We put one foot in front of the other and we repeat this. We walk away from our homes, from what we know and what we understand and what we find familiar, and we go out into the unknown.
We take taxis and we board long-distance flights and we sit in a mud-splattered four-wheel drive as it takes us deeper into the jungle. We catch trains and we sleep in some; we hop onto buses, some where passengers have to enter from the front, some from the rear. We pay by coins and by swiping some prepaid card across a scanner; we pay by our friendship and our smiles as strangers and old pals alike give us free rides.
We keep moving, we explore, we observe, we absorb. We travel.
Prague is a city of bridges and of statues and of statues standing guard at every bridge. Green with rust and with time, the statues do not whisper any secrets beyond the obvious – this is city is old. (Yet as young as Bohemian ideals remain fresh in the hearts of innocent artists and writers and magicians.)
Every alley way that we choose not to turn into may hide a sleeping golem, waiting to be awoken by a sacred word or a sign. There are knights dreaming beneath the bridges, or maybe saints, or maybe trolls. Myths can come alive in Prague but you are not afraid. You can be part of the mystical and the mysterious.
Every visitor is a citizen, even if for a brief period. You see, you bring some magic with you too, even if you don’t see it yet. Here, stone angels can come alive, their alabaster faces revealing heavily caked powder as they hand you a rose, from thin air apparently. Magic.
When the tide is down, you can walk between the two small islands, with the rush of the open sea between your toes, and in some places up to your knees. The water is crystal clear, blue as day. Which is good for you have to watch out for the swarms of semi-transparent jellyfish that will waft over with the currents.
The sun a layer of bright stripes upon the blue water, our watchful eyes looking out for translucent globs with stingers, and playful smiles upon our lips.
Later, when we are back on Ao Nang beach, where massages and tom yam gung await us, we will be baked and our skin red and peeling some. But we won’t mind for we have had our day in the sun and our hearts filled up with the kind of joy that only the sand and the sea can bring.
Forget the tourist attractions. Forget the steaming hot bowls of chilli-and-garlic-soaked vermicelli and the softest strands of pig’s intestines swimming in a creamy soup of bonito flakes and bamboo shoots. Forget the sprawling flora exhibition with endless pavilions of beautiful flowers and fantastic effects. Forget the gold mines in the mountains and night markets in the valleys.
We throw our list of places to visit and of things to do away. We breathe an apology to our friend who has painstakingly drawn up this perfect itinerary of Taipei for us.
Instead, we find yet another cafe, walk in, order our lattes and our cappuccinos, and we sink into comfortable sofas. We drink hot coffee and we read silly, serious books and let the afternoon slip away.
3:00 am. The streets of Melbourne. Parallel and perpendicular, they are supposed to be easy to remember, but it’s kinda hard when you are well drunk. Your friend lends a hand, to steady you. Your fellow debater. You just won a couple of rounds earlier this morning at the university, didn’t you?
There was the gala dinner by the harbour (it was a harbour or some kinda marina, right?) where they plied you with glass after glass of champagne as everyone waited out in the cold as they turned over the tables from the previous event. Once in, there was wine. Then some vodka. (Or was that whisky? You forget.)
Now the two of you are trying to walk back to the service apartment. (Two days later, you will be out on the streets, switching to backpacking mode and sleeping with beautiful strangers in youth hostels.) You’re not gonna make it. Your friend makes you stop by the bus stop. Lean over, he says, let it all out. You listen and you puke. You puke and you puke. There now, he says, all better.
Somehow you make it back to the apartment and he makes sure you wash your mouth before tucking you in bed. Then he, ever the party professional, walks into the bathroom, locks the door, and takes his turn to puke. What a champion!
Sabah is such a land of contrasts. You wake up to the sounds of birds chirping their morning calls, the mists of Mount Kinabalu obscuring much of the canopy below you, the damp sticking to the bones yet a fresh punch of air is so invigorating you wouldn’t trade this for anything.
By noon, you are snorkelling in the clear waters of the National Marine Park, a stationary shoal of islands off the coast of Kota Kinabalu. You don’t recognise half of the colourful fishes that swim towards you, then swerve and evade your clutches at the very last minute.
When dusk arrives and your belly begins to growl, you stalk the Filipino night market, the aroma of freshly grilled seafood guiding you to the best table. You ask the girl with the sweetest smile to make you some of her special dipping sauce – salt and sugar and dark soy sauce and the most deadly bird’s-eye chillies being crushed in the mix to release its spice and its savour. Deadly but oh so divine also…
The Great Wall of China. It’s not that big. Tiananmen Square. Plenty of soldiers and tourists, little else. The Forbidden City. More tourists, yawn. Beijing’s turning out to be a bore, you decide. Where’s the excitement?
Inevitably you abandon your colleagues and the tourbus, and you go and find your friends. An Italian and his Polish wife living in Beijing. Manuel takes you out to buy a suit; he’s Italian, that’s what they do.
Only he’s bringing you to a 24-hour free-for-all tailor-made clothing emporium. He greets some of the sales girls in Mandarin, and curses them back when they curse at him for not patronising their stores. You find a suitable tailor and then he allows me to choose the fabric and the design you want. That much you are allowed to do. Then the tailor tries to rip you off, extortionist tourist trap prices. You clam up, and remark in English, you have no idea what he’s going on about.
Manuel takes over instead, tells the tailor, that he, the big, strapping Caucasian, is the Beijing local here and proceeds to bargain in Chinese for the next half an hour before shaking hands with the fellow. Shopping with an Italian in Beijing – now that’s excitement for you.
You are somewhere between Inverness and the Isle of Skye. You are on the train, sitting alone in your carriage, the desolate hills and fens and wild brush passing by slowly, like some lost setpiece from the Lord of the Rings. Rohan or Edoras or something.
Desolate, lost.
You decide, no, you just do it – you get off at a station that’s not your destination, and you walk the rest of the way instead. You walk for hours without meeting another human being. There are lakes and there are solitary trees growing on small islands in the middle of these lakes, their twins mirrored upon the surface of the very still water, upside down. The sky stretches on for what could pass for eternity. Or something sorta endless-like.
So quiet.
You write down a secret on your notepad, tear out the sheet of paper, leave it by the bank, held down by a small white stone. You find the next station, board another train and journey on.
Having cherry blossoms fall from the branches and softly land upon your open face during spring in Tokyo is like learning to fall in love again.
Gentle petals, paper-thin. Various shades of pink and white, pure and light. We gather some flowers that have already fallen to the ground and we toss it to each other, like a faux snowball fight. It doesn’t quite work but we are laughing and smiling nonetheless.
Other visitors to the Shinjuku Gyoen gardens stare at us, then walk away. Some smile back. It’s good to be alive and feeling young and being in love.
And at the end of all that travelling, we get to come home. This is the best part.
Not merely because we have gotten weary from all that moving around with no fixed abode or agenda, though this is certainly a good excuse. Not only because we miss our friends and our family, so sick are we to be in different timezones, unable to speak with our loved ones because they are still fast asleep while we are in the middle of yet another adventure, though this is a pretty good excuse too.
The best part about coming home is being able to tell our travel tales, to share our experiences, our highs and our lows, all the magic and the mystery, all the mundane details that go into the story that is our journey.