I’ve mentioned before how riding alone with hours stretching into days of solo contemplation sometimes leads beyond just introspective thoughts, but to the mind forming strange connections between the environment you’re riding through and your memories or subconsious.
Riding into and through Suriname I passed many old colonial buildings, none of which really touched me- until this one this one and its companion. The instant I saw them I knew who they were.
I turned off the main road, down the gravel drive leading towards the houses and just enjoyed the sight. An older man walking with a young child appeared from behind the newer building and made their slow way towards me. I rode up to meet them and we had a wandering conversation about their farm, family, the old family house, and the newly completed one. The grand old home, with its pealing white paint and formal air, was from a more prosperous time and had been left to molder away; the pristine new family house was cooly perfect, but that very perfection seemed to rob it of any soul…
Riding away, I knew a bit about the family history in the area, the life of the older home, and the building of the newer one… But looking back, all I saw was what first made me stop: