Day 299: Traveling around the world is no holiday

You know that feeling you get in the middle of winter (granted, that feeling you get when you live somewhere that gets cold for months on end) and you’re just not… happy. There’s nothing particularly bad going on in your life, it’s just… winter and chances are you’re lacking Vitamin D or something and you’re just a little sad and you feel a bit lethargic? That’s what Month 10 has been feeling like. Again, being sick – then Andrew waking up with similar sick-ish feelings – then finding out we got a speeding ticket in South Africa- then finding out Citibank has been charging me up to $20 for each ATM withdraw. It hasn’t been good. I’ve found myself all through Month 10 going through the motions of getting up, packing our bags, and walking around a new town following a strange, but somewhat set routine. I was going through the motions much like I used to do going into work everyday. Only, we’d be in a different country every couple of weeks (sometimes days) walking around so much beauty and history and learning so much more than I ever did going to the same job day after day. It made me stop and think. I wondered if continuing this epic trip really WAS worth it or not, especially if I was being so blasé about it. It sounds crazy, I know. Many people think traveling around the world is a never-ending vacation. It must always be easy and magical and awesome, right? But the truth is- it’s SO MUCH HARDER and more challenging than I thought it would be. And sometimes – quite simply – there are days like these. Traveling around the world is no holiday.

I debated quitting the trip. Really, I did. Instead of my goal to finish a children’s book about a girl from Kentucky going around the world- what if I were to rewrite The Little Engine that Could. Only, it would be The Little Engine that Couldn’t. I mean, who needs to achieve things? What’s wrong with QUITTING? I even wondered what the point of continuing this blog everyday was. The last time I posted about a bad day (in India, involving pushy tuk-tuk drivers) I got a somewhat negative comment that the reader didn’t appreciate my lack of optimism and excitement about this trip. I tried to explain I still was excited, but it was a bad day, and especially in India, bad days happen. I reminded myself that I am NOT a travel writer (even though I KNOW travel writers have bad days, too). I’m a photographer. an artist. I wanted to document this trip as it really is- as it really can be- not a blog that sugar coats travel, the challenges involved, you know… life.

I figured I would keep traveling, but continued to debate blogging about it. Maybe that one commenter was right, who wants to read about bad travel days? I tried to convince Andrew that no one really reads the blog anyway… But he didn’t buy it. He was all “You’ve done it for this long and you’re going to quit now?”

“Yep.” I responded, obviously letting my emotions get the best of me.

I lusted after a group of friends drinking coffee outside in a cafe and told Andrew, “I wish I had friends…”  He reminded me that I have them. I grumbled that it didn’t feel like it.

I checked my Instagram feed. Usually this makes me feel better. I cooed (Lit’rally, cooed) over an adorable baby picture that my friend posted. I nodded my head in agreement at one of the comments declaring adorable pictures like this one were making her baby crazy. And then narrowed my eyes when I saw that the new mom had urged her Instagram friend to “Do it” as in “Do it, have a baby.” Like it’s THAT easy. Sure, the picture makes me a little baby crazy too, and I’d like to have a baby, too- someday. But right now, I’m busy!

If you follow ME on Instagram, you’ll see just how busy I am, playing ‘Edward mug-hands’ in Bucharest. Visiting Dracula’s Castle just outside of Brasov. Photographing street art in Belgrade. And more recently roaming the streets of Montenegro and now, Croatia. I’m trying to tackle my dream of traveling around the world for one year, even if it includes trying to ignore the fact that I have a pending speeding ticket in South Africa. I have a pile of expensive American Citibank ATM fees that I haven’t had the chance to sit on a long distance phone call to the bank to take care of. I have worn the same five outfits for the past ten months. I haven’t slept in the same bed for more than three (ok, maaaaybe four) nights in a row. I can’t even go out for dinner without doing some kind of currency conversion to figure out if I can afford to eat at that particular restaurant or not. And now Instagram is telling me to “Do it, have a baby!”

As if Facebook wasn’t enough pressure, NOW Instagram, too?!?

This is my dream. This is my dream. To travel around the world for one year. I’m doing it. It’s really hard sometimes, but I can do it. 

I tried to remind myself over and over again.

Andrew could tell I wasn’t in a good place. He tried to remind me how many people might not be able to relate to our feelings on this trip and perhaps they have a different view of it entirely than we do- especially on our worst day.

I’m sure he was (is) right. He usually is (even if I don’t admit it to him).

I recently wished a friend (on Facebook, of course) ‘Happy Birthday’ I told him I hoped it was awesome.

He responded “Not as awesome as a year long vacation!”

I yelled at my ipod, “VACATION?!? YOU THINK THIS IS A VACATION? THIS ISN’T A VACATION!”

I told Andrew about it. He laughed. And agreed, but reminded me how much we’re going to miss it when it’s over. I sighed. Again, knowing how right he is. He went into his usual pep-talk about this trip and all that we have learned from it. About us, and what we’ve managed to survive together. About how bored we’re going to be days when we get back to ‘merica, but how we’ll appreciate it so much more because we haven’t had a home for so long and how we haven’t been surrounded by friends for so long and how we haven’t had a coffee shop or a bar where we can simply walk in and say “I’ll take the usual” and they’ll know what we’re talking about. And not because we both speak English, but because we saw them last week and the week before that, and we ordered the SAME thing!

I heard him out and eventually I tried to focus my attention on all of the positive of this trip, instead of the ten months without a home and the related feelings that were starting to suffocate me. I focused on the emails from my friends (and family) that DO stay in touch and tried to forget about the ones who really haven’t. I focused on those who have said “Thanks!” for postcards I have sent home. I focused on Andrew’s Dad (yes, you!) who I know appreciates reading this blog (even though I know he won’t like hearing how stressed I was on this particular day). He constantly tells Andrew how much he enjoys it, and that makes me want to continue working on it.

I reminded myself of the day we spent at Angkor Wat, the day we arrived in Kathmandu and got incredibly lost only to find our way again. I remembered paragliding over the Annapurna and then finding a hole in the wall Korean restaurant after. I remember seeing the Taj Mahal for the first time and it taking my breath away, and then a month later celebrating New Years Eve in the desert outside of Dubai. I thought of Petra, the Western Wall in Jerusalem, floating in the Dead Sea, meandering through the medinas in Morocco. Sub-saharan Africa and going on not one, but two safaris. Spending a day with the Masai. I thought of meeting up with fellow travelers in Istanbul, motorbiking around Santorini, and now jumping around the Balkan States on a whim (because it’s cheaper than jumping around Western Europe).

I thought of Andrew and how lucky I have been to share all of these amazing, wonderful, beautiful moments on this trip and told myself that this day, shall too, pass.

They always do.

I find sleep (and sometimes a beer and/or a good cheeseburger) and meeting wonderful people helps.

And that’s exactly what happened. We arrived in a rainy Belgrade (from Timisoara, Romania) well after dark, but were welcomed with open arms into our latest couchsurfer hosts’ abode. Before I could even continue thinking about how hard Month 10 has been, we were recounting all of our adventures to our new friends, Vladimir and Marija. They excitedly listened like we were all old friends and both Andrew and I became equally excited hearing about their upcoming trip to The United States. It was even a bit encouraging listening to their professional accomplishments, and hearing how awesome they thought WE were for taking a chance and doing this trip. We stayed up late talking and when we finally went to sleep, Andrew and I exchanged a smile that was so full of gratitude we didn’t quite know what to do with ourselves. Other than, of course, sleep a bit better than we have in awhile…

Day 298: Sibiu to Timișoara

I still wasn’t feeling super hot, but didn’t want to lose another day that could otherwise be spent feeling awesome in the future along the coast. So, we spent the day on an old European train from Sibiu to Timisoara. We got in towards the evening and after we dropped off our bags, Andrew refused to let me crawl in a bunk and go to sleep, insisting that eating would make me feel better. It did, kinda, and then I crawled into bed. Not before our hostel offered us free shots of Rakia. My stomach turned. My head throbbed a little more at the thought, but I smiled, said thanks, and encouraged Andrew to accept one while I snuck back into the dorm room. The sweet (super, super sweet) girl at the hostel then offered me tea instead, but a pillow and my yak-wool scarf were all I wanted.

Whenever we’re sick, or tired or frustrated with a day or the trip for some reason or another, one of us will ask the other, “Do you want to go home?”

We always say “No.”

Except, this time I responded, sadly “We don’t even have a home…”

It’s usually a joke. But the trip has started hitting me a little harder lately, and not feeling well certainly wasn’t helping matters. 

Day 218: The very bad, horrible, no good day in Tofo

Ok, so maybe it wasn’t THAT bad. But it fell into the category of “Seriously, Mozambique?” and was just one of those days where we had to grit our teeth and try to focus on how beautiful the beach was… or how happy we are (despite days like this) to be on this trip. I had to dig deep, because Mozambique is hard. It’s unlike any other country we’ve traveled through. Burma is easier than Mozambique. and cheaper. Yes, you heard me, BURMA. It’s not just third world difficult, it’s third world difficult on top of being ridiculously expensive on top of getting so little for the ridiculous amount of money you’re losing. And then it’s always having your guard up as to not get scammed or lose your bag to someone sneaky and quicker than you are. It simply takes so much energy out of you. Sometimes it felt like the equivalent of a bad day in India, only it was on three hours of sleep, so technically it might have been worse.

It all started with my day old “Ray Bans” breaking and the sunglasses vendors trying to scam me even further into new pair. It just went downhill from there. I told the vendors that I was going to post their pictures and inform the internet that they were full of lies. It was the meanest thing I could think of doing.

It’s just… Mozambique.

I came because I had heard from a friend of a friend how wonderful it was a couple of years ago. How cheap it was. And it being in between Tanzania and South Africa helped. This must have been before minerals were discovered and outside companies started investing in the land. It has driven prices up tenfold and it’s incredibly unfair to this beautiful country and it’s people. Outsiders and their money has completely ruined so much of what could be a wonderful (and not as expensive) experience!

It’s not for backpackers or anyone on any type of budget. It’s for those with a lot of money, or at least those with their own car and cooler full of food for a week. Because there are no grocery stores here that sell food other than the condiments you left in your South African home. And it’s definitely not for those who don’t like to wake up between two and three in the morning to catch a bus. Which is what we learned we’d have to do that night instead of sleeping until six and then catching a ride to Maputo.

Day 108: Dharavi Slum Tour

Also known as the worst day in India. But we’ll get to that later.

We wanted to go on a tour through Reality Tours and Travels (another recommendation from a friend) but we were poor planners. We thought we could book a tour on the same day when they opened at 9:30 AM and be back in time to catch our bus to Hampi. Wrong. The morning tour started at 8:00 AM. I heard great things about the tour company and slum tour, but seriously, your company opens AFTER your first tour? Fortunately, the tour company around the corner offered a morning tour starting at 10 and we were able to join, go, and be back in time to catch our bus. Also, from what Maddie (remember, her and Robert are our new cool Aussie friends from the camel trek, that we hung out with the night before?) said after they were able to book a tour with Reality, it sounds like our tours were very similar.

Ok, so Dharavi Slum along with Neza-Chalco-Itza Slum in Mexico City, and Orangi Slum in Karachi, Pakistan are the biggest slums in the world. Andrew says the slum in Karachi is currently the world’s largest- but I couldn’t find anything to back up his claim. I wasn’t necessarily picturing Slumdog Millionaire style slums on our tour, but I was still a little surprised at what we saw!

Unfortunately for my inclination to photograph everything I see and throw it up on the blog, photography wasn’t allowed on the tour. Obviously I would have liked to take pictures, but I would have felt like an idiot taking pictures in a slum alongside several other western tourists. The tour company that we went through promised to email us photographs, and kinda did… by emailing me a link to their Facebook page, which you can see here if you’re so inclined. (I thought there would be a lot more though…)

The tour began walking through some of the businesses that operate solely out of the slum. Most of these were recycling. Men sat in tiny rooms sorting garbage into different types of bins. So quickly, too. They would pick up several things at a time and toss them into different bins according to what they were. Metal ghee (clarified butter) containers were cut open to be sold back to warehouses. Metal paint buckets were put over the fire, in an effort to burn the paint off of the metal.

We walked through tiny streets, no, not streets, alleyways, but smaller than what you might imagine. Past men shredding plastic, others baking bread, some playing cards, some boiling down lard into soap, and some washing clothes. To any outsider, with no introduction, I think it comes across a bit chaotic. But even after being there for an hour, it seemed as if there was an exact method to the madness. It actually felt no different than being in a city surrounded by people going to work, enjoying a day off, or doing chores and errands.

Even though it was technically a slum. and it was dirty. and crowded, it functioned the same as any other community of people trying to make a living. This is especially apparent when you learn how much money the slum makes as a whole. How much do you think one of the largest slums in the world makes in one year? Would you be surprised if it was over one billion dollars? I was. But after we went, we saw clearly how they did it.

I found this really great NYTimes article (written last year) that dives into details of Dharavi slum that was fascinating, at least to me. Read it here.

The housing area of the slum that we walked through held even tinier alleys, just wide enough for one person to pass through. Most were more than one story tall, had open entryways and naked or scantily-clad young ones running around or shouting out “Hello!” as we walked through in single file. The alleyway was dark. I can’t imagine navigating it after the sun goes down and takes away the slivers of light that helped us see where to step and where not to. Most of the houses held women and children. lots of children. who were absolutely adorable and really made me wish I had my polaroid to hand out pictures! Mothers encouraged their children to say ‘hi’ and it was easily my favorite part of the tour, really seeing up close how people lived, but then it seemed as though it was over before I knew it and we were in a ‘clearing’ of sorts where slightly older children played with tops and younger (naked) children played in or too close to piles of garbage on the outskirts of the homes we just walked past. And then not soon after, we were walking out of the slum and back towards the station.

So you might be wondering, why was this the worst day in India? Well, let’s back the train up a little bit to before the tour, in our room in the morning. Our hotel wasn’t terrible. But it wasn’t great either. We had a lovely balcony, but we didn’t have an en suite bathroom. And the bathrooms (at least there was more than one) were on the complete opposite side of the building from our room. Because of the gang rape in Delhi, Andrew became extra protective of me going off on my own. If I was gone (to the bathroom) too long, he would come around and knock on doors until I assured him through the bathroom door that I had not been abducted by all of the men (when we arrived, it was all men. all Indian. loitering on the shared balcony) staying in the hotel. When he left our room, he would insist I lock the door behind him. Even though I rolled my eyes at times, I was glad to have him keeping an eye on me. But, what happens when he takes forever showering and I have to go to the bathroom, but don’t want to lock him out of the room, and not know where I am when he returns from his shower?

You poop your pants.

Now it’s been an on-going joke that “the worst thing that can happen is I poop my pants” on this trip – and then it happens. And obviously, it’s not the worst thing to happen. But it wasn’t pleasant either! Andrew insists I did it to make him feel better about his own accident a few weeks before. He refuses to believe me when I try to tell him that wasn’t the case AT ALL. So, I was poopy and grumpy and not very communicative with Andrew, which never does us any favors… Then on the tour, a teenage boy spit on me as our tour group walked past- just kinda out of the blue, because what was I going to do? Yell at him not to spit on me as I, a tourist, totally intruded on his life in a slum? Or yell at him for degrading a woman by spitting on her? I can’t even pinpoint my thoughts as I wiped spit off of me. How do you wrap your head around that? I think I kinda shook my head and cynically thought, “Well, at least he didn’t rape me…”

Now that we were out of Rajasthan, we had CNN in our room and free newspapers in restaurants and access to this horrible news all. the. time. It was so difficult for me to absorb. I wouldn’t get on mixed gender train cars. Andrew had a panic attack on our first Mumbai subway journey that one man gave us the wrong information just to separate us and do something terrible to me. I pooped my pants waiting for Andrew to know exactly where I was… It was just unsettling. All of it.

And then after all of the above, we went to the post office. And to make this long blog post slightly shorter, after over an hour, we found out that the shipping service I wanted moved to a different building. But, I could pay more for faster shipping home (obviously unnecessary). We were down to the wire to catch our next bus, the shipping was totally out of my budget, I simply had enough of India and lost it. I cried. I cried and I shook my finger at the postmen who told us the wrong information an hour earlier. I handed over too much money to ship my souvenir blankets home with tears streaming down my face. And then noticed the men to my left blatantly staring at me crying in the post office. Lit’rally. Like I was a television show, two men stood at the counter less than two feet away, chins practically propped up on their hands watching me cry. Obviously, that helped the situation, immensely.

I was still shedding tears as we scrambled to the metro to cross town to catch our bus to Hampi. I’m sure my eyes were red as I leaned out the door of the moving train to see if I could see Andrew on the men’s car ahead of where I was on the women’s. A sweet Indian woman sweetly scolded me, not wanting me to fall out of the moving train. She told me “it’s ok to go with your husband in the other car.” I responded that I knew, but preferred the women’s car. She smiled, knowingly and asked how I liked India. A familiar first question. To which I almost always respond positively, because as always I am grateful for the experience. But, not today…

“Sometimes I India is great, and I love it. But today, I do not. Today has not been a good day…”