CoffeeShop Blues: 2015 Traveler's Edition | Seite 21

Jeremy Frost

We come to another village, an island in the sea, and pause for a
break. Inge briefs me on the navigational possibilities. We can
continue the long way, away from the big roads, or take the shorter
route on the highway. We choose the long way on the rough dirt
road across the sea and over the swells. We roll cigarettes and we
smoke, and we survey the view of the village below with its mosque
with the Estes rocket minaret, and dirt roads with deep ruts leading
to the next ridge. A local couple is curious—they meander towards
us over clods of clay—we wave, say ‘Merhaba’—they do the
same—we move on.
That night we are near a village and before the village there is
another abandoned school but this one is beyond renovation—it is a
ruin—and we pitch a tent inside it, under what is left of the roof
because there may be rain. It takes 20 minutes to clear the floor of
rubble to make space for the tent—it takes me another 15 minutes to
gather wood for a fire. Some of the villagers watch as I gather fallen
branches from a tree on the grounds but I don't care. I make the fire
near the corner wall in our ruin and the cracks in the wall widen
from the heat and I wonder if the whole thing will come down on us
but I take no action to prevent it. The cracks widen in the wall, the
plaster buckles, we eat, we sleep, we rise with the muezzin, we move
on. It is all good.
We come to a town around lunch time. Inge does the shopping in
a grocery store while I watch her bike. When she comes out, she is
excited.
“Do you still w