travel bugs
Tim Roxborogh on losing touch with fellow travellers and avoiding the rats of Cambodia
Keeping in touch
“We won’t keep in touch.” I’ll never forget the shocking, bum-me-out-why-don’t-you honesty of that 30-something English lady almost 10 years ago. We’d had a rollicking day snorkelling, searching for waterfalls and clambering through the Malaysian jungle and her response to the young Dutch couple who’d suggested the four of us all swap contact details was as succinct as it ultimately proved prophetic: “We won’t keep in touch.”
She said it with a smile but with a directness that left me and the Dutch kids in zero doubt that the lady was not for turning. She then elaborated a little, saying words to the effect of: “It was lovely bumping into you all and you sure made this particular day of my tropical adventure that little bit more fun, but let’s not beat around the bush and pretend your couch is my couch.”
I seem to remember another clarification, something about her having done enough travel to know that the strangers you meet always say they’ll keep in touch but never do, so she was doing us all a favour by calling out this false-hope for what it is.
There was something admirable about being so unfiltered in the revealing of her true thoughts but also something I’ve always found an almighty turn-off: smug pessimism. This isn’t merely glum glass-half-empty, it’s glum glass-half-empty with a fat dollop of arrogant, “I am the oracle of all human behaviour.”
Indeed, as soon as she told me we wouldn’t keep in touch, I believed her, mainly because I no longer had any desire to keep in touch with her. What a shame to be so defeatist because, for me, so many of the people I still regard as my best friends — even if we’re spread across the globe — are people who have reciprocated my efforts at maintaining contact. The much-maligned Facebook has made this so much easier too.
Semi-scarred by this defiant non-keep-in-touch traveller, balance was restored to the universe in 2016 when I explored China with half a dozen other Kiwi travel writers. There were four of us who clicked from day one and when early in the trip it was suggested we were getting on so well we might have to start occasionally hanging out back in the real world in New Zealand, one of the group hesitated: “Come on, we say we’ll keep in touch now but we all know that once we’re home we’ll never see each other again.”
This time I wasn’t going to be defeated, but more importantly, this time I didn’t want to be defeated. “No!
I like you, dammit! And he likes you and she likes you and I like him and he likes her and she likes him and I like her and you like us all.”
Well, I’m very pleased to say that three years on, the “China Gang” as we’re known still catch up over dumplings every few months. Against the odds, we keep in touch. The Cambodian rat incident
All this talk lately of a rat plague hitting Auckland suburbs like Titirangi has had me reminiscing back to my main goto rat-focused travel yarn from over the years. I hate rats. It’s a bonafide, fearful loathing, only made worse by that fateful night in Cambodia as a young man.
I was urinating in the wee small hours at a Cambodian military camp in an abandoned hill-station — quite the setting — and mid-stream a rat appeared from behind the bowl and plonked itself on my foot.
With a terrified shot of adrenalin and reflexes to make Ronaldo proud, I soccer-kicked the rat off my Jandal and hard up against the wall. Somehow I didn’t castrate myself as I intuitively zipped-up almost in unison with my soccer kick, before stumbling backwards out the door. Unfortunately, my not-overly masculine yelp woke up most of the military. It’s unclear whether the rat survived.