Yesterday sailed to Borneo. And today the second day dawns navigation. It's like the Dharma Ferry II was a refugee rescue ship, giant a boat bound for Italy Albanians or Raft of the Medusa. The scene is terrible and pathetic. Whole families in tatters, men in shirt-drawn cover staring the discomfort and boredom. Fatigue-based curing patience of centuries. The infinite patience of the poor of this world who have endured, endure and endure whatever it takes as resistant organisms that are. The vision of this ravaged battlefield reminds me that I see is this normal. What are my Western eyes that make it excessive or extraordinary. Not so. The world is mostly a huge Dharma II Ferry which sails slowly, unfortunate carrying dirty and tired. My abnormal presence also reminds me that I represent the exact proportion of "misters" on this planet. About a prime target for every four blacks who survive a day. Not, actually are not poor, are normal. We are the rare. Our wealth is not the measure of anything, is an extravaganza costing you dearly nature. We are not the center of the universe or the center of the universe. Our value system and consumption is not at all normal. Simply because we would have thought we invented the television.
Infinite patience of the poor of this world who have endured, endure and endure whatever it takes as resistant organisms that are
When it gets dark I'm only on the upper deck and watch as the sun is getting while I drink my beer. One by one they fall. Up to six cans. According to warm my soul I feel very happy here. Back in motion, in another boat, in another world. I remember the great Josep Pla, that said loved to travel in cargo and live with the crew. Who would have thought me just a few years ago when he was preparing opposition or even after, when she lived wondering what sports car I would buy. And here I am, traveling to Borneo on a freighter, almost no possessions, sleeping in the forecastle, and writing a book about it. It's as if I did Josep Pla a sly wink from the great beyond.
Here I am, traveling to Borneo on a freighter, almost no possessions, sleeping in the forecastle, and writing a book about it
The sea moves under my feet and knock off foam with metal melts twilight. For a moment I think I'd do a real photo of myself in the middle of this huge indoor Who the hell is this guy that lives inside me and smiling deep in thought while sitting in a chair, sailing the Java Sea and the three thousand stars over his head? "Are you really?”, tell me, "Or are you the character of Inte" t? Are you really going through this and do not live in a basement tucked making dreams photoshop?”
Not, there is no basement because I do not need to distort reality. I think now that my life is what it is, there is nothing to hide, the more you scratch it looking for me a failure or a lie, Miquel Silvestre more anger appear to enjoy my critics and friends. Having recognized all my faults and miseries innumerable texts and occasions, so I finally left as a prize is the enormous freedom we enjoy, perhaps the most expensive of all: write what I please and as I please. Anything you say will always be imputed to the benefit of inventory. Whether you drink thousand cans in one night, as if bare the false philanthropy of NGOs in Africa, as if I get excited talking about God in Sumatra, who knows me will tell: you know, things in the Wild.
Doy a tragus to my cerveza. Still cold. Even that I got tonight. Another miracle for some reason I do not understand though I deserve granted. But that's: Cold beer and a movie set worthy of the best Josep Pla. What can I say? Well that is too perfect to be credible. Yes, I also agree. Nobody can be so lucky. Definitely, this guy look tonight the stars on the Java Sea should be punished to live in a basement of Leganes.
