Rhythm

So many countries in just a handful of years.

Every time, I arrive with a rush of blood that gets me excited for the next place, even before the one I’m in has started.

My mind is trying to keep up with my heart. I’m moving from place to place with a perpetual homesickness.

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Georgetown

It’s a Sunday. I just had my coffee and I’m in fucking Georgetown, Malaysia.

Everything is exciting at first. Great food everywhere I look and just steps away from the place I’m staying. Even the gym is across the street.

Every day, I do the same thing. I wake up slowly, find a coffee shop in a quieter area where I can still watch people pass.

I can start the day.

Once the caffeine kicks in, I face the blank page. On a good day, my hand spits fire and flames. I write until I get hungry.

At night, I go for a walk and take some photos. Back at the hotel, I do my late-night meetings.

This euphoria lasts for about five to seven days.

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The itch

One week in and I’m already missing home. When I’m home, I long to be away, free and exploring. When I’m traveling, seeing new places one after the other, I start missing the feeling of home.

It’s thirty-five degrees celsius and the music scene I hoped for is nowhere to be found. Apparently, I’m in the wrong season.

I go out at night and walk from one food stall to another, until I see or smell something that makes me drool. Watching the chefs throw around the noodles, rhythmically tapping their woks, is a daily theatre everyone comes to enjoy while they’re waiting patiently for their orders.

I try to avoid the heat and usually go after the sun has set. And even then, I can still feel my body frying from the radiating concrete below and around me.

There are mornings when I wake up and notice how my mind goes in overdrive worrying what to do next. The fear of wasting time and opportunities creeps up on me. The novelty of everything starts wearing off. The restlessness returns.

I’m living it, but also suffering it. Both coexist all the time.

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The ferry

The first week was even worse.

I was arriving in Koh Phangan by boat. During the three-hour sailing, I was either hiding from the wind, trying to nap, or staying alert for a shot of the islands I saw in the distance. The ship docked at the hottest time of day. A few other strangers and I were sitting in the back of the taxi-truck, waiting for it to fill up, while the sweat started dripping off our faces in the scorching sun.

I arrived sweaty, hungry, and tired at the bamboo huts where I had booked a stay. The huts were built in the midst of a jungle with a creek running through the middle. As idyllic as it looked tucked between the palm trees, all I could think of was a shower and AC.

The host showed me to my hut. It was a small cabin, raised on stilts, made out of bamboo stems and a roof of palm leaves. There was no AC and only cold showers were available in the outhouse.

I was too exhausted and couldn’t think clearly so I just accepted it for what it was.

The first night I almost didn’t sleep. The tropical rainstorm kept me awake for hours while I was turning from side to side on a rigid mattress. At first, I romanticized the raindrops hitting the roof. When it finally stopped around 3AM, someone decided to light a cigarette and the smoke quickly found its way through the slits of my hut’s walls.

The cold shower in the morning washed all my frustrations away and I jumped on the scooter to go explore.

I walked on the beach in the heat and watched the tourists tanning. I wasn’t even sure what I was doing there.

The travel highs became rarer as I kept accumulating countries and places over the years.

Maybe today is not my day.

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The dance

I was hungry for company and decided to go to an ecstatic dance party. There was a pool, a circle of people dancing around a campfire, and a cold water basin where mostly naked elders were coming in and out.

I joined the circle and began moving my body, first awkwardly but soon I just surrendered to the rhythms. Everyone else was in a flow, the bodies loose, eyes closed, their movements almost animal.

At the end of the evening, the music became much slower, almost zen-like. People started to move like tree trunks on a windy summer day. Strangers forgot for a moment they had never met and began hugging. I hesitated for a little, then embraced a woman from the Baltics I had met earlier during a break. I wasn’t attracted to her at all, but being spontaneous seemed the whole point of that night, and I figured “Why not”.

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The swagger

That heat is really getting at me in Georgetown. I wake up Monday morning feeling shitty. Then I bump my head against the door frame when leaving the hotel. Fuck. That hurts.

The restlessness kicks in at night. I buy cigarettes, hoping the nicotine smoke will fill the soul.

Or maybe spending money will get me out of the rut.

I walk through the streets with a swagger pretending I’m James Dean or something. Sometimes, I dine in a fancy restaurant. The kind with two servers breathing down my neck while I try to stuff animals that have probably travelled around the globe to find their way onto my oversized plate. Later, I buy a cocktail, ice cream, and anything to soothe my desperation. “Fuck yeah,” I think while continuing my swagger and blowing smoke out of my nose, hoping some cute chick will notice and wet her pants right in front of my eyes.

I pay for a Tinder subscription and start swiping like there’s no tomorrow. I see cute couples and wonder why I’m doing this alone.

I’m hungry for sex and female energy. I haven’t slept with anyone for more than a month. It’s excruciating. My only highlight is a few calls with Vietnamese women whose names I can’t even pronounce.

One restless night, I manage to fix a date.

She’s sitting alone at the bar when I arrive. I try to have some kind of meaningful conversation. But she’s shy, and I can barely understand what’s coming from those full, gorgeous lips. She speaks too softly. I get bored quickly, but still decide to stay. Once again, my curiosity and my hunger are too strong. So I play the game the best I can.

We go to another bar, have two more beers. She’s still a bit shy and I’m getting even more bored, but her looks and sexy attitude keep me seated.

What else am I going to do on a Sunday night in Georgetown?

She encourages me to keep drinking. I ask her what she’s really after. She says that she’ll give me a good price—600 Ringgit. I hesitate. It’s a lot of money. I want to refuse but what if there’s a pimp waiting around the corner who will force me to pay for my time with her? I get scared. So I say I have to get the money from the ATM. Luckily, she decides to wait at the bar. I never return.

The next day, I want to get rid of the post-workout soreness. I decide to try a Thai oil massage. No expectations. I pay for ninety minutes and walk through a castle-like space with overdecorated furniture and Moroccan-styled lamps. My feet get washed and I’m led to a separate room. Zen music is playing in the background.

The fifty-something lady is not particularly attractive, but her hands glide across my almost naked body with confidence and strength. I lie there in full surrender. But when she gets to my legs, she spends just a little too much time in my inner thighs, which makes me wonder… I’m definitely not here for anything other than a traditional Thai oil massage.

Fuck! This is life. I can do whatever I want. But I have lost the art of standing still.

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The slowing

I landed in Sri Lanka for the first time ever. I had zero expectations.

I gave myself some time to get attuned. Almost every day, I took the bike to explore the backstreets where real life happened. I rode slowly, trying to capture every beautiful frame. While the scenery moved slower, random thoughts came to me faster. And every woman or man or child I crossed paths with smiled at me. Sometimes, even the simplest gaze from a stranger made me feel welcome.

The last few days in Sri Lanka, I spent at a quiet beach. No crowds, laid-back vibes, and the never-ending soothing sound of the ocean waves. I could stroll on the soft sand for hours. It was the kind of place where I could write a book one day.

I had gained momentum. My writing became more intentional.

It was as if the place and its people and myself were one. I started to really enjoy it.

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The river morning

8:34 AM and the coffee suddenly woke me up. Maybe it’s the caffeine high or the beauty that’s in front of me. I’m in awe of it all. I hear at least four different bird songs and the continuous chirping of the crickets. Branches and bundles of leaves are slowly following the river stream. I can still smell the morning dew. Then, I put on a song and all the worries rush out of my head. My shoulders drop, my breath slows. All my senses are engaged and I’m reminded why I’m alive.

Four countries in two months. It’s a lifetime of experiences. I live fast. I need time and space to metabolize. With so much movement in such a short time, I risk having nothing left to say.

After all that movement, I need to settle down. Until the pieces fit together.

And then I go again.