North America, Part II
June-July 2017
Richmond, VA
‘Richmond Is For Lovers’ reads the slogan on every license plate here in the capitol of Virginia, and whilst I’ve no doubt this would make a fine destination for smitten couples I can’t help but feel this is painfully ignoring an elephant in the room who’s about to take a dump on the carpet.
My best friend through some formative and potentially regrettable years of teenage rebellion spent most of his life in this riverside city, and as he’s recently moved to NYC, his wonderful parents are kind enough to host me for a few nights. It’s his charming Father who acknowledges the crouching elephant of Richmond’s past as we drive along ‘Monument Avenue’, suggesting a more appropriate slogan would be ‘Richmond; It’s History.’ And whilst a wry grin in the rear vision mirror betrays the irony, it’s clear he’s fully serious.
Monument Avenue looks as grand is it sounds; a shady divided suburban boulevard stretching for a couple of miles east from the centre of town with some of the cities most exclusive real estate lining it’s leafy and well manicured nature strips. Every few hundred yards stands a stone statue, towering sixty odd feet into the sky — each depicting a character pivotal to the American Confederacy.
A brief history lesson for those playing at home (and may I be forgiven for grossly oversimplifying and possibly misrepresenting a particularly complex and controversial aspect of America’s past): A century after being settled by the British in the 1600’s, there was a revolution against their rule and in 1776 the colonies signed the Declaration of Independence and the United States of America was born. It wasn’t long before some southerners decided to split off because there were significant differences in how they wanted their brave new world to look. One of the most notable points of difference was slavery — the Southern states, or the ‘Confederates’, wanting to keep their African American slaves whilst the Northern states, the ‘Unionists’, progressively adopted the notion that all men are equal and hence sought the abolition of the slave trade. The American Civil war eventuated in 1861, and by the time it ended in 1865 over 1 million soldiers and civilians (including 80 thousand slaves) had died; more Americans than both World Wars combined.
Richmond is widely considered the most important city of the Civil War — the Capitol and a stronghold for the Confederacy which was ultimately captured on April 3rd 1865, with the city effectively burned to the ground by soldiers during their chaotic retreat. On April 5th, Union leader Abraham Lincoln famously declared the war over on the steps of the Capitol square (a few hundred meters from Monument Avenue), 9 days before his assassination. Richmond is right at the heart of American History, for better or for worse.

So 150 years on, as we drive along this quiet and shady street, the question has to be asked — what role do these statues play in the telling or remembering of this tragic history? Stonewall Jackson and Robert Lee, blokes who were willing to (and did) die for their right to hold other humans as slaves, remain erected in bronze 60 feet above the ground for each new American generation to literally look up to. Every year Confederate supporters come to pay tribute to these men, and there is a palpable undercurrent of support for their movement that lives on in the South; epitomised in the Richmond community whenever the suggestion is made that they be removed in a similar manner to statues of Stalin or Saddam Hussein. In protest of the removal of General Lee’s statue, the leader of an opposition rally recently said — “What brings us together is that we are white, we are a people, we will not be replaced.”
The counter-argument to their removal is compelling and eloquently made by a delightfully gentle architect, a black man, who welcomed me onto his patio for a dinner party with his husband and my buddies parents. He fears that in removing these statues we are ignoring the past by rewriting history alltogether, a history so violent and shameful that we cannot afford to forget. He asks me if the pyramids in Egypt or the Taj Mahal should be torn down because they were built by slaves; I answer no. I tell him that when I go to a place like the Killing Fields in Cambodia, or the Dachau concentration camp in Germany I am grateful these places still exist because they give me a chance to feel in a visceral way the evil and hatred that mankind is capable of, leaving with one emphatic conviction — never again. I suppose this is the heart of the debate in Richmond — are these monuments, or are they memorials? Are we inadvertently memorialising figures who stood for the unthinkable, or are they painful but necessary monuments hesitantly pointing to a past that cannot be forgotten.
I’m honestly not qualified to comment, so instead I’ll make an observation. There are far more people than we acknowledge who hold views and opinions that are considered socially outdated and backward, and they keep them to themselves for the most part until they are given permission and a platform. It wasn’t until Donald Trump publicly proclaimed his xenophobia and bigotry on a political platform that millions of Americans raised their hand and ultimately their ballots to say, we agree. It’s blissful oblivion to think that once an opinion becomes taboo, genuine transformation of the social subconscious occurs. Rather, it just retreats and lies dormant, breeding in its own ignorance, ready to resurrect itself when summoned.
It wasn’t until someone suggested the statues on Monument Avenue were removed that there was a passionate outcry from confederate supporters who stepped out from the woodwork to protect them. My fear is that as long as they remain, those who consider these men heroes will use them to perpetuate their own version of history unopposed by fact. There must be some context in place to remind us that these men are a mirror to what humanity is capable of, and I hope the people of this beautiful town can figure out how.

Pittsburg, PA
An old friend is road tripping solo around North America, and we meet up for a few days in Pennsylvania. U2’s Joshua Tree anniversary tour is in town, so we join tens of thousands of tired Gen X-ers trying to remain enthused about an ailing Irish rock band a few decades from their prime. It’s a spectacle nonetheless.

Bono sings about one world united, and boy it sounds good.
Yet I can’t help but wonder if they all misunderstood.
A stadium of one time activists, now closing their minds.
He still hasn’t found what he’s looking for, and he’s running out of time.
Washington, D.C.
Blue Ridge Mountains, WV
We’ve set up camp at Big Meadow, in the peaceful Blue Ridge Mountains that form part of the famous Appalachian Trail. As the mountains consume last light, we settle in for the night. It’s mid June but there’s a biting chill on the air, I packed for summer and am paying the price. Before we sleep my buddy grabs his guitar and works his way through some of the soulful songs that brought us together as friends 10 years ago. I don’t remember Gang of Youths sounding this sad, but his strained voice through the thin mountain air reveals a deep mourning of which I’m all too familiar. He sings, ‘what can I do when the fire goes out?’ … I once feared the same.
When that fire went out years ago, I stumbled through the darkness desperate for the comfort of a God that promised to be with me always. For the first time I truly needed peace and all I found was fear. For the first time I needed to feel the presence of something more, but my prayers bounced off the ceiling with a deafening silence that perpetuated a crippling abandonment I felt from Christ and his followers. I was told that if He was unchanging yet suddenly felt distant then I must have moved; but for years I fought and tried and pleaded and cried, only to realise that this was never a battle between grace and pride. I was truly alone in the ether, without a spark, without a hope.
To stay alive I stopped trying to relight that fire, and found that I was surrounded by light all along — inside myself, in the kindness of my friends, in the beauty of this world. As my health improved, my mind found the strength to once more wrestle with the truth of it all, and in the absence of the convenience of faith that came with my childhood I found an overwhelming conviction that there was no truth in it after all. In letting go I have found a peace and comfort that transcended any religion or prescribed belief, and I carry on pursuing those ends with a free mind and an open spirit.
Some say I lost my faith, but I just got up off my knees.
Stopped looking up at the sky, and started looking inside of me.


And so we hike through incredible mountains, explore the history of DC and drive the country roads of West Virginia — having excruciating yet fruitful conversations about what to do when the fire goes out. I don’t have answers, just a lived experience and without encouraging unbelief I can only share my story and support him through his. I am filled with admiration and respect for the ones I care for who subscribe to a real and transcendent faith, a truth they love me enough to share without fear. But the truth I have found outside of the church has saved me literally; a light that gives warmth and hope and joy and peace without having to close my eyes and fall to the floor.
There is a light once the fire goes out. And it is everywhere.
Not all those who wander are lost, but some are lost indeed.
Not all who are lost shall be found, there’s things only blind men can see.

Quebec City, PQ
Montreal, PQ
Toronto, ON
A streetlight flickers above the suburban back roads of Quebec City, momentarily drowning the moonlight that ominously casts a thin shadow of my new friends and I, as we ride our fixed gears home from a bar downtown. I arrived on an overnight Greyhound from the US a few hours ago to meet Antoine and Simon — bearded brothers kind enough to host me on their couch for a few days as I explore French Canada, and instantly we’re mates. In the early hours of a Tuesday morning, our spirits are filled with excitement and adventure, naturally accentuated by a few cheeky local beers.
I stand on my pedals to feel the wind rush through my hair, allowing the pure air of a Canadian summers night to fill my lungs. Time stands still for a heartbeat too long, and without warning I’m thrown from my bike onto the pavement below. In the half second between ecstasy and agony my only thought is to protect my head, and I land on my left side with force.
I am alone with the silence for what feels like eternity, as my friends double back to see what happened, and a man runs out from his house to find me sprawled on the concrete in shock. Like a wave the pain comes to my leg and shoulder, and I notice that breathing isn’t so easy anymore. I desperately want to rewind, embarrassed to have crashed and ruined a perfect night, I tell everyone that I’m fine — I’ll meet them at home. They lift me off the road as I wriggle my toes and feel my head… maybe I’m going to be okay, everything’s going to be okay. My new friends (and some adrenaline) carry me to my bed and Antoine’s girlfriend even makes me a toasted cheese sandwich. I promise everyone I’ll be fine in the morning… I wish I believed myself as much as they do.
A few hours later I’m woken by pain, everywhere. In quick succession I’m faced by some brutal realities. I’m alone in the spare room of two French Canadian brothers who I met 12 hours ago from the couchsurfers app, both of whom aren’t home. I’ve bled onto the sheets from the grazes on my arm and shoulder. I can’t move my left leg, and definitely can’t put any weight through it. I want to call for help but without their wifi password my phone is useless. I’m also stuck on the forth floor of an apartment complex without a lift. Fuck.

The following week(s) have been some of the most physically challenging of my life, and there were a few moments of weakness where I’ve opened Skyscanner to look at flights home. Somehow I’m still on the road, and that’s solely because people are kind. People are generous. People want other people to be okay. Thanks to a few choice Canadians, this dream continues.
Incidentally Simon had the day off, and when he found me paralysed in bed on the verge of tears he kicked into gear. We use a wheelie chair and my good leg to get to the stairs and he practically carries me down four flights and towards his car. We go to the nearest hospital but it doesn’t have an A&E. We go to another hospital, only to have an excruciatingly difficult conversation with the staff who naturally speak only French, insisting I pay a thousand dollars up front as a foreigner. All I want is an X-ray and some pain relief, but apparently that wasn’t possible without some cash and ‘9 or 10 hours wait’. So Simon takes me to a clinic on the other side of town where finally things get sorted out. This dude who met me yesterday from the internet, literally spent 3 hours of his day off driving me around the city, translating for me and making sure I was okay. I can never thank him enough.
6 hours later, an X-ray shows there’s no fracture — an extensive contusion of my hip will hurt like hell, but will heal with time. I’m going to be okay. Forever thankful, I get ready to get a taxi back to the apartment when I get a message from Antoine asking when he can pick me up. He and his friend carry me back up the stairs, where dinner is ready and I’m treated like family by these twenty year old Canadian students and their buddies. The next day another couchsurfer is arriving so their other housemate drives me to the bus station, carrying my pack inside while I hobble in gratitude behind him.
The next week is spent balancing how much hydromorphone will keep the pain bearable enough to move versus knocking me out; a rather fine line it turns out. Friends of a friend in Montreal take me in for a few nights, cook for me, watch House of Cards with me, escort me half a block to the nearest cafe when I needed some air. A dear buddy who I met in South Africa changed his entire itinerary for our week in Toronto to just bro out on the couch with me. These people who I barely or never knew, went so far above and beyond to make sure I was okay, comfortable and could keep the journey going — I truly owe them more than I can ever repay. Thankyou.
People are kind. People are generous.
People want other people to be okay.
And thanks to these people, I am more than okay.
