I was bad at school, I mean bad. I got kicked out of two school by the age of 16.
Then I left England with a dream. To travel the world, take photos, write poems, fall in love.
I hitched across Europe to North Africa, Morocco. Here I learnt French with an Arabic accent.
I met mad men and fools, drunks and lovers, rich and poor, humble and wicked. I met a dog I named El Macho. He stayed with me for 4 months, guarding my tent, my little shabby tent. He finally ran off with a young girl named Nadia. I cried.
And I wrote.
All the pain and joy and wonderment of new skies, train journeys, hitched rides that go wrong, or right.
My big dream began on the highway, the small road, the dusty path, a fisherman's shack. These were where the dreams started.
It was a time and a place. The late seventies.
A time and a place. I was so young, and so free
I followed this path around the world. The dream has never gone. It has become a little more sophisticated with the need for gadgets and technical knowledge. Yet, all these can never replace the human spirit and soul. The hunger for life lived, for people, for communities.
I currently live in China and make films and teach students and they teach me.
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