Men and the travelling woman.

As some of you know, I travel independently. And I don't just mean organising my own flights and hotels, I mean I travel on my own. Without going into detail, it just worked out that way. Now I've got the hang of it, I love it.

But it does raise issues with travelling men. Now, I'm no spring chicken. I've got a bus pass, if you must know. Wrinkles to prove the years of experience. (Botox? Why would it want to do that? I'm getting on a bit. Get over it!)

In most western cultures I enjoy the invisibility of older women. Where youth and wealth are valued we are also-rans. We slink into the shadows, from where we can see and hear much more than you can possibly imagine. There are, I have discovered, advantages to being invisible.

In many Far Eastern cultures older people are revered. Once people get over the fact that many of my contemporaries are already dead, I am treated with great respect. There is always someone to help with the rucksack, or steer me in the right direction if I'm lost. Plus countless young people wanting to practise their English, so I am never without company if it want it. Occasionally a young man will show 'interest' but he knows I have a British passport and he lives in poverty. I try to be kind.

And then there is Ireland. I love Ireland. I love the lakes and mountains, the music and the Guinness. But there I was, tapping my feet and sipping the black stuff, when up came a beery bloke about 10 years younger than me and asked if I was dating!! The first time it happened I just laughed, as you would. Every night, someone sidled up to me, would l like another drink - I often had another half, as the music was wonderful and I needed little encouragement to stay. But what was going on? Just the craic? A bit of fun? That's how I looked at it, though I haven't been hit on like that since I was 16. I confess to being a bit clumsy in the being-chatted-up department.

(I can only assume that many Irish women are chained to their sinks, have taken their intelligence and humour to work in the cities, or have more sense than to go near any of these beery blokes. But I'm guessing - if anyone knows where Irish women are hiding, do let me know.)

The daughters might be pleased to know I haven't come back with a toy boy.

You don't expect writing today, do you?

Tomorrow I'm going to Venice - I hope you don't expect me to write sense today.

Between now and tomorrow morning I must sort the laundry, buy some milk, cut the grass, clean the cooker, water the plants, sew on a button, write a letter, buy a birthday card, order two toy wheelbarrows, order a supermarket shop, talk intelligently at a literature festival as if I had nothing else on my mind,

pause, breathe, remind myself that this will be worth it,

(nearly forgot lunch),

clean out the fridge, change the sheets on the bed, phone the bank (god help me), charge the phone, charge the camera, charge the kindle, return a book I borrowed to the woman next door, water the plants,

pack

sleep

For tomorrow I'm going to Venice!

New Year in Bangkok

You're expecting fireworks? So was I. I even asked in the travel agent's where was the best place to see them. Go to the bridge, she said - and marked the relevant bridge on my map.

So we - Anthea (from New Zealand, also travelling alone) and I headed for the bridge, diverted only briefly towards a park where thousands were watching what we were told was a Buddhist ceremony and, at that point, sounding like a modern Opera. We left them to their devotions. It was New Year - we wanted fireworks.

But now the tide of the crowd worked against us. We stopped to ask - go back to the park, the young man said. The only way to see fireworks from the bridge is to climb the gantry. Which, even after a couple of New Year beers, seemed like a bad idea. Besides, the park is a huge open space - we'd see fireworks from there.

By the time we returned the opera was over, replaced by chanting - the hypnotic Buddhist chanting that can only be achieved by magical breathing. Thousands of the faithful were sitting on the grass, hands held before them in devotion, as the ebb and flow of singing wafted round them. We edged between them and found a place to sit. The stage - even the big screens - were too far away to see much. But nobody minded - we all sat, in delicious contemplation - while the chanting went on, and on, and on. The grumble of traffic, the smell of diesel and street food - it all fell away.

And in the sky - Chinese lanterns rose into the night sky from all corners of the city. They have a Buddhist significance that is lost on me - but they dotted the darkness with a thousand pinpricks of light at they sailed off towards the stars.

A giant clock on the screen ticked round towards midnight. And still the monks chanted, and the devoted sat in silence with their prayers. The seconds passed, 58, 59, 00 - and it was 2013 and there may have been a brief collective sigh. The chanting continued and still we sat, in glorious tranquility, the flashes of fireworks in the distance making no impact on the silent crowd nor chanting monks.

Slowly people began to shuffle, to stand, and to drift away. We headed back into the streets of the city, met with thumping music from cafes, people lighting fireworks in the street, drunken revellers kissing whoever happened to be near. I am sure they enjoyed their evening. But my silent New Year - I don't suppose I'll ever know another like it.

Sawasdee pii mai ka. Happy New Year.

Some things are more important ...

Some things are more important than blogging, or tweeting, or writing, or travelling ...

What!!!! Surely not - I mean, I'm a writer, and traveller - they are the core of who I am.

But this week my grandson is coming to stay. I have four grandchildren. I have seen the Taj Mahal, I tell them. But do I know the difference between a tinky-winky and a ninky-nonk? (No.) I've trekked in the Himalayas, I tell them. But can I do a back-flip-thing with a football? (No.) I've written a book, I tell them. Does it have pictures? (No.) I've been close to a tiger, I tell them. Then a daughter glares with a look that says don't you dare tell them about the tiger.

My grandson is five. His world is full of the wonder of playgrounds, of football, of ice cream and toy cars and lego. So, for a week, that is what my world will be full of too.

I will be gone for a few days. There really are more important things than blogging:

For this week my grandson is coming to stay.

The best laid plans

There I was, wondering where to go next - well I've a rough idea, actually, as I've only been to Africa once and that was with a tour group, so I was beginning to play with plans to go on my own. To mull over which country to visit, taking on board general thoughts about safety and ease of travel etc. (For anyone wandering the same path, the Lonely Planet Thorn Tree forum is wonderful.)
   And then, as I woke one morning with the screech of exotic birds and roar of lions in my dreams - I turned over - and knackered my knee. (Knackered, you will appreciate, is a generic medical term for doing something extremely painful but you don't know what.) It is, now, funny - but last week I struggled with the 'How did you damage your knee?' questions, kindly though they were. It took time before I could stand apart from myself and watch me coming downstairs on my bottom, walking into town clinging to the railings, and almost giving up when faced with the step onto the bus - and see that this might be a bit comic.
    But time passed, I grumbled, took painkillers, the pain eased after a few days and I look back at that discomfort in disbelief that it was quite that painful. In fact recovery was so swift that, within four days, I danced the night away at a wedding - and wasn't even stiff the next morning.
    Which should be the end of it? Except that I know I have arthritis in my knees - I had arthroscopies on both knees about ten years ago (it's like a D and C of the knees) and have been warned that the day will come when I'll need more surgery.
   But I want to go to Africa. Last week, I could not have carried a rucksack. I could not have walked the corridors to the boarding gate at the airport. I could not have curled into a seat on a plane for a long flight and ever uncurled again. This week, I can sing, dance, and generally prance about like a puppy.
   So - what to do? If I go to the doctor, get into the system - the referral to specialists and the whole waiting-game - it means the whole knee-thing will take over for a while and travelling go on the back burner until it's sorted. Which could take months. Doesn't sound too inviting to me. The alternative - live for today. Go anyway, and hope I don't turn over in bed and have spend a few days days hobbling somewhere hot.
   It's a close call - what would you do?

First Impressions

Do first impressions matter? Writers are told to grab the reader's attention on the first page. Psychologists tell us we make decisions about the people we meet within second. And towns?

I've been in Carrickfergus, in Northern Ireland, for less than two days. I shall be meeting friends on the north coast on Friday, but came early - to have a potter about. And I came to Carrickfergus because I know the traditional song, especially the version by Jim McCann with The Dubliners (you can hear it here).

The people I've met have been kind and welcoming. But the town itself ... many streets in the town are dug up, with red barriers and uneven pavements and bits of rubble in corners. I haven't seen a notice telling me if this is gas or water or just general mending; I'm sure it has to be done and will be wonderful when it's finished, but it looks a bit ragged and downtrodden at the moment.

I'm not deterred by a few road works. I can see beyond a few holes in the roads (I've been to Nepal, after all!). This is Ireland - I'm here for the craic. So I wandered out in the early evening - about six o'clock, to think where I might eat, if there was a bar with music where I might tap my feet and down a guinness.

To find rows of shuttered shops. Grey shutters, cluttered down and leaving the streets looking abandoned. It's light until after ten o'clock at this time of year - that's hours when people could be out and about, enjoying the evening. But anyone tempted into the town centre is met with grim line of shutters and streets full of rubble.

I've a map, and list of restaurants - the wine bar by the harbour is open in the evenings, as is the Chinese restaurant. And a Weatherspoons. An Italian round the corner from my hotel closes at seven o'clock; the 'bistro' at four-thirty.

I'm only here for a couple of days. Not long enough to understand this history of this shut-upness in the evenings. I haven't met anyone yet I feel able to ask if this goes back to the Troubles, if I'm simply looking in the wrong place to find the craic. I can't get to grips with the story of Carrickfergus that might explain it all.

But as a first impression, it's not good. Which is a shame, as Antrim is beautiful - I spent yesterday walking around the glens, savouring the spray of the waterfalls, the smell of garlic in the forest, the glorious views down to the coast. (Today I spent in the rain. Which is how I had time to write this!)

First impressions can be misleading. I hope mine is. Does anyone have tales of first impressions that are upended when you get to know somewhere better? That includes books, as well as towns.

What if . . .

Is this a game you play?

What if I were not in this place, with these people, what would I really want to do? It's a cheats' game really, because you are, for whatever reason, in this place with these people - and you must have made some choices along the way for it to be so.

But play it for a moment - if you could choose anything at all, right now, what would you choose to do?

That is what solo travelling is like. For a start, it's scary. There is no-one helping you to make any decisions - there's just you and your Lonely Planet (or whatever guidebook you are using) and your imagination. What do I want to see? Where do I want to go? How shall I get there? With a world-full of choices and no-one but yourself to fall back on (or blame if it all goes wrong) it can feel terrifying. Every day, every decision, is full of risk - simply by being unknown.

But - once you unpick that general terror, that 'I can't' feeling (left over from childhood, when even crossing the road on your own was an adventure), you will realise that you can. You can walk this street, that street, visit this museum, that palace, or simply sit in the other cafe and watch people.

My days always have a rhythm. I stop three times a day, for food - almost always sitting down. That gives me pausing time - time to reflect on how the day is going, maybe rethink what I'm going to do next. It also gives days a structure, which I need (not everyone does). Plus I need little encouragement to stop for tea or coffee.

But, even then, every day has hours when I face the 'what now?' question. What is it that I want to do, with this time of mine, when all I have to fall back on is my guidebook. It is, truly, liberating. I am free to see what I need to see, hear what I need to hear, write what I need to write, talk to whoever I want to talk to, smell what I don't always want to smell . . .

Indulgent? In some ways, yes. And a privilege.

And it sounds hugely self-absorbing. Yet it isn't. For the only way, really, to make sense of this big world we are in is to talk with other people who live in it. To discover that they have different ways of exploring, and explaining, the world to themselves - and will share that with you if you make time to listen.

Of course there are parallels with writing fiction. We throw our characters into the world and try to walk alongside them through all the challenges we hurl their way. But it's not always so easy to do it for ourselves.

So what if ... you were free to do whatever you wanted, right now? Play along, just for five minutes. Scary? Exhilarating? Who, maybe, is the one person you'd love to have a conversation with? And what might he or she teach you?

A bit of song and dance.

I spent the Bank Holiday at Chippenham Folk Festival. Not to avoid the Jubilee, but because it's how I always spend the late May Bank Holiday.

Some people spend the summer going from festival to festival. Every Friday they pack tents and sleeping bags, dancing kit, fiddles and accordions, and trek off to Towersey or Warwick or Cambridge. I go to just one - that's knackering enough.

Some of you may have seen Jenny Woolf's post about morris dancing (see the link here), with some great clips of dancers in all their finery. What, I wonder, do all those people do in real life? When the boots and bells are packed away, the beards trimmed, flowers plucked from hair - are they accountants? Plumbers? Nursery nurses?

And those of us singing our hearts out? This year saw me joining the chorus of: 'What can you give a nudist for his birthday?', (first sung by Gracie Field - the original is here - so you can seen how flexible the word 'folk' is used) with the same enthusiasm I recently poured into singing Zadok the Priest with a local choir. A couple of years ago I caught myself singing, 'Oh, I'm a one-eyed cormorant looking for a shag!' (sorry, it's not on youtube) and tried to connect this singing woman with the orthodox one who wanders round the supermarket and chooses between trout and salmon.

I love this disconnect. And it's possibly one of the things I love about travelling. That moment of standing a little outside myself and noticing - this is me, doing this thing, singing this song, climbing this mountain, looking for tigers. A multiple personality? No - facets of myself that I let out to play occasionally.

And you - do you go out and surprise yourself? Do you enjoy that 'bloody hell, this is me' moment, or does it send you scuttling home for tea and cake? (Sometimes I do the cake thing sometimes, too!)

Close Encounter of the Tiger Kind

I came to Bardia National Park, in the south-west of Nepal, to look for tigers. Apparently, I am more likely to see them here than anywhere else in the country. So it has to be worth the hazards of the journey to get here.

My guide, Gautan, in his khaki trousers and shirt, loves the forest with a passion.  He leads me through a river, and into the jungle. I know, I said I wouldn’t go looking for tigers on foot, but there is something about this man, with his eyes that giggle and long wooden pole, that makes following him compulsory.

It is steamily hot. But still the birds keep up their chorus, and we spot drongos and eagles and kingfishers and a magnificent owl asleep in a treetop. He leads me to a hide – a tower by the riverbank, where, apparently, it is common for tigers to drink, or play, or generally mess about in the water. Gautan scours the scene before us with his binoculars. Finds a rhino with her baby, about half a mile away. But no tigers.

Then he stiffens; tiger is there – he points up stream. You hear the deer, they are calling, tiger, tiger. We climb down from the hide (which seems like a bad idea to me) and head off in the tiger direction. We lurk on soft sand by the river – sit, says Gautan, relax! Again he peers through his binoculars. Tiger is here, he says; there are no monkey and no deer – tiger is here. He motions me to stand up.

And suddenly there is a crashing in the jungle. A large animal has clearly taken flight.

Tiger, says Gautan. About ten metres away. But it is the male. The female has four babies, she would not run away. He brandishes his wooden pole, standing like a warrior with an absurd smirk on his face which is meant to convince me he could frighten away a dinosaur. So – that’s all right then.

Off he walks – following the direction the tiger has taken. I have no choice but to follow. For about an hour we skirt the area, Gautan listening with every bit of himself. But the tiger remains firmly hidden.

So no, I actually haven’t seen a tiger. But I promise – never again will I walk in the jungle.

While I'm away.

I'm off again - for a month, this time. To the mountains of Nepal.

I could have written blogs to cover my absence, organised them to come out regularly, so you'd barely notice I was away. Twice a week you could read my passing thoughts on writing, and reading, and general observations about plumbers.

But I haven't. Why - because it seems a bit disingenuous to be blogging as if I were here when I fact I'm up a mountain somewhere. The reality is - I will not here. I will not even pretend to be here. I've gone walkabout, because that's what I want to do.

Plus - I hope to connect from time to time. Tell you what I'm up to. Remind you how beautiful Nepal is, how wonderful her people. After all, blogging is my way of keeping in touch with everyone at home.

So there will be unreliable posts, from expected places. I understand from my Lonely Planet that wi-fi is easily available in Kathmandu and Pokhara now, but I suspect I shall still be at the mercy of power cuts. And I might just creep off the beaten track occasionally and be out of wi-fi range.

So - I'll blog when I can. Though probably without photographs - those will wait until I get home and I can organise them on the website. So you'll have to take my word for it that the Himalayas are huge - and stunningly beautiful. With snow on the top that turns purple at sunset. That the lake in Pokhara shimmers in the slightest breeze. That the temples of Lumbini are mysteriously peaceful. And the elephants ...

My head is already there. It's time for my body to follow.

Packing.

So - just one week to go, and then I'm off again. A few people have asked what I take with me - so this is for them.

Remember - this lot is not going in a wheely case, but in a rucksack that I have to carry. And I'm no muscle man. So I have to travel light.

Essentials:

• I must take is a comprehensive the first aid kit, plus medications (as those of you who've read the book might guess, I need to pop a pill regularly). Immodium and rehydration sachets - you know why. Antibiotics - I know these are often easily available, but if you have them with you, then you can be sure what you are taking. And being ill up a mountain is no fun. I know, it's a pain, lugging plasters and antiseptic wipes everywhere. But it's not fun, stuck up a mountain with a blood running down your leg and only and old tissue to mop it up with.
• Things I need to keep clean. Forget fancy shower gels and bubble baths. You need soap - most places provide it, but if there's any chance you'll be somewhere obscure it's worth having a small soap with you. Plus whatever you need to keep your teeth and hair clean. Travel wash? possibly - though I have found walking on my washing in the shower when I wash my hair is generally effective.
• Miscellaneous bits - like water purifiers; universal plug; swiss army knife. And a small fleece blanket, that is probably designed for a dog bed; it's very light to carry and has kept me warm on many a chilly night. Sarong - to cover sheets when you aren't too sure ...
• Clothes. My idea of minimum is probably not the same as yours. Almost everyone I met when I was travelling left home with too much and left some in hotel rooms. So even though I can tell you that three pairs of jeans and three skirts is quite unnecessary some people will still need to learn the hard way. So be it - and those who find your leavings probably need them much more than you do. Clothes take up less than half of the space in my rucksack.
• Mobile phone.
• Insurance, passport, tickets, money - all that stuff. And again I'll say insurance - I know it's boring, and expensive, and you hope you'll never need it. But if you do, then you'll know why it's worth every penny.

Then there are extras, if I have room.

• For the long trip, I took a short-wave radio, to listen to the World Service. Reception was often crackly, but I wanted the connection with home.
• For this trip, I'll take a small laptop. It is a luxury - I can live without it and use internet cafes. But it will be useful if I'm anywhere it's unsafe for a woman to go out in the evenings. (I'm not expecting that in Nepal these days.)
• Books - I have one book of Nepali short stories (not available as an ebook) and my loaded Kindle. Plus a Lonely Planet (actually that is probably essential).
• Camera, notebooks and pens (these are probably essential too!)

And that is all. Does it look a lot? Probably, listed like that. But once you unpick it, there's not much here. And this is all I need. And one of the biggest lessons of the long trip was just how little clobber I really need.

What do you think I've left out?

Planning a trip, and a book?

Actually, I'm only going to talk about planning a trip. There is probably a metaphor in here somewhere for planning a book, but I'll leave that to you to work out. I need to make it clear I'm not talking about a holiday. Holidays have boundaries - in terms of where you will stay, what you hope to do, how you will get there. There is an expectation that you will come home, pick up life-pieces and carry on much as before. They are a glorious, and essential, interruption to the scheme of things.

These days, I go travelling. For me, that includes significant not-knowing. This allows for the unexpected, for changes of mind, for following that little road into the mountains just to see where it goes.

But not - I hasten to add, as my daughters read this - recklessness.

I begin, almost always, with the flights. I'm trying to think of a time when I booked flights and it was glorious weather here - and can't recall any. Prolonged rubbish weather tends to send me to the cheap-flight sites. Which is one reason why I'm off to Nepal in mid-March.

Well, why not?

It's beautiful, I have people I need to visit (for those who have read the book - Tika has a new baby! He told me he would not have another child until he could afford to pay for his education. So he must be doing well), and I want to do meander in the Annapurnas again while I still have knees. (Yes, my knees know how old I am.)

But my planning - well, I have flights. I know when I leave, and when I come home. I have a hotel for my first night in Kathmandu, and a flight the next day to Pokhara. I have somewhere to stay there.

And then what? There's a possibility that Tika can take me into Bhutan - off the beaten track in Bhutan. I can't organise that till I get there, as he has to pull strings to get me a visa. I'd love to go to Burma, but that might have to wait for another trip. And there are great swathes of south-western Nepal that I've never visited - transport is particularly 'interesting' there, but I'd like to see it. (Note to self, it's malarial down there.) I could always go back to Chitwan, and get in the water with the elephants. Tika has even suggested I go white water rafting. (Note to daughters, will check if I can be strapped in.)

So, it's back to my Lonely Planet - an up-to-date copy, as things change all the time. Check visa arrangements; make sure I still know how to say 'thank you' in Nepali. Drool over photographs of temples and markets, and suddenly wish I could go for six months.

Is this anything like writing a book? Looks a bit random, written like this. But I realise I approach a book with the same haphazard enthusiasm. I knuckle down and organise it eventually. And you - can you see parallels in the way you approach other important aspects of your life and how you settle to write?

Not so invisible - when I was travelling.

In my last blogpost I talked about the invisibility of older women - and it certainly resonated, if the comments are anything to go by. It's something that creeps up on us - and there is nothing we can do to slow it down. And it does, as I think we agreed, have advantages.

But when I was travelling I realised that it is culturally determined - a phenomenon common in western countries, where young people are seen to be the drivers of all thinking and energy. It is very different in other parts of the world.

Which means I was unprepared for being an older, white woman, wandering Indian streets alone. The Indians had no idea what to make of me, and made no secret of gawping at me as I tried to weave a path through the mayhem.  It didn't help that I was clueless when faced with somewhere so different, and so chaotic.

 

I didn't help myself by beginning in the north. 

If I'd read my Lonely Planet a little more assiduously I'd have known that life is easier - for everyone, as well as women - in the south. I'd have taken to the backroads of Kerala, and practised being visible among people who were both welcoming and curious. 

When I was in Kumerakon, a village on the edge of Lake Vembanad in the backwaters of Kerala (in the south), I found myself joining a group of children having a dance lesson; I managed their excitement and my general clumsiness and was waved away after a wonderful half an hour by a teacher - who spoke not one word of English. (My one word - thank you. It's the only word I learned in every country I visited.) What a wonderful introduction to the country that could have been!

Instead, I travelled down from Nepal, and spent a night in Gorakhpur, in a grubby hotel opposite the station. I was unprepared - not only for the chaos, but also for the lack of women in the streets. There are significantly more Muslims in North India; and it is rare for women to emerge into the streets alone - unless they are in air-conditioned cars, or begging on corners. Most commerce - the street-traders, the tuk tuk drivers, the waiters - are men.

And so one white woman, meandering down the streets - trying to avoid cowpats, beggars, the insistent calls of tuk tuk drivers, traders urging me to buy scarves, phones, betel nuts, cricket bats - was more visible than the queen in a primary school. Everyone stared at me - and, initially, I was hugely uncomfortable. It was like finding your skirt is tucked in your knickers and there is nothing you can do to extract it. There was no corner to hide in, no unremarkable cafe where I could sit in the corner and make sense of everything around me; even sitting brought someone to my side with questions or 'proposals'. Thankfully, I had a guide at the time, a gentle Nepali who found the whole thing highly amusing (it took so little to make him laugh) who was able to steer me through the worst of it, and kept me safe on those few occasions when . . . yes, there were some not-so-safe incidents.

And you - tell me your tales of your skirt-in-the-knickers moments. (Please - tell me it's not just me!)