Carlos does succeed in leaving town this morning, after another communal breakfast in the Boys and Girls Club with Kate, Stephen and I. He gives me a big hug when he is ready to roll away, being the warm-hearted guy that he is. It has been several weeks, it seems, since I have had that much physical contact with another man, perhaps as long ago as Istanbul. A wave of isolation and loneliness washes through me as he pulls away.
I watch him ride away. He is a handsome man but I have not fantasized about him, as sweet as he is. I sensed from the start that his warmth had nothing to do with a physical attraction to me. I don’t feel attractive or generally sexual at all these days. I haven’t even masturbated since Cappadocia – my long days of travel on train and bus from Kayseri to Esfahan being immediately followed by my sickness and internal bleeding. Since then, I have felt no urge to think about other men, even when I was alone in Zahedan for four days.
I doubt I will see Carlos again. We won’t be visiting Peshawar as far as I know, but then it is so hard to know what is around the next corner. During the first half of my trip, the awe of that unfolding mystery, of seeing things I have never seen before and will likely never see again, kept me going from city to city, country to country. Since the outbreak of the war in Croatia that freaked me out so much, the magic of my journey has faded.
Even though I am still seeing things that are totally new to me and likely never to be repeated, I am now drifting like a leaf on a stream, still able to choose my course if I want to, but having little interest in doing so. I am letting others do that for me, going where they go and having no real interest in the attractions along the way. I don’t know why I am traveling, what I am learning or supposed to learn from this journey. I am physically wasted, now down to about 57 kg (125 lb), emotionally numb, intellectually tired of learning new ideas and of adapting to new places, and spiritually adrift without any sense of purpose or belonging. Many of the words I used to identify myself at home in Canada, including the label “gay”, have become irrelevant to my life now. Only the labels “cyclist” and “Canadian” have stuck, but even those I question the relevance of when I use them. I cannot see how I will even fit in anymore when I return home.
I have learned one thing, and that is to embrace anything that is a source of joy and to celebrate it without analyzing it to death. That is a good thing. Today my source of joy is knowing that Coen and Vincent will arrive on bus from Nushki. The anticipation makes me anxious. It would be easier if I knew when to expect them but I don’t, so I am not waiting for them at the bus terminal. I have not checked the schedule, so they might even be arriving by train. I remember the same feeling when waiting to reconnect with them in Zahedan, and the feelings of betrayal and disappointment that followed when I realized they had been avoiding reconnecting with me. I don’t let my anticipation sweep me away this time.
Vincent and Coen arrive late afternoon by bus. I don’t see them until they check into the Boys and Girls Club. Coen is still looking pale and a bit shaky, but he acknowledges my concern and seems appreciative of it. Vincent says Coen should rest another couple days in Quetta before taking the 18-hour train ride from Quetta to Rawalpindi. They both look relieved to be back with us, though Coen soon retires to his bed in our dorm room. Like I did for two days, he is subsisting on a diet of juice and yogurt.
Kate, Stephen, Vincent and I go out together to a local restaurant five blocks away for dinner. It is a Pakistani restaurant with curries and dhal, potatoes and rice. We are celebrating our reunification and everyone is happy. I am surprised to find that I am enjoying Kate and Stephen’s company too. Perhaps I have become delusional, creating joy where there shouldn’t be any, or perhaps this is the way it always should be. I think I forgive too easily, a fatal flaw that followed me throughout my life.
PHOTO: sunset in Quetta
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