Not So Lonesome Traveller

A play on the title of a book by Jack Kerouac (1922-1969) called Lonesome Traveller (1960), nostalgia gets the better of us sometimes and this piece is no exception; it takes a look at unabashed independent travelling with a twist. It may or may not surprise you that those who travel alone end up meeting more people than they would when they go away with friends or partners.

Here’s to memories across 5 continents from 1995-2015:

Mexico City, Mexico (1995) - travelling as a 16 year old would raise some eyebrows no doubt. My father was working over there while I had the pleasure of going on two excursions; the first was a trip to Teothicuan and became fascinated by the guide who had hair coming out of his ears, who, it turns out was a Mexican actor, and who had been in a number of Hollywood films as an extra such as Romancing the Stone, Total Recall and he had met Sam Peckinpah, one of my idols. My first real experience of independent travelling couldn’t have been more enthralling. Meeting such a character in such a bewildering place where the Aztec pyramids bear down so ominously had a big impact on me. Just as the Mexican beauty I met on the bus got my pulse racing as I nodded off on the bus to Guadalajara. In search of my old school chum Henrique Delgado Robles, who had gone to the International School of the Hague when I did aged 13, seeking him out with the clock ticking before the bus back to the capital would leave, it transpired that Henrique was in Puerto Vallarta, where Mexicans themselves go on holiday; his gran tried to reach him by phone, but he was swimming in the sea.

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil (2000) – the first proper independent trip and arriving at the airport seemed a little daunting; I stopped shaking when it was clear to see that life went on here as normal and there was no bogeyman out to get me. The hostel in Copacabana boasted an indoor courtyard where we, that is a group of Dutchies and I, sat and drank Cachaca (sugar cane alcohol) and Brahma Chopp (the best Brazilian beer) and boy was it hot during the day, when we visited the Christ the Redeemer statue, as you do. It seemed as if everyone at the hostel got mugged except me. One chap I wished I hadn’t met was a guy who tried to mug me on Copacabana beach. It wasn’t a great way to meet someone by offering me a bottle of whisky at 2pm. He had red eyes, bought and started munching on lobster on a skewer, which became a potential poking device, and he asked me if I had money with me, which I denied and then he tried to see if I had any in my pocket, so I boomed ‘hey, what are you doing?’. He was surprised and said ‘I have no problem with you’ and slung his hook. I made an error of judgement as he could have attacked me. Afterwards, scoring a goal with bare feet against some very talented Brazilians, despite getting a broken toenail, cheered me up no end.

Buenos Aires, Argentina (2000) – Gustavo was my unofficial guide, an architect I’d met at the museum where I worked in London. He showed me all the points of interest I requested including where Evita Peron (1910-1952) had given her famous speech and where she was laid to rest. After eating a dodgy macaroni and cheese in San Telmo, a stomach bug kept me up at night. Though, a Bosnian receptionist, who was also a charming conversationalist, cheered me up no end. A diet of crisps awaited me the next day until I could stomach food again after some time.

Bolivian Andes (2000) – Bolivian buses break-down from time-to-time and 13 hours of waiting for the new one high up in the Andes wasn’t exactly the most pleasurable way to spend the time. What made up for it was the generosity and warmth of those on the bus who gave away food and seemed to see the bright side of life. When 4 llamas were slaughtered to feed the passengers, I turned down the offer and could have a bowl of soup at an old lady’s humble abode up in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere where crystals can be seen glittering for all to see. The best cup of coffee has to be when you’re cold and it hits the spot. My toes were cold on account of my inappropriate apparel for night-time temperatures in this formidable mountain range. This resulted in a few 100m sprints and putting my toes over a fire to bring them back to life again. When the replacement bus finally arrived, everyone cheered like there was no tomorrow.

Santafe de Bogota, Colombia (2001) – Pierina, a friend of a friend (Adriana from Chile), was a judge and picked me up from the airport in an armoured jeep. We stayed in a secure compound in the north of the city. She had to work sometimes, so I went to Zipaquira salt cathedral with her sister and went to a pizza place. When she was at home, she was very hospitable, making tamales and Colombian coffee. Marla, whom I’d met in London when I worked in a museum, also lived in the capital and we kissed and she considered joining me to the next port of call, which was Medellin, but couldn’t make it in the end. Pierina and her friend drove me to the outskirts of Bogota where soldiers stood guard due to the presence of rebels in the area. It’s a popular place to see the city from above as it’s perched up in the Andes (2640 metres up). I wasn’t keen on her amigo driving while taking swigs from a bottle of rum, but we survived to tell the tale. Another day, I went to Quinta da Bolivar, the former home of Simon Bolivar, the liberator. The thing is I had a sudden agonising case of diarrhea as unglamorous as it is. Though, running over cobblestones and reaching the loo in time was a great relief. The cannon outside serves as a metaphor for well you can just imagine.

Cartagena, Colombia (2001) – Nanci and I met at the Gold Museum in Cartagena and hit it off. She, a Hawaiian former stewardess was the veteran traveller out of the two of us as I was just starting out so to speak. She had an idea to go to Galerazamba mud volcano and hitch a ride, which was my first and only experience hitch-hiking. We were picked up by some Guns n Roses fans who took us there without any problems. Once you get in it is difficult to move around; it is filled with minerals and nutrients and I found my big toe going backwards a bit, which was a strange sensation. There are masseurs on hand to give you a back rub. After all that mud, you get washed by a lady in the lake and Nanci was quite surprised as the lady in the lake removed her bra without a word of warning; she quickly cupped her assets to avoid embarrassment.

Cusco-Arequipa-Lima (2001) – Candy worked at my hotel selling souvenirs and one morning we got acquainted. I started showing her photos of the journey so far and then, before I knew it, we had got to know each other better. What had begun as a romance turned into an engagement after 1 and half weeks. She came to meet me along the way and the proposal was in the most gorgeous colonial city you could imagine. To celebrate the engagement, we spent some time near a mill in Sabandia and had a delicious dinner in a colonial style building with plenty of red wine. Meeting the family was daunting enough without me swinging the kids around, apparently seen as behaving like a clown. Then, after reciting poetry in broken Spanish, I was told in no uncertain terms by a leading member of this family, who also doubled as a clan of evangelists, that if I didn’t treat her right, I would be sorry.?Candy moved to London a year later, we broke up a year later as we realised we were not meant to be and, with a happy ending, she still lives in the UK, which she loves; so her life has been changed forever for the better.

Rabat & Sale, Morocco (2002) – Hanane Izam was a quixotic cashier at a big supermarket in the capital and had a glimmer in her eye. Next thing I knew we were on our way to the nearest exotic gardens. In this part of the world, it is frowned upon to partake in smooching in public unless you are in such a place, which is somewhat away from public view. It was like stepping back in time as it felt like a way of behaving that goes back donkey’s years, but it had its charm. Fast forward to near the Madrassa in Sale, a place of religious learning, with its gorgeous beach and a game of beach football ensued with a trio of exuberant locals who welcomed being challenged by an Englishman on their own soil.

Tunis, Tunisia (2002) – taking photos of sublime architecture gets a thumbs up right? Well in this case – wrong. The building in question turned out to be the Algerian embassy and it all began with a policeman passing me to two detectives, who, in turn, took me to a cantankerous Captain, who kept me waiting for a very long time before I was taken to see the Commissioner of Tunis himself, who was dressed in a suit and was the only police officer who spoke perfect English. He apologised for the way I’d been treated and said that unfortunately he had to take my camera (a throwaway) due to the sensitivity of the Algerian embassy; this also meant that my pictures of Carthage would be lost forever.

Bangkok, Thailand (2003) - Ying met me with her parents in the ancient UNESCO site of Ayutthaya. After I had taken her whole family out for dinner, Ying and I arranged to meet in Bangkok. We had a swell time taking in the sights at Jim Thompson's house and necking by a lake under an umbrella. She had told me that it is not becoming of a lady to partake in such activity in public as people consider it to be not just vulgar, but more akin to prostitution. We then went on a pedal boat and what started out as a harmless joke accidentally became a cruel prank. All it would be was a little splash form the fountain I thought, but no, we got closer to the source and poor Ying, who would soon look utterly flabbergasted, got totally soaked. Luckily, the warm sun dried her off in no time.

Calcutta, India (2003) – Turning up announced at the house of a late, great filmmaker is rather an unusual thing to do. Seeing as Satyajit Ray (1921-1992) had been the subject of my BA thesis and his address is no great secret, I thought I’d try my luck. The inhabitant at the time at least was Sandip Ray (1953- ) his son; also a talented filmmaker and Brahmin. To my surprise, I was welcomed in and offered tea. It seems that other cineastes from far and wide had made the pilgrimage before and Sandip enjoyed talking about his father with those who appreciated his genius. He showed me some film awards and presented me with two of his dad’s books, which I cherish to this day.

Santiago de Cuba, Cuba (2005) – It had all been meticulously planned or so I thought; my booking wasn’t acknowledged by the owner of a colonial guesthouse, so I had to find alternative means of accommodation in the home of carnival. The taxi driver new exactly what to do and took me to visit a family who would put me up in their house, despite it being illegal. Although, I wasn’t happy about the set up, I played ball. Apparently, an inspector could pop round and that would spell trouble for the owners of the house as they could be fined a month’s salary. What was most surprising is that the two of them had faked being married to get the house, they had family in the US, but couldn’t visit them, as it wasn’t allowed, and, despite the US being Cuba’s greatest enemy, the lady was wearing a stars ‘n stripes top.

Tokyo, Japan (2006) – Takashi is a talented film-maker who’s won the Tokyo international film festival. We’d met in Dublin and he’d stayed at my place in London before I stayed at his in Tokyo. Borrowing a bike and being initiated into the world of the Izakaya, traditional Japanese drinking dens, was fun; the owner of this local boozer rolled cigars and the drinks were flowing all night. A bottle of orange liqueur from the Netherlands probably didn’t compliment the sake, but it didn’t matter. Most of the time, I did my own thing like visiting Sengaku Ji temple where the 47 ronin had once roamed freely and, as legend has it, avenged their unfairly punished ex master before assassinating the culprit and taking his head to the temple. On a lighter note, I met Akiko at Takashimaya department store’s food hall, where she worked at a chocolate stall. I bought a box from her, and she discretely took my details; she came to visit me a year later in London. Oh and visiting the Park Hyatt hotel, where you can re-enact Bill Murry eating nuts, drinking whisky and listening to jazz from Lost in Translation (2003) with the best view of the city below.

Hiroshima, Japan (2006) – Eating a bento aka sushi lunch box wandering around town got me spotted by a group of Yakuza in a bar. I had been minding my own business but being a European guy with peroxide blonde hair (which was temporary) led to being beckoned into this secret world. The sakes flowed and Ryu, the tough guy had swollen knuckles – probably from punching people’s light’s out, gave me his business card which claimed that he was in the business of import-export. There was a feline type hanging around and Mr Aniki, the boss, liked to stay in the background and observe as he didn’t say very much. It dawned on me that I didn’t have enough money with me to pay for my drinks and like a scene from a movie, I had to break this to the man with big knuckles; he wasn’t very pleased, but the boss told him to calm down and they trusted that I would bring the money the next day, which I most certainly did. In fact, I did one better and brought a framed photo of us all together, which, with Mama San’s blessing, may still be hanging there today.

Gili Islands, Indonesia (2013) – Orsolya is a Hungarian lady who is great at storytelling, is a real-life budget traveller, yet can be impossible to be around. Orsolya told a cracking true life story on the bus of when she was in Borneo and a large orangutang grabbed her arm and wouldn’t let go for some hours. The mother had lost a child and was sadly psychologically damaged. A ranger literally struck the monkey in the face to no avail. Only when a baby orangutang was shown to her, did she let go. Orsolya then ran for her safety. In Lombok this traveller could be found eating the cheapest delights by the side of the road while others would sit at slightly more expensive places close by. She suggested to me that we could share a room as friends to save money and it seemed like a good idea at the time. However, she threw a wobbly for no reason, and walked off with the key, meaning that I couldn’t get to my stuff. Enraged, I spoke to the hostel owner and took my stuff out of the room and skedaddled. My former roommate walked by soon after and I told her I’d had enough and left.

Granada, Nicaragua (2014) – The hipica horse festival is a popular event for locals and tourists alike. Every foreigner with sense had booked in advance to avoid disappointment and the big day had come. Giant effigy caricatures of the Spanish colonisers can be spotted out and about as can the Cuba libres. The main square where the action takes place is also where Joline got mugged; her smartphone to be precise. The poor girl was a victim of an opportunist who had reached into her fanny pack (bum bag in UK English) and took it right there and then. I promised to take her to the police station next door as I can speak some Spanish, which I did as she needed to get a document stamped for her travel insurance.

David, Panama (2014)– The strangest things happen in this neck of the woods. First, a man stood in a cloth looking faint, Next, he had a stroke and was finally propped up in a cab as an ambulance had refused to take him to the hospital. Next, a group of drunk German traveller run amok. Well – I shouldn’t have gone with them to the supermarket when they were in that state, but I did. They were kicking sandals off onto somebody’s property, opening packets of crisps and eating them in a supermarket before paying, knocking over a bucket of soapy water in the same establishment, and, worst of all, urinating behind a lorry. Rustling sounds emanated from the bushes and next thing we know we were encountering a Panamanian military police patrol and they meant business. In this country, they are worried about drugs being smuggled from Colombia, but they also don’t like it when tourists pee on their parade by behaving antisocially. It was hard to keep a straight face as one officer itemised what was in the bags; ''one piece of fried chicken'' and so on. Eventually, when they realised that we were not hardened criminals and the fact that we had our passports with us saved the day as without it, you can spend a night in jail ‘round these parts.

Brooklyn-NYC, USA (2015) – An ingenious initiative indeed. To have a guided tour of the graffiti street art on this side of the big apple. The idea is that you only pay if you want to, so with no obligation, the onus is on you as to whether you feel generous or not and wish to tip the guide after the tour is over. I did as it was worth every dollar – it was nice to meet some open minded, art-loving tourists and a good time was had by all.