Prologue

The kaleidoscopic hunt—that’s what delivers the unusual moments. The best adventures spark new thoughts and ideas that spill across cultures and lift other people, not just the traveler.

I am, at heart, a spectator: a traveler who watches and reports, trying not to become the story (as any good journalist would say). An explorer is sent out on a mission—funded, tasked, expected to produce results. An adventurer runs in neutral: free to bump into anything at all, bound only by curiosity. Carpe diem and the Tarot’s Fool—both are emblems of that stance.

I want to be fully present when the adventure appears—and, for a brief moment, to become part of the places I enter, nudging them, I hope, in a good direction. That’s what adventurers have done for centuries: brought back knowledge and left a trace.

Not everything makes it into my books. You won’t find much about my wonderful wife, our children and grandchildren, or our day-to-day life. It hasn’t always been easy on her—this career of international nomadism, half in Denmark, half in Asia or Africa. Nor do I dwell on the magnificent landscapes I’ve driven through or the animals I’ve met on countless safaris in South Africa, Botswana, or Indonesia. For me, those are the set pieces, not the plot. It’s the human encounters—the shock of other customs and languages—that wakes the adventurer in me.

As an artist, I try not to be shackled by the marketplace. I don’t need to paint what sells or sculpt for the showroom. As an adventurer, I don’t twist myself into the “right circles,” peddle copy, or play tour guide to bankroll the dream. I’d rather let the work set the course than let money choose the destination. I know that’s not always possible, but I’ve been lucky: most of my dreams have come true without chasing what’s marketable.

So yes—I sell few books, a handful of paintings, and I earn absolutely nothing from my adventures.

True or not-quite-true, my tales are all milestones. They’re the knots in the net that has, over time, gathered me in.