In October of 2014 my friend Ransom posted a link to a rather
obscure and exotic job opening on my Facebook, which I promptly ignored. He
sent it my way again, and on New Year's Eve of that year I stepped onto a plane.
I emerged in Vietnam on January 2nd. I was a bit nervous. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I expected to be home a year and change later. Instead I found myself on a fluid, somewhat haphazard, three-year journey spanning eleven countries, three jobs, and more crazy adventures than I ever could have imagined. I've met some of the kindest, most inspirational, compassionate people I could have hoped for and experienced places I never knew existed.
In the last three years I've ventured solo into blizzards and marshes and mountains. I’ve explored coral castles and driven alongside cassowaries, bathed in desert waterholes and picked my way along ancient, spiny ridges. I've dived with sea snakes and mantas and seals and dragons. I’ve guided rock climbing on tropical beaches and kayaking in secret tunnels and lagoons. I’ve mentored teenagers through their first backpacking experience, taught kids how to chop vegetables and treated stupid scary snakebites. I’ve wandered architectural time warps, slept in remote hilltop villages, wandered endless rice paddies and nestled into the outback’s rusty expanse under the full moon’s silver sheen. I’ve gotten lost in ancient temples and futuristic gardens, and stared into active volcanoes as the ground shook beneath my feet. I've picked my way through endless spiny desert spinifex and found vibrant pitcher plants at high altitude. I’ve sat on the beach as penguins returned home from the seas, watched langurs feed from kayaks, passed orangutans and sun bears from sky walks, and listened to wombats masticating grass as they circled my tent.
I’ve traveled by plane, train, bus, motorbike, ferry, cruise, car, truck, tuk tuk, canoe, kayak, raft, speedboat, junk boat, van, basket boat, tender boat and taxi. I’ve hiked rivers, lakes, coastlines, water holes, straights and dams. I’ve wandered mountains, gorges and ridgelines; camped in the jungle, the desert and the alpine.
I’ve been embraced by the most kind and welcoming of souls, guided
and mentored in finding my way through new countries and cultures with words of
quiet strength and intelligence. I’ve been given lessons in grace from Australian
cliffside caves and been looked after by Indonesian families with whom I could
barely communicate. I’ve learned massage from blind men, been coached by
colleagues in the art of driving a manual transmission and been trusted by roommates to teach them how to swim. I’ve learned customs
and traditions and beliefs from aboriginal elders, gotten smashed off shots of rice wine with Vietnamese boat crews and binged on fried noodles and iced tea at Thai
climber’s hostels. I’ve traded stories with strangers as we held each others’
ropes and lives in our hands, time and country and time and country again.
I've met and put blind trust into more people than I can count.
Sometimes it's blown up in my face. More often than not, it's given me
steadfast friendships with incredible people.
For all the joys and triumphs, there have been lows and tears and frustrations. Computers crashed, gear destroyed, cars broken down, driver's licenses lost, culture shock, getting news of family engaged and friends dying from the other side of the world. Missing graduations and weddings. Getting sick with no close friends or family nearby. Watching from afar as childhood playgrounds went up in flames. Being left abandoned on the street side, unable to communicate. Men who overstepped their bounds. Men whose culture simply didn't give them bounds. Men who were just plain creepy. (Seriously, a fake wedding ring is the best armor I could ever ask for.) Lack of steady friendships and companions.
I've been judged and dismissed
and told that I'm ruining the world based solely on my nationality. I've been
shown Nazi salutes. I've received anti-Semitic remarks from friends– people who
simply didn’t recognize the implication or impact of their words.
I’ve worried under the uncertainty and loneliness that come with moving to a completely new place and setting my feet on the ground to start from dead scratch. I’ve cried over the stress and insecurity accompanying fickle jobs, despite how much fun they bring.
Travelling solo has been a blessing and a curse, as it were. All
too often I encountered the explicit experience of feeling totally alone in the
world, even when surrounded by coworkers and and friends and truly good people:
a feeling drawn from the absence of shared innate culture and understanding
amongst the people with whom I grew up. I also grew familiar with a profound
sense of loneliness following the phenomenon of crossing paths with someone in
whom I found some spark of a connection—of camaraderie or shared curiosity—
before work or obligation or opportunity pulled a person forward, ripping us
apart all too soon, leaving that looming “what if” hanging forever in the air
behind us.
At the same time, travelling solo allowed me to find my own way:
to follow opportunities that came my direction, change plans on a whim and seek places that truly beckoned and fascinated me. I met people I would have
passed in the street, started conversations on chilly pre-sunrise
mountainsides, shared meals in backcountry huts and gained new climbing
partners.
I’ve been looking after myself abroad for three years now. Somewhere
along the way, I transitioned from bullshitting with outward confidence to
successfully navigating the world of solo travel and foreign work visas. I've
maintained relevant resumes. I've worked with, interacted with, and negotiated
with people whose language I don’t speak and whose culture I don’t
understand. I’ve led groups, developed curriculum, and implemented safety
protocols as a foreigner amongst local students and teachers. I've
looked after myself and held my own when miscommunication resulted in
circumstances I did not expect. I’ve come to know my strengths and weaknesses and understand how they fit together as a whole. I’ve built and strengthened and mended relationships and watched others implode. I've learned so much about standing up for
myself, conflict resolution, clear and open communication, the meaning of
commitment, asking the right questions, and knowing when walking away may be the
best choice.
After one absolutely outrageous week in May (involving no less than exploding backpacks, stolen food and tents, bat
shit crazy teachers, allergic reactions, puking, injured shoulders and symptoms of
appendicitis), my supervisor offered one of the greatest pieces of advice I’ve
ever been gifted:
As in most areas of life, we are judged rightly or wrongly by perception as much as by reality.This odd adventure did not end how I expected it to; I flew home on short notice. In my first moment of familiarity I woke just as my plane crossed northward into Oregon, in time to count snow-covered volcanos and gaze down on Portland through scattered clouds on the most beautiful of late summer days.
Aptly enough I arrived home in the middle of High Holidays, in
time to dig out a cold-weather dress or two and attend Yom Kippur services
amongst the congregation with whom I grew up. These are the days in which we
most deeply reflect on our relationships, our actions and reactions. Yom
Kippur, in its simplest sense, signals a re-set and a place from which to move
forward and start anew.
To everyone who's touched my journey and offered friendship, or advice, or support, or a random ride, or taught me things, or pointed me in one way or another: You probably know who you are. (Maybe you don’t.) There are too many of you to name. I'm so happy and grateful to have had you in my life, even for a fleeting moment. Give a shout when you come my direction, and let's cross paths again.
And Ransom: for serious... thanks for being the catalyst.
