Onward journey to the north, to Bagan. What you see on the way shines golden: pagodas and faces.
Yangon. The thundering night rain is already there when I take a seat in the taxi in the back seat. The passenger pad is worn, the bare coil springs now jump up and down in time to the holey road. The warm rain falls and falls and the night lights are reflected on the asphalt and in the puddles.
The sun did not go up the day I met the doctor.
Pretty much everyone I talked to says: Do not drive there. Disgusting had to be the place. So we got in and drove off to Khayelitsha.
Nostalgia is the suffering of an unfulfilled longing. The desire to return. That's how I felt when finally the trembling lights of Istanbul stirred under me and I realized what I had. We parted in gray-colored November. I went to marvel at Africa. I left and she stayed.
Now I returned to the shores of the Bosporus.
Every morning - and only when it dawns on - do I walk through the streets wondering how they do it, how everything can be. Will understand, write down: how they live, how they suffer, how they survive. How a heart can withstand Maputo. Of course I sink.
The evening had long since started and the rainy season had recently given hope again, when Africa finally crawled through me for the first time - or what I wanted to introduce myself.
I came to Melilla to see the place where dreams and people die. But then I met Timothy, who owns everything that makes life feverish. From which I learned what it means to be tough, thirsty and full of hope. And that dreams want to shine.
Somewhere in this overflowing warehouse, the souks, near the Djemaa el Fna - where Marrakech breathes - Leila always waits with her Olivetti.