‘HOW DID I END UP HERE?’
Mementoes of previous travels can transport us again and remind us of what still awaits
Australia in January seemed like a great idea. Then, a wretched sinus infection descended, and reports about the worst fire season ever were unrelenting. Then we were hearing about a mysterious virus out of China. And oh yes, that dreaded 151/2-hour flight between Vancouver and Sydney. My stars were seriously misaligned! I postponed my trip.
Now I have no idea when that trip will happen. Fortunately, I’m a longtime traveller and have had the good fortune to set foot on all seven continents and though I’ve never counted countries, there have been many.
Mine has been a lifetime of travels that began with my introduction to Europe as an 18-year old. Most recently, I’ve circumnavigated Iceland with my 10-year-old grandson. Between those two trips, there have been many years and many adventures.
Never a diligent journal writer, I’ve recently uncovered old letters, a batch of small notebooks with sometimes barely legible writing, a few pre-digital photos, a trekking permit from Nepal, and a “passport” from the Camino de Santiago … I quickly realized that I can still travel!
I can reread those notebooks and early letters that often ended with “don’t worry mum, I’m fine now!” Thousands of digital photos are stored online, tiny sketches in coil-bound notebooks remind me of three women in vibrant saris, balancing earthenware jugs on their heads as they vanished into the sugar cane fields along the road from Agra. And there is so much more.
As a 22-year-old, a friend and I bought a P&O Steamship ticket around the world, departing from Vancouver, through the Panama Canal to Europe, where we wandered for five months before joining our next ship in Naples. Once there, we were to continue through on to Melbourne, Australia, where we would work for three months and replenish our dwindling funds. Then we’d depart from Australia, stop in Manila, Yokohama and Hong Kong before finally, 10 months later, arriving back in Vancouver.
It sounded so simple. We had Europe on $5 a Day as our guidebook, Aussies spoke English and really, what could go wrong?
In Copenhagen, we bought the cheapest ticket to Berlin but didn’t specify East or West and didn’t know we should have. The Berlin Wall was new, and we ended up in East Germany with no money and no idea where we were. Good Samaritans came to our rescue and dropped us at Checkpoint Charlie. Really, “don’t worry mum, we were fine now.”
We caught the SS Canberra in Naples and were happy to stay in one place for the next three weeks. Exhausted, we collapsed into bed and left the unpacking and laundry for the next day. Five hours later, smoke filled the corridors, we were ordered to our muster stations, and we drifted for hours. An electrical fire in the engine room meant we would hang out in Malta for 10 days instead of sailing through the Suez Canal. “How would we get to Melbourne?” The cable home said: “Don’t worry mum, we’re fine now.”
Eventually, we were airlifted to Sydney, and that soon led to a serendipitous meeting with the friends I was planning to visit in January.
Then there was the “Everest Over 50s Trek,” advertised as suitable for the “older” trekker. We didn’t know when we signed up that there was one route to Thyangboche, our destination in the Khumbu region of eastern Nepal, and the same way out. Age was irrelevant.
We should have asked more questions. We also learned that reading about culture shock doesn’t prepare you for its reality: Being engulfed in swirling dust; swarmed by flies; wondering about the blood running in the gutters; children begging; dead dogs; and traffic so chaotic that we were terrified for our lives.
Then there is the sublime Antarctica, where I was embraced by otherworldly silences, the brilliance of the light, and the pungent odour of 250,000 penguins mingling on a hillside. And the heart-stopping encounter with an orca, which surfaced only feet from our kayak, apparently curious about this small yellow thing bobbing in its waters.
Giant tortoises mating in Galapagos were abundant, awkward, and noisy, and they were oblivious to us walking by.
We should have asked more questions. We also learned that reading about culture shock doesn’t prepare you for its reality.
We watched prehistoric marine iguanas spit ocean salt through their warty nostrils, and wondered about the origins of blue-footed boobies. When I ordered prints, the clerk said “Nice Photoshop.”
“No really,” I replied. “They actually look like that.”
Machu Picchu lived up to its billing. It was mysterious and awe-inspiring, but the Easter celebrations in nearby Cuzco have remained a more vivid memory.
As a lapsed Anglican, I was speechless: Christ taken off the cross, laid in a glass casket, paraded through the streets and when dusk fell, the casket lit up. It could have been divine intervention!
A massive Black Madonna followed, carried on huge timbers resting on the shoulders of a succession of sweat-soaked pilgrims. I had no idea religion could be like this!
Dinner that night was a choice between guinea-pig pizza or guinea-pig stroganoff. I thought about Fred — our pet guinea pig.
India was a feast of memories. Fires from the burning ghats in Varanasi lit the almost-black nighttime sky as we drifted in a small boat on the Ganges.
The priests were dancing to the curiously melodic music, swaying with flaming bowls aloft to light the darkness. We lit candles, set them on banana leaves and gently placed on the river to join the flotilla drifting downstream. It was pure magic and worlds away from our every day.
So many wonderful travel memories return when I reread a journal or set aside time to look through photos, now stored online.
Once taken, we rarely go back to look at them again, though when we do, we’re reminded of wonderful adventures … like sailing over the Masai Mara in a silent hot air balloon, but then jolted soon after, by a visit to a wretched recreation of a traditional Masai village.
“How did I end up here?” I wondered.
And the gelatinous duck feet, a cringeworthy delicacy offered while in China.
And the Roman amphitheatre outside Amman where a Jordanian soldier played a truly haunting version of Amazing Grace on his khaki bagpipes.
It’s amazing how quickly our lives return to “normal” when we return from a trip, but since we don’t know when we’ll travel again, rereading old journals or looking at photos brings back so many wonderful … and occasionally, not-so-wonderful memories. And while I’m mostly confined within my four walls, these remnants of previous trips remind me of what still awaits. Beyond COVID.