"No soy tan vaga ahora, y yo vago menos." I'm not so vague now, and I wander less. It is now 1989, and sh** got real in the nineties, didn't it? Plenty to gossip and complain about, yo Noamsayin? It was the end of communism, and the beginning of the New World Order, the New Robber Barons, and the New Wild West. In VOLUME 3 of TO SAY NOTHING: A DIARY OF MEMORY, it's Act Three for our hero-our anti-hero, our a-hero. He toddles west again to the University of Victoria to do another degree. Who knows? This one might work. And then, snatched by luck and grace from the jaws of starvation, he finds himself cubicle-ized for the next eleven years in the British Columbia provincial government, the slow drip of material comfort. And when the accumulation is adequate, the money buys pearls of great price-a new spouse, a new house, and appealing travel. There is less overall vagabonding, but there are short, intense exceptions. The trails of British Columbia and the swells of the Pacific Ocean, Hawaii and California. And Africa Twenty thousand kilometres across Africa in a truck and a van, sleeping in a tent. And there's more sexy stuff than ever. You have been warned.
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