Bansang, The Gambia

Heading back home after two months in Bansang; in the best of hands, twelve years after I first met Yero Sam, and with a license to serve. The hospital soon became family. Medically our ambitions were sometimes limited by resources, but never short of effort and care. Most importantly, there was no distance to the reality in which we all live: a peaceful acceptance of lifes beginning and ending; a faith that this life is only a short prologue.

The 20-minute walk home was a space-out-session. The evening bucket shower under the stars likewise.

Between work, eat and sleep, we were reminded of how to approach life by children, always smiling; at once distanced from our adult life, yet more present to life than any of us.

It’s the rare luxury to be inspired by so many people you’ve met; to be given the gift of sharing their time; to end up truly respecting them more than you respect yourself.

Everything is up-front, bold and honest: curiosity, humanity, injustice, joy. It saturates your mind, and it’s sometimes challenging, but it etches your heart. Even before you leave, you miss it deeply.

The world we live in feels smaller, but so do we. It’s a peaceful comfort that I hope to keep.

Thank you all of Bansang, and especially Yero and Edeny.


Random kids observing the hair-cutting of a foreigner. A weekend visit to nearby town Basse. And since Monday, a rather hectic week as the only doctor 24/7 for the medical clinic. With sometimes late nights, the only open cafe by the main road fills the tummy with grilled chicken and cold spaghetti, and clears the mind with loud reggae and flashy lights. Then back to work.

En miljon högskoleår, men först ett systemfel

“Hur kommer det sig att Sveriges kanske mest högutbildade och därmed kostsamma yrkeskår har sämre teknik på jobbet än vad tonåringar har på sin fritid i ett land med internationellt erkända systemutvecklare? Tänk om vi kunde få skapa något gemensamt i syfte att frigöra dyrbar tid och kompetens till patienterna?”

Like the electron leaving the atom

“You’re like the electron leaving the atom: the force pulling you back the first few days is strong; the excuses to turn back are many, but suddenly one day, the resistance is gone and you are free.”

Space aviation student Théo on his first – but probably not last – touring ride from Toulouse to Helsinki.

Heading home

Heading home after ten days of cycling, camping, laughing, eating, life-analyzing, coffee-searching and tractor-tailing with lovely Eric. Every day felt satiated, long like a week, and not a single one could have been spent better. Touring at its best.

Att drabbas av samhällets oförmåga, och därför söka samhällets hjälp

“Timmen till ronden blir en timme av grubblerier. Jag känner sorg över det bortglömda människovärdet; över hur vi människor kan blunda för varandra. Men mest av allt känner jag en absolut skam. Och jag tänker att vi är många som berörs, men att det krävs mer än tankar och ord för de utsatta människor som ber oss om hjälp.”

Äventyr eller utflykt?

“För några veckor sedan fick jag hålla ett föredrag för ett gäng ungdomar på en skola i Fittja, och på affischer stod det ’Äventyrare kommer till Fittja’. Men vad är egentligen ett äventyr? Är det en svensk som cyklar med dyr utrustning genom Afrika eller är det en Ugandier som kommer oförberedd som immigrant till Fittja?”

Så inledde jag ett radioprogram för Sveriges Radio 2009, och frågan känns fortfarande lika aktuell. Varje gång det skrivs om ännu en priviligierad turist som kallar sig för ”äventyrare” eller rentav ”upptäcktsresande”, eller kallar sin resa för en ”expedition”, så väcks frågan. Vad betyder egentligen orden? Vad ger de för bild av resan, och vad ger de för bild av platserna och människorna som besöks?


Broderskap och systerskap

Broderskap och systerskap i Tensta. Varje dag, på alla språk, för alla människor.

O Pensador, Angola

Morning Rest by Lake Karakul, the Pamir Plateau, Tajikistan

The previous day was one of those that simply makes you feel alive: we had passed the 4,650-meter Akbaital Pass, gotten caught up in a snowstorm and then spent the night in the ruins of an ancient roadside caravanserai.

Living today and this autumn — with the challenge of being in the present despite life’s lingering questions of what is to come — I recall how I felt that day in the Pamir’s:

A feeling of absolute, serene comfort in being free, but also vulnerable, in meeting what is unknown and beyond ones control. An urgent desire to find out, but at the same time a freedom from the urge to control. A feeling that comes effortlessly while on the road, but that requires focus to attain in day-to-day life.

– Maybe the most valuable feeling to recall, on a busy autumn day?

Photo by Jean-Denis, a random cycling friend for two days.

Serenity at Ujung Kulon

At Ujung Kulon National Park with friend Pontus. Life doesn’t get more serene.

The UNESCO World Heritage site is famous for its small population of endangered rhinoceros, and for encompassing the Krakatau volcano — none of which we saw. Instead of “big fives” and legendary sites, its merit lies in simple matters: green plants with intricate geometric shapes, warm sand between the toes, playful butterflies and muddy marshes. A feeling of a genuine patch of untouched “real”.

Located at Javas westernmost tip, surrounded by the Indian Ocean. Nearest neighbour to the North: Sumatra, 100 km; to the West: Kenya, 7,000 km.

// From along our bicycle trip from Singapore, through Malaysia, and then Sumatra, Java, Bali and Lombok of Indonesia. We met none but lovely people, horrendous traffic and scenery of indescribable beauty. Underneath it all a stir of cultures, languages and religions that was at once confusing and uniquely enjoyable — begging for a second visit. Many thanks to the many wonderful Couchsurfers, Warm Showers’ and random friends who have hosted, guided or simply enjoyed with us. //

Brittany and Normandy

Life does not offer us voids to fill or fulfillments to reach. It is a simple existence sprinkled with millions of impressions; tiny pieces totalling into something that is not aspiring at making any sense for us — even if we sometimes dream desperately that it would.



I finally reach the country’s second largest city, helped by a good tailwind. Dirty industrial quarters line the road for the last twenty or so kilometres, before giving way to city proper. Hospitality Club member Mehdi meets me in the suburb where he lives and takes me to the flat that he shares with his mother.

Remembering all the good people who have cared for me as I have traveled this beautiful country, here are a few words by modern Iranian poet Sohrab Sepehri (from “Footsteps of Water”):

“I, don’t know
That why some say: horses are noble animals, pigeons are beautiful.
And why there is no vulture in any person’s birdcage.
What do clovers lack that red tulips have.
Eyes should be washed, in another way we should see.
Words should be washed.
A word in itself should be the wind, a word in itself should be the rain.

Umbrellas we should shut.
In the rain we should walk.
Thoughts, and recollections, should be carried in the rain.
With all the people of the town, in the rain we should walk.
A friend, in the rain we should call on.
Love, we should seek in the rain.
In the rain we should play.
In the rain we should write things, speak, plant lotuses.
Getting drenched from time to time,
swimming in the pond of ‘right now’, is what life is.”


Also mentioned in this haunting report by Robert Fisk:

Homs, Syria

I — a stranger on a bicycle lost on the streets of Homs — asked him if he knew of any internet café nearby. He — a tailor in his early twenties — invited me into his life and his hometown. A couple of hours after our random meeting, we stood in one of his family’s apartments in the outskirts of town, and Masoud handed me the keys. In the unfurnished seven rooms, I was given space and peace to sleep off the desert heat, which had literally satiated my senses.

I stayed for three days. Masoud was busy preparing for his own wedding, scheduled for only a week later, yet dedicated much of his time to the unexpected guest. During daytime, he drove me around to help arrange practicalities ahead of my upcoming cycling to Damascus; showed me more of town and took me to visit his friends and family.

In three days, Masoud etched Homs into my heart. Each time I have seen the news on Syria, Masoud has been right there in my thoughts. I have tried to reach him during these five years, but without luck.

Yesterday — at last — I received words from him. He and his family is trapped since two years in a refugee camp somewhere North of the capital. He tells me how no-one knows the end of it; the time when they may return home and life may resume. His words are as straight-forward and heartful as when I last met him. There are no favours asked — but rather words of common humanity; of feeling blessed by our friendship. Maybe the same blessing that I feel: to know that there is yet somone who is looking for something more humane than what we have.

“Have you ever picked hazelnuts? We will have lots of fun!”

It reminded me of that day in Western Sahara, when Lina and I were invited to leave our bikes at a petrol station by the main road, and join a man in his Land Rover to his oasis in the desert.

When someone invites you to their home, and besides tells you to leave the bike behind because of the difficult or even dangerous road, it means that they want to show you some place special and beautiful; that they want to show you their paradise.

Aydin presented himself to me at the café in Limandere, and invited me to his house. His son Erdem helped to translate from a distance via SMS: “Have you ever picked hazelnuts? We will have lots of fun!” My bicycle was taken care of by Aydin’s friends at the bus station in Kocaali, and his neighbour drove me up to small village Acmabasi. The road winded up and down steep hillsides, and I was thankful that I did not insist on going by bike. Reaching Acmabasi after some ten kilometres, Erdem welcomes me.

In the late afternoon sun, we sit down on a mattress on their yard. They have a simple wooden house, and around it and us are their vast fields of hazelnut trees. The air is clean; the silence is meditative. We crack hazelnuts (of course!) and eat sweet pears and figs from their garden. Erdem’s mother Mülkiye joins us with some homemade Turkish delights (sweets).

When Aydin comes home, the sun has almost set and Erdem and I have already spent one or two hours at his neighbour’s house, helping them with their harvest. We fill sacks with eighty or so kilograms of nuts each. They sell them for just two Euros per kilo, although with the remaining work of cracking them.

We spend the evening in the village with friends of Erdem, visit the mosque and greet the elder men at the tea saloon. The morning after is a near tearful goodbye — the peace and the feeling of family in Acmabasi really made it a paradise.

“Caraçao [heart],” he says and points at us.

We meet fisherman Juan. He has a small shelter made of reed right next to the road. Behind it and the narrow piece of ground it occupies, a large river delta spreads out. His canoe rests by the water edge. Todays catch lies left to dry on a log next to him. He takes two of the fishes and grills them in a fire for us to taste. “Caraçao” (heart), he says and points at us.

We camp a few kilometres further on, behind a roadside bar. Quickly, before the sun sets, we walk to a water outlet by the road where we bath.

Overwhelming Green

The lush, fresh green is just overwhelming. The cashew trees bear fruit — soft apples in shades ranging from green through yellow to red, with each a nut (the actual fruit) attached underneath. The air is filled with the rich, fermented smell of the mushy apples. The apples are impossible to export because of their frail softness, we are told, and so the children usually eat them while they harvest the nuts. The mangoes also bear fruit — green now, but ripe in just a couple of weeks’ time. Banana and pineapple is sold along the road, as well as fresh palm wine.