I was laying in bed last night reading Paul Theroux's brilliant Ghost Train to the Eastern Star and found myself sifting through my memories of Asia. The sounds, the smells, the snippets of memory which stay with you. It is funny how after time memories of travel begin to feel dreamed up, how what once were crisp edged experiences become more and more hazy strange. What is even more striking is that a writer can capture aspects of these places which bring memories back to life. They awaken forgotten sensations and experiences, sharpen soft edges, and stir up emotion. There is something about Theroux's writing which so captures places. It makes me want to re-read the Great Railway Bazaar, a book I read on my first travels to South East Asia and re-live a bit of that adventure.
Thinking back on all of it I wish I had spent more time writing and drawing about all of my travels. I suppose there is no time like the present.