tended to head into the rougher fishermen's quarter or the poorer residential districts in order to experience a more genuine taste of local life. But Quebec seeming to lack much in the way of either. After breakfast in a small old-world cafe I decided to head on a small road out of town – up into the surrounding hills. And it was here that I met Cristobal.

Heading into the Quebec hills

Met On The Road
Leaving the city I had stopped at a small roadside shack on the outskirts to buy some bread rolls, an apple, a bag of nuts and some cheese. This was to be my lunch in case I could find nowhere to eat when the time came. As I sat down on a rock to eat that lunch later, I saw a man sitting right out on the edge of a rocky ledge that looked down over the surrounding countryside. I raised my hand in welcome and he returned the gesture but remained where he was. Hoping I wasn't disturbing a man with a desire for solitude I proceeded to eat my lunch and it was only after this that I decided to quietly wander over to the edge of the ledge close to where the man still sat, silently looking out.

"Impressionnant, no?"
"Ah oui, tres impressionnant!" I replied. "Pardon, je suis Anglais. Je n'parle pas bien Francais."
"No problem, mon amis, I speak English," he said, smiling.

Although this man had spoken in French, I felt fairly sure from his accent that he was neither French nor French Canadian. His skin was also dark and his wide high-set cheekbones suggested to me he might perhaps be of ethnic Canadian decent. A Canadian Indian. His face was creased and his dark hair was greying at the temples so I determined he was probably in his late forties or early fifties.

"My name is Mark. I'm pleased to meet you," I said. "So do you live locally or are you visiting like me?"

"Ah, I am always the visitor, mon amis. My name is Cristobal. I am originally from Columbia – Cartagena."

"Are you here on holiday?" I asked.

Cristobal laughed. "Hah, on holiday no my friend. I walk."

"You walk? So do you mean you have come here to walk?"

"No no! I walk everywhere. For many years I have been walking. I am, as you say, an addict. I cannot stop from walking."

"Oh I see. Wow, so you walked here from Columbia?"

"No. Or actually, I suppose yes. To be correct I did walk here from Columbia, but on my way here I walked through Argentina, Chile, New Zealand, Australia... Indonesia, Malaysia, Vietnam, Thailand, India, Pakistan... then Iran, Turkey, Europe and most of Africa. I go to North America soon I think. I am in Alaska before here. Okay, sometimes I take the bus. I mostly walk but hey, I am not crazy!"

I was dumbfounded. "How many years have you been travelling," I asked.

"Must be forty-four years this year I suppose."

"Do you mind me asking how old you are?"

"Sixty-three years on Christmas. I am born December twenty-four."

Again I was shocked. "Walking has kept you young Cristobal!"

"Yes I think so, but my feet are old!" He removed one boot and sock to reveal an extremely calloused foot with a very gnarled set of toes.

Where The Road Invites Me To Go
"Tell me Cristobal," I said, "what drives you to keep on walking? Why have you not settled anywhere?"

"I told you, I am like addict. It is the road ahead that drives me. Invites me. Enchants me even. Not all roads, only some. For example look down here. Do you see this road? It is a good road surface I think, and straight. Easy with not too much hills or trees for stop the view. This road is good for cars and trucks but not good for me. But on the other hand, look over here. Can you see this road. Small and turning about and about. Many hills. Not a good surface I think. Sometimes the road goes around the hills or sometimes over. Many trees stop the view but in the spaces the view must be special I am sure. Ah yes this is a charming road, Mark, don't you see?"
I thought about some of the lovely roads I'd seen in my life, and some that were less lovely.

Some roads are less inviting than others

But who could resist these two roads in Dingle, Ireland?

"Yes I can see what you mean," I said. "It's more interesting."

"Yes of course, interesting. Walking along a road is like passing through the life. It can be too much the same, only taking you from one place to the next place as quickly as possible, or it can be with much variety – changing all the time with surprising things and people. Life is for the experience no? Not for living your life as quickly as possible. So this is my obsession. When I turn around a corner in a town and I see an interesting road, stretching out before me, I must follow it. I cannot resist. I cannot!"

"So after North America, will you return to Columbia?" I said, pouring him a hand-full of peanuts.

"Maybe. Yes amigo, maybe. But it is not my ambition. I never am planning to walk around the whole world. I told you it is an obsession. But I am only going where the road invites me to go. The special road. In each place I look and when I see the special road, I know this is the road I must go, you see? No hesitation. I think it is like, my destiny. So yes, maybe I go to Columbia. But this time I go like a visitor. I was a boy working in a mine there you know. Work in the dark all day. Never see nothing beautiful. After one year I have two days vacation. I want to see another place from outside Cartagena so I walk into the hills. When I pass over the top of the first big hill I see a whole new world before me. And a road. A charming road. I begin walking down and along this charming road. And I am still walking on that road amigo. I am walking my special roads then, I am walking them now and I continue. Ah yes, I continue until there is no more charming roads. This is my life."

Powers Of Observation
It was lovely walking back into Quebec with Cristobal. His trained eye saw so much more than mine. Geese circling in the distance, looking for water to land on during their long migration journey, or so he said. An old man splitting cedar shingles to repair a visible hole in his cabin roof. Ruts in a field where a car had been driven at speed. Joyriding kids or a criminal being pursued by the police. A bear's footprint. A woman dowsing for a spring watched by a farmer and a group of children. Ordinary people like me would have passed along that road and seen none of them.

Enchanted Road
Waving goodbye to Cristobal was painful. Not so much because I would miss his company, but because I had learned what he meant about the invitation of especially charming roads. I left him at the other edge of the city, after he had shared a beer with me in a small tumbledown bar. As we reached a road junction we stopped and he bid me farewell, before heading across the road and into a small housing estate. Wandering back in the direction of the docks I was wondering where he might have been heading when I happened to look around over my shoulder. It had not been visible from where I left him, but now, looking up I could see the unmistakable signs of a road through the gaps in the bright green pine trees. A small cabin, then what looked like a sawmill. A rocky outcrop where I could only guess what a stunning view it would afford down over Quebec harbour. Yes this was indeed a charming road. An Enchanted road. I felt a sharp pang of regret as we sailed that chilly evening. Regret that I had not thrown caution to the wind and followed it.

The sea is a lonely road



Some Other Charming Roads Cristobal Would Love:

This inspiring road to Iran from Caldiran, Turkey, was used for the front cover 
of the book (Long Road Hard Lessons) about the 10,000mile cycle journey with my son Sam.
Views like this constantly spurred us to carry on towards our goal - Tokyo.

The tiny Slea Head Road in Dingle, Ireland, where our cycle journey to Japan began.
N.B. The beach is where the movie Ryan's Daughter was filmed & where they are currently filming the next Star Wars.

Cycling up this mountain road in Southern Turkey was hard but well worth the effort

 The Yellapatty Tea Plantations. This road through The High Ranges of Travancore 
in Kerela, India, is one of the most beautiful roads I've ever seen.

If you would like to read the bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons' by Mark Swain, you can find this along with his two collections of short stories on Amazon, Smashwords etc. 

In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.

Mark Swain on Amazon.com

Mark Swain on Amazon UK

Mark Swain on Smashwords

People I've Met On The Road – Dara

Dara
I met Dara on a coach in Paris in the spring of 1979. I was 21. It was one of those Magic Bus-type coaches that used to ferry young people in search of adventure up and down Europe in those days. They had done so since the hippy era of the late 60's and early 70's, when some buses used to go all the way into Asia. I think the original Magic Bus company had gone out of business by the late 70's. The coach was fairly basic and had two swarthy foreign drivers who spoke almost no English, French or German. Our drivers were the usual Greek, Turkish or East European drivers, since most of the routes now ended in Athens, Budapest or Istanbul. Like the rest of us, they already looked dog tired and were utterly unhelpful if asked to stop other than at the limited highway stops decided by them.

We left London in the early hours before making our way down the M20 to Dover. It was a rough crossing and we docked late in Calais. When we arrived in Paris we were allowed to get off for half an hour. The driver held up a paper napkin with 30mins written on it in spidery biro. We all needed to stretch our legs so we had a wander about, filled water bottles and bought french bread, fruit and cheese before returning to the dreaded bus. Climbing into my seat I found a small dark haired girl sitting by the window. She had moved some of my stuff off the seat in order to sit there. I sighed in annoyance. Thus far I had at least been able to stretch out uncomfortably across the two seats.

"Allo. Er, pardon," she said, and pointed to the luggage rack where she had placed my jacket and book.
"No, it's no problem," I replied in a typically English apologetic manner.

What was I apologising for, I wondered? I sat down, realising she must have just joined the bus in Paris. She hadn't been on the bus before – I would have noticed. She had the most enchanting face, with bright, happy eyes and a sort of cheeky, good natured manner about her.
"My name's Mark," I said, "from England."
"Dara," she smiled, putting out her little hand to shake mine. She was about my age and didn't seem to speak much English.
"You are from France?" I asked.
"Er...Paris?" she replied with uncertainty. "Yugoslavia." She gesticulated roughly in the direction of Yugoslavia with a kind of chopping movement of her hand. She seemed rather forthright, I thought to myself.
"You are from Yugoslavia?" I asked (Yugoslavia was a unified country back then and Marshal Tito was still alive).
"Da, Yugoslavia," she said, touching her chest. "Montenegro."
Actually I remember feeling she had touched her heart, which told me far more. She had probably been studying in Paris, I told myself, or perhaps working as an au-pair and was now returning home with longing in her heart. Her eyes flickered irresistibly, wondering what I had understood, perhaps sensing it. She obviously so wished she could tell me more, ask me more, but her language already seemed to have reached its limits.
"Vous parles Français?" I asked, cautiously.
If she had said yes I would not have fared much better. I had already begun regretting not paying attention in French at school. She shook her head.
"Allemagne?" I asked.
She smiled and shook her head once more, blushing. I think this was the kind of encounter I used to dream about at that age. I smiled back and laughed quietly, overly concerned now not to come over as mocking. The bus had started to make its way through the back streets of Paris, heading out towards the Porte d'Italy. We both sat looking out of the window, making ooh and ah sounds and pointing things out, still both wishing we could say more. She giggled a lot and periodically looked up into my eyes, the way a child does when they are checking an adult's reaction to something – or perhaps that was wishful thinking. I suppose at the time I rather hoped she perceived me as older and wiser than her.

Soon we were on the autoroute and there was less to see. We sat for a while saying nothing, both smiling now and then. I'd guess we were probably both amused by the situation and were wondering what the other was thinking. I closed my eyes for a few minutes, hoping it might take any sense of pressure off her. After a while she began to rustle things in her bag. She tapped my arm cautiously and I opened my eyes. I was being offered a croissant with roughly cut pieces of camembert inside. We went through the usual politenesses of me graciously refusing, her insisting and me accepting, then me getting an apple out of my backpack, cleaning it on my shirt and cutting it with my penknife onto my small tin plate.
"Hvala," she said.
"No, thank you," I replied.
We laughed together. I saw the couple opposite smiling to each other, knowingly. We must have seemed childish to them I suppose. Or maybe they were remarking that we were getting on well together.

Time passed. At various points we could see other passengers going up to ask the drivers if we could stop for a toilet break. They were curtly told to go away. After an hour or so the number of sufferers had increased and people had become angry in their desperation. In response, the drivers had become more determined not to stop. Finally a vociferous young American woman crouched down in the stairwell by the door and began adjusting her clothing to take a leak right there. Incensed, the driver veered onto the grass verge at the side of the highway and skidded to a stop to let her out. Despite their trying to block the aisle, there was a mass exodus.

The two drivers waved fists at the American woman and remonstrated aggressively in Turkish as we all climbed back on. She in return let forth a tirade of her own threats regarding what they could go do with themselves. One of the drivers consulted a pocket notebook before standing in the aisle, pounding his chest and repeatedly shouting "I am driver!!"
The rest of us clapped. People began shouting "I am Spartacus!" which I don't think the drivers understood. But it further enraged them. Their authority had been challenged, their pride hurt. It did not bode well for future stops or the general quality of driving – although that could hardly have got much worse.

More language learning ensued after our entertaining interlude. Dara and I learned each other's words for quite a few general things before finally I dropped off to sleep. Now limited to one cramped seat I was far from comfortable, but I didn't mind. It was dark when I next awoke and found Dara curled up like a cat with her head resting in my lap. She was fast asleep. Somehow I found her look of secure contentment overwhelmingly flattering. I had known her but a few hours yet there was an undeniable closeness between us – a level of trust – as if we had been friends since childhood.
The language of love has no words.

Viator in Montenegro

And then it was morning. The sun was shining and Montenegro was unexpectedly beautiful. Everything was beautiful to me that morning. It seemed inexplicable that my heart should ache so much to leave her behind. But she was returning to her family and it did not seem right to intrude. She had offered. Somehow with minimal language she had suggested I come with her and meet her family, but it had seemed wrong to me. I think I worried it might seem too eager perhaps, yet as soon as the bus crossed into Greece I knew I should have gone with her. I couldn't get her angelic face out of my head – those sparkling eyes looking up at me as she waved and blew a kiss while the bus roared off. I heard the couple opposite sigh in disappointment. I still wonder about it now, how that decision might have changed my life.

In the late 60's / early 70's some buses went all the way to Afghanistan 

I often wonder where some of those buses are now (image courtesy of www.uniboxtraveller.com)

I mourn the death of the Magic Bus era. 

If you would like to read the bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons' by Mark Swain, you can find this and his collections of short stories on Amazon, Smashwords etc.

Mark Swain on Amazon.com

Mark Swain on Amazon UK

Mark Swain on Smashwords

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