Goals and Time

Marrakech lies ahead of me. Not far now. A crazy city, many say. I sense it will challenge me again and want to recharge beforehand. Going for a hike one last time. I sneak up a few meters into the mountains. I learn what 12 km/h means as I drive behind our retired trucks from the eighties up the mountain. At the top, I find a wonderful spot overlooking the Atlas Mountains - and exactly one path that leads up. No hiking trail, no markings, no destination. Just a way.

Before me is a sea of mountains. Peaks like waves fading into the horizon. Blue sky, 25 degrees. No people. Nowhere. I encounter a herd of sheep, nothing more.

How far should I go when the path offers no destination? After eight kilometers, I arrive at an improvised mountain mine. An old truck is there, solar panels, big tires, an old jump-start cable lying around, and a device. An engine?

Surreal. I decide this is my destination. I often do this in life. I follow no fixed plan. I regard goals as suggestions that I negotiate with myself. Once, I wanted to travel and work full-time, always living in a van. Preferably traveling to Kenya right away to visit the founders from back then, about whom I have written so much. It has turned out differently. Now, I have three months a year that belong to me.

And now - here - I am just a traveler. Without work. Without rhythm. This was never planned, and it changes so much. Suddenly, I have time. For the first time, I am mentally only here. Not half in thought between appointments. I take time to see, to feel, to write. These hours, which I have never allowed myself, are a gift. Because time is the only thing that belongs to us. The most precious asset of all that no one can take from us.

As I linger on my thoughts, I hear two dogs barking loudly. They come running up to me. They are already very close and growling at me, baring their teeth. I think of my rabies vaccination and calculate which leg they should probably hit. A slight panic rises. Then, an old shepherd appears in a long brown robe, calls something out, and lifts a stone. The dogs instantly quiet down. The way is clear. I thank him. He tells me to take a stone next time and throw it at them. I will try – even though it will be hard for me.

Hours later, I see him again. He passes by my bus with his sheep. Maybe he does this every day. Did he want that? Did he set that as a goal once? Or was that simply his way? What does someone who lives with animals on a mountain all day think?

I sit there in my bus, warm, safe, free. And I think: What luxury it is to be able to choose all this. To decide when I go, where I stay, what my goal is. Perhaps that is the greatest privilege of all – not the freedom to travel anywhere, but the freedom to be able to stay still.