Traversing Exotic Lands

What is it about finding yourself in a far-flung place that gets the pulse racing? Inherent is the excitement of not knowing what to expect. Every view is eye-popping. Every scent tantalizing. Each person you meet is amazing. Fascination abounds.

Like flashbacks, I see shots of endless journeys I’ve taken across all the continents. There was the hair-raising bus ride high in the mountains in India, where the worn rubber tires barely clung onto the dusty road. Breathtaking views of verdant valleys made more real by the possibility that they might be one’s last vision alive.

On another journey in Vietnam, an old clunky train made its way from Hanoi to Saigon (Ho Chi Minh), bracing the slender limb that is the shape of this long, narrow country. An old dear in my carriage plied me with flasks of tea and pointed out the villages we passed.

On a hairy night in Brazil, we made our way across the southern half of the country in the middle of the night. It was one of those nights when a tropical storm was in full session. The young coach driver, high on bravado, skidded along the muddy road while passengers wept and prayed out loud.

I was returning from a village up in the Atlas Mountains in Morocco when the shared taxi I was in rammed into the car in front. I watched, at first in amusement and later on in frustration, as everyone spilled out onto the road and spent the next couple of hours arguing over whom was to blame. Other drivers on their way down stopped to join in, thus causing an even bigger pile up of traffic. In the end, I had to get a ride from another shared taxi where I squeezed in amongst a multi-generational family on their way to Marrakesh.

Trying to reach a national park in the Dominican Republic, I hitchhiked the last few miles after the bus dropped me off at its last stop. The only vehicle that stopped was a small truck that had been modified to run on gas. I hesitated for a moment and then took a deep breath and jumped in. As we went up the hill, the gas cylinder belching and hissing the whole way, I had visions of my charred body on the front page of the daily paper. Fortunately, I got there in one piece and found alternative transport on the way back.

In Cuba, a group of us rented bicycles to cycle around the beautiful area of Trinidad. Within a few miles, it became apparent that we would never make it back on the bikes. One had faulty brakes; another’s wheels almost came off. On the way back, we got a ride on the back of a lorry carrying people, pigs, chickens and bananas. Amidst shouts of “compañeros!” he clambered on, delighted to be amidst the bonhomie that is the Cuban spirit.

No matter how or where, the spirit of travel and adventure always appeals. The experiences are enriched by the people one meets, the places one sees, the food one eats. Viva, el viaje!