THE SPACES IN-BETWEEN

Why the road is the destination

I found it tough earning a living as a travel writer because travel always got in the way. Travel journalism is all about top-ten destinations and best-kept secrets. But I savour the spaces in-between more than the destinations. I don’t fully understand why anyone would want to go where everyone else is going, and I like keeping secrets.

I should have given up on travel journalism somewhere between Djenne and Bomako in Mali. The tyre exploded — we were overloaded — and the Burkinabé man in my lap jumped with fright. We held each other as we weaved across the tarmac, the driver wrestling with the steering wheel, but he managed to gain control and we came to a stop in the long grass along the side of the road.

Judging by the relaxed composure of the Malian passengers, this was a common occurrence. We clambered out of the taxi. Some people lay down to sleep in the grass, some ate chicken, others went for a pee. We were a long way from anywhere, the sun was setting and the air was warm. A few of us lifted the car onto a rock so the driver could fit another bald tyre, and I realised I was happy. I finally understood what travel was about for me: the spaces in-between.

I was as happy as I had been in Djenne with its mud mosque and comfortable hotel bed, or as I would be in Bamako, a place I knew for its music and beautiful people. This space allowed me to catch a breath, reflect on where I had been and imagine the place to come.

I wonder how many others enjoy these spaces — the remote gas stations, small-town stopovers, endless horizons and quiet nothings on empty roads. Often they are punctuated by bursting tyres or sand traps. It’s why I especially like travelling in Namibia and Botswana. There’s a lot of space, tyres burst often, and sometimes you hit sand traps that hold you for long enough to savour the beauty of your surroundings.

When I think of either country I recall the roadside landscapes more than the famous destinations. The smells, the sounds — or often the lack of them. What stays with me is the act of changing a tyre, or trying to coax a motorcycle back to life.

I recall people materialising out of nowhere, gathering around my motorcycle in a remote area south of Botswana’s Makgadikgadi Pans. I was stranded because the electrics had cut out while fording a deep mud puddle. I fiddled around in a nest of wires, trying to figure out which wire goes where, and why I hadn’t brought spare fuses. The villagers tried to help, giving me advice in a language I didn’t understand. And when they got bored, the kids danced and the women nattered, but the men stayed and watched; judging by their hushed tones, I imagined they were discussing the merits of spare fuses.

I had been fiddling around for a long time when the bike finally sparked to life. The villagers cheered and laughed, the men waved me on, and the kids ran alongside me until I picked up speed.

Eventually I reached my destination, a sedate, brochured lodge on the edge of the salt pans, and I remember thinking ‘I wish I had stayed with the villagers.’

Long format originally published in Africa Geographic