By Neville Cole

“So my friend,” Wolfgang interrupts deliberately shifting the conversation.  “How is it you chose to end up here tonight?  How did you get here?”

“I’ve been wandering around this area for years,” the bearded stranger replied matter-of-factly.

“You walked here?” Wolfgang exclaimed.  “Now that’s a story!”  Justin sat up sharply as if he’d just remembered a really big secret and leaned over to Wolfgang.

“He has been living in one of the El Moyo huts for a week. We blew it down this morning so I invited him to come up to the lawn tonight.

“You really walked here?” Wolfgang repeated.

“Walked, rode, drove, flew…I’ve done it all,” the stranger replied.

“He came right across the Sudan.  It’s a miracle no one shot him.”

“I got shot at,” the stranger replied. “I just never got hit.”

The way our new friend told it, he’d had been a traveller from birth.  Here is an abbreviated version of his story as he leaked it out in dribs and drabs during the course of the entire meal.

He described riding across southern Europe as a child in a gypsy caravan. His father apparently doctored farm animals and traded horses. He described picking pockets while his mother told fortunes at fairs. He talked of moving to Paris and how his parents struggled to keep the family together working in a factory.  In Paris he said he first discovered Marxism, Existentialism, and Sartre.  Then as a well-read, seventeen year old, he struck out on his own.  Drifting first to Spain and then on to Morocco he said his travels thorough North Africa proved to him that, although Europe was his birthplace, his spiritual homeland was Africa.  This was the land of the nomad, he said.  His political leanings had faded somewhat over the years but he never tired of travelling.  Somehow he managed to get by, primarily because he was well trained on getting by with just about nothing.  He spoke English, French, Romany, and enough Swahili to trade for just about anything he needed.  He was currently undertaking a solo stroll generally along the length of the Rift Valley but was more than willing to accept any ride anywhere down as many unchartered paths as possible. He admitted that actually rode a good portion of the way across the Sudan aboard a World War Two MAN troop carrier with a bunch of Dutch evangelicals headed for Cape Town. His method of funding  this existential pilgrimage was unclear but he did at several points in the story offer up a number of blunts, which were summarily passed around. His story, which I believed to be about twenty percent accurate, seemed to have the desired affect on the models, one of them had moved so close to him she could have been sitting on his lap.  She either was very turned on by his tale or really liked grass. Of course, the girls had pretty much been limited to a small crew of workmates for the past few months, so they were probably more than normally interested in some fresh meat.

As our epic dinner ends I look over to John.  He has the stare of a Vegas gambler who’s been beaten by lousy bluff.  He is obviously used to being the centre of attention and riding in the back of the Bearded Wonder’s bus isn’t sitting well.  I can see him searching for a bone to pick.

“So, my gypsy friend,” he smiles suspiciously.  “You must play guitar, don’t you? Isn’t that a required part of Romany education.

“Of course,” the stranger replies.  “I play a little guitar.”

“Wolfgang,” John raises to his feet with some difficulty.  “Do you still have the guitars Peter left here all those years ago?  We need some party music.  My friend wants to play us a gypsy song and I will see if I can play along.”

Peter Beard’s vintage guitars are summoned and after some brief tuning by both players the stranger strums a slow progression then picks out a simple melody line.  John joins in with a dramatic flourish.  The two play together for a short time but it is evident that each is trying to out do the other and take the lead; however, once they each realize that they were both pretty damn good, they settle down and we all get up to dance.  Just another night at the Oasis; dancing under the stars to dueling gypsy guitars. The wine, the warm, steady breeze off the lake, the delicious food, the company, the philosophy and the laughter quickly drain my dwindling energy and by twelve-thirty, when the rest of the group is just getting going, I excuse myself and drift back to my room to sleep.  I have made it.  This is what I’ve been longing for – peace at last.