More than a year ago, I wrote an article entitled ‘A Love Affair‘ documenting, with borrowed words from Tom Gates, what it felt like to come home after being on the road. Well, at that point in my life, I had only ever been gone for a little more than two months. This time around, I would be gone for a little over five months. And I wanted this long awaited journey to answer all these questions I had about my future, my (lack of) career and my education. And more than that, I had, on some naïve and cliché level, expected to find myself. To find myself in the aesthetic of loseness.
Now, having been home for exactly one month, I realize more than ever, that perhaps I had expected too much. I had found a part of myself, and yet, I had lost more than I had to begin with.
I started with documenting my travels in my Moleskine. Carefully mapping out each country and destination, where I was, what I had done. These words are now a distant memory to me. And these memories a distant life that occurred in alternative me. How could, after everything I had done and seen, I be the same person?
In five months, I had journeyed across several countries alone. I had developed a strange and unsettling fierceness–almost akin to ‘growing a set of balls.” I was more confident than I would ever be back home. I had conversations with random strangers about anything and everything. I hurled my body off a bridge, 160m over the Bhote Koshi River. I took part in Holi, the festival of colours. I met someone wildly inappropriate and feel a little bit in love. I rode motorbikes without a helmet, climbed the Great Wall, ate more food than I thought was humanly possible, bathed an elephant, experienced a spiritual supermarket, lost some of my religion and gained a lot of faith…and the list goes on and on.
But now I am home. And as I said, these are memories that have become footnotes that will eventual fade away from the life that exists here. In a world I am once again, familiar with. In a world I grew up in. And these memories take a backseat to the questions I had before I left: what am I doing with my (lack of) career, what am I doing with my education, and…what am I doing with my future. Several months ago, I had left expecting for my future to be unraveled and to be clear. That upon my return I would be sure of what I wanted. But I found nothing to answer the questions I so desperately seek solutions to.
One of the last entries in my Moleskine reads:
Did I find myself? No, not really. Instead, I found things I was capable and not capable of doing. Of taking small little Jumps here, giant leaps there. And at the same time, I often found that I had only moved an inch closer to the edge in the days, weeks, months I had been gone. There remains some regrets in things I did or did not–was incapable of doing. One stands out more than others, and yet, I need to remind myself to Breathe. That it’s okay. That the act of not Jumping is just as significant as the Jump. There is a lesson in both, and I often learned more from the former.
So maybe I had this all wrong from the beginning. Maybe this trip wasn’t meant to answer those questions but instead teach me these very things that I had documented: that the act of not jumping is just as significant as the Jump itself. To Breathe. And the answers will come when they come. And beyond that, there is a great adventure in some other country that is calling my name.
All the logistics, the things I hate doing before I set out for the road.
I’m past the one week point until I set out for my adventure. And for safety and my mother’s sake, I’m registering and photocopying etc so on so forth. I hate doing it; it’s one of my most hated parts of travelling but for this solo adventure it’s imperative.
This service is provided so that they can contact and assist you in an emergency in a foreign country, such as a natural disaster or civil unrest, or inform you of a family emergency at home.
I’ve painstakingly inputted information about the countries I will be in, and my expected arrival and departure date. Contact info and hostel information I have had to leave blank, but I filled in what I can. This is an important service especially if you go missing and your family doesn’t know where you are, the government can assume where you might be. Or, in case there is an emergency in said country, the government can account for you and make sure you are included in their evacuation list.
I have made a one page document with all the consular services abroad and emergency contact numbers. Very important in case I need to find out about an emergency and/or if I lose my passport etc.
3) Documents
Photocopy your license, and more importantly your passport so you have copies on you and at home in case you lose yours. I have included each in an email to myself and my parents so in case I lose the photocopy, I will have access to it via email. As well, if you have a travel companion, it would be a good idea to swap passport photocopies in case one person loses their bag and the other doesn’t.
1) Shell out approximately $800 Cdn for three, yes, three, rabies vaccines.
2)Pray that these vaccines will work.
3) Realize this amount of money and these three vaccines won’t actually in fact save you from getting rabies, but rather prolong the amount of time you have to see the doctor.
Several hundreds of dollars later, with incredibly sore arms after a span of three weeks, I am now (semi) invincible to rabies. Or, well, let’s hope. In one of the most important preparations for my upcoming travels, I had to budget and plan for vaccines and medication. While none of these are absolutely essential, the fact of the matter is I get sick more often than the normal person. Typhoid, Hepatitis A booster, malarial pills, Dukoral for traveller’s diarrhea and Ecoli…you name it, I’ve probably had it.
But as I said previously, none of these are a guarantee. After taking a boat load of meds while on the road I’ve still had my bouts of traveller’s diarrhea, and have had to take a heavy dose of Ciprofloxacin (my best friend…). Worst yet, I’ve ended up at a Ghanaian clinic twice–the first I rather not mention why, but the second was from unbearable stomach pains. I’ve also had intense food poisoning on the road; or been so sick and it’s coming out both ends I don’t know where to aim. Once or twice I have even had a cold…in +40 °C.
I know there are some readers who are squeamish at my tales of bodily fluids and illness. They’re all small prices to pay for the stories and memories. Maybe at the time when I feel like I’m dying I wish I hadn’t left the comfort of my bedroom, but now I wouldn’t trade it for the world. You can’t leave for travel and expect not to get sick. It sucks, seriously. But for a chance to see the Taj Mahal…
So, I’ve been vaccinated, and will be carrying probably way too many drugs with me (and three inhalers for asthma….Everest Base Camp here I come!) but at least I know, with my bottle of Pepto Bismol, I’m ready to hit the road.
(or at least how I learned to effectively maim an assailant and get away)
…days until Asia: 18
Angkor Wat, Cambodia
I am by no means, a shrinking violent. Shy and quiet are not words one would associate with me. I know my traits, my faults–I am loud, outgoing, passionate…did I already say loud? So it surprises me that in times when I need it the most, I do become this shy, silent, shrinking person. I know this because after L & I had a little run in with a man and his knife in Lapa (Rio de Janeiro), I didn’t say a word. I didn’t scream, shout, or yell. (L tells me otherwise and I quote “all of a sudden I hear this screaming banshee…Janet”) But to my memory, I have lost my voice.
Some people say in high stress situations your flight or fight will kick in. Well, L & I couldn’t have ran if we tried. We couldn’t even give him what he wanted…and so we did what they tell you not to do when you’re being mugged: we fought. In those few minutes in Lapa all I could think was “don’t let him take my camera, don’t let L get hurt, say something, say anything, SCREAM, YELL…” but I am silent. This scares me–the one time I should harness my loud, boisterous voice I am as silent as they come. It is only after the initial shock wears off that L says I screamed (this I don’t remember).
Several months later, in preparation of my impending solo travels for Asia, I enrolled in a self defence class. It does not escape my irony that we are taught to shout “No!” through out my exercises. And once again, my voice flies out the window and I am meek, barely saying “No” above a whisper. The instructor tells me that I need to shout so others will come help me. It takes me hours, but eventually, it becomes so ingrained in me that I’m shouting “No!” with the rest of the class as I knee my pretend assailant in the groin.
Bruises from self defence class.
I would be lying if it I said I wasn’t scared about leaving. I am, really scared. Somehow after the self defence class this fear loosens. We practice escape routines and efficient techniques to allow us to escape. Things I wish I had known during my time in Lapa. More importantly, things I wish every woman knew. These moves could eventually save my life, whether it is here at home or overseas. In 14 hours, my confidence has grown leaps and bounds. I am more sure of myself–and my voice. I can never be 100% sure that if the time ever arose (god forbid, knock on wood) that I would yell, but at least I have the tools ingrained in me to use my voice. A voice that I have no problem using in any other normal every day situation.
So while I perhaps didn’t technically learn how to kill a man, I at least learned that I had the techniques to remove myself from a potentially threatening situation. I’m not sure if I would have taken this course had it not been for Lapa. But after all is said and done, it was the best $40 I have ever spent.
The Taj Mahal (a photo I hope to replace with my own)
In less than three weeks I will be boarding a (read: 3) flight(s) , flying a total of 21 hours (plus layovers) to New Delhi, India. Solo. My first official, planned, solo adventure into the world of backpacking.
At the current moment I don’t know what I am supposed to tell you, or explain how I feel. I guess it’s a little bit of nervousness, excitement and unbelievable surreality.Nineteen days. Nineteen days until a new adventure, until jumping, until I am in a country overflowing with culture, spices, saris and cows. For the next few days until I leave, I will be blogging how I prepared for the adventure of a life time, what I will be packing, and general feelings on leaving.
Lonely Planet Guide Books
Previous travel experiences have proved that no amount of research and reading can ever really prepare you for the road. Still, this has not stopped me from taking out every Lonely Planet Guide book related to the countries I will be venturing to. I’ve scoured these guide books for the basics of border crossings, travel tips, what to see and do, etc. But, for the first time in my life, I have not planned or scheduled anything concrete. All I know is that for the month of March I will be in India, April-Nepal… and as far as the rest goes, I will leave that up to whomever I meet. To those few travel affairs where I will be reunited with a kindred soul and we can venture off somewhere.
So, my bags are not yet packed, and I’m not quite ready to leave but this, will undoubtedly be the adventure of my lifetime.
And as J.R.R. Tolkein once said: there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.
“Do you like Tracy Chapman?” my Danish roommate asked me as we are getting ready for bed.
He starts to sing: you got a fast car, I want a ticket to anywhere…He points at his friend, already lying in the bunk beneath mine, headphones in his ears. “He loves Tracy Chapman, can’t fall asleep without it. Do you want to listen?”
“I’m okay,” I reply, although a little tempted. I had forgotten my own iPod at home, and so as we turn off the lights, I am instead lulled to sleep through the hot nights of Athens by my Danish roommates humming Fast Car.
I had been in Greece for less than twelve hours, suddenly thrown into a moment of jumping and solo travelling with zero warning. The arrival of three Danish boys into my room in the middle of the night woke me with a start. I was disorientated, groggy and jet lagged. My bra was hanging off the bunk bed banister! They apologized profusely as they turned on the light. I grabbed my glasses threw them on in a hurry as I whipped my bra off the banister and stuffed it in my sleep sac. We made idle conversation before we grew tired and Tracy and Fast Car took over. I left Athens shortly after.
It’s been almost two years since this moment. And yet, when Fast Car plays on the radio, or comes up on random shuffle in my playlist, I am brought back to Athens, to my Danish roommates and their drunken antics. And I miss them, however fleeting our encounter was.
This last month on the road through Greece and Turkey have been incredibly stressful, stressful and yet surreal. I couldn’t wait to leave, to move on to Israel where I knew H was waiting for me and no doubt her presence would slowly cause the stress to disappear.
I arrived at the Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv on potentially one of the worst days to arrive in Israel. Not only was it Shabbot, but it was also a Holiday. That meant the trains and buses were not running, and many of the shops would be closed. As we waited for a taxi at the airport, H introduced me to an Israeli artist: Idan Raichel of the Idan Raichel Project.
I will admit at first I wasn’t a fan but as we travelled throughout Israel, in the unbearable heat of Ein Gedi, I began to fall in love. When it reached 50°C and H and I could barely summon enough energy to eat, never mind climb to the top of Masada, we would lay sprawled out, in the shade, with Idan Raichel plugged into the stereo and let Mima’amakim play on and on and on. To the annoyance of our couchsurfer who finally demanded we play anything as long as it was NOT Idan. Apparently, for Israelis, Idan Raichel was like Celine Dion to us Canadians.
What came next was a frantic idea of an adventure. The Idan Raichel Project was playing two shows in the opposite direction of where we were and where we were heading. But to see him live would be amazing. H and I counted our money, we looked at a calendar and tried to change our plans, we could skip this city in exchange for this place and what about here or there, what if we went there and back to here and stayed with him … I wish I could say we had this amazing adventure following Idan Raichel around Israel, but sadly it just wasn’t meant to be. The irony of this was that he was playing a show at the local Folk Festival back home–the same week I was bound for New York City for a conference.
Somethings, just aren’t meant to be.
Driving through the countryside of Northern Israel in the dark, A & I are kept company by the songs of the Israeli band Asaf Avidan and the Mojos. I fall in love, instantly. With the lyrics, with the melody, and with Israel. I can’t get the lyrics of Maybe You Are out of my head:
They met when he was in a hospital
he whispered “I ain’t got no heart” into the room…He held her up naked, she was just his fig.
I am reminded of Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar, of so much (and yet so little) jumping. In a moment of the type of kindness I have begun to associate with Israel, A hands me the copy of his CD. It is a little bit scratched–a sign of something well played. I carry this for the rest of my travels in between the pages of a book, in a deathly fear that this fragile remnant of a time traveling throughout the country will be broken and lost.
The moment I arrive back home, I order the real CD online along with the next one. But it is the first song I ever heard, Maybe You Are, and the words about hospitals and hearts and figs that makes me remember Grade 12 English class with Howe, Plath, and more recently, a country I love so much.
These are just three songs that bring me back to moments that would otherwise become blurred in a collection of travel memories. These songs are more private than photographs; they are a secret that only I remember every time I hear them come through the stereos…
