Wildness and a Boy #2.

Axle Winterson
Sep 4, 2018 · 6 min read

“I don’t believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of being alive.” — Joseph Campbell.

I arrive in Dalat late in the evening, exhausted, and myself and the machine bumble our way around the city in search of a warm guesthouse, dazed by the bright lights and frantic buzz of night markets just opening.

At night, the air was crisp and cool, being 4900ft about sea level. Yet at the break of day, the piercing rays of eastern sun rapidly heat the atmosphere.

Asiti.

I spent only a few days here, though they were most enjoyable — many hours spent in deep conversation, fuelled by the markedly strong coffee the Vietnamese so love.

It was here that I met one of the first people, perhaps the very first, who, for a short period of time along my journey, befriended me; and became not only a friend, but a teacher, and a brother— one of the first people who served as a true inspiration for me.

Dost kara günde belli olur.

It was a beautiful little city, cool air and warm smiles, and charming old women wrapped up in colourful wool.

This country was already beginning to romance my soul, its beautiful diversity, its people, its spirit.

A period of my journey was now undertaken without record, in other words, I did not, for whatever reason, capture with photographs what I experienced.

I, nevertheless, will attempt to tell this part of the story without the assistance of images.

-

I left for the coast, and on my way out of the city I remember a dark and ominous sky that beckoned me forth. I continued undeterred, towards a large, remote mountain range that one must cross to pass down over onto the coastal plains to which I headed.

The ride, I estimated, would take no more than 5–6 hours of continued progress — however, as I pettered up slowly towards the ominous mountains above, the first signs of rain began to drop around us — at first hardly noticeable, yet gradually, as I went higher and higher, and further away from any human settlement, it fell harder, and more densely — and then moreso, until, just as the road began to plateau, and as I knew myself to be at the very peak of the climb, the rain became torrential; fierce, as fierce as one could imagine.

Myself and machine charged on, battered and beaten and yet undeterred. Within an instant, I was drenched to the very core, my hands gripping to the rubber handles with all my might, themselves numb beyond sensation, becoming like rubber themselves. And my eyes, squinting like wooden slits, pummeled by this relentless storm that so engulfed me.

Well, I knew if I stopped, there would be no help — for the road had been stark and empty for hours, I was sure of it. And to the option of waiting it out, I thought unwise, since my body was already shivering and numb, and the bike may well have refused to start again after stopping in such conditions.

I remember feeling so wild, so alive. I remember shouting, screaming hysterically — that primal beast within, like a wolf. That animal scream echoing down into mountainous valleys, cutting through the dense wall of rain and wind. I did not feel fear, for the moment was so precious; I was a warrior on his noble horse, and my horse was fearless, and therefore so was I — it was a bond like brotherhood, that unity of man and machine.

I know not how long it went on like this, as I lost all sense of time, all sense of everything but the raw experience of my own senses. I was so deep in that primal trance, so intensely focused. Though, at some point, still deep in those torrents of rain, the machine began to cough, and splutter, and whine down and down and quieter and quieter, until the piston could pump no more, and it took its last breath, and died.

I was left, surrounded by the chaos of the storm, rocky walls on either side of me; standing blankly, water streaming down my face and arms and back. It was such a strange moment, like being snapped out of a dream, and suddenly you’re in your bed with some odd note of nostalgia in your stomach. Well, it was the same for me then, except I was not in bed, I was so far away from anything warm and comforting — and yet I smiled, fervently, because I was alive —I was cold, yes, but not critically so, and although my hands were like hard rubber, and my situation so miserable by a rational mans calculation, it was a moment of pure ecstasy; and as such, in some strange way, I had never felt so human.

I began to push the bike with my hands on the handlebars, and my feet driving into the tarmac behind me. I have no idea how long I pushed it for like that, but, to my stark amazement, at some point in time, out of the haze of the downpour ahead, a single headlight beamed faintly from some distance like some great moving lighthouse. And, as it came closer, the figure grew more defined. Two Vietnamese men, as they came near to me, stopped, and sat opposite me, no more than 10ft away, watching me for a moment; trying to discern exactly why this young english boy was standing there in the middle of the road, resting his bike on his hip, with a wide grin and the eyes of a lunatic.

They proceeded to push me, with the driver’s left foot jammed in against my back footpeg, along the plateau for what must have been 20 minutes or more, back in the direction they had came — the heavy downpour still not relenting, until the road began to slope downwards again, and as such I thanked them for what they had done, and began the steady roll down the mountain, with gravity now pulling me forth — and in due time, finding an old man and his little mechanic shop, my bike was repaired, the storm suddenly clearing in what felt like minutes; and I set off again, the sun now low on the horizon, towards the coast. I was so alone on that mountain, and to be in such a great position of fortune to meet these men at such a time, and given their selflessness in the situation, I remember how tears began to join the streams of water trailing down my face and jaw as they pushed me, and how so grateful I felt simply to be human.

-

A couple of days later, having made it to the east coast of Vietnam, with hundreds of miles of coastal highways laid ahead, I met a Brazilian, and within 24 hours of meeting him — having bought a scooter from a motorbike taxi driver — he joined me on the road north…

“We are travelers on a cosmic journey, stardust, swirling and dancing in the eddies and whirlpools of infinity. Life is eternal. We have stopped for a moment to encounter each other, to meet, to love, to share. This is a precious moment. It is a little parenthesis in eternity.” — The Alchemist.

Axle.

The Photojournal.

The story of a young maverick in the modern world.

Axle Winterson

Written by

Young maverick; poet, traveller.

The Photojournal.

The story of a young maverick in the modern world.

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