This Book Is About Travel

by Andrew Hyde

  What type of question is that? A plane ticket? I’m going on the trip of a lifetime and all you ask me about is my ticket? The simplest, most mundane aspect of all travel starts?

  “Look, if you are saying goodbye to all your friends and giving away all your stuff without a plane ticket,” Jeremy continued, “we are going to have to treat this as a call for help.”

  This move was so random and so bold to my friends that there was a genuine level of concern that I was actually hosting my own suicide party. Seriously? Seriously. My glass still in the air, I assured them that there was nothing to worry about. I was traveling, not dying.

  As it happened, I did not have a plane ticket on that day, but after pulling out a rough itinerary of six continents, 41 countries and 16 months of general plans, I was put off suicide watch and spent the rest of the evening playing the fun game of “no, really, take everything I own.” Years of shirts, jackets, shoes, lighting fixtures, tables, chairs, records and books were claimed and put into piles.

  I had presided over the looting my life, and it was joyous. Not only did I reduce my belongings to just 15 things, but I broke up with the person I thought I was to marry, I quit my amazing job and I stopped my long term, committed, athletic training. Just a few days before, I had spoken in front of 1,800 people and finished an Ironman 70.3. Those events had rapidly become part of a distant past. Those that say you can’t completely change your life overnight have probably not seen it in action. You can.

  In retrospect, perhaps I had not so much allowed the looting of my life, as thrown it into a full on street fight.

  Now I had a hangover. A quick look towards the sunrise brought me to make a promise to myself: to never be predictable. Also to never drink that much again.

  At least one of the two, I figured, had a shot of being kept.

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  How you look at yourself is more important than how others look at you. You can never be too kind to yourself, especially while learning. Some of the toughest lessons of my trip were also the first.

  The fog was lifting on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco just as the sun was peaking at midday. I was in the Bay Area finishing up the planning for my trip: meeting with some veteran travelers, squaring up my visas, getting shots. Lots of them. The medical vaccinations required for all the places I was heading cost me a total of $760 and 21 pricks of a needle. The whole experience left me with an arm full of track marks and the acute feeling that I was like a junkie walking with purpose for my much needed fix: namely, tacos in The Mission. It certainly did not help that the midpoint of these two activities — from the clinic to lunch — routed me straight through the junkie haven of the Tenderloin neighborhood. “Nothing to see, here” I kept telling myself under my breath, just a jittery guy with a backpack for a home, rocking emotionally back and forth until he gets his fix of avocado.

  “Nothing to see, here. Nothing to see…”

  I was making a lot of mistakes. The Brazilian visa I was supposed to get didn’t happen because I showed up too late to the embassy. Let’s rephrase that and be a little bit more honest: I saw too many people walking out of their office pissed off because something had gone wrong with their visa. When I was faced with the choice of waiting in the line for over an hour to see if my fate would be different, I chose to not even try. I walked away telling friends I showed up too late or that they had closed early.

  This feeling that I was making mistakes was a very real emotion. With respect to Brazil, I could have toughed it out. I could have double-checked my paper work, camped out, or kept trying until I received my stamp. Instead, for the cost of what would have been the Brazilian visa application fee, I chose to stay in Colombia for an extra two weeks. This fate, mistake or not, was all decided within a few moments at La Taqueria — my favorite restaurant in The Mission. By not going, I decided that I was consciously missing an experience I thought I would have. Is something missing if it is replaced?

  Later that night, still swimming in the events of the day with a heaviness that I had just messed up my whole trip, I attended a party that had one of those curious guest lists that couldn’t quite mix. The females were generally of the model and socialite persuasion while the males were all entrepreneurs and geeks of the non model and socialite persuasion. The night danced away — or at least the girls did — until the awkward tension hit a critical mass and the party was clearly split apart. It was fun, no question, but perhaps not exactly in the ways that had been intended.

  At some point I watched as one friend ran across the divide to the women on the dance floor and asked for a picture. The women agreed and the gentlemen gleefully had his picture snapped amidst four beautiful and happy young women. Returning to his niche of friends within his comfort zone, he immediately posted the photo to Facebook with the caption: “epic party.”

  This whole scene struck a deep chord in me. He had spent less than 20 seconds with that group; and yet, it was as if the night would be defined, promoted and forever remembered by this brief interaction. Why he did not start the night off with them, or continue to spend time with them, is of course unknown (he didn’t want to? lack confidence? too many nerves?); but the habit of carefully crafting and framing an experience through images or soundbites is all too true and familiar. Climb a mountain: take a picture. Watch a sunset at the beach: post on Facebook. Gaze at an infamous monument: update Twitter.

  Models and bottles — geek — models and bottles. We all have this reel of highlighted moments that we try to live. Or, perhaps more honestly, we all have this highlighted reel that we tell others we are living.

  But why? If we take out all the high points — and the low ones, too, for that matter — we are simply left with life. Left with a trip. A story: a chance to grow and a chance to share. If we plan, judge and calibrate our actions based on the highlights that others present to us, we are destined to fail. “Epic party.” The party was not epic. But the brashness, dishonesty and cultivation of an imaginary scenario — which presumably extends beyond a photograph — very much were.

  Sitting there that night at the party, I began to reflect on my own guilt that I had made some kind of a mistake by forgoing Brazil — as if it were nothing but another highlight for my reel. I decided right then and there that I was going to be nice to myself as I learned to travel. I would take days off and treat myself along the way. I decided that the pictures and stories I was going to take and tell, were not just going to be of the high and glamorous moments that others seems so eager to see — they were going to reflect each and every step of my journey.

  I decided to try to embrace each moment of my trip — even my mistakes and my failures. There is no gauge, I told myself, on just where my lessons will actually come from — they could come from a captain, a fellow traveler, a banker, a bustling city, or a quiet mountain stream. I wanted to be open to the entirety of my traveling experience in all its fun and adventure; but also in its awkwardness, lulls and disappointments.

  Let’s keep the self portraits to a minimum, I told myself. Life isn’t looking at you with the perfect angle. In fact, it more often looks away from you with the perfect angle — you know, cutting out the models and bottles.

  HARDWICK, VERMONT

  “Alright, you are going on a big trip, what are you packing?” This is what wakes me up most nights. “Will I be prepared? What if I forget something?”

  It’s hard to say if anyone is ever really right or wrong with reference to what they plan or prepare for travel — but what is clear is that everybody certainly has their own opinions. What I find is that it is less about being right and more about how different people are attached in various ways to what it is that they have. I keep my pack as light as possible — and because I gave away all my worldly possessions — everything I own fits into one bag.

  When I finally set off for my trip, and for a year thereafter, I owned just 15 things. Fifteen. Three high fives worth of items would pass to my next of kin w
ere I never to return from my adventures. My bag weighed just 13 pounds. It was an orange bag, one I still have. I call her “Maggie.” I still cannot help but laugh when I see anyone traveling with a backpack larger than a carry-on, as it seems outlandishly big to me. And yet others see my small pack and almost mock me for my lack of “real” travel knowledge. Not right or wrong, per se, but certainly different opinions — opinions that manifest themselves materially. Opinions which ultimately inflect whole different means and modes of travel. In many ways, what you bring, what you own, what you are attached to, will help shape your experience. That may seem like a lot of pressure, but it’s really not. Again, it’s not about right or wrong; better or worse; but about making thoughtful choices knowing that less is often more.

  Everyone has his and her nervous ticks with respect to their possessions. Mine just so happens to be being overly concerned that everything I own will be taken from me in one foul swoop. It would only take an adept toddler about a minute to loot my entire collection of goods — which makes me all the more paranoid and cautious around my things. One must always watch out for the small ones.

  In this way, the only thing more valuable to me than my wallet is my fake wallet — my invaluable decoy that will be given to any thief looking to rob me. Given the minimalist nature of my belongings, the loss of my passport and credit card — without an embassy, of course — would make my life look like some kind of survivalist reality TV show. With it, however, I am a jet—setting tourist with a hankering for lunch.

  I have less and do more. Because I have less, people talk about me more. Because I do more, I talk less about the things I have.

  My life’s possessions can be expressed in a single sentence:

  My towel and toiletry kit help me start the day before I dress in a shirt, shorts, sunglasses, sandals, and jacket while researching where to go on my phone and computer, that fit together with my long sleeve shirt, long pants, board shorts, camera, and underwear in my backpack.

  Perhaps list form would be better:

  1. Backpack

  2. iPhone

  3. Small camera

  4. iPad

  5. Long sleeve shirt

  6. Short sleeve shirt

  7. Long pants

  8. Board shorts

  9. Underwear

  10. Sandals

  11. Sunglasses

  12. Wallet

  13. Towel

  14. Jacket

  15. Toiletry kit

  Not listed, of course, is the irritating sense of superiority I joke that I have for being able to list out everything I own in a single breath. I can up pack everything I own in under a minute. All of my clothing can fit into one load of laundry with plenty of room to spare. Everything I possess was carefully picked and what I consider to be the greatest piece of gear with respect to its specific purpose. All have been created in a sustainable fashion and are meant to last hundreds of wears and adventures. I can take off at a full sprint with everything I own on my back.

  I gave away everything to simplify life but it hasn’t totally done that. Instead, life got exciting. Life got challenging. But life also got to be talking about my bag — a lot. It is amazing that simplicity itself can be such story. But in a culture of excess, it seems to be just that: a story, something “someone else” does. CNN covered the project which resulted in a wash of email from aspiring vagabonds, bloggers and adventures. I felt like a traveler even though I was still in the country.

  The less I have, the more people want to talk about it. I gave up consumerism and I’m now the cover-model for those that love minimalism. A logo—less backpack is now a centerpiece of discussion for lifestyle design. I rejected material things. And with that rejection, I accepted that life could be more than a picket fence and nuclear family.

  One bag. One life.

  Chapter 4

  WEALTH, POVERTY AND KITTENS

  Most of the luxuries, and many of the so called comforts of life, are not only indispensable, but positive hinderances to the elevation of mankind. With respect to luxuries and comforts, the wisest have ever lived a more simple and meagre life than the poor.

  —Henry David Thoreau

  Our people are good people; our people are kind people. Pray God some day kind people won’t all be poor.

  —John Steinbeck

  PANAMA CITY, PANAMA

  A long, winding, unplanned walk teaches you a lot about an area. The sounds, structures, smells and people always speak if you are willing to listen. Sometimes, in fact, a bit more than you’re comfortable with.

  A recent walk in Panama City, Panama really got to me: daunting poverty next to unrivaled wealth, fine dining next to slums, pleasant nature budding to blown out speakers.

  The walk started out simple enough. First, tour the Panamá Viejo (Old Panama). It was founded in 1519, has some amazing historic structures and is home to several celebrities. Despite its age, it struck me as still in the rough-and-tumble moment of settlement.

  And rough-and-tumble it is. This is a wild west of cities: a vibrant clash of culture and economies.

  We walked around looking at the buildings — mostly restored mansions that are selling for around $15,000,000. A block over, a street vendor displayed hubcaps stolen from their parking lot. The watcher of this street, an unofficial guard and sometimes lackey, is named Dulce de Mango. Every time we pass, he yells out his name. He is “a good one,” my friend tells me. If you need a beer, carwash, or anything you can think of — Mango is your man. Noted.

  We passed a German restaurant we had dined at the night before. For $50 we were served a 6-pound lobster and all the fixings. The chef had seen my friend on the street that day and had boasted about their catch. Really good lobster, a chef’s welcome, and a fine meal to match. Afterwards, we had drinks at a city-provided artist’s loft — one of many large older buildings that are now being utilized by the creative class. This place is what all cities need, I thought: accessible space for a thriving and worldwide community.

  Further into the walk, a four-year-old asked me for something to drink. I hold the opinion that kids are universally fun to interact with. Playing soccer in the streets is pure joy. I was near the end of the walk and already doing a run to the grocery store for beer, snacks and now, also juice.

  Well, the kid didn’t want the juice, he wanted the beer. Not a mistake, the kid confirms. He gets juice. Shortly thereafter, some kids rigged together a potato-gun-like-contraption to fire small rocks around the streets. They launched a travel-sized bottle of shampoo hitting me in square in the foot. I limped away, a bit rattled in my universalism that “kids are a wonderful, innocent group the whole world over” I had had been musing about just moments before. The message was clear: give us a beer or we will hit you with projectiles. Kids in Panama City.

  The markets bustle with fish, veggies and stolen goods. Open-air, minor surgeries were being performed on the sidewalk around the corner. A razor blade cutting something from a temple, causing a rush of dripping blood, can be tough to stomach before noon. Simple fences separated these markets from the high-rise buildings. The Spanish name for this market literally translates as “get out as fast as you can” and the make shift fencing exists to protect you from what are truly some dark, damp and downright foul places to be. Other fences cordon off a yet-to-be-opened waterfront park. They are built in middle of sidewalks and streets that are out of legal jurisdiction, or so it seems.

  We started to walk into a fish market that makes me gag. I choke and experience a “never, ever want to smell again” feeling that will halt my appetite for days. I stop. I won’t go on.

  “It takes a while,” my friend said. He couldn’t go in, it turns out, the first few times he tried.

  I wanted to run away from the crowds and overstimulation of what was behind us. We walked down a pier and suddenly everything is picturesque again. A white sandy beach with gentle crashing waves is fewer than 100 meters away, and it’s a whole world apart. I don’t want
to leave here. Take me anywhere but those markets.

  The tap water in the city is safe to drink; the people are fine. “Keep calm and carry on,” I thought.

  We were being eyed by a security guard. We are not the types of people he usually sees coming from the market. I notice how comfortable I am with guns around me all the time. You can’t go more than two blocks without someone armed noticing you, or, more accurately, you noticing someone with a gun.

  More smells. Which, as you can probably already deduce, are hard to describe in a civil way.

  Abandoned buildings are being sold to foreigners to build their vacation villas. Romantic. What my friend describes as “crack babies that have grown up” stumble down the street. We passed some AK-47s. We passed some drunks. We passed a convenience store selling one-dollar fish fired up. I have no gauge to determine if there is corruption in any part of this trade.

  We had a ceviche and drinks on a patio overlooking the ocean. Skyscrapers are in the distance. The Panama Canal is just 10 minutes away. This used to be Colombian territory until the USA helped secure Panamanian independence. Of course, if you watch the somewhat official “History of the Canal” video, you’ll learn that the USA only helped with the canal, and not until a year after independence. Right. I remember other history lessons and wonder just wherein lies the truth.

  I walk back to the converted mansion overlooking the fish market where I am staying ($13 a night) wondering how you can relate to mass wealth and intense poverty existing in such close quarters. Is there a way to make sense of that?

  The next day, lost on our way to lunch, a Panamanian Public Forces member we flagged down salutes us, smiles, asks where we want to go, and happily escorts us all the way to the restaurant. We walk in with a warm “Buenos!” to the owner. We eat chicken and veggies while watching a Saturday football match on the TV.