The Best of Wanderlust (A GeoEx eBook)

The Best of Wanderlust

On Dream Mountain

“No, not here.” “Then where?” “At your destination.” I rolled my eyes and, pining for a world that was black and white, I set off. A journey without planning followed. Not once did I ask directions or pull out a map. Nor did I give any thought to why I was travelling, or where I was going. From time to time I would remove the seed from my pocket, weigh in it in hand and close my eyes. It may seem far-fetched, but it was as though the little object had a presence. As if it knew that I was on a journey—that it was both my travelling companion and my guide. Whenever I wondered which fork in the road to take, I would grasp the seed, close my eyes, and would feel the answer seeping in through my skin. ~~ Through days and then weeks I roamed the kingdom. During that time, I encountered people and places that changed me in a deep down way. At a grim café in the backstreets of Tetouan, I met a musician who was missing three fingers and a foot. He played a crude violin that he himself had made. As he played, he sang, a deep guttural lament of lost love and forgotten hope. Once finished with his performance, he hobbled over, sat down beside me, sipped a café noir , and explained he had always dreamed of going away to sea. He longed to witness the sunset with nothing but water all around. “We are close to the Mediterranean,” I said, “and so your dream is surely an easy one to arrange.” The musician seemed glum. “I will tell you a secret,” he said. “What?” “My fear.”

“What fear?” “The fear that prevents me from ever getting in a boat.” “Are you afraid of drowning?” I asked. The musician shook his head from side to side. “No. Something much worse than that.” “Tell me.” “Do you promise to tell no one?” he said. “For if it is spoken, a Jinn will surely hear it and taunt me.” I promised. Leaning over the scuffled tabletop, the musician winced. “I’m very fearful of fish,” he whispered. “ Fish? ” “Yes, fish.” The musician drained his glass and drifted away. ~~ When he was gone, I took a bus southward, into the Rif, the thought of ocean sunsets and fish in my mind. After zigzagging through small towns and villages, I came to a hamlet perched on the side of a cliff. At a tea stall there, I found a farmer with sad mournful eyes and a great shock of white hair. He was bemoaning the loss of his favorite donkey. Having strayed down a steep hillside, the creature had missed its footing—and had tumbled to its death. The farmer said his life would never be the same, that the donkey had been his closest friend. In a village beyond, I came across an American woman called Joanie. She walked barefoot and was utterly broke, had a knotted mane of dreadlocks down her back, and the kind of glazed look of someone on a spiritual quest. She had difficulty in remembering the basic details of her past, as though the quest had forced her to shun her own history—like a snake sloughing its skin. The only thing she wanted to speak about was a glade deep in the Moss Forest. When describing it, Joanie’s face was illuminated as if

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