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Leif Lorentzon

Africa –and Iwas 19

Atravelnarrative

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CoverdesignbyNaima Lorentzon

Frontjacketphoto of Erik just home from Africa,byLeifLorentzon. Back jacket photograph by MarithaLorentzon

Allother photographsbyLeifLorentzon

Förlag:BoD ·BooksonDemand, Stockholm,Sweden

Tryck: LibriPlureosGmbH, Hamburg,Tyskland

ISBN: 978-91-8057-875-2

To Kajsa, Axel &Naima:you arethe best!

Theroadisthe source,itisthe treasure,itisrichness.

Ryszard Kapuscinski

Cultural particularitiesare accidental.Whatdefines the humanspecies arethe universals of culture. KwasiWiredu

Africa offers therestofthe worldhumanity. RichardDowden

Högdalen

Iwas 19 years oldwhenI hitchhikedaroundAfricaand todayI am 69. SometimesI have wondered whyI journeyedout into theworld,and whyalone.Duringa fewsummers in high school,I hadhitchhiked around Europe with some of my friends, butwhy wasI theonlyone to continue?Myfamily hadnever movedaroundmuch, only from Jönköping (whereI wasborn),via Södertälje to theStockholm suburb of Högdalen.Nor didwetravelabroad; therewas neverany moneyfor that.Mysister,seven yearsolder than I, hadhowever movedtoSwitzerland when shewas 18,but hadthatinfluencedme? No,there wassomethingelse: arathermysteriousrestlessness, Iguess.I hadpossiblyacquireda tastefor somethingduringthose summersthumbingaround Europe.

In my earlyteens Ihad oftenborrowedissuesof NationalGeographic from theschool library at Bäckahagen,where Ispent my elementary schoolyears.Perhaps aseedwas planted therewhenI gazedwide-eyed at thefantastic pictures.

Or maybeI wasjust nuts!

FirstI spenta year in Africa,thentwo in Americaand then anotherin Asia.Injustoverfiveyears Ihitchhikedaroundthe world, with twotenmonths intervalsinStockholm to earn money; Iworkedasa cleanerat Stockholm'ssubwaystations: agreat job! That Africa wouldend up meaningsomuchtome; to dominate largeparts of my life, Ihad no idea of at thetime, or when Icamehome. ButI am sure IfeltI had done somethingquite remarkable.

During much of thespringand summerof1971, Ihad been on the floorofmyroom in HögdalenwithMichelin’s threemapsofthe Africancontinent, numbers153,154 and155.Theywould become my constantcompanionsthrough ‘dark’ Africa.I hadboughttheminthe cartographicalshoponVasagatan,opposite thecentral stationin Stockholm, forSEK 8.20 each (about$1atthe time). Together they coveredthe entire floorand also filledmewithexcitement. With them I hadalready in my imaginationtravelled severaltimes across thecontinent,visitingthe pyramids of Giza,riverboating on theNile andthe

Congo, swimming in theIndianOcean,crossingthe Sahara andseen lions andelephantsonthe savannah. Thetwo-dimensional maps could not promisethatI wouldexperiencetheminthree-dimensionalreality, buttheygavemehopesand dreams.Ofcourse, therewerenoblank spaces on themaps, andmostAfrican countrieshad been freed from colonial powers foratleast adecade, so no coloursseparated them either.

TheMichelin maps were,however,beautiful andintoxicated my nights anddayswithdreamsofAlexandria, Wadi Halfa, Serengeti, Congo, Agadez,Marrakech... Abstract words, formeexoticplace names, whichI wouldconcretize into fairly familiarplaces. Themapsare still beautifulnow that Ihaveretrieved them from abox in thebasement. They areratherwornout butholdtogetherremarkablywellwiththe help of some sticky tape.Ofall themapsI have travelledwith, theseare my favourites;theyare themostappealing! Thecolourcombination is beautiful: mainly whitewithmainroads in red, thesmalleronesinyellow andwhite,the desert is yellowand theforestgreen.Theyalsoinform youwhich roadswerepassableduringrainy seasons,which were dangerousordifficult,where therewereunfurnished “rest-houses” or isolated hotelsand good water. Informationthatonthe floorinmyroomtriggeredmyimagination.

Nowmyroute is clearlyvisible on allthree maps.Witha pencil I marked my progress across thecontinentasI travelled, even marking each nightwitha dot, anda crossifI stayed longer than one night. This should,togetherwiththe diariesI kept,makeitpossibletoremember now, 50 years later. Thediaries were my dearesttravelcompanion, someone to converse with,toshare my experienceswith. Most days Iended by puttingdownwhathad happenedduringthe dayand they nowfill a drawer in my home. It is fortunatethatI have them becausememoryis deceptive, full of holes andreconstructions. Ihavediscoveredthisnow as Ireadthrough them andamsurprised at what Ihaveforgotten or distorted.“Thepastisa foreigncountry;theydothingsdifferently there,”asL.P.Hartley oncewrote.I also have some fading photographs andmyold passport with allits peculiarstamps, as well as theyellow vaccination booklet. In thebasementI also founda plasticbag with all thelettersI wrotehomeand allthe lettersI received from home, both from family andfriends.So, no madeleinecakeisneeded. Whereto

beginand endisalsobeyond question;myAfrican trip lasted exactlyone yeartothe day. Andnow Iwill trytorecount that journeytothe best of my poorability.

Butisitthe same Erik?The same me,who now, 50 yearslater,issitting in front of acomputerwriting this,the same person whohitchhiked around Africa in 1971-72? Hardly.But,thenagain of course it is.I remember events,places andevenpeople, butI cannot remember myself; Inever seemyselfinthose places,withthose people. However, if Inow am to usediaries andmapstotellwhere,how andwhy Itravelled, perhaps Imay even remember myself

Skillingaryd

My parentswerehugging each otheronthe balcony.Crying, they waved goodbyeasI walked down thecourtyard towardsHarpsundsvägenand thetubestation at Högdalen. They wondered when,and even if,they wouldeversee me again. Iprobablydidn’tunderstandtheir anxietyat thetime. TodayI do!Unbelievable that they managedtosleep,found anypeace during that year when onlya postcard or an aerogram would arrive rather sporadically.I hadpromisedtowrite oncea week,which I did, butthe mail wasoften very slow.Still, from what Ifound in the cellar; it seemsthatall my mail arrivedtoHögdalen.

It wasthe 12th of July,1971. Thesun occasionallyshoweditselfbehind pretty cumulusclouds, neitherhot norcold: atypical Swedishsummerday in theearly 70s. Ihad been cleaning subway stations sinceAugust,savingasmuchasI could. NowI took thesubwaytoSkärholmen andwalkedthrough itscommercialcentretoE4, Europe motorway 4 andthe Esso petrol stationnexttoit. Iworea denimjacketovera plaid flannelshirt anda pair of jeans. On my feet Ihad apairofbrown leather proletarianshoes (aswecalledthem) from theworkers’shop on Gamla Brogatan in Stockholm- like most of my friends– obligatoryfootwear foranyone in theanti-Vietnam-warmarches.Overone shoulder hung an American gasmaskbag,alsofromGamla Brogatan,its army vintage shop.InitI hada notebook,pencils,a paperbackedition of Cervantes’ DonQuixote,a SwissArmyknife,a C-harmonica, an Instamatic camera and, of course,passportand traveller’schecks.

Ihad opted forthick booksthatwould last long,soinmyred backpack,among an extrapairofjeans,a pair of shorts,fivepairs of underwear,a thicksweater,three t-shirts,a toothbrush anda recorder,there wasa thickpaperback of TheGlass Bead Game, TheLordofthe Rings in one volume anda thin collectionofthe SwedishpoetDan Andersson. Thelatter wasincludedtotamehomesicknessshould it overwhelmme. On topofmybackpackI hadlasheda rain poncho anda sleeping bag.

At theEssostation therewas alreadya guyhitchhiking.Weexchanged afew words. He wasalsofromStockholm, headingtoCopenhagenand hadbeenhitchingherefor aboutfifteenminutes.I went andstood belowhim.I hadlearned that in Europe,where therecould sometimesbe

up to 25 hitchhikersout of abig city.The last to arrive goes to theend of theline. In this case it wasactually an advantage; Igot just farenough outonthe exit so that cars whizzing by on thehighway couldalsosee me.Maybe one of them wouldslowdownand stop.Ithad happened before.I took offmybackpackand rested it againsta postbesidethe road,hungmyshoulderbag on thebackpackand putmythumb in the air.

Nowitbegan!

After anotherfifteen minutes, thefellowinfront of me gota ride. Shortlyafter that aVolvo Amazon came to an abrupt stop on thehighwayand pulledtothe side.I grabbedmybagsand rantothe car. The youngdriversaidhewas only goingtoSödertälje(35 km)but “ifyou want to come along, jump in!” WhichI did.

Unfortunately, Iwas droppedoff in themiddleofdowntownSödertäljeafter ahazardous driveonthe highway, wherehezigzagged between slower cars.I washappy to leavehim,but unhappy with where. NowI hadtowalkthrough Södertälje towardsthe E4.However,itdidn’ttake long;itwas asmallercitythenand Iknewitrelativelywellafter having livedonErikDahlberg’sStreetinthe late 50s.

After afew longer liftsI endedupinSkillingarydaroundfiveo’clock. In asmall grocerystore Iboughta light yogurt anda sandwich.ThenI headed outonSödra Vägentocontinue towardsAfrica. Butafter acoupleofhours withoutanyonestopping, Iwentbacktoa hot dogstand andboughta boiledfrankfurter with breadand achocolatedrink.Some mopedkidshanging around examined me curiouslyand wondered whereI came from andwhere Iwas going.

“I come from Stockholmand am goingtoAfrica,”I said.Theydidn’t believeme, just laughedatthe fool.SoI didthe same,and left them.

Nothinghappened. Istood on thelong main road in Skillingaryd, wherethe residentialbuildings endedand thedeepforestofSmåland began. Thefew cars that passed by allignored me andasitwas getting closetoninepm, Ibegan to plan forthe night. Notthatitwas dark;this wasinthe middleofsummerwhenthe suninthispartofthe country sets around eleven pm,and thenightsnever getdark. Butthe cars were fewerand it couldbegood to getanearly starttomorrow. Ibegan walkingfurther outofthe littletowntofinda tree to spread my rain poncho andsleepingbag under, withoutbeing seen.

Butsuddenlya womancomes running after me.She stops me and asks if Iwantsomecoffeeand sandwich.

“I can’tsay no to that,” Ireply,surprised.

“Mymotherand I’ve seen youhitchhiking here forseveral hours now. Shelives in ahouse closeby. I’ve haddinnerwithher andwe've been watching youall thetimeand felt sorryfor you. We’veput on coffee and made some cheese sandwiches if youare hungry.”

So,after Itellher that my name is Erik andshe tells me hers is Gun, we go up to hermother'sapartment in atypical three-storyapartment housefromthe 1950s, just like theone Ihad left in Högdalen. Alovely smellofcoffeemeets us in theapartment andsoon Iamsitting in the kitchenwitha couple of cheese sandwiches anda cupofcoffee.

“Yes,wesaw youhitchhiking over there,”Gun points. “And we couldn'thelpbut feel sorryfor you.”Theyalsoask me whereI am heading.

“I’m goingtoAfrica,”I say, realizinghow cockyitsounds; butitwas true.

“But it’s so far,”saysGun in surprise.“Andisn’t it dangerous?”

“I don’tthink so.I’vehitchhikeda lotinEurope before,soI’m sure I'll be fine.”

“But whyare youalone?”

“Noone else wanted to join me.”

“But how areyou goingtoget to Africa?Are yougoing to hitchhike allthe way? Anddoesn’t it cost alot?”

“I’m goingtohitchhike to Athens andI know thereare passenger boats from PiraeustoAlexandriaand it’s not that expensive. Then I’ll see. Therewill be bothtrainsand riverboats up theNile, butthenI’ll probablyhitchhike,orgobybus.There arepeoplelivingeverywhere andtheytravel, at leastlocally,and IamsureI’llbeabletojointhem. I have no idea whichroute I’ll take;I’llhavetoask around forthe best one.But IamgoingtoTanzania. Friendsofmyparents live thereand I hope to visitthem. AndI have savedup10,000kronor (aboutUS$1200 at thetime),which Ihope will last ayear. Ihavesomeintraveller’schecks with me andthe rest at home,which my parentswill send to me when mine runout.I don’twanttocarry allofit.”

“But whyare youtraveling?”asksthe olderwoman,who hadbeen silent up untilnow.

“I don’tthink Ireally know,” Ianswerafter awhile.“Butit’sprobably

becauseI hope somethingout of theordinarywill happen,otherwise I couldstayathome. Iwanttoexperiencenew places andpeople. And notknowing what thenextday will look likeorevenwhere Iwill sleep."

“And what do youthink youwill find?”

Ithink fora while before answering, andthenI say: “I’llsee when I getthere.” Allthree of us laughatthat.

“But whereare youplanning to sleeptonight?”

“I wasactuallyonmyway outoftowntofinda tree to sleepunder when youcaughtupwithme.”

“But youcan’t do that!”

“Ohyes,I’vedone it before andI understand it’s not goingtorain tonight.”

“No, youcannotdothat. Youhavetocomehomewithme,”Gun says.“Youcan’t stay in thehouse sincemyhusband is away,but we have ahammock in thegardenwhere youcan sleeptonightifyou like.”

“Yes,thanks, that sounds fantastic.”

So,wegobackintothe villageafter Gunhas made sure hermother is comfortablefor thenight.Ina beautifulgardenwitha yellowbrick housethere is ahammock.Gun asks me to wait awhile anddisappears into thevilla.Soon shecomes outwitha pillowand acoupleofblankets.

“I hope youcan sleephere.”

“Noproblem!And this is really kind of you. ”

“Don’t mentionit. Just hope youdon't getcold.”

“I don’tthink so.I have my sleeping bagand nowyou’vegiven me a couple of blankets too.”

“I’m workingearly tomorrow,soI’llprobablybeoff to work by the time youwakeup. Just leavethe blankets andpillowinthe hammock before youleave.”

Ipromise to do so.

“Well, good nightthen!”

“Night,and many thanks again!”

Icrawl into my sleeping bagand roll ablanket on topand liefor a while thinking abouthow kind peoplesometimesare.Thisisa fantastic beginning!

Around sevenI woke andlay therefor awhile,enjoyingthe morning. I wasinnohurry to go anywhere.The sunhad been up fora long time

andwas shiningthrough theappletrees.Ona tablenexttothe hammock therewas athermos of coffee anda couple of sandwiches were wrapped in afoilpackage.I crawledout of my sleeping bagand sawthatthere wasalsoanenvelopeunder thethermos.Initwas aten-krona noteand aletter:“Erik,I hope youslept well. Here’s some breakfast. Just leave everything here on thetable when youare done.Ifyou remember,it wouldbenicetoget some postcardsfromAfrica. Good luck,Gun.” Andthenher address.

Gunreceived apostcard from Cairoand one from Nairobi.

In this book Leif Lorentzontells of thejourney he made 50 yearsago when,19years old, he hitch-hikedalone throughalmostall of Africa. He kept adiary as companyand this has enabledhim to memorize andnarrate this often adventures andstrenuous,but also joyous voyage.Hemet alot of fine andfriendlypeople, both fellow globetrottersand locals in themany townsand villages he foundhimself in.AsLeif Lorentzonlater came to studythe continent’s culture, crownedbyaPhD andfurther post graduate research in Africa’s literature,thisalso has made itsway into thenarrative.But chieflyit is an exciting storyofa hippie travellingthrough Africa in 1971.