Travel now not tomorrow

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Regrets

Regrets, I’ve had a few. And probably the greatest is that, through my life, I took almost no photographs. Really! The backpacking years of bus journeys across Europe, sleeping on beaches, being young and stupid. No photos! The archaeological dig at Hebron in Israel, no photos! Living in the African bush, a few photos, but they were all taken by other people and sent to me later. Why did I think it was okay to go through life and record nothing? Looking back, I simply didn’t think about it. I was living and it didn’t occur to me that one day I might want to muse with a smile over my 21 st birthday on Santorini where we slept on the beach and the girls gave me a tomato with a candle on it as we couldn’t afford a cake. That crocheted dress I bought in rural Zimbabwe that needed an underskirt – did I wear one? Did I hell! And then there was that party we had that led to a large fight and guests ‘dreeping’ out of the first-floor window which ultimately led to us being evicted from...

Less of a rolling stone, more like a cucumber

Where are you from? It’s a simple phrase, and it should be answered easily. We’ve all got to be from somewhere, haven’t we? But as more and more of us move around the world, we find we are no longer anchored to one place. As a result, the question becomes complex. Do we identify with where we were born? Or the place we were raised? Or even where we matured and discovered ourselves? However, the people who ask, ‘Where are you from?’ are generally looking for a simple answer. So should we say we are ‘from’ our birthplace, or should we opt for the place that enhanced our life? I have no answer. Instead, I’d like to make a plea that no one should expect any single soul to come from any solo location. Like rolling stones, we roam. We might not gather any moss, but we pick up other things – patterns of life, foods, traditions, language, voice. And, like cucumbers stewed in flavoured vinegar, we acquire a different essence. We keep the original contour, but we are changed, enhan...

To be a wayward woman

People often are shocked that I travel alone. “What do you do at meals?” they ask. I eat and watch people. It is not difficult. Women have been travelling alone for centuries. Ida Pfeiffer is one of my favourite Victorian era travellers. She was a widow whose children had grown and, in 1852, she set out for the Holy Land. She was robbed and cheated but came home exhilarated. She tells of crossing the Nile to visit the Pyramids. Two large powerful men stood side by side; I mounted on their shoulders, and was held fast by their heads, while they supported my feet in an horizontal position above the waters, which at some places reached almost to their armpits, so that I feared every moment that I should sit in the water. On her return to Germany, Ida couldn’t settle back into her old life. She sold her belongings and set off around the world, financing her trips by writing of her adventures. Another woman traveller I admire is Isabella Bird. She shed the role of family spinst...

Winter on Hydra, Greece

The town of Hydra rises steeply from the port like an amphitheatre. The higher homes sit precipitously as though they could roll down into the sea. Narrow lanes and cobbled staircases weave upwards occasionally providing staggering views of the sea and the Peloponnese. The steep geography of the island limits the use of motorised vehicles. A small ambulance can navigate the half-kilometre between the church hospital and the ferry port, and a rubbish truck sweeps through a small segment of the port area once a day. The lack of traffic contributes to a peacefulness. With no vehicle noise to interrupt thoughts or conversation, stress slips away. Every time I arrive, I feel my shoulders ease downward as I follow the donkey that carries my suitcase up through the ascending lanes. In summer, visitors flock to Hydra and fill the beaches, restaurants and cafes. In winter however, the beaches are silent and only a few cafes and restaurants are open. The daytime temperature wavers be...

Friends you make while travelling

Probably the most prominent friend I made while travelling is Melitta, an Austrian girl I shared a house with while in Zambia. She was, like me, young and idealistic, keen to improve healthcare in our little segment of Africa. We shared a house at the back of the mission hospital with an English woman. Helen was a difficult character, a woman who played There’ll Always Be An England every Sunday morning and corrected Melitta and me if we didn’t display perfect English manners. The work we did was challenging, and the nuns’ rules could feel petty. Melitta and I bonded over a daily beer and shared stories of our patients. Occasionally, a European teacher or an agriculturalist would turn up to take us to a party on a weekend and we would laugh and dance as though we had few cares. Melitta and I still drink beer, dance and laugh outrageously. Helen, however, took God’s wedding ring and joined the convent. Matrine was another Zambian friend. She was a law student when we me...

Greetings, are they worth it?

“Good morning, Sister, how are you?” I didn’t have time for such greetings. I was a midwife at a mission hospital in the Zambian bush, running a ward with 24 beds and often had more than 30 patients plus their families. I had bush clinics to visit, and I was taking eight Zambian nurses through their midwifery theory. I had no time to exchange idle greetings. Or so I thought. It was when the pace began to wear me down, my chest felt permanently tight and I wasn’t sleeping well, that I started to slow down. And that was when I began to exchange greetings. “Good morning, Sister, how are you?” “Good morning, I am well, and how are you?” “Ahh, I am very well.” Smiles go with such greetings, and everyone goes on with their day. For me, happier than before. Greetings may appear superficial and a waste of time, but they provide a connection to those around us and make us feel part of something bigger. Where I grew up in Glasgow, we didn’t have specific greetings, but yo...