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MARCHING POWDER

Paul, an Australian, interrupted Jay. ‘So, where exactly are you from again?’

‘It’s hard to say, really,’ sighed Jay. ‘I’ve been travelling for some time now. I don’t feel like I belong to any one place in the world. I’m really from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, if you know what I mean.’

‘How long have you actually been on the road?’ asked Giles, a long-haired backpacker from the UK.

‘Oh, approximately thirty-four days,’ replied Jay, nodding his head proudly.

Paul raised his eyebrows. ‘A month, you mean?’

‘Well, it’s not really a question of chronological time,’ said Jay, sounding defensive. ‘I don’t measure things in that way. I’ve done more than ten countries during that time and it’s impossible to measure any cultural experience in terms of number of days. It’s more of a personal growth thing . . .’ His voice trailed off as though he were allowing the thought to linger for dramatic effect. As an afterthought, he added, ‘Besides, thirty-four days is more than a month, isn’t it?’

‘How can you “do” ten countries in thirty-four days?’ said Giles, using his fingers to indicate the inverted commas around the word ‘do’.

Before Jay could answer, Liz, a South African girl, diplomatically changed the subject. I got the impression that there was something going on between her and Jay.

‘Cheers, everyone!’ She raised her glass and we were obliged to reach for our own. ‘And what about you?’ she asked Paul. ‘How long have you been travelling?’

‘Oh, I left Melbourne, let’s see . . . I think it was March, April . . . a bit over four years ago. I worked in London, ‘did’ Europe . . .’ he said, making the same inverted-commas gesture as Giles had. Giles laughed so suddenly, he almost choked on his drink. ‘. . . travelled through the Middle East and Africa, then flew to Mexico, down through Central America, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, and now I’m here in Bolivia. Pretty much the standard story.’

‘Standard story! That’s totally awesome,’ said Jay, who had completely missed the joke on him, even though Giles was still in a coughing fit. ‘You must speak good Spanish, then.’

‘Not a fucking word, mate! Cerveza, por favor. That’s all you need,’