N ot only have I always loved travel- ling, rather I think that my travels taught me a lot and that without them I would not be a complete man. I imagined that I was in distant plac- es, in eastern Turkey or in Lisbon or in New Orleans, and I uncovered something (I do not know what exactly, a milk bottle or door handle shapes) from my childhood, which is still retained there. As a young man, I de- spaired about the accidents of birth and felt like a pinned butterfly. On my travels I would become a butterfly released from those pins. I would be careful with the in- tention of questioning other possibilities of existence, my other lives, which were some- how hitherto hidden from me. I felt that some cities like me or don’t like me. Venice liked me. Dubrovnik did not like me. I guess that they executed me there (as a Venetian spy) in a previous life. Travels taught me self-recognition. I wanted to go further, all the way to the end of the world. And where is the end of the world? I once travelled from Mostar to Bel- grade on an old bus. At some point in the night we stopped in Nevesinje. We went out to buy something. The main street was lit. Thick snowflakes flew beside the street lamps. The wind covered the newsstand with snow. And behind the well-lit street was complete darkness. I was sure that the end of the world was there. A man could sit and dangle his legs above nothingness. The end of the world was Cabo da Roca in Portugal. It is on that cape where waves
Osećao sam da me neki gradovi vole ili ne vole. Venecija me je volela. Dubrovnik me nije voleo. Valjda su me tamo (kao venecijanskog špijuna) pogubili u prethodnom životu
I felt that some cities like me or don’t like me. Venice liked me. Dubrovnik did not like me. I guess that they executed me there (as a Venetian spy) in a previous life
crash dramatically that Europe ceases to exist. The end of the world was also the Cape of Good Hope in South Africa, with even more terrifying rocks and even angri- er waves. I remember that we approached it by bus through a troop of baboons. Each pack was protected by one male. An Aus- tralian woman next to me had a giggle fit. The Cape of Good Hope, with its dizz ying views, did not look benign. This was also known by Bartolomeu Diaz, who dis- covered it after the Portuguese had spent centuries edging down the coast of Africa. Diaz was blown out to sea by that storm. It was only upon his return that he real- ised which point he had reached, and he wished to call it Cape Storm. As one of the earliest spin doctors in the Renaissance period, the Portuguese king rejected the ugly name and decided: “We’ll call it the Cape of Good Hope”. For me, the end of the world was al- so Algeciras, on the Spanish side of Gibral-
tar. I got sick in Malaga and didn’t want to cross into Africa. It was a psychological bar- rier. But then when I set sail, when the salty wind licked my face, and especially when we arrived in the green Tangier in Morocco, everything was fine. It was as though I had burst an ulcer (of prejudice) and I was cured. We ate couscous and drank beer. People in jellabiyas and fezzes played violins, holding them between their legs, like gusle fiddles. Something is always learned while travelling, and that’s not with drumming, but with the eyes, skin and through osmosis. We become sponges, soaking up the images and knowl- edge like in the way we once learned our mother tongue and all things in the world. And when we are not travelling, we travel in time. Inevitably we travel to our own regions and the start of the world, as Ivo Andrić said: “And without thought I travel end- less roads that trace blood behind closed eyelids.”
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