I have never been to Australia.
Nor have I been to New Zealand.
I have never set foot on any island in Oceania.
But despite this shortcoming of mine, I can say that I have worn out my shoes halfway around the world. I can say that over time asphalt, sand, and mud have worn out soles, ruined uppers, and worn laces.
I can say that the sun has tattooed the shape of my old Tewa on my feet and that nine years on, the sandals now worn out with far too many miles under the soles, I can’t bring myself to change them so as not to run the risk of ruining the marks left by my moving from one place to another on the planet.
I’ve taken many planes and slept in a variety of airports.
I spent entire nights aboard gleaming buses with the air conditioner blasting.
There were many others where the only good idea was to put yourself to sleep and delude that the driver knew exactly what he was doing. At those moments, my thought was not “Will I arrive at my destination safely?” but a much more important one: “Would I find a 7-Eleven in the morning to drink a lousy coffee and forget the night I had just spent?”.
I have come a long way and have not even reached the halfway point of my imagination. From the Far East to South America, seeing almost all parts of Africa. From war zones to forgotten but nevertheless immensely alive churches.
From sorcerers to holy healers, from mere men to bad men. From a slave market in the 20th century to the denial of fundamental rights in modern nations.
I have traveled a long way but I have never been a traveler.
I have traveled, of course, but never for the sake of it.
I have traveled because I have always considered it a fundamental condition of my being. My personal place, sometimes shared sometimes private.
Traveling – without being a traveler – as a condition for cleaning oneself and facing freely the stories that I will be able to grasp at that moment.
Traveling that forces the construction of a place. A place that is within us.
