As I was climbing up the rocky stairs, I wondered, like any human, at the monumental effort undertaken by some people to keep other people away.
And whenever I wanted to take a picture, I felt someone biting me by the ear and saying: hey, it’s already been done. You can find a bad shot in the thousands of holiday albums; a good one is on google images. What’s the point?
When I let doubt creep into myself, I can’t shake it off. I was climbing up the rocky stairs and wondering: will the people I left at home be able to do all the crazy things we had planned? Will I be able to manage around here? What the hell am i doing after all?
And so on, until darkness settled, the cable-car stopped and the last bus left, and I reached the top and remembered Ryszard Kapuściński, a Polish guy who wandered the world as a special reporter during communism, and wrote beautifully about it and then he died. But first he made it to China and walked to the Great Wall and told a story:
“As the days went by, I started thinking about the Great Wall more as a Great Metaphor. Because I was surrounded by people with whom I couldn’t communicate, there was a world around me I couldn’t penetrate. My situation was becoming weirder and weirder. I was going to write – but about what?”
It started getting cold and my cheeks turned red. No one knows what they’re doing. I might as well take a picture.