Going solo
Travelling teaches men their way
– Kikuyu, Kenya
I first travelled solo when I was 20. I flew to Auckland via Singapore. At the time my dad was working for a major airline, and as a family we were entitled to concessionary travel. My return ticket had cost me GBP 80.
GBP 80!
While in transit in Singapore, I heard a loud speaker announcement call my name. My heart sank. A downside to ‘family of staff’ travel was that you could be offloaded if a flight was booked with full paying passengers. Thoughts were racing through my head. Where would I stay? What would I do? I had no local currency.
I approached a member of the ground staff and made myself known. He informed me that the flight from Singapore to Auckland was indeed full in economy. He paused, then smiled. “It’s o.k. We’ve moved you to Club class” (business).
That was my first ever upgrade. My first ever cigar (you could still smoke on planes then). On my first ever solo trip.
My trip was during the Christmas holidays at university. It was also at the time of the Gulf war (1990), and as it turned out for me, not a good time to fly. As fuel prices rocketed and flights were re-routed away from the Middle East, the airline imposed an embargo on staff travel and their families.
I got stuck in NZ.
My friends threw three farewell parties for me. Each time there was a series of goodbyes. But then when I spoke to the airline they would tell me “no, sorry, you must wait. You won’t make the flight.” On my third attempt, I boarded the plane.
My return journey was also eventful.
I flew via Sydney. I got chatting to a fellow passenger. He seemed sound.
Thinking back, I must have came across as somewhat clueless about my Sydney plans. In truth, I hadn’t really given anything much thought. You didn’t at 20.
After landing, in the luggage hall, he found me again. He told me that he had a friend in the city who sometimes rented rooms to travellers and would I Iike him to call ahead and ask if there was availability? Sure, why not?! As he stood in a public phone booth, making the call, me watching our rucksacks, I asked myself, “is he some kind of psycho?” “Should I be doing this?” “Could this be a scam?”
I went with my gut instinct. He seemed like a decent guy. We shared a taxi to his friend’s house. Sure enough, a spare room was waiting for me. I retreated for a while, unpacked my stuff and started to thumb through my Lonely Planet guide, mildly berating myself for not booking accommodation ahead of my arrival.
There was a knock at the door. It was him. I stood in the doorway and looked up. I don’t remember his name. I do remember that he was super tall. He informed me that he was going to the launderette nearby and asked if I had any washing that I needed doing? I was a little taken a-back but of course I had a plastic bag full of dirty clothes squashed into the lower, drawstring bit of my backpack. I handed it over and said thanks. He left.
After that, I recall that time passed very slowly. My imagination started to play tricks on me, thinking dodgy guys would be knocking on the door any minute and all my dirty clothes were in a dumpster round the corner. I had no idea where I was. I didn’t know what to do.
Two, maybe three hours passed. I waited in the small spare room and read about experiences in and around Sydney that I couldn’t afford to do. I heard the heavy front door slam. He was back. He knocked on my door and I heard his footsteps carry on down the hallway. When I opened the door, a small blue bag had been left on the floor, with my freshly laundered, folded clothes. I got a waft of fabric conditioner. Then I got a knot in my stomach, instantly feeling bad for ever doubting him. He was sound.
I went back into the lounge to thank him for the laundry. He asked me if I liked Chinese food as he busily spooned out noodles and mushrooms from foil containers. We spent the rest of the evening sat together in the lounge, feasting on the take away and watching the Oscars which were being broadcasted live on TV.
Two travellers. Nothing more.
When I left a few days later we didn’t exchange contact details. This was pre mobile phones, pre e mails, pre social media.
Over the weeks that followed I relied on my intuition time and time again. I met lots of good people. I also came across a few dubious characters along the way but I handled myself. I seemed to detect gobshites easily. I went everywhere alone. Walked miles. Took a zillion photos all over New South Wales. I was in my ‘happy solo travelling zone’.
Soon I started to run out of money. Most days I would go to the market in the morning and buy fresh fruit. Then I would go to a fast food outlet and buy a $1 cone. I would pass time sitting in the park, dipping the fruit in the ice cream. I smoked all 250 of the duty free cigarettes that I had bought for my dad. Funny, I was not a smoker. But it was something to do.
The flight situation was desperate. The airline was not very helpful. Some weeks later my dad bought me a ticket with a partner airline and I was able to get back to London’s Heathrow airport via Amsterdam.
By the end of several weeks of travelling alone, I just saw solo travel as a time to be completely free to do as you chose. I quickly overcame all fleeting fears. It was exhilarating and liberating. A tonic. I’d found my travelling feet.
What’s your experience of travelling solo?