TRAVEL

 

First time travel

 

To travel is to see, to return is to talk

~ African Proverb

 

I owe the thrill of my first flight and my introduction to international travel to my darling dad. He had entertained me countless times with his RAF stories of life in Hyderabad, Muscat and Bahrain, places which all sounded so exotic and exciting to me as a child.

Some years later he went to work for British Airways. We got many opportunities to travel because of his job in aircraft engineering.

I adore my Dad. He is my hero. As a child I would follow him around, ‘helping’ him with gardening, car mechanics and home decorating. I was his shadow.

He worked with planes, so I became interested in planes. Some weekends he would take me to his place of work at Heathrow Airport. We would watch the aircraft taking off and listen to the whoosh and roar of the engines. One time he took me to see one of the aircraft hangers; Tiny me, giant jets.

When they launched the Concorde, Dad arranged for us to be taken on a preview tour of the slender, turbo jet-powered, supersonic passenger aircraft.

My first international flight was to India. The marketing slogan now is ‘Incredible India’. I’m not sure that I found it incredible as a child. But that trip stands out. It was unforgettable.

I was 7 years old. All I had known up until then was South West London; Saturday mornings on Tooting Broadway, weekends on Wimbledon Common walking our dogs, Sundays at my aunt’s place in Tulse Hill. There were occasional day trips to Littlehampton on the south coast.

My parents had left India after it gained Independence. This was a ‘going back’ trip for them, after many years away.

This journey had so many firsts for me; First time on a plane, first time out of U.K,  first time seeing difference.

The jumbo jet was exciting. My dad explained to me about the engines. On board, he was in club class as BA staff.  The rest of us were in economy. I didn’t know the disparity then between business and ‘cattle class’!

I remember the exhilaration at take off. I was taking endless cloud photos. I still do that at times.

So many travellers and tourists use the cliché about India being an assault to the senses. Imagine being 7 years old. Everything was unusual. Everything was spicy. This was not Wimbledon.

How we got around was unlike anything I had known before. We meandered through hectic city streets in tiny tuk-tuks, which were great fun. My mum called them auto rickshaws.

Cows moved nonchalantly in the streets! MOO! I loved this.

One time we took a taxi up into the mountains or hill country. It was beautiful. Our family had owned a farm there once. We seemed to stop for no apparent reason. I peered out, over the driver’s head and looked ahead. I saw that a huge boulder had fallen off the mountain into the road. A group of men huffed and puffed and hauled, while they tried to move it. Eventually they succeeded in moving the colossal mass with a piece of rope and sheer willpower.

The smells were unfamiliar. In the small towns, snacks were being prepared by the sidewalk; Street-food such as idli, vada and dosa.

My mum would scowl at me if I got too close and said “no, it’s dirty”. Funny, how now when I travel, street food is often what I want to try the most.

Everything was ‘other’, really quite an overwhelming introduction to travel as a child. Now, that’s the thing that I enjoy the most about travelling; the differences.

My happiest day on that trip was at a restaurant with my dad. I don’t remember anyone else being there. Maybe it was just us.

We climbed some wooden steps to reach the canopy of a huge tree, probably a Banyan tree. There we found a huge wooden deck. We had breakfast in the treetops. I liked the assortment of coloured fruits. The chef cooked me a bland omelette with no chilli, which my young palate could savour. And best of all, there were monkeys everywhere. I loved watching these confident scavengers. For a 7 year old child, this was adventure to the max!

My worst memory of that trip came soon afterwards. It was one or two days later. I think we had gone to my mum’s hometown, Bangalore.

Dad had bought me my first camera, especially for this trip. I took the camera with me everywhere, an obsession with photography that continued for many years. I fiddled and experimented with shots.

My parents were ‘older parents’ when they had me, so I guess that they couldn’t keep up with me a lot of the time. I had wandered off towards a fountain, in the centre of a busy junction.

In England, I was in the ‘Tufty Club’, a road safety initiative. I felt that I knew how to cross a busy road! I ventured forth confidently.

It was a strange thing to feel like a fish out of water in Bangalore. I was not from there. My home town is Wimbledon. I didn’t know any other language or culture. But I too had brown skin; Brown skin in different clothes. Similar but different.

It was this that drew attention to me. Some street-kids, about the same age, had been watching me. They saw me taking photos of inane things with my new camera. They knew with one look at me, that I had more than them. They followed me into the road.

You can guess what happened. One made it. The other didn’t.

It is my earliest vivid memory, watching that little girl run down in front of me; The thud and the boom when a car made its impact with the girl. I can still remember the sound of brakes screeching and the noise of her body hitting the ground.

Many cars stopped. People shouted. A crowd gathered. Someone came, lifted the girl up and carried her away.

I doubt I photographed that fountain after that. I can’t remember. I do remember going into school and recalling the story for my class.

You know the drill. It was the first day back. Our class teacher welcomed us and asked us about our holidays. We would have to write one page, with the title ‘My summer holidays’. Then we were invited to stand on our miniature chairs and recount our summer travels.

All my class mates had gone to Brighton, Bognor or the Isle of Wight. They had been to holiday camps by the seaside. They talked of swimming pools, sandcastles and contests; ‘hi-di-hi’.

None had been to India. Most didn’t know where India was. My teacher instructed me to show the class on our large globe. I spun it round and pointed. I was met with a unanimous gasp.

I told my first traveller’s tale. I stood up on my little blue chair and read out my story, including the names of places I’d mis-spelt like Jolarpet and Mysore.

When I got to the bit about the accident, one of my classmates started to cry. She asked, was the little girl o.k? What happened to her? I realised that I didn’t know and never will.

That first ever trip was like so many since, with huge highs and huge lows. You never forget your first time.

What do you remember about your first international trip?

 

 

© Maggie M / Mother City Time