What is the feeling when you’re driving away from people, and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? It’s the too huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.
-Jack Kerouac
Vaulting Us
Neal is tall and often has to fold himself when fitting into the small spaces offered hitch-hikers. Artie is short and fat and his bulk doesn’t fold. But these things weren’t a problem for Neal and Artie the last time they left Lusaka by car. They sat next to each other in the back of a Toyota Corolla that roared away from Lusaka- eating 140 kilometers an hour.
The two were on their way back to their provincial capitals for the last time so that they could settle things. The next time either of them left Lusaka, it would be on board a jet. They had been in this country in the middle of southern Africa for two days short of twenty-six months and both were about to rediscover the way of life that had been steadily clicking, buzzing and whistling like a modem in their absence.
America. The United States of America.
Artie hated calling it America and himself an American and usually used “The States”; always capitalized in his mind. He didn’t know how to refer to himself as anything but an American, so he simply said “I’m a Minnesotan.” Artie needed to go home, but wondered inside if that home was still there.
Neal had a fiancé waiting for him there in “The States,” and the thought of her there held his mind like a beacon- guiding him through any doubts about readjustment.
Before the Corolla, the two had taken a cab to the outskirts of town. The cab stopped at a place that didn’t seem like any sort of destination and Neal and Artie stepped out and on to the side of the road. “You have change for 50,000? Thank you, boss.”
Many cars drove by them on the side of that road. There were lorries with loads: lumber or pieces of cellular phone towers or goats or people. There were small cars and pickup trucks and many cabs that slowed and stopped to ask if a lift was needed. The cab drivers would say that they could be booked to go where ever the two were headed and were told that the two hadn’t the money to book a cab that distance. The cab driver would then advise the two to take the bus. “No, thank you- the bus is expensive and dangerous.” Neal and Artie preferred to chance their luck with the lottery of driver generosity on the road.
Once a large diesel pulling a school bus on a flat bed went by. It was a large yellow school bus with black stripes down its sides like the ones that any American child has ridden to school. The diesel together with the school bus piggy-back took up a big part of the road- and the sky above the road- and buffeted the two hitch-hikers with wind as it passed; picking up speed to get out of town.
As they stood on the side of the road, Neal and Artie joked about this life that had been theirs for two days short of twenty-six months. People filed by on their way to nearby places. Mothers with babies walked with their loads on their heads. School children walked by in their uniforms with different colors for different grades. A group of men with shovels and picks walked by and stopped briefly to ask why the two weren’t taking the bus. The men with the implements said that they were on their way to dig a grave, but were none the less jolly- they bummed a cigarette and walked on.
Neal looked down the road leading back into Lusaka during a gap in traffic and sighed. “Every time we do this, it seems like we are never going to find our way home.” As he finished the sentence, another stream of cars rolled by and Artie turned to wave his hand- palm down- in the African version of sticking out a thumb. The cars continued past. Some of the drivers waged a down-turned finger in a circle to tell the travelers that they were “just within”- not leaving town. Some of them shook their hand side to side- palm up- as if shaking a pair of invisible dice. This meant that they were full- or not allowed to pick up hikers. Most drivers drove past and simply stared. These were the ones that aggravated the two the most. “At least give us a sign.”
Digging through his wallet- mostly for something to do- Artie realized that he had quite a collection of business cards that he had never asked for. Laughing, he handed them to Neal and explained that drivers- usually those that don’t charge- have a habit of giving their card. The hope is that this random American that the driver has picked up may some day be a valuable connection across the sea. Mostly these cards were simply moldering in Artie’s wallet. Neal suggested that the future of the cards was to continue to do so.
Neal and Artie stood there on the side of the road for over an hour being alternately ignored by drivers in shiny extended cab pickup trucks and socked by the displaced wind around tractor trailers. They were at least another hour from considering giving up when the dark blue Corolla pulled to a stop just in front of them.
The driver was a man named Simon in a brightly colored plaid suit. There was a woman in the passenger seat in a more traditional dress that was never introduced. They were on their way to the funeral of Simon’s brother. Neal and Artie gave their condolences and then let the conversation go the way Simon wished. He asked about the upcoming presidential election in the United States and expressed his doubts about the American public electing someone who is of African decent. Neal and Artie wanted to and did believe that the U.S. wouldn’t let something like race effect the outcome of the elections.
Simon said that he had studied in the U.K. and asked the two hitch hikers if they had ever been there. Neither of them had. Eventually the conversation died away and there was just the rumba music on the radio and the purr of the road under the car. Neal closed his eyes and leaned his head back and went to sleep. Artie couldn’t get to sleep on transport and he looked around at the landscape and thought about girls. He thought maybe he would go out dancing when he got back to his provincial capital. Occasionally he looked at the speedometer and thought about how the driver was going a little to fast for his liking.
Artie’s mind moved briefly from girls: one hundred and forty kilometers is how many miles per hour. Fifty kilometers is thirty miles… sixty into one hundred… forty more… divide by five…multiply by three… twenty- four more. We’re going 84 miles an hour. This is too fast. Maybe not in a sound car, but who knows what’s wrong with this Corolla.
As the Corolla pulled out to pass the tractor trailer pulling the school bus and rumbled over a set of speed bumps without stopping, Artie decided that there are some things that it’s just best not to think about. He looked over at Neal sleeping open-mouthed next to him. He knew that their paths would diverge in about one hundred kilometers. Neal would go north and Artie would go west and the next time that they would meet would be in the United States; maybe at Neal’s wedding. Even though this wasn’t the end of their friendship, Artie felt the full weight of leaving for the first time. It would never again be like that moment for them again. There would be other times, but never times like the crazy Kerouac dream in which their friendship had been forged.
The car loped over another set of speed bumps and Simon apologized- saying that they had already started the viewing of the body. Artie said that it was no problem and meant it because he was fairly sure that the Corolla was a free ride. But when the bumps woke Neal, Artie looked at his friend and quietly crossed himself. The two travelers smiled. Risk had to be a joke in situations like this- or it would be too much to bear for two days short of twenty-six months.
Seeing that both of his passengers were awake, Simon disclosed that he had gone to school for law and that he was working as a Lawyer in Lusaka. He launched into a speech about the treatment of prisoners in his country. Neal realized this was a plea for support. Artie continued to nod and listen to the pitch. When Simon reached into the pocket on the inside of the brightly colored plaid jacket, the two travelers smiled. Simon handed the card to Artie and it was filed into the wallet along with the pile of others decaying there.
Neal and Artie were dropped from the Corolla at a police check point some fifty kilometers from their parting junction. They thanked the driver profusely for what was indeed a free ride and stepped out into the sun. Neal didn’t think that the police were going to be any help, so the two started to walk down the road to where they would be out of site and cars would be less afraid to stop. As they walked they talked about shotguns and slug-barrels and their conversation could have been pulled from any other point in their service. As the police post disappeared over the horizon of the road behind them, Neal and Artie were again hit by the wind of the tractor trailer with school bus as it rolled steadily by.
Shortly after the school bus, a Land Cruiser with an open bed stopped and Neal and Artie climbed in the back. They sat down on the hard, sun-heated metal of the wheel wells and held on to the walls of the bed as the truck accelerated. Artie looked through the back window of the truck and could see the console. One hundred and forty kilometers per hour. They flew past the school bus.
The Land Cruiser stopped in Kapiri- about ten kilometers short of the junction- and Neal and Artie climbed immediately into an old blue taxi cab. The cab had no shocks and it floated like a boat to the petrol station at the junction. At the station, Artie and Neal at shawarmas and drank coke and didn’t say much. With the food finished, they sat at the table full of empty greasy wrappers. The cars continued to rush by, and Artie couldn’t help noting that they were going his direction. “Well, I guess…”
“Yeah.”
As they walked from the station, an old man on crutches approached them and greeted in the local language. A group of younger men nearby said that the man was hungry and that the two Americans should buy him something. Neal reached into his wallet and pulled a couple of ragged bills and handed them to the old man. Artie gave nothing and the two of them started to walk away. The younger men called after them that they hadn’t given enough. Neal turned to explain that they were volunteers and that the money to hand out to everyone wasn’t there. There was a need to decide who to give to and who to deny. Artie never turned. Finally Neal also turned around and the young men continued to yell as the two walked away. Neal shook his head. “Assholes.”
It will never be like this again.
At the road, Neal and Artie faced each other. The moment had come. They hugged quickly and reminded each other that they would meet in “The States.” They turned and walked in opposite directions.
As he was walking away, Artie turned and looked again at his friend. Two days short of twenty-six months. They had shared some of the biggest challenges of their life. It had seemed like such a long time from the other end, and now it was coming to a close.
Artie had to wipe tears from his eyes before he could talk to the driver of the truck that stopped to take him to the next town on the road back to his village. Shaking his head, he climbed into the bed of the truck and sat down on a wheel well and his eyes were soon dried by the wind as the truck passed the school bus.
Through the window he could read the speedometer: one hundred and forty kilometers an hour.
-Jack Kerouac
Vaulting Us
Neal is tall and often has to fold himself when fitting into the small spaces offered hitch-hikers. Artie is short and fat and his bulk doesn’t fold. But these things weren’t a problem for Neal and Artie the last time they left Lusaka by car. They sat next to each other in the back of a Toyota Corolla that roared away from Lusaka- eating 140 kilometers an hour.
The two were on their way back to their provincial capitals for the last time so that they could settle things. The next time either of them left Lusaka, it would be on board a jet. They had been in this country in the middle of southern Africa for two days short of twenty-six months and both were about to rediscover the way of life that had been steadily clicking, buzzing and whistling like a modem in their absence.
America. The United States of America.
Artie hated calling it America and himself an American and usually used “The States”; always capitalized in his mind. He didn’t know how to refer to himself as anything but an American, so he simply said “I’m a Minnesotan.” Artie needed to go home, but wondered inside if that home was still there.
Neal had a fiancé waiting for him there in “The States,” and the thought of her there held his mind like a beacon- guiding him through any doubts about readjustment.
Before the Corolla, the two had taken a cab to the outskirts of town. The cab stopped at a place that didn’t seem like any sort of destination and Neal and Artie stepped out and on to the side of the road. “You have change for 50,000? Thank you, boss.”
Many cars drove by them on the side of that road. There were lorries with loads: lumber or pieces of cellular phone towers or goats or people. There were small cars and pickup trucks and many cabs that slowed and stopped to ask if a lift was needed. The cab drivers would say that they could be booked to go where ever the two were headed and were told that the two hadn’t the money to book a cab that distance. The cab driver would then advise the two to take the bus. “No, thank you- the bus is expensive and dangerous.” Neal and Artie preferred to chance their luck with the lottery of driver generosity on the road.
Once a large diesel pulling a school bus on a flat bed went by. It was a large yellow school bus with black stripes down its sides like the ones that any American child has ridden to school. The diesel together with the school bus piggy-back took up a big part of the road- and the sky above the road- and buffeted the two hitch-hikers with wind as it passed; picking up speed to get out of town.
As they stood on the side of the road, Neal and Artie joked about this life that had been theirs for two days short of twenty-six months. People filed by on their way to nearby places. Mothers with babies walked with their loads on their heads. School children walked by in their uniforms with different colors for different grades. A group of men with shovels and picks walked by and stopped briefly to ask why the two weren’t taking the bus. The men with the implements said that they were on their way to dig a grave, but were none the less jolly- they bummed a cigarette and walked on.
Neal looked down the road leading back into Lusaka during a gap in traffic and sighed. “Every time we do this, it seems like we are never going to find our way home.” As he finished the sentence, another stream of cars rolled by and Artie turned to wave his hand- palm down- in the African version of sticking out a thumb. The cars continued past. Some of the drivers waged a down-turned finger in a circle to tell the travelers that they were “just within”- not leaving town. Some of them shook their hand side to side- palm up- as if shaking a pair of invisible dice. This meant that they were full- or not allowed to pick up hikers. Most drivers drove past and simply stared. These were the ones that aggravated the two the most. “At least give us a sign.”
Digging through his wallet- mostly for something to do- Artie realized that he had quite a collection of business cards that he had never asked for. Laughing, he handed them to Neal and explained that drivers- usually those that don’t charge- have a habit of giving their card. The hope is that this random American that the driver has picked up may some day be a valuable connection across the sea. Mostly these cards were simply moldering in Artie’s wallet. Neal suggested that the future of the cards was to continue to do so.
Neal and Artie stood there on the side of the road for over an hour being alternately ignored by drivers in shiny extended cab pickup trucks and socked by the displaced wind around tractor trailers. They were at least another hour from considering giving up when the dark blue Corolla pulled to a stop just in front of them.
The driver was a man named Simon in a brightly colored plaid suit. There was a woman in the passenger seat in a more traditional dress that was never introduced. They were on their way to the funeral of Simon’s brother. Neal and Artie gave their condolences and then let the conversation go the way Simon wished. He asked about the upcoming presidential election in the United States and expressed his doubts about the American public electing someone who is of African decent. Neal and Artie wanted to and did believe that the U.S. wouldn’t let something like race effect the outcome of the elections.
Simon said that he had studied in the U.K. and asked the two hitch hikers if they had ever been there. Neither of them had. Eventually the conversation died away and there was just the rumba music on the radio and the purr of the road under the car. Neal closed his eyes and leaned his head back and went to sleep. Artie couldn’t get to sleep on transport and he looked around at the landscape and thought about girls. He thought maybe he would go out dancing when he got back to his provincial capital. Occasionally he looked at the speedometer and thought about how the driver was going a little to fast for his liking.
Artie’s mind moved briefly from girls: one hundred and forty kilometers is how many miles per hour. Fifty kilometers is thirty miles… sixty into one hundred… forty more… divide by five…multiply by three… twenty- four more. We’re going 84 miles an hour. This is too fast. Maybe not in a sound car, but who knows what’s wrong with this Corolla.
As the Corolla pulled out to pass the tractor trailer pulling the school bus and rumbled over a set of speed bumps without stopping, Artie decided that there are some things that it’s just best not to think about. He looked over at Neal sleeping open-mouthed next to him. He knew that their paths would diverge in about one hundred kilometers. Neal would go north and Artie would go west and the next time that they would meet would be in the United States; maybe at Neal’s wedding. Even though this wasn’t the end of their friendship, Artie felt the full weight of leaving for the first time. It would never again be like that moment for them again. There would be other times, but never times like the crazy Kerouac dream in which their friendship had been forged.
The car loped over another set of speed bumps and Simon apologized- saying that they had already started the viewing of the body. Artie said that it was no problem and meant it because he was fairly sure that the Corolla was a free ride. But when the bumps woke Neal, Artie looked at his friend and quietly crossed himself. The two travelers smiled. Risk had to be a joke in situations like this- or it would be too much to bear for two days short of twenty-six months.
Seeing that both of his passengers were awake, Simon disclosed that he had gone to school for law and that he was working as a Lawyer in Lusaka. He launched into a speech about the treatment of prisoners in his country. Neal realized this was a plea for support. Artie continued to nod and listen to the pitch. When Simon reached into the pocket on the inside of the brightly colored plaid jacket, the two travelers smiled. Simon handed the card to Artie and it was filed into the wallet along with the pile of others decaying there.
Neal and Artie were dropped from the Corolla at a police check point some fifty kilometers from their parting junction. They thanked the driver profusely for what was indeed a free ride and stepped out into the sun. Neal didn’t think that the police were going to be any help, so the two started to walk down the road to where they would be out of site and cars would be less afraid to stop. As they walked they talked about shotguns and slug-barrels and their conversation could have been pulled from any other point in their service. As the police post disappeared over the horizon of the road behind them, Neal and Artie were again hit by the wind of the tractor trailer with school bus as it rolled steadily by.
Shortly after the school bus, a Land Cruiser with an open bed stopped and Neal and Artie climbed in the back. They sat down on the hard, sun-heated metal of the wheel wells and held on to the walls of the bed as the truck accelerated. Artie looked through the back window of the truck and could see the console. One hundred and forty kilometers per hour. They flew past the school bus.
The Land Cruiser stopped in Kapiri- about ten kilometers short of the junction- and Neal and Artie climbed immediately into an old blue taxi cab. The cab had no shocks and it floated like a boat to the petrol station at the junction. At the station, Artie and Neal at shawarmas and drank coke and didn’t say much. With the food finished, they sat at the table full of empty greasy wrappers. The cars continued to rush by, and Artie couldn’t help noting that they were going his direction. “Well, I guess…”
“Yeah.”
As they walked from the station, an old man on crutches approached them and greeted in the local language. A group of younger men nearby said that the man was hungry and that the two Americans should buy him something. Neal reached into his wallet and pulled a couple of ragged bills and handed them to the old man. Artie gave nothing and the two of them started to walk away. The younger men called after them that they hadn’t given enough. Neal turned to explain that they were volunteers and that the money to hand out to everyone wasn’t there. There was a need to decide who to give to and who to deny. Artie never turned. Finally Neal also turned around and the young men continued to yell as the two walked away. Neal shook his head. “Assholes.”
It will never be like this again.
At the road, Neal and Artie faced each other. The moment had come. They hugged quickly and reminded each other that they would meet in “The States.” They turned and walked in opposite directions.
As he was walking away, Artie turned and looked again at his friend. Two days short of twenty-six months. They had shared some of the biggest challenges of their life. It had seemed like such a long time from the other end, and now it was coming to a close.
Artie had to wipe tears from his eyes before he could talk to the driver of the truck that stopped to take him to the next town on the road back to his village. Shaking his head, he climbed into the bed of the truck and sat down on a wheel well and his eyes were soon dried by the wind as the truck passed the school bus.
Through the window he could read the speedometer: one hundred and forty kilometers an hour.
