“Travel is not a contest.” So true.
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I love sitting in the common room of a youth
hostel, or on the deck of a boat sliding down a jungle river swapping stories
with other travelers. I love the light in the eyes of that girl who’s just had
her first real adventure and lived to tell about it. I love the excited trading
of intel on what to see, “when you get there,” that’s not in the guidebook and
the frantic scribbling of details in the back of a well worn journal. There is
a camaraderie in shared experiences; a brotherhood formed in adversity and
adventure. All travelers know this, and we recognize it instantly in one
another’s eyes.
My kids play a game, it doesn’t have a
name, but it goes something like this:
“Hey, that guy over there, he looks like the real
deal, this is not his first rodeo.” They’ll admire his worn boots and filthy
pack. “I’ll bet he’s got some great stories!” One of them will follow him
around until he notices and then invite him to dinner, “We’ll trade you dinner
for your travel stories,” is our hook. It works almost every time. We’ve been
taken vicariously across the great-grey-green-greasy-Limpopo river in a worn
out jeep, flown in war planes over Palestine, crossed mountain ranges on foot
and by bicycle, and seen full moon parties we’d never attend in a million
years, all though the stories of the road worn, in trade for a chunk of
homemade bread.
The other half of the game plays out more
like this:
We’re walking down the hill towards the boats
that will take us an hour across the lake toward “home,” the nine year old
spots a group of backpackers conferring nervously over their map:
“Uh oh, those guys look lost,” and he trots off
to see what they need. Later, on the boat, I overhear the dialogue, “It’s okay,
these boats don’t turn over very often, but if they do, just pop your backpack
off and swim away from the boat, in a panic someone might try to grab you and drown
you if you don’t. When the boat arrives, just pay attention to what the guy
ahead of you pays and pay that, whatever you do, DON’T ask how much the
crossing costs, the boat drivers jack it up by three times if you do that.” The
backpackers exchange incredulous looks, Ez carries on, oblivious, “So, where’ve
you guys been? Where are you going?” The ball is successfully lobbed into their
court; the boy settles into his boat cushion to listen and learn.
What’s the point of the game?
Travel is not a contest.
It’s not about who’s been to more countries, or
speaks more languages, or has logged more days in uncomfortable places. It’s
not about the number of “flags” you’ve collected or the world records you’ve
broken or the world heritage sites you’ve ticked off of your list. Those things
don’t matter any more than winning the National Spelling Bee does if you can’t
then string those words into meaningful reflections and write your life with
them. The game is about finding out what kinds of lives have been written, what
lessons have been learned and discovering what it means to be human in the
grander scheme of things. It’s a good game for nomadic folk of all ages to
play.
I lay on the deck of a floating raft
house on Cheow Laan Lake,
last week with a group of young travelers.
Conversation rapidly deteriorated to the
member-measuring contest for pecking order of who’d “done” the most. We
listened, we played some music and sang while they patted one another on their
backs for their accomplishments. We watched the Leonid meteor shower with them
and asked some questions to keep them talking. Some of the best teachers are
the ones who don’t even know they’re delivering life lessons. As the meteors
petered out and the travelers turned in we found ourselves alone with one,
beautiful, young German girl, with hair the colour of starlight. She had
remained quiet in the group, but opened up when we were alone with the moon.
She was just 19, traveling solo for a few months, and trying hard to find her
feet in a world where she was out gunned and out talked by almost all of the
other travelers.
“I don’t know why it matters,” she mused, “Why do
I have to know who I am and where I’m going? Why do I have to have answers to
all of those questions right now. I can’t say what I want to “do” or “be” as an
adult. I mean, I’m here right now. This is me. Do I need to be any more than
that? I am on this journey not because I need a gap year, or because I’m trying
to figure things out, I’m doing this because this is what I want to do, for me.
I’m learning about the world, and about myself. It doesn’t matter where I’ve
been, or where I’m going. I’m just writing my own life.”
I smiled in the darkness. There it was, the
lesson: Travel, and life, are not a contest. This young girl “got it,” and
she articulated it beautifully.
It doesn’t matter where I’ve been, or where I’m going. I’m just writing my own life.” <------ LOVE this statement. Very true :)
BalasHapus