Rio De janeiro, 1973.
At once I was at home here, somehow and without knowing why or even wanting to stop and contemplate the strange feeling I just knew that there was an inner sense of peace and belonging in my step that strange, quasi-mystical culture shock that I’d felt before, first stepping on that Mexican train and then my first impressions on arriving in Veracruz but somehow more profound and permanent and without an apparent motive. I’d traveled by foot, bus, thumb, boat, train, ship and truck across the wild and savage forgotten backlands of the Americas over years of hunger and struggle, violence and brotherhood, loneliness, despair and personal strife and triumph to get this far and I felt quite qualified to fit in here as well as anywhere I’d ever been before, but there was something else, something ephemeral in the air that led me on past decaying colonial buildings and coughing groups of shirtless bastard sons of decadent history and tradition that bid me a fair welcome that stoked a sudden and dreamlike sense of wellbeing that transcended all the sordid mundane details of the stark reailty of my present situation; alone and largely unfamiliar with local language, culture and idiosyncrasies, an eternal stranger in another strange land, wandering unknown streets without destination, two steps away from being homeless and penniless. Well fuck it. The words of Antonio Pedro resounded in my ear “Here’s to destiny and fuck the whole miserable world”. Right on time, I thought, smiling like an idiot. Who needs a destination when one has a destiny? “Vagabundo corazon- Sem destino- Fuck the world.” The pieces were falling into place in my mind, like lyrics to an old song sung by a madman somewhere deep inside of me and I liked it.
Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2009
When in doubt, lean on destiny. perfect.