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August 1987, Peru: My journey to the source of the Amazon River turns epic. I hitch a ride in an old 1960's Mercedes Benz truck, that agonisingly winds its way up to 5,500 metres and then rolls gently down the dirt road, along the altiplano. The driver and his friend explain that the Shining Path terrorists are in the area, and that it would be dangerous for me to go to the town at the end of the road. They could ambush the truck at anytime. Not wanting to die, I abandon the vehicle in the middle of the moon less night high on the altiplano, where the grasslands meet the rubble of the decaying mountains. At first light, determined to continue my journey, I walk into the vast landscape and begin traversing a section of South America's massive continental divide. It would be a five day hike with only two bars of chocolate, a packet of biscuits, and a jar of honey. Reaching the source seems the only way. The nearest safe town is then two days down hill from there. During my days and nights I have a sense of being watched and followed. I sometimes look around, and look back the way I came to see who's there. Could it be the fighting men of the Shining Path? This land is of no use to them. I'm convinced that I am totally and utterly alone. The lack of sustaining food at altitude soon takes its toll. I weaken by the hour. My pace slows to about 50 metres in 5 minutes, where I then have to take a rest. My determination to continue is unshakable. My determination to walk my own path, whether it shines or not, is unstoppable. I believe there is no way out, other than reaching the source and going beyond. I keep looking back to see who it is that is following me. I see the nightmares of my childish mind out to kill me. Through the physical pain of this single journey I feel the emotional pain of my younger years. The pain of loneliness amplifies out of the landscape and plunges me into confusion - then anger - then pain. The confusion of who I am and where I belong. The anger of not knowing, fuelled by the anger of my water bag bursting in my pack and soaking my sleeping bag, losing my only supply of water. I could walk half a day back to a creek but I take the risk and continue up onto the ridge, hoping to find something there. I move closer to the source. The source moves closer to me. The pain deepens, quickens. On the fourth night, lying on a bed of boulders next to a tiny drift of snow, I'm convinced I'm dying of altitude sickness and huddle deeper into my sleeping bag to try and survive. In the darkness of the coldest night, my loneliness reaches all the way to infinity and back. It overwhelms me and hurls me into grief. In the darkness of my cocoon I feel overpowered by the vastness of this earth. I feel the absolute loneliness of my existence, my inability to fit in to my own society, my family, my friends. Always on the outside. . . I drift. . . I dream. . . I hope. . . I begin to drown. I try to swim but soon exhaust myself. Gasping for air my lungs fill with water. Suddenly, I find myself on a large stone wall. It is cold and barren. Looking out I see a powerful whirlpool, its vortex dominant. I walk from one side of the wall to the other. It is far. On the other side lies the infinite ocean. I dive in. I swim freely. The friendly waters support my presence. I am a fraction of its existence but at last I know I belong. In the morning I wake to a condor circling about 15 metres above me. It's curious as to why a human should be out this far, away from his own kind. I wish that I could hold on to its talons so it could fly me down into the jungles far below. I quickly pack and head west across the ridge, across the continental divide, heading down into the Colca Canyon and down to civilisation. Alive. I am alive. After this night my life becomes a conscious quest for meaning.
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