Hitchhiking to Konya and the Flute that Tells Allah’s Secrets

The rides that brought me to Konya were all pretty good, though there was some confusion (to put it kindly) with the first driver (a truck driver, I feel compelled to add because the stereotype is sometimes true). While trying to explain that I sometimes had problems with drivers misunderstanding my intentions, he began to compliment me. “Çok güzelsin.” And soon he was asking me for a kiss or to lie in his bed. Oh great, I thought. Here goes. But once I said that I was a good girl, and that if there was a problem I would leave the truck (“Eğer sorun var, o zaman ineceğim.”) he quickly cleaned up his act and was actually decent for the remainder of the trip. He even had a little self-conscious sparkle in his eye when he advised me against getting in trucks because it would be too dangerous.

A dervish statue in honor of the Mevlana (Rumi) in downtown Konya

The last ride was with a very sweet Kurdish man who traveled around Turkey selling or distributing medicines and supplements like omega three and six. He was easy, so easy to talk to. I think he had had experience in the past talking with people who understood little Turkish because he was able to use almost entirely words that I could understand.

It was a good day for communication. With the first driver I was even able to have a political conversation, talking about Obama and how I thought he was good at first but he hasn't seemed to do much at all since he's been elected. I asked about Erdoğan and gave my opinion on the improved state of Turkish economy since he's been elected.

Outside a Madrasa in Konya

When I got into Konya I quickly noticed a difference from Ankara, where I had just been. I have never seen so many young girls and women wearing the headscarf as I did in Konya. In many other Turkish cities, it is almost exclusively older women—mothers and grandmothers—who wear the headscarf, but in Konya even the university students wore the Turkish conservative “uniform” of a long tan button-up coat and vivid floral headscarf.

The tiled roof of a Madrasa in Konya

I want to relate a parable that Huseyin, my host in Konya, shared with me about the type of flute he plays, called the ney. One night, the prophet Mohammed was called up to speak with Allah and while there, Allah told him 90,000 words—sacred secrets. When Mohammed came back down to his bed, he found it was still warm from where he had left it. Time had ceased to pass while he was gone.

In the next days, he found himself deeply troubled by the words and the secrets that Allah had shared with him, and Ali, Mohammed's closest follower, noticed Mohammed's pensiveness and asked him what was wrong. Mohammed didn't want to burden Ali, but told him that he had some secrets that were weighing on him. Ali encouraged him to ease his burden.

“Why don't you tell the secrets?” he asked Mohammed.

Mohammed agreed that it might help, but couldn't bare to give Ali such a heavy load, so he only told Ali 30,000 words. But even these words and these secrets were more than Ali could handle, so one day Ali leaned into a well and shouted the words to the bottom of the well. But the well also couldn't contain the words, and so the water inside began to bubble up and rise and soon the water flooded the entire plain around the well. And around that well, weeks later, a unique kind of reed began to grow and when it grew and the wind blew around it, the most beautiful sounds could be heard. A passerby, who loved the soft sounds, had the idea to fashion a flute out of one of the reeds.

A few weeks later, Mohammed and Ali were passing this field and heard someone playing the flute, the ney. Mohammed heard the sound of the ney and immediately understood that the flute was telling the secrets Allah had shared with him, so he turned to Ali and asked, “Who did you share the secrets with?” But when Ali explained, Mohammed couldn't be angry, and in fact, he well understood the burden of those 30,000 words.

It is said then that the ney sings Mohammed's sacred secrets from Allah, but the secrets are told with Ali's breath.

Languages, Perverts, Priests. Why I Hitchhike.

I didn't meet a single pervert while hitchhiking through Greece. I hitched about fifteen different cars in my time there and every single ride was a good one. Maybe this is a normal experience in other parts of the world, but in my time hitching in eastern Europe and Turkey, I have never experienced a good streak like this. At one point, the average percentage of perverts was as high as 25%. But what qualifies a driver as a pervert? Good question. There's quite a range, but any time the driver touches me suggestively, talks excessively of sex, asks me excessive questions about sex, or tries to solicit sex from me, I consider him a bad ride. Some of these drivers are pretty harmless though. They tend to throw the suggestion out there, when I (politely) refuse, they drop it or drop me off by the side of the road. It's the ones who are persistent and often the ones who deny any wrongdoing who are the real trouble. Ironically, it's often the drivers who tell me how dangerous hitchhiking is, who tell me I should take the bus or train instead who then end up proving their own points by making a move on me.

So with that background established, you can begin to imagine how truly delightful it was to autostop in Greece. I found that I had to wait a bit longer by the side of the roads; cars seemed less enthusiastic to pick me up, but those that did were always kind and respectful. And keep in mind that when I say I had to wait a bit longer to get picked up, I'm talking about 20 minutes instead of 10. Yes, being a solo female hitchhiker has certain advantages, but I'd trade them in an instant if it meant I didn't have to deal with perverts.

I had two favorite rides in Greece. The first taught me some Greek and the second was with a Greek Orthodox priest.

One thing I love about hitchiking is that it often really forces me to learn more of the local language, and learn it quickly. This is because I often don't get picked up by English speakers, especially in eastern Europe. So the morning I left for Greece, I did a bit of research and learned the six most useful words in any language, the words I need to get by and be polite: hello (yassas), thank you (efhari sto), yes (ne), no (ohi), goodbye (andio), and I'm sorry (signomi). But these would just be words on a piece of paper if I never got a chance to use them. Fortunately, my first driver spoke both Greek and Bulgarian, so I could still use my few words of Bulgarian while I was getting accustomed to using Greek. After a few rides, the Greek words started to come more naturally and I flatter myself that my accent improved as well.

While catching a ride from Kavala to Drama, my driver spoke a few words of English, but not enough to string together a long sentence. I was feeling comfortable with my new Greek words, so wanted to expand my vocabulary. He was more than happy to help and we soon established a pattern. I would say a word or phrase in English (nice to meet you) and he would provide the Greek (harika poli) which I practiced with his guidance and scribbled down in my little traveling notebook. I can't tell you how valuable it is to hear the accent as the words are spoken, but most valuable of all is the smile (positive reinforcement) I get from speaking even a little bit of the language.

While hitching to Komotini, I stood and waited by a major highway. It was cold and windy, this being February, and I had been waiting for about fifteen minutes when an older, slightly beat up car pulled over and when I caught a glimpse of the driver, a bearded Greek Orthodox priest, I honestly didn't know what to expect. Getting hit on by a priest would be a little too much to handle, and frankly, just a little too cliché. I needn't have worried. He was the nicest man, if shocked by everything I said. I'm traveling alone. “Really? Strange...” I've been traveling for two years. “Really!? Bravo.” I'm unmarried. “Strange.” I believe in people, in kindness and hospitality. “Bravo!” But he, as with many of the people I meet, was concerned for my safety. He kept asking what would I do if a bad person tried to pick me up? What if no one pulled over to pick me up and it became dark? The only answers I could give him, that I trusted my instinct and that I didn't know and would deal with it if it happened, didn't seem to satisfy him much. So when he pulled off the highway at Xanthi and I still had a little ways to go until Komotini, he wanted to take me to the bus station and offered to pay for my ticket. I politely refused the offer, not the first of its kind and likely not the last. “I prefer autostop,” I told him. “I love to meet and talk with people. Imagine, if I didn't autostop I never would have met you.”

And that, in a nutshell, is why I continue to hitchhike, despite the perverts, despite the inconvenience, despite the cold, rain, wind. I live for the experience, for the stories, for the laughs and the exchange of language, culture, smiles.

In One Word: How to Spot a Pervert

It is amazing how much can be communicated through the subtleties of a language. To explain this, I'm going to need to delve a little bit into the structure of Turkish. Turkish has separate words for singular you (sen) and plural you (siz), but the plural you can also be used as a sign of respect and formality when speaking to one person. So when meeting someone for the first time, and especially when speaking to an elder, it is customary and natural to use the formal, plural you.

Now I have a tendency to waver back and forth between the yous, but when I'm hitchhiking I really try to address my driver with the formal “siz”. It's simply the polite thing to do. And what a difference that one little word can make.

I walked with my little pack from the center of Kas to the main highway, the coastal road that runs from Antalya to Fethiye, crossed the road to head west toward Fethiye, placed my pack a few paces in front of me, and stuck out my thumb. Though it was a hot, sunny day, I was wearing my thick jeans. This was the advice of the Turkish father I stayed with in Kas, who vetoed my only other pair of pants as being too thin and therefore attracting too much negative attention.

Not much traffic today, I thought after one car passed me by. Despite the beautiful weather, winter is the low season in this part of Turkey. But the next car to turn onto the highway pulled over to the shoulder to pick me up. In a split second, I took in the details. Solitary young male. License plate started with 34, indicating the driver was from Istanbul. The car was sleek and black. Nice, but not flashy. I had a decent feeling about this, but it all depended on the driver. Even if he was harmless (no groping), there was still a chance he might make me uncomfortable (ask too personal questions, want me to be his girlfriend).

“Nereye gidiyorsunuz? Where are you going?” I asked him, using the formal ending to the verb.

“Mugla,” he replied. He could take me all the way to my destination: a few kilometers west of Fethiye. It remained to be seen whether this was lucky or not.

He spoke no English, so we conversed in Turkish. I began to get a bit weary when he asked me about traveling alone and spoke of his loneliness while traveling alone on business. Experience had taught me that the next topic of conversation would often be my marital status, followed closely by a request to exchange phone numbers and get to know each other better. But though we talked freely about work and travel and hobbies, he never veered into inappropriate territory; in fact, I suddenly noticed that even after 50 kilometers together, he was still using the formal you when he addressed me, asking “Isminiz ne? What is your name?” and Kac yasindayiz? How old are you?”

Once I realized this, I relaxed completely and it struck me that though I had sometimes had problems with drivers who dropped the formal “siz” in favor if the informal “sen”, I had never had problems with drivers who maintained polite formality of the plural you.

And true to form, he drove me kilometers out of his way to drop me at the very doorstep of my destination, the Pastoral Vadi Eco Farm in Yaniklar, Turkey, where a television crew awaited and filmed my arrival. But my appearance and interview (conducted and answered entirely in Turkish!) on national television is a subject for another post.

When Nature Calls

Can you see our cave? Look for the three black openings.

We were both couchsurfers and had considered trying to couchsurf on our hitchhiking tour of Turkey. But J had a tent and a sleeping bag with him and we found it more convenient and more conducive to cuddling to sleep in his one-person tent and share his sleeping bag. On the trip so far we'd used it only once or twice. We'd also slept on the sandy beach in Patara, at a friend's villa in Bodrum, under a beachside gazebo in Kas, and on the side of a pine-strewn hill near the Syrian border (where it was too hot for the tent). From the moment we entered the Kapadokya region we were in agreement. We would spend the night in one of the caves carved into the soft volcanic rock that makes the region so famous and gives it its otherworldly landscape.

So, in our biggest splurge of the trip, we rented a motorbike for twenty-four hours and toured the region. We saw thousand-year-old churches carved into rocky cliffs, Flintstones-style apartment complexes honeycombed in the rocks, phallic formations carved by centuries of water flow. All the while, we scanned the rocks, searching for a nice little cave we could sleep in. We wanted one that was isolated and difficult to climb into. No nighttime visitors please. We also needed a place to park the motorbike overnight.

When we followed a gravel road up an incline and looked out over a valley filled with rocks shaped like gnomes' hats we finally saw a seemingly suitable cave. It appeared as a dark spot on the golden cliff, but was only visible from a few turns in the road. We parked the motorbike, grabbed our packs, and headed down into the rocky valley to investigate. The cave was two small valleys over, so we needed to scramble down sandy and rocky soil before we could begin climbing up. Even approaching the cave was difficult, far more difficult than it had appeared from the road. I tentatively tried out a few routes before committing to one. The shadows were elongating, so when J saw that I was making headway, he scrambled back up to the road to repark the motorbike so it was as out of sight as possible. He soon followed me down to where I stood, peering up at a nearly sheer cliff face. We peered up together. Even without the packs the climb would have been tough. We climbed slowly. The rock face was soft and sandy, making traction difficult to come by. For every burst upwards, I slid back a few feet as well. The last stretch, just shy of the cave's opening, was the steepest. So I left my pack with J and scraped in, then he handed me our stuff while he climbed up himself. By now, the light was rapidly fading and we both realized we had chosen our sleeping place for the night sight unseen. Luckily, the inside of the cave was hospitable. It was small, though, barely large enough for us to stretch out in. There was evidence inside of recent occupation—by birds—but we felt quite confident, given the difficult climb to reach the cave, that no one would disturb us that night. The rented motorbike was another matter. I could only hope that no one would disturb it.

We ate our dinner—a typical (for us) melange of fresh fruit (peaches, grapes, melon), black olives, a loaf of Turkish white bread, and white sugar-coated chickpeas. Then we arranged our bed for the night, first laying down J's blue crinkled tarp then his sleeping bag. The thought that we would sleep on it instead of under it seemed absurdly hopeful. Though it was August and the air crackled with heat during the day, Kapadokya had cold, desert-like nights. In preparation for such a night, we each layered as much as possible. Since I had hardly any clothes in my small pack, this meant that we split J's warmer clothes. He wore his gray, paint-splattered hoodie and I wore his windbreaker jacket and mismatched windbreaker pants over my shorts and blue tie-dyed sleeveless shirt. It didn't take long for us to give up the pretense and huddle together under his tapered gray sleeping bag.  We lay, sharing stories of childhood exploits as we drifted off to sleep.

Days earlier, sleep in such a situation—on a hard, rocky surface with little room to move and cold nipping in from every exposed gap—would have been nearly unthinkable. But my body had adapted quickly from my apartment-dwelling, bed-sleeping existence in Istanbul to my new hitchhiking and bumming around existence throughout Turkey. So despite the rocks that prodded into my back through the thin layer of tarp, the inability to turn around without bumping into J or the cave wall, and the chilling cold, I slept. You even might say I slept well.

But I awoke in the middle of the night cursing my responsible water consumption. I had to pee. That this was problematic was not immediately apparent in my sleep-muddled state. And then I remembered the layout of the cave. There was one large door and a small, waist-high window carved out the rock. Both looked out over the steeply dropping valley below. It was dark, too dark to try to navigate my way outside the cave—that would have been difficult even in the daylight—but for obvious reasons, peeing in the small cave was also not an option. I would have to pee out the window. Shit, I thought, this would be a hell of a lot easier if I were a man.

The window

I crept to the window, climbing over J in the process, then climbing up to a rocky window-ledge-like jut. I shuffled around, making almost imperceptible changes in my angle and position. It was hard to find the right spot. I pulled down my few layers—J's pants, my own, and my underwear—and backed up to the window of the cave. I had a brief moment of self consciousness as I squatted in the window, my pale ass exposed to the cold, moonlit night. I quickly shook off my modesty. This was not the time. With each hand I grabbed the rocky sides of the rounded hole that served as the window and lowered my ass even further out into the cold night air. I looked down between my legs, but I was still inside the cave, so I leaned even further, now balancing with almost all my weight on my arms. I leaned until I could look between my legs and see the shadowed rocky terrain far below.

It was in this moment that I could visualize my demise. My balance was so precarious that if I lost grip in either one of my hands, I would tumble backwards out the window, rolling down, down, down into the rocky gap below. Caught by surprise, I would likely make a soft squawking noise, like the ejaculation of an adolescent bird, or no noise at all. I could see it now. J would continue to sleep, breathing softly, sweetly. He would awake with the early morning sun, smile and stretch, turn to embrace me. Only then would he realize why he had been so warm in the night; I had not been there to hog the sleeping bag! He would find me, slumped at the base of the cliff with my pants around my ankles, surrounded by a distinct smell of urine, my pale ass shining in the sun.

These thoughts occupied me as I peed out the window then crept safely back into the sleeping bag. Though it seems like a grisly image, the idea of this death actually tickled me immensely. What a way to go! I cherished the idea that it would first be a mystery. How did she get down there? How on earth could she fall out of a cave? And why are her pants down?

I could continue to inspire mirth even after death! No, I thought, as I looked out the window at the crisp night sky, it wouldn't be a bad way to go.

Hitchhiking Tales. Paragliding in Bulgaria, Hated in Bosnia, Brass Band in Croatia

The following is an excerpt from a series of emails I sent to a friend while hitching through eastern Europe:

Piotr and I just said goodbye this morning. He's heading for Poland and right now I'm thinking of staying a day or two in Belgrade.

We started from Istanbul then to Bulgaria where we stayed with a group of people who run a sports outfitter called Extreme Bulgaria. They do all kinds of extreme sports. They took us biking and skinnydipping in an ice-cold lake, then on the last day we went paragliding! It was my second time ever and was so so beautiful. And then to Sofia, and on to Belgrade. It's a cool city, got a great vibe. But my favorite place yet was Sarajevo. Wow. Simply stunning mix of mosques with Catholic and Orthodox churches. Bosnia is an absurdly beautiful country.

In Bosnia we got picked up by a guy who took us home and his sister fed us. That was before he found out I was American! When I went out of the room, he turned to Piotrek and said "Polska good. American..." and made a throat-slitting motion! Eek! But his sister adored me and gave me a big jar of ajvar--a spread made with red peppers, tomatoes, and aubergines.

Piotrek's a good guy, but it was funny how little we have in common. He's anti-abortion, anti-gay, anti-feminist! Haha, my opposite.

Hitching alone was easy peasy. I got a great ride in a sleek, swift new black Mercedes which took me all the way to Zagreb in no time flat. He was going 160 the whole time. Awesome.

Tomorrow I leave for Budapest. That's the plan. Hitching alone again! Tonight to a big music festival to hear Kocani Orkestar play! (They play great brass Balkan music, a whole orchestra.)

I made hummus :) And I've been biking a lot through these little Croatian villages, filled with grapes and huge red apples and dogs that bark at me as I pass. And the people in the cars that pass me are jealous because I'm riding a beautiful black bike and singing as loud as I can and filled with so much happiness I think I might burst.

This happens to me: I'm sitting or walking or doing anything really, and then I feel some physical expansion in my heart, like my heart opens up and face itches and has to smile and I feel so much warmth and bliss and true happiness. And I just want to kiss everyone and everything!

I met a girl tonight and we might hitch together. But I just don't know, I get a weird feeling about it. I almost think it might be better to continue alone. You know how I feel about women.

In Zagreb I saw Kocani Orkestar play and danced with a guy who kept clutching at his heart as if in pain over how much the music moved him. In Bulgaria, Piotrek and I hitched with a guy who we think was a mobster. He owned a casino and the cops tried to stop him on the road, but then recognized him and let him pass. And you would be proud of me I think because on the way to Budapest, I hitched with a guy who tried to feel me up, but as soon as he touched my thigh, I just said, quite forcefully, "No." And he stopped and said something in Croatian, probably something along the lines of "It was worth a try!"

And Budapest has these clubs, these underground cellar-like clubs filled with mismatched retro furniture and kids who think they're so fucking cool. Then there's me, in my stinky shoes and tie-dye hippie shirt but no matter because I dance and close my eyes when I dance because it's just for me. I'm not trying to impress anybody. And I let my fucking boobs hang out and jump up and down until they both hurt from bouncing, but I can't stop jumping and smiling and closing my eyes. But why is it that men I'm not interested in want to dance and grind with me? I just jump and dance away from them. This girl I met tonight said I have an energy and that's why I meet perverts. Maybe she's right, I mean you know me, I'm always horny and thinking about sex. So maybe people can pick up on that, even though I don't realize I'm putting it out there.

I think my next stop will be through Serbia, Macedonia, Albania, then Greece and back to Turkey. Then I will fly either to Hong Kong or Delhi. I'm leaning towards Delhi because I have cousins there. But who knows.

Hitchhiking Perverts and the Nature of the Hobo

“Evlin misin? Are you married?” the driver, an athletic teacher from Ankara, Turkey asked me.

“Hayir, biz arkadaşlariz. No, we're friends,” I responded as we barreled down highway D260 from the Kapadokya region in Turkey to the driver's home town of Ankara. This was my first mistake. A crucial one, it would turn out.

I sat in the backseat and J, my Danish traveling companion, sat in the front seat. After an unfortunate groping and propositioning incident earlier in our hitchhiking trip around Turkey, we had learned to adopt this seating arrangement with all our drivers. The nature of our relationship was hard to characterize. We were in that unlabelable zone somewhere between friendship and relationship. I would say we were lovers, if the term didn't immediately conjure up slinky animal print dresses, shag carpet, and other vestiges of the 70's. Friends and lovers. Frovers?

J slept in the front seat while I conversed, in my faltering Turkish, with our driver. Like many before us, he was obsessed with our sleeping arrangement.

“You slept in a tent?” He asked. “One tent? Together?”

Not this again. I answered in the affirmative, then fell silent.

“Your friend is tired.” More silence. “Maybe he is worn out from too much sex.”

Lovely. Another sex-obsessed driver. I didn't respond, instead I slouched into position, closed my eyes, and pretended to sleep.

We were making good time and soon approached the city limit of Ankara. I tried not think about what awaited us there. J and I had determined that, despite his tent and our cheapness, we would get a hotel room. This was, after all, our last night together and privacy was essential to some of the activities we had in mind. But, much as I loved those activities, I didn't much care to think about that either. He would take a plane back to Copenhagen and I would hop on a bus to go back to Istanbul.

“Where will you sleep?” our driver asked. He apologized, in true Turkish fashion, for not being able to host us in his home.

“I think we will go to a cheap hotel,” I said. “We are poor!” My broken Turkish did not allow me to make such a statement delicately.

“Will you sleep in one room? In one bed?”

Diversion. “Do you know of a cheap hotel?”

He responded, something to the effect of helping us find a hotel. One problem with my broken Turkish combined with hitchhiking was that I often got only a sense of what the driver was trying to communicate. This had previously resulted in us being stranded on a dirt road, miles from the nearest house or town. In this instance, he served us well, dropping us off at a hotel and making sure we were comfortably settled in our room. Then things became weird again. He invited himself into the room (which had two twin beds I was happy to note for propriety's sake) and invited himself into our afternoon plans. Spending time with a middle-aged, mildly perverted Turkish man on my last day with my sevgili (paramour) interested me not in the least. So I told him that we were tired and would likely take a rest. He insisted on joining us for dinner, and as we had already exchanged phone numbers, I told him to call me.

The word sex sounds the same in Turkish as it does in English and as J had been only half-asleep for most of the drive, he had caught enough of the conversation with the driver to remark to me, “Another pervert?”

I nodded.

“Lets get out of here. I don't like him knowing where we're staying. Plus I think he's friends with the owner. He could just show up any time. And this is our last night together.” I didn't need to be reminded.

So we strapped on our backpacks and walked the neighborhood, searching for another cheap hotel.

We found one, which I bargained down from fifty lira to thirty-five. (About bargaining, let me say this: It's all about the smile. Don't try to be mean. Be firm, but be friendly and flash a big grin.) After loudly and enthusiastically participating in some of our planned activities, we again hit the streets of Ankara. We were in search of the perfect meal, an actual meal eaten at an actual restaurant, sitting at a table instead of a street curb, eating from plates and forks instead of from plastic bags and fingers.

As we walked the clean streets of Ankara our driver called. With each ring, I felt guilt for not answering him.

“Couldn't I just make some excuse? It's rude not to pick up.”

“Sarah, he was a pervert. You don't have to be nice to perverts. Besides, do you really want to spend the afternoon with him?”

J had a point, so when the driver called a second, third, fourth time, I flinched only slightly and ignored each ring. We continued to walk the streets together. I bought a paper bag of heavy, juicy figs and J bought a tea set so he could make Turkish çay at home.

Home. The word stuck in my throat. J was returning home, but where was I going? I had quit my job in Istanbul and given up my apartment. I had a backpack the size of a schoolchild's and no future plans. I pushed this unwanted thought aside (a skill I was becoming quite adept at) and we focused on finding dinner. As other unwanted thoughts came in (“What are you doing with your life?”, “Will you and J see each other again?”, “Why are you leaving Istanbul, a city you love, full of friends you love?”) I also pushed them aside.

This was perhaps my most valuable skill as a traveler, as a hobo—the ability to focus on the here, the now. For now, I was happy, For now, I was walking down the street arm-in-arm with a fascinating person in a fascinating country, no load on my back, no load in my mind.

And now for something completely different...

Well, I've finally caved and joined the rest of the world. You see, I like to think of myself as a Luddite-by-choice. I don't use twitter and I know only the most basic applications of my electronic appliances. However, I've been traveling and veganing together for over a year now, and I for one, think the two are fascinating, especially when taken together.

And as it happens, I started this thing just in time for a major change in my traveling plans. I have yet to decide how explicit to be in this blog, but as no one yet knows of it perhaps I can let my imaginary readers in on my personal life. You see, there was this boy... A one-night stand in Istanbul turned into a few weeks of hitchhiking around Turkey together, parting with the possibility of traveling together again. Which we did, four months later across the world in SE Asia. I traveled to Thailand to see his blond head lying on a stretcher/bed in a crowded hospital and we spent a few brief weeks together before he decided he did not in fact want to travel with me. Fair enough. But still, ouch.

I felt I had been punched in the stomach. Suddenly, I went from knowing, roughly, my plans for the next month or more to being unsure of where to go and what to do the next day.

So I asked myself, what next? Surely the easiest thing would be to visit a fellow world traveler just one country over and hook up with him. But I couldn't shake the notion that this parting of ways was Nature's way of telling me to push myself. I had been too comfortable with the boy; traveling together was simply too easy. Maybe this was my chance to really push myself again, to feel adrenaline pumping through my veins yet again.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.

And so, faced with an easy option and one which made me feel as if a hand had reached inside me and was gripping my lower intestines, I chose fear over comfort.