The Former TravellerShall I start in Bangkok, in the same vein as all the other streams of travel writers, spiritual journalists and so on? Or should I talk about my time in Vietnam, broadening my mind by having the courage to dine on dog."Oh how can you eat that cute little hound, my god did you not have a pet as a child? You beast, you are no better than a canine. No. I could not even think about that. I mean god. I feel sick, now. Oh yes and I was just beginning to enjoy my dinner. I rarely have the opportunity to eat good duck in this delicious sauce." This topic always gives me good scope at corporate dinner engagements. Meat is meat in my eyes, but of course rabbit, duck, chicken, itsy bitsy baby lambs, fish and pig are all different to domesticated mans best friend. I choose not to harbour on about this kind of experience. To the point, is what I have to tell you tonight. I had been all over the globe, nestling through backwater forests, hitching up mountains and swimming in tepid cool cave waters. At first the whole travelling thing was liberating, showing me things I had seen before but in a different perspective. And this feeling was…… how can I describe it properly, can words express how I felt ? Amazing, comes close, to a point. After the initial excitement had worn off, although I didn`t know as it was lived, it had to be in retrospect, when I had time to think about it, it was no longer that special. I was young and less cynical then, though. But I soon yearned for conversation with normal people. When I say normal, what I am really meaning is people who had not travelled or where on the road. Crawling from hostel to hostel, my only stream of conversation I could drink from without catching some disease was with fellow dirt ridden trekkers. The standard questions, "Where have you been, where are you heading for next?" had to be answered in every dive hostel I bedded down in. It got that way that my well oiled answers became as standard as a routine. I soon knew what would raise a titter and the right places to pause to gain interest. The practiced speech made one sound like a lovie actor reciting a monologue. "Tonight I shall be performing lines that I have indeed ingeniously penned myself, the monologue, I have simply entitled, ' Traveller.' ...I have been on the road for so, so, so,oh so, so long and I have seen things, things that...." Obviously not performed in an over the top "traditional", Shakespearian boom. Shaky himself had never intended the class thing to creep into his work, making his words sound like they were being pronounced by H.R.S. Queenie. Yet, that would be the way the trained director would expect the delivery. Every night the performance changed to fit in with other peoples stories, allowing their personal interjections. Nobody liked individuals who never allowed others to speak. One of the golden rules of travelling, always listen, even if you are not, appear to be. This is of most importance. I haunted the loggers, ( Spanish slang for lodges) and other cheap night stops. The stories began to sound the same, different regions or explanations, but the back bone, the common thread was essentially alike. Myths, a fable of animal encounters, some admittedly true; polished up with little things added to make them all the more captivating. It never really happened like that but it sounds quite tropical in this way. Always certain characters and experiences creeped into people's travelling tales of adventure and experiences. Pure Aesops. The nightly conversation took on a somewhat Grimm's Fairy Tale approach. The amusing factor had to be that I myself, being astute realised that it was one big commercial venture. Along the way, all the boat trips to see wild dolphins (penned in, in their natural habitat)and the jungle safari's,(animals in cages, but at least they are in their innate surroundings; essentially an exotic, warmer Zoological garden) were in fact all fabricated and milked for their financial gain. Even the bastion of Communism, Cuba had a subliminal Capitalist streak. On visiting La Habana, Havana, to sit in the " La Floridita ", home of Lizard lounge, author E. Hemingway and have the luxury of sipping a drink that he used to gulp would cost. Obviously by sticking a "papa" or a "Hemingway" next to it, allowed the proprietor to double the price. The finalised bar bill equalled the exact amount that had bought us, several of the said drinks (minus the papa Hemingway) and a meal the night before in an establishment literally next door. "But this is not Capitalism, friends, oh no comrades, CHE VIVRE………… Up the revolution. My brothers." I had a hard time dealing with the idea that true travellers, the people that desired to just voyage, stopping at precise points, to shower and sip coca cola; these people still dissed those who chose to dwell in hotels with accessories. The all inclusive places with beverages, liquid replenishment, sewing kits, fluffy towels, shampoo and conditioner, body lotion, nail boards, and twenty four hour room service. They also offer you everything else you could possibly need. Barbequed chicken wings at four a.m and other such life sustaining necessities, for example. Believing that travelling was superior to the package holidays. Is the difference that difficult to see ? Reality means that the whole travelling concept is in essence a sort of disguised package deal. Marketed in a more free, liberating style. Clandestine, yes, but think about it carefully. What people are searching for, I don't know? I wasn't on a quest, I solely wanted to see if life is any different. Does it lie in the palm of your hand, curling like one of those little fortune telling fish that always read fickle or is it overtly given to you? Everywhere is essentially the same. The needs of people are alike. The core of human existence, sleep, eat, make fun, jiggy, jiggy. It used to bother me, when people said things like, "I am searching for something, I don't know what?" Well, Mon Amie, You shall keep searching and then a herd of elephants will march over you. If in luck there may be a brass band and a troupe of Major sweats, the dancing gals behind sending you off to the afterlife with a song and a dance. Cynical is one word that is coined to express my remarks and observations, so far. I agree and I must come across as a bitter old sole. That is my nature, I cannot help myself. Be thankful I am today sober, I mean when I am drunk, Jesus, I need to be hoisted off my soap box. Experience and appreciation are the qualities that my time on the road taught me. I suffered from ear aches, to baggage loss, ( leaving me only the clothes I stood in, for one week. I obviously had the option of modelling "The Birthday suit" look, the no clothes but a nice pair of Speedo flip flops, but hey I did not want to appear comical to the new people I met.) migraines to dodgy Gay German Geezers trying to pick me up ( the bottle bleached blonde hair and weight lifters armoury did nothing to arouse my libido. Why do they go to the gym anyway they should mountain bike or do something that is active, for they all machine like or genetically fucked up attempts at perfection, succeeding more in the "im" perfection department). It all had to happen to me. I found that after sea sickness, I stocked up with Kwells. A bout of diarrhoea, gave my first aid kit, sachets of dio-calm and insulin. Countless mosquito bites, aloe Vera and so forth. Every new item added at various stops for stock, were never ever needed again. I would then endure, yet another ailment to appoint into my collection of sufferance's. At least I am now at the advantage of having gone through every medical trouble, supplying me with an anecdote for every occasion. Gabby Nobshine, from the office, a new age herbalist has too. Hers are not lived though, they are taken from one of those awful published books, " The little book of travel remedies." One from an award winning series, can people really be that shallow? I submitted a draft of a novella in a similar fashion, " The little book of marketing bollocks, especially for nobbers who need to get a life or have at least one orgasm a year." Unfortunately, although the subject matter was commendable and much needed, the title was deemed too long. The publishers didn't want to know. Although she has often tried many stunts, Gabby Nobshine has never been as popular as me. I am the person most people solicit advice from. She has her sycophants and I have more than her. The fact that I sort out the roster's, till roles and wage packets in our office space, may give me the advantage, perhaps? The travelling I don't regret because it made me into the person I am today. Now I travel, business class, stay in five star hotels and aspire towards the more civilised manner of living. I don't mind visiting the third world countries or poorly developed vicinities, as long as I stay in an Internationally renowned hotel. It is not that I am a snob or have delusions of grandeur, but I have had my fair share of roughing it. Things like witnessing Hurricane Debbie, having to stand under a doorway to save my torso from tectonic plates and bedding with a herd of scabies, more than twice, fleas became another part of my build up. The guilt issue is something I feel as I drive along in the air conditioned jeep. I am only human. Drifting comfortably, past dirt tracks, ridges in the roadside, where people call home. I feel bad, speeding off to some secure roofed building where I can do all the essential things, read my "e" mail and receive faxes. The soap sudded bubble pool takes my mind away from their reality into a false world that is constructed by adverts, magazines and television reports. Shit, like am I doing enough with my life, is it the kind of lifestyle that I should be living? Is a gluten free diet going to help me slip into that outfit that the fashion mag tells me is this seasons must? Why me? What makes me any different to them people, what have I got that they haven't. Born in different circumstances that is all. I think in England, we treat people who rape and butcher children better than some of these people in neighbouring countries. The standard joke in University, where the debts ran high, (another 0 to the bank statement was irrelevant after the first three), was that if we had of filled our lives full of crack instead of study, mugged and battered old women for their pittance pension ( you fought a war and allowed us to be here now, lost your loved ones and struggled to permit us to survive, so thank you here is twenty five pounds, and wrap up in the winter ) the expensive degree would have been paid for during the stint inside. Coming out qualified and toned up from the health regime, admittedly the odd butt fuck by the pervs but it was all worth it in the greater scheme of things. Here in Blighty people do not think about the rest of the world, what is the old adage, out of sight out of mind. I guess I have avoided it for too long now. I shall tell you why I despise travelling. I was not always like this, pessimism was a quality other people had not me. I have resisted so far in the fear that it might change your approach. Really I feel I have to tell you my story to justify my own attitude. In Africa, I spent a lot of time with this girl, Maria. The sexcrazy mission had begun by The Coliseum in Rome and had continued as we moved on. Now we netted down on bed mats, unfaltering in our sex act, while hyena's sniffed around outside the tent. These occasions made us exceptionally close and I often wonder what has become of her. We met up in one of the lodges with a blonde French girl, who spoke hardly any English and her native tongue was quite hard to follow. Joan of Arc was the private name we branded her with, on the grounds that she had a bob cut, like the said martyr. It became apparent that she too desired to visit this mountainous rain forest area. A guide would take us three quarters of the route but then we would have to venture onwards a straight forward path. " Carry on, my friends always keep right and you will find shelter for the night." As we religiously did. But the three p.m. heat and fatigue soon set in. On the left of the path lay a peaceful water pond. Concealed from the path by huge botanical life. Draped in greenery and exotic flowers. In this sweat soaking heat, the temptation of the pool waters lay in front of us. The sun bounced off the shimmering green aqua, untouched and natural. I suddenly realised at this point, as did my fellow companions, what exactly travelling was all about. I wrestled with my clothing and tangled myself in the wet garments. My girl had to assist me, as a mother helps a child out of shorts and top. Our French friend was down to bra and panties in a shot. No inhibitions she yanked off her bra and I remember looking at her perfectly formed breasts coupled with her luscious legs and trim underwear, that unfortunately stayed on and thinking this is what paradise must be like. The female jealousy of my girl was apparent as she gave me a look that told me exactly what she thought of my ogling of this stranger. But this was quickly forgotten when Joan of Arc turned to us exclaiming words I am sure where not French, but still translated as ecstasy. She could no longer wait for us, she jetted into the water turning to give an expressive smile, before bombing in and under with a mammoth splash. We waited for her to come back up to the surface. We waited to see her young eyes shimmer in the radiant sun soaked pool. We waited. And waited. Was she playing a trick on us? After twenty five minutes we realised that she was not going to come back up. So, my friend I think that concludes what I have to tell you, as you can see that is what made me a former traveller. |