This Book Is About Travel

by Andrew Hyde

  Aside from these interactions with the locals, most of my interactions are with other travelers. These, too, tend to follow certain formulas. The usual, tired old questions when you meet a fellow backpacker tend to be: “Where are you from? What place are you coming from? How long of a trip are you on?” If you are new to travel, this is an exciting set of questions. The more you travel; however, the more you try to avoid such repetitive questions that demand the same answers over and over again. Of course, this set of questions is just a general skeleton — and the types of questions one traveler asks a fellow traveler is also influenced by country of origin, the type of day you are having and your general disposition.

  I have learned to adopt a certain rule: I am not going to tell you where I am from if you don’t also want to know my name. So it goes: “Andrew. From the States. Just came from Barranquilla. On a trip for over a year. Nice to meet you.” Generalizations, it seems, tend to rule the road. A Canadian might not like a certain traveler they meet from Spain, for instance, and as a result try to avoid other Spaniards until their generalizations are overturned. Such generalizations, of course, can also vary country to country, and even city by city. I have seen Israelis banned from hotels outright (as most backpacking Israeli’s are just out of the military and not the most well behaved — looking for girls to hire and drugs to indulge in), and I have personally been scoffed at on more than one occasion simply by being from the States.

  Sometimes, as in the above examples, these generalizations are blunt and obvious. More often than not; however, they come across very subtly. Such generalizations sneakily appear through such avenues as taste, friendliness, or openness. Too often, I find, we don’t even tend to really “hear” one another as we speak, choosing instead to animate someone’s stories with our own radical assumptions about where that person is from — as if the one or two things any of us know about Tasmania, for example, has anything to really do with the Tasmanian traveler you happen to meet over lunch some random afternoon. They have platypuses down there don’t they? You must love them. At the end of the day, there is something about traveling — about consistently meeting new people from around the world — that strikes in me a feeling of being just like a toddler in a big playground searching for new friends. Searching, ultimately, for acceptance. Can I be your friend?

  These generalizations with which we approach the world could very well go unnoticed. And indeed, perhaps they should. However, noticing how and when you deploy such assumptions seems to play a crucial role in the puzzle of discovery that travel so often affords. “Is this what travel is all about?” It’s a question I find I ask myself often. “Is it all about unraveling what you think you know about others? About the world? Even about yourself?”

  In some ways, this seems to be a radically different approach to travel than the often deep and almost unconscious desire to justify our actions as an accumulation of “high points” that we can present to the world, to our communities, in order to make it appear as if we are “living a good life.” In these instances, so much energy is poured into making it seem as if we are in perfect alignment with our own cultures’ programmed generalizations about what it means to achieve “human happiness.” Indeed, if the world were to end tomorrow, we will probably not all be gathering in the afterlife to compare points on who saw what waterfall: no, the world will simply be over. So if you are not traveling in order to accumulate momentary high points, what are you traveling for? How do you decide what to do while traveling? It’s a big question! And one that can be answered in any number of ways.

  The way I see it, there are three modes of travel that will frame the question in different ways:

  Option 1: Plan every action ahead of time. Get every guidebook. Research each place online, search out reviews, book everything in advance, know the warnings, the best way to exchange money and have all the major tours picked out.

  Option 2: Simply show up. Perhaps, if you are feeling like you need extra credit, check out a review of a place to start, book a hostel, then listen to other travelers to see what tours and activities are great. Go with other backpackers to other cities. Repeat and repeat.

  Option 3: Disown currency. Travel only to places where nobody has ever heard of and then, once you are there, walk even further away from anything you know. Eat meals with people who invite you in; get your water from where others get theirs.

  I’m trying my best shot at Option 2. I figure I can do the first option when I am older, and as for the third option, well, I am much too scared to throw myself into a situation where I have to rely solely upon the kindness and hospitality of perfect strangers.

  Traveling in rhythm with the second option, however, has led me on some great adventures. I am loving each little taste of what can happen once you just show up and begin meeting people.

  I didn’t know anyone when I arrived to Santa Marta and I knew very little about the town and the surrounding area, and yet it was only a matter of days before I found myself within a group that was spontaneously traveling to a mysterious place known as the Lost City — nestled deep in the Sierra Nevada jungle that surrounds the town. I was with an exciting blend of characters that appeared bonded in way that defied all sense-making, given the fact that we had only known each other for a matter of double digit hours.

  As it turns out, Santa Marta, located in the far north of the country, is something like a Holy Grail for travelers — offering access to beautiful beaches, a vibrant city life, low governmental and military regulation and amazing climates. Amongst seasoned travelers, Santa Marta is known for its uniqueness, beauty and strong sense of community. As such, it attracts and keeps in its orbit an interesting mix of people. A very good place for new friend making.

  Although the guidebooks have done their best at all but destroying nearby areas with their grand claims that create impossible expectations, Santa Marta has survived. Of the backpackers I know that have traveled for over a year, for instance, it is usually Santa Marta that emerges as the place they would choose to return to, grow some roots and start a hostel; a family. A special place, indeed.

  Our new friendships found themselves in a 1980’s model Land Rover with oversized tires hurling us up the muddy, clay road — pausing on the accelerator only for the occasional technical maneuver. We tilt to the side so far that it is only your seat belt that holds you in. You can reach out and touch the hillside while the 4x4 is seemingly on two wheels. The humid air hangs with the smell of mint and mud. Near Santa Marta, up this impossible hill, is a tiny village that starts the five to six day hike to the Lost City. A city so “lost” I hadn’t ever even heard of it before, it was one of those places that circulated as a whisper from local and seasoned travelers lips — bouncing off the walls of the hostel, and inspiring a few of us to check out just what all the fuss was about. The Lost City, in this way, epitomizes what Option 2 is all about: show up with a smile and an open mind and see where it takes you.

  Let it be known that this hike was by far one of the more challenging experiences I have ever encountered. Both jungle heat and jungle creatures are constant companions along your trek over countless mountain ridges. Although we were fully armed with pure DEET and mosquito nets, we were virtually eaten alive by the bugs. Which, in addition to being highly uncomfortable, is always a little scary in malaria-ridden areas. Only ten visitors a day are trekking along the rugged slope in order to get a view of this amazing city of civilizations past. The Lost city gets its namesake because it was only just “discovered” in 1974. Before that, the city was, quite literally, lost — overgrown and hidden by the fierce jungle in which it makes its home. Intense networks of trees, shrubs, vines and moss covered every surface making the once great city just a part of the hillside. It was found by a pair of grave robbers, who after wandering for days through the jungle remarkably happened to stumble upon this Colombian equivalent of Machu Picchu.

  It is truly a breathtaking site to behold. Millions of rocks had been carefully plac
ed to build flat land on top of a ridge. An amazing staircase reaches down to the river: 1,200 steps of hand placed rocks that jet straight up a steep cliff. It is striking to contemplate how this was the work of thousands of now nameless people. Looking across the valley, it was easy to feel transported to some other era, imagining other cities nearby — other cities still lost to the work of time. Other cities with families, economies, royalty and religion. Other cities yet to be discovered or that will remain forever covered by the jungles that have claimed their history.

  But the experience is not all about imagining some lost culture. At the top of the final terrace we are greeted by some young Colombian Army members, who, after taking long looks at all the girls, invited us to sit and talk. They all had machine guns, protecting this city from drug cartels attempting to hold tourists hostage as they have done in the past. Our group utilized our very basic Spanish and nervousness to arrange something for us to do together — a pushup competition.

  A word to the wise: if you are competing with someone with a machine gun — let them win. If it is rummy or baseball or anything not named “actual war,” just let them have their field day. I tapped out at 42 pushups, just before the 19 year old completed his 45th. A girl in our group almost beat one of their older members, much to the groans and cheers of the Colombians. My Australian friend Gabe gave away little kangaroo key chains; the girls all hiked down their shirts a little bit.

  The attention of the Army members was a welcome mix to our hiking routine. We had just hiked in for four long days uphill, and now it was time to return to that small village. We were hiking 6 hours a day in the hot and humid jungle heat and each had at least sixty bug bites. Life thrived deep beyond the motors and smog of the city. The guide had provided us with only a few purification pills for water, which ran out a few days ago. After many groans and finger pointing, everyone was risking sickness by drinking water directly from the streams in an effort to stay hydrated and battle the jungle heat.

  It was an out and back hike, which afforded us the ability to see on our way “in,” those who were coming “out.” We passed three groups, all with certain members showing major signs of sickness. “Don’t eat the salad, don’t drink the water” became a mantra. I was scared of anything going into my body.

  Often in my travels I have to plan ahead and be super cautions of my dietary requirements. Gluten free or celiac are the best descriptors. The pastas and sandwiches the guide packed (even though I was assured there were gluten free options during booking) were not something I could eat. My first lesson in “ask seven times, experience once.” If you ask a yes or no question, you get a yes or no answer, which, unfortunately, often lack the viscera of crucial details. The five day hike thus became a five day fast. A hike, but also a spiritual journey, a peaceful expression of rage.

  Of all the things I have ever done, whether despite or because of all of these challenges, my fast and trek to the Lost City in Santa Marta is amongst the most rewarding. I could have gotten irate with the guide (and would have had every reason to), but slipped into a travel zen that left me overly excited to see around every bend in the trail, every tree-filled vista, and every river to dive in. I learned that everything I thought I knew about myself was up for debate. I have to have water. Wrong. I need three meals a day or else I’m grumpy. Couldn’t be further from the truth. I came to be a traveler, dammit, not a dictator.

  The rope swing into the crisp, jungle creek is a needed break from the heat. We celebrate, as a group of new friends, the days we have spent in the Colombian jungles. The grandmother in charge of cooking dinner near this swimming hole asks why so many of us are single. “To experience this, I guess.” was more or less our collective answer. I feel singled out in many ways from that question.

  Why the hell was I single after all these years of being perfectly fine with the person I am? So where to next? Diving certification? Bus to a beach town? Venezuela?

  We will see what the feeling is when I wake up. We will see what my travel partners think. The danger of all of this is that I may pass up something that would be beneficial or a great lesson just because someone else thought it was lame.

  Such is life, now.

  Random, always changing, but always full of opportunity and questions of meaning, purpose and acceptance.

  PANAMA CANAL, PANAMA

  “How am I going to eat alone?” This was a huge fear for me, as I assume it is for many. The act of saying “table for one” was like admitting defeat to me. It was lonely. It was a statement about my ability to make and keep friends. Only a pariah of society eats or drinks alone. Or, so the sentiment goes. The very act of even saying the word “alone” makes you feel, well, alone. All those cavernous vowels that seem to hog the whole word? Aaaaloooone. Miserable. Food and life are meant to be shared, dammit.

  “Table for one.” It is a tough phrase. It conjures up all kinds of associated images: being stood up by a date or not being able to get a date in the first place, or being rejected by friends or left by a spouse. Table-for-ones are for old ladies with lots of cats. Table-for-ones are dates for one. An Irish pub at 11am on a weekday is filled with dates for one. That was not me, I cannot be in that group.

  Alas: “I’ll have a table for [a somber] one, please.”

  There are some people that fill a room with their presence with enough charisma to impress a Hollywood scout. They end their night with ten new friends begging them to “just come to one more bar.” I am, unapologetically, not one of them. I don’t have the ability to befriend a stranger with my looks. I’ve never really been flirted with out of the blue (a catch-22 for most solo female travelers you talk to). If there is one seat left in a bus, it most likely will be next to me. I’m big, a little awkward, enjoy being quiet and thinking to myself. The friends I have are from working relationships, community sports and friends of friends. The chance happening of someone new just approaching me, asking my name and trying to be friends with me just because doesn’t really make up a big part of my reality. Unless, of course, they were trying to sell me something.

  Without work, sports, or friends, all my usual ways of making friends vanished once I hit on the road. A table for one was the start, middle and end of my meal (and that goes for drinks, walks and all kinds of gathering places). With an in, I had no problem making friends, but on my own I could have been more friendly looking dressed as a priest outside a school.

  Sometimes you look back on stories like this and think “you idiot, you should have transferred one of your usual behaviors, like playing a sport, to your trip.” Seeing that solution would have staved off my depression from feeling lonely — which is among one of my biggest fears. Speaking in front of 2000 people was less frightening to me than spending this gift of a trip alone.

  After thinking about this for a while, and feeling horrible, I got up, did what ever I felt like doing for three months without anyone changing my plans, and I felt incredible. You might feel odd about it before you experience it, but traveling solo is one of the best parts of a trip. You meet your fear head on. Alone becomes less about the lacking of a partner when you find your understanding of the originator of the question benefits from the solitude. Just who the hell are you anyway? And if you don’t totally know, just how, exactly, can you compromise not knowing? Or at least beginning to know, beginning to understand?

  When you are stripped of things to hide behind, like in a security clearance white room in Barriquilla, Columbia, for instance, with no shared language and AK47’s outnumbering you 6-1, what do you find? When you are in a room filled with a community so different than you that you must watch, think and enjoy the notion of walking in their shoes, of adopting their life, their realities, do you find what makes a person happy? Unique? More importantly, do you find what makes you happy and unique?

  Are you honest with yourself if you are not with others? Can you take a look back at your last year of life and be more empathetic to the stories you shared? Does what really matt
er to you change when you notice the range in which other cultures derive meaning, value and purpose?

  Sit and ask yourself just how you really are. Are you working toward the dreams you find genuine value in? What place do you find yourself in right now and what does that say about the community that shares the space? Spending a night analyzing a night market in Cartagena taught me more about the Colombian culture than a week in museums. How do the teenagers in love flirt when their parents flirt (who are still seemingly, remarkably, madly in love in love with each other)? A family of five rides by on a motorbike with a cultural order to who sits where (father driving, youngest children in front, wife behind with the eldest on the far back) tells me just as much about the area as a long conversation with a hotel owner. Your focus solo is fully on the culture you are in. What are the shared values, traditions, cultural norms and ways of moving in space?

  You may never know who you are until you have a long conversation with yourself, and that is done most brilliantly at a table for one.

  I found out that I hate being in the way. A bit of the social anxiety I have around crowds is just simply not wanting to stand out in a negative way. I don’t want to have my name announced on a stage as I feel awkward when they announce a drink I order at a coffee-shop. I don’t want to have to barter over my meal, a hotel, or a bus. I want to be invisible, but participatory. Helpful, yet obscure to the central story. With that in mind, I slipped on a flight to find myself a mile away from the Panama Canal.

  Chapter 8

  SEVEN QUESTIONS

  Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?

  Where should we be today? Is it right to be watching strangers in a play in this strangest of theatres?

  What childishness is it that while there’s a breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?