It’s 30°C outside and the sun is damping my T-shirt as I pedal along palm trees. Three days ago, my hands were freezing on the handlebars – the temperature was close to 0°C, it was raining around the clock and we couldn’t stop, otherwise we would have frozen altogether. So we biked for 100 km through industrial swamps until our fingers turned numb.
Today we’re sleeping in a bed and breakfast, tomorrow at some peasants’ house, the day after tomorrow under a bridge… we hang around with business people or construction workers while reading about the Cultural Revolution and Opium Wars.
We meet grown-up people who literally run away from us – they sprint and they hide. Others come and touch us, unsure whether we’re real or not. Cops pick us up on various reasons, take selfies with us and then let us go.
Meanwhile, my friends at home seem to be living on a different planet, and the world altogether seems to be running amok.
In the beginning, my thoughts were eating away at me, almost tearing me apart. But after one month on the bike, the ideas began to settle down quietly by the side of the road; I just need to pick them up and put them together at the end of the day.
There’s C H A O S everywhere, but when I get on the saddle, one by one, things begin to make sense.
Everything will be alright.