From the Editor
A COUPLE of months ago, in a Marie Kondoinspired frenzy, I unearthed my travel journals. There are about 10 of them in varying stages of distress and each one opens a window onto another land and into another time.
I have pored over these journals, reliving my adventures and, somewhat self-indulgently, my personal journey (cue sweeping music).
Photos are wonderful and thanks to smartphones, we can capture every moment in a moment. But there’s something about the written word that evokes a stronger sense of place and person.
Every page transports me. From Africa in 2006: “It is close to 2pm and I am sitting on the balcony of our ‘tent’ at Kirurumu Lodge. Lake Manyara shimmers a pale, pale pink in the distance. In the foreground are acacia trees, hundreds of them, their twisted trunks standing sentinel. It is a lazy, hazy day in Tanzania…”
The accompanying photo just doesn’t paint the picture in the same way.
And you can’t taste a snapshot. “I’m in the centre of Hoi An, sitting outside a café opposite four tailors. I can hear the tap, tap, tap of the cobbler. My coffee has just arrived and it sits in a glass with a battered mini percolator above it and extra hot water to the side. It has condensed milk through it and it tastes sweetly thick and strong.”
Bang. The memories flood back and I am again on that street, sampling Vietnamese coffee for the first time.
I can’t lie. My journals go back more than 20 years and some of the early entries make me cringe. But there’s a sweetness to their naivety, too. That moment when I walked through Greenwich Village at midnight, feeling like I could do anything? That was me at 31, falling head over heels in love with New York.
And my words are a reminder to never stop appreciating the luxury of travel: “It’s difficult to believe we are here already. This morning, we were in Sydney. Seven hours later, Fiji. I love that about travelling. An afternoon and you are in another country.”
I hope your travels this month inspire you to write down the memories, too.